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