Land Girls: The Promise: A moving and heartwarming wartime saga. Roland Moore
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