by Angela Huth
‘Crikey,’ she said, not knowing what else to say, ‘not the same, is it? But at least we’re all here.’ There were brief hugs, steps taken back to observe each other. Stella was thinner, pale. She looked tired. Ag was more rounded, her Madonna-shaped face and beautiful cheekbones pronounced against scraped-back hair.
‘I said to Ag you’d get yourself a black bow.’ Stella was almost laughing.
‘And I said you’d be in swanky mourning clothes and diamonds. You said you get diamonds every week!’ said Ag.
‘Bit of an exaggeration.’ Prue tried to laugh but realized their attempts at lightness had evaporated. The three girls in the small, unadorned room were lost for the next move in their reunion.
Stella came to the rescue. ‘We’d best be getting down, find something to eat,’ she said. ‘I’ve brought a basket of stuff.’
‘Me too,’ said Ag.
‘I brought Mr Lawrence’s favourite whisky and a bottle of Barry’s best wine.’ By now, Prue reckoned, the moment for teasing her about her riches had passed. She felt no guilt about bringing such drink.
They clattered down the stairs.
‘Joe’s on his way,’ said Prue.
‘I know,’ said Stella.
Mr Lawrence was ambling about as if he neither knew nor cared which way he traversed the kitchen. He carried a frying-pan, letting it swing at his side.
‘Here, you sit down, Mr Lawrence,’ Stella said. ‘We’ve brought things. We’ll do it all.’
Mr Lawrence took his old place at the table, let his eyes wander among the three girls as they rummaged for plates and knives and forks. Stella took the frying-pan from him and set it on the range. There was an air of busyness, and almost at once the smell of coffee and frying eggs and bacon.
‘Good to have you girls back,’ said Mr Lawrence. ‘Good of you all to come so far.’ He spoke as if he was not entirely sure they were there.
They laid a place for Joe, but he did not turn up for lunch. They talked quietly as they ate. Mr Lawrence, still with the air of one who is uncertain of where he is or why he is there, allowed himself to remember some of the incidents at Hallows Farm. Then, gathering strength – from the girls’ presence, perhaps – he was able to speak in the customary dry way they remembered so well. The girls followed up his recollections with some of their own, striving for lightness. The knowledge that their memories overlapped gave warmth to the chill of the occasion. ‘But for the strangeness of it all,’ as Ag said later, ‘it was almost ordinary. Almost as if Mrs Lawrence would come in any minute.’
Prue looked at every detail of the kitchen. She guessed that Mrs Lawrence, tired out by the war, had not had the energy to make much effort here. The walls, a sour mint green, plainly had not been painted for years. There was a battered linoleum floor, cracked tiles of municipal white on the wall behind the range, two bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Above all, there was no warmth: this was not a kitchen smouldering with work – cooking, kneading, scrubbing. Perhaps Mrs Lawrence had ceased to care once they had left Hallows Farm. Prue knew none of them could ever ask why: they would never know. And the dogs – where were they?
She held up her bottle of whisky towards Mr Lawrence. He gave a slight nod. She poured him a quarter of a glass. ‘What happened to the dogs?’ she asked.
He sighed, swung the liquid in the smeared glass. ‘They came to an end,’ he said. ‘They’d had their time. Still, Faith and I were thinking of getting a new collie. But I don’t know, now.’
‘You should,’ said Ag. ‘You need a dog.’
‘Probably do. I’ll think about it after the funeral. It’s all arranged, you know. Eleven tomorrow, church down the road. All Faith’s favourite hymns. Pity Ratty’s not here – he could ring a good funeral bell. He liked the sad sound better than the merry one, if you ask me. Now, if you girls don’t mind, I’m going to take a rest. You could go for a walk, see what you think of the place. And make a pot of tea when Joe arrives.’
He left the room, a little unsteady, glass in hand.
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Ag. ‘I remember that time at Hallows Farm when Mrs Lawrence was ill. We were all so surprised. She wasn’t the sort of woman to be ill, was she? I looked after her. The thought of her dying never occurred to me.’
‘She was probably completely exhausted by the war,’ said Stella. ‘Once it was over, perhaps the fight just went out of her.’
‘I’m sure it didn’t. I’m sure if they hadn’t had to move she would still—’ said Prue.
‘She probably wouldn’t,’ said Ag. ‘She had a bad heart, remember?’
They had come to a bridge they did not know how to cross. The old ease was muddied by death, absence. With one accord they got up from the table, wanting to leave the strange room.
‘Let’s go and explore Yorkshire,’ said Stella. They put on the battered land-girl boots they had all thought to bring with them, and began to walk towards the distant Dales.
On their return they found a small Austin parked in front of the house, but no sign of Joe. In the kitchen Mr Lawrence was making some attempt to set tea as it had always been: a pile of bread and butter on a plate in the middle, the huge glossy teapot beside it with its old partner the cracked blue jug of milk. The pathos of his efforts struck the girls, who at once helped with additional things found in cupboards, but they made no comment.
Mr Lawrence sat down, relieved to have them taking charge. ‘How did you find it, the land up here?’ The question was to Stella, the one land girl who had caused him deeply disturbing sensations, though he had succeeded in hiding them.
‘Very different,’ Stella answered.
‘Different, all right. But we were lucky to have somewhere.’ He turned now to face her and said quietly: ‘Joe arrived when you were out. Devil of a long journey. He’ll be down.’ Stella smiled at him, a silent thanks for the moment he had given her in which to compose herself.
They were spreading Mrs Lawrence’s homemade plum jam on their bread when Joe came into the room. The three girls looked up at him with one accord, noted the newness of his tweed jacket, the shadows under his eyes. Superimposed over his physical presence were the private visions it produced in each of them.
Ag: that single night in a cottage in the woods when he had so kindly, so gently, relieved her of her virginity at her request.
Prue: that first morning in the milking shed, trying to decipher if his lust flamed as hard as hers . . . and discovering it did on the night she fell from the beam in the barn, and the many nights in his narrow bed till they had to give up from exhaustion.
Stella: oh, Joe. The time it had taken for mutual discovery of love – that terrifying day of the bomb falling on the haystack, Joe taking her in his arms and saying all he cared about was that she was safe. The time they had sat up through the lambing night. The time she had had to tell him that honour meant she must marry Philip, and his terrible, silent pain that matched her own. Then the journey she and Joe had taken round Normandy, soon after they had all left Hallows Farm – miles of shattered country seen through the windscreen on the old Wolseley which Mr Lawrence had willingly lent them, as if he understood . . . and when it was over Joe saying, as they faced the white cliffs of Dover, ‘At least we’ve had a week of our lives . . .’
‘So good you could all come,’ Joe said, looking at none of them directly. He sat in the empty chair next to Ag. They pushed bread and honey and jam towards him and laughed when there was a clash of plates.
Mr Lawrence eased himself higher in his chair, as he often did when he was about to make an announcement. ‘I was wondering,’ he said, his voice almost at its old strength, ‘if by any chance you girls have brought your uniforms?’
They shook their heads.
‘We no longer have them,’ said Ag. ‘They were taken back. Such a mean gesture . . .’
‘I didn’t know that. It’s just that . . . Faith was so proud of the three of you, so proud to have played some part in your wartime work. I
think she would have liked you to be at her funeral dressed as land girls . . .’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Stella.
‘No matter.’ He paused. His shoulders rose, indicating the next effort he had to make. ‘Well . . . I’m going to take Joe round the place, show him our so-called progress here, then walk down to the church. If you girls could manage supper . . .’
It was while they were preparing it, chopping, peeling, shifting things in saucepans, just as they used to for Mrs Lawrence, that they questioned each other about their lives. They always did this at their annual lunches in London, but preparing supper in the Lawrences’ house somehow made it easier.
Ag had little news: settled on a Devon farm with Desmond, she more or less carried on with her land-girl work, she said, and loved it. She had become famous in the community for her hedging, she modestly admitted when Prue pressed her to say exactly what work she did on the land.
Stella, in a cottage on the Norfolk coast – Philip insisted on being by the sea – could do little beyond look after him, bound to his wheelchair, and their son James. It was hard to get help and sometimes, Stella said, she was so tired she could lie on the floor and sleep. But they wanted another child – hoped for a girl. ‘What keeps me going,’ she said, ‘are long walks on the vast empty beach, all weathers. The skies . . . Sometimes I wheel Philip down to the marshes, but I don’t think he sees it all as I do. He feels the cold so. Turns up the collar of his coat after a moment or two, wants to go home almost at once.’ She sighed, picked up her bag, rummaged for her wallet. ‘Want to see a picture of James?’ She took out a photograph of a small boy, lock of hair falling over one eye – such an exact image of Joe that Ag and Prue gasped.
‘Has Joe seen this?’ Prue asked.
‘No. But I’ll show him one day, perhaps.’
Ag studied the photograph carefully. ‘Does he know?’
‘I think he’s probably guessed. I mean, I’m sure he knows. I knew I was pregnant soon after we were back from France, before Philip and I were married. I wrote to Janet and Joe when James was born. He wrote back a note saying . . .’ Stella turned away, pushed her fist into her eyes. ‘The main thing is that Philip is in no doubt James is his – keeps saying their foreheads are so alike. Amazing how people can see what they want to see.’ She turned back to the table. ‘But, Prue, what’s your news? Is your millionaire husband still the man of your dreams?’
Prue giggled. She sat down, pulled a chopping board of parsnips and a knife towards her. ‘He’s very rich, just as I wanted,’ she said.
‘And?’
‘He’s very generous.’ She lifted the hand with the diamond ring and tapped the gold watch on her wrist.
‘Good.’ Stella was brusque. ‘And are you happy?’
Prue felt herself blush. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.
‘Happy?’ persisted Ag.
Prue giggled again. ‘Course I’m happy. I mean, I don’t suppose any of us – except you, Ag – has found the actual man of our dreams. There’s always got to be something wrong, hasn’t there? You can’t expect a hundred per cent, can you? Barry isn’t exactly what I’d imagined, but we get along fine in a funny sort of way. He’s got a wizened old housekeeper who doesn’t fancy me, and he’s out a lot of the time so I haven’t much to do. He let me buy some chickens – I think of you every time I collect the eggs, Ag – and one of his tenants, a carpenter who says he’s a poet and lives next door, Johnny, built a lovely house and run for them. But chickens aren’t much company, are they?’
Her question wasn’t answered. Stella, frying at the stove, said: ‘And what about this Johnny carpenter-poet?’
‘Oh, Johnny. He likes driving me about in my Sunbeam Talbot. He shows me Derbyshire, talks about poetry – a bit above my head as you can imagine. He’s all right. Nothing to make the heart race.’
‘That’s good.’ Stella smiled at her, motherly.
‘Don’t you worry, I’m not up to my old tricks. I know bloody well how lucky I am being married at all. I’m not going to risk messing that up. All I want is to find something to do, something useful. I’m not used to a lazy life. I mean, crikey, I’m glad I no longer have to get up at four in the morning to pick a field of frozen sprouts . . . but I’d like to be doing something.’
‘Quite,’ said Stella.
Supper was a muted occasion. Joe barely spoke. Mr Lawrence’s repertoire of memories, so bravely conjured to ease lunch, had run out. The girls did their best, but everyone was relieved when it was time to listen to the news on the Home Service in the sitting room. It was another cheerless room despite the familiar furniture. Pictures were still stacked against a wall, and there was still blackout at the windows, which awaited curtains. On the seat of the chair by the fire – Mrs Lawrence’s old chair – lay a bundle of knitting speared by two long needles, each full of stitches, suggesting that the unfinished scarf, trailing on the floor, had been quickly abandoned. Perhaps Mrs Lawrence, on her last night, had felt a strange desire to hurry upstairs to bed, Prue thought. And it was suddenly unbearable. With no excuse she left from the room, intending to go up to the attic to shed private tears, but Joe, who had not followed the others into the sitting room, was ahead of her. With no plan in mind, she followed him to the kitchen. He went out through the back door. She followed him again, knowing he was unaware of her, watched him make for the barn. There, from a distance, she saw him lean up against one wing of the new-looking Fordson and light a cigarette.
Prue crept into the barn, a dark and husky place, no feeling of husbandry there had been in the barn at Hallows Farm. A few bales of hay and the unfamiliar tractor were the only furniture.
‘Joe,’ she said.
He looked up, surprised. ‘Oh, Prue,’ he said.
She moved nearer to him. If Mrs Lawrence hadn’t died she would have flung her arms round his neck and kissed him in the old, thrilling way, telling herself it was for old times’ sake. It would all have been innocent, the kind of innocent gesture neither Stella nor Janet would have minded. As it was, she had no plan in mind. She just wanted to be close to him, to feel . . . what? She couldn’t say. Comfort from Mrs Lawrence’s son, perhaps. She stood with her arms by her sides. ‘I just wanted to say how dreadfully sorry—’
‘Yes, well.’
‘None of us can believe it, really.’
‘It’s hard to believe, Mum not there.’
‘Not there . . . Your dad seems to be coping.’
‘He’s in shock at the moment.’ He glanced at her, his eyes two shards of pure silver as the moon moved from behind a cloud.
Prue took a step nearer. ‘I often think Stella and Ag and I will remember our year at the farm as the best time of our lives.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Joe, dragging on his cigarette. ‘How’s life with you? Married woman.’
‘It’s OK. It’s fine.’
‘Good.’
‘And you and Janet?’
‘What about me and Janet?’
‘Are you . . . ?’
‘We’re fine, too. We’ll be coming up here in a few months’ time. Taking over. Looking after Dad.’
‘That’s good.’ So slowly she might have been playing a private game of Grandmother’s Footsteps, Prue moved even nearer to Joe. ‘Do you remember all those times, Joe?’ she said.
‘Course I remember all those times,’ Joe snapped, ‘but I don’t think about them often. I’m not thinking about them now.’
‘No. Nor you should. Quite right. It must be odd, seeing us all again.’
‘You’re the one who hasn’t changed,’ said Joe, reverting to a milder tone. ‘You’re exactly as you ever were, you minx.’ He suddenly laughed. Prue saw that as the signal. With no thought of betrayal to Stella, who really loved him, or to his wife, who probably did too, she threw her arms round his neck. She felt him rock against the tractor bumper, and clamped her mouth to his. For an infinitesimal moment she knew that in another time, another place, he might have responded. But now he
was shocked, angry. He pushed her roughly away, bent down to pick up the butt of his fallen cigarette.
Desolate at having done the wrong thing, Prue cursed herself for not having thought hard enough about how Joe might respond to her act of ‘comfort’. Most of the mistakes she made, she remembered in the sharpness of the moment, were due to her thoughtless spontaneity. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whimpered. ‘I didn’t mean . . . It’s just all the sadness. I thought—’
‘You thought – what? You’d be a comfort? My mother dead? A quick kiss in the barn for old times’ sake? Honestly Prue. Your sense of timing. Your rotten judgement. Go on. Get back to the house.’
Prue turned from him and ran. In the house she sped up the stairs, mortified. The others were already in their narrow beds. A lighted oil lamp made soft shadows creep out of the real darkness.
‘You been seducing Joe?’ Ag asked, laughing.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Stella. ‘Even you wouldn’t go that far, would you Prue? Not on this occasion.’ She laughed, too. Their trust in Prue’s honour was almost unbearable. She got into the empty bed by the window, cold under two thin blankets, wondering why the beams she knew so well in the attic at Hallows Farm were not holding up this ceiling. Ag turned down the lamp. The three girls struggled in silence with their own thoughts. Then Stella said: ‘Prue, I’ve been thinking. I’ve an idea. What you should do is get a job on a farm.’
The thought of that possibility deflected Prue’s agonizing over her shameful behaviour, but it was a long night of little sleep for all of them.
Next morning the girls, once breakfast was finished, continued to sit round the table, unsure what to do. There was an hour until the hearse arrived and they were to walk to the church. Ag looked out of the window. Dark ribbons of cloud chased across a sky pale as a wheatfield: sometimes they clustered together, then divided again to swoop off in another direction, like flocks of starlings uncertain of which way to go. ‘What a frivolous sky for a funeral,’ she said.