Land Girls Read online

  Stella reached for Philip’s photograph on her chair, as soon as she judged the others would not hear. Terribly awake, she kissed his face in the dark. She replaced it, but could not sleep. After a while – it was too dark to see her watch, and Ag’s clock was too far away – she slipped out of bed and crept to the nearest window. There was a full moon. It shone hazily through dark clouds, fraying their edges. She looked down into the farmyard: looming black sides of barns and sheds, a huge pile of dung whose acrid smell just reached her. The night was so ominously quiet she feared bombs. Fighter planes often zoomed out of the deepest silence. What would they do in a raid? Mrs Lawrence had said nothing about a shelter …

  Stella saw a man ride into the yard on a bicycle. He braked with a rather dashing little turn; had anyone been watching, she’d have thought he was showing off. He dismounted, pushed the bike into the barn. She could see he was tall, large. When he came out of the barn he paused, looked up at the moon, scratched his head. Now Stella could see he wore enormous muddy boots. Instead of moving towards the house, he turned back to the barn, leaned heavily against it, face to its wall. He protected his forehead with a bent arm, shoulders hunched. For a long while he did not move – two or three minutes, Stella thought it must have been.

  She could be imagining it – he was a long way off – but his position struck her as one of despair. Eventually he moved, drew himself upright and took long mournful strides back the way he had come, towards the gate. Cold now, Stella returned to her bed. She picked up the photograph of Philip again, and clasped it in her arms. Under the bedclothes she kissed his icy glass face, and swore to love him till she died.

  Chapter 2

  When the wind was in the right direction, the church bells at Hinton Half Moon could be heard at Hallows Farm. The hamlet was no more than a straggle of stone cottages, one of which had been converted into a small sub-post office. It offered little in the way of provisions: Bird’s custard, Horlicks, Bovril, a few pads of Basildon Bond, soggy from their long shelf-life. These basic provisions were sometimes enhanced by a few luxuries which appeared according to the mood of Mrs Tyler, who ran the shop. On a good day, she would be up early, baking, and set a few brown loaves on a sheet of greaseproof paper in the cloudy front window. The smell of baking would hail the neighbours at dawn. A queue of some half-dozen buyers would hurry to the door at eight thirty, official opening time. Mrs Tyler, a law unto herself, as she was so fond of saying, would wave a plump hand urging patience. Not until eight thirty-five, or even eight forty, would she at last turn the rusty key very slowly, and let the eager buyers in. There were never enough loaves. There was always an argument, disappointed voices. It was known that Mrs Tyler enjoyed these small dramas played out in her shop once or twice a week: it was her measure of power in an uneventful life.

  From time to time, Mrs Tyler’s annoying ways so incensed the other members of the community that they vowed to boycott her wares. But this plan never worked for more than a day or two. They needed stamps, their pensions, they needed to add a few shillings to their savings accounts. And once in the shop they would be tempted by a surprising cauliflower or cabbage, a punnet of tomatoes or Russet apples from the Tyler garden. These were put out, they knew, by way of a bait. The ploy succeeded. Despite their good intentions, the inhabitants of all the eleven cottages that made up Hinton Half Moon found themselves sneaking back into the post office, greed overcoming principle quite easily, to purchase Mrs Tyler’s trap of the day.

  Ratty Tyler, married to the post mistress for fifty-one years, was party to his wife’s small triumphs, because she described them to him with untiring glee every evening. His reaction was neither to encourage nor to discourage. A dignified neutrality, he had discovered over the years, was the wisest attitude to adopt in matters concerning Edith. In the past, in the heat of youthful loyalty, he had found himself in many a scrape through lending her support. It was due to an unwise act on Edith’s part that he had been forced to give up his thriving butcher’s shop in Dorchester just before the last war. A question of slander, though the exact circumstances had long since evaporated in his mind. Total boycott of customers. Confusion. Shame. Ratty hated ever to remember it, though sometimes the whole horrible business came back to him when Edith was in a particularly tricky mood. He warned her that if she went too far they would be driven from Hinton Half Moon just as they had been from Dorchester. But Edith seemed not to understand the danger. She continued taking her risks.

  When the Great War was over, the Tylers had found the cottage they still lived in today. Their first Sunday, Ratty signed up as a bell ringer, and it was in the cold vestry of the church that he met the young and energetic John Lawrence. In those days, the Lawrences, too, lived in a cottage in Hinton, but they owned a few acres of land on which they kept a small flock of sheep. The two men had a brief conversation in the churchyard. Ratty sensed Mr Lawrence’s ambition: already he had his eye on Hallows Farm, occupied at the time by a senile old woman.

  ‘And your line of country?’ Mr Lawrence had asked.

  ‘We’ve just moved here, sir. Casual labour’s what I’m after. Any farming work, I’d be pleased.’

  ‘We’re beginners ourselves, but I could offer you a few hours a week.’

  ‘Righto, sir.’ The two men shook hands.

  ‘John Lawrence.’

  ‘Ratty Tyler.’

  ‘Ratty?’

  ‘Term of affection, sir, should you suppose otherwise. Adopted at the time of our engagement by my now wife.’

  Ratty allowed himself the lie. The truth was that Edith had chosen the name for him as soon as they had been introduced. Reginald, his real name, she said at once, she could not abide. Ratty had been rather taken by her busy little head of blonde curls and her pretty ankles, and he feared his objection might have blasted the plan that was beginning to form in his mind. So Ratty he was from that day forth, though in the secrecy of his soul he often thought the name was more appropriate to Edith than to him.

  It was plain from the start that he and Mr Lawrence understood one another. He began with three hours’ labour a week, two shillings an hour. When the sheep did well and the flock increased, this was increased to a day and a half. By the time Mr Lawrence acquired Hallows Farm, Ratty was working every day, all hours. Within a few years, things became too much for the two of them: it was Ratty who suggested they should hire more hands. He found the two keen young lads himself – one from Hinton, one from a couple of miles west – and thereby earned himself the title of Farm Manager.

  These days, although Ratty still thought of himself as Farm Manager, and Mr Lawrence would never do anything so inconsiderate as to suggest there was any change in the position, both men understood the title was now more honorary than practical. What with his arthritic hip and the bad pains that sometimes struck his eyes now, Ratty would only come up to the farm a couple of days a week. When the boys had been called up, he had reluctantly agreed that Mrs Lawrence’s idea of land girls might be the solution.

  Every working day of his life Ratty rose at four o’clock in the morning. He liked the silence of the dawn, the silence of the kitchen as he boiled water in the huge black kettle for tea, and ate a chunk of Edith’s rich brown bread. Just before leaving he would take a mug up to the bedroom under the eaves, leave it on the table beside her. Sometimes he would pause for a moment to study the now white curls of his wife, and the creased face, cross even in sleep. Years ago, without disentangling herself from drowsiness, she would ask him for a kiss. He would oblige, and be rewarded with a sleepy smile. She had not smiled for years now, properly, Edith. Not with happiness. The only thing that brought a shine to her eyes was triumph. Scoring over the neighbours, her customers. Scoring over anyone she could find, not least Ratty himself. What was it, he sometimes wondered, that caused a carefree young girl to turn so quickly into a crusty old woman? Nothing Ratty could put his finger on: he did his best to please her. But marriage was a rum business, he had learned. At the time
– foolish young lad – he had no idea what he was letting himself in for. But it had never occurred to him to desert his barren ship. He had made his promises to the Lord, and they would not be broken. Besides, if he tried hard enough, he sometimes thought, everything might miraculously change, and Mr and Mrs Ratty Tyler might become as happily married as Mr and Mrs John Lawrence.

  Fortunately for Ratty, he was blessed with a compartmentalized mind. He was able to abandon the tribulations of his marriage as he shut the front door behind him. At four thirty precisely he hobbled into the lane that led to Hallows Farm, limping slightly, hands scrunched into the familiar caverns of his pockets, ears stinging cold beneath his cap.

  For twenty years Ratty had been walking this lane, witnessing thousands of early mornings, each one so infinitesimally different that only a habitual observer could feel the daily shiftings that formed the master plan of each season. Since he had been forced by health and age into semi-retirement, and now only made the journey twice a week, the privacy of dawn was more precious than ever before to Ratty. He listened to his own footsteps on the road – no longer firm and brisk – and the scattered choir of birds. Sometimes a blackbird would soar into a solo, his song only to be muddied by a gang of jealous hedge sparrows. Sometimes an anxious mistlethrush would call to its mate, and be answered by a cheeky robin. There were few unseen birds Ratty could not identify by their song, and their sense of dawn competition made him smile.

  He slashed the long grass of the verges with his stick and noted, as always, the neatness of Mr Lawrence’s hedges. In the sky, a transparent moon was posed on a belly of night cloud. But the dark mass was beginning to break up where it touched the low hills. Streaks of yellow, pale as torchlight, illuminated the line of fine elms that protected Hallows Farm from northern winds. Over the gate that led into the meadow Ratty could see the Friesians, legless in a rising ground mist, intent on their last grass before milking. By the time he had walked the last half-mile the mist had all but evaporated, and the familiar outline of the old barn was black against the sky. A strand of smoke rose from the farmhouse chimney. In the old days, Ratty always arrived before Mrs Lawrence lit the kitchen fire. His current lateness troubled him. Although he knew Mr Lawrence would have understood, and urged him not to hurry, he took the precaution of disguising the precise time of his arrival. This morning, for instance, he would go straight to the barn to sort out some stacks of foodstuff. When Mr Lawrence dropped by some time between five thirty and six, he would have no idea when Ratty had started, and could be counted on not to ask.

  This morning, too, Ratty had another reason for wanting to start off in the barn. The girls would be here this morning, and he wanted to get a look at them before they saw him. See what he was up against, as it were. Get their measure. He had never worked with women on the land, and could not imagine how it would be. But as a man who could be stimulated by very small changes, he was not against the idea – not as against it, in fact, as Mr Lawrence. Chances were they wouldn’t be up to much – he couldn’t see a girl on a tractor, himself. But in all fairness, he must give them the opportunity to prove their worth. And if they weren’t up to the job, they’d be out. As he had agreed with Mr Lawrence, there’d be no mucking about with second chances. There was no time for mucking about with a war on.

  Full of benevolent intent, Ratty reached the barn. His enthusiasm to tidy a pile of heavy sacks had waned. He could deal with them later. For the moment, he felt like a rest.

  Ratty leaned up against the high bumper of the red Fordson tractor. Once a handsome scarlet, its paint was now chipped and dull. He fished for his pipe from an inner pocket, spent a long time lighting it. Its sour smoke joined the smells of the few remaining piles of last year’s hay, rotting mangolds, tar, rope, rust. Up in the dusky beams, the dratted pigeons carried on with their incessant silly cooing. (Ratty’s love of birds did not extend to indolent pigeons.) A cow screamed in Long Marsh: Betty, by the sound of her. He kept his eyes on the empty yard, looking forward to the entertainment of one of the girls getting down to sweeping. Confident his position would not be observed, he took a long draw on his pipe, began his patient wait. After a while he was conscious of a slight agitation in his heart. The feeling reminded him of something. Ratty struggled to remember. That was it: the long-ago event of his wedding. Standing at the altar, waiting for his bride, he had experienced exactly the same thunder of anticipation, excitement. And look where that had landed him …

  At five fifteen, Stella, Ag and Prue presented themselves at the kitchen table. They stood stiffly in their new uniforms. Ag folded back the sleeves of her green pullover: its wool scratched her wrists. Stella was having trouble with the collar of her fawn shirt. Prue stamped her feet in their sturdy regulation shoes.

  ‘Each one feels heavy as a bloody brick,’ she complained. ‘It’s these I became a land girl for …’ She stroked her corduroy breeches, gave a small wiggle of her narrow hips.

  Prue was the only one who had taken the liberty of adding to the uniform – not against the rules unless deemed inappropriate. She had tied a pink chiffon scarf into a bow on top of her head. Although she wore no lipstick today, the mascara was thick as ever.

  Mrs Lawrence poured mugs of her dark, hot tea, and passed a plate of thickly cut bread and butter. Her look at Prue made her silent opinion quite clear. Then her husband came in and spoke her thoughts for her.

  ‘That thing on your head,’ he said, ‘won’t stand much chance up against the side of a cow.’

  Prue fluttered her eyes at him, defiant. ‘I’ll take that risk,’ she said.

  ‘Very well.’

  Mr Lawrence found himself curiously moved by the sight of the three girls, eager to work for him, lined up in his kitchen so early in the morning.

  ‘Besides,’ said Prue, helping herself to a second slice of bread, ‘I thought it was agreed I’d have a go on the tractor. I told you I was good at that.’

  ‘This isn’t a fairground, I’ll have you know. You don’t “have a go” on things. You do a job of hard work. What’s your name?’

  ‘Prue. Prudence.’ She raised her chin.

  Mr Lawrence sniffed in distaste. ‘And what’s that smell, for Lord’s sake?’

  Prue, her cheeks two pink aureoles that matched the chiffon bow, was delighted he had noticed. ‘Nuits de Paris,’ she smiled.

  Her employer was silenced by the prettiness of Prue’s cocky young face. ‘This is a farm,’ he said at last, his voice less rough than he had intended. ‘I don’t want my cowsheds smelling of the Moulin Rouge, thank you. You’re a land girl, you understand, not a film star.’

  Mrs Lawrence kept her eyes on her tea.

  Prue smiled on, pleased Mr Lawrence should find something of a film star in her. ‘Perhaps Roman Days’d be more up your street?’

  ‘I want none of your fancy scents, just your mind on the milking, thank you, Prudence.’

  Mr Lawrence was brusque now. He nodded towards Ag, not wanting to ask another one her name. ‘You’ll get going with the yard broom, and muck out the pigsty, young lady, and you, Stella—’ he remembered her name all too well – ‘will have to learn to milk before we can let you loose among the cows. Headquarters provided us with the wherewithal, didn’t they, Faith?’ His mouth twitched in a limited smile. He allowed himself a glance at Stella’s knee. The jewel was now disguised by corduroy breeches, though its sharp edges were just visible. Again Mr Lawrence nodded towards Ag. ‘You – you’ll find Ratty Tyler out there somewhere. He’ll show you the brooms, get you going. As for you, Lady Prudence, you’ll take yourself over to the milking shed where my son Joe will sort you out in no time. Stella can come with me.’

  Stella saw Mrs Lawrence’s eyes raised to her husband’s flushed face.

  He went with the girls out into the cold early air of the yard. Stella followed him to the shed where she would receive her ‘training’, as he called it.

  As she walked beside him, the squelch of their gumboots in step, the
farmer felt an acute sense of betrayal.

  He kept his eyes from Stella, and cursed the war.

  Ag stood alone in the yard, hands in her pockets, wondering what to do. She could see no one who might be Ratty Tyler, and did not feel like shouting his name. Ratty? Mr Tyler? What was she supposed to call him? And who was he? Ag listened to the sharp clash of farmyard noises. She dreaded Mr Lawrence returning from the shed, to which he had gone with Stella, and finding her not at work.

  A tall, large-boned man, hooded lids over very dark eyes, appeared from behind the barn. He carried a heavy spade, a pitchfork and a broom. Unsmiling, he approached Ag.

  ‘Thought you might be wanting these,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks. I was looking for Mr Tyler.’

  ‘Ratty appears when he appears. I’m Joe.’

  ‘I’m Ag.’

  Joe handed her the broom. He had had a hard five minutes in the barn trying to persuade Ratty to come out and show the girl what to do. But Ratty, in one of his most stubborn moods, insisted on staying hidden. He wanted to sum up the strangers unseen, he said. Take his time to get used to them. Joe was sympathetic. But in the end he took pity on the tall girl in the yard and agreed with Ratty to set her on her way.

  ‘You want to sweep the yard absolutely clean, sluice down the drains with Dettol – buckets and water over there. Dung heap’s round the corner. Pigsty’s past the cowshed: only the one sow. Not good-tempered. Shouldn’t get in her way. Plenty of clean straw in the barn. I’ll be milking if you want anything.’

  He strode away. Their eyes had never met.

  Ag tested the weight of the broom, surprised at its heaviness. She must devise her own method, she thought, and began sweeping the corner farthest from the barn.

  As there was no sign of Joe Lawrence in the milking shed, Prue took her chance to become acquainted with the cows. They were a herd of twenty Friesians. Each one, chained to her manger, had a name over the stall: Betty, Emma, Daisy, Floss, Rosie, Nancy – Prue wondered if she would ever be able to distinguish between them. She observed their muddy legs, but clean flanks and spotless udders. Looked as if someone else had done the washing down, thank goodness. That was the part of this job she could never fancy.