should be grateful to miss the hard, exhausting work of lugging the ammunition onto the trucks for transporting.
After twenty minutes, Joe said his goodbyes and sauntered away from Chuck’s ward. Reaching the main corridor, Joe unfurled his hat and positioned it back on his head. Silhouetted ahead, near the doorway, was the figure of Dr Richard Channing. He was talking to a beautiful and stately woman, a person whose aristocratic bearing was unmistakable. As Joe got closer, he could see her sandy hair neatly curled around her fine bone structure, the thin, porcelain-hued neck. He guessed she was Lady Ellen Hoxley. Channing moved aside to let Joe pass and they both glanced briefly at him. Joe knew enough about affairs and illicit looks to know that those two were seeing each other. The subtle hints in their body language, the angles they stood at in relation to each other, the imperceptible touches. He smirked, knowing their secret, as he walked down the gravel path, away from the big house.
He decided that he would visit that Land Girl tomorrow. Yes, that’s what he’d do.
The next morning, shouts could be heard from the kitchen of Pasture Farm.
“Mind you get the collar! I need the collar doing.” Finch poked a stubby finger at his best white shirt; a shirt that was currently stretched across the ironing board. He was leaning over Esther’s shoulder as she ironed it for him, an unskilled manager of such things. Esther’s patience was wearing thin at his interference.
“I have ironed a shirt before, you know,” she snapped. She shot a long-suffering look at the Land Girls sitting around the farmhouse table near by. Joyce was eating a slice of toast as Finch busied himself around Esther like a bumble bee harassing a flower. Dolores O’Malley stared wistfully into her mug of tea, not quite awake, but lost in her own thoughts as usual.
“Where’s Iris?” Joyce asked.
“Will you leave it!” Esther snapped at Finch, who was attempting to hold down part of the collar for her.
“Shouldn’t she be up by now?” Joyce continued.
“Maybe she’s having a lie-in until six o’clock,” Dolores replied with a smirk.
Esther finished ironing the shirt and Finch plucked it off the board. “Very nice job, Esther.” He giggled as he stretched it onto a wooden coat hanger. He glided over the floor with it, as if he had some ethereal dance partner, and hung it on the picture rail next to the larder. The shirt looked immaculate for about four seconds, until the hanger fell from the picture rail, crashing to the floor and leaving the shirt in a crumpled heap.
“Fred!” Esther scolded, going to retrieve it. Finch, for his part, looked genuinely aggrieved. Joyce hadn’t seen him this agitated in ages. Usually he was a man who cared little for his appearance, but in the last week, she had witnessed Esther cutting Finch’s hair and Finch wearing his best hat into Helmstead. Gone too were the trousers with holes in the pockets and his shabby cardigan. He’d even bought a brand-new leather belt from Mr Yardley in the town to replace the string that he had been using recently. Finch wouldn’t win the Picturegoer magazine’s Best-Dressed Man Award any time soon, but his appearance had definitely improved.
“Do you think it’ll be all right?” Finch asked nervously.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Esther smiled, finishing a brisk iron of the shirt. “Just relax and enjoy yourself.”
Finch nodded. He’d try his best. Joyce thought it was sweet. She watched Finch amble out of the door into the yard outside.
“He’s not meeting her now, is he?” Joyce asked.
“Not until this afternoon. He’ll look a right state by then!” Esther laughed. Joyce and Esther were used to witnessing the love lives of the various girls on the farm and the estate, but both were surprised that they were now seeing Finch courting a woman. He’d shown little interest in women since his wife had passed away, but this lady had seemingly knocked him for six. Both women were surprised by the changes in him. But it was lovely to see him with a spring in his step, even if they feared for the inevitable disappointing end to the relationship. Could she be as keen as he was? Would his enthusiasm put her off? Esther feared that she would have to pick up the pieces when that happened. But for now, he was happy.
Joyce finished her last crust, wiped her hands on her overalls and asked Esther, “Do you want me to go up for Iris?”
Esther shook her head. “I’ll do it in a minute, when I’ve got the ironing board put away.”
The truth was she didn’t know why Iris was always late down in the mornings. She wondered if the girl was staying up too late, talking to Frank in his shed. Maybe she should have a word with her and limit their late-night conversations to weekends? As the warden in charge of the Women’s Land Army girls, Esther had the power to do that. It was her duty to ensure that the girls were fit for their work. The work was the priority. But she knew that Iris viewed Frank, and Fred, for that matter, as father figures, and she knew the girl was relieved that she’d managed to save him from the gallows after the murder of Walter Storey. Iris and Frank’s relationship seemed to be something they both valued. However, these late starts couldn’t continue. Esther glanced at the clock. It was five to six. Even for Iris, it was unlike her to be so late …
Esther stowed the ironing board in the pantry, chivvied Dolores to follow Joyce into the fields and went through to the foot of the stairs. “Iris!” she called up. There was no reply. With a reluctant sigh, Esther trudged up the wooden stairs, muttering that she had better things to do than molly-coddling her girls. At the top of the stairs was the landing that split off into the various Land Girls’ rooms. Esther knocked on one of the doors.
Nothing.
Esther tried the handle. It was locked. She sighed, cursing Iris under her breath. What had she told them about locking doors? If anything happened, there was no way to get inside to them. Esther rapped on the door.
“Come on, Iris! Move your bones!”
Joyce and Dolores were packing tools onto a wheelbarrow when they caught sight of a strange figure in the far corner of the yard. They nudged each other and stifled their urge to laugh. It was Finch, dressed in his best suit and wearing his freshly pressed shirt. He straightened his collar and pulled his jacket around his portly frame. He cleared his throat.
“May I have the pleasure?” he asked, offering his hands outstretched.
“What’s he doing?” Dolores asked.
But Joyce couldn’t see past Finch’s ample body to see who he was talking to. Then Finch twirled around and Joyce had to stifle another giggle. The farmer had a broom in his arms and was dancing across the yard, eyes closed in solemn concentration. Joyce pressed a hand against Dolores, forcing them both out of view behind a tractor. She knew Finch would be embarrassed if he was caught practising his dance moves.
As Joyce and Dolores walked to the fields, Joyce commented that she thought it was sweet that Finch had found someone else. He’d been a widower for years and years, since his son, Billy, was born. Finally he had found a new person to share things with. Joyce wondered to herself whether she could ever love anyone besides her beloved John. It seemed unlikely. She and John had been childhood sweethearts, marrying before the war started. It had been their love that had saved them from dying, when the Coventry bombings occurred, Joyce had been with John in Birmingham. Joyce had lost her entire family that night as her family home had been levelled by German bombs. When she returned to the devastated streets of her home town, John had helped her sift through the wretched remains of her house, finding such grim artefacts as Joyce’s sister’s dress and the front of the radio that had been in the front parlour. John had been there to comfort her. Such was their bond that Joyce found it physically painful when John joined the RAF, flying dangerous bombing missions of his own.
But now John was back home. And closer than ever. John Fisher had been invalided out of service and was now doing his bit by trying to run the neighbouring Shallow Brook Farm. Vernon’s old farm.
Esther rapped again on Iris’s bedroom door. Where was that girl?
A