on the farm, but fair, always fair.
I went up there mostly to look after the horses at first. For me it couldn’t have been better. I was with Charlie again, working alongside him on the farm. I’d put on a spurt and was almost as tall as him by now, but still not as fast, nor as strong. He was a bit bossy with me sometimes, but that didn’t bother me — that was his job after all. Things were changing between us. Charlie didn’t treat me like a boy any more, and I liked that, I liked that a lot.
The newspapers were full of the war that had now begun, but aside from the army coming to the village and buying up lots of the local farm horses for cavalry horses, it had hardly touched us at all. Not yet. I was still Charlie’s postman, still Molly’s postman. So I saw Molly often, though not as often as before. For some reason the letters between them seemed less frequent. But at least with me now working with Charlie for six days a week we were all three together again in a kind of way, linked by the letters. Then that link was cruelly broken, and what followed broke my heart, broke all our hearts.
I remember Charlie and I had been haymaking with Farmer Cox, young buzzards wheeling above us all day, swallows skimming the mown grass all about us as the shadows lengthened and the evening darkened. We arrived home later than usual, dusty and exhausted, and hungry, too. Inside we found Mother sitting upright in her chair doing her sewing and opposite her Molly and, to our surprise, her mother. Everyone in the room looked as grim-faced as Molly’s mother, even Big Joe, even Molly whose eyes I could see were red from crying. Bertha was howling ominously from outside in the woodshed.
“Charlie,” said Mother, setting her sewing aside. “Molly’s mother has been waiting for you. She has something she wants to say to you.”
“Yours, I believe,” said Molly’s mother, her voice as hard as stone. She handed Charlie a packet of letters tied up with a blue ribbon. “I found them. I’ve read them, every one of them. So has Molly’s father. So we know, we know everything. Don’t bother to deny it, Charlie Peaceful. The evidence is here, in these letters. Molly has been punished already, her father has seen to that. I’ve never read anything so wicked in all my life. Never. All that love talk. Disgusting. But you’ve been meeting as well, haven’t you?”
Charlie looked across at Molly. The look between them said it all, and I knew then that I had been betrayed.
“Yes,” said Charlie.
I couldn’t believe what he was saying. They hadn’t told me. They’d been meeting in secret and neither of them had told me.
“There. Didn’t I tell you, Mrs Peaceful?” Molly’s mother went on, her voice quivering with rage.
“I’m sorry,” said Mother. “But you’ll still have to tell me why it is they shouldn’t be meeting. Charlie’s seventeen now, and Molly sixteen. Old enough, I’d say. I’m sure we both had our little rendezvous here and there when we were their age.”
“You speak for yourself, Mrs Peaceful,” Molly’s mother replied with a supercilious sneer. “Molly’s father and I made it quite plain to both of them. We forbade them to have anything to do with each other. It’s wickedness, Mrs Peaceful, pure wickedness. The Colonel has warned us, you know, about your son’s wicked thieving ways. Oh yes, we know all about him.”
“Really?” said Mother. “Tell me, do you always do what the Colonel says? Do you always think what the Colonel thinks? If he said the earth was flat, would you believe him? Or did he just threaten you? He’s good at that.”
Molly’s mother stood up, full of righteous indignation. “I haven’t come here to argue the toss. I have come to tell of your son’s misdemeanours, to say that I won’t have him leading our Molly into the ways of wickedness and sin. He must never see her again, do you hear? If he does, then the Colonel will know about it. I’m telling you the Colonel will know about it. I have no more to say. Come along, Molly.” And taking Molly’s hand firmly in hers she swept out, leaving us all looking at one another and listening to Bertha still howling.
“Well,” said Mother after a while. “I‘ll get your supper, boys, shall I?”
That night I lay there beside Charlie not speaking. I was so filled with anger and resentment towards him that I never wanted to speak to him again, nor to Molly come to that. Then out of our silence he said: “All right, I should’ve told you, Tommo. Molly said I should tell you. But I didn’t want to. I couldn’t, that’s all.”
“Why not?” I asked. For several moments he did not reply.
“Because I know, and she does too. That’s why she wouldn’t tell you herself,” Charlie said.
“Know what?”
“When it was just letters, it didn’t seem to matter so much. But later, after we began seeing each other … we didn’t want to hide it from you, Tommo, honest. But we didn’t want to hurt you either. You love her, don’t you?” I didn’t answer. There was no need. “Well, so do l, Tommo. So you’ll understand why I’m going to go on seeing her. I‘ll find a way no matter what that old cow says.” He turned to me. “Still friends?” he said.
“Friends,” I mumbled, but I did not mean it.
After that no more was ever said between us about Molly. I never asked because I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want even to think about it, but I did. I thought about nothing else.
No one could understand why, but shortly after this Bertha began to go missing from time to time. She hadn’t wandered off at all until now; she’d always stuck close to Big Joe. Wherever Big Joe was, that’s where you’d be sure to find Bertha. Big Joe was frantic with worry every time she went off. She’d come back home in the end of course, when she felt like it, either that or Mother and Joe would find her somewhere all muddied and wet and lost, and they’d bring her home. But the great worry was that she’d start chasing after sheep or cows, that some farmer or landowner would shoot her, as they’d shoot any dog they found trespassing on their land that could be molesting their animals. Fortunately Bertha didn’t seem to go chasing sheep, and anyway up until now she had never been gone that long, nor strayed too far.
We did our very best to keep her from wandering. Mother tried shutting her in the woodshed, but Big Joe couldn’t stand her howling and would let her out. She tried tying her up, but Bertha would chew at the rope and whine incessantly so that in the end Big Joe would always take pity and go and untie her.
Then, one afternoon. Bertha went missing again. This time she did not come back. This time we could not find her. Charlie wasn’t about. Mother and Big Joe went one way looking for her, down towards the river, and I went up into the woods, whistling for her, calling for her. There were deer to be found up in Ford’s Cleave Wood, and badgers and foxes. It would be just the sort of place she’d go. I’d been an hour or more searching in the woods with not a sign of her. I was about to give up and go back — perhaps she’d gone home anyway by now, I thought — when I heard a shot ringing out across the valley. It came from somewhere higher in the woods. I ran up the track, ducking the low slung branches, leaping the badger holes, dreading, but already knowing what I would find.
As I came up the rise I could see ahead of me the chimney of Father’s old shack, and then the shack itself at the side of the clearing. Outside lay Bertha, her tongue lolling, the grass beside her soaked with blood. The Colonel stood looking down at her, his shotgun in his hands. The door of the shack opened and Charlie and Molly were standing there frozen in disbelief and horror. Then Molly ran over to where Bertha lay and fell to her knees.
“Why?”
