A Dangerous Act of Kindness Read online

  ‘I most certainly will not. Women shouldn’t see things like that.’

  ‘Really, Hugh?’

  ‘It’s not just a plane, Millie. It’s a man.’

  ‘Brigsie said there wasn’t a body.’

  ‘Not as such.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Hugh got to his feet, his movement sudden and impatient.

  ‘For goodness sake, Millie. What’s got into you?’ She stared at him, knew he would blunder on. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘The front half of the plane was blown to smithereens and that wretched pilot would have gone the same way. What are you hoping to see? A hand hanging in a tree? A foot under a hedge.’

  ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘I’d quite like to see the body of a man who’d been killed in action.’

  ‘Why?’

  Millie gave a laugh.

  ‘It would make a change.’

  ‘Oh, stop it, Millie,’ and Hugh paced away from her, picked up his coat, paused and flung it back down. He swung round and said, ‘You need to put it behind you, move on.’

  How many times had she heard that bloody mantra during the past six months? She wanted to mock him for his lack of imagination but she felt an infuriating stinging behind her eyes, saw the room distort as tears oozed into her eyes.

  ‘Oh no – come on, don’t cry,’ he said, irritated or maybe embarrassed. He stepped towards her, jerking her against his chest, the wool of his jumper prickling her cheek.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice muffled against his jumper, ‘I didn’t mean to bait you.’

  She pushed away from him.

  He reached behind her and snatched a dishcloth off the rail, offering it to her as a handkerchief.

  ‘Don’t blow your nose on it,’ he said; his little joke, but Millie wasn’t ready for that yet.

  ‘I’m too angry to move on, Hugh. I can’t forgive him. I can’t forgive myself.’

  She’d suffered grief before, losing a mother and a father within a year of each other. The sorrow she felt then was pure, like a sharp knife cutting deep and clean. Jack’s death had left a different wound, torn and muddied by guilt. She wondered if it could ever heal.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Hugh said. ‘That’s enough of all that.’ He moved a strand of hair from across her forehead and tried to poke it back underneath her headscarf, his fingertip rough, then he glanced towards the window. Looking for escape, she thought.

  ‘You’ve had a stinking run of bad luck,’ he said. ‘It’s enough to knock the stuffing out of anyone but it’s best not to dwell.’

  Chapter Four

  Just before she left for the afternoon Brigsie said, ‘We’re running low on silage. We need to bring some down from Topfield next week.’

  ‘Is there enough up there to last the winter?’ Millie said.

  ‘Probably,’ she called over her shoulder as she swung her leg backwards and dropped onto the saddle of the bicycle. Millie stood in the yard and watched Brigsie’s silhouette disappear into the gathering dusk, the click of the sprockets speeding up as the bike freewheeled down the sharp incline to Shawstoke where she was billeted.

  Millie patted Gyp’s head. Finally, she thought, they’ve all gone. She felt her shoulders relax, the muscles of her face soften. Now she could grieve in peace.

  She turned towards the farmhouse but when she reached the door, she paused. She couldn’t quite bear to start another long evening of brooding, obsessing about the past, worrying about the future. Once darkness fell, her demons were hard to keep at bay. Her guilt was like acid, burning her from the inside.

  There must have been moments of tenderness between her and Jack but all she could recall was her coldness towards him, her irritation as he shut down his emotions, one after another. If only she’d realised the depth of his despair, she could have taken him in her arms and comforted him. She would carry the ugly scar of omission for the rest of her life.

  The sky was still light. She could smell more snow in the air. She probably had an hour left before dark. She would saddle up the pony and ride to Topfield to see how much silage was left.

  * * *

  Millie felt Pepper’s hooves slipping underneath her as he stamped on the ice outside the cowsheds. She urged him up onto the track. They trotted along, Gyp running ahead towards the edge of the chalk escarpment.

  Up here the sky looked huge, that infinite space somehow stretched her, expanded her. The evening was very still and she could just make out the pale shape of a bank of mist, sitting below her in the combe.

  She tied Pepper onto a post near the spinney and lifted the sheet of metal, peering into the silo. The air inside felt warm against her face. She sniffed in the light tobacco scent to make sure the silage wasn’t spoiling. The bunk was a third full. That would probably see her through until the New Year.

  She let the corrugated iron drop with a clatter. Pepper, who had been pulling at the meagre clump of grass at the foot of the post, shot his head up and tucked his rump under.

  ‘Sorry,’ she called over to him.

  Gyp was running along the fence around the spinney, his nose to the ground, scenting for rabbits. She untied the pony and hauled herself up into the saddle, pulling his head around to face home. The sun had dipped out of sight in the west, the heavy clouds along the horizon edged with gold as it dropped beneath them.

  ‘Come on, Gyp,’ she called but he ran on, his nose questing the ground, a ghostly white in the shadow of the spinney.

  Suddenly he broke from the shadow and ran at a tangent from the trees, out across the snowy field in the direction of the combe.

  ‘Gyp!’ she yelled, pulling the pony round and squeezing her heels into his flanks. The pony sensed the urgency in her call and leapt forward. She crouched low over his neck, grasping a handful of mane for extra support.

  They raced across the snow, huge clods of mud firing up behind. She began to gain on Gyp. He was zigzagging around a spot in the field but as she neared, he bolted away towards the bank of cloud that was silently rising up the combe.

  Into the mist Millie plunged, the sound of the pony’s hooves echoing between the slopes of the valley. She could just make out the shape of the dog through the mist.

  Dusk was falling and with a shudder she knew he was heading towards the barn. She pulled the pony to a halt, looked back at the bright clouds on the horizon. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears.

  The last time she came down here she was walking and it was summer; Gyp had run ahead. She’d heard him barking – bark, bark, bark – and she’d started to run.

  She hadn’t been down here since and she didn’t want to go any further. Gyp could stay out hunting and make his way home when he was hungry. She was about to pull Pepper round but the thought of a long evening and interminable night without Gyp filled her with a hollow dread.

  She urged the pony on, deeper into the combe. The ground here seldom froze; underground springs kept it boggy. Occasionally Pepper stumbled, a hoof sinking in, pulling free with a gloop of suction. Millie watched the fog ahead, ducking down when a low branch loomed out of the mist. Her heart jumped erratically in her chest.

  She could no longer see Gyp but something about the eerie silence stopped her calling his name. All around, the crusts of snow were pockmarked with drops of water from the mossy branches overhead and the smell of earth and fungus filled the air. Every now and then a drop of water plopped onto her shoulder and she felt the mist dewing her hair and eyelashes.

  The track began to widen and the mist thinned. Bony grasses stuck up through the snow like needles in a pincushion. Ahead a geometric shape began to form, as grey as zinc. She felt her skin pimpling down her spine. Curious the things you remember, she thought, the way time curves and pulls images in odd directions.

  It wasn’t his face that haunted her, it was the creaking of the rope, stretched by the weight of his body, too heavy for her to lift free. God, she tried and each time she failed, the rope creaked and swung him away until finally she
had to leave him hanging, run all the way to Steadham Farm, all the way to Hugh.

  The building darkened as she moved nearer, the planks on the side of the barn black with pine tar. One of the vast central doors was missing, the other replaced years ago with a make-shift frame holding sheets of corrugated iron. They bumped and banged as a sly breeze crept across the valley floor, twisting the mist around before laying it back down.

  She sensed a lightening of the sky and looking up she saw the mist above had thinned. Fast-moving cirrus clouds scudded across the face of the moon.

  ‘Gyp!’ she said.

  She meant to speak the dog’s name but her voice boomed like a shout.

  She halted the pony a few yards from the barn. He dropped his head, pulling at a clump of grass sticking out of the snow. Over the jingle of the snaffle Millie thought she heard a low growl from inside the barn.

  Gyp.

  He’d cornered a rat, a rabbit maybe. She kicked her leg over the pony’s shoulder and slid to the ground, tying Pepper to a fallen log. She hesitated in the pitch black of the entrance.

  ‘Gyp,’ she said, ‘Come here,’ and she patted her hands on her thighs but he didn’t come.

  She peered into the dark. Shapes built and clotted in front of her eyes. She felt a shudder of anxiety, caught a sharp tomcat smell of fear.

  It’s an echo from the past, she thought; the walls of this terrible place still hold his vibrations of despair. The follicles in her hairline tingled as if they were trying to stand on end. She wanted to leave the dog and flee. She heard Gyp growl, a rumble quite nearby.

  She slipped through the gap.

  A beam of silver light swept slowly along the back of the barn as if a car was approaching with headlights full on. The moon had come out from behind a cloud.

  She saw a puff of mist rising into the shaft of light, the breath of an animal on the other side of a straw bale. Gyp was lying in wait for that rat, ready to pounce and this thought, so normal, filled her with relief.

  She moved swiftly over to the bale and peered around it. The moon dulled again but there he was, his pale coat clearly visible. He was lying like a sphinx, his paws out in front, his haunches curled underneath, ready to spring. She squatted down, reached out towards him but as the moonlight brightened, she froze.

  The cloud of vapour wasn’t coming from the dog. There, in the shadows, the liquid glint of a human eye, the sound of someone breathing.

  Still squatting, she turned, so slowly, the sole of her boot crunching a piece of grit as her foot shifted. Sitting next to her, slumped against a bale, was a man, one arm held awkwardly by his side, the other pointing a service revolver at her head.

  Chapter Five

  Millie felt the blood starting to pump at the back of her knees and wondered how long she could hold her position. She could hear the man panting in short, shallow breaths. He was in pain, quite a lot of pain.

  Something glinted. An eagle, pinned to his jacket, just visible where his overalls were unzipped. Oh, Christ, she thought, he’s the pilot from the Messerschmitt. He wasn’t blown up. He’s here, in my barn, pointing a gun at my head.

  The German remained motionless, his eyes never leaving her.

  A minute passed, maybe two. She saw him wince, move his hand. The gun barrel sagged. He rocked his body forward a fraction and…

  Gyp surged forward with incredible velocity. Millie grabbed at his collar as he shot past, jerking her onto her knees. She threw herself across the dog, her face at the same level as his teeth. She hauled back with all her might.

  The dog’s furious barking shattered the silence of the barn. The German pushed his boots against the concrete, tried to press himself deeper into the bale of straw. Millie heard the click of the gun being cocked.

  ‘No!’ she shouted, ‘I’ve got him!’ and she rolled up onto her feet, backed away, one hand pulling Gyp, the other held out towards the German. ‘Look, I’ve got him.’

  She hauled on Gyp’s collar. The dog strained against her, snorting, slavering, his forelegs rising off the ground. Cautiously she sat on a bale, pushing Gyp onto his haunches. She gripped him between her knees, stroked his head, murmured to him. The dog was hot and panting, saliva foaming along his lips. He rolled an eye up at her, a flash of white along the edge. Every muscle in his body was quivering but he was under control.

  She felt her panic subsiding, draining away, like water seeping into the ground. She was comfortable, sitting here on the bale of straw. She had the advantage. She was able-bodied; the man was injured. He had a weapon but she had a dog. He couldn’t shoot her and Gyp at the same time. If he picked her, the dog would get him. If he made the mistake of shooting Gyp, by God she’d be across the floor and grinding her knee into that crooked arm before he had time to cock the gun again.

  Besides, they’d stared at one another for so long now, she had a feeling the time to shoot had passed. One of them was going to have to speak and it may as well be her.

  ‘You understand English?’

  He nodded and let his body slump lower on the bale. The moonlight glowed through the fractured planks of the barn and she could see him quite clearly.

  His hair was razored short above his ears but fell fair and straight across his forehead, pushed to one side. Despite a stubble on his chin, his skin seemed pale compared to Hugh’s. His features were regular but his mouth was extraordinary, his lips outlined as sharply as if he’d been carved in stone, his lower lip much fuller than she’d seen on a man before. A deep cleft ran vertically down the centre, as if the lip had split.

  As she watched, he drew this lip between his teeth and narrowed his eyes, his head straining back.

  ‘You’re in a lot of pain,’ she said, and the brittle look he gave her, that slight nod of his head, cracked something open inside her. She’d seen that look before and turned away. The guilt of her neglect bloomed inside her like a cancer. She could not turn away again.

  ‘Let me help you.’

  He stared at her, a ripple pulled his brows down and his voice, hoarse and dry, said, ‘Why help me?’

  It was a sobering question. Morney Beswick and the men from Norrington wanted to skewer him with pitchforks. She should release Gyp, snatch the gun and ride as fast as she could to get help. But if she did that, abandoned another man in his hour of desperate need, her guilt would crush her. This time she wasn’t too late. This man was still alive. Jack never gave her that chance.

  ‘Because I want to help you,’ she said.

  He ran his tongue along his lips, his mouth partially open and, watching her all the time, lowered the pistol to the floor. In response she drew a piece of binder-twine from her pocket and threaded it through Gyp’s collar.

  ‘I’m going to tie my dog over there,’ she said and the German nodded. She stood, very carefully, and pulled Gyp towards a beam. Her fingers trembled as she tied him up. The German watched her every move.

  When she approached him, she looked down at the gun, still within reach. His hand moved towards it and she tensed but he flicked it away across the concrete, his eyes never leaving her face. She brushed the front of her coat over her knees and knelt on the floor. She could see in the moonlight that his pupils were large and black, the rim of colour around them, the palest blue, almost silver.

  ‘My arm is not in my shoulder,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve dislocated it. I’ll make you as comfortable as I can and then I have to go and get help. You need to go to a hospital.’

  He reached his other hand towards her. Gyp rumbled a low and threatening growl, stretching the binder-twine taut. The pilot let his hand drop.

  ‘You mustn’t, please,’ he said. ‘I do it.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Fix my arm.’

  Millie looked at his shoulder. Beneath his thick overalls she could see it was badly misshapen, that he was holding the arm at an odd angle. How on earth did he think he was going to fix it?

  ‘You help me?’

  Slowly sh
e shook her head. She wasn’t going to start hauling on his arm. Many years ago a labourer fell from the roof of the milking shed. The vet was up with the herd that day and had a go at reducing the man’s shoulder. Jack, Hugh and Millie watched, callously inquisitive as only children can be. The man roared with pain. He pleaded with the vet as if he were a torturer, he yelled and screamed, begged him to stop. The vet eventually admitted defeat and the man, white with pain and whimpering like a child, was loaded into old Mr Sanger’s cart and taken to the hospital in Coltenham.

  ‘I couldn’t do that,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t be strong enough.’

  ‘No, not that. I lie on an edge, a table perhaps, I wait and the arm goes back.’

  Millie frowned, unconvinced. ‘How do you know that’ll work?’

  ‘I see a man do it in a hut, in the mountains.’

  Millie sighed and looked around. ‘There’s nothing here,’ she said.

  They looked at one another in silence. Millie knew there was only one thing to do. She had to get him back up to Enington, back to her farm. Christ, what was she thinking? It was one thing not to raise the alarm but this was something else. But what alternative was there? To leave him here in this freezing barn until he perished or was found by someone like Morney Beswick? She couldn’t do that to another human being, not to someone who trusted her.

  ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Half a mile, out of the combe and up to the farmhouse. If I could get you onto the pony…’

  ‘Who is at the farmhouse?’

  ‘No one.’

  He watched her, a slight frown on his face but another wave of pain gripped him and he drew his lower lip between his teeth, looking away from her until the spasm passed.

  ‘You do this for me?’ he said when his breathing levelled.

  She nodded.

  ‘Wait here,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring the pony into the barn. It’ll be easier to get onto him if you climb up on a bale.’

  ‘The dog. Take it,’ he said but a moment later he softened his order. ‘Please.’