The Victory Garden

by Bowen, Rhys

  “I don’t like to say it, but there’s no bathroom and no lav,” Daisy said, coming up the stairs behind the other two.

  “There’s a copper in the kitchen,” Alice said cheerfully. “We can heat water in that to wash with, but no lav? Maybe it’s outside.”

  They went to look, and it was—an afterthought tacked on to the house beyond the back door.

  “I won’t fancy going out here at night,” Alice said. “I hope they have jerries.”

  “Jerries?” Emily looked confused.

  “Chamber pots, love,” Alice chuckled. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever had to use one with nice indoor plumbing, but the rest of us, we’re used to jerries.”

  “Goodness,” Emily said, thinking of having to use a chamber pot with other women in the house.

  “Well, we’d better get to work, or I think that old lady will have something to say,” Alice said. “Come on. Let’s face the music.”

  They walked back up the hill.

  “What should we start on first?” Daisy asked.

  “I think it had better be the lawn,” Emily said. “It’s been fine weather for a while, so the scything and mowing should be done while the grass is dry.”

  “I wasn’t any good at scything,” Alice said. “Nearly took me blooming feet off a couple of times.”

  “Daisy was, weren’t you?” Emily said. “She got the hang of it right away.”

  “Yes. I wasn’t bad, was I?” Daisy blushed at the praise.

  “Right, Daisy, you scythe, and we’ll rake and bundle, and then we’ll take turns with the mower. I rather think it will take two of us to push it. It looks awfully heavy.”

  It was indeed hard work trying to push the mower. Simpson told them that he had oiled it, but even so, it took two of them to propel it over a lawn choked with weeds. They worked solidly for a couple of hours, and by the time the church clock had struck twelve, they had mowed a patch of lawn at the front of the house.

  “I wonder what time dinner is,” Daisy said. “I’m awful hungry.”

  “Let’s go and see,” Emily said. She led the others towards the front door and rang the bell. It was opened by a thin little woman with a sharp, foxy face and sandy hair now streaked with grey. Her small dark eyes darted nervously.

  “Yes, what do you want?” she demanded.

  “We wanted to know if it’s time for our lunch yet,” Emily said. “We’re the land girls who have come to work for Lady Charlton. We were told we’d be taking our meals at the big house.”

  “I know who you are,” the woman said. “And you’ve got a nerve, showing up at the front door. You go round the back to the tradesman’s entrance. I’m not having you traipsing in mud across my nice clean floors.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Emily said, flushing at this onslaught. They made their way around the house to where a door had been opened for them. The woman was standing there. “Make sure you wipe your feet properly,” she said. “Mud scraper’s to the left.”

  “We don’t actually have much mud on us,” Emily said. “It hasn’t been raining and the grass was quite dry.”

  “Hark at Miss Hoity-Toity there,” the woman said. “Well, come on in then. I’ve put bread and cheese out for you on the kitchen table.”

  “Are you the cook?” Emily asked, trying to appear friendly.

  “I am Mrs Trelawney, the housekeeper,” the woman said. “These days, I also cook for Her Ladyship myself, and take care of her. We’re down to one maid, Ethel, and she’s getting on in years, too. But it’s only Her Ladyship in the house, so most of it’s closed off.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs Trelawney,” Alice said. “I’m Alice Adams, and these two are Daisy and Emily. And we appreciate you getting a meal for us.”

  This seemed to do the trick. The expression of hostility softened a little. “I’ve no doubt it’s hard work out there,” she said. “I think we might have a bit of pork pie to go with the cheese, and some good pickled cabbage, too, that I put up before the war started.”

  The meal was washed down with a big stoneware mug of tea.

  “And we need bedding for the cottage,” Emily said. “Do we get that from you?”

  “I’ll see what we have to spare in the linen cupboard and have it out by the time you come for your supper at six,” Mrs Trelawney said. “Make sure you come here nice and prompt because I have to serve Her Ladyship her dinner at seven thirty, and I don’t want you under my feet then.”

  “If I was the old lady, I wouldn’t want to live with her,” Daisy muttered as they went back to work. “She’s got a face that could curdle milk.”

  “She wasn’t overly friendly, was she?” Emily said. “You’d think she’d welcome company, stuck there alone all day.”

  They went back to the scything and mowing, and by six o’clock they had made good progress on the front lawn. Their supper was shepherd’s pie and runner beans from the kitchen garden, followed by rice pudding. They were all feeling comfortably full by the time they went down to the cottage carrying sheets, blankets and pillows.

  “Why don’t you take the room upstairs,” Alice said. “I expect you’d like a bit of privacy.”

  “So I’ll be the first to know if the roof leaks?” Emily teased.

  “Not at all,” Alice retorted. “Me and Daisy is used to sharing a bed, so it won’t bother us.”

  Emily went upstairs to make her bed. The cottage had a sad, neglected feel to it, and this small room with its sloping ceiling felt especially cold and damp. There seemed to be a draught coming from the window, and there weren’t even any curtains here. No lamp either. When night fell, she’d have no means of light at all. “I’ll need to ask for a candle tomorrow,” she decided. She started to make the bed, taking care not to bang her head on the sloping ceiling. As she moved around to the other side of the bed, she glanced out of the window. The village was bathed in setting sunlight. It looked like a picture postcard. Nothing moved around the green. It struck Emily how empty it seemed.

  She put on the pillow slip and folded down the sheet. The mattress felt hard and lumpy. Emily sighed, and for a moment, a memory of her comfortable bedroom with its pink silk eiderdown flashed into her mind. She turned her gaze back to the room. Apart from the bed, there was no furniture at all. Not even a table to put a lamp or candle on. Hoping to find something she could use, she came out of her little bedroom and crossed the landing to the storage area. At the entrance, she hesitated. It was dark, dusty and musty, and she could see cobwebs festooned from the beams. The window at the far end was covered in more cobwebs and let in little light. Her bedroom window had faced the setting sun. This one faced the hillside, and twilight was fading fast. “Come on,” she said to herself. “It’s only a few cobwebs.” And she forced herself to pick her way amongst the discarded objects. There was not much in the way of furniture. A cracked water basin, an old school desk, a torn lampshade—everything broken beyond repair. Hardly encouraging. She recoiled in horror as she saw a ghostly figure standing in the corner. She almost retreated, her heart pounding. Then she made herself go forwards and laughed out loud when she pulled off an old sheet and found a hatstand beneath it. At least she’d have somewhere to hang her clothes. As she went to move it, her hand brushed a cobweb. She stumbled, pitched forwards and put out her hands to save herself. Dust rose in a cloud, and she found that what had stopped her fall was an old trunk. That would do to put a candle on at least. She attempted to lift it and found it surprisingly heavy. Her heart beat fast as she squatted to open it. The latch was rusted, and it took a lot of jiggling before it flew open. It was full of books. This struck her as surprising—the last thing she expected to find in what had surely been a labourer’s cottage.

  Emily dragged the trunk out on to the landing, where she could examine its contents properly. She picked the books up one by one: Dickens and Tennyson, a history of England, as well as the sort of holy stories handed out as Sunday school prizes. Someone with education had lived here once. Then, she ca
ught sight of an old brown-leather volume with no title. She pulled it out and opened it to find it was a journal, handwritten in tiny fading copperplate script.

  The light was starting to fade. She carried the journal over to the window and attempted to read the writing.

  From the Journal of Susan Olgilvy, July 10, 1858

  In the Village of Bucksley Cross, Devonshire

  I have done it. I am officially the schoolmistress of the village of Bucksley Cross, Devonshire, installed in my own little cottage at the edge of Dartmoor. There are thatched cottages on the other side of the green, a church with a tall, square tower and a public house that looks quite inviting (although I am sure that ladies do not venture into a public house, especially not spinster schoolmistresses).

  The chairman of the parish council personally escorted me across the green to my small, grey stone cottage with a slate roof, set amid a rather overgrown and neglected garden.

  “I think you’ll find everything you need here, Miss Olgilvy,” he said. “The ladies of the parish have made sure the house is comfortable and well-furnished, providing items from their own households when necessary.”

  “You are very kind,” I replied, but now as I stand alone in my tiny living room and look around me, I have to admit that his definition of well-furnished is a far cry from my own.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Emily went to find the others. “Look what I’ve found,” she said. “Someone’s journal from long ago. Isn’t that interesting?”

  “It’s bad luck to read someone else’s diary,” Daisy said, regarding Emily with horror.

  “Really? I never heard that,” Emily replied.

  “That’s what Rose told me when we shared a bedroom at Moorland Hall and I peeked into her diary. She said she’d read her sister’s diary and then right after she caught scarlet fever and nearly died. And sure enough, I spilled a pail of water all across the floor and got into terrible trouble for it.”

  “But this is from eighteen fifty-eight. The person is probably dead by now.”

  “All the same, it’s private, isn’t it?” Daisy said.

  “Then why did she leave it here for anyone to read?”

  “Maybe she died,” Alice said.

  Emily stared down at it, feeling suddenly awkward. “All right. I’ll put it back,” she said.

  “So what are we supposed to do now?” Alice asked. “It’s only eight o’clock, and I ain’t ready to go to bed yet.”

  “There are some books upstairs,” Emily said. “Come and see if there’s anything you might like to read.”

  “I ain’t a big one for reading,” Alice said. “I gave that up when they kicked me out of school and sent me to work in the garment factory. Oh, I know how to read the newspaper headlines, but that’s about it.”

  “Oh, you’re missing so much, Alice,” Emily said. “Books are wonderful. You can get transported away by a good story. If we’re living in a place like this, we can read about Paris or a tropical island and feel like we’re there.”

  “You can read to us, maybe?” Alice suggested.

  “We can take it in turns, to improve your reading.” She looked across at Daisy, who was now shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I can’t read, Miss Emily. I never learned.”

  “Then I’ll teach you. It will give us something to do in the evenings before it gets too dark. You won’t go far in life if you can’t read, either of you.”

  “You’re right there,” Alice agreed. “When Bill was called up, I tried to get a job, but there weren’t much for someone like me with no education. Only the factories. I got a job for a while in a munitions factory, then there was this explosion and a lot of girls were killed and I thought, ‘I’m not staying here like a sitting duck,’ so I quit.”

  “Shall we choose something to read now?” Emily asked.

  “All right,” Daisy said. “You choose for us.” She went to sit down on one of the chairs. There was a loud snapping sound. The leg broke, and Daisy was catapulted on to the floor.

  “Are you all right?” Emily asked, laughing, as they hauled her to her feet.

  “Only embarrassed at looking like a fool.” Daisy joined in the laughter. “Lucky I’m wearing bloomers or I’d have shown my underwear. I hope the beds don’t give out on us during the night.”

  “What a dump!” Alice exclaimed. “You’d think they could find somewhere a bit better to put us, wouldn’t you? If they are down to one maid, wouldn’t there be servants’ rooms in the big house?”

  “I suppose one doesn’t put outside staff in the inside servants’ quarters,” Emily said.

  “That’s right,” Daisy chimed in, still brushing the dust from her skirt. “My dad was the groom and we lived above the stables. And the gardeners lived in their own cottages. And they were never allowed inside the house at all. That’s the way it’s done.”

  “Sounds ruddy stupid to me,” Alice said. “You wait till the communists take over, like in Russia. They’ll put ten families in houses like that one.”

  “Golly,” Emily exclaimed. “Do you really think the communists will take over in England?”

  “Probably not,” Alice conceded. “We’re too sensible here, aren’t we? Apart from going into a war that makes no sense for anybody. Declaring war because a ruddy archduke was shot in some piddling little country somewhere. It’s not as if anyone was trying to invade us.”

  “I agree,” Emily said. “I think it was all a ghastly mistake, but once it started, nobody would back down.”

  They stood in silence for a moment. Outside, they could hear the rooks cawing as they returned to their nests in the big pine trees behind the vicarage.

  “You know what I want to do?” Alice said with sudden determination. “I want to go down to the pub.”

  “The pub?” Emily sounded shocked. “Can ladies go to a public house?”

  “It’s wartime, love. I don’t think the rules apply any more. Come on. I need cheering up, and I need to get out of this dreary hole. Let’s go and meet people and have a drink.”

  They set off down the lane, crossing the village green to the pub on the other side. The “Red Lion” sign glowed in the last rays of sunlight. They pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into a low-ceilinged room filled with the sweet scent of pipe tobacco. The walls were panelled in oak, now almost black with generations of smoke. There was a big fireplace on one wall decorated with horse brasses around it. There were similar oak benches around the walls and several glass-topped tables. Two old gentlemen were sitting at a table in the far corner, both smoking long clay pipes. One of them was Simpson—the other looked even older than he did. They looked up, frowning, as the women came in.

  “Good evening, ladies. What can I do for you?” A woman was standing behind the bar. She had a round face with hair pulled back into a bun, and she was smiling at them.

  “We’re the land girls come to help Lady Charlton,” Emily began.

  “I know who you are, my dears,” the woman said. “Simpson here has been telling us all about you, and how one of you is a proper toff, too. So what will it be?”

  “I wouldn’t say no to a gin and lime,” Alice said.

  Emily had never tried gin, and tried to think what a respectable girl should ask for in a pub. At least she knew she liked cider. “A half-pint of cider, please,” she said.

  “And me, too,” Daisy chimed in.

  “Right you are, my dearies,” the landlady said.

  The old men were still staring.

  “Should we go through to the private bar, do you think?” Emily asked. “We don’t want to upset your regular customers.”

  “Regular customers indeed,” the landlady said. “We don’t get no customers these days, apart from the old geezers here. All the men have gone, haven’t they, including my husband. He didn’t have to go, silly old bugger.” She gave a despairing chuckle. “He were thirty-five, but he said, ‘I’ve got to do my duty, Nell. England expects me to do my duty,�
� and off he went, leaving me to run this place alone.”

  “Is he still alive?” Emily asked cautiously.

  A spasm of pain crossed her face. “Still alive, all right,” she replied, “but only just. He’s lost one leg and his lungs are destroyed, and he’s still in some hospital near London. I don’t know if he’ll ever come home, to be frank with you. I try to get up to London to visit him when I can, but it’s not easy. I can’t leave the pub, can I? It’s not making much money these days, but it’s the only income I’ve got.” While she talked, she pulled two half-pints of cider and then measured out a gin and lime. “But then, I’m one of the lucky ones, so they tell me. Mrs Soper up at the forge and Mrs Upton at the shop, they’ve both lost their menfolk. The Reverend Bingley’s son was taken. And Mary Brierly’s son, which was a hard blow, her being a widow.” She pushed the drinks towards them. “There you go, my dears. Get those inside you and you’ll feel a lot better.”

  They carried their drinks to the nearest table and sat down. The landlady came to join them, a glass of beer in her own hand. “It’s not often I get someone to talk to these days. Those two over there ain’t got two civil words between them. And the rest of the women—well, we’re raised not to go near the demon drink, aren’t we? Most of them are scared to be seen in a public house. Or too overworked to have the time, or the money. More’s the pity. I’m losing money hand over fist, and I’m fair worn out, too.” She paused and took a generous swig of her beer. “And this used to be such a lively place before the war. My husband used to say, ‘We’ve got a little gold mine here, Nell.’ Lots of day-trippers and ramblers in the summer, and all the farmhands from hereabouts. Now I wonder if things will ever get back to normal.” She seemed to realize she had been talking too much and held out her hand. “I’m Mrs Lacey, by the way. Nell Lacey.”

  “Alice Adams.” Alice held out her own hand. “And these two are Emily Bryce and Daisy Watkins.”

  “You’re not from these parts then,” Mrs Lacey said, picking up on Alice’s cockney accent.