on the floor, the collection of coats hanging from the hooks. It was usually a time of resigned sadness and usually it would overwhelm Margaret Sawyer with tears. But this time she didn’t cry.
Because this time she was thinking about Connie Carter.
“Ah, doesn’t she look like Betty Grable?”
Finch giggled as he looked at the picture of Connie in The Helmstead Herald. Connie winced in embarrassment. The photograph showed her with the girl Margaret Sawyer, Connie’s soot-smeared smile a mix of bemusement and shock at the events that had just occurred. A streak of dirt ran down the side of Connie’s face. Margaret was looking sullenly at the camera, wrapped in her blanket, clearly not quite registering what was happening.
“I think I’ll pin this up in the kitchen to inspire the rest of you lot,” Finch announced to the room. Connie and Joyce were drinking tea, waiting for lunch, along with their fellow Land Girls young Iris Dawson and new arrival Dolores O’Malley. The kind-hearted warden, Esther Reeves, was standing at the stove stirring a huge pan of parsnip soup.
“No, you blinking won’t,” Esther stormed.
“Why not? It’s my kitchen,” Finch replied.
“’Cos it’s me what spends most time in here. No offence, Connie, love. It’s just I don’t want to be reminded about that awful crash all the time.”
Connie couldn’t blame her. The train crash had resulted in four casualties – including the young soldier who’d been trying to roll a cigarette. And over twenty other people had ended up in hospital with various injuries. Connie didn’t want to be reminded of it either.
“I’ll put it away, then,” Finch grumbled. “Still who’d have thought? She might get the George Cross for this, you know.”
“You’re making me cross,” Esther said, throwing him a look. Finch knew when it was best to let things drop. He pulled himself out of his chair at the head of the farmhouse table, took the newspaper and left the room.
“Also he’s brought seven copies of the thing,” Esther whispered to the girls. “He’s more proud of what you’ve done, Connie, than anything his own son ever did. Tragic, really.”
Connie felt awkward. She broke the tension by asking when the soup would be ready. Esther checked the taste one final time, indicated her approval and asked for Joyce to pass her the bowls. She ladled out the hot soup and handed it around. Dolores gave everyone a chunk of potato bread for dipping and everyone sat eating in hungry and appreciative silence. It would fill their bellies for the afternoon of digging ahead.
Connie had had enough of the photograph and the article to last her a lifetime. The newspaper had only come out yesterday but already Henry had talked about getting it framed and putting it on the wall somewhere in the vicarage. He was trying to patch things up after their recent arguments and she was touched by his efforts. Especially as she’d seen the way he’d grimaced when he’d read that she’d used her maiden name in the article.
“I just said it out of habit,” she offered weakly. It was some relief that Henry didn’t want to talk about it. With tight lips, he said it didn’t matter, when it obviously did. Connie wanted to explain. But what could she say? She used her maiden name out of habit? Because it felt more comfortable? Because she was subconsciously wondering if one day she’d go back to it?
Instead he’d busied himself with celebrating his wife’s heroism. But then he’d let slip something that perhaps made everything worse again –
“This will convince people you’re not just out for yourself,” he’d idly said.
Connie shot him a look as he instantly regretted his choice of words; wishing he could somehow suck them back in.
“Who’s saying I’m out for myself?” Connie had stormed.
“Well …”
Henry was forced to sheepishly admit that some of his older parishioners weren’t very charitable in their views of his wife. They were suspicious of Connie’s motives in marrying the young vicar. They spoke disapprovingly about her past, even though they knew nothing about it and were making most of the supposed ‘facts’ up. Connie immediately knew the people he was talking about.
“It’s those three old biddies from the WI, isn’t it?” she thundered.
Henry sheepishly agreed. But before she went off on one and wrecked both their evenings, Henry stated that he always stuck up for Connie against any slight they threw.
“What slights? There are other slights? Oh, this gets worse,” Connie said.
“You know how they are,” Henry stammered. “All set in their ways.”
“The way they carry on, you’d think I turned up to evensong in me knickers,” Connie said. Despite her tough exterior, she was hurt by what people thought of her. She was especially hurt by what Henry thought of her. It was as if the naysayers didn’t think she’d stick at her marriage were convinced she’d break Henry’s heart. She was sure that some of them were keeping a tally of how many days they’d been married, waiting in anticipation for the break-up. And she knew he’d secretly like her to get on with it and behave as he thought a vicar’s wife should.
The fact was that small-minded people would always judge her.
“If you turn up to evensong in your knickers, even I’d find that hard to defend.” He smiled. “But I’d appreciate the view.” He was making an effort again, even though he’d run a million miles if she actually did it.
Connie looked at the newspaper article on the table.
She thought of the finger-pointers reading it and judging – and she decided that she didn’t want to see it anymore. Henry agreed to keep it out of sight but he’d put it in a scrapbook. He was proud of his wife. He knew they’d look back on it with pride in their later years. This comment gave Connie heart. He saw this as a long-term commitment. He was willing to work at it.
In Finch’s kitchen, Connie mopped up the last of her soup with her bread. Joyce eyed Finch, who was draining the dregs of his bowl directly into his mouth. “Are you helping us this afternoon?”
Finch looked sheepish. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
“Tea towel,” Esther snapped.
But Finch ignored her. He shook his head at Joyce’s question, tapped his nose and chuckled. “No, I’ve got a more pressing appointment, heh.”
Joyce looked at Esther for an explanation. But Esther shrugged.
“Search me. I don’t keep his diary. And I know it’s best not to ask.”
Connie glanced at the clock and mentally started to count down the hours until she could return to her home and her husband. Even though there was a war on, and even though she and Henry had frequent arguments, Connie felt the happiest she had ever felt.
As soon as the school bell rang, Margaret Sawyer burst out of school with an unusual keenness to get home. She barely had time to shout goodbyes to her friends as she legged it over the playground and out of the gate. Running past the village square, Margaret dodged a couple of GIs, who were making their way along the street. She ran past Mr Jeffries’ sweet shop, a place where she usually liked to dawdle looking at the tasty confections in the window and imagining her perfect selection, and down the hill past a row of terraced houses. Then she was off over a field of long grass and down a ravine by a small stream, after several miles coming to a small thatched cottage amid a cluster of fields like a single flower sewn onto an eiderdown. This was home. Jessop’s Cottage, although Margaret wished she was back at her proper home in the East End of London. But she knew she couldn’t go back. Her real mum was dead.
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