tightly. Iris felt her head swimming. They were like a couple on the verge of a massive argument, trying to maintain some semblance of control and decency. But Iris realised she would have to do more to escape. She would have to make a scene. She was about to slap him, claw him, do something, when he moved with surprising speed and ferocity towards her.
Vernon grabbed Iris’s neck and pushed her backwards until she felt the bureau hit the small of her back. She tried to lash out, but he grabbed her clawed hand and pushed her over the desk. On her back, Iris flailed and kicked, desperate to escape. She couldn’t scream as Vernon had his fingers clasped around her throat. She tried to kick again, but only succeeded in upturning the nearby telephone table. The telephone clattered to the floor, the receiver coming away from its cradle.
“Please don’t …” she gasped.
“What?” he growled.
“Kill me.”
Vernon let out a tight, unnerving laugh. “Why would I do that, you stupid girl?”
“I know what you did.”
Vernon’s brow furrowed. Still grasping her throat, tears came to his eyes. He seemed to sag, much like Frank had when he had heard the news about Walter. It was as if her words had ripped away his layers of desperate subterfuge, making it plain that this situation wasn’t going to go away.
“That’s a dangerous accusation.”
“How could you kill your own son?” Iris said, emboldened by the reaction her words were having.
“Shut your mouth.” A low rumble of anger, his fingers tightening around her windpipe. Iris felt her head swimming, as her lungs fought for air. “Do you think I wanted to do it?”
“You’re hurting me …” It was barely a squawk, as Iris couldn’t gasp enough air to speak.
Vernon didn’t seem to hear. He was lost in his own justifications for what had happened. “Walter made me lose my temper. I just lashed out. Didn’t think. Didn’t even know I had the bottle in my hand.” Vernon’s eyes were distant, lost in regret and torment. “As he fell, I knew what I’d done. Even before he hit the floor, Iris, I knew what I’d done. Don’t you see?”
At last, he released his grip and Iris gasped for air. He was still looming over her as her back rested on the bureau. From the corner of her eye, she saw a tractor brochure offering a brand-new machine for rental. Iris wondered if it would be one of the last things she ever saw.
“What are you going to do with me?”
Vernon took a step back, releasing his weight from her. He clutched his forehead and shook his head in a violent, distressed manner, as if he didn’t want to be here, in this situation, any more that Iris did.
“I can’t let you leave, can I?” The words came out tinged with regret and sadness. She knew that he was right. His desperate attempts to cover his tracks had already seen the arrest of an innocent man. Vernon would eradicate any other potential threat that might cause his web of lies to unravel. He was already in too deep. There was no going back.
Still sprawled over the bureau, Iris knew she couldn’t make it to the door without him dragging her back, and she knew that nothing she could say would alter what was about to happen. That didn’t stop her mind racing, desperately trying to find a solution. The one thing that would stop him.
“Please,” She gasped, a simple plea for mercy. As soon as she’d said it, she knew it would be ignored. Of course it would. With most of his body still blocking her escape, Vernon bent towards the fireplace and grabbed a poker. Either he hadn’t heard her plea or was choosing to ignore it.
“You’re a sweet girl, but I can’t let you go.”
“I won’t tell,” Iris pleaded again. But this time, she wasn’t saying the words to try to change his mind. This time she was trying to buy herself time, as her eyes searched for something – anything – that could help her. There might have been a letter-opening knife on the bureau, but if there was, it was buried under all the paperwork behind her. On the armchair were Vernon’s spectacles, the newspaper. Nothing to help her. The poker was the only ‘weapon’ by the fireplace and Vernon had that. There were bottles on the sideboard, but Iris couldn’t make it to the drinks cabinet without Vernon getting in the first blow. He would beat her to the floor before she got there. What could she do? She had to do something. Vernon moved slowly forward, the poker in his hand.
Then she saw it; something that might just help her.
The telephone was upturned on the floor, the receiver knocked from its cradle. The fuzzy, muffled voice on the other end of the line: “Hello, what number do you require?”
Vernon saw it at the same time as Iris. The colour drained from his face. The operator might have heard everything: the confession, the threats. Vernon knew he was a doomed man. Iris used that moment of distraction to leap forward, pushing Vernon back against the fireplace. She sprinted for the door as Vernon collapsed into the dying fire, ash pluming into the air behind him. He struggled to get free, but then moved with surprising speed after the young girl, the poker in his hand.
Iris burst into the courtyard of Shallow Brook Farm and ran and ran. She could hear Vernon shouting behind her.
“I’ll get you, Iris!”
And then, as she pressed ahead and he lagged behind, she heard his final words on the subject.
“I will come for you, Iris. Mark my words!”
She didn’t look back. She didn’t dare turn, in case Vernon’s malevolent eyes were somehow right behind her, the poker raised in his hand. Iris never looked back. She kept running and running.
But after that dreadful day, everything seemed to slowly return to normal. A happy ending of sorts emerged from those awful events. With the operator corroborating Iris’s account to the police, Frank Tucker was soon released from custody. Vernon’s words had acted as a confession. As Iris collected Frank from the police station, she took him back to Pasture Farm, where the girls had made a garland and a rabbit stew to welcome him back. They all got tipsy on Finch’s carrot whisky that night, with Frank more taciturn than usual as he listened to the celebrations and laughter around him. Several times, Iris asked if he was all right. Was he tired from his ordeal? But Frank just smiled and said he was fine. Iris suspected that secretly he was in shock, counting his blessings for a narrow escape from the gallows.
“Who’s for another bottle?” Esther asked, her cheeks flushed red, as if a child had applied her blusher.
“Here, steady on,” Finch grumbled. “There’s a war on.”
“Don’t be such a tight wad,” Connie shrieked, opening a cupboard under the sink. She moved some pots and a metal funnel and produced a fresh bottle of carrot whisky.
“How did you know where I kept it?” Finch said, alarmed. Connie tapped the side of her nose.
The bottle was cracked open and the girls drank a new toast. Iris felt her own cheeks warming and then noticed that Martin was looking at her, holding his gaze just a moment too long. When she turned, he smiled with embarrassment. He was nearly 17, one year her junior, and filling out to be a fine young man, boyish freckles retreating on his face as he reached adulthood. Iris liked him. He was gentle and funny. He raised his glass in a silent toast to her across the table. Iris went to raise her glass of cordial, but the moment was broken when Esther turned and clipped him around the ear. He was her son, and as far as Esther was concerned, still her baby boy.
“How many of those have you had?”
“Four.” Martin shrugged.
“Four?” Esther scowled. “Well, that’s the last one.”
“If I’d had four, I wouldn’t be able to feel my legs.” Joyce laughed.
The Land Girls raised their glasses again. Amid the warmth and laughter, the stone-cold-sober Iris found herself thinking about Vernon