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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Copyright © Roland Moore 2018

Cover photograph © Rehka Arcangel/Arcangel Images

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Roland Moore asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008204440

Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008204419

Version: 2018-06-07

To Rafał with lots of love. Always proud of you and your wonderful imagination.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Roland Moore

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Prologue

A s the young girl with red hair reached the street, she was surprised to see her mother, Margot Dawson, standing outside their house. Of course, she had seen her there hundreds of times before, cleaning the step, chatting to neighbours, but there was something odd about her being there now. Something was wrong. Her mother looked bewildered, in shock, her eyes large and fearful. And when she glanced at the girl, it was almost as if she didn’t really recognise her at first. “Iris?” she said, snapping out of it. She grabbed hold of her daughter, seemingly as much for support as for the need to talk to her. She pulled her towards her. Margot knelt down, her voice deliberate, but brittle.

“I need you to do something. Can you do it for me, darling?” The words were tinged with desperation, making Iris realise that the only answer her mother wanted to hear was yes.

The girl nodded. But her mother still looked troubled, perhaps unconvinced. So she touched her mother lightly on the shoulder to reassure her. She had seen adults do that and it seemed to work. But here it was a silent promise. A child’s promise.

And now, seven years later, 17-year-old Iris Dawson tried to put the memory to the back of her mind as she walked towards the church in the middle of Helmstead. She didn’t realise that sometimes you get a second chance in life. Sometimes you get a chance to put things right.

It was a bright, sunny day when they buried Walter Storey.

The good and the great of Helmstead put on their finest clothes and trudged dutifully to the church to pay their respects to the young man. A man who had been taken too soon. Talking in hushed tones, they moved slowly down the paved pathway, their faces dappled with sun from above the oak trees lining the graveyard. The Reverend Henry Jameson, dressed in full ministerial regalia, was there to greet them and offer them comforting words as they filed into the church.

Iris Dawson stopped by the church gate. She was an eager-to-please and enthusiastic young woman with pale, flawless skin, large blue eyes and a shock of curly red hair that fell in natural ringlets. Currently her face was etched with a deep sense of foreboding, a chill spreading up her spine, as if it was being caressed by icy fingers. After everything that had happened she would rather be anywhere else in the world right now. She certainly didn’t want to go inside. But she knew it would be frowned upon if she didn’t show her face. She opened her small handbag and, being careful so that no one would see, removed a tiny rag doll. It was no more than two inches high, adorned in a battered red-checked dress, one of its eyes missing. A threadbare totem from childhood that had been there through everything. Iris gripped it tightly in her hand, knowing it wouldn’t be visible. She took a deep breath and, without enthusiasm, walked slowly towards the church, offering a tight smile to the reverend as she passed. She hesitated on the threshold, took a deep breath, and stepped inside, her footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Beyond the rapidly filling pews, she could see the coffin, positioned in the central aisle. She edged away from it and found a seat, stoically looking at the stained- glass window ahead rather than the coffin. Thinking about the body would bring the traumatic events of the last few days flooding back into her mind, and she was struggling enough to hold things together without that. She had to focus on the window.

Walter had been Vernon Storey’s eldest son. Vernon was not a well-liked man in the village. His grasping and suspicious demeanour might have made him unpleasant company, but it was his streak of callousness that really made people uneasy. There was something, a strange and intangible something, that festered in him. A dark heart. But most people had liked Walter. Displaying different traits to his father, he was a strong, principled boy, who seemed ready to blossom. Desperate to fight in the war, Walter felt constrained by his reserved-occupation status, which meant he had to stay on the home front. He wanted to ‘do his bit’ for king and country, but had to resign himself to running Shallow Brook Farm with his father. The two of them, with their personalities often at odds, found living and working together a stressful, combative experience. And frankly, given his parental influence, it was a surprise that Walter had turned out as decently as he had. Iris remembered that Walter felt conflicted and uneasy about helping Vernon do certain things that were not morally right; the petty scams and fiddles that he wanted him to take part in. But feeling duty-bound and with his father’s taunts of ‘blood being thicker than water’ he would do them with gritted teeth. The ties of blood were important to Walter, innately enshrined in his conscience. Perhaps unable to see his father’s faults, he strove for validation and praise from the older man. For his part, Vernon recognised this need in his son. But to Vernon it was just another weapon to use to get Walter to do what he wanted.

The crowd settled into the pews, every seat taken, much to the reverend’s surprise. But then this wasn’t quite an ordinary funeral. There were mourners present who hadn’t just come to pay their respects. They knew that Walter had been murdered. They knew a man had been arrested for the crime and was locked up in the sole cell in the nearby police station. That added a frisson to the funeral service that that didn’t usually happen when someone just died of old age. Iris calculated that half of the mourners were present for genuine reasons of sharing a loss, and half were present for the potential spectacle. Murder was unusual in such a small, sleepy village.

Iris sat in the church and listened to Vernon’s tearful eulogy to his son. All the gathered people had their eyes opened to a level of paternal love that they had never suspected before. Apparently Walter had been the perfect son. A clever boy, who had worked hard to make Shallow Brook Farm a success. A friend who had kept Vernon company in the long days since his wife’s passing. Many in the church had to stifle their surprise at hearing such warm words. During Walter’s life, Vernon had rarely offered so much as the smallest compliment, preferring to default to criticism and ridicule to get what he wanted from the boy. But in death, the eulogy of previously unspoken and unguessed words was fulsome. Frederick Finch threw Iris a subtle look of surprise. Were they hearing this right? They both knew that Vernon was the sort of man who would clip his son around the ear rather than say something nice.

But, perhaps predictably, Vernon couldn’t maintain the kind words. The eulogy slowly turned from a glowing tribute to a desire for justice for the man who had killed his son. Iris shifted uneasily in her pew. For Iris, this was a great time of torment. Not because she was particularly close to Walter; in fact, if anything, she hadn’t liked him for the way he would continually needle her and her friend Frank Tucker, the good-natured and kind handyman at Pasture Farm. No, Iris’s torment stemmed from the fact that everyone thought Frank had been the man who’d killed him. It had been a war of words, and then fists, which had escalated between Tucker and the Storeys. Iris wondered if it stemmed from some historical rivalry between the two families, but the last few weeks had seen things get worse. Much worse. And Iris had been caught in the middle of things. She tried to talk reason into Walter. She tried to calm down Frank and stop him retaliating. But she hadn’t been able to stop them. Things had spiralled out of control. Typical men!

On the fateful day that Walter Storey died, Iris had been working on a tractor in a nearby field. She was alarmed to see Frank moving away from the barn, staggering, with cuts and bruises around his face. She could see the state of him. She’d called his name and he’d given her the smallest of glances before hurrying away. Iris couldn’t leave the tractor until she had finished operating the plough, but a few minutes later she’d noticed that Walter was staggering away from the barn. He’d looked battered and bloodied. There was no doubting that a vicious fight had taken place inside. Iris had known she had to check on Frank and see how he was.

Fearing the worst, Iris had finished her work and then ran to Frank’s shed. His sanctuary. She’d been relieved to find Frank sitting down. His brow had been beaded with sweat and there was bruising on one of his cheeks, but apart from that he hadn’t looked particularly injured. It had seemed that Walter had come out worse.

“Are you all right?” Iris had asked.

Frank nodded. “Hope that will be the end of it. That’ll teach him never to creep up on a poacher.” Whereas some men would be full of bravado at winning a fight, he looked ashamed that it had come to this. A quiet, kind man, Frank Tucker would only use violence as a final resort.

But Frank’s hope that the spiral of events might have ended was quashed later that day, when Walter’s body had been found in the barn. Vernon said that he had come searching for his son when he hadn’t returned home and he had made the horrific discovery. He raised the alarm and soon everyone from Pasture Farm was gathered around the barn, trying to console the distraught man. Iris had been there with the other Land Girls, numb and confused. But she couldn’t understand. Why was Walter here? Why was he dead? She’d seen him leave the barn. Maybe he had returned for a rematch and Frank had accidentally killed him. But that didn’t make sense to her. So while the accusations started to fly and people started to wonder where Frank was, Iris knew, with total certainty, that she had seen Walter walk away from the fight. She tried to calm things down and said she’d ask Frank why another fight had taken place. She felt disappointed that Frank would have stooped to physical violence again. It didn’t seem likely.

“Well, it looks as if he did,” Esther said, sadly.

“Looks as though he couldn’t stop himself this time,” Joyce added.

But Iris felt that they were all wrong. Frank wasn’t like that. But her protestations were ignored as rumblings of a mob mentality started to rise slowly within the large group. Finch thought they had to find Frank to get him to account for his actions. Esther thought they should call the police. Vernon urged them to do both things, a fury in his eyes. The man wanted justice for his son. When they finally found Frank Tucker, he seemed shocked by the news. Walter was dead? Frank seemed to crumple before their eyes, crushed by the intense regret that he felt. He must have hit the boy too hard. In the end, there was no need to call the police because Frank had turned himself in when Vernon had accused him of murdering Walter. If he was under suspicion, then he wasn’t a man who would run away. And Iris guessed that Frank probably believed he was responsible. After all, he had given Walter a savage beating. Perhaps one of those blows had later proved fatal.

And now, as Iris stood by the grave, her attention wandered as the Reverend Henry Jameson committed Walter’s body to the ground. With the words washing over her, she found herself glancing slyly at the mourners. Mrs Gladys Gulliver, the town’s busybody and self-appointed moral barometer, sniffing, in a mixture of indignation and judgement; Fred Finch, the ebullient farmer, nodding his head sagely at the words; Connie Carter, Iris’s glamorous friend, smiling encouragingly as her husband, the vicar, delivered the words. And then there had been Vernon Storey, dressed in his best suit and looking suitably stern-faced. Something troubled Iris about this man. Something was wrong. It wasn’t only the fact that when he had delivered an impassioned eulogy about how he had lost his boy, when the words seemed so out of kilter with their actual lives. Something also troubled Iris about when Vernon had scrunched his face up and cried; she’d noticed that no tears had come. She wondered if that was normal. Could you cry without tears?

Frank would know.

But unfortunately Frank had been arrested and was being kept in the village police station. Iris wanted to go to see him later, after the funeral. But first she needed to pay her respects to Vernon. That would be the decent thing to do. That’s what a lady would do. Her mum might be proud of her doing that. She clutched her handbag, as if it was a protective talisman, and edged nearer, listening as Henry’s words of comfort were carried by the gentle breeze.

When the service was over and the good and the great were dispersing, she approached a brooding Vernon. By this stage, her mind was so muddled. If Frank thought he’d done it and Vernon thought he’d done it, then surely that was the end of the matter. It might have been a tragic and regrettable accident, a fight gone too far, but Frank Tucker would hang for his crime. Iris felt bereft that her friend, Frank, had done this. Since she’d arrived at Pasture Farm, Frank had been like a surrogate father for her, guiding her and helping her as she navigated life as a Land Girl. He had been teaching her to read and write, painstakingly giving her lessons in the evenings. He was a good man. If he was guilty, then it was such a waste.

“Sorry about Walter,” Iris stammered.

“Not your fault.” Vernon scowled. “It was that flaming friend of yours. He battered my boy.”

Iris was taken aback by his ferocity and found herself involuntarily taking a step away. The Reverend Henry Jameson tried to console Vernon with a warm smile. It wasn’t the time or the place for such outbursts.

“Why did he have to go back to that barn?” Iris asked. It was a casual expression of regret that this was the one decision that had led to Walter’s demise, nothing more. She hadn’t intended it to be a searching question, but the answer surprised her.

“He didn’t,” Vernon said gruffly.

“Really?” Iris asked.

“He didn’t go back, you silly girl.”

“Are you sure?” Iris wanted to say she had definitely seen Walter walk away from the barn after the fight. He must have gone back. There must have been a rematch. But Vernon was obviously in no mood for splitting hairs. And the reverend was right; it wasn’t the time or place. Vernon left her in the graveyard, her head swimming with a nagging feeling that something wasn’t right.

As the last remaining mourners left, Iris kept her word to Frank Tucker and went to see him at the police station. The only policeman in the station was PC Thorne. On secondment from nearby Brinford, PC Thorne had found himself in the unenviable position of serving three villages and two towns as their sole source of law enforcement. All the other police officers had been conscripted into the armed forces. He didn’t really have the time or inclination to help Iris, but he knew he was duty-bound to do so.

Iris was allowed to see Frank for five minutes and she was led into a cold room with a table and two chairs, walls decorated with half-green and half-cream walls. Frank was brought in. He was pleased to see her and tried to be pleasant and humorous towards her; as if they were just talking in his shed after dinner. But Iris could see the fear in his eyes; his shoulders stooped with defeat, his hair lank and unwashed. Had he already given up? She knew that he would be put on trial for this and, if found guilty, he would be hanged by the neck.

“How are you?” Iris said, somewhat redundantly.

“The food isn’t as good as Esther’s, but at least there’s not so much yakking at meal times.” Frank shrugged.

“You’ve come here just to get away from all us Land Girls, haven’t you?” She smiled. Frank smiled too, warmth in his eyes. But the warmth bled away as an awkward silence filled the room. Then Frank sighed and told Iris what he wanted to happen. His words surprised her.

“I don’t want you coming again,” he said. “This isn’t how I want you to remember me.”

“Don’t talk daft. You’ll be back,” Iris said bravely. “You’ve got to help me finish writing a letter home, haven’t you?”

“Someone else will have to teach you.” He nodded, closing the matter in his mind. Iris felt a little foolish for trying to lighten the mood at the wrong moment.

“I mean it, Iris. You forget about all this. Remember those evenings when you’d be chewing your pencil and I’d be helping you trace the alphabet. You remember those times, eh? Not these ones.”

Iris knew better than to question such finality. His mind was made up and any entreaties she made would likely make his veneer of control snap. And she didn’t want to show that lack of respect to a man she admired. So she decided it would be best to come straight to the point and tell him what had troubled her at the graveyard.

“There’s just one thing I don’t understand. Why did Walter come back for a rematch?” she asked.

Frank looked puzzled. She guessed that it all seemed a bit irrelevant to him now. What did it matter? As far as he was concerned, he’d killed a man and that was that.

“What do you mean?”

“I saw Walter Storey walk away from that fight a few minutes after you left.”

“Yeah, but he died from what I did to him. The body is a strange old thing. Maybe it took time for the injury to kill him.”

“What was he like after the fight?” Iris persisted.

Frank rubbed the bridge of his nose and thought about what had happened. “We’d had the fight. I’d given Storey a beating and left him in the barn. The boy wasn’t unconscious or anything. There didn’t seem to be any cause for concern.”

“And what happened then?”

“What are you getting at?” But Iris’s insistent look made Frank realise that she needed an answer. “I walked to my shed and got on with mending a couple of rakes. That’s when you came to see me.”

“But I saw Walter leave the barn.”

“What are you saying?” Frank was clearly confused by what she was trying to tell him, so Iris decided she had to spell it out.

“You must have had another fight with him. A rematch?”

Frank shook his head. No, definitely not. “Maybe he came back to the barn looking for me and then collapsed?”

Now it was Iris’s turn to sigh. She hadn’t thought of that option. “Maybe,” she whispered, deflated. The discussion seemed to make Frank withdraw into himself and a brooding silence filled the small room. There seemed to be nothing else to say.

As she wished Frank well and left the police station, Iris struggled not to show Frank that she was upset. Stiff upper lip and all that. It seemed to be how he wanted to play it too. There would be no big, tearful goodbye, just a matter-of-fact parting of the ways. The last moments of a friendship. She walked with unsteady legs down the steps of Helmstead Police Station, her mind more confused than ever. She decided that she had to see Vernon again.

“‘Ere, I told you loads of times, I don’t like pickle!” Connie protested, as she unwrapped her sandwich and realised that Esther had given her just that on her cheese. Esther shook her head and apologised. She rooted in her wicker trug for another sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper. She found one with a ‘C’ written on the side.

“Here’s yours, Little Miss Fusspot,” Esther said.

“I can’t help it.” Connie handed back the offending sandwich in exchange. “Pickle’s unnatural, innit?”

“I like it,” Joyce commented.

“Well, you’re unnatural.” Connie smiled.

As the friends joked and started their lunches in the West Field, Iris took her greaseproof parcel with her and trotted across the yard. She could feel the other girls looking pityingly at her as she went.

“She’s lost without that Frank, isn’t she?” Connie said.

“Terrible business,” Joyce replied.

When Iris was out of sight, she increased her speed, running in a jog all the way out of the gates of Pasture Farm. She ran down the lane, avoiding the pot holes as if she was playing hopscotch, and soon came to the neighbouring farm. Shallow Brook Farm. The Storeys’ farm. Unlike Pasture Farm, this place looked deserted, a dark shell with decaying tractors and machines standing in a yard overgrown with weeds. Iris made her way towards the farmhouse. She rapped on the slatted wooden door, paint flakes peeling away on her knuckles. How many summers ago had this place been painted?

There was no answer. And yet, the door slowly creaked open. Vernon had left it unlocked.

Iris poked her head into the hallway, where a broken mahogany barometer pointed towards snow.

“Hello? Anyone here?” Iris shouted.

Nothing came back.

Iris’s heart was pounding. She had come to see Vernon, but perhaps it was a good thing that he wasn’t home. She could look inside and have a nose around. A regular Miss Marple. Should she do this? She didn’t even know what she was looking for. Perhaps some sign that Walter had returned home before going back to the barn? What would that prove? Iris wasn’t sure. All she knew was that a man’s life was at stake here and if something was niggling her about the order of events, then she had to put her mind at rest. Something wasn’t right. Iris wished for a moment that she had Miss Marple’s abilities.

She moved cautiously from the hallway into the dining room. The fireplace smouldered with yesterday’s fire. A garish red-patterned rug filled much of the floor space, held down by dark-wooden furniture dotted around the room. A bureau stacked with paperwork and bills. A telephone on a side table. An armchair with worn hand rests. She guessed this was Vernon’s chair as his glasses rested on the edge next to a rolled-up newspaper. Iris tentatively moved across the room.

“Hello?” she shouted, feeling perhaps that she was covering herself from accusations of breaking and entering.

Again there was no reply. It was likely that Vernon Storey was holding some kind of wake in the Bottle and Glass, regaling people with tales of his son.

Iris moved towards the bureau.

Crack!

It barely made a sound, but something crunched under her foot. She looked down and peeled the edge of the rug back. A long sliver of glass from a bottle had broken in two. But as Iris examined it, she could see something sticky along one edge. A dark liquid. In sudden horror she realised that it was blood. Could it be Walter’s blood? They said he had a wound on his head. Was this evidence? What would Miss Marple do? Her mind was racing. Thinking quickly, she plucked her handkerchief from her pocket and, as if it was a small, injured bird, carefully wrapped the glass up. Suddenly she knew she had to get out of there; show PC Thorne what she had found.

“Can I help you, Iris?” A soft voice, weary.

Iris span around to find Vernon in the doorway. He was blinking in the light, his face more crumpled than usual. Had he been drinking? Sleeping? It didn’t matter. He was here and that was a problem. Iris hid the handkerchief behind her back.

“I came to … pay my respects,” she stammered.

“Again?” A note of suspicion in his voice, his shrewish eyes suddenly alert and scanning her face.

“Yes.” Slowly, Iris slipped the handkerchief into her pocket.

“And that was all you came for?” Vernon took a step towards her. He was a short man, but his personality gave him a threatening demeanour. Iris struggled to stop herself taking a step backwards. She knew it wouldn’t play well if she showed fear. If she was paying her respects, then she shouldn’t show fear, should she?

“Anyway, I’d better get back. Esther will be wondering …” Iris smiled as winningly as she could manage. She took a step towards the door, aware that Vernon was still blocking any escape.

“Stay a little longer,” he rasped, his words somewhere in that uncertain area between a threat and a pleasant invitation. “Have a drink to my Walter, eh? If you’ve come to pay your respects …”

He crossed to the sideboard, where a motley and dusty collection of bottles formed a drinks ‘cabinet’. Now the door was unblocked. There was a gap and Iris could make a run for it. But she didn’t want Vernon to suspect that anything was wrong; she didn’t want to alert his suspicions. After all, even if she got past him, she’d have to outrun him all the way back to Pasture Farm.

“I’d better … you know.” Iris glanced towards the door. To her surprise and relief, he nodded his consent. And as he busied himself pouring a drink at the sideboard, Iris started to walk towards the door, as slowly and as normally as she could manage. She thought she had got away with it, when, without turning his back, Vernon asked a soft and unnerving question.

“What’s that in your pocket, Iris?”

She felt her mouth go instantly dry, her breathing becoming more rapid. She stopped in her tracks. He’d noticed what she was doing. How much had he seen?

“Nothing,” she stammered.

Now he turned to her. A dark smile on his lips as he looked into her scared eyes. There was no hiding what she felt now.

“You put something in your pocket.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Vernon put his drink down and edged towards her. “Have you been stealing from me, Iris?”

She shook her head. “No, Mr Storey. I wouldn’t do that.”

He glanced down towards her pocket, where the end of the handkerchief was poking out. “Show me, then.” Carefully, Iris cupped her fingers around her handkerchief, hoping she could bring the bundle out without its contents falling onto the floor.

“It’s just my handkerchief.” The wrapped fabric was clasped tightly in her hand.

To her surprise, Vernon snatched it from her, grasping her wrist tightly with his other hand. As he took it, the handkerchief opened and the fragment of glass fell onto the rug, glinting in the light as it tumbled. They both knew the truth now.

“No one likes a liar, Iris.”

“Let me go.” She knew that she had to escape now. There was no point in pretending that she could talk her way out of this one. But Vernon wasn’t about to let go of her wrist. She clawed at his fingers with her free hand, trying to release his grip. He kept a tight grip on her, staring impassively at her. They moved a few steps: a dark, silent dance as Iris tried to free herself, Vernon clasping tightly. Iris felt her head swimming. They were like a couple on the verge of a massive argument, trying to maintain some semblance of control and decency. But Iris realised she would have to do more to escape. She would have to make a scene. She was about to slap him, claw him, do something, when he moved with surprising speed and ferocity towards her.

Vernon grabbed Iris’s neck and pushed her backwards until she felt the bureau hit the small of her back. She tried to lash out, but he grabbed her clawed hand and pushed her over the desk. On her back, Iris flailed and kicked, desperate to escape. She couldn’t scream as Vernon had his fingers clasped around her throat. She tried to kick again, but only succeeded in upturning the nearby telephone table. The telephone clattered to the floor, the receiver coming away from its cradle.

“Please don’t …” she gasped.

“What?” he growled.

“Kill me.”

Vernon let out a tight, unnerving laugh. “Why would I do that, you stupid girl?”

“I know what you did.”

Vernon’s brow furrowed. Still grasping her throat, tears came to his eyes. He seemed to sag, much like Frank had when he had heard the news about Walter. It was as if her words had ripped away his layers of desperate subterfuge, making it plain that this situation wasn’t going to go away.

“That’s a dangerous accusation.”

“How could you kill your own son?” Iris said, emboldened by the reaction her words were having.

“Shut your mouth.” A low rumble of anger, his fingers tightening around her windpipe. Iris felt her head swimming, as her lungs fought for air. “Do you think I wanted to do it?”

“You’re hurting me …” It was barely a squawk, as Iris couldn’t gasp enough air to speak.

Vernon didn’t seem to hear. He was lost in his own justifications for what had happened. “Walter made me lose my temper. I just lashed out. Didn’t think. Didn’t even know I had the bottle in my hand.” Vernon’s eyes were distant, lost in regret and torment. “As he fell, I knew what I’d done. Even before he hit the floor, Iris, I knew what I’d done. Don’t you see?”

At last, he released his grip and Iris gasped for air. He was still looming over her as her back rested on the bureau. From the corner of her eye, she saw a tractor brochure offering a brand-new machine for rental. Iris wondered if it would be one of the last things she ever saw.

“What are you going to do with me?”

Vernon took a step back, releasing his weight from her. He clutched his forehead and shook his head in a violent, distressed manner, as if he didn’t want to be here, in this situation, any more that Iris did.

“I can’t let you leave, can I?” The words came out tinged with regret and sadness. She knew that he was right. His desperate attempts to cover his tracks had already seen the arrest of an innocent man. Vernon would eradicate any other potential threat that might cause his web of lies to unravel. He was already in too deep. There was no going back.

Still sprawled over the bureau, Iris knew she couldn’t make it to the door without him dragging her back, and she knew that nothing she could say would alter what was about to happen. That didn’t stop her mind racing, desperately trying to find a solution. The one thing that would stop him.

“Please,” She gasped, a simple plea for mercy. As soon as she’d said it, she knew it would be ignored. Of course it would. With most of his body still blocking her escape, Vernon bent towards the fireplace and grabbed a poker. Either he hadn’t heard her plea or was choosing to ignore it.

“You’re a sweet girl, but I can’t let you go.”

“I won’t tell,” Iris pleaded again. But this time, she wasn’t saying the words to try to change his mind. This time she was trying to buy herself time, as her eyes searched for something – anything – that could help her. There might have been a letter-opening knife on the bureau, but if there was, it was buried under all the paperwork behind her. On the armchair were Vernon’s spectacles, the newspaper. Nothing to help her. The poker was the only ‘weapon’ by the fireplace and Vernon had that. There were bottles on the sideboard, but Iris couldn’t make it to the drinks cabinet without Vernon getting in the first blow. He would beat her to the floor before she got there. What could she do? She had to do something. Vernon moved slowly forward, the poker in his hand.

Then she saw it; something that might just help her.

The telephone was upturned on the floor, the receiver knocked from its cradle. The fuzzy, muffled voice on the other end of the line: “Hello, what number do you require?”

Vernon saw it at the same time as Iris. The colour drained from his face. The operator might have heard everything: the confession, the threats. Vernon knew he was a doomed man. Iris used that moment of distraction to leap forward, pushing Vernon back against the fireplace. She sprinted for the door as Vernon collapsed into the dying fire, ash pluming into the air behind him. He struggled to get free, but then moved with surprising speed after the young girl, the poker in his hand.

Iris burst into the courtyard of Shallow Brook Farm and ran and ran. She could hear Vernon shouting behind her.

“I’ll get you, Iris!”

And then, as she pressed ahead and he lagged behind, she heard his final words on the subject.

“I will come for you, Iris. Mark my words!”

She didn’t look back. She didn’t dare turn, in case Vernon’s malevolent eyes were somehow right behind her, the poker raised in his hand. Iris never looked back. She kept running and running.

But after that dreadful day, everything seemed to slowly return to normal. A happy ending of sorts emerged from those awful events. With the operator corroborating Iris’s account to the police, Frank Tucker was soon released from custody. Vernon’s words had acted as a confession. As Iris collected Frank from the police station, she took him back to Pasture Farm, where the girls had made a garland and a rabbit stew to welcome him back. They all got tipsy on Finch’s carrot whisky that night, with Frank more taciturn than usual as he listened to the celebrations and laughter around him. Several times, Iris asked if he was all right. Was he tired from his ordeal? But Frank just smiled and said he was fine. Iris suspected that secretly he was in shock, counting his blessings for a narrow escape from the gallows.

“Who’s for another bottle?” Esther asked, her cheeks flushed red, as if a child had applied her blusher.

“Here, steady on,” Finch grumbled. “There’s a war on.”

“Don’t be such a tight wad,” Connie shrieked, opening a cupboard under the sink. She moved some pots and a metal funnel and produced a fresh bottle of carrot whisky.

“How did you know where I kept it?” Finch said, alarmed. Connie tapped the side of her nose.

The bottle was cracked open and the girls drank a new toast. Iris felt her own cheeks warming and then noticed that Martin was looking at her, holding his gaze just a moment too long. When she turned, he smiled with embarrassment. He was nearly 17, one year her junior, and filling out to be a fine young man, boyish freckles retreating on his face as he reached adulthood. Iris liked him. He was gentle and funny. He raised his glass in a silent toast to her across the table. Iris went to raise her glass of cordial, but the moment was broken when Esther turned and clipped him around the ear. He was her son, and as far as Esther was concerned, still her baby boy.

“How many of those have you had?”

“Four.” Martin shrugged.

“Four?” Esther scowled. “Well, that’s the last one.”

“If I’d had four, I wouldn’t be able to feel my legs.” Joyce laughed.

The Land Girls raised their glasses again. Amid the warmth and laughter, the stone-cold-sober Iris found herself thinking about Vernon Storey. The man who had murdered his own son and who had tried to make another man hang for it. The man who had tried to kill her. How could people do such things?

By the time PC Thorne got to Shallow Brook Farm, he found Vernon Storey sitting in his armchair reading the newspaper, as if nothing had happened. He seemed surprised to see the policeman and, initially, Vernon tried to lie his way out of any accusations.

“No, I’ve not seen Iris Dawson. She’s not been here. You must be mistaken.”

“Come on, now, Vernon. We’ve got someone who heard everything. A young girl was in this room.” PC Thorne noticed that the telephone had been righted on the table. He wondered whether Vernon would continue to brave-face the situation, but then Vernon’s studied act broke down.

Vernon got up from his chair. “Why can’t you all leave me alone?”

“Sorry, Vernon. You’ve got to come with me.”

“I suppose.”

Vernon stretched his arms in front of him, as if inviting PC Thorne to restrain his hands. It seemed as if he was seeing sense now. But as Thorne turned to apply the handcuffs, the farmer pushed him backwards as hard as he could. PC Thorne fell, hitting his head on the fireplace. And although he wasn’t knocked out, by the time he got to his feet, Vernon already had a head start and was fleeing across the yard. PC Thorne yelled for him to stop, but by the time he reached the lane, it was empty. PC Thorne knew that Vernon must be hiding, but he didn’t know in which direction. He tried to search as methodically and quickly as he could, peering over the hedgerows and looking over fences. But after about thirty minutes, he realised that Vernon had somehow managed to elude him. Defeated and worried, he trudged back to the police station.

Wanted posters were put up around Helmstead and neighbouring Brinford; PC Thorne checked outbuildings for weeks afterwards; and Reverend Henry Jameson made repeated entreaties to his flock to come forward with information, but Vernon Storey wasn’t seen again. It was as if he had vanished off the face of the earth.

Chapter 1

Several weeks after Walter Storey’s funeral, a dance hall reverberated with music and laughter. Times like these were precious, joyful releases after days spent under the spectre of war. The hall was hot and sticky, thanks to the combination of an uncharacte‌ristically sultry evening and the gyrations of the many Land Girls and American soldiers crammed into the small space. But, despite the heat, everyone was determined to make the best of it; a few hours off the leash, dressed in their finery, flirting and having fun. A few hours to forget about the war and remember what it was like to be carefree, feeling the exhilaration of a warm body pressed against yours as you twirled and attempted to follow the steps of the dance.

Although she wasn’t dancing, Iris Dawson was enjoying sitting on the edge of the action, her leg tapping in time to the beat. She had an awkwardness and lack of confidence that people either found frustrating or endearing. Iris felt she didn’t quite fit in. She didn’t know how to put on makeup, despite her mother’s best efforts to teach her back at home, so she chose not to wear any most of the time. Tonight, though, she had experimented with some of Connie Carter’s red lipstick, but with no guidance, she suspected she looked as though she had been messily eating cherries. Tonight was a blessed break from her troubles, and the two shillings admission price was well worth a night off from her thoughts. Iris was paid twenty-eight shillings a week and after bed and board she was left with half of that. She viewed it as her payment for the back-breaking work in the fields, payment for the aching legs, sunburned shoulders, blistered feet and sore hands. She would send as much of the money home as she could, but she knew her mother would be pleased if she spent some of it on herself for once.

Iris was laughing and joking with her fellow Land Girls, Joyce Fisher and Connie Carter, who were sitting next to her. A row of contented wallflowers. To Joyce’s amusement, Connie was refusing a dance with another hopeful soldier. Sitting near the small, but loud, dance band, Connie would struggle to make herself heard. But a quick flash of her wedding ring, with a smile, usually deflected even the most persistent would-be suitor.

“Sorry, I’m spoken for.”

The soldier smiled back and said something that Iris couldn’t hear. She guessed by the shape of the words it was: “That’s a real pity”.

Like so many others before him that evening, he trudged the walk of shame back to his mates at the makeshift bar, where they perused the room for other prospective dance dates. If she’d felt so inclined, Connie could have marked her dance card with a long list of rejections as she was racking them up so fast. It was plain to see that Connie was breathtakingly beautiful, with long black hair styled into loose waves, unblemished skin and full, red lips. Iris couldn’t blame the men for trying. She liked having Connie as her friend; a worldly young woman who had seen more of life than Iris could ever imagine. Connie was both fun to be with and a friendly source of advice. As Iris’s mother would have said, Connie had an old head on young shoulders. For her part, Iris was far less experienced in dealing with life. She had no experience of men and had come from a sheltered upbringing in Northampton, living with her caring, but slightly distant, mother. So being in the big, wide world, billeted to Pasture Farm, had been a big shock to Iris. It was her first time living away from home; the first time she’d lived with a group of women thrown together from all corners of England, from all walks of life. And it was her first experience of back-breaking farm work.

Iris had been asked twice to dance, but she had demurely refused, knowing that across the room, Martin Reeves looked as though he was plucking up courage to ask her. She didn’t want to quash his hopes or put him off by dancing with someone else. She liked Martin, but she wished he’d find the courage soon. He had always been slim, but the last few months had seen him bulk out slightly, the effect of constant manual labour on the farm. He’d gone from looking like a boy to a well-proportioned young man, a wave of sandy hair parted casually across his forehead, his brown eyes burning with life. Idly, she wondered if she could will him to ask her, as seeing his hopeful eyes and nervous face was making her feel uncomfortable. Maybe if she thought really hard and imagined him walking over, it would happen! She had tried offering an encouraging smile a few times, but it hadn’t done the trick yet. Also across the room was Frederick Finch, the ebullient, portly, middle-aged tenant farmer who ran Pasture Farm. Looking as if he’d been tipped into his clothes, he was nursing two half-full pint glasses (for some unexplained reason) and talking to another middle-aged man about something that involved a lot of red-faced guffawing. Iris thought the conversation was probably revolving around some scam or dodgy deal. That’s what Finch liked to do. His small victories in war time, as he called them. Finch was a good man at heart and Iris felt warmly towards him. In some ways he was a father-away-from home, someone who would look out for her, someone who would make sure she was all right.

The band started playing ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’, a song that Iris loathed. She stopped tapping her leg in time; her own small, personal protest.

She noticed a tall, handsome soldier looking her way. Iris glanced around to her side, in puzzlement. Surely he must be eyeing someone behind her? Maybe he was looking at Connie and not at her? But no, his gaze was definitely fixed on her. And what a gaze it was - steely, intense eyes that somehow conveyed both intelligence and warmth were looking her way. Iris felt her cheeks flushing. He continued to look, flashing a confident smile. He was a tall, rangy young man with straight, straw-coloured hair and piercing green eyes; a catch by anyone’s standards. Joyce noticed and nudged Iris, just in case she was somehow unaware of the young man’s interest.

“I know,” Iris whispered, feeling uncomfortable from the attention.

She risked a look up to meet the soldier’s gaze, and to her surprise found that he was a few feet away, walking confidently towards her. Iris felt churned up; a mix of nervousness, excitement and confusion fighting for attention in the pit of her stomach. Her mouth felt very dry all of a sudden and she wondered if she would be able to talk.

“Hey? I’m Joe.” The soldier smiled, extending his hand to shake hers. “Private First Class Joe Batch.”

Iris was aware that Connie and Joyce were transfixed by this development and she struggled to shut them out of her peripheral vision and concentrate on Joe.

“Hello, Joe. I’m Iris. Iris Dawson,” she stammered.

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Yes.” Iris felt awkward. She was dimly aware of Martin Reeves looking downcast across the room. Feeling a stab of pain, she noticed as he turned on his heels, pushing past some people and left the hall.

“Would you like to dance?” Joe Batch smiled, seemingly unaware of her nervousness.

“No,” Iris replied. “I mean no, thank you. I don’t like this song.”

Joe laughed. Iris found herself smiling.

“Dance anyway,” Joyce said under her breath, indicating with her eyes that Iris should just get up.

Iris nodded. “I suppose I can make an exception.”

“Glad to hear it,” Joe said, leading her onto the floor. “We can always pretend we’re dancing to something else. What tunes do you like?”

“Anything.” Iris smiled. “Apart from this.”

They moved in time to the music, Joe holding her a respectful distance away. He seemed to behave like a gentleman. Not like some of the drunken soldiers in here, who were grabbing at women as if it was the last days of Rome. As they danced, Iris worried that her hands were clammy. She didn’t want clammy hands, but she couldn’t help feeling nervous. She wasn’t used to dancing with men, feeling their proximity to her. Joe smiled at her. It was too noisy to talk, but when the dance had finished, he held her hands and looked at her.

“Thanks for that. You did pretty good considering you hate the song.”

“Thanks. You were leading me, doing most of the work.”

They walked to the bar and, without asking, Joe ordered two jugs of cider. He handed one to Iris and she looked into the cloudy, orange liquid, the smell of apples filling her nostrils. It wasn’t the time to tell Joe Batch that she had never had a drink before, was it? Part of her was desperate to show that she was a grown up and that taking a drink with a gentleman suitor was par for the course. Before she had time to think too much, Joe clinked his glass to hers. She mirrored his actions as he put his glass to his lips and took a big gulp. Iris struggled not to pull a disparaging face when she tasted the liquid herself. It was warm and tasted of apple juice, but there was a kick to it. Joe gulped down his pint in a few seconds. Iris didn’t think she could manage that, so she continued to sip at hers. She knew that was what a lady would do.

“I have to go. We’re up early tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Iris said, feeling disappointment. Despite her nerves, she had enjoyed the experience and she was quite keen to dance some more with him.

“But would it be forward to ask if I could see you sometime?” Joe said.

Iris hadn’t been expecting that. She felt flustered. “All right,” she said. “I’m stationed at Pasture Farm.”

“I’ll swing by sometime. If that’s okay?”

“That’s okay,” Iris said.

Joe Batch nodded and smiled, clearly pleased with the outcome. He tipped his head to her and made his way out from the hall. Feeling giddy, Iris returned to her seat with her half-finished drink, where her friends were keen for the gossip about what had happened. After Iris filled them in, Joyce and Connie were pleased for her. She found all the attention a bit bewildering and was grateful that no one else came over to ask her to dance. The experience had exhausted her. She contented herself with thinking about Joe Batch, finishing her cider and watching what else was going on in the room.

Near the door, enjoying the cooler air from outside, were a few people that Iris had never seen before. One of them was a glamorous but understated woman in her early fifties with blonde hair. When these people had arrived, Iris had asked the others who they were. But Connie and Joyce didn’t know. Iris had pointed the glamorous woman out to Joyce, and Joyce, being a hair-dresser before the war, had commented that it was natural blonde hair. She was lucky. A lot of her clients would pay money to have their mousy hair turned that colour.

The woman sipped at a small glass of rhubarb wine and winced at the taste. Iris noticed that she was scanning the room, like the soldiers were. But unlike the soldiers, with their scattergun approach to seeing what available talent was out there, she seemed to be looking for one particular person. Searching, she would turn quickly away from unwanted faces before eye contact could be returned. From her vantage point across the room, Iris was mildly amused when the woman found herself staring directly at Mrs Gladys Gulliver. The sour face of the town busybody and self-appointed moral compass of Helmstead stopped the woman in her tracks. Mrs Gulliver frowned at the stranger in front of her. The fact was that Gladys Gulliver was perhaps only five years older than the blonde woman, but the choices they had made in life, not to mention differing approaches to fashion and makeup, showed that they were on very different paths. Mrs Gulliver had made a typical, snap judgement about the blonde woman before her. A judgement that, knowing Mrs Gulliver, probably involved an inner monologue including the words ‘brassy’ and ‘tart’.

But then Iris noticed something unusual happen.

The stranger spoke to Mrs Gulliver and the busybody cracked a smile and actually laughed. The woman held Mrs Gulliver’s arm as she added something to the joke and Mrs Gulliver laughed again. Iris was shocked that this had happened. She’d never seen Mrs Gulliver smile like that. She tended to smile only if it involved someone else’s misfortune.

“Here look, Mrs Gulliver’s made a friend!” Iris said to Joyce.

“It’s her long-lost sister.” Joyce looked over and smiled.

“Really?”

“No!” Joyce laughed. “You’ll believe anything, you will. I’ve no idea who that woman is. But you know what?”

“What?”

“I’m sure Mrs Gulliver will tell us!” The girls laughed.

Iris couldn’t hear what was being said between Mrs Gulliver and the other woman. She turned back to Joyce, who continued their conversation, forgetting about the momentary distraction. So Iris didn’t notice the blonde woman again that night, and promptly forgot about her; just another face in the crowd. Iris found that her attention was taken by two American servicemen, who were engaged in a heated argument on the dance floor. A young woman, caught in the middle, looked sheepishly at the pair of them, wishing she was anywhere else.

At the bar, the blonde woman was busy charming her new friend, Mrs Gulliver. She had bought her a sherry and they were raising a glass together. And then the woman leaned in close.

“I suppose you know everyone here?”

“What do you mean?” Mrs Gulliver bristled a little, taking it as an insult. She was aware of her own reputation in the village, and whereas she liked to think of her inquisitive nature as a way of cementing community life through vigilance and sharing information, she knew that others viewed her as plain nosey.

“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by that.” The stranger smiled. “Just that you’ve been in the village a while and know these people.”

“That’s right.” Mrs Gulliver smiled back, dropping her defensiveness. “That man over there -” She pointed to a dishevelled man in a badly fitting tweed suit. “He’s the village doctor. Dreadful drunk. I won’t let him examine me. His hands are everywhere.” And then she pointed out a thin, statuesque woman standing on the periphery, dressed more expensively than anyone else present. “And that’s our ladyship. Lady Hoxley. This is her idea, this dance.”

“To raise money for her Spitfire Fund?” The blonde woman asked, glancing at the refined beauty of Ellen Hoxley.

“That’s right. She’s a good woman. Lost her husband. Terrible business. It’s too long a story to go into now, but suffice to say it involved another woman.” Mrs Gulliver mouthed the words ‘other woman’ for reasons known only to herself. Then the older woman sipped her sherry and took a deep breath. She was about to embark on the details of that ‘terrible business’ anyway, but the stranger realised that the story might take some time. And time wasn’t something she had.

“And who’s that? Is that Freddie Finch?” The blonde woman said, pointing across the room.

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“No. I know of him.” The woman laughed. “I’ve heard stories.”

“Yes, well,” Mrs Gulliver said, looking with disdain as Finch worked the two pints in his hands, alternating a sip from each as he lost himself in the music. “Everyone knows him. He’s a disgrace, that one. Ran over my vegetable patch in his tractor, he did. He’d been sleeping in the pub. Blind drunk, he was. I made him repair the damage, mind.”

But the blonde woman wasn’t listening any more. She was already setting off across the room. “I’ve got to meet that man,” she muttered under her breath, earning a baffled stare from Mrs Gulliver. But then Mrs Gulliver knew that people were strange.

The stranger straightened her blouse and gave her hair an imperceptible lift with her hand as she got nearer to Freddie Finch. He was watching the events on the dance floor, so he didn’t notice her approaching. She was only two feet away from him, and about to speak, when the two soldiers who had been arguing flew in a messy heap of fighting limbs into a nearby table. Finch held his pint glasses high, out of harm’s way, as other people scattered while the two men fought on the floor, knocking over chairs and tables. The girl who had been with them was screaming at them to stop. Connie and Joyce rolled their eyes. This was a fairly typical event thanks to the combination of alcohol and high spirits. Lady Hoxley ran across the room to the fracas, two military policemen in tow. She wasn’t going to stand for it. The band stopped playing and the lights were turned up, the party over in an instant.

The blonde woman stood for a moment, contemplating the situation. Finch was edging away from the fracas, pints in hand, as if he was expecting to get the blame somehow.

It wasn’t the right time to meet Frederick Finch. Not now.

No one noticed as the blonde woman turned on her heels and disappeared out of the door. By then Iris had returned to thinking about her own problems, as if the bubble of the dance had been burst by the fighting. The real world had come flooding back, bringing with it familiar feelings of unease and fear. Iris felt a chill, despite the warmth of the room and the contented giddiness in her head from the cider. She’d half-hoped that the soldier might be waiting for her, but he wasn’t.

Iris trudged back towards Pasture Farm. The other girls were singing and laughing, but she felt lost in her own thoughts. The shadows in the fields taunted her, while the girls seemed oblivious. Thoughts of Joe Batch had receded, to be replaced by her more usual preoccupations: thoughts of Vernon Storey and his promise to return for her. She wished with all her heart that she could put it out of her mind. When her head was woozy with cider, it all seemed a bit easier to cope with. Iris wondered whether she needed another drink when she got back to the farm. She decided that it probably wasn’t a good idea. Instead she listened to the humourous conversation between Joyce and Connie behind her and tried her best to join in.

Chapter 2

The outbuilding stood alone in a corner of Pasture Farm; a crumbling rectangle of red bricks capped with a corrugated-iron roof and a green wooden door with more holes in it than one of Frederick Finch’s moth-eaten old jumpers. It was one in a large number of dilapidated buildings, seemingly positioned at random positions around the nexus of the farm cottage, as if they were seeds from a wind-blown dandelion clock. But despite the building’s basic construction, it looked welcoming, thanks to a soft-orange light emanating from within, visible through the single, tiny, grease-smeared window. In the daytime, it was a place where the Land Girls mended their tools. But in the evenings, it was a place of learning. Iris would go there to meet Frank and he would try to teach her. Their progress was slow and sometimes their nightly meetings would be mocked by the other girls with taunts about Iris meeting her fancy man. But she hoped that the dilapidated rectangular outbuilding would also be a place that would change her life.

“DeEr MUm”

The pencil scratched out the words with half a dozen spidery lines. And then the letters started to form again, better this time.

“Dear MUm”

Iris was aware that her tongue was sticking out as she painstakingly scrawled the letters on the notepaper that Frank had given her. The large, flat carpenter’s pencil seemed strange in her hand, hurting her fingers as she pressed it on the page. But then she wasn’t used to writing and coordinating the pencil was hard work. It always looked easy when other people did it, but when she tried, she struggled to steer it across the paper. She didn’t realise that she’d made a spelling mistake, but even she could see that the letters were an uneven bag of uppercase and lowercase, written in a size that bore no correlation to whether they were capitals or not, as if it was a ransom note made from glued newspaper letters. But she’d done it, and she felt a small sense of pride welling up in her heart.

And to cap it all, Frank seemed impressed with Iris’s handwriting. “Not bad, Miss Dawson. Not bad at all.”

“Did I spell it right?”

“Near enough.” He cracked a smile, kindly fissures erupting around the corner of his mouth and his eyes. He didn’t want to dampen the enthusiasm in his young trainee, but Iris was smart enough to know when she was being soft-soaped. Frank spotted the slight grimace on her face as she put the pencil down on his workbench.

“Hey, come on. You’ll get there. That’s two more words than you were writing before.”

It was true. When she came to Pasture Farm as a member of the Women’s Land Army, Iris Dawson couldn’t read or write a word. She had a sweet nature, which meant she always brought out the maternal and paternal instincts in older people. This was why she also had a good relationship with Freddie Finch, who seemed protective and kind.

Such was the case with friendly odd-job man, Frank Tucker, who worked on Pasture Farm doing many of the chores that the tenant farmer was too lazy to do. Their friendship had been cemented long before Iris had saved Frank from the gallows. They had struck up a relationship after Frank had spotted Iris’s reading shortfall when she had failed to read a tractor manual. The contraption had very nearly ripped her arm off when she attempted to start the thing. He wasn’t going to let her make such dangerous mistakes on account of the fact that she couldn’t read instructions. So Frank had taken her under his wing, happy for the company, and he had started to teach her to read and write. They had begun with some of the children’s picture books that had belonged to Martin, and now they had graduated onto books with fewer pictures. Iris was currently stumbling her way through Enid Blyton’s Five On A Treasure Island, but it was hard going. She liked the fact that she was reading Martin’s books; turning pages that he had turned, connecting with him, somehow, across time.

The writing was just as arduous as the reading.

“Why is it all so difficult?” Iris had complained.

“Nothing worth doing is easy.” Frank smiled.

It was Iris’s ambition to be able to write a letter home to her mother. Margot Dawson knew that Iris couldn’t read or write, but she also knew that some kind soul would read out the letters that she sent to her daughter. So Frank had found himself providing a mouthpiece for the missives from home. He related to Iris about how her grandfather’s leg was getting better (‘It doesn’t really play up much now. Mainly when he has to get coal in. Funny that!’). He told her about the gossip caused when a new racy neighbour moved in (‘She only wears crimson. And I don’t want to say she’s fast, but the milkman spent a long time in her house the other day.’) But as well as the light-hearted information, Frank had broken the sad news that her beloved dog, Neville, had died. He’d also told her about how her siblings were getting on, since they’d gone to stay with an aunt outside the city. And in return, Frank would dutifully write replies to Margot Dawson, dictated by Iris. She would search for a word and Frank would painstakingly suggest one. They had spent many an evening hour together with him reading and writing and her learning. Sometimes she would censor her thoughts when dictating. Certainly she wouldn’t mention anything about how she felt about men, in particular Martin. So her letters home were mostly about the mundane matters of farm life; how hard she was working, the blisters she was collecting, the odd mention of a dance or a film she had seen in the village hall. She wouldn’t dictate anything that gave away her troubled, inner thoughts either. They were best locked up until the time came when she could write them down herself. Or when she could go home and talk to her mum face to face.

She missed home. It was a comforting and familiar two-up, two-down on a terraced street in Northampton. With her dad gone, Iris felt guilty about having to leave her mother on her own while she was doing her duty in the war. But Margot Dawson understood. She was doing her own work towards the war effort too. And she was proud of what Iris was doing in the Women’s Land Army. And if she needed proof, Iris remembered going to see her grandfather after she had enlisted. She would always relish his gappy, proud smile as she showed him her uniform. He reminisced about his own war, the one they called the Great War, and how his own mother had been just as proud when he first turned up in his uniform. Iris couldn’t wait to wear her uniform, so she had put it on almost immediately. The shirt was too big, seemingly made for a woman with arms six feet long. And the trousers needed hemming. As she and her mother had set about pinning up and sewing at her grandfather’s house, her grandfather remarked that there was no time to measure people. They had to just wear what they were given and get out there. But Iris had taken an instant dislike to one part of her uniform. The pullover was itchy and it smelled of mothballs, and despite her mother’s best efforts with the scrubbing brush, the smell had prevailed. Even now, months later, it was Iris’s least-favourite item of kit. When the alterations were finished, and Iris could walk around without treading on the hems of her trousers, the family had thrown a little going-away party for her. A few neighbours and the girl from down the road, whom Iris used to play with, were invited. Everyone drank tea from the best china and ate a sponge cake that her mother had made. And then, with many stoic faces holding back tears, Iris had taken her suitcase and headed off to catch a train to Helmstead, via Birmingham. That had been the last time that Iris had seen her mother and grandfather, and she couldn’t wait until she was given some leave so she could go back home, see them and sleep in her own bed. But that wouldn’t be for a while as she had to complete six months of service first.

Frank handed back her efforts at writing.

“It’s a good start, Iris.” Frank rubbed his eyelids down as if they were shutters on a shop front. “But I’m worn out. Would you mind if we picked it up tomorrow?”

Iris shook her head. It was fine. She would write some more tomorrow. She’d already decided it would be a short note home, but as it would be one she’d written entirely on her own, a short one would be a monumental achievement. She felt warm thoughts about her mum opening the letter and realising what she was looking at. A hand would go to her mouth; tears would probably well in her eyes. But Iris had had another idea. What if, instead of writing a letter full of everyday thoughts, she wrote the one letter she had always wanted to write? The one that spoke the words she couldn’t say to her mother’s face? She knew she would have to learn to write first so that she could write that one on her own, without Frank’s watchful eye. She struggled not to cry at the thought. Those words she longed to say to her mother …

No, that would have to wait. One day.

An image came without warning into Iris’s mind.

Black patent shoes running over cobbles.

She shut the image out. It wasn’t the time to think about that. Go away! She pulled herself together.

“You all right, Iris?” Frank asked, noticing something was wrong, spotting the look of concern on her face.

“I’m fine.”

As Iris headed to the door, she hesitated. She hadn’t realised that it would be nearly dark outside. How could she have been in the shed for so long?

“Hurry on up, then, Miss Dawson. You’re letting a cracking draught in here.” He was keen to get on and fix one of the rabbit traps that had seized up. But then he realised why she was hesitating, why she had changed. He recognised that she was afraid.

“It’s all right. I’ll see you over there, to the farmhouse,” he said, warmly. And he rose from his chair, his thin gangly legs swamped by his ill-fitting, baggy grey trousers. “But there’s no need to worry. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know that, Mr Tucker. In my head, anyway. But in my heart it’s a different matter.” She squinted into the fading light as the familiar shapes of the hedges and outbuildings turned into sombre silhouettes. Each one could promise her overactive imagination some dreadful threat or surprise. “In my heart, I think Vernon’s coming back for me.”

But before Frank could offer further reassurances, Iris left his shed and crossed over the yard to the farmhouse. By the noise of her feet on the gravel, he could tell that she was running. Running fast.

Iris didn’t have far to go. Within moments, she was in the warm kitchen of the farmhouse, sliding the bolt on the door behind her; aware of the heat and light from the kitchen stove even before she turned around. Nothing could prepare her for the sight that greeted her. Frederick Finch had his leg propped up on the kitchen table. Esther Reeves, the warden for the Women’s Land Army, was wincing as she tried to cut his gnarled, yellowing toenails. It was clearly a job far beyond her comfort zone or job description.

She looked relieved at the sight of Iris. Iris knew what was coming and sought to wage a counter-attack before anything could be asked of her. “I’d love to help, but I’ve got an early start.”

And Iris was bounding up the stairs before Esther could finish saying, “We’ve all got an early start.”

Iris paused on the landing, listening to the sounds from the kitchen. A smile had returned to her face. Although it turned to a look of disgust as she heard Finch ask Esther, “Do you think that’s a bunion or a big old splinter?”

It was time for bed.

Since Dolores O’Malley had moved rooms, Iris was temporarily on her own in the small bedroom at the front of the house. It used to belong to Finch’s son, Billy, before he went away to fight for his country. A stack of beer mats on the bedside table and a brown suit hanging in the wardrobe were the only reminders that he’d ever been there. Iris wasn’t allowed to decorate the room, but she felt at home in her little corner of Pasture Farm. Especially as the room had a lock on the door.

Iris closed the door and bolted it. She took off her thick jumper and unhooked her dungarees from her shoulders. She could feel the welt marks on her skin from where the straps had been digging in all day. Then she pulled off her blouse. It was too small for her, so she felt like a snake shedding its skin as she pulled it free. Then, as was customary in a house without fireplaces in the bedrooms, Iris scurried into her nightgown as quickly as she could. In under a minute she had gone from a fully dressed member of the Woman’s Land Army to a woman ready for bed.

She thought about the handsome soldier at the dance. The one who had asked her to dance to ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’. Several days had passed since then and he hadn’t shown up at Pasture Farm. Iris had gone through every option in her head. Perhaps he had forgotten the name of her farm? Perhaps he had been called away on army business? Or perhaps he wasn’t really interested in her. She tried not to feel depressed about it, trying to let it go. Her grandfather always said ‘what will be, will be’ and that’s the philosophy she tried to adopt now. If the soldier showed up, that would be great. If he didn’t, well, she would move on. Iris yawned.

But she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

She risked a look through the small window. It was frosted with condensation, so she wiped it clear with the cuff of her nightdress. The lights from downstairs illuminated the lawns at the front of the farmhouse. An old children’s swing creaked in the night breeze. Iris hated that swing. It would keep her awake at night with its constant noises. And in her wilder flights of fancy, she sometimes dreaded looking out of the window in case she imagined someone sitting on it, staring balefully up at her. She wished that Finch would sell it as scrap for the war effort. But he was attached to the old relic.

Iris pulled her curtain across to block out the sight. The unseen swing gave a final creak of defiance, as if it was determined to have the last word. She sat on her bed and flipped back the sheets, sighing as she felt the night closing in on her. A lonely room in a strange place. And here she was grabbing a few hours’ sleep until Esther shouted up the stairs for them all to get up.

“Come on, you bunch of layabouts, let’s have you down for breakfast!”

Iris closed her eyes and stretched her aching limbs. She could hear a muffled soundtrack from downstairs. Finch laughed at something. A cup or glass smashed on the floor.

She could hear Esther exclaim, “Oops, look what you’ve done.”

“I didn’t do it. It was me cardigan.”

“And who’s your cardigan attached to? Oh, mind your feet on the glass!”

Unable to sleep, Iris swung out of bed with a sigh. An owl hooted somewhere off in the fields, a late-night hunter ready to start its day. Iris’s body felt exhausted, but her mind was racing.

The swing creaked outside.

It was as if it was taunting her through the thin curtain. Her fingers edged towards the fabric to pull it back, to look outside. But she was scared; her fingers touching the fabric but not having the courage to move it. The swing creaked again. Iris could hear her breathing, her heart pounding in her chest.

Then she remembered something else that Billy Finch had left in his room. Iris opened her wardrobe and moved a wicker box. It contained letters and photographs from back home and a couple of torn magazine pages from Picturegoer magazine showing hairstyles she’d one day like to try. Behind the wicker box was what she wanted: a clear, tall bottle, half full of a bright- orange liquid. Finch’s carrot whisky. From the reactions of the others to the whisky, she knew it was a revolting drink that had the sole redeeming feature of being very strong. Should she do it?

Iris remembered the woozy feeling from the cider in the dance hall. It had helped things seem better when she was fretting about Vernon, hadn’t it? So maybe a few swigs of Billy’s stash could do the same. It would certainly get her off to sleep.

Iris took out the bottle, unscrewed the cap and took a swig. A stiff drink to help her shut out her fears was just what she needed. She winced at the taste, certain that her gums were retreating from the foul, strong liquid. She took another couple of big swigs, in quick succession, trying to swallow the liquid as quickly as possible. This wasn’t one of those drinks that you swilled around your mouth, savouring the taste. It had one purpose and one purpose only. And for Iris, it worked reassuringly quickly.

She felt her head spinning, a reassuring warmth rising on her cheeks.

The swing creaked.

But this time, she didn’t hear it. Or if she did, it didn’t unnerve her like it had before. She took a final couple of swigs and replaced the bottle back in the recesses of the wardrobe. Her little secret. A useful stash to be eked out for as long as she could, whenever she needed it. She tried to focus her eyes, but her head was woozy. Her mouth had the remnants of the vile taste and she contemplated going to brush her teeth again, but fear of bumping into one of the other girls on the landing made her stay put. They might catch a whiff of her breath and know she’d been drinking. There would be questions: where did she get it? Why was she drinking alone? Could they have some?

Iris checked that her door was locked.

She turned off the light and curled up under the sheet. The room was spinning slightly and she felt surprise that such a seemingly small amount of drink could do this. But it was strong, dangerous stuff. Just the sort of sedative she needed. She thought of Joe Batch’s smiling, rugged face and thanked him for introducing her to the delights of alcohol.

Sleep came quickly. But it wouldn’t last for long.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Was that the swing? Iris started to wake, her befuddled mind reaching and trying to place the noise. Dripping water? No, it was a more solid and insistent tapping than that. Not the swing, not water: then what?

Tap. Tap. Tap.

As Iris came round, she managed to piece it together and recognise the noise. Someone was tapping the wooden leg at the end of her bed. Tap. Tap.

She opened a bleary eye, half-wondering how someone had managed to get into her room. Then the horror hit her. The bedroom curtain was billowing and there was glass strewn like discarded diamonds across the floor. How had she not heard the glass breaking? Someone had climbed up and broken in. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t draw breath to make a sound; her lungs were like a wet tea towel that someone had scrunched up. With rising dread, she turned her head towards the source of the tapping. She knew she had to look, but she didn’t want to. She knew what she would see.

It was no surprise who she saw standing there.

In the half-light, the glinting, malevolent eyes of a small, gnarled man. Vernon Storey. A man twisted by disappointment, cynicism and unrealised dreams.

Shaking with fear, Iris pulled herself up in her bed, the sweat of fear dripping down her temples. She stared at Vernon. He’d somehow climbed up and smashed the window. And now he was standing in front of her. He grinned and raised the poker in his hand. She was dimly aware of Finch and Esther downstairs, talking. She tried to scream for help, but all that escaped was a tiny, almost comical, squeak. Clutching the poker, Vernon’s other hand drummed menacingly on the wooden leg of her bed.

Tap, Tap, Tap.

“Told you I’d come back for you, Iris Dawson,” he said softly, his yellowing teeth bared like a shark.

“Please …” Iris murmured, finding breath for a childlike whisper of desperation and hope.

He shook his head, unwilling to listen to any more entreaties. That’s not why he’d come. There was no interest in discussing the right and wrongs of her betrayal, as he saw it. Or the rights and wrongs of his crime against his son.

“Time for talking is over, Iris,” he said, moving closer, one step at a time. He knew that she had nowhere to go.

She could smell the stale sweat on his clothes, see the holes in his ragged pullover and his faded checked shirt as he got closer. His face looked almost apologetic. “Sorry it’s come to this,” he whispered. There seemed genuine regret in his voice, as if he knew he wasn’t just ruining her life but his own too. Circumstances had brought him to this point; circumstances that had meant Iris had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Suddenly, his face changed to one of determination and anger as he knew what he had to do.

He raised the poker above his head and, in a savage, fluid arc, brought it crashing down towards her.

Chapter 3

Earlier that evening, Private First Class Joe Batch sauntered along the gravel driveway to Hoxley Manor. Stationed a few miles away in the nearby town of Brinford, Joe had never been here before. Wearing his summer fatigues uniform of khaki shirt, tie and trousers with a green belt, he glanced at fellow American soldiers dotted around the front of the house, not recognising any faces, but knowing they were comrades. He cleared his throat as he entered the cool interior of the building. He wasn’t in a hurry to get inside, but he felt he couldn’t delay it any longer. The place was just like they said it was, a slice of aristocratic history that was terribly British and terribly in need of repair. Instinctively, Joe folded his hat and tucked it into his belt as he made his way down the grand main hall towards the wards, his shoes clicking on the parquet flooring. A few months ago, the Manor had been seconded by the War Office and much of its living space converted into a makeshift medical hospital for treating men from the front lines. But it also treated men injured closer to home. Men like Private Chuck Wellings; the friend who Joe had come to see.

Asking directions from a passing nurse, Joe Batch made his way down a small side corridor. It smelt of damp, old wood and a dark stain had spread over much of the ceiling. Gee, he could renovate this place given half a chance. It would be an opportunity to use his talents as a builder and restore something to its previous splendour and beauty. But no one had time for such frivolities as renovation now. There was a war on. Joe knew that his job for the duration of the war was to serve his country in the army. Joe reached the end of a small side ward, three iron beds crammed into a glorified corridor. In the last bed was a figure wearing a bandage that covered most of his head and one eye. He was half-sitting and half-lying in bed, a newspaper in front of him, his head lolling. But Joe guessed he wasn’t taking much notice of the text.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Joe asked, flashing a warm smile with pearly white teeth.

It took a moment for Chuck to recognise his visitor. Perhaps it took a moment for his single eye to focus away from the newspaper and onto the man in front of his bed. “Joe?” Chuck cleared his throat, sounding surprised. His voice had the tell-tale catch of a man who hadn’t spoken all day. “What are you doing here?”

“They’ve run out of surgeons so I said I’d have a go. I’m sure it’s as easy as knocking up a dovetail joint.”

Chuck laughed. He was a chubby, thickset man in his early twenties, with a red face. Most people would probably say he was ‘jolly’, but this was probably the first time there had been any hint of jollity since his accident four days ago. It had been a freak ricochet from another soldier’s gun on the firing range, one second of miscalculation that had cost Chuck Wellings his eye.

Joe pulled up a chair. He twirled it around so that he could rest his arms on the frame, and sat down. In the other beds the occupants were asleep. Bandages obscured the head of one man and the other patient looked in good health until you looked down the length of his bed and realised that the shape of his body under the covers ended below the knees. Chuck was in the minority - a soldier injured on the home front. Most of the other patients at Hoxley Manor were shipped in from overseas battle fronts. Joe’s smile faltered a little. War had always seemed scary to him, but the presence of his friends joining up at the same time as him made him feel they were an invincible little band, somehow immune to the cold, harsh realities around them. It was just as it had been when they had met on the first day of high school, just as it had been on the first day they had all got jobs in their home town. Chuck had been one such friend. They’d answered the call together, along with three other pals. They’d all gone to the recruiting office and enthusiastically signed their lives away together. They were determined to beat the Nazi menace in Europe, determined to help the allies that they had read about in the newspapers and seen on the newsreels. And now the invincible little band wasn’t quite so invincible. One man down. But Joe was always the light-hearted joker of the pack, adept at being funny and charming. He knew it was his job to cheer up Chuck, even in such depressing surroundings as these. He said the first thing that came into his head, taking no time to filter his comment. But that was how the pals spoke to each other. If he pulled his punches now, Chuck would worry that things were even worse than he feared.

“Have they talked about you getting a discount at the flicks?” Joe said.

“What?”

“You’re only seeing it with one eye, man. They’ve got to give you a discount!”

Luckily, Chuck was ready to laugh, even at such an off-colour joke. Joe knew it wasn’t his best, but at least it was something. Chuck’s laugh turned to a slight grimace as the reality of his situation hit him again. The friends chatted for a few minutes. Joe told him what was happening at their barracks. Chuck thought it was unlikely that he’d return to active service, but he hoped he could come back to perform some function or other. If not, his war would be over and he’d have to go home.

“You’ll have to keep everything ticking over until the rest of us get back,” Joe said.

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Chuck replied.

Dr Richard Channing entered. A distinguished-looking, handsome man in his forties, he had been running the hospital since it opened. Joe knew there were rumours about him secretly courting the lady of the manor, but he didn’t know if they were true or not. She was a good-looking broad. Probably rich too. Channing checked the clipboard of statistics at the end of the bandaged man’s bed. He shot a quick, perfunctory smile over to Joe and Chuck, then busied himself as the men talked.

“When are you going back to Panmere Lake?” Chuck asked.

“Waiting for orders,” Joe replied.

“But I thought they wanted to get the stuff moved as quickly as they can,” Chuck said. “To somewhere more secure.” The operation to move munitions from a temporary location near Panmere Lake to more permanent surroundings had been a mission that both Joe and Chuck had been lined up for.

“Well, if you need a pair of hands. I’m so bored sitting here all day. Not even smart enough to do the crossword.” Chuck’s fingers scrunched the newspaper on his lap.

“You’ve got to concentrate on getting better. Anyway, you wouldn’t be here without a good reason.”

Dr Channing walked back over from the other side of the room. “Quite right. As soon as you’re able, we’ll have you out of here faster than you can say good old Uncle Sam.”

The soldiers smiled back. “Thanks, Doc,” Joe offered. “Got to get this guy pulling his considerable weight.”

Chuck cracked a grin and jokingly pushed his friend’s arm.

Channing replaced the patient clipboard at the end of Chuck’s bed and glided out of the room, his white coat billowing slightly behind him.

“So how’s your love life?” Chuck asked.

“You must be bored if you’re asking about that. I met a broad at a dance, a Land Girl …”

“Another one?”

“This one’s different,” Joe said, a slight edge of annoyance to his voice.

“What? Different ‘cos you haven’t had your way with her yet?”

Joe afforded himself a smile. It was probably true. Chuck knew him well. Chuck had been on enough double dates with his good-looking friend to know how skilled Joe was at chatting up women. It was unlikely that he’d ever think about settling down, especially with the war. There was a need to let off steam after all they were dealing with, a need to have fun. And if that meant courting a lot of British women, then that was fine, in Joe’s book. Chuck was different. He’d love to find the right woman and marry her straight away. But this was, Joe figured, because he didn’t have the effortless charm and good looks. Chuck’s lack of confidence meant that he would take love if it ever came his way, embracing it with grateful hands. Joe was happy to string women along, cheat and lie. It was all part of the game, as far as he was concerned. Chuck had heard Joe describe many women with the phrase ‘this one’s different’. It was baloney.

“I’ve not seen any other women since I met her at the dance, so that’s something,” Joe admitted.

“Losing your touch!” Chuck exclaimed.

“Been too busy, to be honest. But I might go and see her, get properly acquainted.”

“Heaven help her.” Although it was sometimes fun to watch Joe charm them, Chuck almost felt sorry for the women of Helmstead. They didn’t seem worldly enough or skilled in the detection of charming lotharios such as Joe Batch. He preyed on them like a wolf in a sheep enclosure. And sometimes that made Chuck feel uneasy, especially when he knew he would treat any one of those women like a queen, with respect and admiration.

Joe leaned back in his seat. He eyed a nurse who passed down the corridor. Old habits died hard. Chuck smiled at his brazen nature. When they were alone again, he returned to the conversation about Panmere Lake. The Americans had used some covered buildings near to the lake, on the other side of Helmstead, as a temporary ammunition store. Joe, a skilled carpenter, and other men in his unit, were building a new, secure storage building near to their base in Brinford. It was imperative that they move the munitions as soon as possible. At the moment, they were vulnerable to enemy attack. Joe thought his friend should be grateful to miss the hard, exhausting work of lugging the ammunition onto the trucks for transporting.

After twenty minutes, Joe said his goodbyes and sauntered away from Chuck’s ward. Reaching the main corridor, Joe unfurled his hat and positioned it back on his head. Silhouetted ahead, near the doorway, was the figure of Dr Richard Channing. He was talking to a beautiful and stately woman, a person whose aristocratic bearing was unmistakable. As Joe got closer, he could see her sandy hair neatly curled around her fine bone structure, the thin, porcelain-hued neck. He guessed she was Lady Ellen Hoxley. Channing moved aside to let Joe pass and they both glanced briefly at him. Joe knew enough about affairs and illicit looks to know that those two were seeing each other. The subtle hints in their body language, the angles they stood at in relation to each other, the imperceptible touches. He smirked, knowing their secret, as he walked down the gravel path, away from the big house.

He decided that he would visit that Land Girl tomorrow. Yes, that’s what he’d do.

The next morning, shouts could be heard from the kitchen of Pasture Farm.

“Mind you get the collar! I need the collar doing.” Finch poked a stubby finger at his best white shirt; a shirt that was currently stretched across the ironing board. He was leaning over Esther’s shoulder as she ironed it for him, an unskilled manager of such things. Esther’s patience was wearing thin at his interference.

“I have ironed a shirt before, you know,” she snapped. She shot a long-suffering look at the Land Girls sitting around the farmhouse table near by. Joyce was eating a slice of toast as Finch busied himself around Esther like a bumble bee harassing a flower. Dolores O’Malley stared wistfully into her mug of tea, not quite awake, but lost in her own thoughts as usual.

“Where’s Iris?” Joyce asked.

“Will you leave it!” Esther snapped at Finch, who was attempting to hold down part of the collar for her.

“Shouldn’t she be up by now?” Joyce continued.

“Maybe she’s having a lie-in until six o’clock,” Dolores replied with a smirk.

Esther finished ironing the shirt and Finch plucked it off the board. “Very nice job, Esther.” He giggled as he stretched it onto a wooden coat hanger. He glided over the floor with it, as if he had some ethereal dance partner, and hung it on the picture rail next to the larder. The shirt looked immaculate for about four seconds, until the hanger fell from the picture rail, crashing to the floor and leaving the shirt in a crumpled heap.

“Fred!” Esther scolded, going to retrieve it. Finch, for his part, looked genuinely aggrieved. Joyce hadn’t seen him this agitated in ages. Usually he was a man who cared little for his appearance, but in the last week, she had witnessed Esther cutting Finch’s hair and Finch wearing his best hat into Helmstead. Gone too were the trousers with holes in the pockets and his shabby cardigan. He’d even bought a brand-new leather belt from Mr Yardley in the town to replace the string that he had been using recently. Finch wouldn’t win the Picturegoer magazine’s Best-Dressed Man Award any time soon, but his appearance had definitely improved.

“Do you think it’ll be all right?” Finch asked nervously.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Esther smiled, finishing a brisk iron of the shirt. “Just relax and enjoy yourself.”

Finch nodded. He’d try his best. Joyce thought it was sweet. She watched Finch amble out of the door into the yard outside.

“He’s not meeting her now, is he?” Joyce asked.

“Not until this afternoon. He’ll look a right state by then!” Esther laughed. Joyce and Esther were used to witnessing the love lives of the various girls on the farm and the estate, but both were surprised that they were now seeing Finch courting a woman. He’d shown little interest in women since his wife had passed away, but this lady had seemingly knocked him for six. Both women were surprised by the changes in him. But it was lovely to see him with a spring in his step, even if they feared for the inevitable disappointing end to the relationship. Could she be as keen as he was? Would his enthusiasm put her off? Esther feared that she would have to pick up the pieces when that happened. But for now, he was happy.

Joyce finished her last crust, wiped her hands on her overalls and asked Esther, “Do you want me to go up for Iris?”

Esther shook her head. “I’ll do it in a minute, when I’ve got the ironing board put away.”

The truth was she didn’t know why Iris was always late down in the mornings. She wondered if the girl was staying up too late, talking to Frank in his shed. Maybe she should have a word with her and limit their late-night conversations to weekends? As the warden in charge of the Women’s Land Army girls, Esther had the power to do that. It was her duty to ensure that the girls were fit for their work. The work was the priority. But she knew that Iris viewed Frank, and Fred, for that matter, as father figures, and she knew the girl was relieved that she’d managed to save him from the gallows after the murder of Walter Storey. Iris and Frank’s relationship seemed to be something they both valued. However, these late starts couldn’t continue. Esther glanced at the clock. It was five to six. Even for Iris, it was unlike her to be so late …

Esther stowed the ironing board in the pantry, chivvied Dolores to follow Joyce into the fields and went through to the foot of the stairs. “Iris!” she called up. There was no reply. With a reluctant sigh, Esther trudged up the wooden stairs, muttering that she had better things to do than molly-coddling her girls. At the top of the stairs was the landing that split off into the various Land Girls’ rooms. Esther knocked on one of the doors.

Nothing.

Esther tried the handle. It was locked. She sighed, cursing Iris under her breath. What had she told them about locking doors? If anything happened, there was no way to get inside to them. Esther rapped on the door.

“Come on, Iris! Move your bones!”

Joyce and Dolores were packing tools onto a wheelbarrow when they caught sight of a strange figure in the far corner of the yard. They nudged each other and stifled their urge to laugh. It was Finch, dressed in his best suit and wearing his freshly pressed shirt. He straightened his collar and pulled his jacket around his portly frame. He cleared his throat.

“May I have the pleasure?” he asked, offering his hands outstretched.

“What’s he doing?” Dolores asked.

But Joyce couldn’t see past Finch’s ample body to see who he was talking to. Then Finch twirled around and Joyce had to stifle another giggle. The farmer had a broom in his arms and was dancing across the yard, eyes closed in solemn concentration. Joyce pressed a hand against Dolores, forcing them both out of view behind a tractor. She knew Finch would be embarrassed if he was caught practising his dance moves.

As Joyce and Dolores walked to the fields, Joyce commented that she thought it was sweet that Finch had found someone else. He’d been a widower for years and years, since his son, Billy, was born. Finally he had found a new person to share things with. Joyce wondered to herself whether she could ever love anyone besides her beloved John. It seemed unlikely. She and John had been childhood sweethearts, marrying before the war started. It had been their love that had saved them from dying, when the Coventry bombings occurred, Joyce had been with John in Birmingham. Joyce had lost her entire family that night as her family home had been levelled by German bombs. When she returned to the devastated streets of her home town, John had helped her sift through the wretched remains of her house, finding such grim artefacts as Joyce’s sister’s dress and the front of the radio that had been in the front parlour. John had been there to comfort her. Such was their bond that Joyce found it physically painful when John joined the RAF, flying dangerous bombing missions of his own.

But now John was back home. And closer than ever. John Fisher had been invalided out of service and was now doing his bit by trying to run the neighbouring Shallow Brook Farm. Vernon’s old farm.

Esther rapped again on Iris’s bedroom door. Where was that girl?

A few seconds’ silence, but then the sound of the bolt being slipped back.

A sleepy Iris Dawson opened the door. Seeing Esther’s face with its stern expression told her all she needed to know about what time it was. “You’re late. Again,” Esther said. Iris ran in a panic back into the room, hoisting her nightdress over her head as she went.

“Sorry, Esther. I really am,” Iris said, her voice muffled by the garment covering her face. “I had a nightmare and then I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“I don’t want your excuses.” Esther went to the chest of drawers and looked for a shirt for the girl. The drawers were empty. Esther glanced at the chair in the corner of the room, where a small pile of unwashed laundry formed a fabric hillock. Oblivious to this, Iris was fastening her bra.

“You don’t have any clean shirts,” Esther said, plucking her way through the clothes. It was the girls’ responsibility to ensure that their clothing was put out for washing. Esther would clean their uniforms, but she wasn’t going to go hunting for shirts and trousers around the house.

“This one will have to do,” Iris replied, taking one at random.

“I want you to sort all of this out tonight, you hear?” Esther scolded. “Never mind seeing Frank Tucker tonight. This is more important.”

Iris nodded meekly as she fastened a shirt that had a beetroot stain on the left breast pocket.

“And we need to talk about you and your attitude.”

“I haven’t got an attitude,” Iris replied.

“You’re a girl who wakes late every morning and whose mind isn’t on the job. That’s attitude, in my book.” And Esther was gone. Her technique in these situations was to let the other person think about her words for most of the day. She was always letting people stew. Iris sighed, searching the pile for a pair of trousers that weren’t too muddy. Her head was throbbing and her throat felt dry. She cursed herself for drinking. She guessed that Esther was right. She had been late most mornings. But she couldn’t help it.

By lunchtime, her throbbing headache had blossomed into a bloom of pain in her temples and Iris was grateful to be asked to clear some fallen branches in the East Field, a location remote enough from the farmhouse to allow her a few minutes’ breather. She picked up some sticks and started to assemble a pile that could be used as firewood. Some of the larger branches had to be stripped of leaves before they could be used. Iris used a small knife to cut them away. Finally by mid-afternoon, the relaxed pace of her own work and the silence of being alone had eased the pain in her head. Iris felt tired and decided she wouldn’t drink tonight. That had been a mistake. But the drink had helped her get to sleep, shutting out the fears racing around her brain. She wouldn’t drink again. But, of course, it was easy to keep such a promise in a sunny field in the afternoon. It was far more difficult to stick to promises at night, when every creak on the stairs or every shifting shadow could terrify her.

I will come for you, Iris. Mark my words.

And her nightmares and imagination were becoming more vivid and disturbing. Iris wished that she could stop thinking about him. But her mind just wouldn’t stop. Each time she looked in the bathroom mirror, she would scare herself by imagining Vernon’s face in the reflection. Iris tried to put the thoughts out of her mind. She continued her work, keen to fill her thoughts with the business of firewood collection and leaf stripping. Keep your mind on the things you can control. But things had been slowly getting out of control. The nightmares were causing problems. Cracks were starting to show. Maybe a little drink to control things wasn’t such a bad idea …

Suddenly she heard a twig crack.

“Hello?” Iris shouted, fear taking hold of her. Had she seen a man walk behind a tree? Get a grip, Iris. She bent down and picked up a solid length of branch, brandishing it like a club. She edged towards where she thought she had seen a man hiding.

It must be a trick of the light. An overactive imagination, that’s all. There wouldn’t be anyone there, not this far out.

Could there?

Feeling the thump-thump of her heart in her chest, Iris reached the tree. She was just about to rush behind it when a man’s hands thrust out at her. Iris cracked the tree branch across his knuckles.

“Youch!” Private First Class Joe Batch shouted.

Iris dropped the stick and rushed to help him. His fingers were red, but the skin was unbroken.

“So sorry!”

“What the hell are you -?”

“I might ask you the same thing!” Iris stormed, anger coming to the fore. “Why were you creeping up on me?”

“I was trying to surprise you,” Joe admitted.

“I think I surprised you more.” Iris smiled kindly, her fury subsiding. “Come over to the farmhouse and I’ll get Esther to look at your fingers.”

“They’re okay, no real damage.” Joe grinned. “This is all part of getting to know you. For instance, I know you ain’t the type of girl who likes surprises. Logged and recorded.”

“I don’t mind surprises. Just don’t like strange men creeping up on me.”

“Strange?”

“You know what I mean.”

Joe nodded, as if conceding it was a fair enough point. Then, seeing the Land Girls in the distance and knowing that Iris might have to get back to work, he decided that he’d better get to the matter in hand, the reason for his visit.

“I came to see if you fancied coming to the pictures on Friday night?”

“What’s on?”

“Does it matter?” Joe said, amused.

“Yes,” Iris said, confused. She felt out of her depth. Her experience of men could be written on a very small piece of card. Was this part of flirting? She had no real idea, but she decided that she kind of enjoyed it. It was fun when she’d referred to him as strange and she guessed that was flirting, wasn’t it? “I mean, we should know what we’re going to see.”

“It’s a Gary Cooper. Does that win your approval?”

“Possibly,” Iris said, thinking fast as to what Connie might say in this situation. She decided a joke was in order. “Depends if there’s a supporting feature.”

“Newsreels?”

Iris pondered this with mock severity before agreeing, “Sold. It’s a deal.”

“It’s a date.” Joe Batch smiled and started to head off across the fields. Iris watched him go, proud that she had a date to look forward to, and proud that she had managed to flirt with him without becoming tongue-tied. Being around Connie must be rubbing off on her. It was reassuring that Joe was interested in her after all. Something to take her mind off Vernon, at least.

Later, as the rest of the girls stopped for a breather and mug of tea, Iris wandered away, not in the mood to talk. She looked at the folded-up letter that she had started to write with Frank. She felt joy in her heart that day for the image of her mother reading it. Iris sat by a tree, the sun dappling her face through the canopy of leaves. She was dimly aware of the chatter of the other girls by the tractor. They were discussing a trip to the flicks. It seemed that Joyce was keen to see the new Gary Cooper too. Dolores had more mundane concerns and was wondering why her tea tasted funny. Their voices became a low buzz of reassuring noise in Iris’s ears, the warmth of the sun feeling good against her face. She felt herself relaxing, her eyes drooping shut. She didn’t fight it. It would only be a little doze for a few minutes …

Except it wasn’t.

“Iris!” Connie shouted, “Wake up!”

Iris awoke with a start to see an angry-looking Connie looming over her. “It’s nearly supper time.”

Iris realised that the sky was a darker blue than it had been before. How long had she been asleep? Connie was already marching away, back towards the farmhouse, in no mood for a discussion. “I’ve got to meet Henry tonight. Got better things to do than search for you.”

And Connie shouted back to an unseen group as loudly as she could. “Found her!”

With growing unease, Iris realised that other figures were dotted around the edges of the East Field. Joyce, Dolores and a thunder-faced Esther, who was making a beeline across to her. The last vestiges of sleepiness fell instantly away. Oh God.

“We need to talk, young lady. No excuses. We need to find out what’s going on!”

As night descended, Esther, Frank and Joyce sat around the kitchen table. A subdued Iris sat at the end of the table, her throbbing headache having returned with a vengeance. She nursed a small glass of water as the stern faces around her tried to work out what to do. Esther had sent Martin off to find Finch, as everyone thought he should be here for this meeting. This examination. Iris knew that Finch would be annoyed to be pulled away from his afternoon date. This wasn’t going to end well for her.

“You’re our friend, Iris. Tell us what’s on your mind?” Joyce implored.

“I don’t know,” Iris mumbled. Esther rolled her eyes. She wasn’t in the mood for vague answers, or winkling the truth out of people. She wanted something concrete that she could work with. If it was a problem with being bullied or a problem caused by overwork, then Esther could sort that out and help fix it. But she needed something tangible to go on. Evasive answers were no use at all.

Esther pulled something from under the table and placed it for all to see. It was Billy Finch’s bottle of carrot whisky.

“You’ve been drinking in your room!” Esther thundered.

“It’s not mine.”

“That’s as maybe. But look -”

And Esther turned the bottle around. On the side was a black line near the neck of the bottle. The level of the orange liquid was a long way below it. “Billy marked this, so I know it’s gone down since you’ve been in that room.”

Iris slumped.

“Tell them what’s troubling you, Iris,” Frank said. He nodded his head and gave a half-smile by way of encouragement. He knew what it was, but he wanted Iris to tell it in her own words. To tell the others. “Tell them why you needed a drink. A problem shared and all that.”

“Well?” Esther asked.

Iris took a deep breath. “I think Vernon’s coming back for me.”

She felt the mix of reactions in the room. Esther’s slight snort that betrayed disbelief, Joyce’s concerned face and Frank’s impassive reaction. He’d heard Iris voice these worries before, during their writing lessons in the shed. Iris went on to say she felt ridiculous. She knew he was gone but it was just that each time she was alone, she’d think about him. And his final words.

“I’ll come back for you, Iris.”

It was like a dark promise. And no matter how she tried to rationalise it, she couldn’t make it fade from her mind. He promised to come back and it terrified her.

“He’s not coming back. That’s the end of it. Now pull yourself together,” Esther said. “You’ve got to get a grip on your thoughts and stop them running away with you, young lady!”

“But what if he does come back?” Iris replied. She could feel rawness at the back of her throat. She was ready to cry. Why did she think they would understand when she knew herself it sounded ridiculous? “Part of me wants to do something and find him first, but I know I can’t do that. And I know I’m being stupid, but I just can’t stop it.” And then the tears came, as if vocalising her fears had broken down any last control over her thoughts. The sobbing was loud, wretched. A shocked Joyce put a comforting hand on her friend’s wrist, but still the tears came.

Esther turned to Frank and Joyce. “I’ll see the doctor and find out if he can give her something to calm her down.”

“I just need …” But Iris trailed off. That was the problem. What did she need? The problem wouldn’t be fixed by having a stronger lock on her bedroom door. It was something inside her head. The last words of a murderer. The promise. She knew the nightmares would continue, even though she desperately wanted them to end.

Eyes blurred with tears, Iris scraped her chair back on the tiled floor and went to her room. Ignoring Esther’s calls to come back. Iris slammed the door behind her and felt torn that she wasn’t allowed to lock it tonight. She slumped on the bed. And then she found her reddened eyes drawn towards the wardrobe. Logic told her that she shouldn’t drink tonight. But she felt so wretched and desperate. And then she remembered that Esther had the bottle. Iris thought for a moment, and then, knowing that Finch kept more of his whisky under the stairs, Iris crept back down. She could hear the voices talking softly with concern beyond in the kitchen. Stealthily, she opened the cupboard under the stairs, reached in and took a full bottle of whisky. She scurried back to her room, closed the door and then opened the bottle, ready for its reassurance of numbing oblivion.

Finch placed his pint glass down, its sides etched with thin, cloud formations of beer foam. He was aware that he was drinking faster than his companion. Evelyn Gray had barely finished a quarter of her small glass of cider. Finch resolved to slow down. The problem was that his nerves meant he needed something to do with his hands, and that meant lifting the glass up and down to his lips and before he knew it, it was gone! Glancing around the room of the snug bar in the Bottle and Glass, he suddenly envied the men smoking cigarettes. They always had something to do with their hands, the performance of rolling a cigarette, lighting it, smoking it. Finch wished that he could smoke. But the truth was he had never got on with it, finding that the smallest puff would reduce him to a hacking, retching wreck. And that wasn’t the ideal look he wanted to achieve on a night like this. An evening with his new lady friend, Evelyn.

Evelyn Gray was glamorous, but not in an over-the-top way. She was well turned-out in the latest fashions, but she wore them with a dignity that befitted a lady in her early fifties. Thick, naturally blonde hair was pinned into curls on her head, and her blue eyes stared at Finch with warmth and a hint of intriguing mystery. Finch wished he knew what women thought about. He knew he was thinking about whether to have another pint of beer: simple, straightforward thoughts for a simple man. But he guessed that a woman like Evelyn was thinking deeper thoughts than that. She was probably going over Churchill’s latest address to the nation or thinking about the logistics of rationing.

“Would you like another drink, Evelyn?” Finch stammered.

“I’ve still got this one, Fred.” She giggled.

Finch giggled too. He felt suddenly foolish, suddenly aware of his awkwardness and clumsy nature. His collar suddenly felt very warm and tight around his neck. The truth was, he felt out of his depth with this attractive, clever woman. Finch searched his brain for something to talk about. Something clever. Something that would impress her. Maybe he could tell her about the growing patterns of the turnip? He frowned inwardly at his own brain trying to make him look stupid. He was doing badly without further self-sabotage. But thankfully, Evelyn was quite capable of offering a conversational topic of her own.

“So tell me more about Pasture Farm. How long have you been there?”

“Came there after the war,” Finch said, before needlessly correcting himself. “The last one, not this one.”

“Of course.” Evelyn smiled.

Finch was grateful that he could make her laugh. He continued his story, feeling suddenly wistful for those lost days. “After it was all over, I was looking for work. Ended up at the farm working as a labourer. The farmer in charge, a chap called Godfrey, taught me everything I know and most of what I’ve forgotten. When he died, Lady Hoxley asked if I wanted to try running the place on my own. And that’s where I’ve been ever since. I’ve seen some times there, at Pasture Farm. Got married there. Saw my son being born there. My wife passing away. Watched my son go off to a war of his own. We had a big going-away party for that …”

Finch’s mind drifted off, as memories filled his head. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he gasped when he felt Evelyn place a comforting hand on his across the table.

“It’s good to remember the past, Fred,” she said, kindly. “Don’t ever forget the past.”

“Yeah. I’ve got a grandson too, you know.”

“You don’t look old enough!” Evelyn smiled. Finch grinned, realising she was joking.

“Get away with you!”

They sipped their drinks at the same time. Finch was pleased that he had slowed down. But he was still thinking about his next one. Evelyn continued the conversation, “What is it like having all those Land Girls around the place?”

“It means I can be a bit more, erm, like a manager.” He smiled. “It’s really good because I don’t have to get my hands dirty as much, with all of them doing it all. Truth is, I haven’t planted a potato since this war started!”

They giggled together. “No, they’re a good bunch of girls,” Finch said.

“And there are two farms on the Hoxley estate, aren’t there?” Evelyn sipped at her cider.

“Pasture Farm and Shallow Brook Farm,” Finch confirmed. “My one is the better farm, if I do say so myself. Shallow Brook was run by the Storeys. Have you heard of Vernon Storey?”

Evelyn shook her head. She lived on the outskirts of Brinford, so there was no reason why she would know many people in Helmstead.

“Nasty piece of work.” Finch scrunched his face as if he’d sucked on a lemon. “Wanted for murder, you know?”

“Oh gosh,” Evelyn said. “What happened? Was it one of the Land Girls?”

Finch leaned in close to tell her. “No, his own son.”

Evelyn wanted to know more, but Finch didn’t want to spoil their evening with the whole sorry tale of Frank Tucker and Walter Storey, and how Iris had discovered the truth about Walter’s murder. It would put a bit of a dampener on things. No, he wanted to make Evelyn laugh again. He liked it when she laughed because her eyes twinkled and she’d arch her head back. Suddenly Finch wondered if he was falling for Evelyn Gray.

“So I’ve taken over the other farm. Surprised meself, because I can barely manage one place let alone two!”

It had the desired effect. Evelyn’s face broke into an amused grin and she arched her head slightly.

“Got some help, though. Martin, the warden’s son, and John Fisher - he’s married to one of my girls - are sorting the place out for me.”

“Sounds like you’re busy?” Evelyn smiled warmly.

“Which is exactly why I need relaxing nights out like this!” Finch got up. “I’ll get us another round, shall I?”

“All right. But that will be enough for me.”

“Me too,” Finch said. As he carried the glasses to the bar, he glanced back to where Evelyn was checking her face in a powder compact. He had known her two weeks and they were getting on famously. Finch hadn’t noticed her at the dance. As far as he was concerned, he’d clocked eyes on her for the first time at one of Lady Hoxley’s agricultural shows. Finch had been showing his prize pig, Chamberlain, and was trying to get the pig into a gated enclosure. Evelyn and a group of women had been watching and Finch felt the weight of expectation upon him as he’d tried to manhandle the heavy animal.

“Come on, you blighter!”

But Chamberlain had turned quickly, taking Finch off balance, and the stout farmer had fallen face first into the mud. While some of the women couldn’t help but laugh, Evelyn looked concerned and ran to his aid.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“No. Only me pride,” Finch replied.

“Let me help you.” And Finch had been surprised to see Evelyn outstretch her arms and try to corner Chamberlain in a bid to edge him closer to the paddock. She was gamely trying her best, but Chamberlain easily side-stepped her. Soon, Finch and Evelyn were working together in a pincer movement to cut off the pig’s escape route. Finally, after several failed attempts and some swearing from Finch, they managed to get Chamberlain into the pen. Finch slid the bolt across with a triumphant smile and mopped his brow with the back of his hand.

“Thanks for your help, Mrs -?” Finch outstretched his hand to shake hers, but she scrunched up her nose instead. Finch looked down and realised his hand was covered in mud. “I’ll wash it first.”

“Then I’ll shake it.” Evelyn laughed.

And since then, they had seen each other three times. Two pub outings, including this one, and a trip to an entertainment show at the village hall. Finch was very happy with his new friend. Evelyn was happy too.

As Finch brought the drinks back to the table, he was surprised to see that a visitor had arrived by Evelyn’s side. It was Martin Reeves, out of breath having run all the way from Pasture Farm.

“Mr Finch!” he gasped. “You have to come back. It’s Iris!”

“What is it?”

“Mum is worried about her. She’s gone to her room.”

“Well, can’t it wait?”

Martin shrugged. He wasn’t sure. “She just told me to get you. She’s worried that Iris has been drinking.”

“You want me to come back just so I can discipline Iris?”

“Mum said it was important. Sorry.”

Finch nodded, sighed and started to get his coat and hat. He said a hurried goodbye to the understanding Evelyn and made his way out of the pub to follow Martin back to the farmhouse.

When they got there, Finch placed his Homberg hat on the coat stand and started to take off his overcoat, with help from Martin. Finch’s face was etched with concern as he glanced at Esther, thoughts of his romantic evening fading from his mind.

“How is Iris?” Finch asked.

“Asleep, I think,” Esther replied. “Sorry to interrupt your night.”

“No, this is more important.” But Esther could see the hint of disappointment on Finch’s face. She knew he’d been looking forward to it for some time. She couldn’t help but notice that the shirt she had ironed was now looking creased and dirty, but she didn’t say anything. As Martin made a cup of tea for everyone, Esther and Joyce told Finch what had been happening. They all agreed on what was the root of the problem. Iris was obsessed with the thought of Vernon coming back for her. She was imagining that she could see him and hear him, and she would have regular nightmares about him coming to kill her. And this was causing her to mess up at work, her mind too distracted to focus on the job in hand. They all wanted to sort this out.

“She’s a bright girl, but she’s obsessed about this. And nothing we can say seems to stop her thinking about it,” Frank said.

“How about if we get Dr Channing up at Hoxley Manor to take a look at her?” Esther suggested. “If there is something wrong in Iris’s mind, he might be able to treat it.”

“She just needs a distraction. Something to take her mind off it,” Joyce said.

“We’ve got to sort her out because she’s pretty much good for nothing on the farm,” Esther snapped.

“Yeah, we’re all agreed we’ve got to do something. But what?” Finch said.

“I think we should vote on it,” Esther announced. Joyce looked uncertain. She didn’t like the thought of voting, somewhat arbitrarily, on someone else’s future.

“All right.” Frank nodded. “All those in favour of taking her mind off things?”

Joyce put her hand up. She was the only one. She put it down again, despondently. “So much for that, then.”

“All those in favour of getting her seen by Dr Channing?” Esther said, raising her own hand.

Joyce shrugged and reluctantly stuck her hand in the air. It was probably the best thing. Channing might be able to cure the root of the problem, whereas something like going to a dance would only be a temporary sticking plaster. Frank added his own hand to the vote.

“Fred?” Esther said, turning to Finch.

“All right, then,” he replied, adding himself to the vote. “Here, this is like one of those Women’s Institute meetings, isn’t it? All voting on what to do. Except we’re not making loads of jam.”

“I’ll have you know we don’t just make jam. Bloody cheek. Anyway, this is the closest you’re going to get to one of those meetings.” Esther smiled. “Motion carried. I’ll talk to the doctor in the morning.”

But as she and the others debated what to do, they didn’t realise that Iris was sitting at the top of the stairs formulating her own plan of action. Her head felt pleasantly fuzzy from a few numbing slugs of carrot whisky and she had decided what to do. Holding the bottle in her hand, she felt her head swaying and her cheeks flushing. Suddenly it all seemed clear. The answer. And she had to do something fast as she didn’t want to be seen by Dr Channing.

She decided she would go back to the place where Vernon Storey had made his promise.

I’ll come back for you.

Tomorrow, she would return to Shallow Brook Farm and confront her demons head on.

Chapter 4

As the first rays of daylight started to beat away the shadows in the kitchen of Pasture Farm, Iris laced up her boots. She finished buttering a slice of bread and carefully lifted the latch on the door. It was four in the morning; perhaps an hour before Esther and the others would be awake. Iris thought she had time to walk the mile and a half to the neighbouring Shallow Brook Farm and get back before she was due to start work. She sneaked out the door, closing it behind her, the bread lodged in her mouth as if she was a bird about to feed its young. Then she set off down the path, crossing through the yard and finding herself on the single track that connected the two farms. The air was cold, not yet warmed by the rising sun, and Iris found herself gasping occasionally as she struggled to walk fast and finish the food in her mouth.

Eventually, she reached a blind corner and turned it to find herself facing a sign that read Shallow Brook Farm. Iris looked beyond the faded, painted sign, its black letters long since bleached grey by years of sunlight. There was the farmhouse itself, a small red-brick building with eves that hung low over the windows like drooping eyelids. And whereas this might give the appearance of a picture-book home, there was something foreboding and cold about it. The curtains were thin, plain white veils like cataracts behind dirty, darkened windows. Iris edged closer, past an ancient hay barrow. Something squealed from within and there was a flurry of movement as she moved alongside it. She didn’t look, preferring not to know what was living in there. The stone cobbles of the yard were broken and smashed in places, and in one corner there was a bucket, trowel and a pile of cement under tarpaulin, where John and Martin had started to repair things. The work was progressing slowly as, with a whole farm to run, they couldn’t focus all their time on the one job and much of the yard was still overgrown with weeds. She reached the front door. As she extended her hand towards the latch, she remembered the last time she entered this house. The time she had discovered the truth about poor Walter Storey. The time Vernon had made his dreadful promise.

This time, she knew that the house wouldn’t be empty. John Fisher was staying here. She didn’t want to wake him as she entered so, carefully she lifted the latch and crept inside. The broken barometer was still showing the prospect of snow. The side table in the hallway had a pile of unopened post and some bills that had been opened, presumably by John. Iris took a deep breath and moved towards the living room. She pushed open its door and felt her stomach lurch, as adrenaline and fear suddenly rose up in her body. It was just like it was before. There was the carpet, patterned, but predominantly red. The carpet where she had found the shard of broken bottle with Walter’s blood on it. The mantelpiece that she had stood alongside when she made the discovery. And there was the small desk where Vernon had attacked her, forcing her onto it as he threatened her.

I’ll come back for you, Iris …

The words whispered around the ghostly room. Iris looked at the fire, where the poker was now cradled in the coal scuttle. The telephone had been put back in place on its small table near the desk. But apart from those two aspects, little had changed about the room since she had last been here.

Iris opened the drawer on the desk. It was full of papers, letters. She picked one up and could tell, by the way it was laid out, it was a bill for payment. But she couldn’t read the words. She put it back and looked at the photographs on the mantelpiece. There he was. The small, dark figure of Vernon Storey, smiling as he posed with a gigantic pike he’d caught in the river. She wasn’t sure which one had the worst teeth. Next to him was a small gate-fold photograph frame with Walter Storey in one half and his brother, Samuel, in the other. A hairbrush near the end of the mantelpiece caught her eye, the red-brown hair on it catching the early morning light that was peeking through the gap in the curtains. Vernon’s hair. Iris found herself compelled to reach out for it, to touch it. As her fingers neared the hairbrush, suddenly a man’s voice made her jump.

“What are you doing?”

She spun round. For a second, Vernon was standing there, his gimlet eyes squinting at her. But, of course, it wasn’t Vernon Storey. It was John Fisher. He was good-looking, clean-cut with kind eyes. And at the moment, those eyes were trying to work out why he had an uninvited Land Girl in the house at this absurdly early hour of the morning.

“Sorry. I needed to have a look.” Iris said apologetically.

John nodded. It was all right. He understood. He knew about what had happened here with Vernon and Iris. And he’d been through enough trauma of his own to know that she might need to come back. It would do her good to return to the scene of the event, knowing that this time it was safe.

“Want a cup of tea?” he asked kindly, turning to leave. Iris noticed that he was wearing his dressing gown. Now she knew for certain that she must have woken him up.

“Sorry, I thought I was being quiet.”

“Stop saying sorry. I was getting up soon anyway. Farming keeps the same unsociable hours as the RAF. I’m used to it.” His voice carried from the hallway. Iris went to follow, but was surprised to see another figure on the stairs, also in a dressing gown. It was a bleary-eyed Joyce Fisher, complete with a few curlers in her hair; one of which was dangling over her left ear. It looked as though she’d been dragged through a hedge.

“Iris?” she gasped.

“Joyce?” Iris was equally surprised.

Joyce pulled her dressing gown tight around her ample bosom. Iris couldn’t help but smirk.

“Joyce stays here whenever she can,” John explained. He revealed that they had a system. Joyce would wait for Esther to go to bed and then creep over in the middle of the night. Then, after spending the night together, they would get up early and Joyce would hurry back to Pasture Farm before everyone woke up. Even though they were married, they knew that Esther wouldn’t condone Joyce spending anything other than Friday and Saturday nights at Shallow Brook Farm. It would be a distraction from her work and commitments as a Land Girl.

“But, why?” Iris asked. “Connie is allowed to live at the vicarage with Henry. Why can’t you live here with John?”

“It’s not fair, is it?” Joyce said, glancing at John, to perhaps indicate that they had discussed this same imbalance many times. “Truth is, Connie got permission from Lady Hoxley. And because she was married to a vicar, that was somehow all right. I asked and Lady Hoxley turned up her nose. It’s simply one rule for the wife of a clergyman and another rule for the rest of us.”

“She did agree to two nights a week, but wanted Joyce to spend most of her time at Pasture Farm,” John said, trying to be diplomatic. The last thing he wanted was to upset Lady Hoxley and find himself turfed out on his ear.

“I’m the most senior, apart from Esther,” Joyce said, refusing to let the matter go.

“You’ve been there longest, that’s all.” John laughed. He turned to Iris. “Truth is, we don’t mind -”

“We do bloody mind,” Joyce snapped. “I want to stay here all the time!”

“It’s exciting this way. We feel it’s dangerous,’ John added. ‘Which it is, if we get caught.”

Joyce looked imploringly at Iris. Iris knew what she was about to say and got there first.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to say anything.”

John smiled his thanks and went through to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Joyce raised an eyebrow to Iris. “And I won’t tell Esther about that new bottle of whisky you keep in your room.” Iris wondered how Joyce knew, but Joyce explained, “I could smell it on your breath, so I put two and two together.” The bottom line was that they understood each another. They walked through to join John in the kitchen. As he poured the tea, Joyce asked Iris what she thought about Finch being in love. Iris hadn’t given it much thought. But she felt it was strange seeing Finch all dressed up and smart.

“I keep thinking he’s off to see the bank manager.” Iris laughed.

“Yes, he’s certainly improved the way he’s turned out,” Joyce said. “I haven’t seen her. Have you seen her?”

“I saw her briefly in the village, when I was delivering eggs.” Iris nodded. “Seemed a very attractive older woman.”

“He’s done well for himself,” John smiled, stirring the pot with a teaspoon. Joyce shot him a look, realising that he knew full well he was being playful with his comments about another woman’s attractiveness. He knew it would get a rise out of his wife. Joyce bristled and tried to resist the urge to fall into his trap.

“Yeah, but what does she see in him?” Joyce asked. “I mean, he’s funny and warm, but he’s no oil painting.”

“Isn’t funny and warm enough?” John teased.

“Maybe.” Joyce frowned. “I just worry she’s after his money.”

“What money?” Iris laughed. “Until two weeks ago, his trousers were held up with string!”

“But that’s just it. He’s got the money squirrelled away to buy himself a smart suit, a hat and a thick coat. He’s been saving it up for years, all that money from his scams and wages. Think on, Iris. Men like that keep fortunes under their beds.”

“Maybe we should keep an eye on things. See what she’s after, then?” Iris asked. Something else was bothering her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Before she could try to identify what it was, the conversation continued, further distracting her.

“Or we should just keep our noses out of it and let him get on with it. Now, drink your tea,” John scolded. It was too early in the morning for all this gossip.

Joyce went to sip her cup, but John took it away. He smiled at her playfully. “Not you. You’ve got to get back to barracks.”

“No!” Joyce said, realising the time. She said hasty goodbyes and kissed John, before hurrying out of the kitchen. They could hear Joyce’s feet running up the stairs to go and get dressed.

As they waited for her to return, they sipped their tea and John outlined what he planned to do today. Martin was coming over at seven and they were going to start weeding the large field at the farm. The soil had been turned over and treated with manure before Vernon had left, but now nature had reclaimed it and it was a mass of horsetail and dandelions.

“You’re welcome to stay and help,” John suggested. “If Esther can spare you.”

“I think she’s got plans for me. As always.”

Iris tipped the dregs of her tea down the butler’s sink. She was about to leave when John spoke.

“Did you find what you wanted here? You know, to make you feel better.”

“Not really,” Iris admitted. “Don’t really know what I was looking for.”

John stared at her doleful expression. He could see she was scared and uncertain. “Come back any time, eh?” he said kindly as she nodded and left the room.

Dr Channing appeared to be picking at an invisible piece of lint on the knee of his trousers as he sat in the study at Hoxley Manor. Iris had glanced at his leg a number of times and now accepted that there was probably nothing there. It was just a nervous tic, like the way she’d clear her throat when it didn’t need clearing.

Iris felt more intimidated than usual by the suave and charismatic doctor, as they sat looking at each other in the eerie quietness of the book-lined room. The meeting had been arranged by Esther. Iris was supposed to be here to talk about how she was feeling, about the problems she was having. But she never felt at ease with Dr Channing at the best of times. There was something cold about him. As her mum said, some people had a cold centre where their heart should be. She had wanted to bring her tiny rag doll with her, just to keep it in her hands for comfort. But she decided that Channing would spot it and read some mammoth psychological problem or other into it. So it was best it stayed back in her bedroom. The predominantly circular study was adorned with bookshelves arching around its walls, each filled with hardback books and encyclopaedias. Iris was sitting on a leather-backed green chair, ten feet away from Channing, who was seated in a similar chair. The grandmother clock near the door ticked in soporific calmness as they sat looking at each other.

“In your own time.” Channing’s words sounded encouraging, but they were said with the strained smile of a man who considered he’d wasted quite enough of his valuable time on this pointless activity. Iris noticed the irritability bubbling under the surface and realised she ought to say something. But, by the same token, it made her want to clam up.

“Just a bit scared at night, you know.”

“You’re worried that Mr Storey will come back?”

“Yeah. I know it’s ridiculous.” Iris struggled to put it across. “But it seems real enough at night.”

“If he comes back, the police will charge him with the murder of his son.” Dr Channing picked at the invisible lint again. “And it’s highly likely that he’d be hanged by his neck for the crime. So it’s not a probability that he’ll come back just to scare you, Iris.”

Suddenly Iris felt annoyed. It wasn’t that she wanted to be at the centre of this situation, in fact she’d do anything to get away from it. She wasn’t manufacturing this fear to receive attention. It was a real and palpable dread.

“It wasn’t a probability that my mum would be kissed by Errol Flynn, but she was,” Iris blustered.

“Sorry?”

For the first time during their meeting, Dr Channing looked surprised. He gave a confused look and furrowed his brow at Iris.

“You’re talking about probability, strange things happening and I’m saying that no one would have thought Errol Flynn would have kissed my mum, would they? But he did.”

“Errol Flynn –”

“Kissed my mum, yes,” Iris finished. She had been eight years old when her mother had been working as an assistant stage manager at Northampton Royal Theatre. The repertory company included a young actor named Errol Flynn. At the end of the final show, he had kissed Margot on the cheek and thanked her for her help. It was no big deal at the time - he hadn’t made many films and wasn’t famous. In recent years, though, it had become something of an interesting Dawson family anecdote. But Iris didn’t see the point of explaining it to Dr Channing. She’d rather tease him and leave him wondering how it might have happened. Channing was writing something on the notepad on the nearby table.

“Esther Reeves said you had a ready imagination,” he commented.

“I’m not making it up,” Iris replied, alarmed that he seemed to be condemning her story as a fabrication.

But Dr Channing hastily changed the subject before she got a chance to explain. “I think it would be beneficial for you to go to Shallow Brook Farm and see that nothing can harm you there.”

Iris nearly blurted out that she had already been there, but she guessed that she might get in trouble. So again, she stayed silent. Was this making things worse? Should she talk more and tell him more things? Should she explain about Errol Flynn? How should this work? Iris felt he wouldn’t want to know, and besides, she didn’t want to spend any more time here than she had to.

“And I’ll give you some medicine that will help you to sleep.”

This seemed as if the meeting was about to finish, and Iris felt relieved. She’d take any medicine just to get out of here.

Dr Channing scrawled something else on his notepad and got to his feet. Iris realised that the consultation had ended. She got up and stretched out her hand to thank him. But he was already on his way out of the room, his white coat billowing as he marched down the corridor.

“How rude …” Iris mumbled to herself.

When Iris returned to Pasture Farm, the kitchen was already full of the steam and heat of the evening’s stew. But a red-faced Esther still had time to ask Iris how things had gone with Dr Channing. “Has it made a difference talking to him?”

“Yeah. A lot.” Iris smiled. She thought she might as well tell a fib. Esther and Finch had arranged the appointment for her, and the last thing they probably wanted to hear was that Iris hadn’t appreciated it. No, it was fine. Case closed.

Thankfully, Esther didn’t have the time or inclination for details. She needed the table to be laid and the plates to be put out before the rest of the girls returned hungry from the fields. So Iris busied herself. Just as she was laying the final place mat, the latch on the door opened and Shelley Conrad came in, wiping her brow. She was slightly older than Iris, with a mass of blonde curls and a rosy face. Prone to clumsiness, Shelley was the sort of person who could somehow manage to find a rake to step on in an empty yard.

“The others will be along in a minute.” Shelley sat on one of the chairs and started to pull her boots off.

“Not in here, lady,” Esther admonished, as she hauled the stew over to the serving plates.

“Sorry, forgot.” But Shelley looked confused, as if she’d never been told this before in her life. Iris gave a warm smile. She liked Shelley and knew how distracted she was. Shelley rose from the seat and started hopping towards the back of the kitchen. Iris was just about to warn her about the dangers of trying to walk with a boot half on, when Shelley crashed out of view onto the floor. Thud. Iris ran to her side, but luckily Shelley was unhurt, just embarrassed by the awkwardness of her own body.

“How did that happen?” Shelley said, bemused.

Iris shrugged. She was used to hearing Shelley say that every time she fell over or hurt herself.

Iris helped her to her feet. “Are you all right?”

“Someone’s put an extra step on this kitchen floor. That’s what’s done it.” Shelley shook her head. Iris laughed, assuming that she was joking, but this earned her a confused look. Maybe Shelley was being serious? It was hard to tell sometimes.

“It’ll be the stairs to the cellar, love,” Esther chipped in, whilst she plopped generous amounts of potato stew onto each plate. “That cellar we haven’t got.” But Shelley had gone and didn’t hear the joke. Iris returned to the table and greeted the rest of the Land Girls, who were pouring into the kitchen. Joyce, Connie and Dolores entered, full of tales from the fields of exhaustion and sunburn. Martin came in, his cheeks flushing slightly at the sight of Iris. The girls talked about the drainage problems and the lack of manure. As Iris listened, she thought of the small bottle of pills in her pocket. She felt happy that they might allow her to sleep tonight. Maybe she wouldn’t have to resort to getting drunk tonight. Maybe.

I will come for you, Iris. Mark my words.

The words didn’t scare her. Not in the daylight. But Iris didn’t have long to contemplate them because Shelley bounded back into the room. Taking a slice of bread and chewing it before she sat down, she turned to Iris. ‘Are you going to the flicks tomorrow?’

“Yes, I am,” Iris replied.

Martin struggled to hide his discomfort.

“Oooh!” Connie cooed. “Got yourself a date?”

“Well …”

“‘Ere, is it you, Martin? Are you stepping out with Iris?” Connie asked. Martin blushed and hurriedly shook his head. Iris felt her own cheeks redden. She didn’t want to discuss this in front of Martin. She liked him and didn’t want to hurt him. The fact was, if he’d got his act together and asked her first, Iris would have gone with him instead of Joe Batch.

To her surprise, Martin spoke. “Actually I’m going. But on my own.”

Esther glanced from her plates. This was news to her. She didn’t look entirely happy about the prospect of her son going out of an evening. But what could she do? He was growing up and getting more independent than ever. He spent a lot of time working with John at Shallow Brook. He wasn’t her little boy any more. She was just relieved he hadn’t set his cap at ditzy Shelley.

“You make sure you wear a clean shirt, that’s all,” Esther chided.

It was as near to an endorsement as he was likely to get. Martin nodded, taking it on the chin. John and Finch bustled into the room and sat at their places. Esther said grace and everyone tucked in. As usual, the room went silent apart from the sounds of contented eating, until everyone had finished what was on their plates.

After dinner, as Connie went home to the vicarage to Henry, Iris was about to walk the short distance from the farmhouse to Frank’s outbuilding when Martin stopped her. He kept his voice low so that Esther couldn’t hear him, but he indicated for Iris to go outside. Once in the yard, he produced something from behind his back. It was a small collection of hardback children’s books, full of colourful pictures and big writing.

“Hope you won’t mind, but I found these. Thought they might be useful.”

“Thanks,” Iris said, genuinely grateful. Martin knew that she was learning to read and write - he was one of the few who did. She flicked through the well-thumbed pages. A goose in a hat was falling into a puddle. A horse in a waistcoat was berating a cat.

“It’s funny. I used to love it,” Martin said.

“It’ll really help me.”

“How are you getting on?”

“Slowly. But Frank is very patient and he listens while I stumble over every word.”

They smiled at each other. She got the impression that Martin wanted to say something, perhaps about who she was going to the film with, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He nodded goodbye to her and, with the books tucked under her arm, she made her way to Frank’s den. He was inside tinkering with a rusted metal trap. Its jaws were clenched shut and Frank was trying to prise them apart with an equally rusty chisel. He laid it aside and opened a drawer, taking out a pencil and a note pad, in readiness for their lesson. But Iris wanted to talk about her appointment earlier. She was worried about what Dr Channing had thought about her. Could he say she was mad? Get her locked up? And what would the pills do to her? After about twenty minutes of repeating the same things to her, Frank decided that they should call it a night.

“Come back tomorrow, when you’ve had a rest, eh?”

Iris nodded. She apologised for not being able to concentrate.

“Dr Channing thought I should go to Shallow Brook,” she said. “I think I might ask Finch if I can work there for a bit. Just until it’s not a scary place. That might help. Do you think?”

“I don’t know, Iris. Might do.” Frank picked up his trap and resumed trying to get its jaws open. He was no expert. Besides he dealt with problems by keeping them to himself and soldiering on. Iris picked up her books, left the outbuilding and walked back to the farmhouse. Back in her bedroom, she bolted the door and sat on her bed. She knew that Esther had forbade her from locking it, but she needed the security. She took out the small brown bottle of white pills. She put one in her mouth, but it was hard to swallow. Iris reached for the wardrobe, took the carrot whisky and downed a slug of the orange liquid to help the medicine down.

To her dismay, sleep didn’t come any more easily that night. She was still haunted by every sound and creak in the yard outside, still wary of every long shadow in her room. After an hour of restlessness, Iris hauled herself out of bed and with a heavy heart went to the wardrobe. This time she drank until she passed out on the bed.

Scrish.

Scrish.

The sound of the homemade broom scraping its heavy twigs over the concrete was beginning to annoy Iris. She and Shelley Conrad had been working on the yard of Shallow Brook Farm for well over three hours, and both girls’ backs were beginning to burn and throb with the exertion. At first it had been fun, a chance to chat and laugh about things with a girl she didn’t see all the time. But now they worked in monosyllabic silence, willing John to come to the door of the farm and call them in for lunch. Surely it must be lunchtime soon? Had he forgotten about them?

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