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