She had enjoyed the Friday-night dance more than she should have, Kath admitted reluctantly, thinking of Skip with whom she’d danced almost every dance.
‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself, Mrs Allen,’ Roz teased, rolling a milk churn to be filled.
‘I was thinking about last night …’
‘I said you’d enjoy it, didn’t I? Thought you’d get on with Skip. He’s nice. I’m glad he’s Paul’s pilot. They don’t come any safer.’
Safe. That was exactly how she had felt, Kath thought, but in a different way. Two marrieds together, and Skip talking about his wife back home and the baby they expected in June. Easy together, they had been.
‘I’m glad I met him – and Paul, too.’ She knew now why Roz was so deeply in love. Paul Rennie was head-turning handsome, no two ways about it, and equally besotted. They had danced in a world of their own, the two of them; so right together, so young, so very beautiful. The kind of beauty, Kath thought sadly, that made the gods jealous.
‘Had you ever thought, Roz, how much time it would save,’ she murmured, directing her attention to the task in hand, ‘if we used waxed cartons for the milk – it would cut out hours of bottle washing.’ She frowned, arranging milk bottles in the sterilizer.
‘I know. Mat did think about it though I imagine he’s glad now that he didn’t get rid of the bottles. Think how difficult it is to get paper; cartons will be hard to come by. They say the paper situation is really serious, and getting worse.’
Paper was certainly in very short supply. Thin, four-page newspapers; little if any wrapping paper in shops – even food shops. It had become common practice to take along your own dish when buying fish and chips and newspaper to carry it home in.
‘Roz – I’ve just thought! It’s ages since I had any fish and chips.’
Fried fish and chips had never been placed on official ration – people said that no government could ever be that stupid, not even the one we were stuck with for the duration that didn’t seem able to win one battle or give out one piece of news worth listening to. Even they weren’t so stupid as to ration fish and chips. It was to the chip shop that a housewife turned when her meat ration was used up and she hadn’t been lucky in the sausage queue nor the offal queue, hadn’t been able to get even the smallest piece of off-the-ration suet to make into a pastry top for a vegetable pie. Queues at chip shops were half-an-hour long and worth every minute of the wait.
There’s a chip shop in Helpsley; we’ll bike over there when the nights get lighter, if you’d like.’
Kath would like, she said. And wouldn’t it be bliss to eat them with her fingers, the only way to eat fish and chips; well-salted, with vinegar oozing through the newspaper wrapping.
‘It’s a date, then. But how on earth did we get on to the subject of fish and chips? I was talking about the dance, and how well you and Skip got on together.’
And I, Roz, was talking about milk in cartons.’
‘Okay. Point taken. But you’ll come again next week, won’t you – if they’re not flying, that is.’
‘I might.’ Might? She’d be there all right and in a pretty dress, too, if Aunt Min didn’t turn funny. ‘It’s a long time since I had so much fun – oh, Roz, look.’
They ran to the door, surprised by the suddenness of the snow. It fell in shilling-sized flakes and was so fast-falling they could hardly see across the yard to the kitchen door.
‘Might have known it – Polly said the weather was too good to last.’
‘More winter to come, you mean?’
‘Right. There’s always a grain of truth in Polly’s prophecies. Sometimes she frightens me.’
‘For goodness’ sake, it’s only a spot of snow.’
It was not a spot of snow. Indeed, it looked like being the heaviest fall of winter, with everything covered white, even as they watched.
‘It’ll put paid to the ploughing if it carries on like this,’ Roz said gloomily. ‘My, but it’s coming down thick …’
Polly Appleby saw the first of the snowflakes and ran to the washing line to gather in the shirts.
Drat the snow. Just when she was beginning to think the bite had gone out of winter, with snowdrops flowering and the buds on the wild daffodils beginning to swell. Now she would have to dry the shirts indoors which was never as satisfactory.
Shirt washing was another of Polly’s sidelines and it was her habit, each and every Saturday, to collect six white shirts from the bay-windowed house standing back from Alderby Green. They were boiled, starched and ironed and delivered, carefully folded, at about three in the afternoon each Wednesday following.
The shirts, a clean one for each day of the working week, were worn by Mr Murgatroyd, a solicitor’s clerk who travelled by train to his work in York. Each and every Wednesday afternoon his wife would nod her thanks and hand Polly the two half-crowns placed in readiness on the window sill and murmur that she would see her again on Saturday, all being well.
She was particular about her husband’s shirts. At less than a shilling a garment she considered she was getting the best of the bargain and to show her appreciation it was her custom to allow Polly first pick of the jumble-sale pile each spring and autumn.
They were good quality shirts, Polly considered, arranging them on the clothes horse to finish drying. It was a fortunate man, she grudgingly acknowledged, whose wife had had the foresight to buy a dozen white shirts one week before the announcement of clothes rationing. It made a body wonder if solicitors’ clerks knew things that lesser folk did not, though good luck to them, if they did. Polly believed in live and let live. Five shillings a week and a good sort through Mrs M’s jumble suited her nicely, and when drying outdoors was possible again six shirts would be little trouble. And happen the dratted snow would be gone by morning.
The snow was not gone by morning. It had continued to fall throughout most of the night and high as the hedgetops it had drifted, with Kath and twenty more landgirls cut off at Peacock Hey, waiting for the snow-plough to reach them.
Jonty had done the milk-round by tractor that morning, for the depth of it had proved too much for Daisy. The snow had frozen into nasty ruts, making farm work ten times more difficult, with the milk cows slithering and sliding in the icy foldyard and beef cattle huddled in the shelter of the hedge, waiting for hay that would be a long time coming.
‘What price working on a farm, now.’ Roz grinned, for frozen snow meant frozen runways and she was not complaining.
‘I suppose Paul couldn’t get out, last night?’ Kath asked. ‘The weather, I mean. We were ages this morning, waiting till the snow-plough got through to us.’
‘He didn’t. It was bad at Peddlesbury, too. He managed to phone me, though. I was lucky – Gran was upstairs when he rang. It’s all wrong, you know, this grabbing at phones and looking over my shoulder. And it’s just as bad for Paul, having to keep it from his parents. I sometimes wonder what would happen if I got pregnant and we had to get married.’
‘Don’t, Roz! What ever you do, don’t get pregnant. You said you’d talk to Paul about it; you promised you would.’
‘And I did, and it’s all right. But supposing something did happen? They’d die of shock. It’s crazy. I’m old enough to get called up and Paul’s old enough to fight, yet still we’ve got to act like it’s wrong for us to be in love.’
‘I know. It isn’t a lot of fun being young these days. But be careful, Roz. You said the Alderby folk could be funny – think of the gossip and what it would do to your gran.’
‘I will, I do, so stop your worrying. We’re not entirely stupid. We both know the way it is for us, that my getting pregnant isn’t on. I want Paul’s babies but not yet; not in this mad world. I wouldn’t be Skip’s wife for anything – wondering when she’ll see him again, if she’ll see him again; wondering if she’ll have to face life without him. Don’t worry, Kath. And for goodness’ sake let’s talk about something else – and not the weather, either. There’s been enough weather-talk since this snow came to last us for the duration. And don’t ask about York, because the more I think about it the more I think we’ll never be able to make it, not even for a night.’
‘Then let’s talk about tinned peaches, all thick with syrup and smothered in cream, and chocolate biscuits and big, thick steaks with onions fried in butter and boxes and boxes of chocolates. Let’s remember when we could buy silk stockings and all the clothes we wanted without coupons, and lipsticks and scent? Where did all the lovely scent go?’
‘Yes, and what about ice-cream? Think about strawberry ice-cream, Kath. Remember when the man came round, ringing his bell, and big cornets for a penny?’
Remember-when was a game, a nostalgic wallowing, a calling back of things almost forgotten.
‘And banana sandwiches, all crunchy with sugar and bread thick with butter – white bread …’
‘Oh, Kath, how long is this war going to last? How long, will you tell me?’
The snow that lay grey and frozen for almost a week gave way to a warm wind that thawed it overnight. Almost at once Peddlesbury’s bombers were airborne again and the ploughing of Ridings’ acres was resumed.
They cut the last furrow on the fourth day of March, three days late yet still a jump ahead of the man from the War Ag. who had not yet come to inspect it.
Mat Ramsden was pleased and relieved. Between them the young men had ploughed close on six acres a day and for more than eight weeks, too. They’d done a grand job. He said as much to Hester Fairchild and she had acknowledged the fact and said she was grateful.
‘So what now, Mat?’
‘So now we get the harrow over it to break up the clods, aye, and some good manure on it, too. Still plenty to be done yet,’ he’d stressed.
‘So you intend keeping the prisoner? There’s no chance of finding a local man – well, they’re so lazy, the Italians …’
‘Not this one, ma’am. He’s worked like a good ’un. Wouldn’t find better, nor cheaper,’ he added in final mitigation.
‘Potatoes, you said, and sugarbeet?’ She knew when enough was enough; she could wait. ‘The War Ag. pay a subsidy on potatoes, didn’t you say?’
‘They do. It’ll nicely cover the cost of the seed. Those old acres of yours’ll be paying you back, come Michaelmas.’ Mat smiled as he took his leave. ‘It’ll be right grand to see things growing again at Ridings.’
‘I hope you won’t make it difficult for the prisoner, Gran, now that the ploughing’s finished,’ Roz said later, careful not to use his name.
‘Difficult? Has anything been said then, at Home Farm?’
‘Not that I’ve heard, but I do know Mat wants to keep him.’
‘I still say they’re lazy,’ Hester sniffed. ‘Used to siestas, no doubt.’
‘This one isn’t – lazy, I mean.’
‘I shall not speak to him,’ Hester said with finality. ‘I think, now that we’ll be getting some money from the War Ag. for the ploughing, we ought to be paying you some wages, Roz. I understand that Kathleen gets about two pounds a week?’
‘Can we afford it? Mat’s got to be paid, remember, and I’ve got the rents; I can manage. Anyway, what is there to buy? No make-up, no clothes – well, only twenty coupons’ worth. I’ll be fine, Gran, till we’ve got crops to sell. I wouldn’t mind a couple of pigs, though.’ She smiled. ‘I’d far rather we invested in some livestock of our own. The rents are all I need at the moment.’
The rents. They came from the three cottages given to Janet, her mother, as a wedding gift, and the seventeen shillings they yielded each week had once seemed like a fortune to Roz, though now she was more inclined to wonder where the money would come from should any one of them be in need of urgent repair.
‘We’ll see what can be done,’ Hester said comfortably. ‘Mat says I should keep proper accounts – I think Potter might help, don’t you?’ Mr Potter at the bank usually did. He saw to most things, moneywise, for the mistress of Ridings. He’d be extremely relieved to see a little more money on the credit side, now. ‘Mat feels it might be a good thing to have a separate farm account, and he’s right, of course.’
A farm account. That would really make them farmers. It sounded good to Roz. Far better than landowner which her grandfather had been.
‘We really should get a couple of pigs, Gran, and a few hens. They’d be no trouble.’
‘But where on earth would we keep pigs?’
‘Why not in one of the doghouses? They’d do nicely in there.’
‘So near to the house, dear?’
‘They’ll be all right. Pigs don’t like being dirty, you know. They only smell if you let them,’ Roz defended, determined to have her way. ‘We could keep one and sell one. A pig of our own would mean bacon and ham and lard – manure, too.’
‘I’ll see. Perhaps I’ll have a word with Mat about it first.’
‘I’ve already spoken to Jonty. He says we can have a couple from their last litter if I want, and I do want, Gran.’
‘I’ll see, I said.’
‘Fine,’ Roz smiled. When Gran said no it meant just that. When she said ‘I’ll see’, it was almost a yes. ‘I can get a form for pigmeal. Forms, forms, forms. Mat says it’s forms for everything these days. Farmers are turning into clerks.’
‘You’ll be going to the dance on Friday?’ Adroitly Hester sidestepped the pigs in the doghouse question.
‘Yes. And Kath’s coming, too. I said she could borrow one of my frocks; better than wearing breeches. And some shoes, too. Lucky we take the same size. It gets hot in the dance with the windows closed and the blackouts drawn. Gets a bit uncomfortable for the girls in uniform – collars and ties, you know,’ Roz prattled. Ships and shoes and sealing-wax; talk about anything but Peddlesbury. ‘Must fly, Gran. They’re burning the rubbish from the game-cover this afternoon and it’s all hands to the pumps.’ She placed a kiss on her grandmother’s cheek. ‘Bye, darling. See you.’
‘Yes, dear.’ Another opportunity missed, and she so desperately wanted to know about the airman; hear it from Roz, that was. But Roz had the ability to block a question before it had even been asked which perhaps was as well. Unanswered questions were less hurtful than lies, and maybe some questions were best left unasked.
Letters for the gate lodges and farms around Alderby St Mary were not delivered by the post-lady but by the man who delivered parcels in the red Post Office van, and war or no war he prided himself on his timekeeping. So when Polly heard the crack of the letterbox flap she knew it was half past nine, give or take a minute, and time to be leaving for Ridings.
The envelope lay on the mat at the front door. It was slim and pink and when she picked it up it gave off a whiff of cheap scent. Reluctantly she turned it over. It bore all the signs of trouble, for not only did it carry a Hull postmark, but it was addressed to herself and not to Arnie as pink envelopes had hitherto been.
Her mouth formed a button of disapproval. She could smell trouble a mile off and the more so when it came in pale pink envelopes. She slit it open; frowning, she read its contents.
‘So that’s your game, my lady,’ she whispered, folding the sheet carefully, slipping it back. ‘Well, we’ll have to see about that.’ Oh, my word yes. And thank the good Lord that today was Wednesday, for something had to be done about Arnie’s mother, and done before very much longer. Nowt but trouble, that one.
Dungarees tucked into her boots, hair tied in a turban, Kath walked with Jonty and Marco to the game-cover – or what, until two months ago, had been the game-cover. And they would always know that particular corner of Ridings parkland by that name; long after the war was over and she had gone back to Birmingham it would still be the old game-cover to the people she had left behind her. Now, that corner looked just like the rest of the ploughing save for the pile of uprooted hedges and brambles and tree-toppings that stood thick and high, ready to be set alight.
They would enjoy this afternoon. The burning of all that remained of the spinney would make a pleasant diversion; a celebration, almost, of the finishing of the ploughing.
‘Roz said she’d meet us there after dinner,’ Kath said. ‘Asked me to take along a pitchfork for her. I think she’s quite looking forward to this afternoon.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ Jonty grinned. ‘My backside’s still numb from that tractor seat. By the way – about Roz’s birthday. I don’t suppose you’ve heard her mention anything she wants?’
‘Like a dozen pairs of silk stockings or a box of chocolates; a bottle of Chanel, maybe?’
‘Like something I can give her – but what?’
‘Well, flowers are about the only thing that aren’t rationed, but they’ll have heaps of flowers by then at Ridings. Apart from that, most things a girl would like are under the counter or unavailable for the duration. There’s the black market, of course. Know any spivs, Jonty?’
‘No, so we’re back to square one.’
‘Afraid so. Mind, there’s something I’ve heard her mention. Only yesterday, in fact, she said she’d like a couple of young pigs.’
‘But of course! She said something about it the other day.’
‘Pigs!’ Marco gasped. ‘You give a lady pigs for her birthday?’
‘Talk of angels,’ Kath warned, nodding in the direction from which Roz ran, calling to them to wait for her.
‘Good. You remembered my fork, Kath. Be like the old days, won’t it? Haven’t been to a decent bonfire since Guy Fawkes night was banned.’ Roz beamed.
‘Who is this Guy Fawkes?’ Marco frowned. ‘Why is he banned?’
‘I suppose you could say he’s the patron saint of bonfires, sort of,’ Roz teased. ‘And bonfires aren’t allowed now – not after blackout time, that is.’
‘Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the king and parliament, a long time ago. Until the war came,’ Kath explained gently, ‘we lit bonfires every fifth of November.’
‘To remember him by?’
‘Not exactly. More because we like bonfires, I think.’
‘He was one of us,’ Roz offered. ‘The only Yorkshireman with any sense, some say.’
‘So the English were proud of him, Kat?’
‘No. They hanged him.’
‘Ah, si.’ Marco nodded, mystified.
‘We’ll have to make sure it’s properly put out,’ Jonty warned, ‘or there’ll be every air-raid warden from here to York yelling blue murder. Fires can easily start burning again; only needs a wind to get up and we could be in trouble.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on it. We can see it from the house.’ It had seemed strange, at first, looking out of her bedroom window and seeing sky where trees had been. Roz had missed them, just a little, even though they’d mostly been self-seeded, spindly things and choked by undergrowth left to run wild. But by the autumn, they’d be lifting potatoes from the game-cover, and beet for sugar. It would take a bit of getting used to, but if it helped to shorten the war, even by only a day, then all the upheaval would be worth it. ‘Don’t worry, Jonty,’ she smiled, shouldering her pitchfork, matching her step to his, ‘I’ll take a look at it.’
‘Jonty and Roz – they are lovers?’ Marco whispered.
‘No, more’s the pity,’ Kath shrugged.
‘No?’
‘No,’ Kath said, flatly and finally. ‘Roz is in love with someone else, but don’t say anything?’
‘Okay,’ he shrugged. ‘So would I be if I were a girl and a man gave me pigs for my birthday.’
‘Oh, Marco,’ Kath laughed. ‘You say such funny things.’
‘Funny? What is funny?’
‘I’ll tell you – one day. Now hurry up, will you? Hey, you two!’ she called. ‘Wait for us!’
Polly buttoned her best maroon coat and pulled on her maroon hat. She always wore her Sunday coat when calling at the house with the bay windows, a dignified arrangement which not even the rationing of soap the previous month had been allowed to upset.
‘Take it or leave it, Arnie. It’s a choice of soap or soap powder, for there’ll only be eight ounces a week between the two of us, now,’ she had mourned. ‘I never thought I’d see the day when they rationed cleanliness. Don’t you dare go leaving the soap in the water, now.’
And Arnie had promised he would not; he even considered giving up his soap ration for the duration if it would help the war effort, though he’d had the good sense not to say so.
On this particular Wednesday afternoon, however, dignity was the last thing on Polly’s mind. If anyone could help her, Mrs Murgatroyd could, and Mrs Murgatroyd, because of the delicacy of her husband’s position, was known never to gossip. To listen, maybe, but never to pass it on. And Polly hoped, lifting her eyes heavenwards, that Mrs Murgatroyd would be in a listening mood.
‘Ah, thank you, Miss Appleby,’ the lady nodded, handing over two half-crowns. ‘I’m most obliged. See you on Saturday, all being well?’ To which Polly should have nodded and murmured that all being well she would, and taken her leave. But this afternoon she stood her ground. Clearing her throat, she murmured, ‘I wonder if I could have a word?’ She glanced to her left and her right. ‘Private and confidential.’
‘Indeed?’ Mrs Murgatroyd had heard nothing lately, of a private and confidential nature. Her husband never spoke about his work, and a little private confidentiality would go down very nicely since she had nothing better to do with the remainder of the afternoon. ‘Come in, do, Miss Appleby. I was about to make a small pot of tea. Perhaps you would join me?’
Gravely, Polly nodded her thanks. She had seen the kitchen from the doorway, of course – a cosy room with upholstered chairs on either side of the cooking range, plants in pots on the dresser and the window sill – but she had never taken tea there.
The kettle was already on the hob; the tea was quickly made and set aside to infuse, to mash, as they said in Alderby.
Mrs Murgatroyd drew out a chair. ‘Sit down, do. I hope nothing is troubling you, my dear?’ Nothing too trivial, that was. ‘I do hope,’ she added, suddenly alarmed, ‘that the shirts aren’t proving too much for you?’
‘Nay.’ Polly removed her gloves and set them, with her handbag, at her feet. ‘Shirts is no bother at all.’
‘Then you may speak freely in this kitchen, Miss Appleby.’ She lifted the teapot. ‘Milk in first?’
‘As it comes, thanks.’ Polly took the pale pink envelope from her handbag. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d read this. It’s got me fair worried, and I’d be grateful for your advice.’
‘Ah.’ She took the envelope delicately. Mrs Murgatroyd did not care for pink envelopes that smelled of scent. A gentle blue-grey, maybe, but white for good taste; always white. Carefully she read the page of back-sloping, irregular writing, then read it again. ‘From Arnold’s mother, I take it?’
‘From her.’
‘I see. You know, I’m at a loss,’ she frowned, removing her reading glasses, ‘to find much fault with it – the contents, that is. She asks about her son, encloses a postal order for five shillings and expresses a wish to visit him. Perfectly normal, I would say, for a caring mother.’
‘Aye, and there I won’t disagree. But that woman isn’t normal and she isn’t a caring mother. Since I took Arnie in she’s been twice to see him, and that in the first six months I had him. For close on two years we’ve heard neither sight nor sound from her – till last Christmas, that was.’
‘And?’
‘And last Christmas there was a card for Arnie. Out of the blue it came, and a ten-shilling note inside it. Now why, will you tell me, should she take a sudden interest?’
‘Conscience, perhaps?’
‘Oh, no.’ Mrs Murgatroyd did not offer sugar so Polly stirred her cup then took a sip. ‘That one wants my lad back.’
‘Her boy, Miss Appleby. Her son, remember. And in law she has a mother’s rights. Mind, Hull is still getting air-raids which doesn’t make it the safest place for a young boy to be, and I’ll allow he’s done well with you; vastly different from the scrawny little beggar they brought to your door. But for all that, I can’t see one reason why she can’t ask for him back. I’m sorry …’
‘I can,’ Polly frowned. ‘Think of a reason, I mean. I don’t think she’s a right and proper person to have the rearing of a young lad.’
‘Oh?’ Mrs Murgatroyd leaned closer, eyebrows raised expectantly.
‘Yes, indeed.’ Polly looked left and right again. ‘It’s all a question of morals, see.’
‘Morals? Oh, my word.’ Mrs Murgatroyd pushed the sugar bowl across the table.
Nodding gravely, Polly returned the letter to the envelope then placed it in her handbag. ‘Morals,’ she confirmed, closing her handbag with a snap, leaning across the table until they were head to head. ‘She works nights, you see, and how is a woman who works nights to care for a lad that can find mischief without even looking for it?’
‘You have a point, there. But perhaps Mrs Bagley has some relative who can step in and help?’
‘Miss Bagley has not and I know it for a fact; no relation that acknowledges her, it would seem. And I’m talking about night work, Mrs Murgatroyd,’ she said tersely, pausing for effect.
‘You mean that kind of night work?’ Mrs Murgatroyd’s eyes gleamed. ‘Oh, surely not?’
‘That kind, and daytime too, if she can get it, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.’
‘You mean –’ It was Mrs Murgatroyd’s turn to glance uneasily around. ‘You mean –’ Her lips formed the word prostitution, though no sound came.
‘On the game, it’s my belief.’
‘For money, Miss Appleby? You’re sure?’
‘As sure as a body can be – else where do ten-shilling notes and five-shilling postal orders come from, all of a sudden?’ And pale pink envelopes and scent and lipstick and peroxide for her hair. ‘You tell me ma’am.’
‘Oh, deary me. That puts a different light on things. Yes indeed.’ She mouthed the word again. ‘… puts a very different light on it. Now do you have proof, Miss Appleby?’ Proof, like possession, was something it was as well to have. ‘Could you swear, in a court of law –’
‘I’d swear it with my right hand on a stack of Bibles and that’s a fact. But prove it – no. It’s intuition, you see.’
‘Intuition doesn’t stand up in a court of law.’
‘No, but if there was something I could throw at her – something special I could use …’
‘Bluff, you mean?’ Mrs Murgatroyd’s tea had gone cold in the cup, but it was of no account when balanced against prostitution. ‘Blackmail, even?’
‘That as well.’ Anything to keep Arnie with her. ‘But how does a woman like me go about it, will you tell me?’
Mrs Murgatroyd sat bolt upright in her chair and placed her hands together. Then she tilted her chin and said softly, ‘I think this is a matter upon which we should take legal advice. A matter concerning the welfare of an innocent boy is not to be trifled with.’
‘Aaah.’ Legal advice. Exactly what she had been hoping for. Polly closed her eyes with relief.
‘I take it, Miss Appleby, that you haven’t yet replied to Arnold’s mother?’
‘Nay. I was so bothered at first, that I couldn’t have put pen to paper. And then I thought I might ignore it. After all, proof of posting isn’t always proof of receipt, as they do say.’
‘And very wise, I’m sure. It doesn’t hurt to sleep on so serious a matter. And before very long I might well be able to advise you further.’ When she had taken legal advice, that was. When Mr Murgatroyd’s slippers had been set before him and his supper eaten and his pipe filled. ‘Could you leave it with me, then, until Saturday when you call to collect?’
Polly said she could; she would. Polly took her leave of the lady who lived in the bay-windowed house, thanking her profusely. Legal advice. That was what a body needed. Mrs Murgatroyd would come up with something, even if it was little better than bluff and blackmail. That one in Hull wasn’t going to get it all her own way.
Polly straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and made for home. Smiling all the way.
‘Hullo?’ Kath called, kicking off her boots at the door, padding across the kitchen in stockinged feet. ‘They’ve sent me for the drinkings, Mrs Ramsden. They always pick on the littlest.’
‘Goodness. Is it time already?’ Grace looked at the clock. ‘Sit you down for five minutes while the kettle boils and tell me what they’re up to. Got it lit, have they?’
‘It’s well ablaze. They’re having the time of their lives.’
‘Hmm. It’ll be all nice and tidy, once the rubbish is burned, and the wood-ash will do the land good. Mat’s impatient to get on with it. I’m glad to see it all turned over. Used to make my blood run cold, just to think of all those acres. You’ll warn Jonty to watch that fire? It’s a big pile; don’t want it to topple over.’
‘I’ll tell him.’ Kath leaned back in the fireside rocker. ‘And don’t worry – I’m a quick learner.’
‘Threshing day, you mean? Ah well, farms are terrible places for accidents. Can’t be too careful. But tell me about the dances. Roz says you have a fine time.’
‘Well yes, I do, but –’ She stopped, pink-cheeked. ‘But I don’t, what I mean is – I don’t do anything.’
‘Of course you don’t,’ Grace laughed. ‘I wasn’t meaning that you do. Why shouldn’t you have a bit of fun? It’s a queer old war and no mistake. Husbands and wives parted, and some of them not long married.’
‘I know. Sometimes I don’t know what I am, really; whether I’m married or single. I feel a bit guilty about going to the dances; daren’t even write to Aunt Min and ask her to send me a frock.’
‘But why ever not? Why shouldn’t you wear something nice? A young woman can’t go into purdah; it isn’t natural. Your aunt ought not –’
‘She isn’t my aunt. I don’t have one. I don’t have anybody, Mrs Ramsden. Didn’t you know that? Didn’t Roz tell you?’
‘Tell me what, lass?’ Grace stopped, teapot in hand.
‘That I’m – oh, you’ll have to know, I suppose.’ Kath looked down at her fingertips. ‘I was brought up in an orphanage, you see.’
‘Oh, deary me. Mum and Dad dead, are they?’ Grace whispered, eyes bright with concern.
‘Yes – oh, I don’t know. They might be alive. What I do know is that they didn’t want me. I was abandoned, you see, when I was two weeks old.’
‘Well, I never! What a thing to do to a bairn! Kath lass, I’m sorry.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘How ever did we get on to such a subject?’
‘I don’t know, Mrs Ramsden, but we had to, sooner or later. It still hurts, you see, not being wanted, not knowing who I am, not knowing anything about myself. Best you should know. There might even be bad blood in me.’
‘Bad what? Now see here, Kath Allen, that day I knew Roz was coming to work here was the same day we heard we’d got a landgirl: you. And I was real pleased that there’d be two young lasses here at Home Farm. Mat and me never had a daughter, then all of a sudden I get the two of you. Look at me, Kath. I’m trying to say that I want you. I feel sorry for your mother, whoever she is, because she gave away a baby that grew up into a beautiful girl with a lovely nature. I’d have been pleased and proud if Jonty had brought you home and told me you were the girl he was set on marrying. Now, does that help put your mind at rest?’ she demanded, breathless.
‘Bless you yes, Mrs Ramsden. Only one thing wrong, though. I’m married, and Jonty wants Roz – but you knew that, didn’t you?’
‘Aye. I’ve known it since he was a little lad no more than six years old. She came to Ridings, Roz did, a bairn of not much more than two, and he loved her then as if she was his little sister. Mrs Fairchild was badly upset over her daughter’s death, you see, and I’d go over there and bring Roz here – give the poor soul a bit of time to herself. Jonty fussed over the little thing and watched her like an old sheepdog watches a wayward young lamb. He still loves her, Kath, only now it’s a man’s love, not calf-love, like it used to be. She still treats him like a big brother, though, and I know she’s going out with an airman from Peddlesbury. The whole village knows it,’ cept her gran. And I think Jonty knows it, too. Like I said, lass, it’s a funny old war, which brings us back to you, and the dances. Why did you feel bad about going?’
‘Because I wanted to go so much that I shouldn’t have; because somehow I feel Barney might find out.’
‘But he’s abroad. How’s he likely to find out unless you tell him?’ Grace took mugs from the mantelpiece and placed them on a tray. ‘Anything else you’ve got on your mind, while we’re in the mood for it?’
‘Not really. Just that – well, things haven’t been very good between Barney and me lately – in our letters, I mean. I joined the Land Army without asking him and knowing he wouldn’t like it. Then I sprung it on him just before I came here. He doesn’t like women in uniform.’
‘And he’s annoyed about it – doing a bit of a sulk, is he? Hmm. Jealous, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Grace supplied, matter-of-factly. ‘Stands to reason.’
‘He needn’t be, Mrs Ramsden. I’ve said I’m sorry. I write him loving letters and I’m saving up hard for our home. I know I shouldn’t go to the dances, but I do, so there it is.’
‘Yes, and you enjoy them. But I thought we’d decided there was nothing wrong in your going out once in a while, so stop worrying about your Barney. Just keep sending him nice, loving letters as if nothing’s happened and he’ll soon see he was wrong and give up hurting you. Men can be like that, you know – spoiled. Happen his mother is a bit possessive.’
‘She was.’ Possessive, that was Mrs Allen, all right. She’d disliked having to share her son. Barney’s mother would have resented any girl he brought home. ‘But I’ll do what you said, about the letters.’
Keep writing loving, dutiful, forgiving letters. But for how long would Barney keep up his hurt? And for how long could she endure it?
‘That’s right, Kath. Bear with him. He’s bound to take it badly, being parted from you; maybe makes him think things he shouldn’t. But don’t take all the blame on yourself. You’ve done nothing wrong, and don’t you forget it.’
‘I’ll try not.’ She would even try to stop being grateful for the ring he’d placed on her finger, because it didn’t seem to matter here who she was or what she was. At Home Farm she was Kath, the landgirl. She was accepted – yes, and liked.
‘Right, then. Off you go with that tea.’ Grace stood at the door, tray in hands, while Kath pulled on her boots. ‘And, lass –’
‘Yes, Mrs Ramsden?’
‘I think you and me have known each other long enough for you to call me Grace. Roz does, and I’d like it if you would.’
‘And I’d like it, too,’ Kath said, the tremble of tears on her whispered words. ‘I’d like it very much.’ Diffidently she took a step nearer, then gently kissed the older woman’s cheek. ‘And thanks. Thanks for – for everything.’
Sighing deeply, Grace closed the kitchen door. So that was young Kath sorted out; that was Kath’s barrier down, she thought, well pleased with the turn their little chat had taken. If only she could sort Jonty’s life so easily.
Clucking irritably she filled another mug. Best take Mat a drink, stay and chat with him a moment, take his mind off all that form-filling.
Her eyes misted over. She loved that great, soft Mat; loved him as Jonty loved Roz. And she’d had such hopes. In her silly daydreams she had sat in St Mary’s and heard the words so often.
I publish the banns of marriage between Jonathan Ramsden, bachelor, and Rosalind Fairchild-Jarvis, spinster, both of this parish …
Once, there had been such substance to her dreams. And then the war had come …
‘Just think, Mat – it costs a man his life for listening to the BBC, yet here we take it for granted.’ Grace snapped off the late-night news, her face grave. ‘I wish, though, that sometimes they could find something good to tell us.’
Mind, a convoy had got through to Malta; that was good, but at what cost in young lives? And on the Russian front, fighting was fierce, still, and neither side getting anywhere; only dead lads to show for it, and scorched earth; the burning of Russia, so the invader should not have it. And still fighting in Burma, our army was; men at war in a distant country some of them had hardly heard of, till all this started.
But most distressing of all, Grace fretted, was the newspaper editor in Poland who had tuned-in to our news broadcasts, and died for it.
‘Something good? Aye, love.’ Mat kissed his wife tenderly, lovingly. ‘Think I’ll turn in. Want to make an early start on Mrs Fairchild’s land, get the harrow on to it. Fire all right?’
‘I’ll take a look at it.’ Jonty reached for his jacket. ‘I’ll take a look at the sky, as well, while I’m out.’
A farmer always checked on the weather to come, studied the sky and the clouds, the rising and the setting of the sun, the more so since weather forecasts on the wireless were a thing of the past. Stood to reason, didn’t it? We weren’t going to broadcast the weather to the enemy so they’d know when to come and bomb us.
Jonty pulled up the collar of his jacket and walked out into the night, blinking his eyes until they adapted to the darkness, standing quite still until he could pick out the vague, darker shapes of stables, stacks and barns. A cloud drifted over the half moon and the outlines were gone.
Carefully he walked through the foldyard and the stackyard, his eyes more accustomed now to the night. It was distinctly warmer; soon sowing and planting could begin. Only today he had noticed the pale, pinky light around the sycamore trees; the haze that told a countryman that buds were swelling and spring not far away.
The days were lengthening, too. Tonight there had been good light until well past seven. Winter was almost gone and like all men who worked the land, he would be grateful to see the back of it.
Quietly he closed the orchard gate. It was Ridings’ orchard, really; the point at which Home Farm acres met those of the big house. It was land standing idle save for almost a hundred fruit trees, and most of them past their best.
Roz wanted pigs. They’d do well in this orchard when the fruit began to fall; could run-on into autumn and forage for themselves, save on precious feed.
But Marco had been right, Jonty shrugged; war or no war, you couldn’t give a girl a present of pigs and he wouldn’t be making such a gift to Roz. He would give her the piglets of course, but later, when they were ready to leave the sow.
He stopped at the far fence, leaning his elbows on it, taking in the quietness of the night. Roz was all woman, now. Without his ever being aware of it she had left girlhood behind her and with it the easiness between them had gone.
Roz had been a love of a child; pert, bossy, easily upset – that red hair, of course – and he had adored her with dog-like devotion. Had it been the Christmas after her seventeenth birthday when caring had been replaced by love, when he had been shocked that suddenly he had thought of her as desirable, had looked at the curve of her breasts and longed to cup them in his hands?
That was the time the Air Ministry had commandeered Peddlesbury, torn out hedges, felled trees and trailed two concrete runways across good farmland. That was about the time the uniforms came to Alderby and he began to be ashamed that he wasn’t wearing one.
And now his Roz was a beautiful woman and the pain of wanting her was sometimes near-unbearable. Green-eyed Roz, who could send a man’s senses into turmoil with the smile of a coquette or the wrinkling of that absurd, tip-tilted nose. Roz, who dated young men with the wings of aircrew on their glamorous uniforms; who were infinitely more desirable than farmers who worked all the daylight hours God sent, yes, and half the night if needs be.
Yet still he was called conchie, told to get some in, reminded that now women were being called-up into the fighting forces, and why should the likes of him evade call-up?
A hunting owl ghosted silently past; distantly, a dog barked. This was a night undisturbed by the roar of bombers. The Lancasters were grounded; tonight she would be with him, the nameless, faceless airman.
A faint, fresh breeze touched his face and reminded him of his reason for being there. Climbing the fence he walked to the old game-cover and all that remained of their fire, sniffing the scent of burnt wood, kicking the ashes with the toe of his boot, knowing they would not ignite again.
He heard the crunch of their feet as he stood there and the murmur of low, indulgent voices, lovers’ voices. He heard a laugh that was easy to recognize and he moved into the shelter of the hedge as they drew near; so near that in the moon-haze he was able to recognize the outline of the woman and know that the man who walked with her hand in his own was an airman.
They did not see him. Pulling in his breath he saw them stop, watched as she took his face in her hands and lifted her mouth to his. The man took her thighs in possessive hands, pulled her closer, and they merged into one shape and one body.
Anger took him silently. Damn the man in his fancy uniform and damn the war that had brought him to Peddlesbury!
Fists clenched in his jacket pockets he stood unmoving as they moved past him and into the orchard, to the gap in the hedge that led to Ridings’ kitchen yard. Jonty Ramsden did not wish any man dead, but he wished some great, godly hand would snatch up the aerodrome and fling it into oblivion; wished every bomber would take off and never return to Peddlesbury. But mostly he wished he could be free of his love for Roz and his tearing need of her; be free of the sight and the sound of her, the knowledge that she belonged, almost certainly, to another man.
‘Everything all right?’ Grace asked of her son as he closed the door and slid home the bolts.
‘Everything’s fine. The fire’s dead. No trouble,’ he replied, tersely. ‘It’s a good sky. No rain tomorrow.’
Roz. He would never get her out of his mind or out of his heart; it was as impossible to stop loving her as it was to stop breathing in and breathing out. And everything was fine – if you liked red-hot knives thrusting into your guts and turning till the pain made you want to cry out.
‘Want a drink? Won’t take a minute.’
‘Thanks, Mum, no. I’ll be off upstairs. Had enough for one day.’ He bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Say goodnight to Dad for me.’
No, he would never be free of her. He pulled off his clothes and let them slide to the floor. She had his heart and that was the way it would always be. There’d be no one else for him. Only Roz, for all time. Christ, how he needed her, hated any man who touched her.
He banged the pillow with his fist, then buried his face in it. What in God’s name was he to do?