by Angela Huth
Prue didn’t much like the dark. A shiver went down her spine. She feared an owl might hoot (something she had never heard, always wanted to hear, but not now). If a bat brushed past her, she’d scream bloody murder.
There was silence. Then, the distant shuffle and thud of sheep, anxious bleats, dogs barking. Prue swivelled herself precariously round, using the pitchfork for support, to face the lane. She could just make out a rumbling wave of fat woollen bodies, spectral cushions lumbering past, the occasional glint of an eye. Bloody hell, she said to herself, this is what I’d call spooky. What’s more, they came with a phantom shepherd and his crook. Not till the shepherd reached the gate could Prue see it was Mr Lawrence.
‘Finished,’ she called. ‘I done the lot, Mr Lawrence.’
Perhaps he did not hear, for he gave no answer. He strode past her, legs lost in the mist, whistling to the dogs.
‘Old mean face,’ she said out loud, jumping down.
With the last of her energy she hurried up the lane. She was very cold by now. She craved a hot bath in a bathroom like the one in shampoo advertisements – soaking in asses’ milk or pine essence, gin and lime to hand. And what would she get? Three inches of tepid water, if she was lucky, in the Lawrences’ mean and icy bathroom, followed by a glass of water and rabbit pie.
‘Land girl, you’re barmy,’ she sang.
Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark. When she reached the yard she could make out, quite easily, three figures walking towards the house. Joe seemed to be in the middle, arms slung across Ag’s and Stella’s shoulders. Prue stopped for a moment, to make sure.
Blimey, she thought, a week ago he was hardly speaking to any of us, and now he seems to like land girls. Very peculiar, men, as her mum always said.
Mr Lawrence strode into the kitchen without stopping to wipe his boots.
His wife, heeding the warning, glanced up from the pudding she was making at the table.
‘Little hussy,’ he said.
‘What’s she done now?’
Mr Lawrence frowned. He had meant to keep his silence. Calculations circled swiftly in his mind.
‘Nothing you could put your finger on,’ he said eventually. ‘I told you. I always said land girls wouldn’t work.’
‘I don’t know what we’d do without them,’ she said. ‘I’d begun to think you were getting used to them.’
‘That Prudence girl. She’s a menace.’
Mrs Lawrence put the dish in the oven, took her time to answer.
‘I thought she might have been a threat – Joe. But I’ve come to the conclusion she’s harmless. And she’s a worker. It’s Stella I worry about.’
‘Stella?’
Mr Lawrence, on his way to the doormat, looked back so sharply the movement could have been taken for guilt. ‘What’s the matter with Stella?’
His wife coolly met his eye. ‘Pining for the lover at sea. She seems so troubled by his lack of letters.’
‘Is that all?’ Mr Lawrence kicked off his boots with some relief. ‘She’ll get used to it. Pining’ll get her nowhere. Hankering for what is not – stupid waste of time.’
‘Quite,’ said Mrs Lawrence.
Was it a smirched conscience, the farmer wondered, that caused him to think Faith knew he was addressing himself? He felt a sudden desire to be far from the house – a house so full and changed by its new occupants. He wanted no part of the bustle, the chatter, the evening ahead. He wanted to get away, collect his thoughts in peace.
‘I’ll be out tonight,’ he said. ‘There’s something on Ratty’s mind and I’ve had no time to listen to him this past week. He needs an hour or two to unwind. Said I’d meet him for a pint in The Bells.’
‘You’ll need a shave, then. There’s a clean shirt in the drawer.’
‘Thanks.’
Mr Lawrence was convinced he saw a shadow of incredulity in his wife’s tired eyes as she looked up at him. He left the kitchen too perturbed to drink the mug of tea waiting on the stove. It was the first time in their married life he had ever lied to her.
The others, at supper, were subdued by fatigue, but not uneasy. Joe got up after the cottage pie, saying he was going to his room to read. Before leaving he kissed his mother lightly on the top of her head – something none of them had ever seen him do before, and patted her shoulder. She did not respond.
Some moments later, Prue, with schoolgirl politeness, asked to leave the table: she didn’t fancy any pudding and feared she would fall asleep in her chair. Mrs Lawrence nodded her assent, mouth reduced again to a thin line of disapproval.
Stella and Ag, on their way upstairs when the washing-up was finished, heard the thin sad sound of the Brahms cello concerto coming from Joe’s room.
‘Good heavens,’ said Stella, pausing on the stairs. ‘That. I didn’t know Joe liked music.’
‘Do you? Do you play?’
‘I play a little. I sing a bit, dance a bit. I’d like to teach one day, but at this rate I’ll be far too rusty.’
They found Prue on her bed, the cover crumpled beneath her, fully dressed. She had fallen asleep even before taking off her shoes. She wore the crochet jersey again: the crystal beads on the collar sparkled like two inanimate smiles round her neck. Her bow-mouth was slightly open, two child-like front teeth resting on the bottom lip. Even in sleep she looked tired.
Ag struggled to pull off the regulation shoes. Lumps of dried mud fell to the floor. Stella began to tug at the breeches.
‘What about the bow? The make-up?’
‘Nothing we can do.’
‘She’ll be horrified in the morning. Panda eyes for milking.’
‘She’ll cope.’
When they had relieved Prue of her breeches, shoes and socks, they managed to bundle her under the bedclothes.
‘More important, I hope she’ll cope with Joe,’ said Ag. ‘The whole thing seems to be fraught with danger.’
‘With any luck it’ll burn itself out very quickly. No one will come to any harm.’
‘Hope you’re right. Apart from anything else, what land girl could find the time and energy for sex and farm work? They’re not physically compatible, I’d say. Though maybe Prue will prove us wrong.’
‘She’s so pretty.’ Stella studied the blonde head nestled in the pillows. ‘You can see why Joe, alone here for so long, finds her irresistible.’
‘He’s an odd one, Joe.’ Ag went to her own end of the room, turned down the bed. ‘I didn’t take to him at first. Now, I rather like him.’
Stella, as she did every night, picked up her framed photograph of Philip. ‘As long as we all keep on liking him,’ she said, ‘we’ll be all right. We’ll be fine. We’ll have a good friend.’
In The Bells Mr Lawrence found Ratty, as he guessed he would. The sight of the old man by the fire, tankard in hand, released some of his guilt. He had lied about a planned meeting, but at least Ratty’s presence meant there was a meeting. The full weight of the lie was thus eased.
Mr Lawrence ordered himself a pint of bitter and joined Ratty by the fire. They nodded at each other, felt the warmth of the flames on their hands and shins.
‘Poison day coming up soon,’ said Mr Lawrence at last.
‘This ruddy war.’ Ratty shook his head. His eyes, the colour of tea, rolled about. ‘Messes up everything. Girls ratting! Changes the nature of things.’
‘Girls dagging, hedging, ploughing … odd, I agree. But something we’ll have to come to think of as normal.’
Ratty’s thin brown mouth stretched into an approximate smile. ‘You’ve come round pretty quickly, then? Not two weeks back you were full of doubts, you said.’
‘There’s only one causes a bit of trouble.’
A growl of a laugh came from Ratty’s throat. ‘They’re nice enough girls. The tall one puts me in mind of my mother.’ Brightening, Ratty finished his drink. ‘Then there’s the floozie – you want to mind her. Then there’s the – other one.’
‘Stella.’ The ple
asure of saying her name, Mr Lawrence noticed, registered like a tiny graph moving upwards in his heart.
‘That’s right.’
‘Another drink?’
‘Thanks, no. Must be going.’ Back to the furious darning Edith, thought Ratty. She’d managed to burn the single saucepan this evening. Potatoes abandoned, he had had to quell his hunger with drink.
‘Couple of weeks, then, the ratting. I’ll leave you in charge. You can explain to them, can’t you?’
‘Dare say I could if I put my mind that way.’
Ratty stood up, reluctant to think about it. He arched his back, stiff. He didn’t fancy the idea at all. Women screamed when they saw a mouse, in his experience. Lord knows what they’d do at the sight of a rat. As for explaining: words weren’t easy on that sort of occasion. Still, he could show – like the day he’d shown the Stella girl to harness Noble. She’d learned surprisingly quickly.
‘Night, Ratty,’ said Mr Lawrence.
‘Night, guv.’
Ratty touched his head with a kind of smudged salute. However close they had grown over the years, Ratty would not consider abandoning this deferential gesture. They were boss and hired hand, and nothing would persuade Ratty to alter his ways: he knew his place, and had no intention of changing the behaviour that was customary in his job.
‘There’s two things we must talk about, Joe, you and me,’ said Prue. ‘Two things we must talk about first.’
She stood just inside the door, dressing-gown clutched about her. It was the following night. After a long day lime-washing the cowsheds, she had had some difficulty waiting for the others to fall asleep before she crept downstairs to Joe’s room. But she had promised to keep this date. He had reminded her several times during the day, assured her there was no danger providing she did not put on her torch. His room, luckily, was at the bottom of the attic stairs, the far side of the house from his parents.
It was lit by a dim lamp on the bedside table, knights in armour cut out from a scrapbook stuck on its shade. Even in the poor light, Prue could see it was still a schoolboy’s room: pictures of trains and aeroplanes on the wall, a stack of board games in old boxes under a table. The bed was narrow, covered with threadbare candlewick. Pallid wool slippers stood neatly on the mat, a wooden chair was heaped with untidy clothes. Records in paper sleeves were stacked everywhere on the floor. Wedged in among them were piles of books that overflowed from the many shelves. There was a smell of toothpaste and dung, and it was cold.
Joe sat in the only comfortable chair, in an open-necked shirt and no shoes. ‘Have this chair,’ he said, rising after a long silence.
‘I’d rather sit on the bed.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’
Prue climbed on to the bruise-coloured cover. The springs whined. She curled her legs beneath her, hoping to warm her feet. She would have given anything for a Woodbine, but knew that was not possible – smoke brought on Joe’s asthma.
‘So what is it you have to say – first?’ Joe gave a small smile.
Prue shivered: combination of cold and constraint.
‘First: there’s a party at the RAF camp in a couple of weeks’ time. We all want to go. I mean, we must have a bit of fun.’
‘So?’
‘How do we get there?’
Joe rubbed his jaw, mock-serious. ‘There’s the Wolseley, I suppose.’
‘Exactly. But it needs a driver. Would you – might you … be able?’
‘I could see what I can do. There’s a pretty tight rein on petrol, but we haven’t used much lately. Dare say I could swing it.’
‘Joe! You’re a bloody angel!’ Prue hugged herself.
‘Of course, it would mean my having to stay at the party to bring you back. Dad would never agree to a lot of to-ing and fro-ing.’
‘You wouldn’t mind that, would you?’
‘I’m not much of a party man. But no, I wouldn’t mind for once.’
‘We could dance.’
‘It would take a lot to get me on a dance floor. A very large reward.’
‘Promise you that!’ Prue fluttered her eyelashes.
‘And what was the other thing?’ Joe began to take off his socks.
‘The other thing was Janet. I think we should talk about her.’
‘No need for that, is there?’
‘I think there is.’
Joe undid the two top buttons of his shirt. ‘You’re at liberty to go back upstairs. I won’t lay a finger on you again if it troubles your conscience.’
‘It’s your conscience I’m thinking of.’
‘For various reasons that I won’t bother you with, my conscience is having no troubles at all. But thanks for thinking about it. And come here.’
He put out a hand. Prue took it and slid herself off the bed. Joe guided her on to the floor between his legs. She put a hand on each corduroy knee. Her cheeks were scarlet. She wanted to laugh, but knew she must contain herself.
‘Would you be terribly cold if you took off your dressing-gown?’
‘Probably.’ Prue giggled. She untied the cord, slipped it from her shoulders. Joe shifted forward in his chair.
‘You realize,’ he said, ‘I could never see you properly in the barn. I could only imagine.’
‘Well, here you are,’ said Prue, giving a small wiggle so that her breasts shimmered. ‘All right, are they?’
‘All right? My God, come here.’
Joe took Prue’s head in his enormous hands. She opened her shining pink mouth in readiness, the fluttering eyes not quite innocent. Suddenly fierce, he pulled her down.
Some time later Prue slipped out of the small, awkward bed. She felt exhausted by constraint. They had had to stop themselves from shouting. They had had to curb the instinctive wildness of their movements because of the singing bed springs. Prue longed to be back in the barn. Now, Joe put a warning hand on her arm.
‘Listen,’ he whispered.
Prue could hear footsteps in the passage. They hesitated. She quickly slipped into the small space between the wardrobe and the window, dressing-gown slung over her shoulders, heart battering. Joe struggled into his pyjamas. There was a small tap on the door.
‘Joe?’
‘Yes?’
‘I thought I heard you coughing.’
Joe went to the door, opened it a few inches. His mother stood in the passage clasping a candle in a tin holder of cobalt blue. She wore a long cream nightdress of frayed wool: she had worn such nightdresses for as long as Joe could remember.
‘Would you like me to put on the kettle? Do you a bowl of Friar’s Balsam?’
Her sad beige mouth was drawn down, a tail of long dark hair hung over one shoulder. The slight trembling of her hand made the candle’s flame to sway, and shadows to tremble on the walls.
‘No thanks, I’m all right.’
‘Very well, then.’
‘Night, Ma.’
‘Good night, Joe.’
Joe shut the door. Prue came out of her hiding place.
‘Cor blimey,’ she said. ‘That was a near one.’
‘Ma’s always on the alert,’ said Joe. ‘Always worrying about my health. But she didn’t have a clue – honestly.’
‘I’ll be going,’ said Prue. She put up her cheek to be kissed, then on tense bare feet felt her silent way up the stairs. Night three: and complications, she thought. Trouble with Mrs Lawrence was the last thing she wanted.
Perhaps Joe wasn’t such a good idea after all. Perhaps things would be easier all round with the RAF man in the teashop. At the thought of his severe blue cap tipped so neatly over his shaven head, Prue gave a small shiver as she climbed into her cold, dark bed.
Chapter 6
Stella’s prediction that Prue’s infatuation for Joe would burn itself out very quickly was proved right: just a fortnight after the affair began, it came to an end. Prue was exhausted by nights of scant sleep and dangerous journeys to Joe’s room. She was fed up with the constraint, by d
ay, of having to conceal her feelings. The impracticalities of illicit passion were too daunting, she found: she had had enough. For her, as always, the pleasure had been in the snaring. Once in the bag, the familiar melancholy feeling of having won too easily came upon her. Excitement waned. For some, affairs are flamed by enforced secrecy. For others, like Prue, it’s a corrosive element that quells magic in a very short time.
‘That’s it, Joe,’ she said, after an encounter in his unconducive room that had lasted till dawn. ‘I can’t be doing with any more of this. I’ll collapse.’
She stood by the door in her dressing-gown, shivering. Joe scarcely shifted in his mean little schoolboy bed.
‘Anything you say.’
‘You’re not bothered?’
‘No.’
Prue hesitated before she smiled. His take-it-or-leave-it attitude was both a relief and something of an insult – mostly a relief, she quickly decided. There was nothing she would fancy less than Joe pouncing on her in the milkshed once she had said enough. In fact, his behaviour was so decent she felt she owed him something of an explanation.
‘I can’t take all the worry of creeping back upstairs expecting to run into blooming Lady Macbeth with her candle, night after night,’ she said. ‘It’s a strain on the nerves.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘Besides, they’ve been giving me a hard time, your parents. Why should I be the only one who does the muck-spreading? It’s not fair. Still, it’s been fun – you and me, I mean.’ She paused. ‘I only hope all this won’t change your mind about driving us to the dance …’
‘It won’t, no.’ Joe turned away from her, pulling up the bedclothes. ‘You have my word about that.’
Upstairs, careless in her strange sense of release, Prue made more noise than usual. The others stirred. Prue kept on her dressing-gown as she climbed into her cold bed. She sat with her arms round her knees. There was no point in trying to sleep for the half-hour before it was time to get up. Stella’s voice came out of the dark.