Down Daisy Street (17 page)
‘We’re going now, anyway,’ Kathy said hastily. ‘Come along, Ruby, Billy, we’ve spent more time doing our messages than we should. Let’s go home and I’ll make us dinners.’
‘But what about the blazer . . .’ Ruby began, but Kathy shook a reproving head. She had no money for blazers or cardigans and though she had meant to enquire the price, it no longer seemed important. What was important was putting as much space as possible between herself and the hated Marcia. She liked Claude Peveril, thought him a real gentleman, and as she hurried Ruby and Billy away she wondered why he bothered with Marcia, cousin or no. He was a tall, handsome young man, probably all of eighteen years old, with thick, light brown hair and dancing hazel eyes. She thought him far too good looking for Marcia, with her long swan’s neck, sloping shoulders and arrogant expression. I expect he was forced to take her out by her snooty school governor father or her snobbish mother, Kathy told herself, as the three of them emerged on to Scotland Road. She had seen Mr and Mrs Montgomery at a school function and had not been impressed. They were both enormously tall, as was their daughter, and both looked as though there was an unpleasant smell somewhere in their vicinity. Ruby and Kathy had had a good giggle and had then dismissed the Montgomerys from their minds.
But as they made their way home, Kathy told herself there was no point in dwelling on the incident. Marcia had been hateful but she knew nothing of Billy’s fits – no one at school did, apart from Ruby – and was merely being her unpleasant self.
When they reached Ruby’s turning, her friend said that she had better just nip home for a moment with her messages, rather than carry them all the way to Daisy Street and back. Billy and Kathy accompanied her and Kathy looked enviously round her friend’s neat, nicely furnished kitchen as Ruby began to put away the shopping she had bought. Mr Myers was a skilled carpenter and had made beautiful racks, shelves and cupboards out of clean, polished wood. The walls were hung with attractive pictures and all the implements such as saucepans, ladles and colanders hung in a neat row beside the cooking stove. The Welsh dresser was an old one which had once belonged to Mr Myers’s grandmother, Ruby had told her. Its shelves were laden, not with the usual assortment of elderly, unmatched crockery, but with fine china bowls and dishes, making the kitchen look grand, Kathy thought. There was cheerful red linoleum on the floor and several rugs lay scattered across its surface; not the rag rugs which Sarah Kelling made out of any odd pieces of material, when she had the time, but rugs made of thick, soft wool in beautiful patterns – roses, a country cottage, some poppies and delphiniums, so bright and colourful that they could have been real. Two wages coming in, a bit of inherited money and only one child made things a lot easier, Kathy supposed, as the three of them left the house, Ruby carefully locking the door behind them.
‘Kathy?’ Billy was tugging at her sleeve, his face turned up to hers. ‘Kathy, what’s loony?’
Kathy sighed. ‘It’s just a rude word which kids fling at each other,’ she said dismissively. ‘It’s like you calling Teresa or your pal Jacky a fool or a mutton-head. You don’t want to take any notice of that.’
‘That’s right, Billy,’ Ruby said at once. ‘You see, Marcia’s a really nasty girl, jealous of your sister and wanting to make trouble. She knew if she called Kathy a loony it wouldn’t mean anything, so she called you one instead, knowing it would upset Kathy. Don’t give it another thought, old feller.’
‘But if it don’t mean nothin’, then why did Kathy smack her on the nose?’ Billy asked after a moment’s thought. ‘I’ve never seen our Kathy hit anyone, even when she’s blazin’ angry. She never smacks me, not even when I’m being really bad.’
‘No, but she loves you. I
told
you, Billy, that your sister hates Marcia and Marcia hates your sister, so you see, it were like a match to gunpowder. Sooner or later, there’s bound to be a great big bang.’
told
you, Billy, that your sister hates Marcia and Marcia hates your sister, so you see, it were like a match to gunpowder. Sooner or later, there’s bound to be a great big bang.’
To Kathy’s great relief, Billy chuckled appreciatively at this remark and began to talk about being a soldier when he grew up. When they arrived home, Kathy led her friend into the Kelling kitchen and Ruby began to unload the messages with Billy’s help while Kathy made some workmanlike cheese sandwiches and brewed a pot of weak tea.
‘I s’pose you’ll be wanting to go job hunting this afternoon,’ she said rather wistfully as they finished their meal. ‘I’m going to have to talk to Mam about finding myself some school uniform – not new stuff, just second-hand. I know she’ll give me the money as soon as she can.’
‘I don’t see why it has to be second-hand,’ Ruby objected. ‘I remember my mam saying once that there’s a dressmaker in Crocus Street who can do miracles when she puts her mind to it. Who’s to say she couldn’t copy my tunic if your mam bought the material and that?’
Kathy stared at her friend wide eyed. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ she marvelled. ‘You’re right; your mam must mean Miss Tucker. She doesn’t work full time making dresses any more, but does alterations for the big shops. Mam’s quite friendly with her, and when she wants something altered she and Miss Tucker put their heads together and Mam gives Miss T a big batch of soda bread or a rich fruitcake or a nice meat pie and Miss Tucker does the alteration in return.’
‘I thought of it ’cos I’m bleedin’ brilliant,’ Ruby said, smirking. ‘There’s a shop on the Scottie what sells material – particularly end of roll – quite cheap. You’re only a little thing so I dare say a couple of yards would be all you’d need, and if your mam really can knit you a cardigan, surely she could do a bit each night after work? After all, you’ll be getting the messages, cooking the meals, clearing away and seeing to the lodgers while Mrs Kelling works, so I’m sure she wouldn’t grudge giving up an hour or so each evening to knit for you.’
‘I reckon you’re right,’ Kathy said, still round eyed at her friend’s cleverness. ‘Oh, Ruby, maybe not working isn’t going to be quite so bad after all.’
It was hot in the harvest field. Now that the Hewitts had taken over Mere Farm there was a good deal more work to be done, but since Mr Hewitt had kept the Browns’ three farmhands, Joel, Ned and Bert, to work alongside himself, his son and their own farmhands, it was perfectly possible to get the harvest in before the weather broke, if one worked from dawn to dusk, as they were doing now.
Of course, the neighbours came and helped, as the Hewitts, in their turn, helped others. Mr Mathews saw that the baler and thresher went the rounds of the farms on the estate and the men followed it. This year, they had been fortunate, when you considered how summer had started. Torrential rain had marred the coronation of George VI, and later in May, Norfolk at any rate, had suffered from terrible storms which had seemed likely to do standing crops no good. But the crops had recovered and now the August sun poured down on the corn, barley and rye as field after field was harvested and the workers toiled in the burning heat.
They were working on the Ten Acre and had reached the stage where the binder had cut its wide swaths across most of the field, only leaving a small circle of standing corn in the centre. The men were waiting around with hefty sticks, eager for their own particular harvest – the terrified exodus of rabbits, stoats, mice and the like from the last small patch of standing corn. Alec hated this part but did not wish to be considered squeamish so simply continued with his own work, keeping his eyes averted from the sudden flurry of activity as the great horses pulled the binder too close for comfort and small creatures began to emerge and to run for their lives.
It was at this point that his mother and several neighbours’ wives entered the field, carrying the harvest tea. Alec wondered whether his mother had deliberately created a diversion, for when she shouted to the men to take the heavy cans of tea most of them turned towards her for a moment, a moment in which a good many rabbits made it to the safety of the wide grass verge and the deep, tree-hung ditch which separated the field from the lane.
Nevertheless, most of the men bagged at least one rabbit and Alec, knowing how essential it was that the farm workers got at least some meat in their diet, told himself firmly that rabbits were a pest, taking more than their fair share of the corn. However, he was secretly glad that a good few of them were now safely hidden in burrows or ditches where the men could not follow them.
‘Come along, Alec. We’ve brought everything we’ll need, so if you’ll give a hand to unpack the baskets . . .’ His mother beamed at him and Alec was sure he had been right; she had deliberately chosen to bring down the tea at that particular moment in order to save some of the rabbits. If he put it to her, she would tell him it was just a coincidence and then add that men were such fools; if they killed all the rabbits then how would they go on next year without so much as a sniff of rabbit pie? But Alec did not want a discussion about rabbits so he began to help his mother to unpack the baskets, laying out the tin plates and mugs on the thin, much used white and yellow tablecloth. He watched, with keen interest, as Annie and Sylvia Bates, the daughters of another tenant farmer whose land bordered theirs, began, in a very professional manner, to slice the great meat and potato pie which his mother made year after year. She considered it far more filling and a good deal tastier than the sandwiches which some other farmers’ wives provided, and Alec knew that the men agreed with her and always looked forward to the Hewitts’ harvest tea.
No utensils were necessary; one ate with one’s fingers, and that included the large pickled onions and the jars of pickled cabbage which stood in the centre of the tablecloth, along with a huge fruit cake, its top crusted with brown sugar, every crumb of which would be devoured before his mother returned to the farmhouse.
There were other edibles, of course: cold boiled potatoes, individual apple pies and gallons and gallons of hot, sweet tea; and Alec knew, from experience, that the only thing his mother ever carried back to the farmhouse were baskets piled with empty plates and mugs. The harvesters would gorge themselves and then return to their work, the better for having had a meal and a rest. Alec had indulged in a great many harvest teas provided by other farmers’ wives and knew, complacently, that no one else could hold a candle to Betty Hewitt. The fact was, his mother loved cooking and enjoyed feeding people, considering herself a hostess who was paying for the men’s labour by feeding them well; other wives might not agree but fortunately. Alec thought, the spirit of competition amongst women when it came to harvest teas was strong. They would all do their utmost to follow his mother’s example – as they tried to follow Bob Hewitt’s, since he insisted on doing his best to keep abreast of all modern farming methods – and the result was that, despite their exposed position, the farms on the estate flourished.
The Hewitts had been farming the Browns’ land for over nine months but this, of course, was their first harvest and Bob was pleased with it. As he always did, Bob had kept a close eye on the crop, testing its ripeness by the age-old method of taking an ear of corn, rubbing the grains between finger and thumb, and then popping them into his mouth. He told his son he could judge when the grain would be ready for cutting by this method, and Alec believed him.
Alec knew that his father was pleasantly surprised by how well the grain had grown on fields which old man Brown had scarcely bothered to fertilise for many a long year, but then he and the men had worked hard, spreading the great heap of manure in the corner of the Browns’ stack yard over all the Mere Farm fields the previous autumn, working right up to Christmas. Indeed, they would have continued muck-spreading into the New Year had not the ground been too frost-hardened to make such a task practicable. They had cut their own fields first and were now working on the new acreage, and everyone agreed that there was very little difference between former and latter.
‘Want another slice o’ pie, Alec? There’s plenty, and you know your ma won’t think o’ takin’ any home. She want to see the baskets empty, same as always.’
Alec glanced up at Sylvia, nodding and smiling. She was a pretty girl with a braid of long pale gold hair and a tan which equalled his own, for her father had only produced daughters and she and her sisters worked the land with as much enthusiasm – and nearly as much strength – as any farmer’s son.
‘Thanks, Sylvia.’ He took a big bite out of the pie, chewed, swallowed, then addressed the girl again. ‘What do you think of the new land, then? We kept all Brown’s fellers on, but even so it’s been a hard graft to get the whole place into production. Next year, Dad wants to double the size of the milking herd and get more sheep; he thinks sheep would do as well on the marshes as cattle do, but I’m not so sure myself. Your dad goes in for fatteners, don’t he? I wonder if bullocks might be a better bet than dairy cows. Most of the farmers round here seem to prefer bullocks.’ He grinned at Sylvia, who grinned back. ‘Perhaps that’s why Dad wants to double the dairy herd, though. He likes to be first in the field, so to speak.’
‘He do well at it,’ Sylvia observed. ‘The rest of us follow his example, you must ha’ seen that for yourself, boy Alec! Tell me, what happened to that setter pup your ma was keeping in the kitchen last time I visited?’
‘Oh, you mean Loopy,’ Alec said, chuckling. ‘The trouble with her is that she’s got feathers instead of brains in her head. We can let the other dogs out, knowing that they’ll behave themselves, but Loopy runs riot unless there’s someone with her. She does all the things farm dogs should never do: chases chickens, runs under the pony’s belly, gets mired up to her stomach in the salt marshes. In fact, she’s a pest, but we love her anyway.’
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