Chapter 48
The dairy was less than a hundred yards from the pub.
An iron gate from the high street, leading into a small courtyard, high brick walls on both sides.
Cook smelt the cows, knew he was in the right place.
The stalls were at the back of the courtyard, incongruous.
Four cows, a stall each, along one side.
Milking pails and bottles stacked on the other side, around an enamel sink.
A small operation, still using the old ways.
It wouldn’t have lasted in Sussex. Dairy farms had been going mechanical for the last decade.
Herd sizes had been increasing. Not a bad way to make a living, until the War Ag had stopped most of it in the drive to turn England arable and reduce dependence on grain from the colonies.
A young boy was washing returned bottles, doing a good job of it from what Cook could see.
‘Are you Arthur?’ Cook asked. He knew from experience that families of soldiers got defensive if you asked them where their son was. Better to come at it somewhat obliquely.
‘He’s not here,’ the lad said. ‘Off fighting Jerry.’
‘You his brother?’
‘Who’s asking?’
Cook liked the lad, admired his spirit.
‘I’m from the Ministry for War,’ Cook said. ‘There’s been a mistake with his paperwork. He hasn’t been getting enough pay. If we can sort it out your mum and dad can get what he’s owed, and I won’t have to tell my boss about the mistake.’
‘Dad!’ the boy shouted, without moving from the sink.
The boy’s dad took a minute to appear. Looked like he’d been asleep.
Out before dawn with the milk deliveries.
One of the things that had held Cook back from the business himself, driving a cart around town before anyone was up.
More of a delivery boy than a farmer, he’d told himself, even as those farmers who went into the business made good money, delivery boys or not.
‘This bloke’s looking for Arthur,’ the boy said. ‘Trying it on with a line about extra pay. Thinks I was born yesterday.’
The man looked at Cook for a long second. He nodded to the door he’d come from.
‘You’d better come in,’ he said. ‘I’ll get a brew on.’
Cook sipped the tea. It was strong and sweet. The man had stirred three sugars into each mug without asking, his hand shaking – knocking the teaspoon against the mug. Not many places in the country you’d get enough sugar for that. Didn’t hurt having Tate’s refinery just down the river.
The radio was on. Lord Haw-Haw, broadcasting from occupied Europe with news of how fantastic it was all going to be once the Führer was running the show in England.
‘Who’d you say you are again?’ the man asked. He held his own tea with both hands. He’d only half filled his mug, but even so it spilled over the top as his hands shook.
Cook told him about Frankie being evacuated, which he knew about, nodding along. He knew about Ruby.
‘The number nine bus, I heard,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Fucking Germans. Least in our day it was all over there.’
‘Where were you?’ Cook asked.
‘Wherever they told us to be. Most of the lads round here signed up. Wanted to get away, do our bit.’
He put his mug down and put one hand over the other, stilling the involuntary movement.
‘Doesn’t ever leave you, does it?’
‘The war to end all wars,’ Cook said.
‘I’ll tell you what I told everyone else who’s asked,’ the man said. ‘I haven’t seen him since he walked down that road with his kit bag, setting off for Portsmouth.’
He reached behind to a cluttered bureau and pulled out a piece of paper.
‘This was the only letter I got,’ he said. ‘From . . . Amiens.’ He made a face as he read the place name, like Englishmen do when they know they should be pronouncing a French word in the French way but don’t want to show off their ignorance by getting it wrong. ‘Five months ago. Before Dunkirk.’
‘You haven’t heard from him since?’ Cook asked.
‘No,’ the man said, his face set like a mask. Quite possibly the least convincing lie Cook had ever been privy to.
‘Did he have plans to settle down with Ruby?’ Cook asked. ‘After all this?’
The man warmed up.
‘Course he did,’ he said. ‘Lovely girl, always helping out. She was out of Arty’s league. She could have her pick.’ He shrugged. ‘Arty’s a good lad though. Hard worker. Solid. Sensible. He’d take care of her.’
He got up and riffled through a stack of old papers. When he found what he was looking for, he brought it back to the table. A yellowing copy of a local paper.
‘Look at them,’ he said. There was a picture of a young couple, milking pails at their feet, smiling up at the camera.
Even through the low-quality picture, no more than a collection of dots on poor-quality newsprint, Cook got a sense of Ruby.
She was grinning, a lock of errant hair across her face, happy in the moment.
‘Can I borrow this?’ Cook asked. ‘Might want to show it to some people.’
‘Bring it back?’
‘Of course.’ Cook folded the page and put it in his wallet, along with the telephone number from Gracie.
‘You reckon he might have made it home and gone to pick her up?’ Cook asked. ‘Train up to Gretna Green, quick marriage. Hypothetically speaking.’
The man looked at Cook, trying to decide. He shook his head.
‘You seem like a good bloke, looking out for Ruby. And I’d tell you if there was anything I knew about her. But I haven’t seen Arty since he shipped out. God’s honest.’
The boy poked his head in the door.
‘Better be going if we’re going to get a place,’ he said.
The man nodded. Explained to Cook.
‘Dickins and Jones on Oxford Street,’ he said. ‘They’ve got the best shelter, but you’ve got to be there before six to get in line.’