Land Girls (23 page)

The Monday after the RAF dance was the fifth day of the hunt. Ratty took it upon himself to lay the lethal bait before dawn: he had no wish to be responsible for the girls doing something silly with the poison. He crept about, torchless in the freckled dark, slipping scraps of food, well marinated in ensearic zinc
phosphide
, under bales of hay, by piles of grain and hen food, the dung heap – all their favourite places. Now, it was just a matter of waiting. Ratty was a satisfied man: the buggers would come sneaking out today, not knowing what had hit them, begging to be clobbered on the head. He could never relish that part, as he had told the girls. But it had to be done.

At breakfast, Mr Lawrence warned the girls to be on the look-out. Should they come upon a dying rat, he said, they were to call Ratty, Joe or himself to deal with it.

Ag hoped her job for the morning would be spraying the fruit trees, a place far from the rats. But her luck was out: Faith wanted the eggs gathered early so that a collection could be taken into Dorchester, where the WVS distributed them to the old. The other two were assigned to a morning’s hoeing.

Armed with her basket, Ag went first to the barn. She calculated that, as Ratty had laid the bait only a few hours ago, chances were the rats were exercising their habitual caution, and had not yet been tempted. She put a gloved hand nervously into the small holes between piles of loose straw that she had come to know were the bantams’ favourite places for laying. Then, in one of the secret nests, she came across a gristly piece of lamb, just recognizable from a stew some days before. Ag quickly backed away, revolted, to battle with her conscience. Should she continue in her egg hunt in the normal way until she had gathered a dozen or so eggs? Or should she call it a day? The poisoned bait had unnerved her.

Tense and self-despising, she left the barn, walked towards the harness room. It housed an old horse rug that had been left folded on the floor for countless years. Stiff and mildewy underneath, its top had been moulded into a nesting place by some long-ago duck, whose descendants still took the
opportunity
to lay in this ancestral nesting place. Eggs were to be found there most days.

A few yards from the tack-room, Ag saw Ratty come out, a pleased look on his face. He held up a large dead rat that swung from a hairless tail. In the split second before a blurring of vision came to her rescue, Ag observed a glimmer of obscene tooth and claw. She shouted to Ratty not to bring it near her, then clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.

Ratty, in his own pleasure, was confused. He had imagined she would share his triumph, gloat with him over the monster. He could not understand her incomprehensible cries, nor why she turned away from him and fell into the arms of Joe.

‘Take it away, Ratty,’ said Joe, over Ag’s shoulder. ‘She doesn’t like them.’

Ratty at once turned away and shuffled off fast, reduced from his few moments of uprightness to his old stoop.

When he had gone, Joe gently unclasped his arms and stepped back from Ag.

‘All right?’ he asked her.

Ag pushed back her hair, tossed her head. She was pale, ashamed. ‘Fine, thanks. I didn’t think I’d mind a dead one so much, but the revulsion is just the same.’

‘They’re obscene, dead or alive. Like me to make you a cup of tea?’

‘What, and earn your father’s medal for utter feebleness?’ Ag managed a laugh. ‘No, thanks. I’ll go down to the orchard, help with the fruit spraying.’

‘Right.’

‘And thank you for rescuing me. I felt dizzy for a moment. Where were you? You appeared from nowhere.’

Joe looked at her for some time without answering, his brows drawn into a frown.

‘I was about,’ he said. Then he patted her on the shoulder, and strode off to the barn, own shoulders hunched, preoccupied by some private thought.

He had offended and alarmed the holy one, and regret swung within him heavy as a cast-iron bell. Desolate, Ratty had fallen from the heights of the morning to the murkiest of depths. Pride came before a fall, he muttered to himself. Oh, to have undone the morning: to be given the chance to start again, act with more sensitivity. All the signs of Ag’s aversion to rats had been there to read, and he had ignored them. Ratty spat on the hard ground, cursing himself. Would she ever forgive him? What could he say to her? How could he ever explain his regret for causing her such a fearful moment?

Once he had disposed of the dead rat – and no rat had he ever loathed so much for causing all this trouble – Ratty had little heart to continue his search for others. The joys of rat hunting had vanished. He wandered down to Lower Pasture, leaned over the gate to watch the cows. So often he found their indifference a comfort. But another horrible thought assailed him: Joe and Ag. The holy one in Joe’s arms – Joe, who’d turned up like some bloody magician on cue – sure way to a girl’s heart, being there at the right moment.

Exactly what Ratty did not want to happen between Joe and Ag was not clear in his mind. But the old unease he had felt some days ago, which had died down, now returned. He had not liked seeing the girl fall back spontaneously against the great hulking figure of Joe, and the swift comfort of Joe’s arms. He did not want to see any such thing again. He did not like the ease between them. Besides, the holy one should be protected, be warned: Joe was no bloody good. Not to be trusted, relied upon. Ratty had witnessed many wild couplings in the lad’s youth, seen many a girl with a broken heart whom he had left without reason. The holy one was as innocent and vulnerable-looking a creature as Ratty had ever met, inspiring him with protective feelings that were new, in this his eighth decade, and troubling. His old plan of revenge returned. Any hint of Joe’s selfish intentions towards the girl, and he, Ratty, would step in and rescue her from a far graver situation than the event of the dead rat this morning. He was not sure, yet, what measures he would take, but a pitchfork would probably come in useful. Joe should have learned by now the cruelty of dallying with an innocent girl’s feelings. Besides, there was Janet. Ratty had no great respect for Janet, but she was Joe’s fiancée, and had done nothing to deserve this deceit. So Joe had better mind his Ps and Qs, thought Ratty, and with his new resolve strength returned. He saw on his watch almost an hour had passed in contemplation. He must return to the farm, keep searching for dying rats, before the light faded and he would be forced to go home.

‘I don’t know what a girl’s supposed to do, this clothes rationing,’ grumbled Prue. ‘Sixty coupons a year!
One
complete outfit. What makes those idiots in the government think we can get by on that? They’re barmy.’

‘You’ve got more clothes than anyone I know,’ said Stella.

‘Luckily, I stocked up before June. I’m all right for
now
, but what if Barry and me take off? You have to keep a man surprised. Something new for each time you see him. Keep up the interest.’

The girls hoed side by side. Deserted in the weeks the farm had been short of labour, before their arrival, the field was waist-high in thistles, mutton dock and charnock. As usual, they suffered aching backs. They found the long handles of the hoes difficult to manoeuvre. Their work was slow and clumsy. After a couple of hours they had cleared a disappointingly small amount of ground.

‘Don’t know why they don’t just let me plough this all in,’ sighed Prue, straightening up for a pause. ‘God, what I’d do for a fag. Look at my hands. Scratched, purple, fingers swollen. Lucky if anyone ever looks at me again.’

‘You should wear gloves.’

‘Hate gloves. Bloody hoeing. I’m exhausted. How come Ag always gets the orchard?’

‘Spraying the fruit trees isn’t that much fun. The stuff blows back into your face in the slightest breeze.’

‘I’d rather do the
pig
than hoe. I’ve grown quite fond of Sly, matter of fact. But ploughing’s my best thing. Wouldn’t mind ploughing every day. Joe did finally admit, you know, he was impressed by the straightness of my furrows. Joe, I said, my apprenticeship in hairdressing wasn’t for nothing. I been well practised in giving clients straight partings, haven’t I? Course I can plough a straight furrow.’

Stella laughed. She, too, straightened up, leaned on her hoe.

‘This time tomorrow,’ she said.

‘Where’ll you be?’

‘On the train to Plymouth, any luck.’

‘That’s good.’ Prue took a packet of Woodbines from her pocket, lit one in the cup of her hand. ‘Mrs Lawrence easy about letting you go?’

‘Very understanding. It’s only two nights. I said I’d stay here over Christmas to make up.’

‘I’m going home, Christmas, whatever.’ Prue inhaled deeply. Then she puffed a ribbon of lilac smoke into the cold, clear air. ‘Don’t suppose I’ll ever get used to this silence,’ she said after a while. ‘Ag and you – you seem to find it all less surprising than me – the mud, the dogs, the cold house and everything.’ She wiped a gleam of sweat away from her face, leaving muddied cheeks. ‘Suppose it’s been less of a leap from Surrey than from Manchester.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that with Philip on my mind I don’t care what I do, where I go. When I’m not with him I seem to be indifferent to everything. In fact, I’m enjoying it all more than I expected, despite the hard physical work. But perhaps that’s just because Philip
exists
.’

‘You really
are
in love,’ said Prue, in some awe, inhaling again.

‘I am,’ said Stella dreamily.

The sour, pinkish smell of Prue’s cigarette spumed above the deeper smells of earth and weed.

‘Well,’ said Prue, after a while, ‘I just might be on the way to join you. There was something very nice about Barry. Not just a handsome face, I’d say.’ She flung down the butt of her cigarette, stamped it fiercely with her boot. ‘I’ll be ready, Barry, I said, any time you want me.’ Giggling, she angled her hoe towards the root of a large thistle, tapped at it with little effect. ‘I suppose you’re thinking I’m promiscuous.’

‘More, just your way of trying to find the right man,’ said Stella. ‘I do the same. The only difference is I don’t sleep with them. I’m too scared. Instead, I fall in love. Not very deep love. I’m such a hopeless romantic, the very idea of love is almost enough for me, though I know in my heart most of it’s make-believe and I’ll be disillusioned. I nearly always am. Though this time, with Philip, I think it’s different.’

‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed,’ said Prue. ‘I don’t go for all that soppy romance stuff myself. Especially with a war on – no time. Get your knickers off as fast as you can is my belief, before the poor buggers are shot down. Bit of quick fun, then off to the next one. End of the war, when we’re all a bit older and wiser – that’ll be the time to look for a husband. That’s when some
unsuspecting
millionaire’s going to come in handy. Meantime, I get my fun where I can find it. Not as easy stuck out here as it was at home, of course. But I’m not off to a bad start. Joe’s a good bloke, bit of a dark horse, pretty good lover by my standards. But what was he? Just a challenge. Seduce the farmer’s son was my number one priority, then start searching out the local talent. I think he quite enjoyed it, mind: holding out for all of a week, then shagging me stupid. One morning I actually fell asleep propped up against Marybelle, teat between my fingers … Not practical, me and Joe, really. Besides, Mrs Lawrence was beginning to have her suspicions. I didn’t want to be sent anywhere else, one of those land girl hostels or anything. It’s a good place, here. I wrote to my mum only last night. I said: Mum, we’re lucky. Then I said, I’ve got my hopes pinned to this Barry. I wouldn’t half mind if he came looking for me, I said.’

They returned to their hoeing, their silence. The only sounds for a while were the chinking of tools against stony earth, the distant crunking of rooks and crows restless in the bare trees of the copse. Then, a piercing whistle startled them: the whistle of an experienced shepherd commanding his sheep. Both turned towards the gate, some fifty yards away, expecting to see Ratty or Joe. Instead they saw a young airman on an old bicycle, smiling.

‘
Blimey
!’ hissed Prue. ‘It’s Barry.
Talk
of the … Mind if I go? Wonder how much time he’s got. Don’t go back to the yard without me,
please
. I’ll come and get my hoe.’

She flung it to the ground, automatically ruffled a hand through her hair, muddy fingers checking the state of the blue satin bow. Then she began to run through the weeds, waving, shouting Barry’s name. Barry dismounted his bike, opened his arms, smiling, blushing – even from so far away Stella could see the sudden ruddiness of his cheeks. When Prue reached him, they kissed frantically, oblivious to the gate between them.

Stella turned away. She wondered if Philip’s welcome
tomorrow
would be as ecstatic. The nervous anticipation, which she had been trying so hard to conceal, returned. Its force made her feeble. With a great struggle, she returned to her hoeing, knowing that with Prue gone she must do double the work.

* * *

When Prue and Barry’s first embrace, and its encores, finally came to an end, Prue climbed over the gate and took the flight lieutenant’s arm. They quickly reached the entry to the copse, some yards along the lane, and found themselves a comfortable place in the densest part of the wood. Barry sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, having assured himself its fuzzy yellowish moss would not stain his trousers. Prue placed herself in an alluring curve on the ground ivy, positioned so accurately that when the time came she could rest her head on his knee without having to move.

Barry’s scarlet face was smeared with the deeper red imprints of Prue’s lipstick. His shorn gold hair, released from the forage cap folded in his pocket, stood straight up as if in alarm. Prue herself, purring in the knowledge of her own allure, was the epitome of a rural pin-up: a blending of mud and rouge on her cheeks, blonde curls a chaotic nest on which her satin bow clung like a wounded bird. They both trembled. Prue reached for her cigarettes. Barry found a match. He lit her cigarette with great finesse, as if it was a skill he had been practising all his life: cupping his hands round the flame, touching Prue’s wavering fingers for no more than a second. Then he took a cigarette himself, lit it with equal precision. They blew smoke in each other’s faces, then scattered it with floppy hands, laughing. Barry looked at his watch.