Whisper on the Wind (13 page)

Tomorrow things will be less hectic and Roz and I will be back to normal again. Roz isn’t very happy, at the moment. Her boyfriend has gone home on leave and she misses him, as I miss you, Barney.

Yes, she
did
miss him, but not with the tearing ache with which Roz missed Paul. Her eyes misted over. Roz and Paul had no secrets yet she, Kath, must measure every word she wrote to her husband and it was wrong, for he was all she had in the world. He had married her knowing what she was, and given her his name. And having that name, one which was
really
hers, was more important to her than ever she would admit.

Yet how could she tell him? How would he react if ever he was to discover that an Italian – a man who was his enemy – had today almost certainly saved her life? And how could she argue that it had been Marco who was there when she needed help; when she needed comfort?

‘Marco is
your
enemy, too,’ whispered her conscience. ‘His country is at war with your country.’

‘Think,’ demanded the voice of her reason, ‘that if Barney and Marco had faced each other in North Africa and each had carried a gun …’

She shivered with distaste. It was all so wrong. Wars were wrong. If women governed the world there’d be an end to war. Women would say, ‘No more sons; we will conceive no more children if every score of years you send them to war!’

She clucked angrily. She was being stupid, her with her grand thoughts. Women would never be anything but women. It was the way it was; the way it always would be unless – or until – women stood together and demanded to be as good as men. They’d done it before, hadn’t they; had chained themselves to railings and gone to prison, died even. And because of that, a woman could vote and need never tell her husband how she voted. Now women were at war, really at war. They wore the uniforms her husband detested and tried not to be afraid. They
weren’t
comforts for officers!

Barney was wrong. He had no right to such opinions and she could not go through life being grateful to him for making her his wife; for marrying a woman who’d been reared in an orphanage and knew neither who she was nor what she was.

She was Kath. She was like Grace and Roz and Flora. She could no more help being abandoned than Marco could help being born Italian. Heavens above, Roz hadn’t so much as raised an eyebrow when she’d found the courage to tell her. Roz hadn’t cared, so why was
she
so prickly about it? She could no more help being unwanted than Jonty could help being in a reserved occupation, or Paul being an airman. Barney had no right to be so angry when all she was doing was trying to help win the war.

All
? But hadn’t this war given her the opportunity to do what she most wanted? Couldn’t she have helped win the war in a factory, in a shop, or by becoming a nurse? All right. So she’d
wanted
to be a landgirl and live in the country. Was it so wrong? Was every landgirl in Peacock Hey as racked with guilt as she was?

Defiance blazed briefly through her and she looked at the unfinished letter on her knee. Supposing she were to have a brainstorm? Just supposing she were to go completely mad and write, ‘Today, at threshing, I could have been killed. I slipped and fell and an Italian caught me and held me, and a young man who isn’t in the Army helped him save my life. And afterwards, Barney, I thanked that Italian, and I kissed him.’

Shame flushed her cheeks. Shaking her head as if to remove all such thoughts from it she wrote,
I
miss you, Barney. I want this war to be over so we can be together again. Take care of yourself, and come home safely.

Come home to me quickly, Barney, before I take leave of my senses.

‘You can say what you like, it’s getting a lot lighter now, in the mornings,’ Kath remarked, her eyes fixed on the bird that hovered over the churchyard. ‘Is that a kestrel?’

‘It is. Out hunting for breakfast; mice or voles, a rat, if it’s lucky.’

They ate rats? ‘Y’know, I think I like kestrels.’

‘Thought you might.’ Roz paused, then said hesitantly, ‘Kath – remember the other day we were talking about – well –’

‘About being careful? Not getting pregnant?’

‘Yes. And I’m not.’ Her cheeks flushed crimson. ‘Pregnant, I mean. Thought you’d be glad to know.’

‘I’m glad if you are,’ Kath said softly.

‘What do
you
think?’ There was relief in her voice. ‘Just think, Kath, in less than three days Paul will be back. I’m an idiot, aren’t I, wishing my life away? I miss him, though.’ They were walking past the little church, eyes still on the bird of prey. ‘My parents are there, in the churchyard.’

‘And your grandfather – the one who died in the last war – is he there, too?’

‘No. He never came home. He’s with all the other soldiers who died there, but Gran has never been to France to see his grave as some wives have. She had a stone put up here for him. I suppose she likes to think he’s here in Alderby with all the other Fairchilds.’

‘That’s sad.’ Kath frowned. ‘I think I’d want to go, if I could, to see where he is. It might have comforted her, if she had.’

‘She doesn’t want to be comforted. That’s why she still hates Germans. She finds more comfort doing that.’

They left the little graveyard behind them, with its moss-covered headstones, its yew trees and the railed-off corner where all the Fairchilds lay. Roz did not agree with those railings; even as a small child she had demanded to know why it should be so.

‘Because they’re Fairchilds.’

‘Poor things. Aren’t they lonely, cut off from the others?’

‘I don’t think so.’ And Gran had said she would understand when she was older, but she hadn’t. She still didn’t.

‘I’m sorry for your gran.’ Kath sighed, it’s a long time ago now. Wouldn’t you think she’d have got over it a little?’

‘You would, but she hasn’t. I told her about what Marco did, but she just cut the conversation dead; refused to listen. I suppose we should hate Marco, too, come to think of it.’

‘We should, but I can’t; not now. He didn’t have to put himself at risk for me, but he did. He didn’t hate me, did he?’

‘Nope. It’s a funny old world. By the way, Gran says I’m to ask you to Sunday tea – if you can call egg sandwiches tea, that is. She’d like to meet you and I can show you paintings and photographs of Ridings as it used to be, if you’re interested.’

‘Interested? I’d
love
to come.’ Kath blushed with pleasure. ‘I’ll have to wear my uniform, though. I haven’t any civvy clothes with me. Will she mind?’

‘Of course she won’t. Apart from hating Germans – and Italians now, of course – and fussing over Ridings as if it’s something special, Gran’s quite normal and rather a love, most of the time. I’ll tell her you’ll come. Will half-past two suit you, then we can have a walk around the ruins while it’s still light.’

‘Any time at all.’ Kath beamed, picking up a milk-crate. Afternoon tea at the big house. Now fancy that.

‘I’m getting sick of waiting for it to be summer.’ Arnie Bagley scraped his porridge bowl thoroughly and noisily. ‘When is it going to be sunny again?’

‘Soon, lad. Soon.’ Polly longed for warmer days, too. ‘Winter’s more than half over. Afore very much longer we’ll be able to have Sunday tea in the daylight, then we’ll know for sure that spring isn’t far away.’

Sunday tea in Yorkshire was always taken at five o’clock, just as Sunday dinner was taken at one. They were habits a body didn’t break, Polly considered – well, not around these parts – and it was generally accepted that on the second Sunday in February the days would have drawn out sufficiently to enable tea to be eaten in ‘the light’. High tea, that was. A knife and fork tea, though heaven only knew how a body was to manage with the weekly sugar ration cut to half a pound. And in February, the Government was to cut fats by an ounce – lard, margarine and butter, too, which would put paid to saving up a little for a cake. No more home-made cakes now, and shop cakes so hard to come by that you could queue for half an hour and still not get one.

‘Toast?’ she demanded, forking a slice of bread, holding it to the coals.

And as if that were not enough, what about those Japs invading Burma? So what about the tea ration now? Not that she was at all sure that Burma had tea plantations, but those Japanese soldiers had taken a step nearer to India – which
did.

But before very long there would be American soldiers in Britain which would be a help, she acknowledged, us having been on our own since Dunkirk. It had made a difference in the last war, though they hadn’t got themselves over in time to save Mr Fairchild, nor Tom.

‘Spring starts on the twentieth of March, doesn’t it, Aunt Poll?’

‘Spring starts when it thinks it will; when there’s no more flowers on that winter jasmine,’ she said, nodding to the window and the creeper, bright with yellow flowers, that grew around it. ‘You can’t say winter’s really gone till the last of those little flowers have fallen, so think on.
That’s
the day spring starts. Nature don’t have a calendar. And there’s Kath at the door with the milk. Fetch it in, lad, afore those pesky little blue tits start pecking at the top.’

‘It was Roz left it, not Kath.’

‘And how do you know that, then?’

‘’Cos she was whistling. Kath doesn’t whistle. Suppose Roz is happy because her boyfriend –’ He stopped, not at all sure he’d meant to say so much.

‘Because her
what
? Roz hasn’t got a boyfriend – well, maybe Jonty, perhaps.’

‘Jonty? Nah. Roz’s boyfriend is an airman,’ Arnie supplied scornfully, throwing caution through the window. ‘Her young man’s a navigator. And I saw him in the back of the RAF truck that takes the airmen to York when they go on leave. Roz’ll be whistling ’cos he’ll be coming back, soon.’

‘Away with your romancing, Arnie Bagley. Roz hasn’t got a young man.’ Except Jonty, maybe, and she didn’t seem as sweet on him as he was on her, come to think of it. ‘And you’re not to go saying things like that. Mrs Fairchild wouldn’t be pleased if she heard you.’

‘But it’s true!’ He coloured hotly. He
wasn’t
telling lies. ‘I saw them.
Kissing.
I’ve seen them ever so many times – well, twice. But they were kissing each other, both times.’

‘Now see here, young man; even if you did see Roz and some airman, you’re to keep quiet about it or you’ll land the lass in trouble with her gran. Roz isn’t old enough to have boyfriends – not yet.’

‘But she’s ever so old, Aunt Poll.’

‘You let Mrs Fairchild be the judge of that. You mind your own business and get on with your breakfast.’

Arnie bit savagely into his toast. He’d have thought Aunt Poll would’ve been interested to know about Roz and the navigator from the aerodrome. He wished now he hadn’t told her.

Polly pursed her lips, wondering how much truth there was in Arnie’s revelations and how much was the product of his over-active imagination. My word, but Roz had kept the young man dark – if young man there was. Talk went around the village pretty sharpish; surely, if there’d been gossip she’d have heard it, sooner or later. All there was to do in Alderby, most times, was gossip. But there was no smoke without fire. Kissing, were they?

‘Beats me how you get to know so much, lad,’ she muttered. ‘Seeing’s one thing; blabbing it all over the village is another.’

‘I haven’t blabbed! You’re the only one I’ve told!’

‘Then let’s see to it that it stays that way, shall we?’

Until she’d had time to think about it, that was. Until she’d got to the bottom of it and got the facts right. Only then could she warn the Mistress. Warn Mrs Fairchild? But maybe that wouldn’t be a good idea at all. Maybe it would do a lot more good if she were to have a quiet word with young Roz?

Oh, drat Arnie and that inquisitive little nose of his! Drat the lad, though of course he just might be right. After all, Roz
was
nineteen, or would be, come April. Happen who the lass kissed was nobody’s business but her own.

‘And will you go and bring that milk in,’ she said testily. ‘Like I told you!’

Kath leaned her bicycle against the kitchen wall and pulled the bell-handle on Ridings’ back door. She had thought, for one mad moment to walk boldly up the front door steps and lift the heavy iron knocker, but she remembered her days as a housemaid, and her courage left her.

‘Come in.’ Roz smiled, taking in the bright green pullover, the collar and tie, the shiny black shoes. ‘You do look smart.’

‘I was thinking much the same about you.’ She had been quick to notice the pleated grey skirt, the pale green blouse. ‘It’s the first time I’ve seen you in real clothes.’

‘We’re in the little sitting-room, this afternoon. Gran said it could do with an airing, but it’s really in your honour.’ Roz nodded vaguely down the passageway. ‘I’ve been chopping logs for the fire all morning.’

Little remained of the original house, yet the surviving rooms and passages retained the spaciousness of a larger, grander place which the stone-flagged floors and uneven walls did nothing to dispel.

‘This house must have been really something,’ she murmured, the servant in her taking in the brass door-handles, the hard-to-clean leaded window panes, bellied with age.