by Mary Mackie
Twenty-Four
Having treated the new intake to tea and plain, war-time cakes at the station buffet, I loaded them into the green NUWW van and set off to distribute them around the farms where they were to work. Seven of them rode in the back, sitting on their luggage, but Judy and a bespectacled girl named Clementina crammed alongside me, peering at the countryside.
Two land girls went to Babbingley, where a woman and her newly widowed daughter were struggling to run a dairy farm and a milk round. Four more, wide-eyed at being near royalty, I dropped off to help on Sandringham acres. And the seventh disembarked at a smallholding in Snettisham, where an elderly couple welcomed her like a long-lost daughter.
With only three of us left in the van, Judy felt able to talk more freely, telling amusing tales of her adventures getting out of France in 1914. The Gala Girls had broken up, after that: most of them joined the war effort. ‘And you married your handsome solicitor,’ she observed with a glance at the gold wedding band on my hand. ‘I’m surprised he lets you work, though, dear. Didn’t strike me as the type to—’
‘He has to put up with it,’ I said wryly. ‘The war, you know.’
‘Oh – the war! We all blame a lot on that. My friend Elsie… you remember Elsie?’
‘The redhead? Yes, of course.’
‘She went solo – took up singing, though she’s got a voice like a corncrake. Well, I said to her, that’s not for me, dear. I wanted to do something a bit more… well, you know – useful. Like Frank. I think that’s it. I wanted to be worthy of old Frank. I mean, not that I expect he’ll marry me, not really. But maybe if I make an effort his mother might not be quite so sniffy. Is she still there, dear, at the big house? Must be big changes there.’
When I told her how big the changes had been, both to the house and the family, even Judy fell silent for a few minutes. ‘Lor’…’ she said at last, a catch in her voice. ‘Poor old Frank. Still, I expect there’s some educated, high-class lady waiting anxiously to console him.’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Really?’ That thought seemed to cheer her. ‘Well, I’ll let myself dream a bit longer, then. Till he turns up, the old rascal. So, anyway… where’s this farm you’re taking Clem and me to?’
When I told her, she gaped at me. ‘Not Mad Jack! Oh, Lor’! Frank told me about him!’
‘Don’t worry, his bark’s worse than his bite. And he does need help. He tried to get a couple of his workers exempted from conscription, but the magistrate was hard on him – they’d crossed swords before, I fancy. Which left Mr Farcroft with just old Wilf and young Dick. At busy times, some of the village women help out. Just take no notice of his griping. He likes to play the miserable old curmudgeon. But underneath he’s lonely. He’s, um, only got one son now – Philip. He’s with the army, in Egypt, somewhere near the Suez Canal. He fought at Gallipoli. He was one of the last to leave. We heard yesterday…’ I could not keep the pride out of my voice, ‘that he’s been awarded the Military Cross, for carrying two injured men to safety. He was badly wounded himself while doing it, though he’s recovered now, thank God.’
‘“We” heard?’ Judy commented.
‘Oh, I… I drop in, sometimes. One can’t help but get involved. Mr Farcroft is a neighbour. I feel responsible, somehow.’
‘I don’t see why. If he’s your family’s sworn enemy…’
‘Maybe that’s why. My family haven’t been exactly fair to him, or to Philip. Oh… it’s a long, boring story. You’ll probably hear it from Mad Jack himself, once he gets to know you.’
* * *
Judy and Clem moved into one of the bigger bedrooms at Far Drove, set to the haying with a will and soon started to get the house shipshape, thus putting Maisie Pike’s nose somewhat out of joint.
‘Don’t know what’s worse,’ the old man grumbled. ‘A short-sighted widow woman a-tryin’ to reform me, or two silly giggling town girls alluss about the place. What do they know about farming?’
As he discovered, the silly giggling town girls had been well trained in basic skills and were eager to learn the rest.
Having some of my girls at Far Drove gave me a perfect excuse for visiting the farm. I loved the way Judy talked so optimistically about Frank, as if she believed he would turn up safe and sound any day. Philip, too – she encouraged Mad Jack, and me, to believe that his son really would survive the war.
Whenever she had a spare hour or two, she came up to Denes Hill, making the patients laugh with her nonsense, wheeling them about in their chairs, doing impromptu song-and-dance routines on the terrace, or calling numbers for Lotto. Since organization of social events had largely devolved on me after Grandmother left, I was glad of Judy’s help with outings, beetle drives, singsongs and concerts. Oliver thought her a bad influence, but I understood her true worth. I hoped Frank would marry her – she’d be a breath of fresh air at Denes Hill.
The girls of the Women’s National Land Service cheerfully brushed off the suspicions of local women and the attentions of the few men who remained. Old men, mostly. Old men and young boys. The brightest and best of Britain’s blood reddened earth and seas in places whose names soon rang like doom in our consciousness: Verdun, Jutland, the Somme…
Among the casualties was Major Keith Rawson, whose physical injuries had been slight but whose nerves had cracked under constant shelling. Sent home on leave, he had caught his wife in bed with another man. Now, convalescing at Denes Hill, he couldn’t sleep for fear of bad dreams; he had a habit of staying awake all night and going out by day to sleep in the woods. When I found him dozing in the temple summerhouse one day, I was foolish enough to empathize with him over his nightmares. From that day on, he followed me around like a lost puppy, telling me his troubles over and over again, using exactly the same phrases.
‘And when I got home, what do you think? There she was. In flagrante. Starkers. Absolutely. With the bloody fucking grocer, wouldn’t you know?’ Such lapses of language only showed the extent of his mental disturbance: in most respects, Major Rawson was a gentleman of the old school, paying me compliments and bringing me bunches of wild flowers.
Other patients took to teasing me about it, greeting me by singing, ‘K-K-K-Katie, beautiful Katie, you’re the only g-g-g-girl that I adore…’ Major Rawson’s devotion to me irritated Oliver until, one evening when we met over a hand of whist, my admirer solemnly informed my husband that he intended to run off with me as soon as the invasion came.
‘The man’s mad,’ Oliver observed later.
‘That’s why I’m kind to him,’ I replied. ‘He doesn’t mean anything.’
* * *
One hot afternoon I arrived at Far Drove to find the harvesters sitting in the shade of a hedge partaking of ‘fourses’, their teatime snap. The women informed me that Judy had had to go back to the house ‘unwell’, so I kicked more dust from my bike tyres riding down to see her.
As I walked into the main room, wiping dust and sweat from my face, Judy’s shriek of alarm came from somewhere overhead. When she continued to scream, I raced for the stairs and reached the bottom just as a large man, stripped to the waist, started down. I stopped, and he stopped.
I’m not sure which of us was most startled – Philip, or me. After a moment when both of us froze, trying to believe our eyes, he gestured back along the landing. ‘I didn’t know she was there! For God’s sake, what’s a half-naked woman doing in bed at Far Drove – at this hour?’
‘Clem!’ Judy yelled. ‘Is that you, Clem?’
‘No, it’s me – Kate!’ I called. ‘It’s all right, Judy, it’s only…’ Only Philip. What was I saying? It was Philip!
He came down the stairs, agile in bare feet, lean as a ferret, brown as a nut, hair bleached into streaks by the Egyptian sun. Still trying to explain himself, highly embarrassed about it, he gestured at his muscled torso, which was dewed with water. ‘I just came off the train. I was hot, so I took my shirt off and sluiced myself under the pump. C
ame in, sat down on the couch and took my boots off, look – there they still are, on the rug – then went upstairs to get changed. Thought I’d have a look round the old place. I didn’t even know she was there until she screamed. Who the devil is she – one of the land girls Dad’s been writing about?’
‘Judy Love.’ My own panic was melting into relief that verged on hysteria, thinking of the absurdity of Philip coming home and finding Judy there, and she imagining him to be an intruder… A hiccup of laughter jerked in my chest while tears threatened to choke me. The tears won, impelled by the sight of a dreadful scar spreading half across his chest, where his body had been torn. I stared at it through a haze of distress, lifting a trembling hand to touch the ridged tissue as my head reeled with the knowledge of the pain he must have suffered. Why hadn’t he said how bad it had been? Dear God… My lips shaped his name…
From the landing above us, Judy screeched, ‘He was in my room! Monster! Pervert!’
‘It’s Philip,’ I said stupidly, watching his face come and go through mists, his eyes holding mine, sharing my agony. I love you. Oh, I love you so… I swayed as a wave of nausea caught at me and, as Philip reached to support me, the mist claimed me. I remember the feel of his firm, damp flesh, cool under my burning cheek…
When I came to, struggling up through layers of sick dizziness, with my ears buzzing, I was lying on the floor. Philip knelt beside me and Judy was bringing a cup of water. Her voice came as if through cotton wool.
‘Here, give her this. Don’t look so worried, she’s only fainted. This heat is enough to turn anybody queer. She works too hard. And that blessed husband of hers…’
I felt Philip lift me, supporting me across his lap while he held the cup to my lips and let cool water trickle down my throat, sending the clouds further away. I lay quietly, my eyes closed, enjoying the illicit pleasure of being so close to him. Perhaps for the last time…
Judy chafed at him, rattled by the fright he had given her. He replied tersely – he’d been reacquainting himself with his own home, that was all. He hadn’t expected to find anybody there in the middle of the working day. Wasn’t she supposed to be helping on the farm, not lying around in bed? He was rattled, too, I could tell by his voice: he was embarrassed, and worried for me. Oh, darling Philip…
I bit my lip hard, denying the tears that came flooding as I let my eyelids flicker and reached for the cup he held. He helped me drink some more water, nursing me anxiously, then gave the cup to Judy while he helped me up. I leaned on him, my arm round his waist, my head resting on his shoulder, flesh to flesh, savouring the feel of his skin – oh, I admit it! I wasn’t even ashamed of myself, not then, and I could tell by the way he cradled me, his arm tight about me, his body not flinching away but pressing close, that he felt the same. He shared my reluctance to part from him as he let me sit down, after which he was forced to straighten away. Judy ranted on, berating him for walking in on her – she’d been feeling unwell, nearly passed out in the field. ‘Don’t you tell me I’m a slacker because I’m not. You’ve only to ask your father…’
‘Oh, be quiet!’ Philip snapped, turning on her. ‘For heaven’s sake, woman, I’ve said I’m sorry, what more do you want? If you’re that concerned, lock your door while I’m around – not that you’ve anything to fear from me. I’m not that hard-up for female company. Kate…’ He knelt beside me, reaching for my hand, face strained and green eyes anxious. ‘Are you all right? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give you such a shock.’
‘I know,’ I managed, trying a smile, my fingers twined with his. I could have said more, but if I tried my tears might show. ‘It’s all right. Not your fault.’
Judy, standing with tight lips and arms folded, told him, ‘You might put a shirt on. You’re back in civilization now.’
‘Is that what you call it?’ With one last deep glance for me, he eased himself to his feet and looked her up and down in a way that made her redden. But all he said was, ‘Excuse me,’ before he strode away and took the stairs two at a time.
‘Well, honestly!’ Judy muttered. ‘No need to ask whose son he is! I mean, how long do we have to put up with him in the house?’
‘He didn’t say.’ Unable to bear the emotions that were building inside me, I forced myself to my feet and made for the door, wishing I didn’t feel so sick. ‘I really must go. I have two other calls to make. If you’re sure you’re all right…’
She protested that I was the one who needed rest, but I fended off her concern and went out to my bike, strapped on my helmet, pulled my goggles down over stinging eyes and rode off, spraying stones and dust behind me. I couldn’t have stayed. I couldn’t bear to be near Philip, especially not with a witness who obliged us to hide our mutual pain. That terrible scar on his body… the anguish in his eyes… He looked so tired, so strained. Changed. Matured. Hardened and tempered by experiences too terrible for him to have told in letters.
I found myself on the beach, where holidaymakers played and paddled, careful of the barbed wire that strung the dunes like obscene necklaces. I took my bike along one of the marsh tracks, heading for less frequented places where I stopped, out of sight of human eyes. I felt torn in many directions: joy that Philip was home; despair that he must soon leave – no fit man was allowed to remain at home for long; sorrow for his wounds; anguish for the torment he had endured; longing for his arms and his kisses… I wallowed in memories of the way he looked, the way he felt, the sound of his voice and the odours of his body, more beautiful for being marred by wounds got for his country. I’m not that hard-up for female company, he had said. But what girls had he known? Did he write to any of them? Was someone waiting for him, somewhere?
What a guy I must have looked to him, face streaked with sweat and dust, mannish clothes, lank, straight hair cut short and flattened by the leather helmet. Compared with Judy Love… Judy, lying on her bed wearing only flimsy underthings when he opened the door, her pale skin damp with sweat, her fair hair tousled round a pretty face with china-blue eyes set off by angry colour in her cheeks. I had been wrong to think her beauty all artifice; as I now knew, her blond curls owed nothing to chemicals. Even dishevelled and hopping mad she had managed to look feminine, rounded body firm under the thin wrap, eyes sparking, her whole demeanour challenging.
What if she and Philip… But I had no right to jealousy. I ought to be happy if Philip could find someone to care for. I had Oliver, after all.
Spurred on by thoughts of my husband, I completed my day’s work and returned to Denes Hill in time to take a long, scented bath and wash my hair. Oliver, arriving home relatively early, surveyed my blue silk dress, my shining hair and discreet jewellery with a surprise that turned rapidly to appreciation. ‘Special occasion?’
‘Your homecoming,’ I said.
‘Indeed?’ His answering smile teased me. ‘It wouldn’t perhaps be because of a certain Major Rawson?’
‘Don’t mock,’ I sighed. ‘Poor man… The truth is, I’m tired of being Inspector Kate of the NUWW. I wanted to be simply Mrs Oliver Wells, if only for one night. I thought you might like it, too.’
‘I do. Very much.’ He started towards me, but paused and surveyed me critically. ‘Are you well? You look heavy-eyed.’
‘It’s the heat,’ I lied. ‘I turned faint this afternoon. Perhaps I’ve been overdoing it.’
He stared at me with awful hope, making me wish I hadn’t mentioned the fainting. ‘You’re not—’
‘No! At least, I…’ Could it be true? Was I bearing his child? I almost said, I hope not. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so.’
But hope turned him solicitous, like a young lover again as we ate dinner and took a gentle stroll in the gardens to look at the new vegetable patches we had both helped to dig, producing sorely needed extra food. Chickens now scratched behind wire that had once been a barrier for tennis balls, potatoes grew in the croquet lawn, and in the walled gardens edible produce occupied every inch, with no more dahlias or roses or g
ladioli specially grown for decorating the house.
Strolling hand in hand with my husband I tried – oh, I did try! – to think only of him, to share his hope that we might start a family. But my mind wouldn’t obey my will: it kept wandering away to the farm in the valley, where Philip and Judy would be sitting down to supper together in sweet lamplit twilight, with Mad Jack and Clem, and Boss and little Titch, who had once been little Jim.
That night, when Oliver began his overtures of love, I turned away, pleading tiredness, saying I felt queasy. ‘I’m sorry, Oliver.’
He curled himself behind me, an arm about me cupping my breast as he nuzzled my neck. ‘It’s all right, my love. All in a good cause, eh?’
He slept, but I lay awake hating the weight of his arm across me, relieved when he turned over and let me alone with my fresh, bleeding memories and my shameful longing for another man.
* * *
To Oliver’s renewed disappointment, the passing days proved that I was not pregnant. He seemed to think I had deliberately misled him and once again the rift between us deepened – he stayed late in town, or didn’t come home at all. The fault was mine, I knew. Oliver deserved better than me. But how was I supposed to live a lie?
While Philip remained on leave, I avoided Far Drove. But I heard about him from Judy. What a lamb he was, she enthused. The memory of their meeting always made her laugh: they’d got off on the wrong foot good and proper. I resisted my longing to talk about my own feelings for him, fearing that, once begun, I might confess all.
But something puzzled me: while I lay half unconscious, she had said something like, ‘that blessed husband of hers…’ I had always thought Judy admired Oliver. So what had she meant?
‘Oh, handsome is as handsome does,’ she shrugged when I asked her, one evening as we stood on the terrace at Denes Hill. Most of the patients were bedded down for the night and the house stood dark, shuttered windows gleaming like blind eyes in reflected starlight. ‘He doesn’t think much of me. And makes it obvious.’