The air was turning crisp in the early autumn evening by the time my stomach realised that it had not only missed lunch, but tea as well. We rose and turned homeward, and when we reached the front door of the house we both paused on the doorstep in spite of the chill to pay a last silent tribute to the darkening sky.
Chapter 24
Monday morning found me waiting nervously for the two other girls and the lorry in front of the Nettlebridge Inn. I had forced myself to eat breakfast, knowing that the work would most likely be difficult and taxing, and had forced myself to give everyone a smiling and confident farewell, but both had stuck in my throat a bit. Lilly Bertram, in one of her rare outbreaks of practicality, had insisted on packing a lunch for me, but in characteristic form had forgotten the purpose of it part-way through and had turned it into an artistic masterpiece of fragile pastry and cream which would have looked very well on a tea-table but which I feared would seem out of place in an orchard or out in the fields, and I wanted so desperately not to make a fool of myself that first day.
I had said good-bye to the rest of the household in the kitchen, and they had all wished me the best of luck. The twins had both hugged my knees, pulling a little in opposite directions so that I almost fell over until I was rescued by Mr. Bertram. I doubted that they really knew what was going on, yet they clearly understood that it was something at least semi-momentous. Everyone was very kind, and Mrs. Beaufort called me her dear for the tenth time that morning, though it was still early, but as I turned to leave it was Perry I saw, looking at me over the heads of everyone else to give me one small smile, one brief, encouraging nod, and I felt as if he had thrown me a rope. It was a line I held fast to, almost without knowing what it was to which I was clinging, throughout the day, and it was only in the evening, riding back in the lorry at the end of an exhausting day of new experiences, that I remembered that Perry had thrown it to me that morning, that without saying a word he had given me my courage, and I thought of our first meeting on the train, and laughed to recall that he had reminded me of my dear, old, silly Uncle Nicholas. It was so strange to think of now.
I waited in front of the inn that morning for nearly half an hour before anyone else arrived, and then it was one lone female creature who came skipping down the hill from the opposite end of the village, her mass of unkempt dark curls bouncing. She had a plump, jolly face with a turned up nose and a light dusting of freckles, a short strong body clad in trousers that were much too long for her and a voluminous red sweater, and she was swinging her lunch sack about in one hand in such a careless way that it made me fear for its contents. When she spoke, only seconds after coming to a stop beside me, her voice had a Scottish lilt.
“Hello,” she said. “Are you one of the other girls? Are you waiting for the lorry? Yes? Good. I really didn’t want to wait alone, you see. I must have someone to talk to or I nearly go mad, you know. They all avoid me at home so then I talk to myself and that does get tiring, because you can never surprise yourself with your own answers. Have you noticed that? I like being surprised, too, but I can never think of something that’s shocking enough to surprise myself. I’m Gwen, by the way, Gwen Gordon. My family is really from Scotland. Well, you probably guessed that, but you couldn’t possibly guess how we got here. Well, it’s not really all that exciting. You see, my mum’s dead, and then my dad got his war job in London, so we came down here and now I’m living with my cousins. They don’t know what to do with me, you know, proper English and all that. I tell them the Scots have always been scrappy and I’m proud of it, but they just look at me in horror. I’m really excited about going on the Land, just to get out of the house, and they’re all glad that I’m going because it gets me out of their way, so it’s a good thing for everyone, you know. I like you. I think we’ll be very good friends, don’t you? Now what’s your name? Does your family live here? Do you have any crazy relatives you could tell me about, or are they all dark family secrets? If they are, please tell me anyway.”
I found myself laughing in spite of everything, and, so that the perfect friendship she foresaw for us should not have a completely one-sided foundation, I told her my name, where I was from, and that I was living at Ashford for the present. I refrained from spilling any dark family secrets, but I had given her enough information to enable her to carry on the conversation quite comfortably by herself for another forty minutes, as I am sure she would have if she had not been interrupted by the arrival of the lorry, as well as the approach of another girl, this one very neat and very serious, and completely impervious to Gwen’s attempt to strike up a conversation.
I was surprised, and rather disappointed, to see Lionel Sedgewick climb down from the driver’s seat of the lorry and direct us all to get in. He hemmed and hummed about, told us we were brave girls doing a great service for our country but that he didn’t expect us to enjoy it, though he seemed to think his presence must be a great comfort to us. Gwen ignored him completely and started talking to me again, while the other girl, whose name turned out to be Susan, kept her eyes on his face but seemed to see and hear him no more than if she had been deaf and dumb. I could only wonder what the rest of the day would be like.
Luckily, the jowled patriarch of the Sedgewick clan had only come to give us a familiar face to greet us, that we might enter our strange new life without fear, and he left very quickly (as quickly as he ever did anything) after dropping us at the farm and introducing us to the owner, Mr. Trumple. No doubt the mournful grimace he gave us as he laboriously climbed back into the lorry was intended to be comforting.
Mr. Trumple was quite jolly as farmers at that time went, the probable result of being a single man with no children, no siblings, and very little contact with his neighbours. In meeting him I witnessed for the first time the more positive side of being alone in the world. You could lose neither family nor friends in the war if there were none of either to begin with.
The first priority was to get the crops in, and we worked at it all that day, with a short break for lunch. Gwen, after laughing heartily at the lunch Lilly Bertram had packed for me, suggested we share both her lunch and mine between us, so we made a good meal between us of thick lamb sandwiches and flaky pastry.
It was in the days and weeks which followed that things really began to fall into place. Gwen’s talent for all things mechanical was discovered, as was her ability to keep talking at an exhausting speed (at least for those listening) even while lying on her back under a tractor. Susan was cast of a different mould. It was living things that she loved, not wires and gears, and she took the sheep and cows and poultry to herself with an affection that I was sure she never showed to a human.
Mr. Trumple was not able to discover any special gift in me, but he seemed pleased to find that I did not mind getting dirty, that I did not need to be taught to drive, and that he could give me nearly any ordinary task and return to find it completed well and speedily. I worked at many things, my body grew strong, my hands more sure of themselves, and the days passed quickly.
It was late in the year, one day when I was cleaning the cowshed and trying not to freeze in the cold blast coming through the chinks in the wall that the news came. It was Mr. Trumple himself who came running to find me, with Gwen following closely behind, though she, for once, remained perfectly silent and waited for Mr. Trumple to tell me the news himself.
Mr. Trumple wheezed and mopped his brow, for he was unused to running and his round face was very red. Then he looked at me, shook his head, and told me.
The Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. The Americans were in the war.
Chapter 25
I really could not say how I felt, or which one of the many thoughts running through my head was predominant. I was sad and angry over the bombing, of course, so unexpected and cruel. I wondered what this would mean for the country of my birth, for my grandmother and her friends and neighbours. Yet at the same time I was glad that here were more allies, that here was a greater chance of putting a
final stop to this terrible thing which had enveloped us all in such pain and anxiety.
I was grateful for the remainder of the day’s work, for it kept my body busy while my mind went round in endless circles, and I toiled harder than usual, pushing my physical being to outrun the restless circling of my thoughts. Better to expend my nervous energy in useful labour than to wear a giant hole in the rug at Ashford with my pacing.
Gwen, after the initial shock wore off, returned to her usual loquacious self. She stayed behind in the cowshed with me after Mr. Trumple had gone, asking me many questions about the attack and how I felt about it, and what effect I thought it would have on the outcome of the war. Luckily for me she answered most of them herself, detailing her own imaginings of how I might be feeling on the occasion far more eloquently and at greater length than I ever could have done, and I was spared the task of articulating more than a few monosyllables. I reflected later that it was a good thing that Gwen was not particularly observant, for by the end of the day I was irritated enough with her, and tired enough in my own body and mind that I could no longer keep from showing my frustration with her. By the time we climbed back into the lorry to return to Nettlebridge I was ready to explode, and it was my physical exhaustion alone which kept me from it. To speak required energy I did not have, so I was silent.
Returning home to Ashford I found the house dark and silent. I tiptoed in the front door and shut it softly, feeling like Rip Van Winkle coming back to his home to find that he had slept the years away and everyone he had known was dead. I hung my coat and satchel on the hook by the door and walked slowly through the kitchen, listening. The candles had not been lit and the moon-shadows came freely through the windows like stealthy young wraiths, falling across the stone-flagged floor and playing over the walls.
At last I heard a noise, a strange noise, not what I expected. Laughter.
It was in the sitting room that I eventually found them, Jerry and his mother, though they did not seem to see me at all as I stood in the doorway. It was nothing particularly strange or hilarious which met my eyes as I looked into the room, only Lilly Bertram combing her younger son’s hair -- parting it all on one side, or brushing it all to the front so that it hung over his eyes, or making it all stick up in the middle -- and laughing as she did so, while he laughed too, pleased with her pleasure.
I left them there without a word, glad that they had not seen me. Neither of them belonged to this world. There was no reason why they should suffer for its pain. Jerry lived within his fairy tales, and Lilly belonged in a world of things now forgotten, of quiet green meadows and mild drifting breezes. It was right, I thought, but I envied them still, for I belonged to this world which was falling apart, could do so little to heal it, and yet could not escape from it.
I walked slowly upstairs and began to hear other, less pleasant but more expected noises. Passing the half-open door of the Beauforts’ bedroom I saw Mrs. Beaufort crumpled up on the bed in her accustomed state during a crisis -- hysteria -- and I saw Mr. Beaufort trying to calm her, while Cyryl and Haline stood by with wide eyes, calmer than she, occasionally reaching out a small hand to touch her.
I could do nothing there. No one else appeared to be home. I turned to enter the bedroom Gloria and I shared, but I didn’t sit down or throw myself on the bed as I had thought I would. I stopped in front of the three pictures on the wall and stared at them without really seeing for a while, my mind absent from my body, going far away to places I could not remember afterwards. I stood there for several minutes, then turned to look at the bed and the chair and the soft blankets, stopped abruptly, turned, and went downstairs again to the kitchen instead.
Back in the kitchen I lit the candles and reanimated the dying fire, then put the kettle on for tea, struggling to keep back a certain unreasonable feeling of resentment and self-pity which was threatening me. It didn’t seem fair that I should come back sore and tired at the end of the day to find the kitchen dark and cold and the only people at home completely oblivious to my presence. I told myself that the others were most likely gone for a good reason, and besides, it was not their responsibility to have all the comforts of life ready and waiting for me. But who ever said self-pity was logical?
However, my spirits soon returned with the warm glow of the fire, at least enough for me to think about some sort of supper. Having no notion of when the others might return I could not very well prepare anything hot, but something of the toasted bread and cheese variety I thought would do very well, though I shamelessly used the last of our cheese ration, and dressed up the meagre helpings as well as I could by spreading slices of bread with a generous share of Lilly Bertram’s special recipe lemon curd. I made the tea and settled down to wait by the fire, my cup beside me and a copy of Ivanhoe open on my lap. I would not read it. The courage of Rebecca would shame me tonight, for I was afraid. The book, open before me, and the tea, were merely the trappings of a valour I did not possess.
It was only half an hour before the others arrived, bringing sound and movement to the quiet, still kitchen as they came clattering into it. Mr. Bertram, his mother, Mrs. Creeley, Gloria, Violet… I found myself looking for Perry, then remembered that he had gone back to London weeks before. He seemed such an integral part of the group before me that it never seemed quite complete in his absence.
It was Violet who saw me first. I had risen from my chair and set my book aside, but she came over and quietly put her arms around me. I was surprised, for she had never hugged me before, but the sudden warmth and genuine sympathy of the gesture did more to soothe my troubled mind and aching body than I could have believed possible.
“I see you’ve set supper ready, girl,” was Mrs. Creeley’s approving remark.
“You look tired, Anna,” said Gloria. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Well,” said Mr. Bertram “shall we gather the others and eat before Anna’s efforts go stale?” He patted my shoulder.
I smiled at him a little weakly.
“I think,” I said, “that perhaps Mrs. Beaufort would prefer to have her supper sent up.”
Mrs. Creeley snorted.
“Very well then, we will send it up.” It was old Mrs. Bertram speaking. “Violet, get it ready.”
Violet set about preparing a tray, while Gloria went to find Lilly, Jerry, and the twins and tell them that supper was ready. Mrs. Creeley sat down at the table.
“Letitia,” said her sister sharply. “You will please take the tray upstairs.”
To my surprise, though she grumbled under her breath about respect due to age and being given orders by her own sister, Mrs. Creeley got up from her chair, took the tray from Violet and a moment later we heard her heavy tread, made heavier from irritation, ascending the stairs.
Old Mrs. Bertram turned to look at Violet and me and smiled, looking rather mischievous. I was oddly reminded of my first meeting with Mrs. Creeley, and the glint of amusement I had seen in her eyes then. It was the first time I had seen much similarity between the sisters.
“I never could stand to see old people taking their privileged state for granted,” old Mrs. Bertram remarked serenely, “and I really do get a certain amount of wicked enjoyment out of putting Letitia in her place.”
When we were all gathered round the table Mr. Bertram informed me that when I had arrived back at Ashford from the farm they had been down to hear the news on the pub’s radio, the one in the Ashford kitchen having experienced difficulties.
There was nothing particularly encouraging to report. The harbour had been attacked, many lives had been lost, and another nation had entered the struggle that was swiftly spreading over the entire globe. Britain, more precipitate in her actions than her more cautious, though formerly rebellious offspring, had instantly declared war on Japan as well. We were all bound up in it, and there was no escape for any of us.
Chapter 26
I received a further blow the following day, when Miss Maria came out to the farm to tell me they were send
ing me away to work elsewhere. In the middle of winter there was little left for me to do where I was. Gwen and Susan could stay, for the sheep and the machines still needed their nurses, but I would not be necessary until the spring planting came on, if then.
I reflected later that I was very glad it was Miss Maria who had come to tell me. She brought it up quickly, with no avoidance, no insincere sympathy, just a plain statement of facts, with none of the pointless additions which “Old Sedge” as Gwen called him, would have judged to be indispensable. She told me where I would go for training, several counties to the North, what my job was to be, poisoning rats, and when I would leave, in four days. There was a hostel there where I would live with a few other girls.
I could not pretend to be thrilled over this coming change, but there was something in Miss Maria’s no-nonsense manner and strict adherence to duty, which made one accept even unwelcome changes in spite of oneself. There is just a chance that I would have pleaded with the morosely kind Old Sedge to let me remain close to Ashford, but there would be no pleading with Miss Maria, no debasing myself before dignity such as hers. Without saying a word she held me to something higher.
The verdict at Ashford was mixed over my going. Mrs. Creeley said she approved of anything which would keep me in a state of usefulness and out of mischief. Mrs. Beaufort, still a little hysterical, reverted to tears again though she said at least I wasn’t going under cover to France like so many girls who never came back, while Mr. Beaufort hoped aloud that they would feed me well at the hostel. Mr. Bertram spoke for most of the family when he said that they would miss me but that they were proud I was going. Gloria said she wished I wasn’t going to poison rats, and Jerry informed me that it was usually the young men in fairy tales who went on quests to seek their fortunes, but that it occasionally took a journey for the girl to find out that she was a princess. Jerry then went away happy, content with his notion that I would come back royalty.
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