Rough Cider (7 page)

Below me, the apples were converted into pomace, first by toothed iron rollers that broke them up, then stone rollers to crush them. Now Mr. Lockwood simply fitted up his all-purpose petrol engine. The pomace was collected in a wooden trough at the bottom of the mill and shoveled out with wooden spades. At this stage in the process, nothing of metal was allowed to come into contact with the fruit.

Beside the mill was a massive wooden press. On it, alternate layers of wheat straw and pomace were spread to build what Mr. Lockwood called a cheese. He stood beside it, shaping it to about four feet square, turning in the ends of the straw as each layer was completed. The final cheese was taller than I was, and they said it weighed a ton.

Then everyone gathered round for the pressing. Barbara and Mrs. Lockwood were called from the house. A tub was positioned under the press, the windlass was turned, and we all cheered as the thick brown juice gushed out.

The women hadn’t come, as I supposed, simply to watch. At this stage they joined in the work, transferring the juice with wooden dippers to casks where it had to ferment. What really surprised me later—and the GIs, I remember—was to see Mr. Lockwood drop a leg of mutton into each of the casks. “Best cider’s mutton-fed,” he told us, swiveling his bloodshot eyes. “They bones’ll be picked clean by Christmas.”

One Saturday morning in the cider house, when the Yanks were in and we were having our morning tea break, Bernard made trouble. I’m sure it was calculated. He was malicious, resentful of the amusing turn the conversation always took when Harry was on form. He suddenly said, “Cliff Morton’s been around again.”

Mr. Lockwood looked up sharply and asked “What do ‘ee mean, been around?”

Bernard answered cagily, “No more’n what I say, Father.” His eyes were fixed on Barbara, who went pale. He was a sadist. He easily could have taken his father to one side and spoken to him in confidence.

Mr. Lockwood said, “Around the farm or what?”

Still with his eyes on Barbara, Bernard answered, “Saw his bike when I were walking home last night, didn’t I? Stuffed in the ditch, far side of the north field.”

Mr. Lockwood spat copiously into the straw. “If that sod-din’ bastard—”

His wife cut in, and I thought she was taking exception to his language, but no. “Blimmin’ deserter too,” she said. “Got his call-up papers September, I was told. Should’ve reported last month.”

“Buggered if he’s holin’ up ‘ere,” Mr. Lockwood decided, on his feet. “Show me.”

Bernard followed him out, but I don’t think they found the bike, or its owner, because no more was said. Mr. Lock-wood was back in twenty minutes to supervise the clearing of the crushed cheese from the press, ready for the next load. I helped Barbara fill a, barrow with dry pomace for cattle feed. She wasn’t speaking to anyone.

By lunchtime tempers were less frayed. The first cheese had yielded 110 gallons, and the second was taking shape quickly with the extra help of the GIs. When Duke and Harry offered to give me a shooting lesson with the pistol, Mr. Lockwood told them amiably that there was no need to hurry back.

To my delight, Barbara said she’d like to join us. It was pretty obvious that she’d had a basinful of her family—her brother, anyway. Bernard had cynically and cruelly chosen the moment to tell his scare story about the odious Cliff Morton. It was calculated to embarrass and alarm Barbara in front of everyone. I think it had caused her more anger than distress. She was still subdued as we crossed the field to the edge of the copse where Duke had decided the lesson could safely take place.

We took turns shooting at an old petrol can. I learned how to load and take aim and hold the gun steady, needing both hands to control the recoil. By the end I was about equal with Barbara in hits, but neither of us would have been much use to the army.

On the walk back across the field Harry tried to liven things up by unfastening Barbara’s headscarf and passing it to Duke. Barbara grabbed for it and missed. She was in no mood for romping about the field. If you ask me, she was still upset by what had been said in the morning. Duke held the scarf high above his head, fluttering in the wind, so that she would have to get close to reach for it.

Some girls would have resorted to tickling. Barbara was smarter. She grabbed the gun from Duke’s pocket and pointed it at him. Harry shouted a warning, for this had become a dangerous game. Duke handed over the scarf, and Barbara slung the gun as far aside as she could and ran on alone. She’d had enough.

I remember that when I retrieved the gun and handed it to Duke, he checked that it wasn’t loaded. None of us had been certain when Barbara pointed it at him. He still had a few loose cartridges in his pocket. He emptied them into the drawer of the hallstand when we got back to the farm. The gun was also deposited there. I’m certain of this, which I told Superintendent Judd, who interviewed me before the trial.

The cider pressing went on through the next week, and we didn’t see the GIs again until it was almost over. They drove out to see us on the last Thursday afternoon in November, their Thanksgiving. I doubt whether the Lockwoods had ever heard of the occasion. I certainly hadn’t, but I was highly gratified to receive as a present from Duke the carved figure of the policeman that I was eventually to give to Alice.

The GIs had planned a surprise. There was to be a party at the base with a buffet of roast turkey and pumpkin pie. They’d already collected Sally from the pub, and she was sitting on Harry’s lap in the front of the jeep with her frilly petticoat showing. Everyone was in high spirits. I mean ourselves as much as the Yanks, because the last load of apples was in the cider loft, and Mr. Lockwood had shown his appreciation at lunchtime by offering extra cider from last year’s vintage. The farmhands had been allowed to leave early, and only the family was still about.

For me it had been school as usual. Since getting back, I’d been in the cider loft helping Bernard and his father to mill the last of the apples. The mechanism made a tremendous noise, and I wouldn’t have known that the jeep was in the yard if I hadn’t happened to spot the movement through the open door. I jumped onto the trailer outside, climbed down, and ran to welcome Duke just as Mrs. Lockwood was coming out to offer them hot scones and cream.

First they wanted to tell Barbara about the Thanksgiving party, so that she could get ready. Mrs. Lockwood informed them in her placid voice that the two hours between four and six was Barbara’s time for rounding up the cows and milking them. She’d started earlier than usual that afternoon, so she should soon be free, and she was certain to be excited at the prospect of a party.

I listened to this with mixed feelings, considering that it was little more than a month since I’d been slippered for refusing to speak about Barbara’s meetings with Duke. The Lockwoods seemed to have revised their opinion. Duke’s stock had risen rapidly since he and Harry had made them-selves so useful on the farm. For her part, Barbara still wanted it understood that her occasional evenings out were spent walking with Sally, but I’m damn sure that if she’d admitted she was seeing Duke, there’d have been no objection.

I’ve sometimes asked myself whether I was secretly or subconsciously jealous of Duke. I can truthfully answer that I felt no animus towards him at any time, even after what ultimately happened. I couldn’t dislike him. Between them, he and Barbara got me through what could have been the most desolate months of my life. Yes, I’ll admit to a slight pang of rejection when they were seeing each other and I wasn’t asked along, but that didn’t amount to jealousy.

To come back to that fated afternoon, Duke and Harry went to look for Barbara in the field beyond the copse. The milking was done in the open air, from mobile sheds that were known as bails. The cows on Gifford Farm stayed out night and day, well into the winter months.

The rest of us, including Sally, made a start on the scones in the farmhouse kitchen. Mrs. Lockwood said she’d keep a second batch warm for the others, but it was never needed. After fifteen minutes or so, the GIs came back and reported that they couldn’t find Barbara.

No one could understand why. She’d definitely said she was going to start the milking. There followed a confusing exchange between Bernard and Harry about which field they’d looked in, but as Duke pointed out, there was only one herd of cows, and Barbara wasn’t with them. It was obvious to anyone that they hadn’t been milked yet.

Mr. Lockwood said he’d take a look round after he’d put another load in the cider mill. Quite soon we were all engaged in a search. Mrs. Lockwood ventured the theory that possibly the cider at lunchtime had affected Barbara and she was resting somewhere.

I’m not going to make a suspense story out of this. Things that happen to people you love—appalling, deeply distressing things—are difficult enough to articulate, anyway. I was the one who found Barbara. Some instinct or intuition led me into one of the smaller barns, set back from the main cluster of farm buildings.

At first glance it looked an unlikely place for her to be, for it was three-quarters stacked with hay. Then I heard a scuffling sound, too heavy for a rat. It came from the loft that extended halfway under the roof. Bales of hay were stacked there too. I couldn’t see a ladder, so I used the bales as steps. There was a five-foot wall of hay confronting me when I reached the loft. By then I was certain there was someone behind it, for I could hear quite vigorous movements; so forceful, in fact, that I was discouraged from calling out.

I couldn’t believe it was Barbara.

I worked my way along the barrier of hay and located a triangular space where the last bale met the angle of the roof. By squeezing sideways between the rafters and the hay, I managed to penetrate far enough to get a narrow view of the other side.

What I saw was my poor, gentle Barbara being raped by Cliff Morton. When I say raped, I’m using an adult term for an act that wasn’t comprehensible to me at that age, if it is now. A violent, indecent, and humiliating attack by a strong man on a powerless woman. He was thrusting into her like a rutting stag while she struggled and gasped, beating her fists on the loft floor. Her blouse was open to the waist, and her overalls and knickers had been dragged down and were trapped round one of her legs below the knee.

There was nothing I could do except jump down from the loft and run frantically to find someone, anyone. Fate decreed that it was Duke.

He was coming out of the shed where the farm machinery was stored. I shouted to him that Barbara was in the small barn, and the man Cliff had taken off her clothes and was hurting her. Duke didn’t say a word. He dashed past me across the yard to the barn. I ran on, crying, to the farmhouse where Mrs. Lockwood was talking to Sally, and blurted out what I’d seen. I told them Duke had gone in there. I couldn’t do any more.

Mrs. Lockwood ran out, leaving Sally and me in the kitchen. After about five minutes she came back with her arm around Barbara, who was sobbing hysterically. They went straight up to Barbara’s bedroom.

The only thing I remember about that day is much later, lying in bed. Mrs. Lockwood was leaning over me, giving me something to drink. I asked if Barbara was going to be all right, and she said yes, she would be all right, and I was to get some sleep.

They kept me indoors most of the next day. As soon as I got up, I asked about Barbara and was told she was resting, but I noticed that the curtains of her bedroom weren’t drawn. That night I could hear her sobbing.

I didn’t ever see her again. The next memory I have is the hammering on Sunday morning when they had to break down her door. And the screaming when they found her dead. She’d cut her own throat with her father’s razor.

Later that morning my headmaster, Mr. Lillicrap, collected me from the house. On Monday one of the teachers took me back in the train to London and home. I wasn’t evacuated again.

* SEVEN *

T
he rest is on public record, so if you’re familiar with the relevant volume of
Notable English Trials,
or James Harold’s
The Christian Gifford Murder,
why not skip this chapter? For completeness I’m going to bring the story up to date, but most of what follows will be secondhand, picked out from the evidence of police and other witnesses. My part in it was mercifully short.

I’ll continue as before, reporting the facts as I told them that night to Alice. She’d kept her promise and allowed me to get this far without interruption, except a muttered “Oh, my God!” when I came to Barbara’s suicide, which hadn’t been mentioned in the press clippings she’d found among her mother’s papers.

One evening in October 1944, almost a year after the tragic events I’ve been describing, a man in a public house in Frome, the Shorn Ram, ordered a pint of local cider, a drink strongly preferred in wartime to the watered-down stuff that masqueraded as beer. People didn’t object to drinking from jam jars in those days of crockery shortages, but they were still choosy about what went into the jam jars.

So when the customer complained that the cider was “ropy,” it was a serious matter. The publican had just put a new barrel on, a large one, a hogshead, from Lockwood, a reliable cider maker. He drew off a little for himself and sampled it.

It’s worth pausing to reflect that if the publican had been prepared to admit right away that the cider was off, Duke Donovan might never have been brought to trial. Yet these were days of austerity when you could be fined for throwing bread to the birds. It was against the war effort to throw anything away if there was the remotest possibility that it might be consumed. So the publican sipped the cider and agreed that it tasted more bitter than the previous barrel but adjudged it palatable. He carried on serving it for the rest of the week. Scores of customers imbibed it, but few came back for a second glass.

At the weekend, two of the Shorn Ram regulars went down with food poisoning. The cider was mentioned as a possible source of infection. Ugly rumors circulated of local cider makers who believed in leaving the bunghole of the barrel open after fermentation. It was said that if you looked closely at the sticky surface on the top, you’d see the footprints of rats. They approached but never returned from the open hole.