Land Girls: The Promise: A moving and heartwarming wartime saga

She moved cautiously from the hallway into the dining room. The fireplace smouldered with yesterday’s fire. A garish red-patterned rug filled much of the floor space, held down by dark-wooden furniture dotted around the room. A bureau stacked with paperwork and bills. A telephone on a side table. An armchair with worn hand rests. She guessed this was Vernon’s chair as his glasses rested on the edge next to a rolled-up newspaper. Iris tentatively moved across the room.

“Hello?” she shouted, feeling perhaps that she was covering herself from accusations of breaking and entering.

Again there was no reply. It was likely that Vernon Storey was holding some kind of wake in the Bottle and Glass, regaling people with tales of his son.

Iris moved towards the bureau.

Crack!

It barely made a sound, but something crunched under her foot. She looked down and peeled the edge of the rug back. A long sliver of glass from a bottle had broken in two. But as Iris examined it, she could see something sticky along one edge. A dark liquid. In sudden horror she realised that it was blood. Could it be Walter’s blood? They said he had a wound on his head. Was this evidence? What would Miss Marple do? Her mind was racing. Thinking quickly, she plucked her handkerchief from her pocket and, as if it was a small, injured bird, carefully wrapped the glass up. Suddenly she knew she had to get out of there; show PC Thorne what she had found.

“Can I help you, Iris?” A soft voice, weary.

Iris span around to find Vernon in the doorway. He was blinking in the light, his face more crumpled than usual. Had he been drinking? Sleeping? It didn’t matter. He was here and that was a problem. Iris hid the handkerchief behind her back.

“I came to … pay my respects,” she stammered.

“Again?” A note of suspicion in his voice, his shrewish eyes suddenly alert and scanning her face.

“Yes.” Slowly, Iris slipped the handkerchief into her pocket.

“And that was all you came for?” Vernon took a step towards her. He was a short man, but his personality gave him a threatening demeanour. Iris struggled to stop herself taking a step backwards. She knew it wouldn’t play well if she showed fear. If she was paying her respects, then she shouldn’t show fear, should she?

“Anyway, I’d better get back. Esther will be wondering …” Iris smiled as winningly as she could manage. She took a step towards the door, aware that Vernon was still blocking any escape.

“Stay a little longer,” he rasped, his words somewhere in that uncertain area between a threat and a pleasant invitation. “Have a drink to my Walter, eh? If you’ve come to pay your respects …”

He crossed to the sideboard, where a motley and dusty collection of bottles formed a drinks ‘cabinet’. Now the door was unblocked. There was a gap and Iris could make a run for it. But she didn’t want Vernon to suspect that anything was wrong; she didn’t want to alert his suspicions. After all, even if she got past him, she’d have to outrun him all the way back to Pasture Farm.

“I’d better … you know.” Iris glanced towards the door. To her surprise and relief, he nodded his consent. And as he busied himself pouring a drink at the sideboard, Iris started to walk towards the door, as slowly and as normally as she could manage. She thought she had got away with it, when, without turning his back, Vernon asked a soft and unnerving question.

“What’s that in your pocket, Iris?”

She felt her mouth go instantly dry, her breathing becoming more rapid. She stopped in her tracks. He’d noticed what she was doing. How much had he seen?

“Nothing,” she stammered.

Now he turned to her. A dark smile on his lips as he looked into her scared eyes. There was no hiding what she felt now.

“You put something in your pocket.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Vernon put his drink down and edged towards her. “Have you been stealing from me, Iris?”

She shook her head. “No, Mr Storey. I wouldn’t do that.”

He glanced down towards her pocket, where the end of the handkerchief was poking out. “Show me, then.” Carefully, Iris cupped her fingers around her handkerchief, hoping she could bring the bundle out without its contents falling onto the floor.

“It’s just my handkerchief.” The wrapped fabric was clasped tightly in her hand.

To her surprise, Vernon snatched it from her, grasping her wrist tightly with his other hand. As he took it, the handkerchief opened and the fragment of glass fell onto the rug, glinting in the light as it tumbled. They both knew the truth now.

“No one likes a liar, Iris.”

“Let me go.” She knew that she had to escape now. There was no point in pretending that she could talk her way out of this one. But Vernon wasn’t about to let go of her wrist. She clawed at his fingers with her free hand, trying to release his grip. He kept a tight grip on her, staring impassively at her. They moved a few steps: a dark, silent dance as Iris tried to free herself, Vernon clasping 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 Storey. The man who had murdered his own son and who had tried to make another man hang for it. The man who had tried 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.

Chapter 1

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 was aware that Connie and Joyce were transfixed by this development and she struggled to shut them out of her peripheral vision and concentrate on Joe.

“Hello, 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.