Land girls were entitled to one and a half free days a week. Mrs Lawrence suggested that this first week they took Sunday off, even though they had only been working for two days. Unused to the physical activity, they would be needing the rest, she said. The girls conceded gratefully. They offered to make sandwiches and go off somewhere for a picnic lunch, keep out of the way. But Mrs Lawrence responded by asking them to stay to lunch with the family: Janet would be coming. She’d like them to meet Janet.
At five a.m. Prue, waking suddenly, remembered she had no need to get up. About to return luxuriously to sleep, a picture came to her mind of Joe alone in the cowshed. He would have to do all the milking himself today. When did he have any time off?
In a moment, Prue was out of bed, all sleepiness gone. She dressed quickly and quietly so as not to disturb the others, and chose a yellow satin bow for her hair. What a surprise she would give him. How pleased he would be – someone to share the work on a Sunday.
Creeping downstairs, Prue heard voices in the kitchen: Joe and his mother talking. She had no wish to dull the impact of her good deed by joining them for a mug of tea, so she crept towards the front door.
As she put out her hand to turn the key, she heard a sound like the slap of a hand on the kitchen table. And, distinctly, the shouting of angry words.
‘You just take care, Joe!’
‘Mind your own business, Ma.’
Prue’s heartbeat quickened. Silly old interfering thing, Mrs Lawrence. His age, Joe could do what he bloody well liked. Quickly she opened the door.
In the cowshed the animals were chained in their stalls, restless as always before milking (how quickly she had come to learn their ways!), heads tossing, tails lashing, muted stamps of impatience. Prue fetched bucket and pail, began work on the first cow.
Joe arrived by the time the bucket was half full – she was an even faster milker by now. He must surely be aware of how quickly she’d learned. Prue felt his gaze upon her, from the doorway, but did not look up. She heard the slish and thud of his footsteps as he strode towards her. Still she made no acknowledgement of his presence, kept her head dug into Pauline’s bony side. She knew her yellow bow was badly flattened, but resisted releasing one hand to puff it into life.
‘What’re you doing here? It’s Sunday. It’s meant to be your day off.’
Joe’s voice was far from grateful. For a full minute Prue listened to the rhythmic hiss of the milk she was drawing from the cow’s abundant udder, calculating her answer.
‘I woke as usual. Thought you’d be glad of the help.’
‘You did, did you?’
She could hear Joe moving away with surly tread. Why had her kind act so annoyed him? She felt the sickness of having made a bad decision. There was nothing she could do but carry on: she managed to avoid him each time she finished a cow and had to collect an empty bucket. The two hours went by in a frenzy of speculation. What had she done wrong? How could she put matters right? Usually, she could rely on the soundness of her instincts. This morning no answer came.
When Prue finished milking the last cow she stood up and saw that Joe was no longer in the shed. Well, bugger him, she thought: he hasn’t half taken advantage of my kind offer. Leaves me most of the work, then buggers off early to breakfast.
She stomped crossly up the aisle, swinging her last full bucket. Milk splashed on to the floor, mixing with streaks of chocolate-coloured water, paling it to a horrible khaki, that warlike colour Prue so hated. Bugger everything, she thought. I’m off back to bed.
Joe was standing by the cooling machine, arms folded, blank-faced, impervious to its insinuating whine. Steam, escaping from the sterilizing machine, blurred the handsome vision. Prue, nose furiously in the air, inwardly quaked. She sensed there was to be some kind of showdown, and dreaded it.
Then through the steam she saw – she was almost positive she saw – a tremor of a smile break his lips, though his eyes were hard upon her.
‘Little minx,’ he said.
In her surprise, Prue lowered her bucket to the ground too hard. Wings of milk flew over its edges, curdling on the concrete: she didn’t care. Nothing mattered now except that she should conceal her sense of triumph.
‘And careful, for Pete’s sake,’ she heard him say.
He bent and picked up the bucket, threw the milk into the cooling machine with something of her own carelessness. He could blooming well deal with the sterilizing, Prue thought, heart a mad scattering of beats as she hurried out without speaking, pretending to ignore all messages.
In the short march from the cowshed to the kitchen – smell of frying bacon quickening the early air of the yard – Prue reflected on her good fortune. She thanked her lucky stars she had made the right decision. Joe’s earlier behaviour, she had somehow failed to understand, was merely a form of teasing. He was no longer a problem. Her path was clear, Janet or no Janet. It was now just a matter of when and how, and at what point she should tell the others how right she had been.
While Stella and Ag helped Mrs Lawrence in the kitchen, Prue spent an hour of luxurious contemplation in the empty attic room as she re-did her nails, chose combs for her hair instead of a ribbon, and finally decided to wear her red crepe dress with its saucy sweetheart neckline.
Coming downstairs – heavy skirt of the dress flicking from side to side, not without impact – she found Joe and his father in the hall, both dressed in tweed suits. Mr Lawrence carried a prayer book. Christ, one Sunday it would probably be to her advantage to go to church with them, she thought – though she hoped it would not have to come to that. She’d never exactly seen eye to eye with the church, all those boring hymns. But she didn’t half fancy Joe in his posh suit, despite the egg on his tie. She smiled. Mr Lawrence, with a look of faint distaste, hurried towards the kitchen. That left her and Joe alone in the hall. She carried on smiling.
‘Been praying?’ she asked eventually.
‘None of your sauce,’ said Joe. He swung past her up the stairs, banged the door of his room.
None of your sauce … Prue went over the words carefully. He’d said them with such lightness of tone, in a voice so mock serious as to be transparent in its meaning, that for the second time that morning Prue found herself triumphant. How she enjoyed the careful analysis of that short remark! What he meant was, he wouldn’t mind a lot of sauce, but he would be grateful if she was careful. Well, she’d never been one to enjoy upsetting any apple carts. She’d play the game by his rules, if that’s what he wanted. But there was no reason not to enjoy herself until the time came.
Prue slipped into the kitchen where Mr Lawrence was polishing his shoes. The three women were all hard at work, stirring, tasting, moving in and out of clouds of steam that billowed over the stove.
‘Can I do the gravy or anything?’ Prue asked.
‘It’s all done.’ Mrs Lawrence sniffed, distaste less well disguised than her husband’s. She seemed to have some sixth sense, aware no doubt of everything that went on under her roof. Her disapproval would be terrifying to behold.
Prue left the room.
She found herself in the yard, leaping over patches of mud on to small islands of dry ground, trying not to ruin her scarlet Sunday shoes. On reaching the barn – she had grown to like the barn – she crossed her arms under her breasts, shivering. It was a cold, sunless morning. She leaned against the icy metal mudguard of the tractor, making sure she was hidden from the house. There was no time to ask herself why she was there, the tractor her only companion, because almost at once a small navy Austin Seven, beautifully polished, drew up to the front door. Rigid with curiosity, Prue watched a girl – probably about her own age – get out of the car, lock the door with a fussy gloved hand. She wore a grey coat. Her hair was rolled into a bun. She stood looking about, as if disappointed there was no sign of Joe to greet her. Then she moved to the door and rang the bell. Prue decided the girl’s prim little step, in highly polished lace-up shoes, was proprietorial.
Joe opened the door. They exchanged a few words, moved back to stand by the car. Joe seemed to be admiring it. He put a hand on the gleaming bonnet. Janet patted his arm, tipped back her head. She seemed to be asking for a share of his admiration. Joe bent down and gave her forehead the merest brush of his lips. Janet took his arm. Together, they went into the house.
That’s all I need to know, Prue said to herself. She skipped back across the yard so fast she splashed both the red shoes and her thinnest pair of silk stockings, but she didn’t care.
Janet sat on the edge of an armchair at one side of the fireplace in the sitting-room. Joe sat in the chair opposite, while the hard little sofa was occupied by Stella and Ag. Ag looked about the olive and green furnishings, the cracked parchment of the standard lamp, the faded prints of York Minster. Joe fiddled with a minute glass of sherry, cast in silence. Janet, who had refused a drink of any kind, feet crossed on the floor, hands asleep on her lap, registered in her pose something between demure good manners and disapproval. She had a long face and a down-turned mouth set awkwardly in a protruding chin, giving her a look of stubborn melancholy. The surprising thing was that, when she ventured a smile, her down-turned eyes turned up, and the plainness of her face became almost appealing.
Stella, sensing the awkwardness, felt she should make some effort at conversation.
‘What is your actual job in the WRAF?’ she asked.
‘Sparking plug tester.’ Janet thought for a while, decided to go on, seeing the genuine interest in Stella’s face. ‘What I want to be, eventually, is a radiographer. But I don’t suppose I’ll ever make it.’ She shrugged, looked at Joe. The thought of disputing this did not seem to occur to him.
‘I’m sure you will,’ said Stella, surprised by Joe’s meanness. ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like, the job of testing sparking plugs.’
‘No, well, it’s not that interesting. And the working conditions aren’t very nice. All day in a cold and draughty warehouse, oil everywhere …’ She trailed off, eyes on the door.
Prue flounced in, a dishcloth tied over her skirt.
‘You must be Janet,’ she said. ‘I’m Prue. ’Scuse my apron.’
She smiled wickedly, shook hands with Janet whose incredulous pale face bleached further. Prue unknotted the dishcloth and shook herself free as seductively as a striptease artist. Joe drank his few drops of sherry in one gulp, not looking at her.
‘I’ve come to tell you dinner’s ready.’
Janet stood up, straightened her grey flannel skirt.
‘Where’ve you come from?’ asked Prue. ‘In that wonderful car!’
‘It belongs to my parents. From Surrey, near Guildford.’
The sharpness of her reply brought Prue’s bobbing about to a stop. She looked at Janet with a new curiosity.
‘Never been to Surrey, myself,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that rather a long way to come for Sunday dinner?’
‘It is, but if it’s my only chance to see Joe, then I don’t mind the miles.’
Janet tipped her head back again, giving Prue a defiant little smile which she then dragged round to reach Joe. Ag, from her corner of the room, admired the girl’s show of spirit. Janet took Joe’s arm, indicated they should be the first to leave the room.
Possessive little Surrey madam we have here, thought Prue, and winked at Stella and Ag.
‘Have you ever been to Surrey?’ she asked them.
‘Shut up, Prue,’ said Ag.
Janet sat between Joe and Mr Lawrence. Prue, taking Ag’s advice, resisted sitting on Joe’s other side and chose a place opposite him. Mrs Lawrence helped everyone to large plates of roast pork and vegetables.
‘You’d never know there was a war on here,’ said Stella, desperately trying to ease the silence.
‘You would if you had to eat in my canteen,’ said Janet. ‘Last week they ran out of custard powder. We had to have cornflour sauce with the jam roll. As for the chocolate shape …’
‘I love chocolate shape,’ offered Prue, solemnly. ‘Anything chocolate, for that matter.’
‘I’ve never made a chocolate shape. And now I can’t get chocolate,’ said Mrs Lawrence, to fill another silence. She glanced at Prue. ‘So I doubt I ever shall.’
‘And your mother, Janet, how’s she getting on?’ Mr Lawrence, struggling to do his bit, cast a glance at his son.
‘She’s doing fine, Mr Lawrence. A lot on her plate, what with the WVS and the knitting group she’s organized.’
‘You said, Joe, you’d bring down those piles of magazines from the attic for Janet’s mother.’ Mrs Lawrence looked sharply at her son.
‘I did,’ said Joe. ‘I’ll put them in the car for you.’
This was his first direct remark to his beloved fiancée, Prue noticed. Perhaps they made up in private for their public reserve.
‘Mother will be pleased. Thank you, Mrs Lawrence.’ Janet turned to Joe. ‘Will we have time for a stroll before I have to start back? Father said he’d rather I was home before dark.’
Joe looked at his watch. ‘Depends,’ he said, ‘on how quickly I can get through the milking.’
He didn’t look at the girls, but Mrs Lawrence’s eyes travelled from Stella, to Ag, to Prue.
‘I’ll do the milking!’ Prue turned to Joe. ‘You and Janet go for your walk.’
‘We’ll help,’ offered Ag quickly.
‘’Course we will,’ said Stella.
‘Well,’ said Joe. ‘If you insist.’
‘We do.’ Prue giggled.
‘That’s very, very kind,’ said Janet. ‘Joe and I are very, very grateful. We get so little time.’
Prue giggled again. ‘Shall I bring in the apple pie, Mrs Lawrence?’
This gave her the chance to rise slowly from her seat with a small flick of her skirt. Janet’s eyes, she was pleased to observe, were riveted by her narrow hips, small waist and the rise of bosom above the sweetheart neckline.
Praise for the pudding did little to brighten the dismal lunch. When it was finally over, Mr Lawrence was the first to get up, with the air of one about to make an announcement. He addressed the land girls.
‘Faith and I make it our business to be off duty till tea-time on Sundays,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s the only time we get for a rest.’
Stella, glancing at Mrs Lawrence, saw that her face had turned a thunderous colour.
Joe, also embarrassed, patted Janet on the shoulder. ‘Come along, then, Jan. Hope you’ve brought your boots.’
‘We’ll bring the cows in,’ said Stella, urging the other two to hurry.
‘Race you,’ called Prue, brushing past Janet and Joe.
Ag was the last to leave the room. As soon as she was out of the door she heard a wail from Mrs Lawrence.
‘John! How dare you!’
‘Sorry, love. Sorry. I wanted them out of the way, didn’t know how—’
Ag hurried after the others, wanting to hear no more.
Back in their breeches, the three girls strode down the lane towards Lower Pasture to fetch in the cows. Prue’s previous high spirits had subsided.
‘Lucky Janet,’ she said.
‘Oh, I don’t know. She doesn’t seem to be getting much response,’ said Stella.
Ag swung her stick through the long grass of the verge. She turned to Prue.
‘You were rotten,’ she said.
‘Rotten? Why rotten?’
‘All that flirting. Crucifying Janet.’
Prue laughed.
‘For Christ’s sake, if she can’t take another girl smiling at her man, she’ll be in for a bad time. Where I come from, all’s fair in love and – besides, Joe needs cheering up, any road. He’s made a sodding great mistake. He needs a bit of fun.’
‘Whatever he needs, it’s not your business,’ said Ag.
‘Lay off, posh face.’ Prue struck the grass with her own stick, harder than Ag.
‘Come off it, you two.’ Stella moved between them.
Prue ignored her, turned an angry face to Ag.
‘What you’re saying, Agapanthus, is you fancy Joe yourself.’
The absurd accusation, so insulting, whipped the colour from Ag’s face. Their eyes met in mutual hostility, but Ag kept her control.
‘I’m not saying that, no. You can have no idea how wrong you are.’
Prue thrashed once more, but less viciously, at the grass. The silence that followed was broken by the pooping of a small horn.
They turned to see the Austin Seven coming up behind them. Joe was driving. Janet, smiling, sat beside him. As they went by, everyone waved. With the passing of the car the tension eased.
‘He looks quite happy, actually,’ said Ag.
‘He likes cars, I dare say,’ said Prue. ‘New cars like that.’
‘Well, good luck to them.’ Stella’s thoughts were more concerned with Philip and herself. She had had no word from him.
Prue looked at Ag, suddenly contrite.
‘Sorry. Once I fancy a man, some devil gets into me.’
‘You take care,’ said Ag. ‘Think of Janet.’
‘I’m not one to upset apple carts, believe me.’ Prue ruffled her curls, smiling again.
At the gate to the field all three girls paused for a moment, arms resting on the top bar, eyes on the herd of impatient cows. Ag thought that with any luck she could return to Jude the Obscure in just over two hours: so far, there had been little chance to read. Stella began to compose her next letter to Philip. Prue sighed.
‘Wonder what they’re up to,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine Joe would get very far with that grey skirt, can you?’
Mr Lawrence made sure that he was downstairs before the girls came in from the cowsheds. There were disadvantages, having your house full of strangers. But on the whole, judging by this week, the advantages outweighed them. Faith had been right about the land girls: they were shaping up pretty well. Faith was right about most things.
He cut thick slices of her home-made bread, hungry. But calm. The nervous energy, the buzz of anxiety that had been hounding him since the girls’ arrival, had been dissipated by the hour of making love to his wife. As on all Sunday afternoons, he felt powerful. He alone was able to chase the rigidity from Faith’s bones, soothe the tension, make her smile. The fascination of this regular unwinding of his wife never wore off, and the tea that followed, prepared by him, was the occasion he most looked forward to in the week. Newly bound together in a way that never became stale or mundane, Sunday afternoons revived John Lawrence’s scattered energies, strengthened him for the days ahead.
Slowly, gravely, the farmer spread the bread with butter, put fruit cake on a plate, a spoon beside a jar of Faith’s gooseberry jam. He wished the present silence could go on for hours, the girls never return, the war be over. But in a few moments they would be back, hungry. Nice of them to have done the milking, give Joe an hour or so with Janet. The girls, the girls … that Stella girl. As John stirred the tea, he found himself facing the truth – something that usually, in his busy days, he had no time to afford himself. But here it was confronting him, in all its starkness: he no longer felt unnerved by Stella. The curious, unwanted sensations she had aroused in him so unexpectedly, almost as soon as he met her, had abated. Further probing of the devil that had taunted him – and here the flow of milk from jug to cup wavered – found the exact nature of those feelings put into words: old man’s lust. Disgusting, shaming, horrible. He was fifty-three, married a long time, never looked at anyone but Faith, had never had the opportunity to be tempted. Then an entrancing creature young enough to be his daughter arrives, and the unsettled feeling she causes him is like an illness he’s unable to shake off.
Until now. Now, normal again, he could trust himself. What he would do to prove this would be to test himself. The test would be a simple one – nothing dangerous. On Monday, he would switch the girls’ jobs around (good idea to make sure they could all do anything) and take Stella hedging with him. He’d enjoy teaching her the skill. At the end of the day he’d invite the others to help with a bonfire. By that means the ghost would be laid: he could never have cause for shame again.
Faith came in quietly, dark skin burnished in the deep afternoon light. She tied an apron over her Sunday skirt, stood straight and noble as she poured tea, the merest smile on her lips as she glanced at the thickness of butter on bread.
‘Rationing, remember.’
‘It’s our own.’
‘All the same.’ Mrs Lawrence sat. ‘I hid the last pot of damson jam. Do you want some before the girls come?’
Her small, innocent conspiracies were always a delight to her husband. He shook his head.
‘Not today. They’re good girls.’
‘Not at all bad.’
Mrs Lawrence blushed for the second time that afternoon. Her husband read her thoughts.
‘I’ve said I’m sorry. I’ll say it again.’
‘No need to go on.’
‘What we could do is walk up to The Bells for a drink and a sandwich. Ratty’ll be there.’
‘Escaping Edith.’ Faith laughed. ‘He’d be so surprised to see us it might unnerve him altogether. It’s been an alarming enough week for him anyway with the girls.’
‘We wouldn’t have to face them if we went to The Bells.’
‘I don’t mind facing them. Don’t suppose Joe’d be very happy alone with the three of them, Prudence fluttering her eyelashes. Besides, you’d miss a rice pudding. And it’s Postscript, remember. Can’t see you missing Mr Priestley. We’ll stay where we are.’
They heard the slam of a door, voices.
The girls burst in, socks and breeches muddy, bringing cold air with them. They had been for a long walk, got lost on the way back, had problems helping Prue over a stile. As they ate hungrily, laughing, easy, Mr Lawrence reckoned their minds had been far from Faith and himself, and felt relieved. This was the first meal, he observed, at which polite conversation had given way to real banter, merriment. Joe, who had slipped in just as the last of the bread and butter had been taken, seemed surprised by the laughter, the unusual liveliness. He sat by his mother, who cut him a vast slice of cake. He ignored Prue’s surreptitious looks. Maybe he genuinely was not aware of them, but they did not go unobserved by Mr Lawrence, who for once was pleased to see his son’s face as inscrutable as ever. He was a hard one to fathom, Joe. Always had been. Bit of fluff like Prudence would never get the measure of him, of that Mr Lawrence was sure. All the same, Janet’s flat grey skirt and flat grey voice came to mind, and he felt uncomfortable. It didn’t do to think too much about Janet. He slid his eyes to Stella: beautiful – despite mud on her cheeks, hair blown into tangles, total lack of make-up. She smiled at him, innocent. It did nothing to him. His resolve remained firm. Tomorrow he would teach her to lay a hedge.
That night, the girls joined the Lawrences by the wood fire in the sitting-room. Mrs Lawrence darned, Prudence repainted her nails, Ag half-concentrated on a crossword puzzle. Stella just sat, her mind on Philip. While they all listened to J. B. Priestley decrying the government’s policy against ordering potatoes to be sold for a penny a pound, Mr Lawrence gave Stella several glances, wondering at her preoccupation. Still he felt nothing but safety.
But at breakfast next morning the resolve wavered, then fled. The stirrings of disloyalty, an uncontrollable physical thing, assaulted him as he watched her sip her tea. He wondered at her distraction. She kept glancing at the window. When the postman arrived, she leapt up before Faith and took the bundle of letters from him through the window. Quickly she shuffled through them and snatched for one for herself. She slipped it into her back pocket with a look of such vivid joy Mr Lawrence knew he would have to change his plans. He could not hedge all day beside a girl in such rapture, and not be moved, tempted, agonized. She was all smiles again, now: pink cheeks, a portrait of high expectation. Happy the man who is loved by her, thought Mr Lawrence, and realized his wife’s eyes were heavy upon him.
‘I need someone to help with the last of the damsons,’ she said.
‘I’d be willing,’ volunteered Stella at once.
‘In that case, I’ll take Agatha hedging with me,’ said Mr Lawrence, ‘and as for you, young Prudence, you can have your way at last. When the sheds are sluiced down, there’s Upper Meadow to be ploughed. Joe’ll explain the Fordson to you – she’s a temperamental old thing, some days. He’ll take you up there. Then you’re on your own.’
‘Mr Lawrence! I’ll not let you down. You’ll not see a straighter furrow,’ Prue squealed. She put down her tea, flung excited arms round his neck. ‘Thank you, thank you!’
Mr Lawrence awkwardly disentangled himself from her embrace, to laughter from the others. Even Joe was smiling.
‘Calm down, child,’ he said, ‘and don’t be surprised if the novelty wears thin after a couple of hours in the metal seat.’
‘You wait,’ she said. ‘My dedication to the plough will surprise the lot of you. Down in half a tick, Joe. Just do my lipstick. Never know who you might meet in a furrow …’
Faith explained that, as the last of the damsons were to be made into chutney and jam, there was no need to take great care in the picking. Picking plums for sale, the day before, Stella had chosen only perfect fruit.
She carried a large basket and a stepladder to the orchard, and made for the last unpicked tree, its branches weighed down by a heavy crop.
It was a fine, warm morning. The freak frosts of last week had not returned: Mr Lawrence said it had been the finest summer for many years. Its warmth overflowed into autumn, tempered with an almost imperceptible breeze.
Stella made firm the stepladder and climbed up, buried to the waist in branches and leaves. She liked fruit picking, had enjoyed stripping several trees of apples and plums, though she was still not half as fast or skilled as Mrs Lawrence, who had worked beside her the first few days.
In her last letter to Philip, Stella had tried to describe how she enjoyed the privacy of leaves, their green flickering with sun and shadow all about her, the whispery silence snapped by the breaking of a twig or the rhythmic thud of the new fruit dropping into the basket. Even as she wrote such things, she had been aware of her mistake. In their short acquaintance, Philip had never shown much interest in nature: most probably all he wanted to hear were declarations of undying devotion. She had included those, of course, at the end, but had wanted to convey what it felt like, this strange land girl life – one moment so funny, milking the rubber cow, another so hidden, among the fruit. She had written him three letters. By now, although her impatience for a reply was almost unbearable, she decided to prolong the agony. The reading of the letter would be a reward for filling the basket.
Stella picked faster than ever before, with agitated fingers. Yellow freckles were beginning to splatter the leaves. Some of the fruit had burst upon the stem. From the gashes in the flesh, a kind of transparent gelatinous stuff had bubbled up and hardened, and sparkled fiercely as crystal. Stella threw these wounded fruit into the long grass under the tree. Sometimes she tried to polish a damson before eating it, but could not brush the blue haze from its skin. Damsons could not be made to shine like plums. Each fruit has its reasons, she supposed: fruits had as many different habits as roses. But she was too excited to dwell further on the nature of damsons, and as she was alone in the orchard she sang ‘The Rose of Tralee’ out loud in her clear voice. The letter burned in her pocket.
The basket was full. Stella wedged it between two branches. She could see no more damsons within reach. Her brown arms were warm, her job well done. She settled herself on the platform of the stepladder in an archway of branches, tore at the envelope of cheap paper that was standard issue for officers on HMS Apollo. There was a single sheet within. As Stella began reading, the leaf shadow jigged among the words, at first confusing.
My dear Stella,
Thanks very much for your letters. Glad to hear you are enjoying life as a land girl so far, and get on with the other two.
Here, it’s the usual routine. We’ve been escorting Channel convoys all week, not very interesting, no trouble. I shall be glad when we go up to Liverpool, not that there’s much change of scenery at sea.
Last night I gave Number One a game of draughts in the Wardroom. His bark is worse than his bite. He’s quite friendly, really.
You keep asking me about leave and when we can meet. I go for a gunnery course at Portsmouth in a couple of weeks and will probably get a night off after that. Perhaps I could make a detour on my way back to Plymouth, though with no car getting cross country would be difficult. We’ll probably have to wait for a boiler clean, when I’ll get five days. Then, if you could make it, we could manage something. Forgive short note, I’m due for the mid-watch. Somehow, I’ve managed never to be late so far. Miracle!
Careful of those cows. Will try to write again, soon.
Love, Philip.
Stella read the letter twice, incredulous. She crumpled up the horrible paper, then quickly straightened it out again, returned it to the envelope and put it back in her pocket.
There was nothing between those lines: nothing, nothing.
She lifted down the basket of damsons – oh, the stupid hope that had speeded her picking! – struggled back down the ladder, and set it on the ground. Then she sat in the grass beside it, leaned back against the trunk of the tree. She found tears of furious disappointment plundering her cheeks. She bit her knuckles to silence her sobs. How could he? How could a man who so recently had declared himself so passionately in love write such a hopeless, useless letter, giving her no indication of how life was at sea, how he felt, how he loved and missed her? Whereas she had done so much describing, so much declaring.
When the worst of her sobs were over, a new thought came. Perhaps it was merely that Philip didn’t like writing letters. There were, amazingly, such people. A dynamic communicator of the flesh, perhaps he suffered from gross disability when it came to expressing himself on paper. Perhaps he had no notion of the pleasure of winging thoughts to someone else, or indeed the pleasure such a letter would give. That must be it, surely. No man was perfect, and the man she loved had just one small imperfection: rotten at letters. There could be many worse faults: she must consider herself lucky. Besides, once the war was over, there would be no need to correspond. They would be married almost at once.
Consoled by such thoughts, although they scarcely added up to a satisfactory solution, Stella got up at last, lifted the heavy basket of damsons. She dried her tears with the coarse wool of her sleeve, and turned to make her way back to the farm. Joe was coming towards her, not ten yards away. There was no escaping him.
With just a yard between them, he stopped. ‘Anything wrong?’
Stella sniffed, managed a smile. ‘Not really, thanks. Just overcome by my first letter from Philip.’
‘Ah. He’s, what …?’
‘Sub-lieutenant. HMS Apollo. Escorting convoys across the Channel, that sort of thing. Nothing exciting. Hasn’t seen any fighting yet.’
‘Lucky.’
‘Anyway …’ Stella shrugged, prepared to move.
‘It must be worrying. I mean, all the time.’
Stella nodded. ‘The missing,’ she said. ‘The waiting for leave. The not knowing. Still, after the war we’ll get married straight away. At least, I suppose we will.’
‘Might not be too long a wait.’
‘Hope not. You must know what it’s like: you and Janet. Waiting.’
‘I was on my way to see how Prue was getting on,’ said Joe, as if he had not heard her. ‘If there’s a single wavy furrow, there’ll be trouble.’
Stella found herself laughing.
Leaning against the gate, Joe watched Prue for some time before she saw him. The tractor was at the far end of the field, its snorting reduced to a distant stutter. The tiny figure of its driver, very upright, was bobbing up and down on the seat, so light she was bounced by every jolt. There was a speck of colour just visible on her head – a scarlet bow. In the air just behind her, a flotilla of gulls dipped and soared, while on the ground the dark earth was dragged into a sluggish wave by the teeth of the ploughshare.
The tractor disappeared down a dip in the land, the noise of its engine now even fainter. A hundred yards to the hedge, Joe calculated, then it would have to turn. He waited to see it reappear over the slope.
But there was sudden, complete silence. After a few moments, Joe shifted his position. He made no move to enter the field. For some minutes, weight on the gate, he let his eyes follow a collection of clouds that chased, crashed, snapped off and went their newly ragged ways. At last a couple of snorts puckered the silence, then the rhythmic stutter began again, and the gulls reappeared.
Joe’s eyes never left the tractor as it chuntered towards him across the long field: he saw the precise moment Prue noticed him, clutched harder at the steering wheel, deciding not to wave. She had managed almost a quarter of the field – not fast, but reasonably straight. When Prue was almost at the gate she stopped the tractor, but did not turn off the engine.
‘How’m I doing?’ she shouted.
Joe touched his forelock with a seriousness to match hers.
‘Not bad. Not bad at all.’
‘I’ve had trouble stalling.’
‘Remembered to put in the paraffin?’
‘’Course.’
‘And the sewing-machine oil?’
‘What d’you take me for?’
‘How about the plugs?’
‘I checked them, idiot.’
‘I’ll look at her when you come in.’ He made to open the gate.
‘I’m not coming.’ Prue began to pull at the heavy steering wheel, a dimpling of sweat on her nose and scarlet cheeks. ‘So don’t bother.’
‘It’s lunch-time, near as dammit.’
‘I’m not eating a thing till I’ve finished this bloody field.’
Their eyes met.
‘Very well,’ shouted Joe. ‘I’ll tell Ma …’
The tractor was turning. She managed it with skill. For several moments longer, deep in thought, Joe watched the bobbing and leaping of her small bottom and the bow on her bouncing hair, then made his way to the barn.
‘Trouble with hedges is they don’t stand still,’ Mr Lawrence explained to Ag as they walked the lane carrying their hooks, bill-hooks and slashers. ‘They get in the hell of a mess if they’re not cared for, sprawling out into the fields either side, clogging the ditches. Some people think hedging’s a boring business, but I’m not one of them. In fact, there’s no job on the farm I like better. You’ve got something to show for your work very quickly, besides a pile of firewood. There’s a lot of satisfaction.’
Ag nodded in silence, wondering how skilled she would be at wielding the heavy tools.
They arrived at the destined thorn hedge, which divided a recently cut cornfield from a strip of mangolds. There were ditches, invisible under a mess of bramble and wayward shoots, both sides. Ag let her eyes trail the length of the hedge, which ended at the entrance to a small copse. She doubted her enthusiasm for trimming it into shape would match that of her employer, but gave a gallant smile.
‘Don’t despair,’ said Mr Lawrence. ‘You’ll soon get the hang of it.’
He started to hack dead wood from the bottom, singling out new young shoots to judge their worthiness of being left to flower. The hedge, he explained, was a windbreak, so it should be left at a good height.
‘I’ve been neglecting it, though, what with all the extra work,’ he said. ‘It takes time and a certain skill, that I will say, to lay a hedge decently, but it’s a pleasing sort of task, to my mind. What you want to do is get a flexible stem, like this, weave it through other wood across a hole – something like darning – and make sure it’s secure, won’t pull out in a wind. Next spring, shoots will start to appear from every joint.’ He turned to Ag for a moment, judged from her expression she understood. ‘Best thing to do is you watch a while, then get into the ditch behind me and gather any stuff I throw down for a bonfire. When you’re not dealing with my stuff you can start hacking away at the sides of the ditch: neaten it all up.’
Once Mr Lawrence had given his instructions he no longer seemed aware of Ag’s presence, concentrating fully on the complicated geography of the thorn hedge. For a long time, Ag watched his deft gloved hands foraging in the leaves, weaving shoots, snapping off dead wood, hacking at stubborn joints with his slasher. She was glad he had not asked her to begin in front of him, and after a while began her own task of clearing the ditch. She stood on its muddy floor, a stream of brown water lying slackly around her boots. Slashing at the long grass and brambles was not hard and when, after twenty minutes, she paused to look back on the neat bank of her own making, she began to understand her employer’s pleasure in the job.
After an hour, they paused for a few minutes’ rest. The sun was high by now and they were hot. Mr Lawrence rolled up his sleeves. Ag, with aching back, sat a few feet from him on the ground. Mr Lawrence took a packet of Craven A from his pocket, offered her one, which she refused, and lit his own. They sat in easy silence, their eyes following the smoke.
‘Finding it hard, this land girl business?’ Mr Lawrence asked eventually.
‘I ache a bit. We all do. But we’re enjoying it.’
‘Good, good. It’s healthy work, anyway. As for the war … Terrible in London last night, they said on the radio this morning. Poor devils.’
‘We’re lucky here. Hardly aware of it.’
‘Only danger is those German buggers dropping off their bombs on the way home. That happened not twenty miles from here just before you came. Flattened half a village, killed two.’
Ag’s burning face was beginning to cool. The sweat on her back was drying. Mr Lawrence drew deeply on his cigarette. The smoke smelt pungent, good. A churring and a flapping of wings behind them broke the silence. A speckled bird flew into the sky, swerving towards the copse.
‘Bugger me if it’s not a mistlethrush, a storm cock. Haven’t seen one for a week or so,’ said Mr Lawrence. He gave a small smile. ‘I used to know the Latin name.’
Ag paused. Then she said: ‘Turdus viscivorus, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. That’s it! Stone the crows – are you a scholar?’
Ag laughed. ‘Far from it. But my father used to teach me about birds.’
‘Know some of its other names?’
‘I know shrite, and skite.’
‘How about gawthrush?’
‘Gawthrush, yes. And garthrush?’
‘Then there’s the more common jercock: Ratty talks of jercocks.’
‘How about syecock?’
‘I’d forgotten syecock.’ Mr Lawrence stubbed out his cigarette. ‘So you know your birds,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s good. That’s quite unusual, these days.’ He smiled. ‘Here’s a bit of rum information for you: did you know there’s a saying that a mistletoe berry won’t germinate till it’s passed through the body of a mistlethrush?’
‘I’ve heard of that, yes. I think the idea came from the Roman writer Pliny.’
The expression on Mr Lawrence’s face made Ag bite her lip.
‘Did it, now? There’s university education for you.’ He stood up brusquely, took up his bill-hook. Ag feared she had offended him in some way. Perhaps the airing of such arcane knowledge sounded boastful. ‘Joe got into Cambridge, you know,’ Mr Lawrence said, back to her, surveying the hedge again. ‘Rotten luck he wasn’t able to go.’
Two hours later Ag had cleared several yards of ditch, and had made a large pile of undergrowth for burning. Her back ached horribly. Despite thick socks, her feet were cold in her Wellingtons from standing in the stream, and a blister seared her heel. Reluctant to say she had had enough for one morning, she remembered a promise to Mrs Lawrence.
‘I said I’d bring in the eggs before lunch. Would it be all right—?’
‘Off you go,’ shouted Mr Lawrence, no pause in his slashing at a root. ‘Thanks for the help. You’ve done pretty well.’
Ag hobbled back down the lane, coarse wool chafing her blister. She was hot, sweating, tired, hungry. The thought of a whole afternoon’s hedging was daunting, though perhaps lunch would recharge her. Hedging and ditching were hard work, she thought, but she had enjoyed it. She had enjoyed her bird conversation with Mr Lawrence: funny man – sudden spurts of talk, then back to long, concentrated silences.
As soon as Ag reached the barn she sat on a pile of straw and began to pull at her boot. As she struggled, she wondered if there was any valid excuse for sending a postcard to Desmond. She knew instinctively, from the few brief conversations they had had, he would enjoy hearing about her life as a land girl. But what excuse would she have to write to him in the first place? He might not even remember her – despite her explanation about her odd name. He might have no recollection of their occasional meetings, which he believed were by chance. To write would perhaps embarrass, confuse, or, worse, warn him off an unwanted affection on Ag’s part. So the answer to the question she asked herself was no: she should not write to him. Wait till it was time for a Christmas card.
Depressed by the solution she had known for days she would come to, Ag looked up to see Joe watching her.
‘Can I help?’ he asked. ‘Looks as if you’re having a bit of trouble.’
‘Thanks.’
Ag lifted her leg. Joe pulled at the boot with both hands. It came off easily.
‘You should put fresh chalk inside,’ he said. ‘We’ve got some in the house. Makes them much easier to get off and on.
‘Right. I will.’
‘How did the hedging go?’
‘I enjoyed it. I liked watching your father. His skill and speed are amazing. And I liked looking back to see the job I’d done on the few yards of ditch. Certain feeling of job satisfaction. I can agree with him there.’
‘Looks as though Prue’s experiencing some of that, too. She’s managed a third of the field but refuses to stop till she’s finished the lot. As a matter of fact, she’s done rather well.’
They both smiled. Joe sat down opposite Ag. He watched her as she rolled off her thick wool sock, and the thin one beneath it. He watched her bending the leg so that she could look closely at the blister on her heel.
‘It must be a funny contrast, this life, with Cambridge,’ he said eventually.
Ag shrugged. She touched the soft swelling with a gentle finger.
‘Well, that had come to an end anyway. I only half wanted to do a graduate course. I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to do, in fact. Farm work gives me plenty of time to think.’
‘I was due to go to Trinity,’ said Joe.
‘You still could, couldn’t you? When all this is over.’
‘Suppose I still could. Though I don’t much fancy being a mature undergraduate.’
‘Lots of others will be in the same position.’
‘True. Meantime, the brain’s rotting.’
‘No!’ Ag smiled.
‘It is. When do I have time to read? It’s a sixteen-hour day here. I listen to music on my gramophone when I’m in bed – five minutes later I’m asleep, book in hand.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘So I might have to ask your help for some mental limbering up.’
‘Fine! Sunday afternoons I could tutor you in the Iliad.’ They both laughed. ‘That is, if Janet wouldn’t mind.’
‘Janet’s not here many Sundays.’
Joe got up and moved closer to Ag. He bent down, took her heel from her hand, gazed at the blister intently as a doctor preparing his opinion.
‘Nasty. Ask Ma for something. Best cover it up.’ He handed back her foot. ‘You must have the smallest ankles in the world,’ he said.
Ag laughed again, and put the socks back on.
‘Sticks, my legs,’ she said. ‘I was dreadfully teased at school.’ She made to get up. Joe put a hand under her elbow to help. ‘Thanks. I promised your mother I’d collect the eggs from the barn …’
‘I’ll do that. You go on in, see to the blister.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’ Joe moved away. ‘I’ll be quicker than you. I know all their favourite places.’
‘Thanks very much.’
‘It’ll cost you something.’
‘My reflections on the Iliad? Really? Any time you like.’
Joe nodded. He cradled two brown eggs in his hand, that he had plucked from a hiding place. ‘To begin with,’ he said.
For the space of her hobbled journey back across the farmyard, Ag thought about Joe. Was it disappointment about Cambridge that made him so gruff? Was it the punishment of asthma upon his youth and regret at his inability to join the war? Or was he by nature an unforthcoming and gloomy figure? And why – perhaps an unnecessary question – did Janet’s presence on Sunday do nothing to cheer his spirits? For her own part, Ag would be delighted to find a kindred spirit with whom she could share ideas. She rather fancied herself bringing succour to the starved soul of Joe Lawrence. It was the sort of thing that would appeal to Desmond’s humour. In fact, Desmond would hardly fail to be interested in the whole curious Lawrence family of Hallows Farm … If he responded to her Christmas card, she would write to him in the New Year. It would be an excitement she instantly imagined herself looking forward to.
Ag began to compose a description of the very gradual unbending of father and son, and of the strong and dignified figure of the woman who gently tended her blister, for whom, already, Ag felt considerable affection.
That afternoon, after milking with Stella, Joe walked down to the field where his father and Ag were still working on the hedge. He helped Ag drag the heavier stuff to the large pile of wood and bramble that would be burned before nightfall. None of them spoke. The quietness of the autumn afternoon was broken by the soft-edged sound of Mr Lawrence’s slasher among thorn leaves: the snapping of small twigs, the drag of leafy branches over hard ground. Ag, proud of the length of her cleared ditch, could smell the pungency of her own sweat. She found herself working harder and faster than she had in the morning. Her blister no longer stung, her back no longer ached. The nearness of the earth affected her, as it did at home: the cloud of distant war was dissipated in the low light of the late sun, the long shadows thrown by the hedge, field, copse and men. Oh, Desmond, she thought.
At five, Mr Lawrence laid down his tools. ‘Time for burning,’ he said.
Joe took a box of matches from his pocket, bent down to light the base of the bonfire. In seconds it had caught, flames leaping high among the dry crackling stuff, their yellow matching a few high clouds in the sky.
They stood watching, Joe close to Ag, soon feeling the warmth. Ag had no idea how long the three of them remained there, unmoving: but suddenly she was aware of Mrs Lawrence and Stella at the gate. They carried a basket full of tin mugs, and a large thermos.
‘Tea,’ called Mrs Lawrence. ‘We thought it might be welcome.’
Indeed, by now a thin sharp prickle of chill, intimation of a cold autumn ahead, had crept round Ag’s body like a frame, while the centre of her being was still warm and sweating from her labours. She was glad of the hot, sweet tea, and of the flames on her face.
By the time Prue arrived the sun was low. Violet clouds were adrift among the yellow – gathering, consolidating, putting up an impenetrable defence against the last of the light.
Prue’s entrance on the scene, catching the last webs of light, was impeccably timed. She prettily climbed the gate, scarlet bow bobbing on curls whose blonde rallied with a last shimmer.
‘Field’s finished, all! How about that?’ She did not try to conceal her pride.
Mrs Lawrence handed her a mug of tea. ‘Well done,’ she said.
But Prue was looking for other praise. She cocked her head at Joe.
‘You didn’t think I could do it, did you?’
‘I didn’t have any opinion, as far as I remember.’
‘Like to come and see my furrows? Straight as a die.’
‘I will later.’
‘It’ll be dark in a minute. If you don’t come now, it’ll be too late.’
Joe slashed the fire. The confetti of ash made by his stick briefly arched before falling to the ground. The tiny red eyes went out as they touched the earth.
‘Then I’ll come in the morning,’ he said.
‘You mean beast, Joe Lawrence.’ Prue stamped her foot. Ag saw she was near to tears.
‘Will my opinion do, child?’ Mr Lawrence asked with a smile.
‘Suppose so. God, I’m hungry as a dog, aching all over, juddering from that bloody seat. My whole body’s juddering still – do you realize?’ Prue’s petulance made everyone uneasy.
Again she looked at Joe. He concentrated on more bashing of the flames.
‘Calm down,’ said Mr Lawrence. ‘We’ll all come and see your handiwork. Joe can take back the tools.’
As Joe went to pick them up, Ag turned to tell him she had left hers some way along the ditch. As she did so, she saw Ratty leaning over the gate, his face flame-pale under a dark hat. She felt a moment’s fear: the unexpected sight of him, the anguish in his face.
‘Ratty!’ she called. ‘Come and have some tea.’
Mrs Lawrence, too, turned to the gate. But Ratty had already gone.
‘He can smell a bonfire five miles off,’ Mrs Lawrence said. ‘He never misses one.’
‘Come on, you lot. Please. My ploughing—’
Prue impatiently opened the gate. Mrs Lawrence gathered empty mugs into her basket. All but Joe followed Prue into the lane. He remained behind to quell the fire, knock out the last remaining flames, and to spread the embers to die in the cool of the evening that was now falling fast.