Muddy Boots and Silk Stockings (21 page)

‘So he’s probably doing a better day’s work than he used to – and that has to be good for the war effort!’ she said and made a note to this effect in her six-weekly report on the occupants of Lower Post Stone Farm.

Gwennan’s mean streak continued to provoke Marion and Winnie and no one was very sympathetic when the Welsh girl was stricken with a succession of physical misfortunes. She seemed always to have a headache or a sore throat or an upset stomach. Despite spraining her ankle, being stung by a hornet, breaking a tooth on a swinging gate and being chased and very nearly gored by a bull, she received very little sympathy from the other girls who found her unfriendly, critical and spiteful – which she was.

‘They doan like me here,’ she announced to Alice one evening in the kitchen when she came asking, not for the first time, for an aspirin to ease today’s discomfort. ‘But I doan care what they think o’ me, so there!’

‘Well, you are rather hard on them, Taffy. And a bit critical, don’t you think, sometimes?’ Alice shook the tablet out of the bottle and onto Gwennan’s palm. Rose had joined them in the kitchen and Alice had made a sign to her, suggesting that she should keep out of this particular discussion.

‘I speak as I find, Mrs Todd,’ Gwennan said, with a sideways glance at Rose. ‘Some of them girls are just plain stupid and one or two are downright immoral if you ask me!’

‘Well, the thing is, Taffy, we don’t ask you, do we!’ Alice spoke with a good-humoured smile. ‘And until we do, you might find things were happier for you if you waited until then to give us your views.’ Gwennan washed the tablet down with a sip of water and stared morosely at Alice.

‘I should have thought, Mrs Todd, that part of your job here was to make sure they behaved themselves!’ Before Alice could think of a reply that would not provoke a stronger exchange, Gwennan, limping heavily on her still slightly swollen ankle, left the kitchen.

Rose exploded, deliberately pitching her voice so that her words would be audible to Gwennan as she hobbled up the stairs. ‘Why you put up with her cheek, Alice, I do not know!’

Because of their similar backgrounds and education it had always been easy for Alice and Georgina to converse and exchange opinions. With the other girls they had to choose their words and references carefully in order not to sound ‘posh’ and stuck up. While Alice and Georgina kept themselves informed about the progress of the war by listening to the news on the BBC, to the girls it was simply something happening somewhere else and to other people.

It was while they sat, Alice on one side and Georgina on
the other side of the wireless set, trying to interpret the words of the news bulletin reaching them through the crackling, hissing static, that Alice began to be aware of Georgina’s changing views on pacifism. This had begun, Alice realised, with the raid on Plymouth that had killed Chrissie, made a widower of her twenty-year-old husband and brought sharply home to Georgina the impact of an uncompromising war on innocent individuals who barely understood what it was about. The tragedy of Andreis, and the effect of the legacy he left in the form of his powerful and disturbing painting, had fuelled Georgina’s questioning of the convictions she had inherited and accepted from her parents. Christopher had initially been fiercely dismissive of her pacifism yet it had been the onset of the condition which finally resulted in his catastrophic breakdown that triggered her conversion to something approaching militancy. For a while she had kept this to herself, only occasionally confiding her increasing doubts to Alice. Then Christopher, who had seemed, when Georgina first met him, to be a walking embodiment of her opposition to war, had, over a period of months and before her eyes, been virtually destroyed by it.

Georgina’s work on the farm, although physically exhausting, left her mind free, initially to analyse her waning convictions regarding pacifism coupled with her increasing need to take a more active part in the war and then to consider how she could achieve this. At the back of her mind lay the fact of her ability to fly. She knew that women pilots did not take part in combat missions in the RAF but the man who had paid for her flying lessons – she called him her de Havilland godfather – had told her of the group of women flyers who served in an organisation called the Air Transport Auxiliary. Known as Ferry Pilots, they were responsible for moving planes between the airfields where they were needed, often to replace those which had been destroyed by enemy action, and for transporting damaged aircraft to repair workshops which were scattered up and down the country. Georgina
wrote to her godfather, announced her intentions, told him enough to account for her rejection of pacifism and asked him not to mention the fact to her parents until she had made her decision and discussed it with them. He told her where to apply to the ATA and, without her knowledge, contacted an influential colleague who was connected to that organisation. Georgina received an application form, filled it in and sent it off together with copies of her flying certificates. Weeks passed and the procedure proved to be a lengthy and complicated one. Details of her birth and education had to be verified and references to her health were cross-checked with Land Army records. The final stage in the selection process involved a visit to the headquarters of the ATA and a long day of interviews and tests which culminated in Georgina being required to take the controls of a Tiger Moth and, under the eye of a daunting RAF instructor, to execute a take-off, two circuits of an airfield and a landing. All of these commitments were carried out on Georgina’s days off together with one long weekend, which she had earned by working several of Gwennan’s shifts. A week later she received a letter telling her she had been accepted by the ATA and asking when she would be available to attend a week’s training course at the airfield at White Waltham. At this point she confided her plans to Alice Todd.

With the grain harvested and the straw ricks thatched, the focus of the girls’ work – apart from the on-going duties with the dairy herd, the pigs and the poultry – moved to
maintenance tasks in preparation for the coming winter. The last of the potato crop was lifted during a period of wet weather when the girls themselves, their dungarees and their waterproofs were caked in rich, red Devon mud. Swedes and mangel-wurzels, which would provide winter fodder for the cattle, were heaved into long mounds and strewn with straw to protect them from frost. Ditches, clogged with summer growth, were cleared ready for the autumn rains and Ferdie was commissioned to teach the girls the basics of hedge layering.

On a sunny Saturday afternoon Pete visited Annie and when Lionel arrived unexpectedly the two young men eyed each other warily until Georgina managed to persuade her brother to take her for a spin on his motorbike. They went to a tea shop in Tiverton.

‘Who is this fellow, anyway?’ Lionel demanded sulkily as Georgina poured their tea.

‘He’s her boyfriend, idiot!’ Georgina explained. ‘Well, he was. Before the war. Want a scone?’

‘Thanks. But hasn’t she told him about me?’

‘Oh, come on, Li! Why on earth should she? Have you told her about Mary Box? Or Susan French? Or little Drusilla, who admires you so?’ His sister reeled off the names of a few more of the girls who had received attention from her brother. Lionel had the grace to smile. By the time they arrived back at the farm Pete had departed and Annie was in the recreation room, busy swotting for her Ministry of Agriculture exams.
Lionel sat astride his bike revving it slightly in order to draw Annie’s attention to his presence. There was no response.

‘D’you think she gave this Pete fellow the old heave ho?’ Lionel asked his sister hopefully. Georgina shrugged. She was unsure of Lionel’s feelings where Annie was concerned and considered that a little uncertainty on his part would do him no harm.

‘I’ve no idea,’ she said blithely. ‘You’ll have to ask her!’

Lionel dropped the clutch and accelerated away down the lane.

‘But you believed so strongly in pacifism!’ Alice had said when, one Sunday evening, Georgina first confessed her doubts to the warden. ‘This is a complete…’ Alice hesitated.

‘Volte-face,’ Georgina said, ‘if you want to get all Latin about it. Yes, it is, Mrs Todd. But you know why.’

‘Well, I know there’ve been things that have upset you since you’ve been here.’ They were in Alice’s sitting room, Georgina watching as the warden sewed name-tabs into her son’s school uniform. ‘First Chrissie,’ Alice said, ‘then Andreis and now Christopher, but…’

‘You think I’m being too easily influenced by what’s happened here, don’t you? This isn’t a sudden thing, Mrs Todd. I’ve been worrying about it for months now. I was blinkered, you see. I accepted my parents’ opinion because I respect them but I never really thought for myself about what was happening or bothered to find out why. Working
in the Land Army and being involved in the war, even in the small way we are here, has made me realise how complicated it all is – the decisions I mean, about what you do – what a country does, about aggressors.’

‘So if someone asked you now, whether you are a pacifist…?

‘I’d say no.’

Alice snipped her thread, folded her son’s new shirt and smiled, assuming that now the declaration had been made, Georgina’s mind would be at rest. But a glance at the girl’s face suggested otherwise.

‘So… What now? You’re not going to rush off and enlist, are you?’ Alice was joking but Georgina’s reaction instantly sobered her. ‘Oh my goodness, Georgie, you are, aren’t you!’

‘I shall give Mr Bayliss my notice at the beginning of December,’ she said, watching Alice’s reaction, ‘and leave here after Christmas. My training with the ATA starts in January.’

‘But your parents! Whatever will—’

‘There’ll be huge arguments. But you see I shan’t be actually fighting, Mrs Todd. The ATA is what’s called a support facility. Not involved in combat. Oh, I know! I know! They’ll be horrified. Probably throw me out onto the streets!’

Christmas was approaching. Unless lambing began early, Roger Bayliss, after consultation with Margery Brewster,
was proposing to run the farm on a skeleton staff from early on Christmas Eve until the day after Boxing Day. This would allow the majority of the girls four days in which to visit their homes for the festivities. When he asked for volunteers to work over the holiday Gwennan swapped the four days at Christmas for five in January. Mabel offered to stay and work, providing her gran and her young brother could spend Christmas in the farmhouse. This was agreed. Hester, banned from home but promised a visit from Reuben, who was now stationed in Wiltshire, was happy to stay at the farm and work shifts alongside Fred and Ferdie, who, together with Gwennan and Mabel, would be able to manage the milking and the distribution of fodder for the cattle, pigs and poultry. Other duties would be put on hold for the four days, leaving all the other girls free to travel home on the morning of Christmas Eve.

As for Alice, she resigned herself to the fact that this Christmas would be very different from the last one. She would roast the goose Roger Bayliss had promised. She would eat it with Edward-John, Gwennan, Mabel, Mabel’s gran and little Arthur, Hester and Rose – and if he managed to get a forty-eight-hour pass, Rose’s son Dave. She thought of Roger Bayliss, alone at Upper Post Stone and invited him to join them.

‘You never!’ was Rose’s reaction to news of his acceptance of the invitation. ‘Mr bloomin’ Bayliss? Sittin’ down at that table with us lot?’

Alice was unsure of her reasons for inviting Roger. On one level she felt sorry for him, isolated in the big farmhouse at a time when it is considered essential to have company. On another level and one which she was too preoccupied to explore, she found him oddly challenging. His unexplained treatment of his son was incomprehensible to her but she was too intelligent to imagine that there was a simple explanation for it. The melancholy tension, which she had hardly noticed when she had first met Roger, seemed over recent months to have increased. At their infrequent meetings, the subjects of which were always various problems and queries relating to the hostel and the group of girls who lived in it and worked on his land, he was always courteous and attentive. She sensed that he had grown to respect her. Far from being the liability he had feared she might be when he first, reluctantly, agreed to her appointment as warden, she had proved to be not only diligent and committed but, on the one or two occasions when they had disagreed, surprisingly courageous, standing her ground when necessary against both him and Margery Brewster. Unlike some of his neighbours, the conduct of his group of land girls had, so far, not seriously embarrassed or inconvenienced him. There had been no bad accidents and the one or two unfortunate incidents which had occurred, Alice had handled skilfully. He visualised her moving purposefully about Lower Post Stone, level-headed and focused on whatever task she was engaged upon, her grey eyes clear, her skin smooth and her glossy hair swept
charmingly back from her forehead. He found himself wondering what she would look like dressed as a youngish woman of her class would dress for, say, a cocktail party.

‘I’m inviting a few neighbours in for a drink on the Sunday before Christmas,’ Roger announced one morning when, riding past Lower Post Stone, he had hitched his horse’s reins to the gatepost and called in to see how things were. ‘Very much like you to join us, Mrs Todd, if you’d care to?’ Alice accepted. Roger smiled a rare, faint smile and stood tapping his riding crop against his booted calf. He would, he said, pick her up in his car at about six on the night of the party. Alice decided that on that night Rose could manage the girls’ supper, which on Sundays was always a light meal, dinner having been consumed at midday.

‘Why is it,’ Alice mused, ‘that I think of everything in terms of the girls’ food? I get invited out – do I wonder what to wear or whether I shall have time to go to a hairdresser? No, I worry about who will feed the girls! My mind is full of groceries! Have I got enough of this? Are we running out of that? Is there something I’ve forgotten to order? No wonder I’ve no time to consider the future!’

Alice’s future was, in fact, taking shape almost without her being aware of it. Over the past few months she had been asked for her advice on the layout of the kitchens of several local establishments. She had proved to be astute when assessing what those kitchens needed in order to facilitate the smooth and efficient production of meals.
Lower Post Stone and a neighbouring – and much larger – Land Army hostel were early beneficiaries of her skills and subsequently a nursing home, two hotels and an officers’ mess had been added to her list of credits. She had received small but significant cheques in payment for her new-found talent for making the best use of space, studying the work practice of employees and advising on the selection and installation of kitchen appliances. Oliver Maynard had insisted on helping her to draw up a scale of fees for future consultancy work and her notion of one day supporting herself in this field seemed likely to become a reality. But all of this lay in the future. In the distant region of ‘after the war’. For the present her time and her energy were focused on the hostel and its occupants and on Edward-John, who, his hair bleached and his skin tanned by summer sun, was growing tall and strong, working alongside the land girls, as hard and in some cases at least as willingly as they.

On her third visit to Christopher at Axmount, Georgina found him looking physically recovered. He had been working in the gardens, clearing the overgrown shrubberies and with the help of the two young sons of a gardener who was now serving in North Africa, had undertaken some serious lopping and even the felling of one or two of the large trees that needed attention. He walked Georgina round the parkland, pointing out to her what he had already achieved and outlining what he planned to do.

‘I’ve always been fascinated by trees,’ he told her. ‘When I was a kid I spent a lot of time with my father’s woodsmen. I’d go up into the forest with them and work alongside them. Great blokes, they were!’

‘I didn’t know your father owned a forest!’

‘How should you?’ He smiled and went on to describe the five hundred acres that, before her marriage, had belonged to his mother’s family and had passed to Roger on her death and which lay on rising ground between the Post Stone Farms and the moor. ‘Mostly hardwood,’ Christopher told her. ‘But we do a lot of coppicing. On the lower slopes there are firs which go for pit-props. Then there are the poplars and bat willows and so on. It’s all been badly neglected since war broke out. Which is where I come in.’

‘You?’ Georgina realised suddenly that she had never imagined Christopher in any other role than as an airman. It had simply not occurred to her to wonder what his youthful ambitions might have been before the war had scooped him up.

‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘Me. I suddenly have a very clear idea of where I’m heading and what I want to do with myself. Which is just as well, as I’m no longer any use as a flyer!’ He laughed at her shocked expression. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Georgie! You know it, I know it and more importantly they know it.’ He fished a crumpled piece of buff paper from a pocket and held it out to her.

It was not a personal communication. His name, as the
recipient, and the scrawled signature of the sender had been added in ink to a printed page. Georgina had to read it twice before its precise meaning and implications registered.

‘Where did this come from?’ she demanded. ‘How did you get it?’ Christopher was smiling, his hands were deep in his pockets and he was rocking, in a very relaxed way, back and forth on his heels.

‘My father came to see me,’ he said. ‘He brought it with him.’