by Angela Huth
‘Not very. In a moment.’
Scarcely aware of what she was doing, Ag, inspired by some peculiar boldness, stepped on to the gate and sat on the top bar. She faced Joe.
‘Here’s some more nonsense,’ she said. ‘If it does go right, and we meet again one day, I want to go to him experienced …’ Her face blazed in the darkness. Wondering at her own recklessness, she went on. ‘I don’t want him to think I’d been pathetically keeping myself for him.’ She paused. ‘I’m quite keen to be shot of my virginity … There: I’ve said it.’
In the silence that followed, Ag realized the extent of her impropriety. But, still fired by her inchoate aims, she went further in her madness, and rested her arms on Joe’s shoulders. He did not protest, or move, but kept his silence.
‘I knew I’d go too far eventually,’ Ag murmured at last. ‘I’ve made a complete fool of myself. Please don’t tell the others.’
She removed her arms, climbed back off the gate to the other side. Joe followed her.
‘I think I could probably oblige,’ he said.
‘What? I didn’t really mean you, Joe …’ His reaction caused her such confusion she turned from him, began to walk.
‘I think you did.’
‘I’ve been in a terrible muddle. Waiting, waiting: it’s a sort of canker. It does things to you.’
Joe caught up with her. He took her hand.
‘I can imagine that,’ he said.
They walked in silence up the dark lane, so fast that the cold that had bitten into them was replaced by an almost feverish heat beneath their thick clothes. As they turned the corner to the farmyard gate, Joe released Ag’s hand. She felt briefly deprived of warmth, comfort, understanding. The expectation that his offer had provided was a calm, sweet thing: no desire attached, just curiosity.
‘When?’ she said.
‘Soon,’ said Joe.
Two days later, Mrs Lawrence, recovered but weak, was up and resuming her usual duties. The first evening of her return to normal life, she stirred the Christmas pudding in a huge bowl.
‘It’ll be a thinnish pudding, this year,’ she said to Stella, who was chopping vegetables at the other end of the kitchen table. ‘Rich only in sixpences. I’ve been saving as much dried fruit as I can, and John’s let me have a bottle of brandy from the cellar. But it won’t be like the old days.’
Stella smiled. In her pocket was an unopened letter from Philip – the first since Plymouth. Curiously, her impatience to read it was manageable. The idea of keeping it till she was in bed throbbed no more fervently than the idea of a minor luxury. Her chief feeling was one of a childlike excitement about Christmas. Earlier in the day Mr Lawrence had brought in a Christmas tree, and set it in the sitting-room. Mrs Lawrence had brought down a box of decorations from the attic, and given them to Prue. As the experienced window-dresser of a leading Manchester hairdresser, Prue had said, she was the most qualified to dress the tree. No one had quarrelled with this. She burst into the kitchen now, twigs in her hair – there were twigs in her hair most days, Stella quietly observed – starfish lashes blinking wildly.
‘It’s done, it’s beautiful! No one’s allowed to go in and see it till after supper. Only thing that’s missing, Mrs Lawrence, are small candles. I’ll get some in Blandford tomorrow. You coming, Stella? It’ll be good fun. We could get Christmas cards and presents and things, and go back to the tea-room. Then we could see what’s on at the picture house, have a drink somewhere, catch the last bus … couldn’t we, Mrs Lawrence?’
Mrs Lawrence nodded. She passed the spoon to Prue. Prue stirred the uncooked pudding.
‘Shouldn’t I be making a wish?’ she asked. She shut her eyes for a moment. ‘I know what I’m wishing.’
Stella thought she had a pretty good idea of Prue’s wish, too: she wondered what her own should be. For a return of the old impetus, perhaps.
‘I always wish the same, every year,’ said Mrs Lawrence, taking back the spoon. What could that be? Stella wondered.
‘You just keep on,’ giggled Prue. ‘You just need enough faith, and anything’ll come true.’
‘I hope so,’ said Mrs Lawrence. ‘Come on, Stella, your turn. Where’s Ag?’
Ag, her three days of intense domestic duties over, had returned with some relief to her tasks outside. She was pleased to be reunited with the bantams and hens. Collecting eggs, feeding and cleaning their houses, had become one of her regular jobs. She had come to learn the birds’ various moods, their stubborn ways, their flights of stupidity, their sense of detachment. While the others stirred the pudding in the kitchen, Ag searched the barn for two missing bantams: the rest were shut up in their houses for the night.
She held a hand over her torch, released a few bars of almost useless light. But she knew her way about well by now: knew their favourite corners, far from the tractor – they had separate places for sleeping and laying. As Ag felt among the sacks she could hear the familiar churring of pigeons high in the rafters. Then, from a place near her, the higher, tremulous clucking of bantams. She uncovered the face of the torch, swept its dim beam over a cluster of nesting places. In a comfortable dip in the hay, croodled the two lost birds.
‘Come on,’ she chivvied. ‘You’re late.’
In an obedient mood, the bantams flopped to the ground, squawking and flapping. They ran towards the farmyard, heads jabbing furiously. Ag switched off her torch. Turning to follow them, she saw the dark silhouette of Joe. Her heart quickened. The arranged seduction, whenever that was to be, was not going to take place here in the barn, copy of Prue’s experience. Of that, Ag was determined.
I need some books, Ag,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve finished everything. If I take you all in to Blandford tomorrow afternoon, would you help me choose some?’
Ag was glad of the darkness. Glad he could not see her blush. Glad it was only books he wanted.
‘Of course.’
‘Then,’ said Joe, ‘we could go out to tea.’
‘Fine. Anything. I must make sure the bantams have gone back, shut them up.’ She hurried past him.
‘Hurry in and stir the pudding,’ Joe shouted after her, ‘and wish us luck.’
Five minutes later, it was Ag’s turn with the spoon. Screwing up her eyes, she saw a picture of Desmond’s face, and wished to do the right thing. When she opened them, she found Joe looking at her. This unnerved her. She had been strangely calm since their conversation two days ago at the gate. Now, her usual composure left her.
‘I think we all need a drink,’ said Mrs Lawrence. ‘Joe, there’s a bottle of whisky in the cupboard.’
Joe fetched glasses and the bottle. Stella and Ag exchanged looks. Apart from the ginger wine on the first night, it was the first time an alcoholic drink had appeared since they had arrived. Ag drank hers, neat, in one gulp. It would steady her, she thought. She needed something to dissipate troubling thoughts of Janet. Her own conscience was not loud enough to halt the planned deed, but planned betrayal, she was finding, is full of noisy rebuke.
‘Joe,’ Mrs Lawrence was saying, ‘Janet rang earlier. She says she can get off midday on Christmas Eve, be here by supper time.’
Ag took a quick look at Joe’s face. The neat whisky had had its impact already: his features spun like a Catherine wheel. Indeed the whole room, all faces, trembled with uncertainty. Joe had no time to answer his mother before Prue dashed in singing I’m dreaming of a white Christmas. She wore garlands of tinsel round her neck. Silver balls hung from her ears and gold paper stars were wedged in her hair. Everyone laughed: Joe poured her a drink. Ag, to her own amazement, found herself moving right up to Prue and putting her hands on her shoulders – the same gesture she had so curiously made to Joe by the gate.
‘Prue,’ she said, ‘you look marvellous. You should be on top of the tree.’ The words, like the glittering vision before her, were a little unsteady.
‘Good heavens, Ag,’ said Prue, ‘whatever’s got into you?’
There was more laughter.
Joe answered for Ag. ‘The Christmas spirit,’ he said.
My dearest darling Stella, Stella read in bed later that night. Well, at least he’s upped the tempo a little, she thought. A good start.
That was a lovely weekend. I keep thinking of so many bits of it, and it’s a good feeling knowing you’re as sure as I am about getting married. It’s frustrating not being able to make any plans because of the war. We must just hope it’s over soon and then we can make arrangements very quickly. We’re escorting a convoy to Liverpool tomorrow which will make a slight change. Hope you’re happy back with the others and the animals. Forgive brief note.
In great haste.
With all my love, Philip.
PS My friend Michael and I are planning a day trip to London in the New Year. Perhaps you might be able to come and join us?
Stella folded the letter, returned it to its envelope, put the envelope by the photograph, still in its same place. She sighed, turned out the light.
‘Letter from Philip?’ Prue’s whisper came out of the darkness. She never missed a thing, Prue.
‘Yes.’
‘Anything the matter?’
‘No. I’d just hoped it would be a bit longer. A bit—’
‘Don’t worry. Practically nobody in the world can write a good letter.’
‘True,’ Ag joined in, from her end of the room. She had been wondering, now the spinning of her head had calmed down, whether or not she should buy a Christmas card for Desmond in Blandford tomorrow. She turned this way and that, making the bed creak. Yes, she decided. She would.
‘Stella?’ It was Prue again.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you coming, tomorrow?’
‘If you like …’
‘Ag? How about you? Do our shopping, have some fun?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Ag, ‘Joe mentioned that on condition I helped him choose his books he’d give us all a lift.’
Prue giggled. ‘Blimey! You mind out. Choosing books is as good a way as any.’ There was a brief silence. ‘Shall I tell you something? Barry says he’s not sure how much longer he can keep up all this cycling.’ Prue giggled again. ‘So, obviously, I’ve got to be on the lookout for a replacement, for when he’s finally exhausted. We could go to the pictures, Stella, couldn’t we? Always a chance, there. Will you come, too, Ag?’
‘Think I’ll come back earlier, if Joe will give me a lift,’ Ag answered carefully. ‘I’ve got letters to write, Christmas cards.’
‘Anything you say.’ Prue gave a final giggle. ‘Tell you what, I recommend the barn. One of those stacks up on the right – very comfortable.’
‘Don’t be silly, Prue,’ said Ag. ‘You know there’s Desmond.’
‘Well, there isn’t, exactly. Desmond, I mean. Is there?’
There was another long silence. Ag thought the other two had gone to sleep. Then Prue had the last word.
‘Ag, you awake? Because let me tell you something. What you’re going to be shocked by, this time, is yourself. I bet you.’
Ag put her head beneath the bedclothes. She had no wish to hear any more truths from Prue. She had no wish to think further about the extraordinary resolve to behave badly that seemed to have overwhelmed her.
While the others went off for their Christmas shopping, tea, and the hunt in the cinema for a Barry replacement, Joe and Ag spent a long time searching the shelves of a small bookshop. Joe was keen to buy the entire works of Gissing. Ag persuaded him that to start Balzac would be more rewarding: the compromise was Eugénie Grandet and Born in Exile. Joe began to enjoy himself. He randomly chose a disparate selection of Penguins: Can You Forgive Her?, Chekhov short stories, Hardy’s poems (Ag’s strongest recommendation), various books that had slipped through the net of his reading, as he put it. It took over an hour to fill the large shopping basket Ag had brought.
They then went to a grocer, where Joe bought a bag of ginger biscuits, two anaemic iced buns and half a bottle of red wine. Ag, curious, but determined to ask no questions, helped him carry the purchases to the car.
It was three o’clock when they drove out of the town. The light had not yet begun to fade.
‘Poor Stella,’ said Ag, ‘I bet she would have liked a lift home with us.’
‘Probably,’ said Joe, ‘but Stella wasn’t part of my plan.’
His plan, he explained eventually, as they drove into deep country of small wintry hills, was for tea in Robert’s cottage. Robert was his oldest friend, unable, like Joe, to be called up, because of weak lungs.
‘Before you all arrived,’ Joe said, ‘we used to meet most nights in The Bells. Have a drink or two, talk about anything except the war and farming. It was something to look forward to at the end of the day. But since you’ve all been here … I don’t know. I’ve grown used to Prue’s mindless chatter, your serious little head bent over a book, Stella’s dreamy look while she keeps up polite conversation. There’s more to the evenings, now, somehow.’ He smiled. ‘When I rang him last night, he reminded me we hadn’t spoken for a week. Some friend, he said. What Robert needs is a woman, a girl. He’s lonely. I was rather thinking—’
‘I know exactly what you’re thinking.’ Ag laughed.
‘Think she’d do? Save her a lot of scouring the streets and cinemas of Blandford.’
‘I don’t know Robert. How can I judge?’
‘He’s a good man. Funny. He’ll make an uxorious husband one day.’
‘Rich?’
‘Far from it.’
‘Temporary measure only, then. Prue’s set on her gold taps. But you could try.’
They turned off the lane into a muddy, uneven track between high hedges, and reached a grey stone cottage. Its moss-clad thatched roof, in danger of slipping off, was only held in place by the frailest netting. Paintwork was peeling. Windows were thick with cobwebs and grime.
Joe took an old iron key from the lintel above the front door. He led the way into a dark, damp room. It smelt of past cats and rotten fruit. There was little furniture, but for an old sofa in front of an empty grate. Dozens of books were piled on the floor, some of their covers smeared with mildew.
‘He doesn’t have much chance to be domestic,’ Joe said. ‘You go and boil a kettle while I organize a fire.’
Ag took some time to find her way round the unpleasant kitchen. She had to wash dirty tin mugs under the single cold tap, and she could only find one plate. By the time she returned to the sitting-room with tea things on a rusty tray, Joe’s fire had brightened the place a little.
‘So when’s he arriving, Robert?’ Ag asked.
‘Don’t be silly. He’s not.’
‘I see.’
‘Biscuit? Bun?’
‘I’m suddenly not hungry.’ Ag sat at the far end of the sofa.
‘We needn’t go through with this if you’ve changed your mind,’ said Joe, gently.
‘Last night I was awake for hours, thinking I was mad, immoral, wicked, a ridiculous fool. I was going to say I had changed my mind. But now I’m here …’
Joe took two cloudy glasses from a shelf and a corkscrew from his pocket. His pre-planning was exemplary, Ag thought. He opened the bottle of red wine. ‘This’ll take the edge off things for you.’ He handed her a glass.
‘Thanks.’
Ag took a sip. It was cold, bitter. She forced herself to keep drinking, treating it as medicine. A flicker of warmth came from the fire. She began to feel better. The outrageousness of her behaviour seemed slightly less outrageous. By the time she had finished the wine, there was only one real worry left.
‘I fear you may not find me very attractive,’ she said. It came out sounding prim as a governess. To obliterate the taste of the wine, she tried the nasty tea. She could not meet Joe’s eyes. ‘So if … it doesn’t work, I’ll quite understand.’
Joe touched her hot cheek. ‘In a few years’ time, when this roundness has fined down a little, you’ll be more striking, more original-looking, more arresting than eith
er Prue or Stella.’
‘Do you really mean that?’
‘I do. Prue’s prettiness, her kitten looks, won’t last. Stella can look beautiful – that night at the dance she was stunning – but she doesn’t take enough trouble. But you’ve got the bones. Somewhere. Waiting to emerge.’ They both laughed. ‘I said to Robert how lucky we were. Imagine the three land girls we might have been sent, I said.’
‘We’re the ones who’ve been lucky. We might have been landed in one of those hostels – not much fun, I hear. Or with some tyrannical farmer. Hallows Farm, the kindness of your parents – no land girl could ask for more.’
‘It was Ma’s idea.’
They finished the wine. The second glass Ag found less difficult. It had, as Joe predicted, taken the edge off things. The bleakness of the room, the apprehension of the act they were about to commit, lay more gently on her spirits. Joe stood up, took Ag’s hand.
‘I think we should go up.’
Ag stood, too. She was as tall as Joe. Their eyes met on the level. He kissed her on the forehead.
‘Just one more thing,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’
‘Janet.’
‘What about her?’
‘Isn’t all this very immoral? What about your conscience – and mine, for that matter?’
Joe sighed, impatient. ‘It’s not the time to discuss Janet, is it? You should have said something about her before if she troubled you. I can’t tell you why, but for some reason she’s not on my conscience. I’ve given her my word: I’m going to marry her. Until that time I feel free to do what I like. All right?’
Ag nodded.
Joe led her out of the door and up the narrow wooden stairs. Ag wondered how many other times he had made use of his friend’s house: how many other girls had followed him up those stairs, and into the little cold bedroom with its sloping black wood floor and crooked window. Joe drew the scant cotton curtains. Dead moths fluttered to the ground. Then he pulled down the bed cover. Two blankets lay folded on an ancient mattress. Stained pillows were slumped, caseless. He switched on an exiguous bedroom light. The low-watt bulb smeared the walls with a dun light, increasing the gloom. Ag stood by the window, taking in the scene of her impending seduction.