The Land Girl

by Allie Burns

  ‘Stay ’til he’s back, will you?’

  Emily eyed the girls. The conversation had moved on. The girls were playing a new game whilst Martha had abandoned them and now knelt over a tub where she lifted out the sheets of soaked newspaper she was preparing for the fire. The conversation about the Cothams appeared to be forgotten. She sat at the table with Mrs Tipton.

  ‘How did Mr Tipton enjoy his first vote in the elections?’ Martha asked.

  ‘It was quite a thing,’ Mrs Tipton said.

  Her mother would have had her first vote too, though she’d never had an interest in politics and most likely wouldn’t have even gone at all.

  ‘I don’t know what I’d do if they ever let me in a polling station. I suppose, I’d put an X next to the man Mr Tipton was voting for. I don’t know whether I think it’s right that some women are being asked to make decisions like this. Who are we to say who should be running the country?’

  ‘We’re as capable of making the decision as anyone else,’ said Martha. ‘We’ve shown our worth with our war effort.’

  Yes, and while some women over thirty had been rewarded with the vote, Cecil had been disenfranchised for five years.

  ‘House!’ Hen called from the settee.

  The kitchen door rattled, and in with a draft of chilled and foggy air came the scrape of hobnail boots, and claws on the flagstones. Sally jumped to her paws, her ears pricked, baring her teeth and growling.

  ‘Here, girl,’ Emily said.

  In came a dog, twice Sally’s size with a two-tone coat: thick, dark hair on top and golden strands beneath. It peeled back its black, filmy gums to reveal fangs that would tear a good chunk out of Sally’s hide with one bite and a bark that cut right through her.

  The dog stepped away from the shadowy legs of his master, still in the shadows, encroaching on Sally’s territory. Undeterred, Sally yapped back, with a vicious snarl.

  Lottie and Hen put their hands over their ears.

  Mrs Tipton was up and out of her chair. She slapped Sally on the back. ‘You be quiet!’ She hit the dog again and tugged her by the scruff of the neck.

  The collie glared over her haunches, her speckled eyes brimming with aggression. She whimpered as Mrs Tipton booted her up the behind and she scampered under the table. Emily put a discreet hand beneath the tabletop, reaching out for Sally’s fur, and then massaged the poor dog’s head.

  ‘Percy Greenacre! Look what we have here. Clear some room.’ Mrs Tipton gestured at Lottie and Hen on the settee to move themselves onto the floor with the others to make way for Percy.

  ‘Girls. Make way for HopBine Farm’s very own war hero.’

  He sat with his hat in his hands. His broad thighs almost filled the space taken by the girls. The dog, superior now it was victorious, positioned itself facing into the room between Percy’s legs. Percy reeked of tobacco and something unfamiliar that Emily couldn’t quite pin down.

  The dog was panting, his pink tongue lolling, and the grooved gums all out on display. Sniffing around the shadows of the table, his fishy breath pumped into the room. Emily nudged him away, careful not to get too close.

  ‘Who’s your new friend? Has he a name?’ Mrs Tipton called the beast over, and rubbed his back.

  ‘Rover,’ Percy said. ‘I picked him up from a German prisoner of war in France and brought him back with me. Loyal creatures are Alsatians. Not like their masters.’

  He teased his fingers around the dog’s ears. Rover responded by tilting his head backwards. Sally’s head now rested on Emily’s thigh. She gave a long, steady blink and disappeared back into the shadows.

  ‘The war has really turned things upside down on the farm, Percy. This here is Emily. Williams now, but she’s one of the Cothams who own this place. She has been working here with us, she has. Haven’t you, dear?’

  They shook hands. He had only given the girls a cursory glance as he’d stepped over and around them to reach his seat, but now he appraised her afresh.

  ‘I can see it now,’ he said nodding. Emily was certain she’d never laid eyes on him before, but that happened a lot. The villagers knew her, but she didn’t know them. ‘You’re the young girl who always followed the ole man around the farm.’

  She nodded. If she was going to run this place, she’d have to become acquainted with these men.

  He had heavy lines on his face, his brow folding down over his eyes. His hair, smarmed down to one side, stuck up in places where his hat had worked it free. His shoulders were broad. His frame suggested strength and capability, but he was shrunken, as if his body wasn’t reaching the potential that his structure offered. He definitely wasn’t the sort to take orders from a woman.

  ‘Another hand?’ Lottie asked the girls. Emily joined them. Mrs Tipton and Percy slipped into their own conversation, catching up, talking about people from the farm and village Emily didn’t know. Once or twice she would break away from the game only to find his eyes on her.

  Mrs Tipton was still talking. Percy stroked his dog. Emily laid out the cards, edging forwards away from Rover’s fishy breath hot on her collar. She laid down a seven of hearts and won the hand. Percy mumbled in a monotone voice about railway coupons, an allowance for clothing, pension, thirty-eight shillings a week.

  ‘How many men are still out there?’ Emily asked.

  ‘How many?’ he repeated. ‘Hard to say. It’s chaos. They said it’d take just a few weeks, but it’ll be months more like it.’

  ‘She’s waiting for her sweetheart,’ Mrs Tipton explained.

  ‘What was his work? Those with jobs to go to are being let home soonest.’

  She took a deep breath; here she went again. ‘He’s gone to Germany though.’ She was getting better at lying, just as long as she didn’t catch Martha’s eye. Her friend still kneaded wet newspaper, but had barely taken her gaze from Percy since he’d arrived.

  ‘They let you go because you had work, did they?’ Mrs Tipton steered the conversation back to Percy before Emily could ask if there were many men in the hospitals.

  The drip, drip of the damp newspaper being wrung out by Martha came into focus. Her friend wouldn’t take kindly to the threat to her livelihood.

  ‘Aye, well if the master will have me back.’ Percy fiddled with the trouser fabric on his knee. After all he’d seen and done for his country, it wasn’t right he had to beg for his job, but the girls had worked hard too, kept his job open for him.

  ‘The little ’uns eat so much,’ he continued. ‘The missus says it’s been a right struggle.’ His smile was feeble. He picked at his trousers with increased urgency.

  Martha had said that the tighter the newspaper was squeezed, the longer it burnt, but never usually that much. Her knuckles shouldn’t be turning white or her mouth pinching to a knot with the force of her effort.

  ‘Of course the ole man’ll want you back,’ said Mrs Tipton. ‘It’s market day today. He has important meetings to attend, as you might remember. But come back in the morning. He’ll be so pleased to see your strong arms. We’ve lost the war men now and Alfred can’t lift a shovel these days without wheezing like his lungs are about to burst.’

  Percy’s shoulders relaxed and he smiled widely, but Emily clenched her jaw and blurted out: ‘We girls have proven that we can do the heavy work too, Mrs Tipton.’

  ‘I know you have, girl. Heavens, I didn’t mean to go upsetting you.’

  She might not have intended to, but she had. It was as if everything they’d done was forgotten already.

  Martha took a lump of soggy newspaper and tossed it at the hearth. It landed with a sulky thud. The dog jumped up, but Martha snatched it away just in time.

  ‘And what are you boiling up about?’ Mrs Tipton straightened her back.

  ‘Nothing,’ Martha snarled, daring the dog to come closer with her no-nonsense gaze. Percy told the dog to sit down and he obeyed his master.

  ‘Out with it,’ Mrs Tipton barked.

  Martha was shaking too much to have
a clear enough head for a proper argument.

  ‘I think Martha’s just wondering,’ Emily began, ‘we’re all wondering, where we might fit in with all this.’ She sat on the edge of her seat, leaning forwards to address them both. ‘We’ve kept the home fires burning and we’ve really found a purpose, and enjoyed the work. We don’t want to stop just because the war’s over.’

  Mrs Tipton frowned. ‘You’ve a husband now, dear. It’ll be up to him whether or not you can work as you hope, not me or the ole man, and as you know, girls like you don’t normally work so you’ll be asking a lot of him.’

  Emily slapped the table with her palm. ‘But, Mrs Tipton, the war has changed things. Married women have worked for the last four years.’

  ‘Aye, because the men were away fighting. What choice did they have but to call on every soul this country had?’

  Who was this woman sitting in front of her? Was it really the same person who’d cut out the newspaper article, planted the very seed in her mind, who had sent her on her journey to where she was now. Only now she said it was over, and time to go back to the sewing.

  ‘You know how much this has meant to me,’ Emily said. ‘It isn’t over for us. It isn’t.’

  ‘Maybe it won’t be how you think. You could keep working on that kitchen garden o’ yours, you’ll get your horses back from the Front and then you’ll be able to take up riding again.’

  Emily shook her head. Martha was on her feet now, her composure growing. ‘And I suppose I’ll just go back to scrubbing floors, and working all hours for a pittance, shall I?’

  ‘Now you look here.’ Mrs Tipton was on her feet too, hands on hips. ‘Work is work and you’re lucky those ladies in their big houses have need of your services. Lloyd George says this is a land fit for heroes and that’s never truer than on HopBine Farm.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Percy was on his feet now.

  ‘You come back in the morning,’ Mrs Tipton said. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry about this kerfuffle. The war’s given young girls big ideas I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said Percy. ‘Thank you, Mrs Tipton.It’s a relief to learn there’s work – I can’t lie.’

  ‘Good to have you back, lad. Take no notice o’ the girls. Welcome home.’

  ‘And what about us?’ Martha’s knuckles were white where she gripped the wet ball of newspaper.

  Percy and Rover had barely closed the kitchen door behind him when Martha erupted.

  ‘Which one of us doesn’t come to work tomorrow, then, if he’s to take our place?’

  Emily darted outside. She’d said enough and if she stayed she’d only make things worse. There must be a way for the women to work alongside the men. They just had to find a compromise.

  ‘Mr Greenacre,’ she called after Percy’s silhouette on the far side of the yard. They met in the middle of the yard, in the midst of the inky darkness, the raised voices from the farmhouse floating around them. He had taken off his cap to speak to her, and now scrunched it in his hand.

  ‘Over in France and Belgium. Are there many men still in hospital?’

  ‘The influenza has caught up with many,’ he said. ‘They say the war has ground them down. The flu will finish them off – not all though. Many are getting better, so they say,’ he added. ‘The nurses know what they’re doing and take good care of the soldiers.’

  ‘Did you ever come across a man by the name of Theodore Williams?’ she asked. ‘He’s my husband. He fought in the Wakefield regiment.’

  ‘You said he was in Germany?’ Percy said.

  She circled her head, not quite committing to the nod. He would understand the state Theo was in by the end, but if she told him the truth, that she had no idea where he was, and he didn’t respect her confidence then it might spread to the whole village by tomorrow lunchtime.

  ‘He didn’t sound himself in his last few letters,’ she blurted out. ‘He hadn’t been right for a while.’

  He didn’t flinch, or even raise an eyebrow. Theo wouldn’t be the only man to have changed because of the war.

  ‘I’m sorry, I never came across him.’

  ‘Was it very bad, the war?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye. It was indeed.’

  Dearest Theo,

  Still no news from you – at least I can rest easy knowing that the fighting has ceased, but it would put my mind at rest to hear from you. I’m sure you’re busy clearing up from the war and by all accounts the fighting went on until the last and now the authorities must catch up with Armistice. There are some men home, but many more still to come.

  Perhaps you will write soon.

  Fondest wishes

  Emily

  ‘Please don’t let Martha go just yet,’ Emily said to Mr Tipton when she caught him in the farmyard.

  As the other girls returned to their old lives they’d urged Martha to do the same while she had the chance. The war had cost the country and there’d be a scramble for jobs. There were the women in the munitions factories all out of work, and the men coming home. Martha had refused to return to service.

  ‘She’s headstrong that one,’ he said.

  ‘But an excellent worker. Loyal too.’

  Once Martha gave up on working the farm and returned to her old life, that would be it. The only way out of service would be another war and not even she was desperate enough to wish for that. This was a time to take what they had gained from the war and forge forwards, not to throw it all up in the air and retreat back to where they were before.

  ‘Oh, all right then, but only while I can afford to, and only for as long as it’s me in charge.’

  She pumped her fists, and scampered to catch up with him. She hadn’t finished with him yet; the most important question was still to come.

  ‘I want to take over from you when you retire at the end of next season. What do you think?’

  He frowned. ‘What do I think?’ He glanced at her sideways. ‘I think it’s not my farm; it’s your mother’s.’

  He trudged away again.

  ‘But would you put in a good word for me, tell her you think I’d make an excellent manager?’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing,’ he snapped, coming to a standstill and turning to her with a tired, sagging face. ‘You’ve shown as you’re able, a hard worker. I’d go so far as to say it’s in your bones, and with a man at the helm I dare say you’d be fine, but the future of this place is not my business; it’s family business. I’m sorry.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  December 1918

  ‘It’s been so long I nearly forgot the look of you.’ Grandmother, still wearing her mourning clothes, held out a gloved hand as Emily arrived in the dingy sitting room of her mansion flat in Belgravia.

  She’d called on her mother at her uncle’s house in De Vere Gardens but the footman, Henderson, had told her she was unwell, a migraine attack, and he’d pass on the message since she’d called. Then the door had been shut firmly in her face, leaving her no option but to call on Grandmother.

  ‘My goodness you’ve quite changed. Stand here, in the light. Yes, your complexion is really quite improved, though you ought to acquaint yourself with a nailbrush, my dear.’ She dropped Emily’s hand.

  Once tea was served Grandmother launched straight in.

  ‘Emily my dear, now that this war is over you need to concentrate on your duty to your mother.’

  ‘She seems to be doing perfectly well without me,’ Emily said without a pause. Grandmother had no idea of the freedoms she’d enjoyed as a land girl. There was no way she could return to how things were before, even with a baby on the way.

  ‘That’s how it might appear. She was knocked low by John’s death and Wilfred was a port in a storm, but it’s time now, don’t you think, that your family pulled itself back together? And you, with your husband, should be the ones to do it.’

  Emily blinked quickly. She hadn’t told the family about the baby yet. She’d wanted Theo to be the first to know, but whether or not
Theo would feature in her future, she’d come to London with other ideas; and that didn’t include being Mother’s lap dog again.

  ‘The war has changed everything. We can’t go back to how it was before.’

  ‘Well, you might think differently. It’s only what I hear … Call on her again and see for yourself.’

  This wasn’t how her trip to London was supposed to pan out. A baby on the way and an absent husband was complication enough without Mother being in need. Emily sighed and tossed herself back into her armchair. She’d had enough of all this. She too had lost her father and a brother. Cecil had brought shame on her as much as Mother.

  Grandmother slammed her cup onto its saucer. ‘Oh, pull your bottom lip in and go to her for heaven’s sake. See if you can encourage her to stand on her own two feet. That has always been your mother’s problem.’

  *

  She stood outside of De Vere Gardens, her uncle’s home, and surveyed the blank white veneer, the pillared entrance, and gasped. Someone was spying on her. A face at the window, now gone.

  Then the black front door opened, and from behind Henderson in his livery, a woman appeared, a cloak draped around her shoulders, fastened with a decorative brooch, her hair pulled back into an elaborate roll with curls ironed into the back.

  Could it be? She craned forwards. Heavens, it was.

  ‘Mother!’ she called.

  Mother charged towards her with a blank expression. It had been such a long time. Emily opened her arms to embrace her, wanting to tell her all about her war work. But then Mother swept past her, her cloak billowing in her wake. She grabbed Emily’s arm.

  ‘Why are you intent on making such a fuss?’ Mother hissed. ‘What are you doing here?’ Mother’s gaze didn’t settle on her; instead her eyes darted around her, scrutinising the pedestrians that went by. She wasn’t how Emily had imagined she’d be. The contentedness that had emanated from her scant letters had caused Emily to imagine the departure of Mother’s shadows beneath her cheekbones, the raw patch of hair at the front, and grey streaks running through her chestnut hair; but it was all just the same. The beauty of her slender nose, her delicate-as-porcelain jaw remained, but the grey-blue sharp eyes were as faded as the day she last saw her.