by Angela Huth
They came to the field in which some dozen or so pigs rootled in the mud. Their accommodation was bridge-shaped shelters made from the ubiquitous corrugated iron. Prue could see that inside these shelters the soaked and rotten bedding was an insult to any pig. She understood why one of her priorities would be mucking out and giving the wretched animals beds of clean straw. Mr Lawrence would never have stood for such inconsideration to what were, he always insisted, naturally clean animals.
By the time they got back Prue reckoned she and Jack had walked some three or four miles. She returned him to his stable where, obligingly, he lowered his great head so that she could slip off the head-collar with no difficulty. Then she made her way to the bungalow to ask what her next job should be.
Steve Gander was standing at the door, waiting for her. He touched his cap. ‘All well?’ he asked. ‘Dawn was worried.’
‘Oh? She didn’t tell me how long she wanted me to be.’
‘No – well, she usually takes him just down the lane and back. Not much of a walk. He’ll have enjoyed going further.’ He ushered her through the door and into the kitchen. There was a strong smell of bones boiling in a great pot on the stove. ‘Normally,’ said Steve, stumbling across the littered floor to the kettle, ‘Dawn doesn’t allow a morning break, coffee, tea. Says it’s an indulgence. But seeing she’s not here, why don’t we treat ourselves? Amy and I used to love a sit-down, mid-morning, one of her oatmeal biscuits . . . None of that now.’ His voice dropped into a minor key. And with our daughter Dawn, a strong-minded lass, it’s easiest to do as she says.’
But ten minutes later they were caught out. Dawn charged into the room, red-faced, elbows juddering, shirt askew again. She turned on Prue. ‘And where were you?’ she screeched. ‘I’ve been out looking for you everywhere.’
‘I’m sorry,’ began Prue. ‘I thought—’
‘She gave Jack a nice long walk,’ said Steve.
Dawn sat down, glared at the teapot. ‘This isn’t our normal routine,’ she said, anger waning as quickly as it had come. ‘We don’t indulge, Dad and I, in fancy tea-breaks, elevenses.’
‘I know,’ said Prue. ‘I understand.’
‘And what you should get going on this afternoon is the pigs. Dad’ll show you where the pig feed is.’
‘Fine.’
Silence fell. Ask her about herself, Johnny had advised. He’d obviously discovered how to deal with the grumpy old bat. Prue turned to Dawn, whose fingers played scales on her ruddy cheeks, with a smile as sweet as she could make it. ‘And what about your husband?’ she asked. ‘Does he have time to help on the farm?’
Dawn appeared stumped by this flash of genuine interest. ‘Help on the farm? Bert?’ She gave one of her honking laughs. ‘Bert doesn’t have time for anything but his business. He runs a printing firm. Comes home stinking of ink. It’s printing, printing, morning, noon and night, isn’t it, Dad?’ Steve revved himself up to give a nod of assent, then decided against it at the last moment. ‘So we don’t see much of him, do we, Dad? Just comes home evenings, wants the meal on the table.’ Her hands now flickered through her wild thin hair, agitated. ‘Still, I’ve got Jack, haven’t I, Dad?’
This time her father nodded firmly. ‘You’ve got Jack all right,’ he said.
Prue spent the afternoon crouched uncomfortably in two of the pig shelters. So deep and dense was the muck she had to clear that there was no time to attend to more. To begin with the stench of powerful, aged pig urine was almost stifling – she felt nostalgic for Sly’s milder-smelling bedding – but soon she became used to it. As she tossed the sodden bedding into the wheelbarrow she felt the old, familiar pull on her shoulder muscles: they had been bad when she had started work at Hallows Farm, but soon hardened and caused no more trouble. She knew that, after a day or so, physical labour would no longer be painful, and she would enjoy surprising Dawn with the speed and efficiency of her work.
She drove home at five, pleased with herself. She looked forward to recounting to Barry the madness of the day, the place, the neurotic Dawn, all so utterly different from Hallows Farm. But she had no thought of leaving. Walking a horse and cleaning out the pigs didn’t seem to be an entirely normal way of farming, but then there had been little that seemed normal at the Gander farm, a place of various kinds of unhappiness. She hoped when she recounted it all to Barry she could make him laugh. And tomorrow she would describe it to Johnny, and telephone Stella and Ag. They would be astounded.
When Prue drove through the gates of The Larches she found a very large green Humber parked by the front door and was put out to think some visitor had arrived: her stories would have to wait.
But there was no visitor. Hurrying into the sitting room, she found Barry alone in his usual chair, fidgeting with his usual cigar. He sniffed as she came in. ‘Sweetheart,’ he said, with a tolerant look that showed he could be a tolerant husband, ‘you stink.’
‘Sorry,’ said Prue. ‘I’ll go and have a bath. But I just want to tell you—’
Barry raised a hand to stop her. She knew there was no point in challenging it.
‘I’ve news for you. Big news. You saw that car outside? That Humber?’ Prue nodded. Barry gave his widest ever smile. ‘Well, sweetheart, it’s ours. Yours and mine. Our first Humber. I got it at a price. What do you think?’
Prue swallowed. She had no idea what she thought. ‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘Are you going to sell the Daimler?’
‘Not on your life. I’m going to get a grand collection of cars. Be worth a fortune, one day.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Prue, who could not imagine any such thing. By now she was aware of the pig smell that was all over her. She wanted to run her bath, but knew Barry hated to let her go before she produced a full measure of wonder and appreciation concerning his news. ‘I look forward to a ride.’
‘You go and have your bath, sweetheart, and we’ll make a plan.’ Let off lightly, Prue flung him a smile and fled upstairs.
Except for a few brief enquiries about her day, talk of the Humber occupied the whole evening. Prue realized it was not the moment to entertain her husband with stories about her new farm life. After supper they moved back to the sitting room, the fire, the cigar. Barry tipped his head back on the chair and kept on smiling. Prue, stiff and a little weary, went to kiss him on the cheek before she went up to bed.
‘Night, sweetheart.’ He opened one eye. Flicked her stomach with the cigarless hand. ‘Any luck?’
‘Not yet.’ Prue moved back. She hated both the manner of the enquiry and his curiosity.
‘Have to be patient. You get off to bed. I’m just going to spend a few minutes thinking about the Humber.’ He closed the eye again. ‘And I tell you what, how about this for an idea? How about we do a little run down to Devon, Dorset, wherever it was you worked – trial run in the car?’
‘That would be . . .’
‘I knew you’d like that idea. Now you get off to bed. I’m just going to spend a few minutes here having a nice think . . .’
Cripes, thought Prue, and ran from the room.
‘It’s not a proper farming job,’ she told Johnny a few days later. ‘It’s not even a proper farm. Steve seems to care for it, but does little more than moan that things are no longer like they were in the war, when his wife was alive to run the place. As for Dawn, she’s scatty, desperate, angry, more than slightly peculiar. She’s jealous of my relationship with her horse, yet she’s bored by taking him for walks herself. She never used to go further than some old woman with a Pekingese in a park.’ Johnny laughed. ‘But you’re going to stick at it?’
‘Oh yes. It’ll fill three days a week. And I think that if I go carefully I might be able to show them a more efficient way of managing things – selling the pigs and so on, which they haven’t bothered to do for ages.’
‘Steve’ll be grateful,’ said Johnny. ‘I know he hates to see the place slowly disintegrating, but he seems incapable of doing anything about it.’
‘It’s just a matter of negotiating with Dawn. I can’t get on with her. She’s the problem.’
‘I’ve an idea there. I happen to know she loves cars. Have you seen the piles of car magazines in the kitchen? Why don’t you . . . one day, offer her a ride in the Sunbeam?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Prue, after a while.
‘You might win her over like that.’
‘How do you know how well she drives?’
‘Might be worth taking that risk.’
Prue was grading Johnny’s eggs at the table in his kitchen. The sun made the room warm. She liked handling the eggs. Johnny, his hands always shaking, was inclined to break them. She felt happy, useful. ‘Have you noticed the huge great Humber in the drive?’ she asked.
‘What’s that all about?’
Prue smiled. ‘Barry’s new acquisition. Apparently he’s going to collect a whole lot of cars that will be very valuable in about fifty years’ time. The bad news is he’s suggested we do a run in it to Hallows Farm.’
‘You’re not going to mention our visit?’
‘Of course not. I’m just going to suggest we look at a few fields, the village, Ratty’s house – just glance at the farmhouse from afar and not go anywhere near the barn.’
‘Right.’ At the mention of the barn Johnny’s mouth had tightened.
Prue filled the stack of egg boxes and piled them neatly on the table. Her job finished, she left to go back to The Larches for the grim ceremony of Sunday lunch alone with Barry – tepid shepherd’s pie, tinned plums, two cigars. At his door Johnny gave a very slight movement of his hand, not quite a wave: this was his new goodbye. Since the visit to Hallows Farm he had never once kissed her on the cheek, or looked as if he wanted to. Even as they sometimes gathered eggs together he seemed to avoid being near her.
Prue sighed deeply as she let herself into the stale hallway of The Larches. She was determined today to make Barry shut up about his wretched Humber and listen to her own news.
Over the next few weeks Prue made a routine for herself at the farm. In truth, there was not enough for her to do. Once she had thoroughly mucked out the pig shelters she had merely to lay clean straw once a week, a job she could do in a morning. This surprised Steve. He told her it used to take him a week.
She tidied the large shed, cut down nettles, chopped wood and took Jack for longer and longer walks. She had established good relations with him: there was give and take. Prue would let him stop every now and then when he was particularly keen to try a patch of tempting grass. In return, he lowered his head when he saw her coming so that there was no problem putting on his head-collar. His size no longer alarmed her. Sometimes, when he paused to graze, she would lean against him, enjoying the warmth of his great body. She always hoped they would not run into Dawn on their return for, confused by her feelings of relief and jealousy, Dawn would invariably snarl some criticism then storm off in angry silence.
One day, on their return to the stable, they found Dawn waiting for them with an unusual smile on her face. She came right up to them, patted Jack on the withers, which she knew Prue found hard to reach – the gesture seemed to be designed for point scoring.
‘We need some more pig feed,’ she said, in a small girl’s voice Prue had never heard before. ‘The van’s playing up. I wondered if I could ask—’
‘Of course,’ said Prue, remembering Johnny’s advice. ‘I’ll drive over and get some now.’
Dawn continued to smile. Her face had gone rigid with the effort. ‘I don’t want to put you to that bother,’ she said. ‘Perhaps, I was thinking, you might let me run down in the Sunbeam. I mean, I’m a good driver. I like driving. If I had a decent car I’d drive all over, like the wind.’
Prue laughed. She handed Dawn the keys. ‘Here you are. Don’t drive like the wind, though. Put the stuff in the boot.’
‘Oh my goodness. What a treat.’ Dawn hurried off, forgetting her usual backward glance at Jack.
Prue went to the bungalow to join Steve, engaged in the football pools, for a cup of tea. Whenever Dawn was safely out of the way they indulged in this practice, made all the more enjoyable by its secret nature. Steve enjoyed Prue’s company: he liked to hear stories of her days as a land girl, and she his stories of his past farming glories and the pleasure of breeding prize-winning Shires.
The pig-feed suppliers were only a ten-minute drive away, but Dawn did not return for an hour. Prue waited, anxious, by the large shed where it was to be stored. When the car eventually roared along the track and pulled up with a show-off swirl, she showed no flicker of the worry she had suffered. That would have been too pleasing for Dawn. The car, apart from being heavily mud-splattered, seemed undamaged.
Dawn, back to her normal scowl, leapt out of the driving seat, opened the boot and picked up a large bag of meal as if it weighed nothing.
‘That was grand,’ she said, with difficulty. ‘Lovely little engine.’ She could not bring herself to say thank you – Prue had not expected thanks – but something in Dawn’s exuberant carrying of the sack indicated gratitude for the loan of the car. Goodness knew where she had gone, or how fast she had driven – Prue was determined not to ask.
‘You must drive it when you want to,’ she said. Dawn sniffed, tried but failed to smile and went off to the shed with another bag.
On her way home, driving very slowly down the lanes as she always did, Prue suddenly tasted Steve’s strong tea in her mouth. She was not used to tea in the morning so was not surprised when its bitter taste returned to her. But suddenly it filled her mouth – strong liquid that seemed to fountain up from her stomach. She made an emergency stop, flung herself onto the verge and was violently sick in the ditch. No more elevenses, she told herself. The sickness over, she thought no more of it.
A week later she and Barry drove to Hallows Farm where she managed to stop him visiting both the barn and the house. They merely looked over a few gates into the fields, and as Barry showed no interest in knowing what part they had played in his wife’s work as a land girl, she did not trouble him with the kind of anecdote that had entertained Johnny a few weeks before.
On the way back, in the comfort of the Humber’s front seat, she felt not positively sick, but queasy.
‘You look pale, sweetheart,’ Barry said, once they were home.
‘It was a long drive. I’m fine.’
‘Lovely, the car.’
‘Lovely.’ Prue realized she must be extraordinarily pale for Barry to have noticed. She went upstairs to the bathroom, took one look at herself in the mirror and was sick again.
In the sitting room Barry was pacing, fiddling as usual with his cigar. ‘You still look pale,’ he said. ‘Sure you’re not coming down with something?’ It was the first time she had ever seen him worried.
‘Sure. I think it was . . . well, you know. Beautifully sprung cars do make some people feel sick.’
‘No! Not a Humber. You could travel round the world and back and not feel sick in a Humber.’
‘Perhaps some people could.’ By now, spurred by the cigar smoke, Prue was feeling a new surge of nausea. ‘But I don’t think I could face fish-paste sandwiches. I might go to bed.’
Barry gave her a long, hard look. ‘You do that. That’d be best. I’ll get Bertha to open me a tin of pilchards.’ He sat down heavily in his usual chair, confused in a no man’s land of irritation that his wife was going to leave him for the evening, but knowing that, if she was feeling as wretched as she looked, he had to do encourage her to lie down. She was wrong on one count, though: it was nothing to do with the Humber – a Humber had never made anyone feel sick as far as Barry knew, and Prue was going to have to get used to it. They couldn’t always take the Daimler . . .
Prue confessed to Jack, on their next walk, what she was going to do. She spoke of her plan out loud to him, and felt a surge of relief at having made her decision. On one of their stops for Jack to graze, she leant her entire weight against him and felt herself shudder. T
hen she saw that mysterious tears had clotted a small part of his coat.
The next day she booked an appointment with her mother’s doctor in Manchester. Within the week he confirmed it: she was pregnant.
Chapter 7
For two months Prue kept the news to herself. Only Jack the Lad, had he known about human pregnancy, would have been aware of her condition for often when he stopped to graze Prue was sick beside him. She was aware that she looked wretched – unusually pale, and patches of grey skin that had swelled slightly under her eyes. She brushed rouge thickly over her cheeks and hoped Barry noticed nothing. From time to time she saw Bertha give her acute, prying looks, but that was not unusual.
Impatiently she waited for the joy of pregnancy to consume her, but she waited in vain. Perhaps, she thought, once she felt better, the anticipated happiness would arrive. Behind this hope snarled the desolate thought that her old dream of having a child by a man she loved was not going to happen, and pregnancy was no consolation for all that was missing in her marriage. So she continued to keep her silence. There was a particularly wretched morning when the smell of a bucket of chicken feed made her retch into a hedge by the chicken run and Johnny, from his window, pointed to her white cheeks. She was tempted to run to his flat, tell him, seek comfort. Instead she waved back, smiling.
One evening, pregnant for almost four months, her secret was blasted by a stodge of rice pudding produced by Bertha for supper. Topped with a blob of seedless raspberry jam, Prue saw it as one of the housekeeper’s challenges. She always forced herself to eat even the most unappetizing of the woman’s food, for to leave it, she felt, would mean triumph on Bertha’s part. But as she crushed the jam into the loathsome mess, she felt her gorge rise: strange, for she usually felt fine in the evenings. She rose, ran from the room, no time to explain to Barry, and upstairs to the bathroom.
When she had rinsed her mouth, and washed her face with cold water, she felt able calmly to return. Barry had left the dining room. He had moved his own helping of pudding to one side of his plate – a rare gesture. Prue had always guessed that he liked Bertha’s cooking no more than she did but was nervous of causing offence.