Once a Land Girl (44 page)

‘That’s more on the lunch menu,’ the man explained, ‘though I dare say my wife would heat some up for you.’ He came back with the good news that it was being
prepared.

Prue explained she had come to look around, see if she could find herself somewhere small to live.

The man shook his head. ‘There’s nothing I know of, but I don’t get out much. I’m mostly behind this bar. But you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.’

Later, the publican’s wife showed her to the room: sparsely furnished but comfortable. She slept deeply, and set off early after breakfast next morning.

Her plan was to drive for a few miles, remembering the land, looking out for a tumbledown cottage, before she consulted an estate agent. She pottered about all day, glad of the fine, brisk
autumn air, only stopping to scan each row of buildings in various villages. Sometimes she parked the car and walked across a well-remembered field, no longer full of sheep. She avoided the Barry
One wood, and had no desire to go anywhere near the barn. That one time, with Johnny, had been enough.

Late afternoon, and no luck. Prue told herself there was time, endless time: no need to become anxious. In order not to pass Hallows Farm, she took the lane that went past Ratty’s cottage
back to the village. At his gate there was a small, dull board: ‘For Sale’ it said. Prue braked so hard she hurt her ribs again, but did not care. To make sure this was no mirage, she
hurried out of the car to examine the notice more closely. There was the name of the estate agent, the telephone number.

Prue stood by the small wooden gate looking up at the cottage. The ugly new paint, which had been there when she and Johnny had passed by, was blistered. She could see it had never been put on
properly in the first place. The windows were filthy. The front door was cracked. The garden was a wilderness of weeds. They ran right across the small front path that Ratty had always taken such
pride in keeping trim.

With a burst of energy that sliced through her exhaustion, Prue made things happen very quickly. She drove first thing next morning to the estate agent in the local town. The cottage had been on
the market for ages, he said. Most people did not want to be so ‘cut off’, as he called it. He gave her the key, warned her the place needed quite a bit of attention. She would find it
was even worse inside than out. He also said, if she was interested, she could have more land: the people at Hallows Farm had come to him in search of a buyer. They didn’t want the bother of
all the acreage.

Later that morning Prue, frustrated only by the rotten acceleration of the hired car, unlocked the front door of Ratty’s cottage. She had not been inside more than a couple of times
– mad Edith had not been one to encourage visitors. But she remembered it had been overcrowded with too much gloomy furniture, and there was always a sour smell of old tea, rotting vegetables
and cats.

The smell was still there, in the empty rooms with their walls of hemp-coloured, battered paint. Dark squares of cobwebs, where pictures had once hung, made ghost frames. There were still
cinders and ash in the hearth, mould where rain had come through the windows. In its present state, Ratty’s cottage was not appealing. But what seemed important to Prue was that the front
room, and the bedroom above it, looked over Lower Pasture. She had not realized those rooms faced that field, which needed ploughing, harrowing, bringing back to life. An overgrown lilac tree,
where the blackbird Ratty loved used to live, hid much of the view, but it only needed a bit of pruning.

Prue stood at the window looking out for a long time. In the empty fields she could see Friesians, sheep, lambs. The hedges would be neatly laid again, just as Mr Lawrence would like. The old
shed could be expanded to shelter a new tractor. Inside the cottage there would be white paint, and furniture from local auctions. There would be a more modern telephone than the one at The
Larches, a book of useful numbers, and Rudolph’s card propped up somewhere. Upstairs there would be a whole room of cupboards for Ivy’s clothes, with bookshelves for Dickens and all the
other writers she had urged Prue to read. Outside, the tangled garden would have the sort of flowers that Ivy had recommended, and the plum trees that Mrs Lawrence and Ag so enjoyed. Prue realized
how hard she would have to work to transform the place. It might take her years. But here was the project she had been looking for. The idea of the effort that would be needed was thrilling. Here,
to be alone, so much to do, solitude would be just what she would need and love.

Prue moved away from the window, made her way back to the kitchen. Leaving the view did not dislodge the pictures of the fields and garden from her mind – how they were now, how they would
be. And downstairs, superimposed over the darkness, was the bright light of her imaginings. She could see it all.