No daydreaming. She turned to face the room and its sleeping occupants. The animals had to be seen to and jobs had to be done, VE Day or no VE Day. When they went to the celebrations in the village, Mario, Roberto and Luigi would take care of the farm, but before that there was the usual hard day’s work in front of them all.
Later that morning, just after half past eleven, the four women, Clara and little Joy were dressed in their Sunday best and ready to leave. The preceding week three stout members of the WI in the village had made it their business to collect money for food and decorations and organise the purchase and cooking of the feast. There were going to be jellies, custards, blancmanges, sandwiches, tarts, cakes large and small, ice cream and even a victory cake, iced in red, white and blue. Clara had been sick twice with excitement already.
It was drizzling as they left the farmhouse and climbed into the lorry. Gladys sat beside Rowena in the front seat, and Abby, Clara and Winnie, with Joy perched on her mother’s lap, made themselves comfortable in the back on temporary seats made of straw bales.
Mario and his two comrades had come to receive their instructions for the rest of the day from Abby some minutes earlier, and now the three men waved and smiled as the lorry drew away. The women knew the men’s smiles hid a certain amount of pain and sadness. In the atrocities which had occurred shortly after Italy’s surrender eighteen months ago, Luigi had lost his immediate family. Not through any act of aggression by the Allies, but at the hands of retreating German soldiers taking revenge on their Italian ‘betrayers’. Everyone at the farm had been upset when Luigi had received word from one of his sisters describing how his wife and children, his parents and one of his brothers and his family, along with nearly eighty other citizens, had been herded into a church planted with landmines which had then been detonated.
‘What a day, eh, lass?’ Winnie said. ‘We’ve been waiting for this for a long time.’ She settled Joy more securely on her ample lap as the lorry trundled along, then, realising she had been a mite tactless, she added hastily, ‘And it’ll be another celebration day when Ike comes home.’
‘It’s all right, Winnie.’ Winnie’s face was so transparent Abby knew exactly what her friend had been thinking. ‘This
is
a great day and we’re going to make the most of it.’ Peace had come to a battered Europe after years of senseless bloodshed and whatever the private pain and sorrow, Britain was going to rejoice.
There was some weeping during the church service as individuals remembered loved ones whose ultimate sacrifice had made this day possible, but later in the afternoon as Big Ben chimed out three o’clock, everyone was holding their breath as they listened to the Prime Minister’s broadcast over loudspeakers in the village square. Although Japan remained to be subdued, he said, the war in Europe would end at midnight. ‘Advance Britannia!’ he proclaimed. ‘Long live the cause of freedom! God save the King!’
It was the signal for the release of years of pent-up feelings. Abby kissed and hugged Clara, Winnie and the others and was in turn kissed and hugged, and then everyone in the square found themselves doing the same to neighbours, friends and strangers; dancing, blowing whistles, throwing confetti and rose petals and generally going wild with an infectious joy which gathered pace as the afternoon progressed. Church bells pealed as Abby and the others sat down to tea in the village hall. Afterwards, all the adults listened to exuberant reports on the wireless about the impromptu parades and massive hokey-cokey dances snaking round Queen Victoria’s statue in the capital, and the way the King, Queen and two princesses had made countless appearances on the palace balcony to the delight of the ever-swelling throng of jubilant folk below.
In the lull before the evening events, which included dancing and fireworks and a huge bonfire with an effigy of Hitler on the top, Abby sat having a quiet cup of tea with Gladys. Rowena was cheering Clara on in some game or other the children were playing, and Winnie had taken Joy into a side room where the younger children were all having a nap, so it was just the two of them. Abby reached across and took the older woman’s hand, her voice soft as she said, ‘You’ve been wonderful, Gladys. Wonderful.’
‘Me?’
‘Aye, you. Not just today but all through this war.’ Gladys had lost her husband and firstborn, maybe even Vincent too for all they knew, and yet she had put her personal feelings aside and had entered into the day’s celebrations with gusto. ‘It can’t be easy at times like this.’
‘Well, you know me. I get on with what I have to get on with and that’s an end of it.’ Gladys smiled through the tears Abby’s kind words had brought on. She hesitated before saying, ‘I can’t help praying my Vincent’s safe, Abby. Oh, I know he treated Winnie shamefully and I don’t excuse that, I really don’t, but if he came back now and saw Joy . . . He’d have to marry the lass, wouldn’t he, seeing what a bonny little thing his daughter is?’
Abby squeezed Gladys’s hand but said nothing. Where Vincent was concerned, she certainly wouldn’t be holding her breath he would do the right thing.
‘He was a handsome little lad, my Vincent. Everyone used to say so. But Josiah and him never got on, you know, not from when Vincent was knee high to a grasshopper. Vincent always had it in his head that his father favoured Nicholas, although he didn’t really. It was just that Nicholas was more like Josiah, that’s all, and with being the eldest and the farm going to him, Josiah spent more time teaching him about the paperwork side and all.’
Abby nodded but again made no comment. This wasn’t the first time she had thought how ironic it was that a nice warm woman like Gladys could love and forgive a son like Vincent anything, whereas her own mother, who had had three decent children, hadn’t got an iota of maternal affection in her.
‘Do you think he’s still alive, Abby?’ Gladys had withdrawn her hand and now her fingers were working against each other as she stared into Abby’s deep brown eyes. ‘Tell me the truth, do you?’
It was some seconds before Abby replied. She drew in a long breath, trying to find the right words. ‘I think if anyone could survive, Vincent could. I don’t want to rake up old history but he’s a master at looking out for number one.’
Gladys looked at her for a moment more and then the corners of her mouth lifted. ‘You’re right there,’ she said wryly. ‘By gum, you are. Well, bad as he’s been I hope his luck has held out. He’s my own flesh and blood, my boy, and I love him.’
This last was said somewhat defiantly and now it was Abby who smiled. ‘He’s lucky to have a mother like you, and I mean that.’
‘Go on with you! You can’t soft-soap an old biddy like me, Abby Vickers.’
As darkness fell, the street lights were switched on all over the country for the first time since the outbreak of war. For Clara and some of the other children who could barely remember a time before the blackout, it was like a fairy-land. The ruddy glow of the huge bonfire and the fireworks were enjoyed all the more by lots of the villagers who had brought out drinks they had been saving for the peace celebrations, which was just as well as the pub had had to close early because it had run out of supplies.
The night was cold and damp but it wasn’t raining any more. As everyone gathered round the bonfire for baked potatoes in their jackets and hot roasted chestnuts, the big loudspeakers continued to report the news from London where it was said Winston Churchill, wearing his famous siren suit and homburg hat, had appeared on the Ministry of Health balcony as the Guards’ Band struck up ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’. The Prime Minister had sung and conducted the crowd below in ‘Land of Hope and Glory’, and they expected the celebrations and scenes of unrestrained joy to go on all night.
‘Not here though.’ Abby motioned with her head at Clara who had gone to sleep clutching a bag of roasted chestnuts in one hand and a Union Jack in the other. She smiled at Winnie and the others as she said, ‘I’m ready to go home. How about you?’
‘More than ready.’ Gladys eased her aching feet back into her boots, wincing as she did so. Abby gently woke Clara and they all walked back to the lorry parked behind the parish church.
They didn’t say much on the way back to the farm. Abby knew Rowena was anxious to see Mario and her driving reflected this as the lorry skidded and raced through the night. Clara, now thoroughly wide awake, had trouble staying on the straw bale, and Winnie was hanging on to Joy like grim death. The baby, however, thought it was great fun, clapping her dimpled hands and gurgling with laughter.
They all felt relieved when they reached the farm in one piece. They could see the faint glow of an oil lamp from the barn where the three men were ensconced, and as Rowena scooted across to see Mario, Abby, Winnie and Gladys made for the house. On entering the kitchen they all came to an abrupt stop, Gladys actually bumping into Winnie who was in front of her.
‘The wanderers return.’ Vincent was sitting on one of the kitchen chairs with his slippered feet propped on the table, a steaming mug of cocoa at the side of him and a plate of Gladys’s ham and egg pie on his lap. He took a bite and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Gladys, after her initial shock, rushed forward to hug him. He didn’t rise or respond to his mother’s garbled, tearful greeting.
‘I’ll get you something hot to eat, lad,’ she said. ‘Leave that pie.’
He stared at them all for a full ten seconds before saying, ‘The pie is fine. Sit down, all of you.’
‘Oh, lad, lad, to know you’re safe. I’ve prayed for this day.’ Gladys was dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘Every night I’ve prayed you’ll come home.’
‘Then you’re the only one who has.’
‘No, no, lad,’ Gladys said awkwardly when there was no response from the others. And then she added, ‘Look, Vincent, you have a daughter, a little lassie and as pretty as a picture. What do you say about that then?’
‘The same as I said before I went.’ His eyes shifted to the baby who, young as she was, sensed the atmosphere and began to whimper in her mother’s arms. ‘She’s nothing to do with me and I’m not being stuck with another man’s flyblow.’
‘You rotten liar!’ Winnie stepped forward, her eyes blazing, but Abby caught her friend’s arm, pulling her back. There was something more here, something she didn’t quite understand. It was as if Vincent had planned this moment for maximum effect, his being here when they all got home.
She stared at him. ‘When did you get back?’
‘Back? Back in England? Back in Yorkshire, or back here in
my
home?’
The emphasis on the word ‘my’ told her she was right. Vincent was playing some nasty little game of his own as only he could. She said nothing, and after a second or two he drawled, ‘I’ve been back in England a month or two. Caught a few pieces of shrapnel in the last assault we were engaged in, as luck would have it, although you’ll be relieved to know I’m fit now.’ After raising mocking eyebrows, he continued, ‘As to Yorkshire, I’ve been in the vicinity long enough, shall we say.’
‘Long enough?’ It was his mother who spoke. ‘What do you mean, lad? You’ve been here and you’ve not come to see me, to put my mind at rest? You must have known I’ve been worried to death about you. You . . . you know your father and Nicholas have gone?’
‘I know.’
For the first time since coming into the house Gladys raised her voice. ‘Is that all you can say? Your father and brother are dead—’
‘Don’t upset yourself, Mother.’ He didn’t look at Gladys but kept his eyes on Abby. ‘I didn’t want to come here until I knew where I stood, that’s all. And now I do. I own the farm, the land, every stick of furniture . . . Need I go on? The solicitor was very clear. My dear
father
had been very clear. The farm has been in the family for generations and that is the most important thing, did you know that? Of course it was meant to go to Nicholas, in which case I was to inherit nothing, a big zero. But if anything happened to big brother then second best would do, namely me. You,’ he turned to Gladys who was standing with her hand pressed against her lips, ‘get nothing.’ His lips curled. ‘Caring, wasn’t he, your wonderful husband.’
‘Don’t you speak about him like that,’ Gladys said shakily, and then, as Abby put her arms round her and led her to a chair, she added, ‘Whatever he did, he’d have done it for the best.’
‘Whose best? Mine? Yours? I don’t think so.’ He pressed his lips tightly together but his eyes betrayed his resentment. ‘The only thing that mattered to him was the farm. You, me, even Nicolas were expendable.’ He took another bite of pie which he chewed and swallowed. ‘But it’s worked out very well. For me, that is. For you too, if you want to stay. As for you,’ his eyes came to rest on Abby again, ‘you can get out this minute.’