Land Girls: The Homecoming: A moving and heartwarming wartime saga. Roland Moore
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Название: Land Girls: The Homecoming: A moving and heartwarming wartime saga
Автор: Roland Moore
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Исторические любовные романы
isbn: 9780008204402
isbn:
Extract from the diary of Connie Carter:
“It’s all gone wrong. I don’t know what to do. There was me with my stupid, perfect happy ending and it’s all crumbled to dust. Maybe I should have realised that I just wasn’t ‘good enough’.
But I never thought your whole life could just sort of fall apart like that. And fall apart so easily, either. Each bit of happiness falling like it’s in a row of dominoes or something. If she knew what happened, Mrs Gulliver would be pulling one of her sour old looks and saying something like “I knew she was rubbish, that Connie Carter”. She’ll be pointing fingers with the rest of the I-told-you-so-brigade when they all find out. Maybe she’d be right. There’s too many things that have happened to him, all because of me. He doesn’t deserve that.
The worst thing is that I don’t know where he is. If he’d said where he was going, even if it involved never wanting to see me again, at least I’d have known, wouldn’t I? I could cope with that, eventually. But I don’t even know if he’s still alive. No, can’t think like that. He is alive and I just hope he comes back. And it’s not like there’s anyone I can talk to about it, is there? No one I can ask. No one I can pour my heart out to.
Got to keep it a secret.
That’s why I started to write this diary. Never kept one before. And probably won’t keep this one going for long. See, where I come from, you don’t tend to write down your thoughts and feelings and stuff, in case someone finds it and uses it against you. I’d never have written things down in the children’s home. Last thing you want is someone mocking you and seeing that you’re not as tough as you’re making out. I can take care of myself. Always have done. But a lot of my mouth is just a front. It’s obvious really, I guess. But no point telling everyone, is there?
So this might be the only time I write this stuff down.
I feel on edge the whole time. I can’t settle. Certainly can’t sleep or eat more than the barest amount. Esther, the warden at the farm, has been understanding. She’s been nice. Not that she knows the truth. She thinks I’m ill. That’s because that’s the lie I told her. I couldn’t tell her the truth. Whole can of worms that would be, wouldn’t it?
That’s why the I-told-you-so-brigade don’t know nothing yet.
Best to keep it that way.
Best to keep the big old secret. Isn’t it?
But the trouble is, I can’t just stay indoors pretending that I’m ill. I’m sure some of the other Land Girls have spotted me in Helmstead, walking aimlessly around. Or in the fields, where it looks like I’m enjoying a summer walk, lost in my thoughts. I just keep moping around, searching in vain for some clue. Keep thinking I’ll see him in the High Street or walking along a path somewhere. How can I search properly, though, when I’m sneaking around trying not to be seen?
This isn’t helping. I’m wasting time in here writing this, and it’s not helping.
Yeah, I’ve got to tell Esther what’s happened, at least. Tell her how I’ve blown it. Then I won’t have to pretend to be ill any longer. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. She might be able to help me. The Land Girls might be able to help me.
Time to let the dreadful cat out of the bag.
A sparrow searched for an early-evening supper, hopping over train tracks on a remote stretch of countryside railway that cut through a valley. In this place there were no houses and the fields were overgrown with long grass. The grass was shorter only where twin slivers of darkened silver snaked across the landscape. As the bird pecked for a worm between sleepers, some scant twelve feet away from it, two men were busy working on the line. The bird was the only one that saw them. It didn’t care what they were doing as long as they didn’t come too close. To the casual observer, it looked as if the men were engaged in routine track maintenance. Perhaps tightening some bolts on a wooden sleeper or filing down roughness on the long, thin metal track itself. But if you looked more closely, you might realise that these men weren’t employees of the train company: you’d realise they were dressed in black; wearing balaclavas to obscure their faces. Not train-company uniforms.
The men were moving fast, jittery nervous movements almost parodying those of the bird, as they worked on the track. They glanced around at regular intervals to see if anyone was coming, checking the line for oncoming trains, the fields for any passing walkers. Somewhere in the sky – some distance away – there was the bumble-bee buzz of a Spitfire’s engine. Even this far-off sound made the taller man nervous. He craned his neck and started scanning the clouds. Would they be seen?
“Quick, hurry up –”, he urged.
“Don’t keep on!” The shorter man didn’t need telling. He knew they had to be quick. They both knew that the consequences of being caught would be severe. They couldn’t let that happen. But this bad-tempered exchange mirrored much of the conversation that they’d had since they’d set off in the early hours on this mission. Ever since the taller man had packed the red sticks into his holdall, along with the timing wire and detonator and they’d walked across the fields, feeling butterflies thumping around his belly.
The short man worked on the track while the taller one kept watch. The short man’s stubby fingers were trying to finish something that he’d been shown only once the night before. He hooked a pair of red wires around the metal bolts that fixed the device to the sleeper, trying to remember how the contraption should work. Was that right? It had looked a lot easier when he had been shown this in the woods around the camp fire, the convivial laughter of his friends spurring him on to think that this would be a great victory for their cause. He felt the pressure to get this right, but pressure was something he didn’t respond well to.
The tall man sank to his knees, craning his ear near to the track.
“I don’t know if I can hear a train.”
“Don’t be stupid. It’s not due yet. Shut up, I’m doing it as fast as I can.” The shorter man increased the pace, stripping the ends of a wire with a pair of pliers. There shouldn’t be a train for forty minutes. They’d planned this well so that they would have time to plant the device and get away before it came.
The short man finished his work and indicated he was ready. The taller man delved into the canvas holdall. СКАЧАТЬ