Felicity fluttered her mascaraed eyelashes and raised her thin plucked eyebrows in polite disgust and conceded defeat.
Only her aunt was supportive. ‘Lass, if I was twenty years younger I’d be coming with you,’ Audrey declared, frowning at Ivor, who had shaken his head and clucked his tongue at Abby’s news. ‘It’ll do you good to get away and try your hand at something different,’ Audrey went on. ‘Don’t worry about your da, he’s just concerned it’ll be too much for you but he’ll come round. Me and Ivor’ll keep an eye on him. Now he’s home for good, him and Ivor can have a jar together in the evenings. Isn’t that right, Ivor?’
Ivor smiled weakly. ‘Aye, I don’t see why not, love.’
‘So you go and get stuck in, hinny. And don’t forget to keep us posted on how you’re doing.’
And now they were on their way to get ‘stuck in’. Abby glanced at Winnie beside her in the train carriage. Her friend was fast asleep and snoring slightly, her straw hat askew and her brown hair wafting about her perspiring face in the breeze from the open window. The hot dry summer showed no signs of abating but no one was complaining, even though the heat was excessive. The newspapers were predicting a bumper harvest and it couldn’t have come at a better time, what with the war and all.
Abby sighed, turning to look out of the window and doing her best to ignore the interested stare of the good-looking RAF officer sitting opposite. He had been giving her the eye ever since he had entered the carriage some minutes before. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, least of all a perky young officer who looked full of himself, even if he did have one arm in a sling.
And then she caught at her thoughts, ashamed of herself. The newspapers and the wireless reports were full of the fact that the RAF were giving the Luftwaffe a pasting. The Battle of Britain, the Air Ministry in London were calling it, and the prediction was that it would be a good many days before they were out of the woods. The fresh-faced young man could well have been injured in the dogfights in the skies whilst defending his country, and everywhere wives and mothers were receiving the dreaded black-edged telegrams.
But still, she really did not want to engage in conversation with the RAF officer, she decided. However, she knew someone who would be only too pleased to oblige. On the pretext of asking Winnie for one of the sandwiches Mrs Todd had insisted on packing up for both of them, Abby nudged her friend in the ribs, and from that moment the problem was taken care of. By the time they left the train, Winnie had the young man’s name and the address of the base where he was stationed, and he was looking positively glassy-eyed. Abby actually had it in her to feel sorry for him.
They were in the heart of the country. All the signs had been painted out because of the war and they’d had to rely on the conductor to put them off at the correct station. As the train moved off in a burst of steam, Abby became aware of several other women standing around somewhat forlornly, much as she and Winnie were, she supposed. They all gazed at each other in open curiosity, kitbags on their shoulders and suitcases and gas masks in their hands. It was Abby who spoke first, saying, ‘Are you all going where we are? Hill Farm?’
‘That’s right.’ A tall slim girl with thin fair hair cut in a short bob and an expensive leather suitcase in one hand frowned at her. ‘I thought there would be someone to meet us, didn’t you? Poor show, this.’ The accent was undeniably upper class. ‘I do hope that conductor chap knew what he was doing.’
Another girl, who was as round as she was tall and who was perspiring heavily, stared at them in alarm. ‘Hey, you don’t think he’s put us all off at the wrong stop, do you?’ she said. ‘I ate all me sandwiches miles back an’ I could kill for a cup of char.’
A Cockney for sure. They were certainly a mixed bunch. Abby thrust out a hand to the first girl, smiling as she said, ‘Abby Vickers, and this is Winnie Todd. I suppose we’d better see about finding someone who can tell us where we are.’
‘Rowena Hetherton-Smith.’ Hands were shaken all round and introductions made before, as a group now, they moved off the deserted platform and into the station yard, whereupon a small bespectacled station master appeared. He eyed Rowena’s three-inch heels and make-up with world-weary eyes before he said, ‘You’re the latest crop for Hill Farm, I take it.’
‘Indeed we are.’ It was clear to Abby that Rowena had noticed the direction of the station master’s gaze and taken exception to it, along with the note of thinly veiled scorn in his voice. ‘Will transport be provided for us or do we need to call for a taxi?’ she asked icily.
‘Taxi?’ The old man gave a wheeze of a laugh. ‘There’s no taxi, not since Nathaniel Weatherburn got his call-up papers. Besides, the farm’s only five miles or so down yon road.’ He indicated what appeared to be a lane leading away into the distance.
‘You mean we are expected to walk it?’
‘Just so.’ The station master wasn’t even trying to hide his delight at their predicament. ‘Course, you could wait here for the next train to take you back whence you’ve come, if you’ve a mind, that is.’
Rowena fixed the man with the sort of look which would have caused a lesser being to curl up and admit defeat. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said frostily. And then, clearly distrusting this hostile individual, she added, ‘You do know where Hill Farm is situated?’
The superior smile slid from the station master’s weaselly face. ‘I was born an’ bred here,’ he bit back, ‘an’ I’ll tell you somethin’ else. Folk round here don’t hold with the government sending bits of girls like you lot to do men’s work. Women can look after chickens but they can’t ditch. They can feed the pigs but they can’t look after the boar. They can mebbe drive a tractor but they can’t pitch hay.’
‘Really?’ Rowena’s voice dripped ice. ‘That’s your expert opinion, is it?’
‘Aye, it is, an’ you’ll find I speak for plenty round here an’ all.’
‘I see. So if I told you I’ve had experience in laying drains and spreading chalk and dung, as well as loading it and pulling swedes and mangolds, you’d be surprised?’
It was clear the station master was taken aback. His expression stated as clearly as any words could have done that this highfalutin slip of a girl had no business knowing the terms she had used.
Rowena allowed him a moment. Then she said coolly, ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to direct us to Hill Farm without further delay.’
Once they were outside the station and walking in twos and threes along the dusty lane, Abby tapped Rowena on the shoulder. ‘You’ve done all that? Laying drains and spreading dung and the rest of it?’
‘Of course not, darling.’ Rowena smiled at her, her somewhat horsey features mellowing. ‘But Daddy got me a book which explained all about such things when I said I was going to join up. I think he thought reading it would put me off.’
‘But it didn’t.’
‘Not really.’ Rowena glanced down at her fine kid court shoes and then stopped, slipped them off and tucked them into the top of her matching handbag before walking on in bare feet. ‘And I only asked that nasty old man if he would be surprised if I’d had experience in those things. I never said I actually had.’
‘You certainly cooked his goose,’ Winnie chimed in, her voice full of approval.
‘Yes, I did rather, didn’t I?’ Rowena giggled. ‘Some cheek he’d got when we’re here to do our bit for King and country. I do hope we’re sent somewhere near a town when our training is over, though. I’ve brought a couple of dance dresses with me just in case.’
‘Have you?’ Winnie smiled brightly. ‘I’ve brought mine an’ all.’
Abby was walking between the two girls and she found herself inwardly smiling as she listened to their conversation. Rowena and Winnie might be from opposite ends of the social scale, but she rather thought they had plenty in common.
By the time they reached Hill Farm every one of the ten girls knew how it had got its name. Situated on the top of a low hill which had meant walking up a s
teady incline for the last three miles, the training institute sprawled in front of them. The large farmhouse was surrounded by barns and pigsties and paddocks, all enclosed within drystone walls and appearing well cared for.
It was probably the bleakest of places in winter, Abby thought, but today with the air heavy with the sweetness of warm grass and the summer breeze carrying the fragrance of wild flowers and every growing thing, it was magnificent. Some of the group had been complaining their feet ached during the walk, but Abby had enjoyed the march. It was hard to believe a war was going on and men, women and children were dying every day when you were in peaceful surroundings like this.
She touched her engagement ring which she now wore on a chain round her neck, her eyes darkening. It felt wrong to be appreciating the scented air and the lovely hot summer’s day when James would never experience such things again.
As they all walked into the farmyard in front of the house they were met by a tall handsome woman who came striding out of a barn to their right. ‘You found us then?’ she said briskly. ‘Good, good. The rest of the girls are already here. There’ll be about thirty of you altogether. I’m Phoebe Taylor and your personal representative of the Land Army. It’s my job, along with others, to train you to be tough and resilient in what has technically been a man’s world, although over the years I’ve been involved in farming, farmer’s wives and daughters do just as good a job in my opinion. As you can imagine, this is not a popular sentiment with the men,’ she added, smiling. ‘You will be subjected to what you might feel is a somewhat harsh regime here but, believe me, it’s for your own good. Not every prospective land girl is chosen to come here; you’ve all been hand-picked by your recruiting officer for your mental as well as physical capability.’
‘The crème de la crème?’ drawled Rowena languidly.
‘Possibly.’ Mrs Taylor eyed her stolidly. ‘Time will tell. But you’ve passed your first test, you’ve made it to the farm by shanks’s pony. Of course you’re all unsuitably shod, unsuitably clad, and make-up and high heels finish from this day on, as does any finickiness about food or sleeping quarters. So . . .’ Again she smiled, this time drily, ‘enjoy your stay at Hill Farm, girls.’
‘Flippin’ heck.’ As they trailed after the tall manly figure, Winnie nudged Abby in the ribs. ‘Whatever have we come to, lass?’
The ground floor of the farmhouse was divided into a sitting room, an enormous kitchen and a scullery beyond, all with stone-flagged floors, gaunt black ceiling beams and heavy, ill-fitting doors. After placing their luggage and gas masks in a corner of the sitting room where several girls were sitting, the group were ushered through to the kitchen and told to seat themselves at a great scrubbed pine table flanked by long oak forms. Along with two high-backed, angular settles on each side of the fireplace which sheltered fireside sitters from the fierce draughts drawn in by the wide chimney, the only other large item of furniture was a massive, dark old dresser bearing a load of crockery.
The hearth was commanded by a big, cast-iron range and on its ample top stood saucepans and frying pans. A side boiler provided hot water.
‘We eat breakfast and dinner in three shifts,’ Mrs Taylor said once they were all seated. ‘Lunch is taken out as a packed meal and consumed in the fields or wherever you are working at the time. Once you’ve eaten you will be shown upstairs where you’ll see the two rooms have been converted into dormitories, with three-tiered bunk beds and shelves on the far walls for your belongings. Space is at a premium so tidiness is the order of the day. You will make your beds before you come downstairs in the morning and everyone pulls their weight from the smallest job to the biggest. No slackers. Understood?’
They all nodded and Abby felt she was back at school. That Winnie felt the same was evident when her friend whispered, ‘I reckon we’ve met Miss Ramsbottom’s sister, lass, and of the two I prefer Miss Ramsbottom, cane an’ all.’
The meal dished up by three red-faced middle-aged women was excellent. Huge wedges of steak and kidney pie with roast potatoes and carrots, followed by apple crumble with gallons of creamy custard, all washed down by as much milk or cider as they could drink.
‘The cider is a welcome to Hill Farm, girls,’ Phoebe Taylor said at the beginning of the meal. ‘You won’t get that every night so make the most of it. You will be well fed though, and despite the rigours of your new life you’ll all gain weight, I can guarantee it. It’s a healthy working environment.’
Winnie made a face. ‘I was hoping to end up as a sylph-like little scrap of a thing,’ she said with comic forlorn-ness, causing laughter all round.
By the time Abby was tucked up in her narrow bunk bed, Rowena in the bunk above and Winnie in the one below, she was too tired to do more than say a quick prayer for the safety of those at home before she went to sleep. This in itself was surprising. Ever since she had heard the news about James she had found the night hours long and tedious, often lying awake half the night and desperately trying to dismiss the pictures in her mind of how James had died. But this night she was asleep almost as her head touched the pillow.
The next morning she fully appreciated Mrs Taylor’s groundwork the previous day. Up at 5.30 a.m., they all washed in cold water before donning the uniforms handed out the night before and making their way to the cow byres for their first lesson in milking cows. Breakfast was at eight, by which time everyone was starving. Then they were off to the fields at eight thirty until four o’clock, with half an hour’s break for a midday meal which they ate wherever they were, careless of filthy hands and dirt-encrusted clothes. After the evening milking they sat down to dinner, and then the cattle sheds and the dairy had to be cleaned. By nine o’clock the girls were quite literally falling asleep on their feet.
‘I can’t believe I’m getting into bed without cleaning my teeth,’ Rowena yawned, flinging her clothes to the bottom of her bunk and pulling on red silk pyjamas. ‘I mean, that’s absolutely the pits, isn’t it?’
‘The start of a downward spiral,’ Abby agreed solemnly from the bunk below.
‘But there was such a queue in the scullery and after washing in freezing cold water before dinner I’d had enough.’ Rowena yawned loudly again. ‘And it all starts again tomorrow. Do you think we can stand it, girls?’
‘Think of the station master.’
‘We can stand it,’ Rowena decided immediately. ‘Anyway, it’s not as bad as what Mrs Taylor had to do in the First World War. She was telling me she was detailed to do rat-catching at a farm in Devon apparently, and on her first day had to stand in a smelly dyke and put her arm down a rat hole to see which way the hole ran. I mean, can you imagine? They killed rabbits, crows, moles and tons of mice besides rats, using all sorts of poisons - arsenic, red squill, cymag gas and others. I’d hate that.’ Her head appeared over the side of the bunk. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘I don’t think I could do it,’ Abby said truthfully.
‘What about you, Winnie?’ Rowena said, still leaning over the bunk at a precarious angle. A loud snore from the bottom bunk answered her, and both girls grinned before saying their goodnights.
By the middle of September when their training was finished, Abby had ploughed and weeded, hoed and spread dung, sawn logs, stacked hay, milked cows, lifted potatoes and turned crops, and a thousand other jobs as well. She had also made some good friends, and now she, Winnie and Rowena were a trio who stuck together whenever they could. Rowena described the Aertex blouses they had to wear as dishcloths and the wavy felt hats as reminiscent of boarding school, and insisted on milking with bright crimson nail varnish and plenty of rouge, but she was tougher than she looked. She was also a party girl who had a knack of finding out about village dances miles away and then bribing one of the lads who drove the farm lorries to take them there. In civilian life one of the idle rich, she had more than shown she was capable of anything she put her hand to, as were the others. Their group included a die stamper, a wine bottler, a comptometer operator, a chocolate
-box maker, two factory workers and office girls, all of whom had proved they had the makings of capable agricultural workers. Of the original thirty girls, four had left within the first week but the rest had been determined to win through. And they had.
Abby leaned back in her chair in the crowded sitting room. They were due to leave the farm the next day and had all received their official Land Army cards with their name and number printed on them, and as they waited for Phoebe to come and talk to them she glanced again at hers.
‘You are now a member of the Women’s Land Army. You are pledged to hold yourself available for service on the land for the period of the war. You have promised to abide by the conditions of training and employment of the Women’s Land Army; its good name is in your hands. You have made the home fields your battlefield. Your country relies on your loyalty and welcomes your help.’
There followed the official signatures of the Honorary Director and Chairman of the Committee of the Land Army, after which and above her own signature were the words, ‘I realise the national importance of the work which I have undertaken and I will serve well and faithfully.’
‘We did it, lass.’ Winnie grinned at her, her good-natured face rosy with the sun and the wind. ‘I just hope we’re sent to the same place now, that’s all.’
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