Hari drew up outside the farmhouse and Jessie appeared in the doorway, her brow furrowed but a hopeful smile on her face.
‘Any news, Hari?’ Her tone was eager. ‘Come in, cariad, come in and sit down.’ Hari sat in the living room, which was a mess. Dust had built up like clouds on the furniture and Jessie was looking gaunt and old. She coughed incessantly.
‘I’ve heard from Meryl in a roundabout sort of way,’ Hari said. ‘A message over air waves, a bit of Welsh, my name.’ She could say nothing more; the rest of the message was secret and might not even be correct.
‘And Michael?’
‘I don’t know.’ Hari’s voice was low with misery. ‘I assume he’s alive or Meryl would have found a way to let me know. But, and it’s a big but, he’s either in prison or on active service for the Germans.’
Jessie sighed heavily. ‘His father would have influence. I’m sure he’ll look after Michael. I’ll make us a cup of tea.’
Jessie’s answer to every crisis was a cup of tea. She was very affected by her son’s disappearance, her footsteps faltering as she made her way to the kitchen.
Hari followed her. The kitchen was in a terrible state and Hari took off her coat and washed the accumulation of dishes. Jessie made a faint protest but there was a look of relief on her face as Hari brushed up the debris on the kitchen floor.
Hari was silent for a long time but as she put away the brush she looked at Jessie.
‘I need your help,’ she said.
Jessie’s face brightened. ‘Anything girl, you’ve been so good to me since… well, you know.’
‘I want you to come and stay for a few weeks,’ she said. ‘Father is home for a break, he’ll be all alone while I’m at work and he’s not very good on his one leg.’
It wasn’t true; her father was well able to look after himself. Jessie obviously wasn’t, not just now.
‘Leave the farm? Oh, I don’t know, Hari, what about the cattle?’
‘I’m sure the man on the next farm would take them in, there’s so few of them now, anyway.’ She touched Jessie’s arm. ‘It would only be for a short while, in any case, and I do need your help, really I do.’
‘When?’ Jessie asked.
‘Father’s coming home Monday, what if I come for you next Sunday, would that suit you?’
‘Duw, I suppose so. It’s only for a while though, mind.’
‘I know.’ Hari smiled with relief. ‘I’ll expect a nice cooked meal for Father and me when I come home from the factory, though.’
‘So long as we put our rations together it will be all right. Could I bring a few chucks with me for eggs?’
‘We could manage chickens in the garden, I suppose,’ Hari said. ‘Just so long as you don’t bring a pig for bacon as well.’
Hari had the satisfaction of knowing the house looked tidier when she left and Jessie was busy washing clothes to bring to Swansea with her. A spell with company might just be what Jessie needed; she was all alone in that deserted farmhouse, alone and afraid.
As she drove along the farm road towards the main thoroughfare for Swansea, a figure suddenly stepped out in front of her car. She pulled up and saw George Dixon wave his arms at her frantically.
‘Help me, miss—it’s my mother, she’s taken really bad. I don’t know what to do; I don’t know how long she’s been sick. I’ve just come home on leave, see?’
George was in army uniform, he was a junior officer, commissioned no less. Mrs Dixon must be well connected. ‘Get in.’
Hari drove to the Dixon Farm and hurried across the yard into the house. Mrs Dixon was in bed; it was clear she had a fever. Her face was flushed, almost cyanosed, her eyes were puffy and she had strange red marks on her skin.
‘I’ve called the doctor,’ George said. ‘I ran to the post office in the village and used their phone but so far there’s no sign of anyone coming.’
‘She is very ill.’ Hari looked at her watch. ‘If the doctor doesn’t come soon we’ll take her to the hospital.’
As she finished speaking the doctor came plodding up the stairs. He was very old with a white moustache and a shock of white hair under his hat.
‘Doctor Merriman.’ He nodded briefly to Hari and went straight to the bed. After a moment he shook his head. ‘I’m too late,’ he said. ‘Mrs Dixon is dying, she’s had scarlet fever for at least a week. I’m sorry.’
‘How long?’ George’s voice was hoarse.
‘You’ll be lucky, son, if she lasts the night. I’ll give her something to ease her and then all you can do is sit with her, talk to her gently, help her slip away peacefully. I’m sorry.’ He repeated helplessly, ‘It’s just too late to help her.’
‘If only I’d been here,’ George said angrily. ‘This bastard war.’ He put his head in his hands and wept.