All Things Undying

TWENTY-ONE

‘Important meetings. The area described below is to be requisitioned urgently for military purposes, and must be cleared of its inhabitants by December 20th, 1943.’Notice, Mortimer Bros. Printers and Publishers, Totnes, November 12, 1943‘The Chairman of the Devon County Council, Sir John Daw, was ordered to requisition an area of 30,000 acres [including] the villages of Torcross, Stokenham, Chillington, Blackawton, East Allington, Slapton, Strete, Frogmore and Sherford. It also included 180 farms and many small hamlets. It affected 750 families and totaled 3000 men, women and children.’Robin Rose-Price and Jean Parnell, The Land We Left Behind, Orchard Publications, 2005, p.10

‘The trouble is,’ I said to Paul as we were getting ready for bed that evening, ‘I like Stephen Bailey. It’s hard for me to believe that he’d deliberately run anybody down.’

Paul rinsed his toothbrush and dropped it brush-end up into a drinking glass. ‘How would you feel if he were just an ordinary Devonian farmer and not the father of one of your closest friends?’

‘I’m trying to keep that out of the equation, darling.’ I crawled into the bed, propped some pillows behind my back, and pulled the duvet up to my chin. Maybe I could think better that way.

A few minutes later, Paul joined me under the duvet. ‘So, what are you going to do with the information?’

‘What information? I don’t have information, just hunches. The police aren’t going to be interested in my unsubstantiated theories.’

He rolled over and started to trace circles on my upper arm with the back of his index finger. ‘Which are?’

‘Whatever it is, it’s rooted in the past. Susan either sensed it, or Bailey was afraid she would come to sense it. Maybe Alison’s father had a beef with one of the American soldiers. Maybe they fought, the soldier got killed, and Bailey buried him on the farm.’ I sat up a bit straighter. ‘Yes! That explains why Bailey has this love-hate thing going on with Yanks.’

‘The trouble with that theory, Hannah, is that Bailey wasn’t here during the occupation. He and his family had been forced to move their farm lock, stock and barrel to someplace near Dittisham, right?’

‘Right. And security was tight.’ I folded my arms across my chest and pouted. ‘But there are first-hand reports in some of those booklets I bought of farmers sneaking back into the American zone to check on their property, to collect fruit, search for family pets. Maybe Bailey was able to slip past the patrols. Maybe…’ I was making it up as I went along. ‘How about this. He makes his way back to the farm, discovers some soldiers lounging about in his sitting room, laughing, drinking his father’s elderberry wine, breaking up his mother’s furniture for firewood. It was winter.’

‘And?’ By the way he lifted one eyebrow, I could tell my husband was unimpressed.

‘Something snaps. He clobbers them with a fire iron or something.’

‘All very interesting, Hannah, but I don’t know how you are going to prove any of this.’

‘Frankly, neither do I.’

Paul picked up the remote. ‘Mind if I turn on the television?’

‘Just as long as it’s something mindless, like Big Brother. I’ve heard all I care to hear about Alf Freeman and Derrick What’s-His-Name today. Hard to believe they were part of a smuggling ring. Just goes to prove that all thugs aren’t big, burly goodfellows from Russia or Bulgaria. Primordial slime, the pair of them. Preying on hundreds of poor, desperate people hanging out in a squalid tent city in the woods near Calais. You’d think the French police would swoop in and clean it up.’

‘Do you think that there was anything legitimate about the Guardians of Way, Truth and Life?’ Paul asked when I paused to come up for air.

‘I doubt it. I think the organization was a massive smoke screen to explain his frequent trips to the continent. We still tend to trust men of the cloth, even though in case after case, they’ve proved themselves unworthy of that trust. Alf wasn’t so much “of the cloth”, though, was he? More of a self-styled prophet.’

‘A prophet of profit?’ Paul grinned.

I punched him in the arm. ‘Don’t get me started!’

On the TV, Siavash was sweet-talking Sophie in the garden now that Noirin had been evicted from the Big Brother house. ‘How can people watch this drivel?’ Paul aimed the remote and switched the channel.

‘Paul?’ I asked as the channels flickered by. ‘You’re a farm boy. If you had a car you wanted to get rid of, what would you do with it?’

‘Does Three Trees Farm have a pond?’

‘It certainly does.’

‘Then that’s the first place I’d look.’

I turned on my side, punched the pillow into submission, and snuggled down under the duvet. ‘Before I call Crimestoppers, however, I think I need to talk to somebody about wartime in Devon.’

Paul’s face was inches from mine. ‘Who?’

‘The woman that Cathy says is going to help with her museum project. I met her at the charity lunch at St Saviour’s. Her name is Lilith Price. She knits, Paul.’

‘She knits? Well, that explains everything.’ He kissed the tip of my nose.

‘Shut up and cuddle, Mr Ives.’

And Paul, being the obedient husband that he is, promptly obliged.

The following Tuesday, I gathered up my knitting and hurried off to St Saviour’s, hoping that I’d find Lilith there. I’d just settled down at a table by myself, wondering if I’d have to eat alone, when Lilith appeared. I motioned her over. ‘When you get your lunch, do join me.’ I indicated my knitting bag that was sitting on the empty chair next to me, the needles I’d borrowed from Janet sticking out of the top like antennae. ‘Did you bring your knitting today?’

Lilith patted her bag. ‘Never go anywhere without it! You never know when you’ll be stuck waiting for something with time on your hands. Some people carry paperback books. For me, it’s knitting.’

I knew what she meant. I’d once been a card-carrying member of the paperback club, but recently I’d found myself wasting vast amounts of time in doctors’ offices and airport terminals playing Bejeweled on my iPhone.

Before long, Lilith was back. She seated herself across from me. I had planned to show her the shawl I was making, using our mutual love of knitting as an ice-breaker, but I found myself diving right in instead. ‘I heard a rumor about you the other day, Lilith.’

Lilith glanced up from her cucumber sandwich, a bemused look on her face. ‘Oh? I hope it was a good one. I could use a little excitement.’

I grinned. ‘I understand that once she gets it going, you’re going to be curator of Cathy Yates’ museum at Slapton Sands.’

Lilith nodded. ‘Fascinating project, don’t you think? Although I hadn’t been born yet when it happened, I’ve always been interested in the evacuation. I’ve written several articles about it for some of our better historical journals. You can find them in the public library here, if you’re interested, and at BRNC, too, of course.’

I reached into my bag, rooting around under the knitting until my hand closed on a yellowish green pamphlet. ‘I have one of them here. I bought it at the Harbour Bookshop the other day, and was pleased to see your name in it.’

‘Lovely bookshop, isn’t it? Did you know that for many years it was owned by Christopher Milne, the son of A. A. Milne who wrote the Winnie the Pooh stories?’

‘Christopher Robin, yes, I did.’

‘He disliked Americans, you know.’

‘That I didn’t know.’

‘I gather the Winnie the Pooh stories were much more popular in America than they ever were over here. And after the Disney movie came out?’ She cast her eyes toward the sturdy, fourteenth-century rafters. ‘Americans kept coming in and asking for Christopher Robin. Eventually, whenever he heard an American accent, poor Chris would scurry upstairs and hide out until they were gone.’

I laughed, and tried to use the opportunity to get Lilith back on track. ‘My friend Alison Hamilton’s father doesn’t think much of Yanks, either. I figure it has something to do with the American occupation. Stephen Bailey, do you know him?’

‘Of course. Until Cathy Yates bought it, Three Trees Farm was owned for centuries by Stephen Bailey’s family.’ She paused, chewing thoughtfully. ‘Stephen must have been, what, sixteen or seventeen when the war broke out?’

‘That’s right. Tragically, his older brother was killed at Dunkirk, so he stayed home to work the farm. Even so, my friend Alison says that after Teddy’s death, her grandfather was often ill. She thinks the old man died of a broken heart.’

Lilith had finished her lunch, and pushed her plate aside. ‘I can understand that. If anything happened to one of my sons…’ She shivered. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

I’d finished eating, too. I picked up my knitting, arranged the nether end of the shawl on my lap, and began working a row. ‘What I’m wondering, Lilith, is how one boy and one sick old man were able to manage such a large farm by themselves?’

Lilith hauled out her knitting, too. ‘There were a couple of local lads helping out, of course. Fourteen or fifteen years old, too young to be called up.’ She held up a needle like a baton. ‘Do you know about the Women’s Land Army?’

‘A little. Wasn’t it like our Civilian Conservation Corps in America?’

‘Not exactly. During the war, so many young men were called up that there was a severe shortage of labor on farms all over England. As a rural community, Devon was particularly hard hit. So, the government called on women to fill the gap.’ She smiled. ‘As they tend to do.

‘A lot of the girls were sent out here from the cities,’ Lilith continued. ‘They were just sixteen or seventeen, leaving home for the first time. Manual labor from daybreak to dusk was a new thing for them.’ She studied me thoughtfully. ‘As I recall, four Land Army girls were assigned to Three Trees Farm. They were billeted along with half a dozen other girls at a small hotel in Strete.’

‘So, what happened to the girls after the evacuation?’

‘In general, they either transferred to some other area of the country, or they went back home, if they had a home to go back to.’ She shook her head. ‘Much of London had been destroyed, as you probably know.’

‘I did.’

‘But, lighter note! After the war, one of the girls who had been assigned to Three Trees Farm came back to Strete. She’d fallen in love with Adam Wills, you see, whose father owned the farm adjacent to Three Trees. Eventually they married, and she stayed in the area.’

Like a bird taking flight, my spirits soared. ‘Is she still alive?’

‘My, yes.’

‘Do you think I’ll be able to talk to her?’

‘I don’t see why not. She’s widowed, living in Stoke Fleming now. I’ll get you her number, shall I? Her name’s Audrey. Audrey Wills.’

‘I’d really appreciate it. I first heard about the Land Army girls while watching an episode of Foyles War, and since then, I’ve been fascinated.’ I tapped the pamphlet that lay on the table between us. ‘And I’ve read your article, of course.’

She beamed, accepting the compliment. ‘Fortunately, Audrey’s farmer was able to move himself, his family and his livestock to another farm outside the American Zone, up near Harbertonford.’ She shook her head. ‘Many farmers weren’t so lucky. They had to sell everything, and you can imagine with everyone selling their livestock all at once, the prices were at rock bottom.’

I thought about Stephen Bailey’s cows – Feckless, Graceless, Pointless and Aimless – and how hard it must have been for him to see them go.

‘They were only given six weeks to clear out,’ Lilith continued. ‘Six weeks! Can you imagine? And just before Christmas, too.’

‘I can hardly pack for a two-week vacation in that little time.’

Lilith shook her head. ‘Isn’t that the truth? Now, don’t let me forget to get you Audrey’s number.’

‘I won’t!’ I gave Lilith my cell-phone number, and the telephone number at the B &B.

‘Now that that’s settled, Hannah, it’s time to show me what you’re working on so industriously.’