But Frances was a well-fed country girl, not an undernourished urchin from a city slum. Cassie was short, Frances was tall, Cassie was skinny, Frances was athletic. Frances worked quickly and methodically, and Cassie had to scramble to keep up.
At the end of every working day, Cassie had to force herself to have a proper wash, get tidied up a bit, to dab a little powder on her nose, then go down to the pub. There, she often fell asleep, either against a high-backed wooden settle, or lolling with her head on Stephen’s shoulder.
She had to admit she wasn’t anything like as capable as big, strong, strapping Frances, whose dark good looks attracted everyone’s attention whenever they went into the village, or took the wicker panniers of eggs to Charton station in the pony trap.
As they drove home again to Melbury, they had to climb a couple of steep hills, and it was from the tops of these that Cassie got her first few glimpses of the English Channel – a thick blue line that curled around a headland, then merged into the sky.
She had never seen the sea before. She thought that when she had her next day off, she would go and take a closer look. She’d ask Stephen if he’d come along, to show her the way across the fields and down the winding lanes.
‘You lived here all your life?’ she asked, as Frances drove the pony trap to Melbury from Charton, one February morning.
‘Most of it,’ said Frances, as she shook the reins to make the pony pick his feet up. ‘I’m not a country bumpkin, though,’ she added, somewhat sharply. ‘I was born in London, and when Mummy and Daddy married, they were very rich. They had a lovely house in Surrey, and they had a place in Berkeley Square. But in the 1920s, Daddy made some terrible investments, and after I was five or six they moved house rather often, to a smaller and smaller place each time. Nowadays, we live in a small cottage north of Charton, on a pittance.’
‘Oh,’ said Cassie, thinking that for someone living on a pittance, Frances had some really lovely clothes. Cashmere jumpers, velvet jackets, soft felt hats and elegant tweed skirts, all in the classic styles they sold in shops like Rackham’s, shops where Cassie couldn’t have afforded to buy the cheapest thimble, never mind a skirt or two.
Every night she wore a different outfit to the pub, and she had at least two strings of pearls, gold earrings, and several pretty brooches which were studded with glittering marcasite.
But Frances must have read her mind. ‘We’re the family paupers,’ she continued. ‘We exist on handouts from my father’s brother, who’s in manufacturing. My clothes come from my cousins, and that’s why they’re so old-fashioned.’
‘It must have been quite awkward for you, always changing schools, and having to make new friends?’ said Cassie, trying hard to find a neutral subject.
‘I’ve never been to school.’ Frances was staring straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the road. ‘Mummy didn’t think it was important for a girl to go to school. She didn’t like me knowing other children. She thought they’d give me whooping cough or measles, and I’d die. She taught me French, and how to read, of course. But I’m very ignorant and stupid, as the twins will tell you. I’m no good at sums. I don’t know much history or geography at all.’
‘I only know a bit myself,’ said Cassie ruefully. ‘I can recite the names of all the kings and queens of England, and their dates. But much good that’ll do me. It won’t impress the cows. As for geography – I know the names of all the continents, and where the pink bits are all round the globe. But I don’t – ’
‘Daddy says there won’t be many pink bits left after the war is over,’ interrupted Frances. ‘He says there won’t be any at all if Hitler has his way.’ Then she glanced at Cassie. ‘You’re getting fatter, midget, and you don’t look half so pasty these days. You’ve got a bit of colour in your cheeks. Mrs Denham’s stews and pies are doing you some good, and you’re not picking at them now. You’re shovelling them down.’
‘I get so hungry I could eat this pony, with mangel-wurzels on the side,’ said Cassie. ‘But I dream of fish and chips.’
‘Talking about ponies, that reminds me,’ went on Frances. ‘Robert said I had to get you tacking this one up. Then, from tomorrow, you must take the reins, so you can take the eggs in by yourself.
‘You mustn’t worry, midget,’ she said, reasonably kindly, as Cassie’s jaw dropped open. She was still scared of horses, even small ones, and she knew Frances knew it. ‘You won’t risk getting lost. The pony knows the way to Charton. So don’t go running off with him to Smethwick.’
‘I can’t, because Mrs Denham’s got my ration book,’ said Cassie, and she laughed. ‘I don’t know where she’s hidden it, but I dare say she’s stuffed it down her drawers.’
Frances chuckled, too.
She’s not so bad, thought Cassie. ‘Frances,’ she continued, ‘when I have my next day off, I want to go and find the sea. Do you think Stephen would come with me to show me the way?’
‘My goodness, how should I know?’ Frances had sounded pleasant, even friendly, when she’d talked about the pony. But now her tone was frosty, and her mouth was set in a hard line.
Moody bitch, thought Cassie. Miserable snob, she thinks she’s far too good for me.
But, in spite of bloody Frances, and in spite of bloody Robert Denham, Cassie was determined to stick it out in Dorset, and to make it as a land girl.
The great shire horses that did most of the heavy work on all the local farms were still alarming, but as time went on she grew to love the docile little pony which was kept to pull the egg cart, and she’d almost stopped being scared of cows.
In fact, she really liked the Jerseys now.
Or most of them, at any rate.
There were some skittery, frisky ones who’d kick out without warning, but she was on to them. She grew to enjoy the early morning milking, sitting in the warm, cow-scented shed, listening to the streams of milk ping into metal buckets, and feeling the brown cow that she was milking grunt and sigh contentedly.
‘You can go and feed the bull,’ said Frances briskly, as she and Cassie came out of the cowshed one sharp morning. It had all gone very well today. Cassie had worked almost as fast as Frances, Stephen had told them jokes and made them laugh, and Robert had managed a half-smile or two.
They’d cleaned out all the stalls, they’d filled the mangers, so now they were ready for some breakfast of their own. ‘I know you’ve never done it,’ went on Frances, ‘but I reckon it’s your turn. The feed’s kept in those bins,’ she added, pointing to the store. ‘There’ll be a bucket somewhere, and the scoop is on the shelf.’
Stephen had gone back inside already. Cassie could see his boots lying in the porch. Robert was nowhere to be seen, and Frances now walked off towards the cottage, from which a smell of frying bacon wafted, scenting the cold air.
Cassie sighed, but did as she was told. She went to fetch the feed. Then she made her way across the yard to the converted stable where they kept the bull.
She found him staring out across the yard, swaying his great, horned head from side to side. Poor old thing, she thought, he was no doubt wondering what had happened to his breakfast. What a life, kept cooped up on his own. He probably wouldn’t mind a bit of company now and then.
The bull was a lot bigger than the cows, but not enormous, and he stared at Cassie with a cow’s brown, gentle eyes. Looking at those soft, dark eyes, she found she wasn’t scared. So, opening the stable door, she went inside to fill his manger with the feed.
‘Come on, old man, it’s breakfast time,’ she said. She saw him put his head down, saw the light glance off his horns.
She never knew what happened next.
Cassie became aware of someone slapping her very lightly on the face, first upon her left cheek, then her right.
A voice was calling out her name, telling her to wake up, Cassie, and it sounded pleading, anxious, angry, worried, frightened, all at the same time.
She blinked, opened her eyes, and saw that Robert Denham was glaring dow
n at her, and that he was frowning furiously. He was more angry than she’d ever seen him yet. But there was something else in those dark eyes. Something even more alarming than his obvious fury.
‘You stupid, idiotic girl!’ he cried. ‘What in the world possessed you? What were you bloody doing, letting out the bull?’
‘I – I was going to feed him,’ whispered Cassie, who was feeling nauseous now. She must have bashed her head upon the cobbles. She could feel a lump, and it was getting bigger by the second. The frosty morning light had shattered into a hundred thousand little splinters, and they cut into her eyes. ‘It – it was my turn.’
‘You clot, who told you that?’
‘I – Frances said – ’
‘Frances!’ bellowed Robert, and a moment later she came running from the cottage, closely followed by Stephen and his mother.
‘What’s wrong with Cassie?’ Frances asked.
Robert glared up at her, his dark eyes hard and very bright. ‘Why did you tell Cassie she had to feed the bull?’ he shouted, making Frances tremble. ‘You were trying to get her killed, was that it?’
‘No, it was a joke.’ Frances was chalk white. ‘Rob, you know she’s scared of cows. I didn’t think she’d go in with the bull.’
‘You didn’t think at all!’ cried Robert. ‘God, I’ve had enough of you,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sick and tired of all your bloody moods. You’re a liability, and – ’
‘Robert, that’s enough,’ snapped Mrs Denham, as she hunkered down. ‘Where does it hurt you, Cassie?’ she demanded, in a much more gentle tone of voice. ‘Listen to me, can you feel your feet?’
‘My – my feet?’ Cassie blinked. The light still hurt her eyes. But she found she could wriggle all her toes. ‘My f-feet are fine.’
‘Your arms?’ said Mrs Denham. ‘Come on, let me see you shake your fingers. Do it now!’
Cassie thought about it for a moment, but then she did as she was told. ‘I don’t think I’m hurt,’ she whispered. ‘It – it’s just my head, and I feel sick.’
‘All right, Robert, help her up,’ said Mrs Denham crisply. ‘Stephen, don’t just stand there like a half-wit, go and catch the bull. He’ll be half way to Dorchester by now.’
Robert slipped his arm round Cassie’s waist. She groaned, but he was gentle and helped her to sit up. He let her rest a moment, and then he supported her while she rose unsteadily to her feet.
‘I’m sorry, Cassie,’ Frances whispered as she came round to Cassie’s other side and put a steadying hand under her elbow. ‘But I didn’t think you’d be so silly – ’
‘Shut up, Fran, all right?’ Robert glared at Frances balefully. ‘You’ve had it in for Cassie from the start.’
‘I haven’t!’
‘Yes, you have! Ever since that evening in the pub, when I told you we’d got a new land girl, and she was blonde and pretty, you’ve tried to make things difficult for Cassie.’
‘Robert, that’s not true!’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Fran, you can’t deny – ’
‘Do stop bickering, the pair of you!’ Mrs Denham pushed her son away. She slipped her arm round Cassie. ‘Let’s get you inside and sitting down,’ she said. ‘Robert and Frances, come and eat your breakfast, then get on with your work.’
Cassie took a hesitant step forward, leaning heavily on Rose Denham’s arm.
Robert watched them go inside the cottage. He was feeling sick himself. His heart was hammering, he was shaking, and he wanted to shake Frances Ashford too, until her eyeballs rolled around her stupid, thoughtless head.
I’m just in shock, he told himself. Anyone would be in shock if they had found a girl lying on the cobbles, pale as death. All I need now is half a pint of coffee. Then I’ll be fine again.
But he found he couldn’t stop trembling, and the bitter taste of dread and panic was making him feel ill. He didn’t trust himself to think about how he might feel if Cassie had been badly injured, or if – God forbid – Cassie was dead.
He’d been so determined she should go. But now he was determined she should stay. He didn’t know quite why, but told himself it was because he had a high opinion of anyone prepared to have a go. Cassie found farm work hard, exhausting, even terrifying, but stuck at it, all the same.
‘Rob, are you okay?’ Stephen walked into the farmyard, leading a confused and rather sulky-looking bull, which seemed more than ready to go back to its stable for its breakfast.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ said Robert.
‘You’re shaking,’ Stephen told him. ‘You need to go and sit down.’
‘I told you, I’m all right.’
Cassie sat by the range all morning, feeling ill and dizzy. Mrs Denham had tucked a blanket round her, and put a glass of water by her side and told her to take sips. But she wasn’t offered any food.
Cassie dozed, opening her eyes occasionally to watch Mr Denham writing in his stock book, or Mrs Denham peeling heaps of vegetables, cutting up great slabs of meat and making floury dumplings.
Mr Denham didn’t seem very well today, she noticed. He was rather breathless, and his colour wasn’t good.
Mrs Denham didn’t exactly make a fuss of him, or treat him like an invalid. But, as she went about her work, as she walked in and out, she would touch his shoulder, and he would sometimes catch her hand and hold it for a moment, and both of them would sigh.
Cassie wondered what was wrong with him, if it was serious. He didn’t do much work around the farm at any time, unlike Mrs Denham, who worked hard all day.
By late morning, Cassie felt less dizzy. She knew that she was getting better when the smell of cooking stopped making her feel ill, and made her hungry.
‘How are you feeling now?’ asked Robert, when everyone came in to wash and have their mid-day meal.
‘A lot better, thank you,’ Cassie told him.
‘Good,’ said Robert, crouching down so that their eyes were level, and to Cassie’s surprise he almost managed to crack a smile.
She looked at him, into his eyes. She saw herself reflected there. She remembered he’d told Frances she was pretty. ‘I’m sorry I was so stupid,’ she told him.
‘Oh, don’t fret about it,’ Robert said, and suddenly he smiled properly.
It changed his face completely. It made him look as friendly and as likeable as Stephen. But there was something else there too, something irresistible, and Cassie knew she’d have to watch it now, or she would be in real trouble.
‘Get Cassie to the table, Rob,’ said Stephen, sitting down himself and sawing off a hunk of bread. ‘Come on, Fran, cheer up. You didn’t kill her this time, even though you tried.’
Chapter Four
‘It wasn’t true, you know, what Robert said.’
Frances was wheeling her bike across the yard the following evening, ready to go home. She and Cassie had worked very hard that day, doing all their usual jobs, and cleaning out the calf stalls and polishing all the horses’ tack, as well.
Cassie was feeling more or less all right again, except for the still-tender bump on the back of her head, and that was going down.
When she’d got up that morning, she’d insisted she was fit for work. She knew this had surprised and pleased the twins. She had long suspected they thought she was a layabout, a lazy city slacker. Well, she would show them, she’d decided – and she had, even though she ached all over and had bruises everywhere, even though she’d had to make a superhuman effort to get up and out of bed.
‘What wasn’t true?’ she asked.
‘What Robert said about me having it in for you,’ said Frances, going red.
‘Oh, Fran, don’t worry about Robert!’ Cassie grinned. ‘Miserable so-and-so, he’s mean to everybody, you know that. Listen, you’ve been great.’
‘I jolly haven’t!’
‘Yes, you have, you’ve taught me such a lot, and you’ve been so patient with me when I’ve mucked things up. I was daft, to go in with the bull. I won’t do that again.’
‘He’s gone to bed,’ Cassie replied. ‘Mrs Denham came out just now and told me. She said he was looking rather green, and she was afraid he’d have a turn. He sometimes gets them when he’s had a shock, she said, and I shocked everybody yesterday! So she’s sent him up to sleep it off.’
‘Poor Stephen,’ whispered Frances, and Cassie saw her redden again, and suddenly it all clicked into place – the moods, the sarcasm, the touchiness.
‘You like Stephen, don’t you?’ she said gently.
‘I like both the twins,’ said Frances, but she turned away from Cassie’s gaze. ‘I’ve known them for ages, Cassie, ever since we moved here, and they’re family friends.’
‘But you like Stephen best. So, that first night, when Rob went on ahead of me and Steve and told you I’d arrived, and then we came into the pub, and we were laughing, you decided – ’
‘What would you have thought?’ demanded Frances. ‘Rob came in all cross and said they’d sent some slinky glamour girl to work at Melbury, that she looked like the bloody fairy on the Christmas tree, and wouldn’t be any good at milking cows, he’d bet his life on it. I had the very devil of a job to cheer him up and make him smile again. Then you two came in giggling at something, you were blonde and pretty, and Stephen had his arm around your waist – ’
‘You idiot, Stephen had been stopping me from falling in the mud. My shoes weren’t made for tramping across fields.’ Cassie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Frances,’ she said kindly, ‘I’m not pretty. I’m pasty, short and skinny. My hair’s the colour of dirty straw. It’s certainly not blonde.’
‘But you’re not a big fat pudding, are you?’ Frances was busy picking at the rubber on her handgrips. ‘Mummy’s always going on at me, saying she can’t imagine how she produced a lump like me, when she’s so slim and dainty. She says I’m fat because I’m far too greedy, and I ought to diet. But I get so hungry when I’m working on the farm, and it’s not as though I’m always stuffing, but Mummy watches every single mouthful, and – ’
The Penny Bangle Page 4