Since the farmer and his wife had gone out for a walk, and the other Land Girls were up in the top field, Joan hung lazily over the iron gate into the pig pen and clucked her tongue at the row of wriggling pink piglets feeding on the sow’s underbelly. As she watched, one of the piglets, jostling to get the best spot, fell sideways out of the scrum and stumbled about in the muddied straw, lost and squeaking, its tiny snout rooting in vain for the teat.
Concerned, she clambered over the gate to scoop it up in her arms, placing the piglet back among its brothers and sisters so it could feed. ‘There you go, piggy,’ she said with satisfaction, and wiped her hands on the mustard-coloured breeches that formed part of the Land Army uniform.
Standing back, Joan watched as a dozen piglets fed together on their mother Pinky with fervent concentration, and found herself wondering whether any of them ever felt lonely in that crowd.
Joan had asked herself that question many times when working at an ammunitions factory near Manchester, having nothing in common with her fellow workers except drudgery and the woes of restrictive rationing. There’d been a certain camaraderie among the factory girls. A sense that they all knew why they were there and were proud of doing a man’s job while the men themselves were fighting overseas. Yet she’d still felt lonely at times.
When things had gone badly wrong, she’d been hospitalised, and then permitted to transfer to the Women’s Land Army, receiving her draft papers to this quiet part of Cornwall with a sense of relief. The factory up north had been noisy and dirty, and after she’d been assaulted by a drunken soldier at a party, her nerves had given way entirely. The shock of that assault had given her nightmares and left her wary of men, even though she knew they couldn’t all be that bad where girls were concerned. Her recovery had been slow, leading some to mock her for being too fragile. ‘There’s a war on – harden up!’ more than one well-meaning nurse had told her during her hospitalisation. And she had tried, heaven knows.
Now the war was over, thank goodness, and she was twenty-three years old, a grown woman. Yet the Land Army marched on, dreary and monotonous, and rationing remained a fact of life. Many men were still overseas, including her younger brother, Graham. She missed him so much, it hurt. But at least she’d escaped the hellish factory and now spent her days toiling on the land instead. It was hard work, but she loved the fresh country air and the amazing views. And she had never minded getting her hands dirty. Not when it was good clean earth under her fingernails, not grease and filth from the ammunitions factory.
The very thought that she’d been making something designed to kill had filled her with dread. She’d always been aware that there must be a girl like her in a factory in Germany, making weapons and ammunitions that might one day take her brother’s life.
Sighing, Joan raised her face to the blue sky. Spring sunshine was a welcome sight after the long cold winter, encouraging her to imagine that better days might lie ahead.
Ever since Mr Newton’s death last autumn, life at the farm had been strangely dark and grim, compared to all the fun they’d had during the war. Yes, fun. Everyone had felt such a sense of purpose, especially towards the end, mucking in and doing their bit for King and country. Violet, the farmer’s wife, had kept them all amused with her pithy East End sayings, and her way of keeping her husband Joe in check. And when news of D-Day had come and later, victory, Violet’s widowed mum Sheila Newton had insisted on celebrating with a ‘knees-up’ as she’d called it. Dancing, games, paper hats, home-made wine, and Joe’s dogs howling along to the singing … The memory made Joan smile.
But everyone had assumed life would change once the war was over. That things would soon be back to normal. Rationing would end and people would be free to go about their daily lives.
Instead, it seemed they were still working for the war effort long after the war had ended.
Of course, with so many soldiers being kept overseas, women were still needed to till and plant the soil, harvest crops and tend to animals. So the Land Girls had not yet been relieved of their duties. And many women volunteers were still in their positions too. Plus, food was scarce, so rationing had remained strict.
It was like being at war, but without that unifying sense of purpose, she considered unhappily. She didn’t mean to feel sorry for herself. But sometimes, the days just seemed to drag on endlessly …
A cheerful shout split the quiet air, and she turned to see Farmer Postbridge trudging up the track from Porthcurno with his small daughter perched on his shoulders.
As Joe reached the farm gates, he swung the child down and allowed Sarah Jane to totter on her own towards the farmhouse. He raised a hand in greeting to Joan, removed his cap to wipe his forehead, and continued on his way.
Hurriedly, Joan climbed over the pig pen gate and picked up the heavy bucket of chicken feed, guiltily aware she’d been neglecting her duties.
But before she could scurry away, Sarah Jane spotted the bucket and rushed towards her, crying, ‘Chicky! Chicky!’ with flushed enthusiasm.
Joan crouched to steady the little girl before she could stumble over the uneven cobbles. ‘Yes,’ she agreed with a ready smile, ‘I’m just about to feed the chickens. Would you like to help?’ She glanced up at Joe as he approached. ‘If she’s allowed, that is?’
‘Try and stop her,’ the farmer said easily, and ruffled his daughter’s fair hair. ‘You love the chickies, don’t you?’ His mild gaze rose to Joan’s face as he hesitated. ‘Would you mind bringing Sally into the kitchen after to wash her hands, and maybe fetch her a cup of milk too? I’ve a few things to tend to in the barn.’
As usual, Joe Postbridge had addressed his daughter as Sally, though he rarely did so in front of his wife, who insisted rigidly on calling her Sarah Jane, as she’d been christened. It had become a frequent bone of contention between the married couple, Joan had noticed with amusement. A strange one too, for the farmer readily gave way to his wife on most other issues.
‘That dratted tractor … It’s on the blink again and we’ll need it tomorrow.’ Joe scratched his head. ‘Sorry to lump you with the girl, but my wife’s still down in the village with Sheila.’
Grinning, Joan shook her head. ‘I don’t mind at all, Mr Postbridge. I’ll look after your daughter until your wife’s back. Don’t you worry.’
He replaced his cap with a look of relief. ‘That’s kind of you, Joan. Thank ’ee.’ And with a few muttered words to his daughter, reminding the little girl to mind her manners, he limped away to the barn.
Joan watched the farmer with sympathy. He’d served in the Navy during the war, she’d been told, and had lost his leg when his ship was hit. But his false leg never seemed to stop him doing whatever he wanted. All the same, she could understand why he was glad to have Land Girls on the farm to help out. There were four of them now. Young Tilly Coombes had arrived just after Christmas, and although it used to be a squeeze in the attic rooms set aside for their use, since Joe and Violet’s niece Alice had moved back to London, the girls were only sharing two to a room now.
‘Right, put out your hands,’ she told Sarah Jane, and the little girl obeyed, her eyes bright with excitement.
Gently, Joan sprinkled chickenfeed into her open palms, some of it dropping through to the cobbles, and laughed as Sarah Jane instantly dashed forward to toss it wildly at the chickens, who ran about clucking and pecking at the ground.
‘Chicky! Chicky!’ the child cried in delight, clapping as she watched them.
Joan scattered the rest of the feed for the chickens, making sure to save a few last handfuls for Sarah Jane, but was interrupted in this task by the other Land Girls arriving back from the top field, all three in mud-flecked mustard breeches and green jerseys, though only Caroline was wearing her standard issue taupe jacket today.
Caroline Ponsby came first, trudging along with hands thrust in her jacket pockets, her expression distracted as Selina and Tilly chatted behind her. Selina Tiptree was wearing her hat tilted to protect her face from the spring sunshine, always keen to avoid freckles, and her fair hair was knotted in a long plait that hung over one shoulder. Tilly Coombes was the youngest at eighteen, and clearly the newcomer to the team, as evidenced by her still-neat uniform with no rips or patches. She was wearing her hat correctly, the string knotted tightly beneath her chin. She was a slight girl with clever green eyes and curly red hair worn fashionably short, and an infectious laugh. Joan had liked her instinctively from their first meeting.
Smiling, Joan waved in greeting, though instantly she was reminded of her earlier question … How was it possible to feel so lonely when surrounded by people? Because she did feel lonely at the farm. And yet she was on reasonably good terms with the farmer and his wife, and with the other Land Girls.
The problem, she suspected, was that she struggled to make conversation with the other residents at the farm, their tastes and interests being so different from hers. Tilly had been impressed by the watercolours Joan liked to paint whenever she had a few hours’ spare time, but had confessed to not being very artistic herself. And Caroline, seeing her keenly knitting, had asked if she would teach her the craft, which Joan had agreed to do, though she guessed Caro had only asked out of pity, knowing how rarely the others involved Joan in any of their activities.
As for Selina, she’d barely spoken to Joan in recent weeks, her head no doubt full of plans for her wedding, which she claimed would take place this summer once her soldier beau was home from France. After that, Selina intended to give up work altogether, having plans to start a family as soon as possible.
Joan wished her well with it. Though as she’d personally never met anyone who could inspire her to become a wife and mother, it was hard to be as enthusiastic as Selina clearly expected.
Selina eyed her sideways. ‘Been lumped with little Sarah Jane, have you?’ she asked, her tone not altogether friendly. It had been clear from Joan’s first day at the farm that Selina was top dog. And although Joan had gone out of her way to avoid antagonising her, Selina nonetheless seemed to view her as a threat. ‘It suits you. You look very … maternal. Doesn’t she, Caro?’
Caroline said nothing.
Joan returned the bucket to the stand outside the kitchen door and took Sarah Jane back inside with her as Farmer Joe had instructed. The other Land Girls followed.
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ she said calmly, kicking off her boots and trying not to let Selina’s comments make her uncomfortable. ‘I like looking after children. They’re good fun.’ With a quick smile, she sat Sarah Jane on the empty draining board to clean her up. ‘Ready?’
Sarah Jane nodded, raising her chin as Joan dampened a flannel and wiped her face and hands. The little girl squirmed but didn’t try to escape.
‘I’m pushing off upstairs to read a magazine.’ Caroline headed out of the kitchen, hands still deep in her pockets.
Joan looked after her in surprise. ‘Something wrong with Caro?’
‘Nothing worth mentioning.’ Cutting herself a slice of raisin cake, Selina gave a sniff of disapproval. ‘She got in a huff when I told her Johnny and I are planning to honeymoon at Lyme Regis. Though I don’t know why that should upset her. Not exactly Paris, is it?’
Tilly took Joan’s place at the sink, a thoughtful look on her face. ‘I doubt anyone would be keen to spend their honeymoon in Paris. Not for a good few years, at any rate. The Germans must have left the city in a right state after they retreated.’ Tilly soaped her hands vigorously, gazing through the window at the sunlit farmyard. ‘Anyway, Caroline only said she was bored of hearing your plans for the wedding,’ she added, glancing back at Selina, a defiant note to her voice. ‘I wouldn’t call it a huff, exactly. You do talk about Johnny quite a bit, Selina. No offence.’
Carefully drying Sarah Jane’s hands with a clean tea cloth, Joan hid her smile. She tried never to be confrontational with Selina, knowing how strong her personality was and disliking arguments. But Tilly was clearly made of sterner stuff. A self-confessed tomboy, the younger girl came from a large family with several older siblings. No doubt it had left her unafraid to pick a fight.
‘Well, I never …’ Selina gasped, hands on hips, glaring at Tilly. Joan noted that she didn’t blaze into a row over the comment though. Perhaps she could sense that Tilly would give as good as she got. Instead, she merely stomped away after Caroline. ‘I’ll wash my hands upstairs. I don’t have time to stand about gossiping. I need to write a letter to Johnny.’
Once the door had closed behind her, Joan threw Tilly a warning look. ‘Selly can be quite sharp when she’s crossed,’ she said softly, just in case Selina was still hanging about in the hallway. ‘Best be on your guard with her.’
‘Oh, I’m not scared of Selina,’ Tilly replied airily. ‘She reminds me of my eldest sister, always throwing her weight around and talking the loudest to stop anyone else getting a word in edgeways. I learned early on that you can’t give an inch or people like that will take a mile. Besides,’ she added with a quick glance at Joan, ‘someone has to put her in her place.’
Was that a reprimand? She filled a mug with milk for Sarah Jane and sat her down at the kitchen table. ‘I prefer to stay out of arguments,’ Joan replied frankly. ‘They give me a headache.’
Tilly just shrugged.
Joan, who had noticed a haunted look on Selina’s face in recent weeks, wondered if the little spat she’d just witnessed stemmed from something that was worrying Selina, not from a vexatious temperament. But she didn’t press the point.
‘I’m sure your mummy will be home soon,’ she reassured the little girl, who was kicking her feet under the table and blowing bubbles into her milk in a bored, irritable fashion.
‘Gramma?’ Sarah Jane queried, head on one side.
‘Yes, and your gran too. Though it’s a long climb up that steep hill in the sunshine. I imagine your gran is taking it slowly. But they’ll both be back soon,’ she insisted. ‘Now, drink your milk. You need milk to grow big and strong. So stop blowing bubbles in it, there’s a good girl.’
Sarah Jane shot her a distrustful look but said nothing, meekly sipping her milk.
‘Selina’s right about one thing,’ Tilly said in an offhand manner, grabbing a handful of oats from the round-bellied container on the kitchen table and heading for the outside door.
‘What’s that?’
‘You’re good with the little uns.’
Speechless, Joan turned, staring round at her in surprise. When Selina had said something similar in the farmyard, it had sounded like an insult. But she guessed from Tilly’s smile that she’d meant it as a compliment.
Slipping on a pair of clogs, Tilly hurried out into the sunshine, calling over her shoulder, ‘I’m off to see Barney,’ as she disappeared across the yard.
Barney was the shire horse that Joe had acquired to work on the farm when the tractor was either awaiting repairs or busy on another job. He was a vast grey with great feathery hooves and tail, but surprisingly placid in temperament. Little Sarah Jane was too scared to go anywhere near the horse, who must have seemed like a giant to her. But, like Tilly, Joan occasionally sneaked the horse a wizened apple from last year’s store, or a handful of oats. And she’d seen the other Land Girls doing the same when they thought nobody was watching. Especially Selina, who apparently came from a horsey family and missed being able to ride.
Moments later, the kitchen door swung open and Sarah Jane jumped down from her chair with a shout of joy. ‘Mamma! Mamma!’ she cried, tottering across to her.
‘Hello, poppet. Joan been looking after you, has she?’ Violet Postbridge smiled down at her bouncing daughter, then unpinned her hat and gave Joan a friendly nod. ‘I spoke to Joe in the barn. It was very kind of you to mind her. Do help yourself to a slice of raisin cake, love.’ She crouched to speak to her daughter. ‘Would you like a slice of cake, Sarah Jane? Gran baked it, and you know her cakes are always the best.’
Not surprisingly, Sarah Jane readily agreed to cake.
‘I’ll cut us both a slice,’ Joan murmured, fetching plates and the cake knife.
‘Thanks, love. Only a tiny portion for Sarah Jane, mind,’ Violet told her, hurrying to the sink to wash her own hands. ‘Don’t want to spoil her appetite.’
Sheila Newton limped into the kitchen. ‘Blimey, I swear that bloomin’ hill gets steeper every time I climb it.’ She looked flushed and there was perspiration on her forehead, but she gave Joan a wink. ‘You’re a good girl, ain’t you? Looking after our Sally for us.’
‘Her name is Sarah Jane,’ Violet snapped over her shoulder.
‘Yes, all right, love … Sarah Jane. My mistake.’ Behind Violet’s back, Sheila gave Joan another wink and laid a finger to her lips. Dragging off her own hat, she hung it lopsided on the coat-stand, still puffing noisily. ‘Phew. This is what comes of never walking down into the village like I used to when Arnie was alive. I’m out of condition.’
Hurriedly, Joan pulled out a kitchen chair for the older lady and received a breathless mutter of thanks.
‘And this is why I should reopen the shop,’ Sheila went on, addressing her daughter as she sat down. ‘Think of all the exercise I’d get, walking up and down that hill every day.’ She fanned hot cheeks before reaching into her bag for a comb to tidy her dishevelled, silvery hair. ‘Why, I’d be ready to enter the Olympic Games by the end of the summer, I daresay.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish, Mum,’ Violet exclaimed, and then caught Joan’s eye. With an embarrassed smile, she withdrew an envelope from her jacket pocket and held it out to Joan. ‘I almost forgot, love, we ran into the postie on the way up from the village. She gave us a letter for Selina. Will you pass it on when you next see her?’
‘Of course. She’s in her room. I’ll be heading up there in a jiffy.’ Joan glanced at the envelope and recognised the handwriting at once. It was from Selina’s fiancé, Johnny. Another love letter, no doubt, which they would all be forced to listen to as Selina read it out loud. She was thoroughly enjoying being the only one to have a fiancé, seeming to think this made her superior to the others.
Personally, Joan didn’t mind being unattached. It made life easier. Besides, being engaged hadn’t made Selina any happier. In fact, the worry of all their complicated wedding arrangements seemed to have got her down. But this letter would probably cheer her up in no time.
‘Ah, young love …’ Sheila sighed, folding her arms across an ample bosom. ‘I remember when Arnie and me fell in love. What larks, eh? I couldn’t think of nothing else for months.’
Sarah Jane ran to her gran, holding up the last fragment of cake that Joan had cut for her. ‘Cake, cake!’ she chanted before cramming it messily into her mouth.
‘That was hardly “young” love, Mum,’ Violet remarked.
Throwing her daughter a sharp look, Sheila brushed cake crumbs off Sarah Jane’s face and dress. ‘All right, Miss Hoity-Toity, maybe we weren’t neither of us young. But we felt young. And what would you know about it, anyway? Nobody knows what goes on between two people. And don’t you forget it.’ Sheila’s face became mutinous. ‘My Arnie would have wanted me to take over running the shop. To preserve his legacy. So that’s what I’m going to do. Even if it kills me.’
Amazed by this, Joan glanced at Violet speculatively.
Sure enough, the farmer’s wife did not look amused, and since her husband had just come into the kitchen at that moment, she complained bitterly to him that her mother was behaving irrationally. ‘I want you to speak to her, Joe,’ she said, quite as though Sheila wasn’t right there in the same room. ‘She needs to shake that silly notion right out of her head. She’s too old to be running a shop. Tell her, Joe.’
Joe Postbridge looked from his wife to his mother-in-law in dismay. ‘I’d rather not get involved, if it’s all the same to you, love,’ he told his wife and edged towards the snug, where he liked to sit with a pipe and his feet up between work shifts.
‘You get back here, Joseph Postbridge,’ Violet began but was interrupted by her mother.
‘This ain’t nobody’s business but mine, Vi, so you can leave poor Joe out of it.’ Sheila hoisted up her granddaughter to sit on her knee. ‘I’ve made up my mind and that’s that.’
Deciding this was a good moment to slip away upstairs, Joan left the Postbridges arguing among themselves. Upstairs, she saw the light on in the little washroom Joe had rigged up for them and heard Caroline humming as she took a stand-up wash.
Knocking on the door of the room that Selina shared with Caroline, she pushed it open without waiting for permission, as none of them really bothered with such things, and was taken aback to find Selina with her face buried in a hanky, her shoulders slumped, sitting dejected on the edge of her bed.
‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered, beginning to back away, ‘I’ll come back another time.’
‘No, no,’ Selina cried in a muffled voice, and wiped her face. Her eyes looked very red. ‘Hayfever starting early, I expect. I’m fine, honestly.’ She blinked, apparently only just registering that Joan was in the wrong bedroom. ‘Did you want something?’
Joan held out the letter that Violet had given her. ‘Some post has arrived for you. I think it’s from Johnny.’
Jumping up, Selina almost snatched the envelope from her hand. ‘Thank you.’ She gave her a direct look. ‘I’ll see you at tea, then.’
Taking the hint, Joan gave the other Land Girl a perfunctory smile and retired to her own bedroom, two doors down. There, sunshine pooled on the wooden floor and lit up the sloping attic ceiling, and yesterday’s spring flowers that she’d brought upstairs and arranged in a vase smelt sweet and fresh, like the fields and meadows above Porthcurno.
She changed out of her uniform, took out a sketchpad and pencils, and began to work on a new sketch of the piglets feeding on their mother in a bed of straw.
Soon, the distractions and worries of being in a group of people who didn’t always rub along together perfectly began to fade away, and the space inside her head became peaceful and silent.
But Joan knew this peace couldn’t last forever. Because it never did. She could take refuge in being alone like this, while still feeling isolated and wishing for company, or she could spend time with others whose petty quarrels and differences fretted at her nerves. There seemed no solution to her dilemma. It was as though she was missing some vital piece to the puzzle of her life, and had no idea where or how to find it …