Miss Boston and Miss Hargreaves

by Rachel Malik

  Phil had stayed close, too close she often felt. ‘I promised your dad,’ said Phil, whenever he offered her the hand of friendship, as he called it. Last spring, he’d asked if he could graze one of her fields. He would have paid her, it was only what farmers did, but she had said no, sensing encroachment. Elsie was walking faster now. Here most of the hedgerow was thick with hazel and blackthorn, but there were places where the ditching had crumbled and been scratched away, quite enough room for a sheep to get through if it was so inclined. Somewhere upfield she could hear the quick, rusty tune of a yellowhammer; she whistled back. The wind had dropped and the sun warmed her. She spied a pair of Small Coppers flopped on the hawthorn, such pretty things with their dark, velvety edges. Soon she’d be turning for home; she was even starting to get hungry. She pushed on, nearly at the end, and then, all of a sudden, the hedge of bright hazel ended and there was a burst of flowering spindle, all pink petals and orange hearts. She stopped still, her feeling of dread returning. Yesterday she had cut a big bunch of spindle for the land girl’s room – she didn’t usually bring flowers upstairs. Silly, silly. She took a deep breath and walked on briskly, calling again to Smoke, ‘Come on now, come on.’

  Back in the kitchen she sat down at the table, pulled off her boots and poured more tea – lukewarm and stewed, but she didn’t mind. She still didn’t feel ready to eat breakfast; the walk hadn’t settled her at all. Outside the chickens were scuffling – Sally and Jones it probably was – she waited to see what would happen. Sally could be a dreadful bully. The squawking increased then subsided; all was well. Smoke barked cautiously, confirming. Elsie hoped the girl wasn’t frightened of dogs. City people were often scared because of the strays – that or too soft. She hoped the girl wouldn’t be too soft.

  She leant back. The tap drip-dripped in the sink, dripped steady and cool into the deep bowl. Usually she loved this sound, and the quiet that let her hear it, but today it made her think of the heat in the room upstairs – the girl’s room it was now. She had closed the window; that bedroom could get very stuffy in the late morning – should she leave it? Oh. She was seeing everything double and she didn’t like it, it put her all at sea. She pulled off her scarf and rubbed her hands through her hair, trying to clear her thoughts.

  Yes, she would go up and open that window, and that would be it. Elsie stood up with decision and just then she heard something. She listened, not quite trusting her ears.

  It sounded like a voice. She couldn’t hear what it was saying, but she could tell that it was close, very close, somewhere in the house.

  For a moment she froze. Had the girl come early? Who might she be talking to? Elsie put her ear to the door between the kitchen and the hallway and listened. It was a lowish voice and it sounded like a woman. Elsie crept out into the hall. The voice grew louder; it seemed to be coming from the sitting room. She paused at the door and took a deep breath, her grip growing tight on the handle.

  And then she knew who it was.

  Silly, silly, Elsie said to herself. She had forgotten to turn the wireless off. Of course. The words came clear on the instant. Diana Linnington, ‘an English traveller in the East’. Last year Elsie had half followed her about Greece – so many boats. This time she had travelled further to Persia, and Elsie was enjoying this more. The streets of Persian cities were full of mules and donkeys and, Elsie didn’t doubt it, camels. Well, that didn’t sound so bad. Unfortunately, the streets were also full of people. Miss Linnington had watched from her hotel room in Baghdad as crowds of people streamed through the Northern Gate every morning. Silly. Elsie switched off the radio and went upstairs to the window.

  2.

  The Girl in the Porch

  … Already,

  Mothers tell stories of animals

  That drew cars, called horses …

  Bertolt Brecht, ‘Of the Remains of Older Times’, Poems, 1913–1956

  ‘Hargreaves? Pleased to meet you. I’m Brockway. How was your journey?’

  The other woman nodded and smiled briefly but she did not speak. They shook hands, a little awkwardly, and waited by the luggage car.

  The guard brought down a smallish navy trunk and they each took one of the narrow metal handles. They had the task in common, there was no need to say anything more. It wasn’t so very heavy, but the metal dug harshly into their hands.

  Behind them the doors slammed and the train was whistled out of the station. ‘Hargreaves’ bit her lip.

  They were both wearing the Land Army uniform and wore it well, no mischievous re-stitching; and yet. There was the difference in ages – Brockway was young, twenty-one, twenty-two – but it was not dramatic. Something else.

  ‘You must be hot. Why don’t you put your coat in the back?’

  Brockway had an ease that Hargreaves lacked. Hargreaves had confidence, but something about her was on edge.

  Again she said nothing, just nodded, took off her coat, folded it quickly and laid it on the back seat of the Ford. She had put on her whole uniform this morning to help the packing, but it had turned into a hot day.

  ‘That’s better.’

  They hoisted the trunk into the boot, then Brockway slammed it shut and they got into the car.

  ‘The drive won’t take long, it’s about eight miles. There’s some tea in that flask if you want.’

  The car turned off the road and into a narrow lane. The village was a good two miles behind them now. The hedges were high, the sun was hot and they were climbing fast. The lane, for all the new tar, was bumpy.

  Brockway had clearly enjoyed the drive, and she braked more sharply than the road demanded.

  ‘Here we are.’

  There was honeysuckle in the hedge, Rene could smell it.

  They both got out of the car and carried the trunk up to the little porch, then she hurried back to get her coat, feeling excited.

  Just a small house really, two-up two-down, square with scrimping windows; soft red brick, a few tiles missing from the roof, some others missing corners. The house had a pretty wooden porch though and the vegetable garden was well kept. A fruit tree grew against the front wall – she thought it might be a pear.

  Rene climbed the gate and called into the yard. From somewhere round the back a dog barked, shaking its chain. Over by the tap there were two big hutches, full of rabbits, sensing her and already shivery. She splashed her face and drank a little of the soft water, lovely water but too soft for rinsing your hair. She had quite a look at the dairy with its cool tiles and great white sink, so clean after the ragged yard, then she went back to find Brockway, who was waiting in the car.

  ‘No one home.’

  Brockway was eager to be away. She had made a point of saying this was her free afternoon.

  ‘You might as well go. She’s bound to be back soon.’

  ‘Are you sure? It should be all right. Miss Boston was certainly expecting us this afternoon.’

  ‘It’s fine. She can’t be far away.’

  ‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘No. Not at all.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be pleased to have you, she’s all on her own. There was someone here till quite recently, I think. Mrs Tranmer from the committee will be round early next week, just to see everything’s all right.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Bye then, Hargreaves.’

  ‘Bye.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Brockway called as she drove back down the hill.

  She dragged her trunk out of the way so that it didn’t block the path and put her other bag on one of the benches in the porch. She called out again just to be sure, and again only the dog replied. She didn’t mind that Miss Boston was late – she rather liked being on her own. There was a Fordson tractor, quite new but filthy, and a fat pony munching in the paddock with ten – she counted – calves. The smallest one came over and ruffled its muzzle softly, wheezily, in her hand.

  Her experience of animals was greater than her experience of tractors,
but she was more than willing to learn, sure that she could, eager. She didn’t like to wander round too freely, so she sat down on the little pew in the porch. Even in uniform she felt half a trespasser. Another half hour passed. Perhaps Miss Boston had forgotten she was coming. She found it hard to imagine a woman, or a man, living here on their own. It seemed a little strange. Yet she liked the soft red brick of the house, and the orchard with its shrunken fruit trees.

  She rolled up her coat and leant against it, and her eyes were caught by the picture hanging in the porch. It was a photograph of the house. It had been taken from quite far back, the track perhaps; you could see the whole house, even the chimney pots. The same fruit tree was growing against the wall, more neatly pruned. But it wasn’t just a picture of the house, there were four girls sitting in the porch, two on each bench. Three could be seen quite clearly, but one was just a face. It was an old photograph: the girls were distant in their white blouses and long skirts, they all looked young. She wondered which one of them might be Miss Boston, her Miss Boston. Underneath the photograph in neat copperplate was written: Starlight Farm, Sheepdrove.

  She sat in the porch quietly humming, one of those silly cheer-up songs from the billet – Brockway had been singing it in the car. She didn’t particularly like the song, she hadn’t especially liked Brockway, but she kept on humming, tapping her finger lightly on the wooden pew of the porch.

  * * *

  Elsie had spent a useful few hours in Newbury, shopping for things she couldn’t or wouldn’t buy in Lambourn. The meeting with the bank manager had gone better than she’d expected. The mention of the impending land girl seemed to raise his spirits, though without the cash from last month’s stock sale he might have been less cheery.

  If only she didn’t have to travel with George Townsend. If Phil was untrustworthy, at least he and Elsie could talk, farmer to farmer. His nephew George was different, young – younger than her anyway. He was supposed to be married but it didn’t stop him acting up. She wished there was some other way, but the Townsend car – now the pony cart was beyond repair – was difficult to resist.

  ‘And to think, I could have been making this journey on my own-e-o. What a day you’ve made for me, Miss Boston, what a day. What a treat.’

  She had managed to fend off his invitation to lunch, but he had kept her waiting by his car a whole hour before they started for home. It was as if he were paying her back. He was certainly the worse for wear, and it only seemed to make him more talkative. She felt horribly pressed.

  ‘A quiet one you are, Miss Boston. May I call you Elsie? I always knew you’d open up. Just needed the right key. I’ve found the key to Elsie. Ha ha. A song. The right key.’

  He kept offering her cigarettes, blowing the smoke from his own right into her eyes; he didn’t seem to mind if she said no, but he kept on asking. It was the same with his questions: how many sisters do you have, Miss Boston, and do any of them live close by? He knew not to ask about her brothers. He spoke more than enough for both of them; she felt quite dizzy with it. She wished she’d sat in the back with her packages.

  They were going to be late for the land girl. Elsie particularly didn’t want to meet her with George Townsend – she didn’t want the girl to get any ideas. She didn’t want George to meet the girl – they’d never have a moment’s peace – but of course he would insist on driving right up to the gate.

  * * *

  She heard the car, caught a glimpse of its long grey bonnet slowing. It wasn’t quite what she was expecting: she had thought Miss Boston would appear at the gate, or perhaps she would glimpse her in the distance, approaching across the fields. But the car had stopped just outside on the lane and she heard a man’s voice, she couldn’t make out what he was saying – he was the driver and she could see the jaunty set of his cap. Miss Boston, she assumed it was, was sitting beside him in the front passenger seat. She was huddled tight against her door, as if she wanted to keep as much distance from the driver as possible. The man took off his gloves, still talking; Miss Boston seemed unwillingly caught. On he went, would he never stop, but finally Miss Boston turned her head awkwardly towards the house and must have seen her sitting in the porch.

  She jumped up, fumbling with her hat, and hurried to the car, wanting to be helpful, afraid of looking too much at ease.

  She reached out her hand. ‘Miss Boston? How do you do? I’m Rene Hargreaves.’

  Miss Boston said nothing – perhaps she smiled – so Rene opened the door of the car carefully, then reached on to the back seat and started retrieving the various packages.

  An hour later they were sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea and eating bread and butter.

  ‘It’s so nice and quiet here,’ Rene said. ‘The billets are mad. Four girls to a room, six in some.’

  Miss Boston had shown her the yard and the animals. Get up at five. The six remaining cows were brought in and fed and milked. Chickens fed and eggs collected. Phil Townsend came at half past six for the milk. Then the cows were put out in Back Field, out of the way of the calves and Pickwick, the plump pony. Then it was time for breakfast. And so it went on. It was just the two of them and it made for a tight routine, but Rene liked to be busy, liked to be quick. Miss Boston paused while she poured them each another cup of tea, dousing both heavily with sugar. Rene said nothing, it didn’t matter really. Miss Boston carried on with the routine, and Rene wondered how one person could ever have managed it all.

  ‘Miss Boston, where does the milk go, who buys it?’

  ‘Oh, oh, call me Elsie, please.’ She looked quite flustered for a moment. ‘I don’t rightly know – Phil arranges that. Before the war it went to Huntley and Palmers.’

  ‘And Phil’s the man who was driving the car?’

  ‘Oh, no. That’s George, his nephew, he’s not a farmer.’

  ‘Looks like a spiv,’ Rene said.

  ‘A what?’ Elsie looked awkward and Rene wished she hadn’t spoken.

  ‘What did you call him?’ Elsie asked again. She looked both curious and wary.

  ‘A spiv, a chancer,’ Rene said.

  ‘He’s certainly that.’

  After tea, they lugged Rene’s trunk upstairs to her room. It smelt starchy and damp, but the window was open and there was a slight rattling breeze. She wondered at all the furniture and the overstuffed wardrobe, but there was plenty of space, she thought. A room to herself was a luxury.

  She took in the blank walls and the picture shadows, but it was the great sticks of flowers in the jug that caught her: the colour blazed in the afternoon light.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’

  She wanted to say something else but decided not to.

  There was no blackout upstairs but she wasn’t going to mention that either. They stood there for a moment and then Elsie went over to the window and they both looked out at the half-view of the fields beyond. ‘These are my fields,’ she said, and pointed out the boundaries.

  Those first few mornings she waited for Elsie’s promised knock at the door, before calling, Down in a minute – even though she’d been awake for an hour or more, dressed and staring out of the window, into the dark. In the evenings, she went up as soon as she’d washed the dishes, leaving Elsie to her house and her wireless. She could see Elsie was used to her own company. Upstairs, Rene was asleep within moments. In between times, she worked, throwing herself into every task. After they’d seen to the animals that first morning, she drove the tractor to Fox Field (under Elsie’s guidance) so they could finish harrowing. Elsie walked beside her, talking her on: a little faster, that’s right, whoa there. And through the day, the talk was nearly all like that, of the task, of the moment, mainly from Elsie. Hold that, she said, or Watch your hands (said quite often), or Shall we have a few minutes? and Rene would fill in with Thanks or Yes or a nod, and from time to time a question – it seemed to suit them both. And when they did pause to eat their sandwiches, Rene suddenly self-conscious in her uniform and overdressed
for the heat, Elsie supplemented with long silences and little pieces of local knowledge. The northern edge of Fox Field was the boundary between Starlight and a big farm owned by a man named Cole. They were Cole’s fences and he kept them well, but she didn’t have much talk with him. Rene couldn’t catch from Elsie’s tone whether this was a good thing or not. She was aching long before they drove home, her palms blistered under her gloves, but she was surprised at how quickly the day had passed. Elsie seemed pleased with what they’d done. She was late to be harrowing but still hoped to get the potatoes in – ‘You’ll finish the field tomorrow?’ Rene said she was sure she could.

  If the first day was a test of sorts, Rene passed it and after that she was on her own a good deal of the time, tidying up the orchard, clearing out the pond in Yellow Field – there was an awful lot of clearing. No one needed to tell her to work hard: she wasn’t one to shirk on the sidelines. On her land-girl training she had always listened carefully to instruction. Other girls might get a milky, faraway look in their eyes, but Rene would only see what was in front: this field, this choked-up pond. Don’t look back.

  And while Rene worked, Elsie worked too, spending most of her day on rickety ladders, fixing the barn roof. Once the roof was done, it was time for the rats. Smoke and the sour-tempered cat, Missy, were locked up while the traps were laid in the barn. Elsie did the setting – you could mangle your hand or worse – and then the barn doors were locked. Two days later they opened up and went inside, armed with shovels and sacks. Elsie had warned her that the rats died horrible, but Rene wasn’t prepared for the bloody mess that greeted them. Some were still alive and they had to finish them with shovels. Rene wobbled and nearly lost her balance. She was too ginger to do anything more than make them squeal and jangle her nerves, but when Elsie wielded her shovel deftly, with such a hard, fast crack, Rene found herself admiring.