Muddy Boots and Silk Stockings (4 page)

‘It’ll be ghastly, George,’ he announced flatly. ‘You’ll be homesick and as lonely as all get-out! If your lot are anything like the land girls on the Marshalls’ farm they’ll be moronic!’

‘Shut up, Li!’ She was gentle. Persuasive. ‘It has to be done. We both know it. I’ve spent enough time helping out here for the work to be familiar. I shan’t be far away! I’ll get home! And I daresay I’ll be so exhausted that all I’ll want to do with my spare time is sleep!’ Her brother still looked unconvinced. ‘It’ll soon be over and we’ll forget about it in no time. Think how much worse it would be if we were both
boys and one of us was going to have to fight!’ He smiled, slightly soothed.

‘I could come over on the bike and take you for a spin?’ he offered.

The breeches that had been allocated to Georgina had been manufactured in a small factory off the East India Dock Road. Its proprietor, Frederic Sorokova, together with large numbers of his close relatives, had emigrated from their native Poland soon after the end of the First World War. One of his current employees was his niece, Hannah-Maria who, at eighteen, like several of her cousins before her, was learning the business from the bottom up. Unlike them, she detested it. She hated the smell of fabric and of the oily machines. She hated their rattling clamour and the power they appeared to exert over the operators who spent their days bent over them as though attached by their flying fingers and strained eyes to the plunging needles.

Hannah-Maria had been in the dispatch room, folding corduroy breeches commissioned by the War Agricultural Committee for use by its land girls, and packing them, a dozen to a box, in cardboard cartons, when the idea first occurred to her. She was uncertain what land girls were or what they did. Her curiosity revealed that they were being employed on farms so that male workers could be released from vital agricultural labour and sent to fight the real war. According to the posters on the advertising hoardings
these young women spent their time in idyllic countryside, riding on hay-wagons, driving tractors, bottle-feeding lambs and sprawling in the sun with their backs to
honeysuckle-covered
hedges. Hannah-Maria did not know honeysuckle from ragwort but, once planted in her mind, the notion of wearing one of these stiff pairs of breeches, rather than packing them, had taken hold and things had developed quickly from possibility to reality. She had called at a local recruitment centre where an elderly female officer looked her up and down, pulled a fresh application form from a file and began to fill it in.

‘Name?’

‘Hannah-Maria Sorokova.’ The woman recoiled. ‘Everyone calls me Annie,’ Hannah-Maria explained. ‘Except our gran. She calls us all by our proper Polish names.’

‘Polish?’ the woman repeated foolishly. ‘I had assumed, from your accent, that you were…’

‘Local? Yeah, well, I am. Born in Duckett Street, just off the Mile End Road. Same as me mum and dad. But their folks come from Cracow.’ The woman looked at the thick dark hair, the soft eyes and the small oval face.

‘I see,’ she said.

‘I’m not a German spy or nothing!’ said Hannah-Maria defensively, her vision of the countryside fading under the woman’s stare.

‘Of course not,’ said the woman. ‘My concern is that you have a very urban background, Miss Soro…Sorok—’

‘What’s urban?’ Hannah-Maria interrupted.

‘It means…of a town or a city. You’d have to go wherever you are sent, you know. That might be a very long way indeed from your family and friends.’

‘Look,’ said Hannah-Maria urgently, ‘the day I left school I was stuck in front of a sewing machine with twenty other girls, all of us doing the same thing, thinking the same thoughts. Since the war started we’ve been making breeches. For land girls, right? Thousands of ’em! Great towering stacks of ’em! I don’t want to sew ’em, Miss! I want to wear ’em! Oh, please, Miss!’ Hannah-Maria had a fleeting impression that the woman was suppressing a smile.

‘Don’t you think the countryside would seem very strange to you?’ she asked.

‘No, Miss!’ Hannah-Maria was emphatic. ‘I’ve been to the countryside! Honest! Hop-picking! Every year since I can remember! Till the war started, that is.’

She was given the address of a local doctor, a chit from the Ministry to cover the cost of a medical examination and told to report back with her certificate. A week later she was interviewed again and informed that she had been accepted into the Women’s Land Army. She would receive one pound one shilling a week out of which ten shillings would be deducted for board and lodging. She would be trained on the job as there were no available places at the instruction centres. If she proved suitable her wage would rise to
twenty-five
shillings and the cost of her keep to twelve shillings
and sixpence. She was given a rail ticket from Paddington to Ledburton Halt, near Exeter, told to make the journey on the following Wednesday and to inform her next of kin that her address would be care of Bayliss, Higher Stone Post Farm near Ledburton. There was a telephone number, strictly for emergencies only. Hannah-Maria ran all the way back to her uncle’s workshop. She had exceeded her lunch break by fifteen minutes. 

Alice was floundering. Aware that neither Roger Bayliss nor Rose Crocker had any confidence in her ability to run the hostel and that even Margery Brewster’s support was more in the interests of her own reputation than of Alice’s, she felt increasingly exhausted.

Until the girls had arrived and their ration books were in her possession, Alice was able to buy only an emergency supply of basic food to tide them all over until the shopping could be put on a regular footing. Fred, an elderly labourer, normally attached to Bayliss’s farm, was detailed to drive her into Exeter. She sat in the passenger seat of the truck that would soon be carrying the girls to and from their various sites of work. Its worn leather still reeked of a sick sheep that had recently been transported in it. Alice stocked up with scrubbing brushes, mops and
as much food as was possible without the essential ration books.

Since her arrival at the farm she had been shaking. Whether this was caused by depression or anxiety or by the intense cold of the interior of the building she was unsure, but while she was in Exeter she spent some of her precious clothing coupons, and almost the last of her cash, on two pairs of woollen slacks, some warm socks, a thick sweater and a pair of leather boots whose inch-thick soles would distance her, that much at least, from the cold floors.

When she returned to the farm she found Rose watching Roger Bayliss, who was trying to assemble the paraffin cooker. Earlier, he had discovered Rose, absorbed in fitting its components together with the aid of the manufacturer’s instructions. Assuming that she was incapable of the task, Roger relieved her of it and now she stood, ignoring Alice and observing him. After some time, convinced that he was holding some vital part or other upside down, Rose could no longer contain herself.

‘I think you’ll find, sir,’ she ventured, her contempt thinly disguised as respect, ‘if I may say so…that this bit goes there.’ She took the piece of metal from him and inverted it, flushing with pleasure as it slid, without resistance, into place.

Rose had also contrived to tame the kitchen range, bullying it into submission and then persuading it to draw so vigorously that it now glowed almost red hot, its heat
filling the room, spilling out into the cross-passage and rising through the ceiling into the rooms overhead. The tank above the bathroom was now filled with scalding hot water, which meant that the airing cupboard was warm and the linen could be unpacked and loaded into it. Alice’s respect for Rose was huge but the woman refused to accept her praise and seemed determined to avoid eye contact with her.

Sacks of potatoes and swedes, together with nets of sprouts and carrots, were delivered from the Bayliss farm, which was, Alice learnt, situated on rising ground a mile further up the valley. Three hens, past laying, were killed, plucked and prepared for the table. Too tough for roasting, they were to be stewed for the first evening meal on the following day and served with mashed potatoes and cabbage followed by prunes and custard.

By Tuesday afternoon the beds in two of the double rooms, together with the three in the largest room, were assembled. Each was equipped with a pillow, two sheets, three blankets and a coverlet. Alice, now wearing her new trousers, thick sweater and boots, at last felt warm. She was at her mother’s desk, working on menus which would utilise the limited supplies at her disposal when Roger called to check on progress and was greeted by Rose, shrilly cataloguing a host of problems.

‘There’s two beds not yet come, sir, and the man as is fetching over the kitchen chairs has broke down. We’re still short of cutlery and there’s a funny noise in the bathroom
pipes… And if you could tell Fred us’ll need another load of logs if we’re to keep the fires up ’cos these walls is going to take a lot of heating through.’ Roger Bayliss ignored Rose’s concerns and asked where he could find Mrs Todd.

‘She’ll be working on her lists, sir,’ Rose replied, her tone suggesting that her own contribution to the situation was vastly more to the point than Alice’s.

When, moments later, Margery Brewster arrived with a bunch of snowdrops for Alice’s room, Rose curtly acknowledged her arrival before trotting away on some pressing business.

‘You’ll have to watch her,’ Margery warned Alice later, arranging the flowers in an old cup. ‘Keep her in her place or she’ll undermine your authority with the girls!’ The looming prospect of the girls’ arrival made Alice start to tremble again. It was an interior shaking which, fortunately, did not seem to be apparent to others.

‘She’s extremely capable,’ Alice murmured. ‘I think she could run this hostel without me!’ If Margery gave her a quick, sharp look, Alice did not see it.

‘There’s a lot more to it than Rose Crocker is even aware of, Mrs Todd, and don’t forget, any discourtesy on your charges’ part, or failure to obey the rules may – in fact, should – be reported to me so that I can give you my unstinting support.’ Margery’s words, intended to reassure Alice, only added to her dread of possible confrontations
with the eight unknown girls who were soon to invade the farmhouse.

That night, after the last of the workmen had withdrawn and Rose had retreated to her cottage across the yard, Alice was alone in the empty farmhouse and already becoming familiar with its creaking and with the wuthering of the night wind round its chimneys. She sat beside the fire in her room. Images gathered, surrounding her: Rose Crocker, who was hostile; Ferdie Vallance, who was lame; Roger Bayliss, who was disdainful; Margery Brewster, who was anxious; Edward-John in his boarding school dormitory; James, somewhere, probably in bed with Penelope Fisher.

In Alice’s purse were five pound notes and half a crown. For months James’s salary had been thinly spread between his needs in London and those of Edward-John and herself in their rented room in Exeter. The school fees, James’s flat, her expenses in Exeter and the cost of the storage of their furniture had put a strain on their finances, as a result of which Alice found herself with less income than she had received as pin money in happier times. And tomorrow eight strangers, who Margery anticipated would be both discourteous and disobedient, would arrive at the farmhouse. Not only had Alice’s life collapsed, not only had she lost home, husband and the presence of her son but she had contrived to deliver herself into a sort of hell. She had tried hard to do the sensible thing. To find work that would give her an income and put a safe roof over
her head and the head of her child but this had proved difficult with a young boy’s needs to consider. Because of him many occupations were barred to her. His safety was paramount so she could not consider working in a major city because of air raids, or volunteer for any of the military services that offered employment more suited to her education and the lifestyle with which she was familiar. There was no one to whom she could turn now that her Aunt Elizabeth was dead, leaving, quite understandably, all her money to her own daughter and not to the ward for whom she had so generously cared and who was, as far as Elizabeth had been aware, well provided for by the worthy husband that James had seemed to be. Faced with such a limited choice and although the prospect of running the hostel was clearly challenging, it had not, when Alice decided to accept the work, appeared to be the nightmare in which she now felt trapped. She stayed by the fire, in her dressing gown, past tears, too tired to get into her bed, while the grandfather clock in the hall chimed away each quarter, each half, each hour. Finally, in the interests of self-preservation, she made herself cross the room to the divan and try to sleep.

The arrivals began soon after noon. Two girls, Christine Wilkins and Gwennan Pringle, were met from the Bristol train, given a spam sandwich for their lunch and driven over to the Bayliss farm to be shown the ropes of the poultry sheds which was where they were to work in the mornings
and late afternoons, spending the rest of their time helping out wherever they were required.

Christine was small, blonde and pretty; Gwennan, Alice thought, looked difficult. She was lean and dark with a Welsh accent so strong that Alice, Rose and Margery had difficulty understanding her. At thirty-two, she would be the oldest of the intake. Both she and Christine had previous experience in the Land Army and had brought dungarees, boots, sweaters and waterproof jackets with them. Christine was polite about the tiny room which she was to share with Mabel. Gwennan, because of her seniority, was allocated the smallest of the double rooms which she would have to herself, at least until the workforce was increased at harvest time. She accepted this arrangement as her due and complained about the draught whining through the ill-fitting window frame.

As Rose and Alice snatched a late lunch consisting of a cup of tea and a sandwich made from what was left of the spam, they listened to the wireless, which was powered by the same small, temperamental generator that provided lights for the ground floor. Reception was poor in the deep valley but through the whistling and crackling, John Snagg’s voice informed them that the Eighth Army had taken Tripoli. To Alice this news and the familiar voice was a thin, precious thread, connecting her with the world from which she felt separated. Tears formed and before she could control them, ran down her face. Rose’s chair scraped back
across the floor, she picked up Alice’s plate and her own and carried them out into the scullery. When she returned Alice had collected herself and was sipping her tea.

‘Bit of a madam, that Welsh one!’ Rose said nastily. ‘Just as well no one has to share with her! Wonder how they’ll all get on with each other! The woman at the big hostel over to Aunton had a couple there as scratched each other’s eyes out!’ Knowing very little about the in-coming girls, Alice had allocated the rooms on the basis of age and qualifications. Hannah-Maria with Hester because they were both only eighteen years old, Georgina with Winnie and Marion because they were all in their early twenties, Christine with Mabel because they both had previous Land Army experience and Gwennan alone, in deference to her age. It seemed inevitable that clashes of temperament, personal taste or hygiene habits were going to make some of these pairings unsatisfactory.

‘We’ll just have to see,’ Alice said. ‘If they want to change partners, they may.’

‘I’d make ’em do as they’re told!’ Rose snapped caustically. ‘Show ’em who’s boss!’

By four o’clock Mabel Hodges and Hannah-Maria Sorokova had been collected from the London train and delivered to the farm. The list read simply HM Sorokova and M Hodges. As they ticked the name of each arrival on Mrs Brewster’s list, neither Alice nor Rose, who were both
preoccupied with the preparation of the evening meal, had time to go into detail regarding Christian names. Alice proposed leaving the introductions until all the newcomers were assembled round the kitchen table and had, she prayed, been fed. Rose had raised her eyebrows at this plan but seemed prepared to comply with what was, in fact, Alice’s first tentative attempt at taking charge of the situation.

It was dusk when Fred’s truck arrived with Hester Tucker, who had stepped down from the bus in Ledburton and stood, transfixed, until he identified himself and persuaded her into the passenger seat beside him. Marion and Winnie had kept him waiting while, at the pub, they lingered over what they feared would be their last hot baths until the bells of victory sounded.

Hester, dressed as she had been when interviewed by Margery Brewster at the Exeter recruitment office, clutched a carpet-bag and stared about her as though she had been delivered into temptation which, of course, she had. Marion and Winnie, casting their eyes over Hester’s dark clothes, thick black stockings and lace-up shoes, decided she was a freak with whom they would have nothing whatsoever to do. Hester, for her part, blushed at the sight of their lipsticked mouths and mascaraed eyes. On arrival at the farmhouse she lowered her lids and stared at her feet.

‘Come on, dear,’ Rose ordered, almost pushing the bewildered girl into the porch.

It was at that moment, while Marion and Winnie were unloading several bulging suitcases from the truck, that the Websters’ car, driven by Lionel and containing Georgina, lurched over the cart ruts and stopped outside the garden gate. The suitcases that Lionel lifted from its boot had been a birthday present from Georgina’s godmother. They were made of soft leather and initialled GW in gold leaf. Georgina emerged from the passenger seat, hat in hand, immaculate in her uniform. She smiled at Alice and Rose, extended a hand to Alice and introduced herself.

‘I’m Alice Todd,’ Alice responded. ‘Your warden. And this is Mrs Crocker, my assistant.’ Georgina smiled at Rose, said hello to her but did not shake her hand. This, Rose’s expression told Alice, was something Georgina would live to regret. Fred, his eyes fixed approvingly on Georgina, took her suitcases from her brother and was about to carry them into the house when Marion’s voice cut the air.

‘’Ere! You!’ she said, indicating the unglamorous clutter of luggage at her feet. Fred knew at once it was him she meant. ‘What about a hand with these ones then!’ Marion stood, implacable, Winnie simpering beside her, as Fred relinquished Georgina’s cases to Lionel and took the weight of the heaviest of Marion’s. Georgina smiled but Marion’s expression was that of a gloating victor. Teetering on stiletto heels, she followed Fred into the farmhouse.

The meal, planned for six o’clock and despite the
stewpan
going off the boil several times and the potatoes boiling
dry on the paraffin stove, was less than half an hour late.

Pieces of chicken were doled out onto the plates by Rose, who made a good job of the distribution, managing to save two portions, one for Alice and one for herself, to consume in peace after the girls had been fed. Alice had just invited her charges to help themselves to the vegetables when Hester, flushed with embarrassment, spoke. To begin with no one could quite hear the mumbled words and Alice had to ask her to repeat them.

‘No one’s said Grace, Miss,’ Hester mumbled, still almost inaudibly, her face pink with misery. The girls were aghast and several giggled but Rose tapped a plate with her serving spoon and looked at Alice.