Land Girls

by Angela Huth

  Mr Lawrence, by chance returning to the farm for a new scythe, came round the corner to see his wife trapped in a sheet, the others blowing angrily on the line. He ran to her. Reaching her, he felt as if he was entering a surreal picture. Her misery reached out to him. He was alarmed by her face.

  Quickly, he unwound her, took her icy hands. She leaned against him with so deep a sigh he could feel a shudder right through her thin body.

  ‘I don’t want to go, John,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘None of us wants to go.’

  For the first time Mr Lawrence could remember, his wife sobbed – briefly and quietly. He held her for a long time. They stood clasped together, waiting for her to recover, listening to the soughing of the sheets.

  With the increased amount of physical labour, even Prue found herself more tired than before, and was forced to cut down her visits to Robert to two evenings a week. This caused her no great sorrow. Her earlier doubts had hardened into a definite impasse with Robert – the kind of impasse she often came to with a man of scant means. Although her respect for him remained intact – there was something mysterious about him which continued to intrigue her – the affair had withered into an unexciting routine which Prue recognized as a signal to its end. Meantime, Jamie Morton was limbering up as a possible successor – though, as Prue explained to the others, it was only lack of choice that forced her to consider him at all.

  Jamie dutifully cycled over to the farm several weeks running to meet Prue in the woods on her afternoon off. On closer acquaintance, Prue discovered that similarities with Barry were few. In fact, the only two things they had in common were the RAF, and heavy smoking. Unlike Barry, he did not like Woodbines: Players were what he preferred. He talked about cigarettes at some length. Sometimes Prue – an accommodating girl in some respects, she had switched to Players to please him – felt she could not bear another conversation about the relative merits of various brands, and stories about how many packets Jamie had smoked on various occasions.

  Jamie’s alternative line of conversation was hardly more endearing. He would describe to her the nature of his fantasies – such coarse dreams, it turned out, that even Prue was shocked. He did not, however, lay a hand upon her. Although she might have conceded, if the moment had come, Prue felt no great desire to be pummelled by the hefty red hands with their swollen fingers and bitten nails. There was a certain simple charm in his face – Prue still admired his teeth – and she had always fancied the blue of the RAF uniform. But to be quite honest, as she told the others, the weekly appointment to smoke in the woods with Jamie Morton was not the sort of thing that would keep her interest alive for long.

  For once in her life, there were two things that preoccupied Prue’s thoughts, that early summer, more than men. One was the departure of the sheep and lambs, the other was the invitation to Buckingham Palace.

  When she was able to get a word in edgeways, she tried to tell Jamie about the day she had to spend helping Mr Lawrence go through the ewes’ wool looking for maggots – he wanted to sell a clean flock. She had found some. The bugs had made red patches of sour raw flesh at the roots of the wool, which had to be treated. The little buggers, Mr Lawrence had said, could get right down into a sheep’s bones, drive it mad. Prue had to give two bloody great tablets to each ewe. Persuading it to open its yellow teeth, and swallow the things, was one of the worst jobs she could remember, she said. All the same, she was fond of the sheep, and loved the lambs. When they were finally hustled aboard a convoy of vans, she sobbed her eyes out, she didn’t mind admitting. She’d never heard such a noise in her life. The baaing and bleating would haunt her for years.

  Jamie conveyed little interest in Prue’s stories of the sheep. The invitation to meet their Majesties, though – that was another matter. While Prue described the difficulty she was having in finding bluebell artificial silk, and the picture in her mind of the King and Queen in their crowns on a golden throne, jewel-studded, Jamie puffed faster at his cigarette, inhaled deeply, blew beautiful smoke rings that flew high into the trees before they broke – a man full of wonder and awe.

  ‘Good heavens, Prue,’ he said, when her imagination finally ran out one afternoon in the woods, ‘that’ll be quite something. Not believable, really.’ He stubbed the butt of his seventh Players into a patch of virgin moss. ‘I’ve never shagged with a girl who’s been to Buckingham Palace. Know that? Don’t suppose any of my mates have, either.’

  ‘Don’t suppose they have,’ said Prue.

  Distracted by her thoughts of the Palace, more real to her than the present scene, Prue noticed Jamie had clamped one of his terracotta hands on her knee. She allowed it to stay there, just for a moment, before encouraging him to engage in the whole studied business of lighting the next cigarette.

  * * *

  The weeks of high summer passed with astonishing speed. There were long days of hay-making in hot sun. There was the cultivating, and spreading the sheep and cow dung left in the fields so that it should not sour small patches. To ensure the successful transformation of Hallows Farm into a good arable holding that would attract buyers in the autumn, the jobs seemed never-ending. Prue, to show her gratitude for the privilege of being the chosen one to go to the tea party, worked with extraordinary energy by day – by night, too, there was so much to be done in preparation. A week before the great event, she refused Robert any favours, saying she had to get her beauty sleep, do her finger nails, her toe nails, try out hair styles, choose her hat, generally pull out all stops so as not to let down the honour of the Women’s Land Army at her meeting with their Majesties. Robert was understanding about everything except the toe nails.

  And suddenly there she was on the platform of the station, a July morning, Mrs Poodle rounding up a herd of other land girls from the district. In their brightly coloured silks and crêpes, with rouged cheeks and waved hair, they jittered about, all shy smiles and nervous giggles.

  Joe had paid Prue no compliments on the journey to the station: his silence was unnerving. But when he whispered to her, on the platform, before leaving, that she looked the best by far, Prue’s confidence returned.

  Glancing about, she could not but immodestly agree with him. But then, she had taken so much trouble: weeks of effort and consultation to achieve the final picture. Her dress, though not quite the bluebell she had in mind, was at least a dazzling blue, with a sweetheart neckline copied from her winter red, and a flirty skirt, though, God forbid, nothing that could possibly cause a frown from the King. Her mum had dyed some old shoes an almost matching blue, and to cover her hay-scratched hands she wore a pair of white cotton gloves which Mrs Lawrence had kindly embroidered with small patches of forget-me-nots.

  But the real inspiration was the hair. Having made a hat with a piece of the dress material, Prue had abandoned it at the dress rehearsal the night before and had replaced it with real cornflowers. She had run out into the warm night, frantically gathered cornflowers from tangled beds and long grass, preserved them in water by her bed. At dawn this morning she had, with Ag’s help, pinned them randomly among her blonde curls, and prayed very hard that they would not wilt before five o’clock. And indeed the cornflowers were causing something of a stir. The other girls in their stiff and elderly hats admired Prue’s great style. While they bobbed up and down practising their curtsies, at Mrs Poodle’s insistence, while waiting for the train, they paid Prue many a generous compliment. All the way to London in the train, warm bristly stuff of the seat prickling her thighs through the artificial silk, Prue basked modestly in their admiration. She could not remember a happier day.

  Mrs Poodle had had the idea of taking the girls to the Albert Memorial for their picnic lunch. She thought they would enjoy sitting on the steps in the sun, beneath the gaze of the marble sages as well as Prince Albert, and then stroll in Kensington Gardens before returning to the coach that was to take them to the Palace.

  Prue, who had not been to London before, was enchant
ed by the drive from the station. She had not expected to see so many trees, the lushness of Hyde Park, people lying on the grass impervious to the war or the possibility of a raid. She saw only one devastated building: blackened stone, piles of still uncleared rubble, shreds of once private wallpaper exposed to the world. But nothing could detract from her excitement.

  At the Albert Memorial, she sat on a step a little apart from the others. She wanted to be alone, to take it all in: if only Stella and Ag had been here – but still, she thought she would try to be a good reporter. She opened her paper bag of lunch, unwrapped the sandwiches from their greaseproof paper, then threw them to the sparrows. No chance of eating till she was there. Their Majesties would hardly be impressed by smudged lipstick.

  The sun shone warmly down on Prue. The cornflowers, she checked, were still perky in her hair. She stood up, impatient – half an hour before they had to reboard the coach. She smoothed the creases from her skirt, wandered round the side of the Memorial. There, the ground had been turned into allotments. Amazed, Prue stood looking down upon a man who was bent over a row of peas supported by twigs. The sight of such country labour in the middle of London reminded her that Stella and Ag, at this very moment, would be working in the fields. She shut her eyes, imagining the afternoon at Hallows Farm, a place by now light years away, a dream … But no! This, surely, was the dream: Prue Lumley, land girl, in artificial silk on the steps of the Albert Memorial, about to be presented to the King and Queen.

  Prue’s imaginings of activities at the farm were not quite accurate. Stella and Joe were supposed to be cutting the clover field: Joe on the new International, Stella on the Fordson, with which she was now familiar. But the old machine, increasingly cantankerous, refused to start. Stella fiddled with the choke, topped it up with paraffin, finally banged the bonnet in exasperation, but to no avail. Eventually, not wishing to waste more time, she was forced to interrupt Joe, needing his help.

  He solved the problem at once: dirty plugs. He removed them one by one, held them up, cleaned them on a piece of rag. The simple solution made Stella feel foolish.

  ‘I didn’t know about the plugs,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I’d have known where to find them.’

  ‘I haven’t fallen in love with a mechanic, thank God,’ said Joe. It was hot in the barn. No breeze stirred the broody shadows. There was a smell of chaff and sacking. In the rafters, drowsy pigeons barely cooed. Outside, sun blazed down on the yard. Stella was glad of a time in the shade before facing the heat of the field.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Joe. ‘I’m not going to say a word to Janet until you girls have left, just before we move to Yorkshire. Weighing up everything – it’s a difficult decision to make – that would be the kindest thing. Postponing her anguish, perhaps: but I must tell her to her face.’

  Stella, leaning up against the warm metal of a mudguard, watched him carefully.

  ‘I think I should do the same. With Philip. Face him, too. Do you think they’ll accept our reasons? Vicissitudes of the war?’

  ‘They’ll have to. It’s the truth. Can’t say I look forward to the announcement, though I don’t suppose Janet will be altogether surprised. She must have some idea our so-called engagement is a ghastly mistake. Poor girl: she doesn’t have much in her life. Sparking plug tester—’ he held up the last clean plug – ‘little hope of promotion. I presume she’s calculated that marrying the wrong person is better than not marrying at all. I’ll have to persuade her she’s mistaken.’

  ‘Philip, I think,’ said Stella, ‘will be very shocked. Devastated. He’s no idea of my change of heart. He won’t believe it. His pride …’

  ‘Christ! We’re going to be making a bit of a bloody mess,’ said Joe, wiping the sweat from his face, ‘but I think our plan is the best one. We’ll only be postponing the evil day – for them – by a few months. As for us … I’ve been thinking. It wouldn’t be easy, your coming with us to Yorkshire as a land girl, my having broken off with Janet. My parents …’

  ‘I realize that. I thought I could join my mother driving ambulances in London. In my spare time, go back to the piano. But at the end of the war, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t come to Yorkshire.’

  ‘There’s a small cottage belonging to the farm, up in the dales. Needs complete renovation. I’ve often imagined …’ He climbed up into the driving seat, pushed the starter button. The engine growled into life. ‘You’d like it there.’ He climbed down again, gave Stella a hand. ‘Tractor awaits you, my love.’

  ‘Thank you! I’ll know next time.’

  ‘Any luck, this time next year, we’ll be harvesting Yorkshire fields, and bloody Hitler’ll be dead.’

  Ag and Mrs Lawrence, at adjacent trees in the orchard, were thinning the near-ripe plums. There were several filled baskets on the ground. Ag enjoyed the job, as she did most jobs involving hedges, trees, fruit. She enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her bare arms. She enjoyed thinking, for the thousandth time, of Desmond reading her letter. It was – she could privately admit to herself – a work of such vivid description that it could hardly fail to give pleasure. And there were still two weeks in which she would carry on hoping for a reply. Beyond that, to presume the worst would be the only sensible thing. At that moment she would have to banish dreams, brace herself for a solitary future. But there were fourteen days before she might have to face that trauma, still a modicum of hope in the summer air. Her optimism among the branches, heavy with warm plums, was not in doubt.

  ‘It was incredible. I still can’t believe it. The red carpet. Honestly. A deep ruby red. Acres of it, all up these great wide stairs, all over this grand entrance hall. I mean, you could’ve carpeted Lower Pasture, easy, with all that red …’

  Prue had the full attention of her audience. It was past ten at night, the darkness just light enough to see by, so the windows of the sitting-room were still open, the blackout had not been drawn. Scent from a few surviving tobacco plants came into the room, at odds with the heavy scent of Prue’s Nuits de Paris, which she had been applying extravagantly to her wrists and neck all day. She was slumped on the sofa, artificial silk crumpled, cornflowers wilting in the curls, blue shoes slung off, dreamy-eyed.

  ‘So. We go in, up these stairs, like walking on velvet. There’s a huge crowd of us by now, from all over. More than three hundred. Mostly in reds and florals – no blues like this, I’m glad to say.’ She patted the weary skirt. ‘There’s a bit of trouble, you can imagine, getting the counties into alphabetical order. Very smart men in tail coats bossing about, very politely. Ooh, and the footmen, just like in Cinderella … Anyway, at last we’re in this great room, the Bow Room, overlooking the gardens. Pillars and so on. There’s a band playing. My legs were aching to dance. Then the word sort of went round, despite the music, and suddenly there they were, coming in, the Royal Family. Me near them – me! King and Queen, two princesses. A path cleared for them. They walked down, smiling this way and that. The whole crowd of us went down in a wobbly curtsy, we were that nervous. Actually, I didn’t wobble as much as some. And it was the first of about twenty-nine curtsies I did, I tell you. Every time I saw one of them nearby, down I went, just in case. Once, I found myself curtsying to a girl from Derbyshire – she got in my line of vision, didn’t half laugh, vulgar bit. Anyway, you could see these gentlemen in charge taking up quite a few of the WLA bigwigs to meet the King and Queen. And some land girls. Not me, actually, though I gave them the nod, several times. Equerries, I think they’re called. Still, I got very near. Especially to the princesses. They were walking about, almost ordinary. I couldn’t believe it. Me, myself, within two feet of Princess Elizabeth in a lovely flowered dress.

  ‘We were urged to help ourselves to tea. Tea! Bloody banquet, more like. These huge great long tables covered in white damask cloths so bright they dazzled your eyes. A thousand cups and saucers, plates and plates of tiny sandwiches. And lashings of chocolate cake: you couldn’t taste the powdered egg at all. Perhaps they’
d used real. I asked one of the footmen if they had a private supply of hens at the Palace, but he didn’t answer, just smiled, too discreet to say. Anyway, best of all were the teapots: enormous great silver things with little silver strainers hanging to their spouts – such a sensible idea, I thought. Truth to tell, I drank my tea – I’ll remember every sip of that royal tea – but had no appetite for the sandwiches. Just one bit of the chocolate cake, well, two bits – I thought: can’t pass up an opportunity like that. I wanted to bring some back but couldn’t think how … I took my plate over to the windows – tall as this house – to look out at the garden. Well, blow me down if it wasn’t all made over to vegetables, neat beds of vegetables between little paths without a weed. I turned round to say something to anyone who happened to be near, mouth full of chocolate cake, when Princess Margaret, in glorious pink, passed not one foot from me. Her eyes! I tell you, I’ve never seen such eyes. She smiled at me. At least, I think she did. Course, mouth full of chocolate cake it was a bit awkward – just my luck. By the time I’d cleared my teeth, she was gone. Still, I curtsied, just for safety. Hoped she didn’t think me unfriendly, but she caught me on the hop.