Land Girls (48 page)

Stella shifted herself, uncomfortable. There was still an hour to go before she was allowed the next pill. Why hadn’t Prue and Ag rung? How long did they intend to linger over their coffee? They must surely be wondering what was the matter, curious to know how she was. Stella shut her eyes again, restless.

Ratty … what had happened to Ratty? Oh, yes. Mrs Lawrence – Faith – had written to them soon after VE Day. Stella still had the letter somewhere. Ratty had had a heart attack bell-ringing for victory. He’d rushed to the church soon as he heard the news on the wireless, insisted on ringing, hours on end. They’d had quite a job, Mrs Lawrence said, freeing the rope from his hands. None of them could think of a better way for Ratty to go, she added. Indeed.

Edith? She never came out of the asylum, poor soul. Outlived Ratty by a decade.

The year of the first avocado – 1948? 1949? – she couldn’t be quite sure – was a year she would never forget. Ag’s turn for good news. She had re-met Desmond. One of those occasions of such chance that Ag found it hard not to believe in fate. She had gone to the wedding of a fellow law student at St Martin-in-the-Fields. Fearful of being late, she arrived much too early. It was raining. She slipped into the National Portrait Gallery for shelter. Desmond was standing in front of Branwell Brontë’s portrait of his sisters. They went for a cup of coffee. He had never received her seventeen-page letter. No wonder. Called up, he was fighting in France. But they made up for lost time, didn’t they? Started seeing each other most days. Over the avocado, Ag talked of
certainty
. A few months later came invitations to Ag and Desmond’s wedding. Not long after that, Ag began her long and successful career at the Bar.

The telephone rang at last.

‘Hello? Ag?’

‘It’s Prue. I say, what’s the matter, old thing?’ The northern accent was still there.

‘Awfully stupid, I’m so sorry. Can’t get out of bed.’

‘Rotten luck. Not at all the same without you. We’re squashed into a little wooden room – you know, where they put telephones these days. No air. We can hardly breathe. Ag’s fanning herself.’ Prue giggled. ‘Complaining about my
Nuits de Paris
, as usual.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘We’re waiting for Joshua to come and pick up Ag, take her to the station. She says he drives much too fast, a real tearaway. I’m going to slip into Harvey Nichols myself, see if there’s anything to wear. Then take the five fifteen back. I’ll come and see you soon.’

‘Lovely. Was it a good lunch?’

‘Usual sort of thing. Chocolate mousse. We missed you. We missed you, Stella. Here, Ag wants to talk to you. Goodbye, darling.’

‘’Bye, Prue. Is that Ag? I’m so sorry – I … this wretched business.’

‘Rotten luck, Stella. When you’re feeling better, why not come and spend a few days with us? You know I can never get Desmond past the front gate, we’ve got a few farming troubles, the Friesians may have to go, but we’d love to have you. Devon air’d do you a power.’

‘Probably.’

‘Well, take care of yourself. I’ll ring you from home.’

‘Can’t tell you how I wanted to be there.’

‘Next year.’

‘Next year. Definitely.’

‘’Bye, Stella.’

‘’Bye, Ag.’

Next year. Next year she would be the one with the best news. Joe would have moved in. They might even have legalized their arrangement. Stella smiled to herself, rubbed the finger on which she had worn a wedding ring until Philip died. Once she was free, she had thought it would be impolite to Joe to go on wearing it. Even though he was still unavailable. Ten years ago, was it, Philip’s thrombosis? No: eleven in November. Expected, of course. How long after that was it that she sold the Surrey house, came here to Yorkshire? It was such a jumble, thinking back. She must have been here all of seven years. Just seventeen miles from Janet and Joe. Made meetings easier. Mrs Lawrence was put into the old people’s home in 1968. For some reason, Stella remembered that very clearly. She died very soon after, before Stella managed to visit her. Ag was with her often, despite the long journeys from Devon. Prue sent boxes of expensive chocolates Mrs Lawrence could not eat. Mr Lawrence? About two years later, he died. In his sleep. Without his wife, he found no reason to live, he kept telling Joe.

Stella stretched for a digestive biscuit on a plate beside her bed. She broke off a small corner, crumbled it, put it to her mouth. Her lips were always dry, such a nuisance. Most of the lunches after the avocado one were taken up with domestic news. Children. Ag had four, two girls, two boys, all very clever. Only to be expected with Ag and Desmond as parents. Stella managed only two: James, very soon after she was married, and darling Euphemia – Effie. Prue was godmother to Effie and Ag’s Henry. She was wonderful about not seeming to mind about no children for herself. Always took such an interest.

Then came the grandchildren. Ag had beaten her to it – she had seven. She herself had only four, so far. Must be getting on for tea-time. Dog barking downstairs. Racer barked regularly as clockwork when it was time to be fed. Stella hoped Janice wouldn’t keep him waiting too long. She swivelled her eyes to the cluster of photographs above the fireplace. Philip: the photograph she used to keep by her bed in the attic room, hardly faded, considering the years. In his uniform. Another, not long after they were married. Just head and shoulders – laughing. Such a brave man, Philip. Never complained. The children, very young, on their rocking-horse. Effie a beauty, she had to admit, from the start. James, with such a strong look of Joe it was incredible no one had ever noticed, not even Ag and Prue. James’s own son, too: little William, the first grandchild. Extraordinary. Even Joe could see it.

No picture of Joe. Well, for the children’s sake, really. Still, Joe always, always near. There when needed. Waiting. Both of them waiting.

Janet, actually, was brave, too, like Philip. She was brave to marry a man whom she knew did not love her. But they made an agreement, and stuck to it. Joe was a conscientious husband: Janet a good wife and mother to the three tall sons. She provided an idyllic childhood for them in the Yorkshire farmhouse. Looked after Mr Lawrence, diligently, in the cottage, once his wife had died.

At forty, Stella remembered, Janet had lost some of her shyness. Stella went and listened to her speaking one day at a Conservative gathering. She was better looking than she used to be, too. Not exactly attractive, but less plain. The
surprise
, though, when she went off, overnight, just after her sixtieth birthday. Stella would never forget Joe’s telephone call.
‘You’re not going to believe this
…’ And of course she could not, for a time. But it was true. It seemed Janet had been waiting for the children to be married, settled, whatever, before she and this rich butcher, who had loved her for ten years, finally went off to spend their old age together. They’d been conducting a long affair. Joe had never suspected a thing. Just as Janet had never suspected … Or had she?

They would never know. They’d been so careful. Tried never to reveal … but could not be sure.

Of course, since Janet’s departure, it had all been so easy. Wonderful. Joe sold the farm, moved into the cottage in the dales – vacant since Mr Lawrence’s death – he had once mentioned at Hallows Farm. They visited each other constantly. God knows why it had taken them so long to realize how much easier it would be if they lived under the same roof.

Stella sighed. Perhaps they shouldn’t have wasted so much time. Still, Joe was on his way at last. Nearly here. Cottage almost sold: contract to be signed next week. He should be in by the end of the month. That would be good, good. Stella dozed.

When she woke, it was dusk. Couldn’t see the cows. A cup of tea would be coming soon: she always told Janice if she was asleep to leave her, come back later. She pushed herself up on the pillows, pulled her shawl round her shoulders. The evenings were cooler.

At six o’clock precisely, Joe would ring. He rang her every evening, even if he had been visiting her earlier in the day. She wanted to be alert for his call. She wanted to be particularly on the ball in order to try to urge him to get the whole business of the sale of the cottage tied up as soon as possible. Last night he had said he’d do his best, solicitors were always so damn slow with contracts, and surely a few more days made no difference. He didn’t want to move his stuff out of the cottage and then find the sale had fallen through: much harder to sell an empty place.

Stella had agreed. She’d said quite right, a few more days made no difference. Essential to get it all finalized before moving in. She didn’t want to press him. And so she lied to him, saying of course there was no hurry. Well, not exactly
lied
: just retained part of the truth. First time in her life she had not been completely honest with Joe. She hoped, when he discovered, he would understand. Hoped he would understand she had not wanted to burden him with the probable truth. She had always made light of her illness, been able to quell his worries. Surely that was the best thing.

The final part of their waiting would not be too long, with any luck. God willing, she would be on her feet again by the time he came, full of energy to settle him in. She must remember to get the piano tuned. Married to Philip, there had been little time to play. When he died she had, at last, taught privately for a while. But it was too late. She was out of practice. So she had ceased to give lessons when she came north. Nowadays, she just played to herself, in the evenings. She would say to him when he rang – it was two minutes to six –
Joe, don’t worry about the sale
– dealing with solicitors had never been his
forte. Why don’t you come as soon as you can
?
she would say. On the dot of six, the telephone rang. Firm of purpose, Stella gathered her strength. She must be careful to choose the right words to encourage him to hurry just a little, and yet give no hint of alarm.

‘Darling Joe,’ she began.

Angela Huth
has written eleven novels, four collections of short stories as well as plays for radio, TV and the stage.
Land Girls
was made into a 1998 feature film starring Rachel Weisz and Anna Friel. She is also a well-known freelance journalist, critic and broadcaster. Angela is married to an Oxford don, lives in Warwickshire and has two daughters.

FICTION

Nowhere Girl

Virginia Fly is Drowning

Sun Child

South of the Lights

Monday Lunch in Fairyland and other stories

Wanting

Such Visitors and other stories

Invitation to the Married Life

Another Kind of Cinderella and other stories

Land Girls

Once a Land Girl

Wives of the Fisherman

Easy Silence

Of Love and Slaughter

The Collected Stories of Angela Huth

NON-FICTION

The English Woman’s Wardrobe

Well Remembered Friends, an anthology (ed.)

FOR CHILDREN

Eugenie in Cloud Cuckoo Land

Island of the Children (ed.)

Casting a Spell (ed.)

PLAYS

The Understanding

The Trouble with Old Lovers