Once a Land Girl (11 page)

Prue wondered where she was. The train chuntered slowly, parallel to small roads, but there were no signposts. Perhaps returning them was not a priority for those who had to put things back. The
locals knew their way: who cared if strangers were confused? And there didn’t seem to be many people about – the occasional woman on a cumbersome bike, a rare car eking out its petrol
ration by driving at twenty miles an hour. In one farmyard, only a few yards from the train, Prue saw an old man backing a cob into the shafts of an ancient cart while in an upstairs window his
frail wife was hitching black material to one side of the frame, perhaps too exhausted to replace the years of blackout with the original curtains. Protected by her narrow, privileged married life
in Manchester, Prue realized she had not been aware of the slow process of Britain’s recovery. Now, on this journey to Yorkshire, she was aware of a sense of inertia. It was hard to imagine
the return to normal, a distant time of incalculable years.

The station, cloudy with smoke and steam through which very weak lights made a pathetic attempt to brighten the place, was crowded with people in shabby clothes of uniform dullness. With a
strange feeling of impatience, Prue wondered how long it would take before there was brightness on the streets and in public places again. And when clothes rationing came to an end, would people
want brightness after so many years of dreary dressing? Would beautiful colours start to appear in the shops?

Prue took a taxi from the station to the Lawrences’ farm, a half-hour ride through unfamiliar country: wide views, no hedged-in narrow lanes, villages scattered beside the Dales. The house
itself was much smaller than Hallows Farm, its cracked face a little lopsided, its window small and lustreless. The farmyard was to one side, and a small barn housing a Fordson tractor. No sign of
any animals: no pigsty for Sly’s grandchildren, no stable for a replacement Noble.

Prue walked up the narrow front path squeezed between a painted fence plainly not homemade. This made her smile. The idea of a fenced front path at Hallows Farm would have been risible. Mr
Lawrence’s brother, from whom this house was inherited, must have had very different ideas from Faith and Tom, whose aim was always practicality rather than neatness. In the patch of garden
opposite the farmyard, a washing-line had been slung between two trees. Mrs Lawrence’s sage-coloured cotton dress, which she must have worn a thousand times, was pegged to it. Puffed up by
the breeze, it blew about, only star of the washing-line. How on earth could that old dress still exist? thought Prue. None of her own clothes had more than a few months of life. At the thought of
Mrs Lawrence’s parsimony, and seeing the thin cotton in its last dance, she felt tears pressing again. Quickly she turned away.

Prue had never knocked on the Lawrences’ door and decided not to do so now. Inside, she saw an open door off the dark passage. She made her way there, wondering whom she should find, where
everybody was. She looked through the door, went no further.

Mr Lawrence was sitting at the table – the old table, the old chairs, but how clumsy they looked in this strange, much smaller kitchen. He had an open newspaper before him but he was not
reading. The toll on him of his wife’s death was rampant in his face. The ravines that ran from his nose to his chin had become deep enough to sharpen a knife. The whites of his eyes were
confused with red veins, and the lids, previously so taut in their hollows, were now swollen. He moved his hands together in the shape of a spire, the rough fingers quivering. The familiarity of
those hands – seen so often helping with an udder, showing how to hold a chopper or skin a rabbit – made Prue want to cry out loud this time, but she controlled herself. ‘Mr
Lawrence,’ she said quietly.

He raised his head. ‘Oh, Prue.’ He stood up. ‘I’m mighty glad you’ve come, all of you.’

Briefly, they embraced. He smelt the same: hay, root vegetables, sharp tobacco.

‘I’m so sorry. I wish I could say something to let you know how sorry I am.’ For all her effort, her voice had cracked.

‘It was very quick, thank the Lord. She had a good last day. No notion of what was to come, I don’t think . . . Heart-attack in the night. Didn’t even wake me.’

‘Always so considerate,’ Prue dared say, and it worked. Mr Lawrence gave the faintest smile.

‘Best way to go. Though she was getting used to this place. We never stopped missing Hallows, but we were carrying on with life.’ He gave a brief wave, a wooden gesture, to indicate
the newness of the place that was still not home. ‘The others arrived a couple of hours ago. They’re up in the attic – not quite the old attic, but all right for a night or
two.’

‘And Joe?’

Mr Lawrence gave her a look she knew well. She cursed herself for having asked the question.

‘Joe’s on his way. Janet’s not long till she gives birth again. Shall I take your bag?’ Prue shook her head. ‘Very well. I’ll put the kettle on. Up the
stairs, left turn and up the next flight.’

While climbing the steep and narrow stairs, Prue heard the girls’ voices: muted, familiar. What is it about familiarity, after a spell of absence, that is so affecting? She pushed open the
low door and there they were, Stella and Ag, sitting on low beds, shoes kicked off, knees together, shins splayed, their old end-of-the-day positions. Ag’s shoulders were hunched against a
small casement window, Stella’s chin was cupped in her hands. At first, in the poor light of the room, Prue could only make out shapes, no detail.

‘Crikey,’ she said, not knowing what else to say, ‘not the same, is it? But at least we’re all here.’ There were brief hugs, steps taken back to observe each other.
Stella was thinner, pale. She looked tired. Ag was more rounded, her Madonna-shaped face and beautiful cheekbones pronounced against scraped-back hair.

‘I said to Ag you’d get yourself a black bow.’ Stella was almost laughing.

‘And I said you’d be in swanky mourning clothes and diamonds. You said you get diamonds every week!’ said Ag.

‘Bit of an exaggeration.’ Prue tried to laugh but realized their attempts at lightness had evaporated. The three girls in the small, unadorned room were lost for the next move in
their reunion.

Stella came to the rescue. ‘We’d best be getting down, find something to eat,’ she said. ‘I’ve brought a basket of stuff.’

‘Me too,’ said Ag.

‘I brought Mr Lawrence’s favourite whisky and a bottle of Barry’s best wine.’ By now, Prue reckoned, the moment for teasing her about her riches had passed. She felt no
guilt about bringing such drink.

They clattered down the stairs.

‘Joe’s on his way,’ said Prue.

‘I know,’ said Stella.

Mr Lawrence was ambling about as if he neither knew nor cared which way he traversed the kitchen. He carried a frying-pan, letting it swing at his side.

‘Here, you sit down, Mr Lawrence,’ Stella said. ‘We’ve brought things. We’ll do it all.’

Mr Lawrence took his old place at the table, let his eyes wander among the three girls as they rummaged for plates and knives and forks. Stella took the frying-pan from him and set it on the
range. There was an air of busyness, and almost at once the smell of coffee and frying eggs and bacon.

‘Good to have you girls back,’ said Mr Lawrence. ‘Good of you all to come so far.’ He spoke as if he was not entirely sure they were there.

They laid a place for Joe, but he did not turn up for lunch. They talked quietly as they ate. Mr Lawrence, still with the air of one who is uncertain of where he is or why he is there, allowed
himself to remember some of the incidents at Hallows Farm. Then, gathering strength – from the girls’ presence, perhaps – he was able to speak in the customary dry way they
remembered so well. The girls followed up his recollections with some of their own, striving for lightness. The knowledge that their memories overlapped gave warmth to the chill of the occasion.
‘But for the strangeness of it all,’ as Ag said later, ‘it was almost ordinary. Almost as if Mrs Lawrence would come in any minute.’

Prue looked at every detail of the kitchen. She guessed that Mrs Lawrence, tired out by the war, had not had the energy to make much effort here. The walls, a sour mint green, plainly had not
been painted for years. There was a battered linoleum floor, cracked tiles of municipal white on the wall behind the range, two bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Above all, there was no
warmth: this was not a kitchen smouldering with work – cooking, kneading, scrubbing. Perhaps Mrs Lawrence had ceased to care once they had left Hallows Farm. Prue knew none of them could ever
ask why: they would never know. And the dogs – where were they?

She held up her bottle of whisky towards Mr Lawrence. He gave a slight nod. She poured him a quarter of a glass. ‘What happened to the dogs?’ she asked.

He sighed, swung the liquid in the smeared glass. ‘They came to an end,’ he said. ‘They’d had their time. Still, Faith and I were thinking of getting a new collie. But I
don’t know, now.’

‘You should,’ said Ag. ‘You need a dog.’

‘Probably do. I’ll think about it after the funeral. It’s all arranged, you know. Eleven tomorrow, church down the road. All Faith’s favourite hymns. Pity Ratty’s
not here – he could ring a good funeral bell. He liked the sad sound better than the merry one, if you ask me. Now, if you girls don’t mind, I’m going to take a rest. You could go
for a walk, see what you think of the place. And make a pot of tea when Joe arrives.’

He left the room, a little unsteady, glass in hand.

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Ag. ‘I remember that time at Hallows Farm when Mrs Lawrence was ill. We were all so surprised. She wasn’t the sort of woman to be ill,
was she? I looked after her. The thought of her dying never occurred to me.’

‘She was probably completely exhausted by the war,’ said Stella. ‘Once it was over, perhaps the fight just went out of her.’

‘I’m sure it didn’t. I’m sure if they hadn’t had to move she would still—’ said Prue.

‘She probably wouldn’t,’ said Ag. ‘She had a bad heart, remember?’

They had come to a bridge they did not know how to cross. The old ease was muddied by death, absence. With one accord they got up from the table, wanting to leave the strange room.

‘Let’s go and explore Yorkshire,’ said Stella. They put on the battered land-girl boots they had all thought to bring with them, and began to walk towards the distant
Dales.

On their return they found a small Austin parked in front of the house, but no sign of Joe. In the kitchen Mr Lawrence was making some attempt to set tea as it had always been:
a pile of bread and butter on a plate in the middle, the huge glossy teapot beside it with its old partner the cracked blue jug of milk. The pathos of his efforts struck the girls, who at once
helped with additional things found in cupboards, but they made no comment.

Mr Lawrence sat down, relieved to have them taking charge. ‘How did you find it, the land up here?’ The question was to Stella, the one land girl who had caused him deeply disturbing
sensations, though he had succeeded in hiding them.

‘Very different,’ Stella answered.

‘Different, all right. But we were lucky to have somewhere.’ He turned now to face her and said quietly: ‘Joe arrived when you were out. Devil of a long journey. He’ll be
down.’ Stella smiled at him, a silent thanks for the moment he had given her in which to compose herself.

They were spreading Mrs Lawrence’s homemade plum jam on their bread when Joe came into the room. The three girls looked up at him with one accord, noted the newness of his tweed jacket,
the shadows under his eyes. Superimposed over his physical presence were the private visions it produced in each of them.

Ag: that single night in a cottage in the woods when he had so kindly, so gently, relieved her of her virginity at her request.

Prue: that first morning in the milking shed, trying to decipher if his lust flamed as hard as hers . . . and discovering it did on the night she fell from the beam in the barn, and the many
nights in his narrow bed till they had to give up from exhaustion.

Stella: oh, Joe. The time it had taken for mutual discovery of love – that terrifying day of the bomb falling on the haystack, Joe taking her in his arms and saying all he cared about was
that she was safe. The time they had sat up through the lambing night. The time she had had to tell him that honour meant she must marry Philip, and his terrible, silent pain that matched her own.
Then the journey she and Joe had taken round Normandy, soon after they had all left Hallows Farm – miles of shattered country seen through the windscreen on the old Wolseley which Mr Lawrence
had willingly lent them, as if he understood . . . and when it was over Joe saying, as they faced the white cliffs of Dover, ‘At least we’ve had a week of our lives . . .’

‘So good you could all come,’ Joe said, looking at none of them directly. He sat in the empty chair next to Ag. They pushed bread and honey and jam towards him and laughed when there
was a clash of plates.

Mr Lawrence eased himself higher in his chair, as he often did when he was about to make an announcement. ‘I was wondering,’ he said, his voice almost at its old strength, ‘if
by any chance you girls have brought your uniforms?’

They shook their heads.

‘We no longer have them,’ said Ag. ‘They were taken back. Such a mean gesture . . .’

‘I didn’t know that. It’s just that . . . Faith was so proud of the three of you, so proud to have played some part in your wartime work. I think she would have liked you to be
at her funeral dressed as land girls . . .’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Stella.

‘No matter.’ He paused. His shoulders rose, indicating the next effort he had to make. ‘Well . . . I’m going to take Joe round the place, show him our so-called progress
here, then walk down to the church. If you girls could manage supper . . .’

It was while they were preparing it, chopping, peeling, shifting things in saucepans, just as they used to for Mrs Lawrence, that they questioned each other about their lives. They always did
this at their annual lunches in London, but preparing supper in the Lawrences’ house somehow made it easier.