While We're Apart (12 page)

As her gaze drifted from the girls who were working in the ploughed fields to the smallest of the three barns, she thought about her father's trunk. It was all she had left of him, but the thought of opening it and prying into something he'd always kept private didn't sit well with her. She knew her reluctance was all part of her grief, and accepted that she wasn't yet ready to face whatever he'd hidden in there – however impersonal.

Mary turned from the window, picked up the bundle of Barbara's clothes and was carrying it downstairs when she heard the voice of the rural dean coming from the kitchen. She paused on the stairs, tempted to return to her room until he'd gone, for although her mother had thought he was wonderful, Mary had never liked him, and neither had her father.

The dean should have retired at least eight years ago, but he'd held on to the position with the tenacity of a leech, and once war was declared he'd simply stayed on. He wasn't a big man, but he made up for his size by being pompous and overbearing, and his poor little wife, Marjorie, ran about endlessly trying to placate and please him. His hands were delicate and soft like a woman's and his hair was a little too dark for a man his age, but it was the fish-eyed stare and pious sneer that made him unlikeable.

Mary dithered, then came to the conclusion that it was unfair to leave Barbara to deal with him alone. She took a deep breath and prepared herself for a long speech of condolence, which would, no doubt, completely gloss over the antagonism which had lain between him and her father for so many years. Clutching the folded clothes, she reluctantly went down the stairs.

The dean got to his feet, his expression suitably forlorn as she entered the kitchen and dumped the clothes on a nearby chair. ‘Mary, my dear child,' he said as he grasped both her hands. ‘Please allow me to offer my deepest condolences at this very sad time. My sorrow at your parents' passing has brought me to despair, for I feel as if I have lost my very best friends. But I have found comfort in the knowledge that they are now with God – and I hope that this too will be of some consolation to you.'

Mary eased her hands from his clammy grip and edged away. ‘Thank you, Dean,' she replied. ‘It's very kind of you to come all this way when I know how busy you are.'

He puffed out his chest and his face took on a sanctimonious expression as he placed a delicate white hand over his heart. ‘But my dear child, how could I not? You have suffered – as we all have suffered – from your tragic loss. What is a twenty-mile journey on a very busy day when one of my flock is in need of succour?'

Mary had no reply to this, so she sat down and nodded her thanks to Barbara as she handed her a cup of tea.

The dean settled back comfortably in the wooden carver and adjusted his tailored suit jacket to cover his paunch. ‘Mrs Boniface tells me that you've refused to have the service in my church at Hillney.'

‘That's right,' said Mary, determined not to be intimidated by his stern gaze.

‘That is a great shame,' he sighed. He plucked at a button on his jacket. ‘Mrs Boniface also tells me she has already spoken to the undertaker, and that the funeral will be next week.'

Mary nodded. ‘Eleven o'clock next Monday,' she managed as her throat tightened.

‘I will, of course, be officiating at the service,' he said as he reached for the plate of biscuits. ‘Your father was not only a close friend, but a stalwart member of my church. And Mrs Boniface has assured me that in the absence of your usual grave-digger, who has sadly passed away, her husband will prepare the ground in the churchyard for the interment. One can only thank God that it is still possible after His church has been so cruelly destroyed.'

Mary suddenly had an awful vision of two coffins being lowered into the cold, damp ground beside the ruined church. She gave a shiver and grasped Barbara's hand as she looked back at the dean. ‘That's very kind of you and Joseph,' she said tremulously. ‘Everyone is being so very thoughtful.'

‘I don't think we need to discuss such things,' said Barbara rather flatly. ‘Mary is upset enough already.'

‘Of course, of course,' he said coolly, ‘but these practicalities must be faced.' He lifted his chin, his protuberant eyes glassy, his expression pious. ‘Death, after all, is only the beginning of eternal life. Our earthly bodies are mere husks to be returned to the soil – and as we go to God, our souls are freed from this mortal world to take up their rightful place in Paradise.'

Barbara's lips thinned. ‘I'm sure Mary finds great comfort in your words, but I think it would be best if we concentrated on the sort of service she would like.'

Mary was soothed by Barbara's understanding, for the dean's pontificating had begun to irritate her. As for his conducting the service, she knew she must speak out now before it was too late. The dean was known to give tediously long speeches at gravesides.

‘I'd really appreciate it if the service wasn't too long,' she said with as much tact as she could. ‘Most of the congregation is elderly, and with this bitter weather I wouldn't like them to be standing about and catching a chill.'

The dean looked rather shocked by this. ‘But my dear child,' he protested. ‘Your father and mother must have all due honour paid to their sterling service to the church – and as you refuse to allow me to conduct a full service in my church, then . . .'

‘I do see your point,' she interrupted swiftly. ‘But that doesn't have to mean a long, drawn-out ceremony with lots of speeches.' He was about to protest, so she carried on quickly, ‘If he agrees, I'd like Dr Haywood to say a few words. He and Father have been friends for years, and Mother thought very highly of him.'

After an initial tightening of his lips at the idea of the doctor playing any part in the proceedings, he nodded solemnly. ‘I too would like to say a few words,' he said as he chewed on a second biscuit. ‘And although the Bishop will not be able to attend due to his heavy responsibilities, I'm sure he will gladly prepare a short, fitting eulogy which I can read out.'

Mary dipped her chin and gave a deep sigh. She was dreading the whole thing, and knew now that no matter what she said, the dean would have his way, and the ceremony would be dragged out to fulfil his need for grandstanding.

Reaching for a third biscuit, he contemplated it for a moment before he spoke. ‘The Church will of course provide pastoral care, and find you cheap accommodation until you have the means to support yourself,' he said before dunking the biscuit into his tea.

‘There's no need for that,' said Barbara as she moved the plate of biscuits out of his reach. ‘Mary will be living here.'

He eyed her coolly. ‘That is very charitable of you, Mrs Boniface.'

‘It's not charity,' she replied briskly. ‘We've taken her in because she's one of us and we love her.'

‘Very commendable, I'm sure.' He finished the biscuit, swallowed the last of his tea and brushed crumbs from his jacket. ‘Church funds will pay for the service and the funeral expenses – as long as they are not too high – but I'm afraid that is all the financial help we can offer. We are not a rich organisation, and in these troubled times our fiscal responsibilities are stretched to the limit.'

Mary saw the disgust on Barbara's face, and knew her dislike for the dean could barely be contained, and that it was only through an innate sense of courtesy that she didn't speak out.

Mary felt the same way, for the Church had always pleaded poverty when it came to mending the organ, dealing with the woodworm in the rafters and repairing the rectory roof – and paying their vicars a decent stipend. Yet it was common knowledge that the Church of England was one of the richest landowners in the country, and that the extravagantly robed Bishops and Archbishops lived in palaces while the ancient churches crumbled.

‘Don't you worry, Mary,' soothed Barbara. ‘There'll be government compensation of some sort even if the Church won't put its hand in its pocket.'

The dean clearly realised his presence was not having the effect he'd desired, so he rose from his chair and shook Barbara's hand. ‘I must take my leave.' He turned to Mary. ‘Goodbye, my dear. I will pray for you in your hour of need.'

Mary only just managed not to flinch from his touch as she shook his hand and thanked him for his visit. As Barbara showed him to the door and finally shut it behind him, Mary breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Pompous old hypocrite,' muttered Barbara. ‘Men like him are the reason I rarely set foot inside a church these days.' She reached for Mary's hand across the table and smiled. ‘That's not to say I didn't enjoy your father's sermons. He had such a lovely deep, tuneful voice that I could have listened to him reading from a laundry list.'

For all her determination not to cry, the tears welled as Mary remembered his wonderful sermons. ‘Do you think Dr Haywood would read “And death shall have no dominion” by Dylan Thomas? It was one of Daddy's favourites.'

‘I'm sure he would, if he has a copy of it. If he doesn't, I expect we can find it in the library at Hillney.'

Mary's sorrow deepened as she thought of those precious books at home being so utterly destroyed. ‘Perhaps the bookshop will have a copy,' she said as she determinedly dried her eyes. ‘I'd like to have one for myself.'

Barbara nodded, glanced at the kitchen clock and became businesslike. ‘Everyone will be wondering where their lunch has got to,' she said as she took the baked potatoes out of the range oven, and ladled a good portion of stew into a smaller pot.

‘That's for us,' she explained. ‘The girls eat in their accommodation hut, so if you take the spuds and the bread, I'll carry this big pot of stew. Joseph is right out in the back fields all day, so he took his lunch in a Thermos.'

Mary realised Barbara was trying to keep her busy and out of the doldrums, so she swallowed her grief and helped to ferry the food across the cobbled yard to the barn which had been converted into living quarters for the land girls.

The accommodation consisted of a series of bunk beds at one end of the barn, a large scrubbed table and benches at the other, with two sagging couches, a stone sink and wooden drainer in the middle. The cooking and washing facilities were basic, with an outside lav, the sink, hot and cold water, and a two-ring gas burner. Heating and hot water were provided by a pot-bellied stove, and the girls' clothes were kept in a couple of wardrobes and chests of drawers that had definitely seen better days.

The concrete floor had been covered with a collection of moth-eaten rugs, and someone had gone to the trouble of making thick curtains to cover the two windows in an attempt to keep out the draughts. The eiderdowns were colourful, the floor had been swept and the washing-up was drying on the drainer. With bedclothes, books, make-up and magazines strewn about, and photographs of loved ones and favourite film stars pinned to the walls, it was clear the girls had made it as comfortable and homely as possible.

They were nowhere in sight, so Barbara turned on a gas ring to keep the stew warm while Mary quickly set the table. ‘I let the girls come in for a bath twice a week, and most evenings they're either down at the pub or huddled round the stove,' Barbara said. ‘Poor things have it rather tough out here, especially in the winter. But there simply isn't room to have them all in the house.'

‘I certainly don't envy them,' said Mary as she looked around. ‘It can't be easy to be so far from family and home comforts, camping out here and working such long hours.'

Barbara nodded. ‘It's surprising how quickly some get used to it. I can usually tell within minutes if they're stayers or not.' She smiled brightly. ‘Let's get back and have our lunch, then we can go into Hillney and sort out your ration book and so on before I have to be on duty at the WVS. I expect they'll give you emergency coupons, so you'll be able to go shopping for some decent underwear.'

Mary smiled back, warmed by her love and the security of knowing she didn't have to struggle through these dark days on her own.

The day had flown past, and now it was almost five o'clock, with still no sign of Ron or Jim. Peggy was tired and hot and beginning to get annoyed. ‘You'd think that as this party is for Jim, he'd at least bother to come and do something to help,' she said in exasperation.

Cordelia wrapped the spam sandwiches in dampened tea towels to keep them fresh. ‘Men can't be expected to be useful in a kitchen,' she said cheerfully as she bobbed her head in time with the music on the wireless. ‘They'd only get in the way, and eat everything the minute it came out of the oven.'

‘You're probably right,' Peggy conceded, for she remembered only too well how Ron had snaffled more than his fair share of buns and cake the last time she'd had a good cooking session.

She regarded the plates of food on the table with the sense of satisfaction for a job well done. Jane had brought some butter, cheese and cream from the dairy before she went on to her afternoon work in the clothing-factory accounts office, and Rita had been to see Alf the butcher and brought home sausages, suet and two tins of spam during her lunch break. Fred the fish had dropped in with a parcel of sprats, and his wife had very generously donated a jar of sugar and three eggs.

With all this bounty, including their own eggs and the white flour Ron had somehow managed to get from a mate who dealt in such things under the counter, Peggy and Cordelia had worked miracles. There were sausage rolls, Scotch eggs, sandwiches, cheese straws and an onion flan. The sprats would be dipped in flour and egg and fried nearer the time, and the crowning glory was the Victoria sponge, filled with Peggy's home-made raspberry jam and thick cream. She fetched a clean tablecloth and laid it almost reverently over everything so it would keep off any dust.