It was porridge yet again for breakfast on Sunday. As Joan spooned stodgy mouthfuls of grey goo into her mouth, she flipped over the pages of a hardback hidden in her lap, squinting down to read the lines printed there. Unfortunately, she was so intent on the poem she was reading, a tiny blob of porridge escaped her spoon and landed on the book.
‘Oh, golly,’ Joan muttered, dropping her spoon in the bowl and dragging a hanky from her sleeve. Carefully, she wiped the splodge of porridge off the page, and grimaced at the stain left behind on the thin paper. She hoped to goodness it would disappear as it dried.
‘What have you got there?’ Violet asked, pausing behind her as she collected the empty bowls. Her frown deepened. ‘Are you reading at the table?’
‘Leave the girl alone,’ Joe grumbled, pulling on his boots at the other side of the kitchen. ‘If she wants to read at the table, that’s her own business.’
His wife flashed him a look but said no more.
Sheila Newton, getting up from the table with her empty bowl, peered across at the book that Joan had now laid open on the table to dry. ‘Is that a novel? I’ve read a few in my time. Historical romances, that’s what I like. With great big strappin’ heroes.’
Tilly giggled.
‘Mum!’ Violet tutted and shook her head. ‘You shouldn’t go putting ideas in these girls’ heads.’
‘Oh, there’s no harm in it. Blow me, Vi, you never used to be so prudish,’ her mother commented and gave Joan a wink. ‘What’s the book, then? Show us the title.’
Embarrassed, all eyes on her, Joan held up the hardback. ‘It’s a selection of Keats’ poetry.’
‘Eh? Who?’ Mrs Newton looked blank.
Ernest, at the far end of the table, put down his mug of tea. He was wearing glasses to read yesterday’s newspaper, apparently also immune to Violet’s rules about reading at the table. ‘John Keats. He was a poet in the early half of the last century. Known as one of the Romantics.’
‘I like the sound of the Romantics. Though poetry was never my thing.’ Mrs Newton looked pensive. ‘We had to learn a poem by Kipling when I was at school. Now, how did it go? “If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs …”’ She hesitated.
‘“And blaming it on you,”’ Ernest completed the line for her.
‘That’s right. Now that’s the kind of poem I enjoy. One that makes sense and has good rhymes and an easy rhythm. Same as all the best hymns.’ Mrs Newton gave Joan’s book a dubious nod. ‘This Keats fellow … Is his stuff like that?’
‘Not particularly,’ Joan admitted, aware of heat in her cheeks as she was once again the centre of attention. ‘He writes about nightingales and Grecian urns.’
‘Talk about historical romance,’ Joe quipped, grinning.
‘Grecian what?’ Mrs Newton shook her head and stamped off to the sink with her bowl. ‘Rather you than me, love.’
Violet picked up the book and studied it. ‘This isn’t a library book. Where did you get it?’
‘Oh … erm, it was Selina’s. She must have left it behind when she went. I thought I’d see what it was like, that’s all.’ Joan hated lying, yet here she was, doing it again. But the book belonged to Arthur, and she could hardly admit that, could she? Not when Violet and Joe had advised her so strongly against seeing him again. ‘I’m holding on to it until she comes back for Alice’s wedding.’
Getting up, she caught Caroline’s quizzical look and bit her lip. Of course, Caroline had been Selina’s closest friend at the farm. She must know that Selina had no great interest in poetry. But thankfully the other girl kept schtum and didn’t drop her in it.
Sheila Newton had expressed a desire to attend Sunday service that week, and unusually Violet and Joe had both decided to go with her, taking Sarah Jane in her pram. The Land Girls had been asked if they too wished to go to church. Tilly, who seemed to enjoy spending time with the Postbridges as though they were her own family, had agreed readily. Caroline had politely declined, slipping out for a walk instead. Joan herself had other plans, having arranged a secret rendezvous with Arthur that morning, since they generally had the day off on a Sunday, except when the farm was particularly busy.
Joan waited until the Postbridges and Tilly had set off for church on foot, as was their custom when the weather was good, and then slipped out of the back door of the farm. Feeling almost giddy with excitement, she headed across the field towards the cliffs. She’d strapped a bag of sketching materials across her chest, for she and Arthur planned to take advantage of the fine summer weather and do some sketching.
She was almost clear of the farm buildings when a whistle stopped her. Shocked, she turned back to find Caroline leaning on the back gate to the farm, watching her.
‘Where are you going?’ Caro called after her. ‘As if I need to ask … You’re off to see your young man, aren’t you?’
‘I just fancied a walk, that’s all,’ Joan insisted, reddening at yet another lie. Goodness, it was difficult to keep up with all the fibs she was telling these days. Perhaps she ought to have gone to church, after all. Her immortal soul was probably in jeopardy, if such a thing even existed.
‘I won’t tell on you,’ Caroline insisted. ‘I know that’s his poetry book you’re reading. I never saw Selina read a poem in her life. Besides, you only ever take that bag out with you when you’re going sketching. And you told me Arthur likes sketching too. So there’s no need to pretend you’re not meeting him, Miss Fibber.’
Joan hesitated, biting her lip. ‘You promise you won’t tell?’
‘Of course not.’ Caroline pouted. ‘What do you take me for?’
‘He’s not a bad lad, you know. Violet’s wrong about him. And I … I like him.’ She paused. ‘Do you understand?’
Caroline nodded, though she seemed rather glum. It struck Joan that the other girl seemed lonely, her shoulders slumped, her mouth downturned. ‘It’s none of their business who you choose to walk out with. They can’t tell us what to do. They’re not our parents.’
Joan laughed at this. ‘You’re right, we should stand up for ourselves more. But Violet … I probably shouldn’t say this, but she scares me.’ They both giggled, then Joan gave her friend a wave and trudged on, calling over her shoulder, ‘You’ll find someone one day too, Caro. See if you don’t. Then you’ll be the one sneaking off on a Sunday morning.’
Arthur was there ahead of her when Joan arrived on the cliffs at the appointed time. He had already set up his easel and mixed his paints, in fact, and was pencilling in a rough outline of the cliff edge and the sea beyond. She thought he made a dashing and romantic figure, working at the easel, his fair hair lifting in the sea breeze.
Hearing her approach, he turned and grinned. ‘I say, you made it. Well done. Did you have any trouble getting away?’
‘None at all. We only work Sundays when there’s an urgent job on. Today, the family are going to church, so nobody noticed me leaving. Well, Caroline did. But she won’t say a word.’ She chose a good spot to sit down, where an outcrop of rock looked flat enough to be comfortable, and unpacked her bag of sketching equipment. ‘What marvellous weather,’ she added. ‘Though it’s often a little breezy this close to the cliff edge. I hate it when the paper flaps around while you’re trying to draw, don’t you?’
‘Quite right. That’s why I prefer the easel, where I can clip down the paper. Though rain’s the worst. Especially when you’re working with watercolours and the heavens open partway through.’ He raised his face to the sunlight. ‘Not much chance of rain today.’
With a pang of envy, she studied his sturdy easel and wooden palette. ‘Where did you get those?’
‘My mother bought them for me,’ he admitted, looking sheepish. ‘For my last birthday. She thinks painting keeps me out of trouble. My father’s not so keen. Says it’s all nonsense and I should get a job instead. But …’ His voice tailed off and he bent his head to mixing his paints again.
‘I almost never paint outdoors,’ she said, wondering what he’d been about to say.
‘Really? Why ever not?’
‘I don’t know.’ Joan hesitated, finding the question awkward. ‘Too embarrassed in case somebody sees me, I suppose.’
‘I used to feel like that. But I fell into the habit of working outdoors when I got drafted. Of course, in France, you never knew when someone was going to take a potshot at you while you were wandering about with a sketchbook.’ He added with a grin, ‘Now I go out painting all the time and don’t think about it.’
‘It’s easier for men,’ she muttered.
He looked puzzled, then grimaced. ‘Ah, I see what you mean. Some men can be beasts, can’t they? It’s such a shame. Still, next time we go out sketching together, you could use the easel to paint while I sketch. That way, I can protect you from marauding males and impudent stares.’
She smiled and said nothing. But it made her heart beat quicker to imagine doing this on a regular basis with him.
It was almost as though he were suggesting a date.
Studying the landscape and sea, he said abruptly, ‘Hang on, I’m a bit too close to the edge. I’ll move back a few feet.’ Carefully, he shifted the easel backwards, the canvas wobbling dangerously. She realised he would be standing behind her now, and glanced back at him over her shoulder. But he was intent on the view. ‘That’s better.’
They worked in silence for almost an hour. The time flew by, for she found him pleasant company and couldn’t understand why Violet had thought him so problematic. At the Grange, he’d admitted more than once to having nightmares and strange thoughts at times, but today he was nothing but a friendly young man with a glittering future ahead of him, if he chose to make the most of his undoubted talents.
‘One of the girls who used to live at the farm went to London a while back,’ she said conversationally. ‘Mrs Newton’s granddaughter, Alice. She’s coming back to Porthcurno in a couple of weeks because she’s getting married.’
‘To a local boy?’ he asked, wrinkling his brow.
‘Funnily enough, no. She’s marrying a young man called Patrick. I believe they met in Bude at first, where she was working during the war. In a printing shop, I think it was. Then she went off to London and managed to get herself shot—’
‘Good God!’ he interrupted, his gaze flying to her face. ‘Shot? You can’t be serious?’
‘I’m entirely serious. She was shot in the shoulder. And the man she was with that night was killed. It was a tragedy. Alice was never the same again, if you ask me.’ Feeling his gaze on her face, Joan studied her sketch with critical eyes and then added a little more shading to the foreground. ‘Anyway, she came back wounded from London towards the end of the war and started work at Eastern House instead. The listening station? All hush-hush, you understand.’
‘Golly, that sounds awfully exciting. So this girl lived at the farm with you?’
‘Along with her father, yes. Though her father Ernest only turned up towards the end of the war.’ Joan bit her lip, unsure how much to reveal of Alice and her father’s background. ‘It’s probably safe enough to say this, now the war’s done and dusted, but I think he was a spy. He was working behind enemy lines in Germany, by all accounts. And I think Alice was training to be a spy too. When she got shot in London, I mean.’
‘I say, what an amazing story.’ Arthur was staring at her keenly now. ‘But who’s this Patrick that she’s marrying, then?’
‘He used to work with her at Eastern House. They went to London together.’ Joan stopped, embarrassed. ‘Though Violet wouldn’t like me telling you that about her niece. She thinks people will gossip because Alice and Patrick aren’t married yet. But nobody cares about that sort of thing anymore, do they?’
‘No, very old hat. Good luck to them both, that’s what I say.’ Arthur lowered his paintbrush and took a step back to study what he’d done. His expression was serious. ‘There, that’s the basic thing finished. When it’s dry, I’ll go over the details again. Make it better.’
‘May I see?’
He hesitated, then said, ‘Of course.’
She wandered across to admire his painting and stopped with a gasp, a hand at her mouth. ‘Oh!’
Arthur had painted her into the picture. His original sketch had shown only the cliff and the sea beyond. Now she was there too, seated on the outcrop of rock, bending over a sketch book with a pencil in her hand, and her hair flying everywhere. That was why he’d moved his easel further back from the edge, she realised belatedly. To put her in the landscape.
‘I wish you’d told me. Look at my hair … It’s a mess.’
‘That’s what I like about it,’ he said earnestly, a smile playing on his lips as the sea breeze whipped her hair about her face. His gaze met hers. ‘Honestly, Joan, I think you’re the most dashed good-looking girl I’ve ever met.’ He pulled a face. ‘Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said that. But there it is. Do you mind awfully?’
‘I … I don’t know,’ she mumbled, looking away.
There was a short silence.
Then Arthur burst out, ‘I’d like to kiss you …’
Her heart thumping violently, Joan took an instinctive step backwards as he reached for her. It was one thing to go painting with him, and even to spend hours poring over books with him in the library at the Grange. But she wasn’t sure she felt ready for a kiss.
‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ she said quickly.
‘Very well.’ His paint-stained hands fell back to his sides at once. ‘I won’t, then. Not if you don’t want me to.’ But she thought there was a look of disappointment on his face. Seeing that, she felt sorry for him. But feeling sorry for a chap didn’t mean she ought to let him kiss her, did it? That would be very muddled thinking.
‘I should get back,’ she said quietly, turning to collect her sketchbook and pencils. ‘Church will be finished by now and they’ll be wondering where I am.’
That wasn’t quite true. She doubted the busy Postbridges would even notice her absence. But Caroline might miss her, and she knew where Joan had gone today, and with whom. It would be deeply embarrassing if Violet asked where Joan had gone and Caro let the cat out of the bag, forgetting her promise not to.
Without another word, Arthur began to pack his paints away. He unfolded the easel and put it under his arm, carrying the canvas gingerly by the edges, as it was still damp.
‘So, your friend Alice is coming back to Porthcurno for her wedding,’ he said conversationally, as though he’d never offered to kiss her. ‘I imagine that will be quite an event.’
Joan smiled. ‘Oh yes, the Postbridges and Mrs Newton have been planning it for weeks now. There’ll be a do for her and Patrick afterwards at the farm. Would you like to come?’
‘I haven’t been invited,’ he pointed out.
‘I’m not sure there have been any formal invitations. Word’s just gone around the village for friends to turn up and celebrate with us.’ She blushed. ‘And you’re my friend, so why not?’
He said nothing but looked uncertain.
Slowly, weighed down with equipment, they walked down the steep track together towards the farm. Sheep were bleating in the top fields, a summer breeze rippling through sunlit grasses and hedgerows. Up above, seagulls soared and cried in a soft blue sky. Joan always thought the gulls sounded so unhappy and alone up there, high above the earth. Though ‘greedy gannets’ was what Mrs Newton called them, and always shooed the birds away whenever she saw them flap down and go pecking around the farmyard in search of missed seed from the chickens.
They reached the little muddy dip where the track diverged, one side leading down to the farm and the other continuing along the cliff edges, and she stopped there.
‘I can go on alone from here. See you later?’
‘Let me walk you back to the farm,’ Arthur insisted, heading down the track ahead of her. When she didn’t follow, he turned, surprised. ‘What is it?’
She felt bad, especially after having insisted he would be welcome at Alice’s wedding. ‘It’s probably best if we’re not seen together,’ she admitted. ‘They’ll be back from church by now and you know what the Postbridges are like.’
‘Yes, I understand.’ He stared down at the mud ruts on the track, scuffing his shoe tip with them. ‘Maybe I’ll go back up the cliff then. Carry on painting for a while. The wind’s died down anyway.’
There was something in his face that she didn’t like. It made her uncomfortable. As he went to move past her, she put a quick hand on his arm. ‘No, come on … It’s none of their business who I spend time with. Forget what I said. We can walk down to the farm together.’
They were standing very close. A smile tugged at his lips and the gloom lifted from his face. ‘I say, do you mean that?’
‘Of course.’ She tugged on his sleeve. ‘Hurry up though. I don’t want to miss my lunch. Mrs Newton makes the most bang-up Sunday roasts.’
Together, they hurried down the track, parting at last at the farm gate. Joan was uncomfortably aware of Violet peering out of the kitchen window, but kept her face firmly turned away.
‘I enjoyed myself today. Thank you for the company. I think you’re a smashing painter.’ Standing on tiptoe, she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, just a friendly peck, then she backed away, saying hurriedly, ‘Well, goodbye. Maybe I’ll see you on Thursday afternoon. At the Grange.’
‘I look forward to it,’ Arthur said huskily, clearly taken aback by that peck on the cheek. ‘Goodbye, Joan.’
* * *
After he’d gone, she trudged slowly back to the kitchen door to find Violet standing there, hands on hips, glaring at her.
‘Wasn’t that the Green boy? The one I told you to steer clear of?’
‘Yes,’ Joan told her defiantly, her chin in the air. ‘What of it?’ She stepped past Violet into the porch, pulling off her boots with a nonchalant air. Her heart was thundering fit to burst, but she was sick of being told what to do by a woman who wasn’t her boss or related to her. ‘It’s my free time, and it’s a free country, and I’ll see whomever I like, thank you very much, Mrs Postbridge.’
Joe, standing in the kitchen doorway, cap in hand, gave a short laugh but said nothing. She thought she caught a flash of admiration in his eyes.
‘Well, I never!’ Violet gasped, staring after her.
But Joan paid no attention.