by Angela Huth
The sty cleared and swept, Prue spread a pile of sweet-smelling wheat straw. Sly immediately returned to her newly made bed and slumped down on her side, ungrateful as a cantankerous patient. At least the way was clear for Prue to tackle the mud in the outside pen, and sluice down the drain with a bucket of Jeyes Fluid.
‘Doing all right?’
Prue looked up to see Joe.
‘You know she bites if she’s annoyed.’
Prue shrugged. Her shoulders, arms and back were aching. The thought of transferring the muck from where she had thrown it to the dung heap depressed her so much she was unable to answer. She wanted Joe to lift her over the wall, carry her off somewhere – anywhere – and soothe her aches, kiss her, crush her, blast her with his extraordinary explosive force from the reality of pigs and dung and farm life.
‘You look a bit weary,’ he said. ‘I think we should give tonight a miss. Get some sleep. The hay doesn’t do my asthma any good. We’re going to have to change locations.’
‘All right.’
Prue gave a weak smile. She was aware of smelling as pungently as the pigsty. Nuits de Paris stood no chance in such circumstances.
* * *
An hour later, Prue realized to her relief and astonishment, the first part of her job was finished. Sly’s dirty straw was piled high on the dung heap. There wasn’t a stray straw in the entire yard: Prue had taken the precaution of sweeping it – Mr Lawrence was obsessive about the neatness of his yard. Now, with squelching triumph, she climbed to the top of the dung heap, leaned on the pitchfork for support. There was no one about, no one to condemn her for a few moments’ rest. The words of a song she’d learned on the training course came back to her. She began to sing.
She volunteered,
She volunteered to be a land girl
Ten bob a week – ‘not true’
Nothing much to eat – ‘not true’
Great big boots
And blisters on her feet,
If it wasn’t for the war
She’d be where she was before –
Land girl, you’re barmy.
‘Too bloody true, that bit,’ she added, as she began to sink into the dung. She could feel its heat coming through her boots, and the ammonia smell rose powerful as incense. Prue leaned more heavily on the pitchfork. She felt quite faint.
After the milking was finished, Stella took the cows back to the pasture by herself. Ag went to let out the hens. On her way back to the house she passed the laundry room – a minimally converted old cowshed close to the kitchen – and happened to glance through the open window. There, clouded in steam, she saw Mrs Lawrence at work. The place was littered with sheets and shirts, some soaking, some hanging. There were pools of water on the stone floor. On a slate shelf, two old-fashioned irons were reared up on their backs, their steel underbellies a pinkish bronze in the smeary light. Mrs Lawrence stooped to pick a sheet from an enamel bowl of water. She wrung it out fiercely, the sinews in her thin strong arms pulled taut as cords. Then she manoeuvred the sheet into position in the mangle, and began to turn the handle furiously. Water poured into a bucket below. When there were no more than a few drips left, Mrs Lawrence slung the sheet on to a pile of others. She paused to wipe sweat from her forehead, push back a wisp of grey hair from her eyes. Her apron, faded to a pot-pourri of indeterminate flowers, was damp. She contemplated another bowl containing another coil of cotton to be wrung, but seemed to decide against it. Perhaps her hands needed a rest from the cold water. Instead, she pulled a huge, rough man’s shirt from the pile and threw it over the ironing board. She picked up one of the irons – its custard-coloured back, Ag could see, was so chipped it reminded her of a monster ladybird – and thundered it down the length of the sleeve. Her mouth was a single hard line.
Ag took a step back. She had wondered whether she should offer to help, but decided Mrs Lawrence would not have wished anyone to see her working out her private rage. It was then Ag felt sure that there had been no words concerning Prue between Mrs Lawrence and Joe at dawn. Mrs Lawrence was in lone battle with her instincts, her suspicions. She was in a turmoil, no doubt, about what, if anything, she should do. Ag longed to help. But she knew all she could do was to remain alert to any indication that Mrs Lawrence might want to discuss the troubles on her mind, which was unlikely. She was a strong, proud woman who would judge the sharing of private matters a deplorable weakness. Without a sound, Ag went on her way. She had to find Mr Lawrence, put from her mind the pictures of his wife’s battle in the laundry, and concentrate on rounding up the sheep.
* * *
Stella, returning from the field in which she had put the cows, heard singing. She paused, listened. Prue? A harsh, tuneless voice, but some passion behind the words. Stella walked round the side of the barn into the beautifully swept yard. By now the singing had stopped. Prue, on top of the dung heap, rested hands and chin on the handle of the pitchfork.
‘Prue!’
‘I’m resting between jobs. Pausing between mucking out—’ she gave a chorus-line twist of her hips – ‘and muck-spreading.’ The blobs of rouge, bright as sealing wax, emphasized the whey colour of her cheeks.
‘You all right?’
‘Fine, all the muck-raking considered. I came over a bit dizzy a moment ago. Must be the bending.’
‘You’re not going to join us with the sheep?’
‘Seems not. Instructions to spread this stuff over about a hundred acres.’ She gave a grim smile, digging her pitchfork into the wet straw. ‘To think that once I thought two perms and a colour rinse was a hard day’s work. Well, in a war you learn, I suppose.’ She sighed. Stella, looking up at her, smiled too. ‘You know what I dream of, Stella? Up here – everywhere? I dream that when it’s over I finish my apprenticeship and this man comes along. This final man. I tell you: I’ll recognize him soon as he puts his head round the door. He’ll be a great big hulk, something like Joe, except he’ll have pots and pots of money. We’ll get married and live in a huge big house on the outskirts of somewhere posh like York – no more Manchester, thanks very much. We’ll have a marble bath with gold taps and lots of marble shelves where I can line up all my powders and lotions – many as I like. We’ll have wall-to-wall carpeting all through, a wireless in every room and one of those big new radiogram things in maple wood that looks like a cupboard, and the maid will bring us cocktails, Stella, I’m telling you, on a silver tray every evening, and we’ll be happy. In the day’ – she prodded the dung again – ‘I’ll lie on a sofa like a film star, reading romances and eating chocolates, and all this muck will be a far distant thing, almost forgotten, and every night my husband will come back from his factory – or wherever it is he’s made his money – in a Rolls-Royce. That’s my dream.’
Stella laughed quietly. ‘Children?’ she asked.
‘Kids? Three or four. That’d be nice. But only with a nanny.’
‘What a dream. You’d be bored out of your mind.’
‘No, I wouldn’t. Not for a while, any road. Do you imagine anything like that for yourself?’
‘No, my dream is more modest,’ said Stella.
‘Might as well aim for the big time.’
‘What’s going on?’ Mr Lawrence strode into the yard just then, surprised to see a figure more like a cabaret singer than a land girl on top of his dung heap. ‘Pig done?’
‘Pig done, Mr Lawrence. And yard swept, Mr Lawrence, as you can see.’
‘I don’t want any of your cheek this morning. You’d better get this dung on the trailer and take it down to High Field. Sharp.’ His look swerved to Stella, softening. ‘Come and help me get the stuff, Stella, then we’ll give Ag a hand with bringing in the sheep.’
Prue ostentatiously loaded a heavy lump of dung on to her pitchfork. ‘Do you ever have time to dream, Mr Lawrence?’ she asked.
‘I’m warning you, young lady …’
Stella, following him to the shed to collect shears, knives and clippers, saw a dark flush s
pread up through his neck and wash over his weathered cheeks.
‘Cocky little film star’ll get her come-uppance one day,’ he said. ‘Though it’s not her work I’m complaining about.’
An hour later Stella and Ag were grappling with their first sheep. The ewe lay on her back on a bench designed to make control of the animal easy. When Mr Lawrence had been there to demonstrate, it had looked simple enough. Left to themselves, the girls were struggling.
Ag had volunteered to hold the animal still while Stella, armed with her paring knife, examined its feet. Hands plunged deep into its greasy wool, Ag sympathetically contemplated the ewe’s unease. The delicate black neck, jutting out of the great rug of its body, spun about, twisting the bony head with its roman nose and indignant yellow eyes. It cried out pitifully, lips drawn back to show long dun teeth scored with green, spittle thick as marshmallow spurted from its gums, flecking Ag’s overall.
‘Steady, old girl,’ she soothed, feeling the frantic shoulder muscles writhe queasily in her hands. ‘It’s all for your own good …’
She remembered drawings of a sheep in a childhood book: anthropomorphized into a stern teacher, it was, with glasses on the end of its nose and a cane in its hoof. She thought of her father’s love of boiled mutton and caper sauce, rainbow bubbles of fat in the gravy. Sunday after Sunday they would lunch alone together, the bowl of wax fruit between them, using their spoons to gather up the last grains of pearl barley swollen with the mutton juices.
‘I think this one’s okay,’ said Stella. ‘No rot, far as I can see. Just needs a trim.’
She clutched a waving leg, flushed with the effort. The horn of the hoof was splayed at the edges. There were two small splits. Biting her lip, Stella dug in the sharp knife and started to peel off a strip of hoof just as she would peel a potato. The ewe struggled harder, but in a moment a black half-circle of stuff like hard Plasticine fell to the ground.
‘There – triumph!’
Stella let go of the frantic leg and was promptly kicked in the stomach. Ag laughed so hard she released her hold on the ewe’s shoulders. If Stella had not then thrown herself, sack-like, over its belly, the animal would have escaped.
‘You’re a natural hoof trimmer,’ was Ag’s praise to Stella when the long job of manicuring all four hooves was completed. It was time for the dreaded dagging.
By now the sheep was weary, easier to handle. Stella bent over its head, hands plunged into the sticky matted chunks of its wool. She watched with some amusement as Ag picked up the clippers and assessed, with a look of mock wisdom, the dung-knotted expanse of the animal’s hindquarters.
‘Here goes.’
She took up a length of wool, rigid with dried mud and dung. Carefully, she snipped. It hit the ground with a small thud, like the shell of an empty nut. She chose another lump, snipped with more confidence. It was like cutting through pebbles, she thought, not half as revolting as she had expected. She worked faster. The animal scarcely twitched by now. Soon its hindquarters were shorn and clean. Ag felt pleased with herself. She and Stella gently helped it back to the ground. It went bleating away to join its companions in the pen Mr Lawrence had rigged up in the yard. Its head pecked the air like a great black beak, the spittled lips flung into a grimace of relief.
‘Philip wouldn’t believe it,’ sighed Stella, rubbing her back. ‘Only fourteen more to go.’
‘We must try to get them finished by dark.’
‘Easy,’ said Stella. ‘We’re experts, now.’
At the end of the afternoon Joe drove the tractor to the field where Prue was muck-spreading. He had to pick up the empty trailer and tow it back to the yard.
He found Prue standing in a sea of tawny dung, the limp straw just lighted by dwindling sky. Her pitchfork moved feebly, twitching at the stuff she had already scattered. She heaved a clump from the small pile that was left, and threw it carelessly. When she saw Joe she stopped and gave up all pretence of effort.
He jumped down from the tractor, climbed the gate and strode towards her. She put out her arms. He held her, lightly kissed her hair. The satin bow had slumped over sideways, lying among the curls like a dead canary.
‘You’ve done well,’ he said.
‘But Joe,’ she said, ‘I’m all in. Never, ever been so exhausted.’
His chest, where she lay her head, was saturated with sour farmyard smells. She found them more comforting than any bottled scent. The stuff of his waterproof crackled beneath her cheeks when she stirred.
‘You go to bed very early tonight,’ Joe said, ‘and you’ll be fine in the morning. Tomorrow, when the others are asleep, come down to my room.’
‘But surely that’s mad? I don’t want to be sent away.’
‘We’ll take care.’
‘There was something up, today – your mum and dad. All the rotten jobs they gave me. They were being tough: sort of testing me.’
‘They have their ways. Best not to question them. Shall I run you back in the trailer?’
‘I haven’t quite finished – that small pile.’
‘Leave it till tomorrow.’
‘I’d like to get it finished.’
‘I’ll do it for you.’
‘No.’
Joe lifted Prue’s face, gave a wry smile. ‘You’re a determined one, I’ll say that for you.’
‘Might as well do my bit for my country well as I can.’ She giggled, energy returning. ‘God, I smell awful. I stink.’
‘Not so awful that I couldn’t take you right here on this sodding bed of straw, if we had the time,’ said Joe. ‘Kiss me.’
Their mouths clashed. Behind Prue’s closed eyes she saw that their heads had merged into one huge flower of interlocking petals that spurted with light, like sparklers. She felt herself sway. She felt Joe hold her more tightly, to stop her falling. She dropped her pitchfork. It fell to the ground.
Mr Lawrence saw them as he passed the field on his way back from looking at a sickly cow. A mist had begun to rise, making them legless. They looked like the top half of a statue on a fragile plinth, swaying slightly, loosely soldered.
Mr Lawrence felt the burning of his face. He walked on, quickening his stride.
Ag and Stella failed. It was too dark to see clearly, and there were still five sheep left.
‘We can’t go on, we could hurt one of them,’ said Ag. Both girls’ backs ached badly. It was chilly, dank. Their last sheep skittered away to join the small flock. ‘Still, we haven’t done badly.’
They gathered up the tools, then each took an end of the heavy bench and moved it back to its place in the shed.
‘What I’d love more than anything in the world is a long, hot bath,’ said Stella.
‘Me, too. Followed by some sort of silly cocktail in front of an open fire.’
When they returned to the yard, they found Mr Lawrence, flanked by the two collies, had already let the sheep out of the pen. The creatures pivoted about in the dusk, followed first one of their number then another, bleating with articulate monotony.
‘Silly animals, really,’ said Stella.
‘Best as part of a landscape,’ said Ag.
Mr Lawrence whistled to the dogs. In a trice they lowered their backs, nosed swiftly off towards the scattered flock, and formed it into an orderly bunch.
‘We didn’t quite finish, I’m afraid,’ said Stella. ‘Five to go.’
‘Never mind. Tomorrow. We’ll leave the pen up overnight.’ Mr Lawrence seemed unconcerned, moved off to the gate.
‘Can we help?’ called Ag.
‘I can manage.’
A few yards down the lane Joe, on the tractor, met the flock. He switched off the engine, watched them divide in confusion each side of the machine. The dogs skilfully kept them from running into the ditches – barking, pausing and sprinting with a subtle bossiness. Mr Lawrence, crook in hand, followed a little behind them. When he drew level with the tractor, Joe called to him.
‘How did it go, the dagging?’
‘Fine.’
Mr Lawrence strode past, not able to look at his son. Joe started the engine, drove into the yard. Ag and Stella were still there, leaning against the sheep pen – laughing, he thought. One of them waved: hard to tell which one. He drove into the barn, jumped down. The thump of gumboots warned him the girls had come to join him.
‘It wasn’t at all bad,’ said one, with a happy voice.
‘We became quite expert,’ said the other. ‘We managed almost all of them.’
‘Good.’
One of them helped him unlock the trailer. The other threw a piece of sacking over the Fordson’s engine. Then they found themselves looking towards the black hump of the house.
‘One of the things I most miss in this war,’ said Joe, ‘is lighted windows. Imagine how it would be if we could walk towards a lighted kitchen window.’
‘Never mind,’ said Stella – he thought it was Stella. ‘We’re getting pretty good at finding our way in the dark.’
Joe put a heavy arm across each of their shoulders. ‘I’ll guide you all the same,’ he said.
Prue, her muck-raking finally finished, tottered towards the gate. She decided to sit on it for a while, summon the energy to walk back up the lane. She would have done anything to accept Joe’s invitation of a lift in the trailer, but some sense of pride insisted she finish the job completely before leaving the field.
She sat on the top bar of the gate watching the last light fade from the sky, trees change into black hoods, the ground mist stretch higher. She put out a foot, dipped it into the silvery skeins as if trying the water of a ghostly sea.