The Farmer's Daughter (8 page)

‘I'll walk you home,' Bill said.

Two of the Land Army girls were in the yard as they passed along the side of it to the lane. He stopped to speak to them. ‘This is Sadie,' he told Jean, indicating a dark-haired girl in breeches and a khaki shirt. ‘And this is Brenda.' Brenda was wearing dungarees
and had her blonde hair tied up in a scarf. Jean nodded to them and murmured, ‘How do you do?'

‘Same to you,' Brenda said, eyeing Jean openly.

‘It's nearly milking time,' Bill said. ‘Fetch the herd in and make a start. I'll be with you as soon as I've taken Jean home.'

‘Poor diddums,' Jean heard Sadie say. ‘Not brave enough to take herself home.'

‘Or maybe that's not what he has in mind,' Brenda suggested. ‘I wouldn't mind some of that.'

Jean looked at Bill, but he gave no indication he had heard. ‘Having tea with Ma wasn't so bad, was it?' he queried.

‘Of course it wasn't bad, but, you know, you ought to stand up for yourself a little more.'

‘It's not worth the aggravation. It only brings on one of her bad turns.'

Jean decided not to say what was in her mind. ‘I must hurry. With no Karl on Sundays, I have to manage on my own.'

‘Karl, is it? What happened to Sergeant Muller?'

‘We can't be formal all the time when we have to work together.'

‘It doesn't do to be too familiar either.'

‘Oh, Bill, please don't start that again. You have absolutely no cause to be jealous of him.'

‘Me, jealous? Don't be daft. Why should I be jealous of him? He's only a Jerry prisoner of war.'

‘Isn't that what I've been saying?'

He did not stay when they arrived back at Briar Rose. They both had milking to be done.

Karl arrived the next morning as usual and they set to work cutting the grass in the orchard to make silage. It was not good enough for hay. Dobbin stood by harnessed to a cart to take it to the silage bin.

‘Did you enjoy your party?' he asked her when they stopped for a break. She noticed he had a dark bruise on his temple.

‘Yes. What happened to your face?'

‘I walked into a door.'

‘And did this door have two fists?'

‘It is nothing. Do not think of it.'

‘I bet it's because you come here.'

He jumped up and took her hand to pull her to her feet. ‘Come on, we must go back to work if we are to finish by milking time.'

‘You are looking tired,' he said, when they finished and returned to the yard.

‘Late night on Saturday catching up with me. I'll be all right.'

‘I wish I could do more. I would like to see the roses back in your cheeks and the sparkle in your eyes.'

‘You can't do any more than you do, Karl,' she said, pretending not to notice the implied compliment. ‘I work you hard while you are here. Come on, let's go and get those cows in. The transport will be here before we know it.'

Karl hated going back to the camp. It reminded him that he was a prisoner, something he was almost able to forget when working with Jean. Having to put his hands up, slouch along with all the others, suffer the indignities of being jeered at, poked with rifle barrels, watch his clothes become more and more shabby, beaten and unable to defend himself, all combined to make him feel less than a man.

When he woke each morning, he could not wait to climb in the lorry and be taken away to spend the day doing something he was good at in cheerful company. And when the time came for him to go back, he did so reluctantly and refused to join in the camp life. It was just somewhere to sleep. His compatriots knew
that; it was why they baited him, why he had so many ‘accidents'. If they were still talking about escape, he was unaware of it; they did not confide in him. They always stopped whatever they were saying when he entered the room. He suspected they thought he was a spy. There was nothing he could do about it except endure. Standing up to them and trying to put over his own point of view resulted in a fist in his face or a bad fall and so he kept his thoughts to himself. But there were odd occasions when he felt he had to speak up. The night before had been because they had made insulting suggestions about his
Fräulein
. It had been foolish of him to rise to the bait. Not for a minute would he have told her about it.

In September, the steam-driven thresher arrived on the stubble field, along with its itinerant workers. The stack Karl had built in the corner of the field was dismantled and the sheaves taken to the machine which separated the grain from the stalks, flinging out the straw and sending a stream of grain down a chute into a sack. The machine was hot, noisy and smelly and the chaff floating about made everyone cough; they were soon all coated in a fine white dust that stuck to clothes, hair and perspiring skin. By the end of the day they had loaded a lorry with sacks of grain for the miller and there was a new straw stack in the field.

‘A good day's work,' Jean told Karl, as they made their way back to the farmyard to do the milking. ‘I shall be glad of a hot bath. I itch like mad.'

He laughed. ‘So do I, and I'll have a fight to get near the showers.'

‘Would you like a bath before you go back? There's plenty of hot water.'

‘Oh, I didn't mean …'

‘I know you didn't. Come on, let's hurry and get the cows in, then we can take it in turns.'

She bathed while he milked and when she came out to him she was wearing a check skirt and an attractive pink jumper. ‘Your turn,' she said, tying on a sacking apron. ‘I'll finish here.'

It occurred to him that it was the first time he had been upstairs in the house and it would be simplicity itself to search for money and clothes while everyone was busy elsewhere. He had been fighting off Otto's demands to furnish him with information, but how long it could go on before the man realised he was stalling he did not know. His other concern was about the way the war was going. His country was defending every inch of the way, but the Americans were now on German soil and, worse from his point of view, the Red Army had occupied Warsaw and would soon also be on the soil of the Fatherland. He knew he would know no peace until he found out what had happened to his parents. It was almost enough to make him decide to throw in his lot with Otto. Almost, but not quite. If it had been a simple matter of escaping and finding his way home, he might have done it, but it wasn't that simple. Nothing ever was. He had his bath and went downstairs again without venturing anywhere else.

‘The Boy Scouts and Girl Guides will gather at the church hall on Saturday afternoon where they will be given baskets to gather rose hips,' the rector told the congregation the following Sunday. ‘As you know they are a very important source of vitamin C and will be used to make syrup. Miss Watson will award a rosette to whoever gathers the most.' He looked round the congregation and smiled at Arthur before going on. ‘The annual ploughing match will take place on Mr Coleman's ten-acre field on Saturday 21st October, starting at ten o'clock. Volunteers are needed to help mark out the course. Please
speak to Mrs Coleman if you would like to do this. She would also like help with refreshments on the day. I know times are hard, but with a little ingenuity we should be able to come up with a few sandwiches and buns. Sir Edward will be on hand to announce the winner and the silver cup will be presented by her ladyship.' He paused to look round as if assessing who was present and who was absent. ‘Our last hymn will be number 383: “We plough the fields, and scatter the good seed on the land”.'

‘Until the rector called for volunteers to help, I had almost forgotten about that ploughing match,' Doris said, as they began to walk home with Terry pushing Arthur. ‘I was tempted to say I wouldn't do it this year, it takes so much more organising than it used to and with Pa as he is …'

‘I'll give a hand marking out the field, Mrs Coleman,' Bill said.

‘Thank you, Bill, that will be a great help. I've got some stakes left over from last year and some boards with numbers on. If you can be at the field first thing on the day, we'll soon have it done. I've no idea how many will be taking part. They might all be too busy.'

‘I'll ask around,' he said. ‘But I don't think the regulars will want to give up the chance to show off.'

Jean laughed. ‘You included, I don't doubt.'

‘Of course.'

‘It won't be the same without Pa.'

Arthur was trying to say something and Jean bent over him. ‘What did you say, Pa?'

‘No Gordon neither.'

‘No, that's true,' Jean said. ‘But he'll be back one day to uphold the honour of the Colemans. In the meantime, if you want someone to represent us, I'll do it.'

Her father gave a bark of a laugh. ‘You'll make a fool o' yourself.'

‘I can plough as well as anyone. I've been doing it ever since Gordon went away, you know I have.'

‘Like a dog's hind leg.'

‘If you mean that bottom field, then I'll have you know I did that in the dark with only a lantern in the hedge to guide me.'

‘I could ha' done better with me eyes shut.'

‘Yes, Pa, but I'm not as clever as you.'

Bill touched Arthur's shoulder. ‘Give Jean some credit, Mr Coleman. I reckon she'll do OK.'

‘Just so long as I don't beat you, you mean,' Jean put in.

‘You can always try,' he said, grinning. ‘I must be off. Ma will wonder where I've got to.'

‘We are going to start ploughing today,' Jean told Karl one day in October. ‘I assume you can plough?'

‘It is my favourite task. When the harvest is in and the fields are bare, it is soothing to walk behind the plough and think one's thoughts, knowing one is making ready for the year to come. The seasons follow one another, whatever we do. Life goes on.'

‘Yes. I'm using the opportunity to practise for the ploughing match next Saturday. Do you have ploughing matches in Germany, Sergeant?'

‘Tell me, what is that?'

‘The idea is to find out who can plough the best furrow,' she said. ‘Straight and deep, but not too deep, and no straw showing. Nice neat turns at each end of the field, too. There have been ploughing matches in the country for generations. Here, in Little Bushey, it has always been held on one of our fields.'

He smiled. ‘That is one way to have your field ploughed for nothing. What does the winner receive?'

‘A silver cup.' She paused. ‘Pa has won it several times.'

The horses were harnessed and attached the plough and they set off up the lane with Laddie at their heels, passed the pit and turned through a gate into the field from which the potatoes had been harvested. Their tops lay on the surface. He bent to set the plough.

‘If you guide the horses, I will manage the plough,' he said. ‘We will have it done in no time.'

On the day of the ploughing match, Karl went with Jean to the top field in the farm pickup truck loaded with stakes and numbered boards. They were met by Bill who had brought a spade with him.

‘Right,' Jean said. ‘Let's get started. I've got ten contestants, six using tractors, three using horses and one a Trusty.'

‘What is a Trusty?' Karl asked.

‘It's a very small tractor,' she told him. ‘It's not big enough to ride on, you walk behind and steer it. It's quite powerful and you have to be careful it doesn't run away with you. It's very handy for small out-of-the-way places where you can't get a full-size tractor in.'

‘He'll be in a class of his own,' Bill said.

‘No. I've spoken to the committee and he's going in with the walk behinds.'

‘OK, let's get going then.' He turned to Karl. ‘We divide the width of the field into ten and stake and number each section. In England we use yards, not metres.'

‘I know that,' Karl said.

‘Bring some stakes.' Bill picked up a bundle of stakes and set off across the stubble for the far side of the field, followed by Karl. By midday they had the sections staked out and the farm gate propped open to admit the contestants. They left the pickup and walked back to the farmhouse for something to eat.

As soon as they had finished, they took the horses to the field where the contestants were beginning to arrive. Terry and Don
put Arthur into a warm coat, scarf and cap and wheeled him off to join them.

It seemed most of the village was there. The field was full of tractors, horses and ploughs. They stared at Karl for a moment and then ignored him. The boys arrived with Arthur in his wheelchair just as Joe Maynard, who was the chairman of the committee, used a loud hailer to start the proceedings with the tractor-drawn ploughs. He drew numbers out of a hat for the lanes. Bill drew lane 5 which was a good one; the land was fairly level and the ground drier than that on the lower side of the field, nearer the pit.

‘Wish me luck,' he called to Jean as he climbed onto his tractor and set off for his starting position. The spectators spread themselves around the field, some at the start which was also the finish, some at the turn at the top of the field which was the trickiest bit. It wasn't a race but the time they took was taken into account.

Arthur asked the boys to take him closer, which they did, bumping him over the rough stubble. ‘Have a care,' he cried. ‘You'll have me out.'

‘Allow me to help,' Karl said, taking the handles of the chair and wheeling him to where he could watch Bill turn at the head of the field. The boys followed.

‘Not bad,' Arthur admitted grudgingly as Bill came towards them and turned to set off down the next row.

Karl rejoined Jean and helped her set the plough and harness it to the horses ready for her turn. She was nervous. ‘I've drawn lane 3,' she told him. ‘It's got that dip in the middle of it.'

‘It is no worse than the strip you did with me the other day,' he said. ‘You managed that very well. Think of it as a normal day's ploughing. You can do it.'

She picked up the reins to go to her allotted strip, ready for the start.

‘Good luck,' he called out as she left him. Then he went to rejoin the watchers.

‘Not bad,' Arthur admitted, as Jean came towards them, turned the horses and the plough neatly and set off on the next row. ‘That dip in the land might throw her line off though.'

‘I think she knows how to manage it,' Karl said. ‘I was with her when we ploughed the other field and she knew exactly what to do.'

Jean's furrows looked good, even Arthur had to admit that, but there was some stiff competition. ‘I'll leave the plough in the field tonight,' she said, when she returned to them, feeling rather pleased with herself. ‘We'll finish off the odd bits on Monday. Let's take the horses back, Karl. Your transport will be here soon. Pa, do you want to come with us?'

‘Might as well, I'm getting chilly.'

He was attempting to turn his chair round himself when the elderly John Barry lost control of his Trusty and it careered towards the little group. He tried to hang onto it, but it was too much for him and he let go. Everyone in its path scattered, all except Arthur whose chair was stuck in a rut. Karl grabbed the handles and tried to haul it out of the way. The next moment, Karl, Arthur and the chair were in a heap on the ground.

Bill, who was on his way to join them, managed to catch up with the Trusty and bring it to a stop. Having made sure it was safe, he went to see if he could help Arthur.

Everyone who was not actually ploughing crowded round them. Jean was fussing round her father. ‘Pa, are you all right?'

‘Get me back in my chair and I'll tell you.'

John Barry was hovering round them. ‘I couldn't hold it,' he said, clearly upset. ‘I reckon the mix was too strong.' The fuel they used was a mixture of petrol, diesel and kerosene called tractor vaporising oil. ‘I thought Arthur were a goner.'

‘I'll see he's OK,' Bill said. ‘You go home. Have a nip of something, you'll feel better.'

The old man hobbled off, shaking his head.

Karl put his hands under Arthur's arms and hauled him upright. Jean righted the chair and positioned it under him and he was lowered into it. ‘The wheel is buckled,' Karl said. He had a bruise on the side of his face which was swelling rapidly.

‘How'm I going to get home then?' Arthur demanded.

‘In the pickup,' Jean said. ‘If I bring it up here, can you lift him into it, Karl?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'll get him into the pickup,' Bill said. ‘No need to bother the sergeant.'

‘Very well,' Karl said. ‘I will take the horses back.'

‘You needn't do that either. There are plenty of people here to help. Take yourself off.'

‘He can't,' Jean said. ‘He has to be supervised. I'm not allowed to let him go anywhere by himself. You take Pa home and, Don, you go and ask Doctor Norman to come and check Pa over. Karl and I will take the horses.'

Bill looked angrily at the German. ‘He's more trouble than he's worth,' he said. ‘I told you I'd give you a hand if you needed it.'

‘You have enough to do as it is, Bill, and it is more than a hand I need.'

‘Will someone get me home?' Arthur said.

Jean fetched the pickup as close as she could, Bill lifted the invalid out of his chair and carried him to the passenger seat. He put the chair into the back and set off to drive back to the farm.

The crowd dispersed, speculating aloud what had happened. ‘I reckon the Jerry saved Mr Coleman's life,' one said.

‘No, he didn't,' said another. ‘It was him that turned the chair over. Tried to kill him, he did.'

‘Why?'

‘Why? 'Cos he's a Jerry, that's why. I don't know why the Colemans have him working for them. Italians I can just about stomach, but Germans … Pah!'

‘I'm sorry,' Jean told him when she realised he had overheard. ‘Not everyone is like that. I am grateful to you. You did save Pa's life.'

‘That is all that matters,' he said. ‘I would be unhappy if I thought you believed I would harm you or your father.'