by Angela Huth
‘What on earth?’ Prue giggled. ‘Trust you to come up with some fancy observation, Ag.’ Though Ag smiled, Prue could see that once again she had said the wrong thing. It was not the moment to scoff at her old friend. ‘Sorry, Ag. But you still say the sort of things that would never come into my head in a million years. I like that.’ She stood up, scraping her chair with a hideous note across the floor. ‘I’m going to change. My black . . .’
Mr Lawrence came in. He wore a newly ironed white shirt – perhaps the last shirt his wife had ironed for him – and a black tie that hung thinly down its front, the knot tight as a small fist.
‘Shall I cook you something?’ Stella asked.
Mr Lawrence paused, trying to understand the question.
‘Not this morning, thank you, Stella. Joe and I had a pot of tea earlier. That will do.’ He paused again, working something out. ‘Mary from the village will be coming up with something to eat after the . . . service.’
Half an hour later Stella and Ag came downstairs in quiet black dresses. They found Joe in the hall sitting on an upright chair by the grandfather clock. He was still in his new-looking tweed jacket. His black tie was as narrow as his father’s. He got up and they stood there, the three of them, in silence.
‘Prue ready, is she?’ he asked at last.
‘I’m coming,’ she shouted from the top of the stairs, and hurried down. Her long, full black skirt, gathered from a tiny waist, thrashed round her legs. She joined the group, looked from one to another. ‘The New Look,’ she said quietly, desperate to explain in case they thought it inappropriate. ‘Mum ran it up for me from some blackout stuff. We couldn’t get anything else. Hope it’s—’
‘Car’s here,’ Mr Lawrence shouted from outside, where he had been waiting for the arrival of the hearse. He opened the front door. Sun had scattered the last of Ag’s frivolous clouds. It beat into the hall, outlining everything with a dazzle of gold. The hearse was parked at the bottom of the garden path. There were just three bunches of white flowers on the coffin: one each from husband and son, one from the three girls, which Ag had organized through a florist.
Prue let Stella and Ag go ahead, one each side of Mr Lawrence, each holding an arm. She took her chance. ‘I’m so sorry, Joe,’ she said. ‘I made a mistake. I misjudged – I didn’t think. Please forgive me.’
‘Don’t give it another thought. We’re not ourselves. None of us.’ He said it kindly enough, but his mind was not on Prue’s apology. She could see that anything he had felt for her in the past had long since evaporated. She was of no concern to him. Her clumsy kiss had been a mere irritant: he was surprised – shocked – that she could have behaved so carelessly, but not angered because his mind had been on his dead mother rather than a scatty land girl he had fucked for a few weeks long ago.
‘Come on,’ he said, and hurried ahead of her down the path.
Prue followed him more slowly, disentangling her legs from the frolicking skirt, wishing she hadn’t been so insistent on the New Look. Her sadness about Mrs Lawrence was added to, now, by the way that Joe had made it clear that all he wanted was to be rid of her. Perhaps she had destroyed his friendship completely by acting in such thoughtless haste. In future reunions with the past, she vowed, she would curb expectations, hopes. It was foolish of her to have supposed that sensations that were once alive still burned with the kind of flame that could be reignited.
There were a dozen or so people in the church, villagers who had come to know the Lawrences in the last three years. No one from Hinton Half Moon. Mr Lawrence would not have expected any of them to travel so far. He stood very upright, arms folded, his eyes avoiding the coffin. Joe, beside his father, also kept his eyes fixed on the altar where two candles were lighted. Their flames, against the rods of sun that came through the stained-glass window, were deathly pale. The girls sat in the front row opposite Jo and Mr Lawrence. They sang loudly to make up for the lack of male voices, and kept their tears in check until the coffin was borne out to the graveyard.
After the burial they returned to the farmhouse where sandwiches and a coffee sponge were laid on the kitchen table. The kindly Mary bustled about making tea, relieving the girls of any responsibility. Mr Lawrence sat in his upright wooden armchair, hands hanging over the arms as if they were weighted. Joe was the one who, knowing his mother would have had little patience with gloom, suddenly felt the need to invest the occasion with a little merriment. He began to reminisce, with stories of the land girls when they had worked at the farm, and there was relieved laughter.
By supper Mr Lawrence had unbent a little, though he looked exhausted. He went early to bed. Joe remained downstairs to tell the girls his plan was to stay for a few days to make sure his father was all right – ‘which he will be’ – and that he and Janet would be moving in as soon as they had sold their house. Prue noticed that while he and Stella glanced in each other’s direction they made sure their eyes never met.
In bed, for all their efforts to cast aside melancholy, there was an air of disbelief, which each one knew would take a long time to fade. By now they were too tired to try to be cheerful, and they knew each other too well to pretend they had accepted the death of a woman who had meant so much to them.
‘It’s unbelievable,’ Prue said several times. ‘I mean even though Mrs Lawrence was far away, we knew she was always there.’
‘And however often you say it’s unbelievable, it doesn’t help to make it more believable,’ said Ag.
They turned out the lights, lay down in the dark room that was not their attic. Restless with their varied thoughts, there was no more to say. But each one knew of the others’ disturbed night, and shared the dread of leaving Mr Lawrence, his wife in her grave, the next morning.
Chapter 5
Their farewells to Mr Lawrence were brief, constrained, for there was nothing left to say, nothing that could be of comfort. He gave each girl a peck on the cheek. His skin was scratchy, unshaven, his breath rank with tobacco, his eyes focused far from the present scene of departure.
Joe was to drive them to the station in the old Wolseley. When he opened the passenger door, it was Stella who chose to get in. Prue saw them exchange a barely visible smile. She and Ag got into the back. Mr Lawrence gave a brief wave, then moved towards the barn.
‘Dad’s going to the market, luckily,’ said Joe. ‘He’ll keep himself busy, make the most of the smallholding. When Janet and I move in we’ll probably increase the stock . . .’ He spoke in a flat and weary voice. The journey continued in silence.
When he dropped them off at the station he got out of the car, came round and opened both front and back doors but, unlike last night, kept his eyes on Stella. One of his hands was shaking. He hugged Ag and Prue, then turned to Stella. She stood a yard or so away, waiting her turn, her suitcase at her feet. Joe moved the short distance to her like a man with poor sight, stumbling. They faced each other, eyes locked. Then he bent to give her a kiss so light and swift it would only have registered on the most sensitive skin. They dare not hug, thought Prue. She turned to Ag, who, having the same thought, nodded. Stella took a step backwards. Joe’s kiss had whipped every trace of colour from her face. Then he was gone, muttering something about letting them know when Janet gave birth, but not even trying to produce any sort of coherent farewell.
The three girls turned into the station. Ag and Prue each took one of Stella’s arms. ‘Better than nothing, I suppose,’ she said. ‘The occasional meeting. Seeing him.’ Tears were pouring down her cheeks.
On the journey home Prue was aware of a sense of rising desolation. There was nothing to look forward to beyond her monotonous, empty life with Barry. Stella and Ag were far away: Mrs Lawrence was dead. Prue said the word out loud to herself several times. Dead, dead, dead: but still it did not convince. She tried to shift her mind to some happy prospect – the chickens, perhaps. The chickens! A young, rich, still pretty wife with nothing to look forward to apart from her reunion with the chicken
s. It was ridiculous, pathetic. She laughed, self-mocking. Then she thought of Johnny: he was not exciting or very fanciable, but at least he was a friend – her only friend in Manchester.
It was a muzzy October evening, the light low behind the ugly trees that guarded The Larches from the road. Prue had come to hate the monkey puzzle, with its great muscular arms. Next time Barry said he’d like to grant her a wish, she’d ask if it could be cut down. There were no lights on in the house, no sign of either Bertha or him. She dumped her case in the hall and made her way into the garden to see to the chickens.
Johnny was in the run, a basket over his arm, collecting eggs. She felt a moment of gratitude. He smiled. ‘You’re back,’ he said. ‘How was it?’
‘Sad. Thanks so much for looking after the hens.’
‘They’ve been fine. I’ve put quite a few eggs in the kitchen for Barry’s breakfast.’
‘Thanks.’
Johnny left the chicken run, came over and stood by her. ‘I’ve looked out of my window each morning, expecting to wave at you, but you weren’t there. It could be said I missed you.’ Prue gave a fraction of a smile. Johnny put an arm round her shoulders. ‘Hey, you’re shivering,’ he said. ‘You’re cold.’
‘Not cold. Just . . . back.’ They stood for a few moments without speaking.
‘Go in and light the fire,’ Johnny said. ‘I’ll walk to the house with you.’ At the door, he handed her the basket of eggs but refused to come in. ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do – any help . . .’
‘As a matter of fact there is.’ Prue paused. ‘Stella came up with the brilliant suggestion that I should go and work on a farm. I must do something and farming is what I know and love best. Can you think of anyone in need of a farm worker?’
‘I might be able to – it’s a very good idea.’ Johnny took his arm from her shoulders. He looked serious. ‘In fact, I do have one instant idea.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Leave it with me for a few days. And there’s something else I’ve been meaning to put to you. How would you like it if we drove to Hallows Farm one day? I’d love to see it, having heard so much . . .’
‘Lawks! I’d love that. But it’s a very long way. Petrol . . .’
‘I’ll take care of that – ways and means. Come round tomorrow morning and we’ll make a plan. But now go in – go on. You’re icy cold.’ He kissed her cheek, a kiss fractionally longer than his usual greeting. Had Prue been less anxious to get to the fire, and less sad, she might have responded with a tilt of her head that invited more. As it was, she went inside and shut the door behind her.
An hour later, warmed by the gas fire, she heard Barry’s voice. He hurried into the room – not his normal gait – followed by Prue’s mother. Astonished, Prue jumped up. Her mother had only been to the house a few times, usually when Barry was out – Prue had always had the impression he was not keen on visits from her, so mother and daughter continued to meet in Manchester.
Elsie Lumley was prancing about, exclaiming at the wonder of almost everything in the room. Once or twice, to tone down her astonishment, she clamped a hand over her mouth, but a roar of approval could still be heard. She had a new and complicated hairstyle, inspired by film stars of the day, and a dress that she must have embellished herself. It was crystallized with odd bits of tinsel. What on earth . . .? Prue wondered.
‘Imagine, Prue: Barry here rang me at the salon – I was all of a dither, kirby-grips in my mouth – said it was high time I came over and why not tonight, to cheer him up, him being all alone. You away . . . Wasn’t that a lovely idea?’ She skittered over to her daughter and hugged her. ‘But you’re not away. Better still.’ Her voice had a dying fall.
‘What happened? Barry was pouring himself a whisky and soda. He glanced at his wife. ‘I thought you were coming back tomorrow.’
‘Today, I said.’
‘I must have misheard. Anyhow, here you are.’ He lumbered over to Prue and kissed her cheek. ‘Very nice. I thought it was high time your mother came over. How was it up north?’
Prue was aware of the vast distance between what had happened to Mrs Lawrence, the miserable business of the funeral, the land girls meeting again, and Barry’s ability to understand any of it. ‘It was fine,’ she said.
‘What will it be?’ Barry asked Mrs Lumley.
‘Gin and orange, if you please, Barry.’
‘Gin and orange it shall be. Prue?’
‘Nothing, thanks.’ The whole scene and its possible implications were casting a feeling of disbelief over Prue that was making her physically weak. She wanted to run from the room – anywhere, but to leave all this, this weird threesome.
‘I thought I’d show your mother round the house,’ Barry was saying, ‘take advantage of her designer’s eye, then go out for a slap-up dinner. So, now you can join us. It’ll be all the better for that, won’t it, Elsie?’
She smiled and agreed.
‘Actually, Barry, it’s been a long day. We didn’t have much sleep. I think I’ll just go to bed,’ said Prue.
‘Oh, Prue . . .’ Her mother sounded genuinely disappointed.
Barry shrugged. ‘Up to you. Dare say Elsie and I’ll manage to get by . . .’
‘That’s what you arranged in the first place,’ Prue heard herself snap, unusually fierce. ‘Dare say it won’t be a hardship.’ She saw her mother wince, swallow her gin and orange in one gulp.
Barry gave her a look. ‘We’ll be off, then, Elsie, shall we?’ Her mother scurried about, suddenly nervous, looking for the coat she had dropped on the floor. ‘You have a good sleep, Prue. I won’t be late.’ In his haste to leave, Barry clumsily helped Mrs Lumley put her coat round her shoulders and crossed the room to the door faster than Prue had ever before seen him move. His plan to show his mother-in-law the house seemed to have been forgotten. ‘Sleep well, sweetheart,’ he said.
Prue had more important things to think about than her mother’s date with her husband: the possibility of working on the land, a job with animals. The idea was exciting. She quickly fell asleep. And Barry kept his word: he was in bed beside her by eleven, waking Prue with his customary heaving about under the blankets, treating them as if they were his sole property. ‘Sorry you didn’t come,’ he said. ‘We had a good time. It was nice to be able to give your mum a treat. She was dazzled by the hotel.’
‘Good.’
‘She’s wonderful company. A bundle of laughs. There’s nothing I don’t know about her clients.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘You aren’t cross? Put out?’
‘Why should I be?’
‘I suppose I must have felt a bit lonely, you away. I thought, Well, at least Prue can’t be put out if I take her mother – it’s not as if I’d asked some young—’
‘No, of course not. Barry, I want to go back to sleep.’ Their voices were inharmonious in the dark. And the dark was the best place, she suddenly thought, to venture the important question. ‘Would you mind, Barry, if I took a little job?’ There was a long silence. ‘I need to do something. I need to work. I appreciate you keep me so well, but I need—’
‘Course you do.’ She heard a long, heavy sigh. ‘I’m not the sort of man who’d like to see his wife go out to work. I like to feel I can provide everything for her and she can sit back and relax. Have a good time. But then again I’m not the sort of man so firmly stuck in his opinions that he can’t change them, if there’s good reason, every now and again.’
‘That’s right.’ Prue smiled to herself.
‘What sort of job do you have in mind?’
‘Farm work. It’s what I’m best at. It’s what I love.’
‘Why not, sweetheart? You find yourself a nice farm, and I’ll be proud of you. If you buy me a pair of boots I’ll come and see it one day.’ He laughed at the unlikeliness of his own threat. Then, surprisingly, he added, ‘I’ve sometimes wondered if you weren’t wasting your talents with not much to do here. It’d be nice, l
and-girl work again. Nice. But only till we have a child, of course.’
‘Of course.’
Then Barry thrust back the bedclothes, heaved himself onto her and squashed the breath out of her so that she had to scream for him to shift his weight. For the second time that week, an attempt at conception was made very quickly. Then Prue went back to thinking about the furtive look she had seen between Joe and Stella, and the meaning of real love.
The next morning, soon after Barry had left the house, the telephone rang. Its old black body was misted by neglect, for it was against Bertha’s principles to clean what she saw as unnecessary objects. On the rare occasions it rang Prue was always filled with alarm, fearing bad news. She would never forget the call at Hallows Farm one evening for Stella, who was told of Philip’s wounds . . . This morning there was no bad news, but much cheerfulness.
‘Prue? Mum here. Couldn’t wait to tell you. Such a lovely evening I had. You’re a lucky girl to have found a husband like that. You mind you keep him.’
‘Of course, Mum. I’m glad you enjoyed it.’
‘He told me you had such a happy life, you and him.’
‘Did he?’
‘I don’t wonder. House like that. No money worries.’
‘Quite.’
‘You must both come to supper here one day, if Barry wouldn’t mind such a small house. I could do a rabbit stew. Does he like rabbit, do you know?’
‘I don’t know, Mum.’
‘What did you think of my dress?’
‘Very glamorous.’
‘Barry paid me a lovely compliment. He said he could see where his wife got her looks.’
‘I must go now, Mum. Feed the hens.’
‘You and your hens!’ Mrs Lumley laughed merrily. ‘Ooh, and I never gave you my condolences – poor Mrs Lawrence and all that.’
‘Thanks.’