Once a Land Girl (13 page)

In bed, for all their efforts to cast aside melancholy, there was an air of disbelief, which each one knew would take a long time to fade. By now they were too tired to try to be cheerful, and
they knew each other too well to pretend they had accepted the death of a woman who had meant so much to them.

‘It’s unbelievable,’ Prue said several times. ‘I mean even though Mrs Lawrence was far away, we knew she was always there.’

‘And however often you say it’s unbelievable, it doesn’t help to make it more believable,’ said Ag.

They turned out the lights, lay down in the dark room that was not their attic. Restless with their varied thoughts, there was no more to say. But each one knew of the others’ disturbed
night, and shared the dread of leaving Mr Lawrence, his wife in her grave, the next morning.

T
heir farewells to Mr Lawrence were brief, constrained, for there was nothing left to say, nothing that could be of comfort. He gave each girl a
peck on the cheek. His skin was scratchy, unshaven, his breath rank with tobacco, his eyes focused far from the present scene of departure.

Joe was to drive them to the station in the old Wolseley. When he opened the passenger door, it was Stella who chose to get in. Prue saw them exchange a barely visible smile. She and Ag got into
the back. Mr Lawrence gave a brief wave, then moved towards the barn.

‘Dad’s going to the market, luckily,’ said Joe. ‘He’ll keep himself busy, make the most of the smallholding. When Janet and I move in we’ll probably increase
the stock . . .’ He spoke in a flat and weary voice. The journey continued in silence.

When he dropped them off at the station he got out of the car, came round and opened both front and back doors but, unlike last night, kept his eyes on Stella. One of his hands was shaking. He
hugged Ag and Prue, then turned to Stella. She stood a yard or so away, waiting her turn, her suitcase at her feet. Joe moved the short distance to her like a man with poor sight, stumbling. They
faced each other, eyes locked. Then he bent to give her a kiss so light and swift it would only have registered on the most sensitive skin. They dare not hug, thought Prue. She turned to Ag, who,
having the same thought, nodded. Stella took a step backwards. Joe’s kiss had whipped every trace of colour from her face. Then he was gone, muttering something about letting them know when
Janet gave birth, but not even trying to produce any sort of coherent farewell.

The three girls turned into the station. Ag and Prue each took one of Stella’s arms. ‘Better than nothing, I suppose,’ she said. ‘The occasional meeting. Seeing
him.’ Tears were pouring down her cheeks.

On the journey home Prue was aware of a sense of rising desolation. There was nothing to look forward to beyond her monotonous, empty life with Barry. Stella and Ag were far
away: Mrs Lawrence was dead. Prue said the word out loud to herself several times. Dead, dead, dead: but still it did not convince. She tried to shift her mind to some happy prospect – the
chickens, perhaps. The chickens! A young, rich, still pretty wife with nothing to look forward to apart from her reunion with the chickens. It was ridiculous, pathetic. She laughed, self-mocking.
Then she thought of Johnny: he was not exciting or very fanciable, but at least he was a friend – her only friend in Manchester.

It was a muzzy October evening, the light low behind the ugly trees that guarded The Larches from the road. Prue had come to hate the monkey puzzle, with its great muscular arms. Next time Barry
said he’d like to grant her a wish, she’d ask if it could be cut down. There were no lights on in the house, no sign of either Bertha or him. She dumped her case in the hall and made
her way into the garden to see to the chickens.

Johnny was in the run, a basket over his arm, collecting eggs. She felt a moment of gratitude. He smiled. ‘You’re back,’ he said. ‘How was it?’

‘Sad. Thanks so much for looking after the hens.’

‘They’ve been fine. I’ve put quite a few eggs in the kitchen for Barry’s breakfast.’

‘Thanks.’

Johnny left the chicken run, came over and stood by her. ‘I’ve looked out of my window each morning, expecting to wave at you, but you weren’t there. It could be said I missed
you.’ Prue gave a fraction of a smile. Johnny put an arm round her shoulders. ‘Hey, you’re shivering,’ he said. ‘You’re cold.’

‘Not cold. Just . . . back.’ They stood for a few moments without speaking.

‘Go in and light the fire,’ Johnny said. ‘I’ll walk to the house with you.’ At the door, he handed her the basket of eggs but refused to come in. ‘Let me know
if there’s anything I can do – any help . . .’

‘As a matter of fact there is.’ Prue paused. ‘Stella came up with the brilliant suggestion that I should go and work on a farm. I must do something and farming is what I know
and love best. Can you think of anyone in need of a farm worker?’

‘I might be able to – it’s a very good idea.’ Johnny took his arm from her shoulders. He looked serious. ‘In fact, I do have one instant idea.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Leave it with me for a few days. And there’s something else I’ve been meaning to put to you. How would you like it if we drove to Hallows Farm one day? I’d love to see
it, having heard so much . . .’

‘Lawks! I’d love that. But it’s a very long way. Petrol . . .’

‘I’ll take care of that – ways and means. Come round tomorrow morning and we’ll make a plan. But now go in – go on. You’re icy cold.’ He kissed her
cheek, a kiss fractionally longer than his usual greeting. Had Prue been less anxious to get to the fire, and less sad, she might have responded with a tilt of her head that invited more. As it
was, she went inside and shut the door behind her.

An hour later, warmed by the gas fire, she heard Barry’s voice. He hurried into the room – not his normal gait – followed by Prue’s mother. Astonished, Prue jumped up.
Her mother had only been to the house a few times, usually when Barry was out – Prue had always had the impression he was not keen on visits from her, so mother and daughter continued to meet
in Manchester.

Elsie Lumley was prancing about, exclaiming at the wonder of almost everything in the room. Once or twice, to tone down her astonishment, she clamped a hand over her mouth, but a roar of
approval could still be heard. She had a new and complicated hairstyle, inspired by film stars of the day, and a dress that she must have embellished herself. It was crystallized with odd bits of
tinsel. What on earth . . .? Prue wondered.

‘Imagine, Prue: Barry here rang me at the salon – I was all of a dither, kirby-grips in my mouth – said it was high time I came over and why not tonight, to cheer him up, him
being all alone. You away . . . Wasn’t that a lovely idea?’ She skittered over to her daughter and hugged her. ‘But you’re not away. Better still.’ Her voice had a
dying fall.

‘What happened? Barry was pouring himself a whisky and soda. He glanced at his wife. ‘I thought you were coming back tomorrow.’

‘Today, I said.’

‘I must have misheard. Anyhow, here you are.’ He lumbered over to Prue and kissed her cheek. ‘Very nice. I thought it was high time your mother came over. How was it up
north?’

Prue was aware of the vast distance between what had happened to Mrs Lawrence, the miserable business of the funeral, the land girls meeting again, and Barry’s ability to understand any of
it. ‘It was fine,’ she said.

‘What will it be?’ Barry asked Mrs Lumley.

‘Gin and orange, if you please, Barry.’

‘Gin and orange it shall be. Prue?’

‘Nothing, thanks.’ The whole scene and its possible implications were casting a feeling of disbelief over Prue that was making her physically weak. She wanted to run from the room
– anywhere, but to leave all this, this weird threesome.

‘I thought I’d show your mother round the house,’ Barry was saying, ‘take advantage of her designer’s eye, then go out for a slap-up dinner. So, now you can join
us. It’ll be all the better for that, won’t it, Elsie?’

She smiled and agreed.

‘Actually, Barry, it’s been a long day. We didn’t have much sleep. I think I’ll just go to bed,’ said Prue.

‘Oh, Prue . . .’ Her mother sounded genuinely disappointed.

Barry shrugged. ‘Up to you. Dare say Elsie and I’ll manage to get by . . .’

‘That’s what you arranged in the first place,’ Prue heard herself snap, unusually fierce. ‘Dare say it won’t be a hardship.’ She saw her mother wince, swallow
her gin and orange in one gulp.

Barry gave her a look. ‘We’ll be off, then, Elsie, shall we?’ Her mother scurried about, suddenly nervous, looking for the coat she had dropped on the floor. ‘You have a
good sleep, Prue. I won’t be late.’ In his haste to leave, Barry clumsily helped Mrs Lumley put her coat round her shoulders and crossed the room to the door faster than Prue had ever
before seen him move. His plan to show his mother-in-law the house seemed to have been forgotten. ‘Sleep well, sweetheart,’ he said.

Prue had more important things to think about than her mother’s date with her husband: the possibility of working on the land, a job with animals. The idea was exciting. She quickly fell
asleep. And Barry kept his word: he was in bed beside her by eleven, waking Prue with his customary heaving about under the blankets, treating them as if they were his sole property. ‘Sorry
you didn’t come,’ he said. ‘We had a good time. It was nice to be able to give your mum a treat. She was dazzled by the hotel.’

‘Good.’

‘She’s wonderful company. A bundle of laughs. There’s nothing I don’t know about her clients.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘You aren’t cross? Put out?’

‘Why should I be?’

‘I suppose I must have felt a bit lonely, you away. I thought, Well, at least Prue can’t be put out if I take her mother – it’s not as if I’d asked some
young—’

‘No, of course not. Barry, I want to go back to sleep.’ Their voices were inharmonious in the dark. And the dark was the best place, she suddenly thought, to venture the important
question. ‘Would you mind, Barry, if I took a little job?’ There was a long silence. ‘I need to do something. I need to work. I appreciate you keep me so well, but I
need—’

‘Course you do.’ She heard a long, heavy sigh. ‘I’m not the sort of man who’d like to see his wife go out to work. I like to feel I can provide everything for her
and she can sit back and relax. Have a good time. But then again I’m not the sort of man so firmly stuck in his opinions that he can’t change them, if there’s good reason, every
now and again.’

‘That’s right.’ Prue smiled to herself.

‘What sort of job do you have in mind?’

‘Farm work. It’s what I’m best at. It’s what I love.’

‘Why not, sweetheart? You find yourself a nice farm, and I’ll be proud of you. If you buy me a pair of boots I’ll come and see it one day.’ He laughed at the unlikeliness
of his own threat. Then, surprisingly, he added, ‘I’ve sometimes wondered if you weren’t wasting your talents with not much to do here. It’d be nice, land-girl work again.
Nice. But only till we have a child, of course.’

‘Of course.’

Then Barry thrust back the bedclothes, heaved himself onto her and squashed the breath out of her so that she had to scream for him to shift his weight. For the second time that week, an attempt
at conception was made very quickly. Then Prue went back to thinking about the furtive look she had seen between Joe and Stella, and the meaning of real love.

The next morning, soon after Barry had left the house, the telephone rang. Its old black body was misted by neglect, for it was against Bertha’s principles to clean what
she saw as unnecessary objects. On the rare occasions it rang Prue was always filled with alarm, fearing bad news. She would never forget the call at Hallows Farm one evening for Stella, who was
told of Philip’s wounds . . . This morning there was no bad news, but much cheerfulness.

‘Prue? Mum here. Couldn’t wait to tell you. Such a lovely evening I had. You’re a lucky girl to have found a husband like that. You mind you keep him.’

‘Of course, Mum. I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

‘He told me you had such a happy life, you and him.’

‘Did he?’

‘I don’t wonder. House like that. No money worries.’

‘Quite.’

‘You must both come to supper here one day, if Barry wouldn’t mind such a small house. I could do a rabbit stew. Does he like rabbit, do you know?’

‘I don’t know, Mum.’

‘What did you think of my dress?’

‘Very glamorous.’

‘Barry paid me a lovely compliment. He said he could see where his wife got her looks.’

‘I must go now, Mum. Feed the hens.’

‘You and your hens!’ Mrs Lumley laughed merrily. ‘Ooh, and I never gave you my condolences – poor Mrs Lawrence and all that.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Well, I’d better be going too. I like to get to the butcher before work, though even then there are queues. Queues, queues, queues everywhere, every day. And what do you get when
it’s your turn? A scraggy little piece of offal if they’ve not sold out. Though last week I was offered a scrawny-looking pigeon – a pigeon! I mean, what would I have done with a
pigeon, Prue?’

‘Quite.’

‘But between you and me, when I told Barry that, he said he had ways and means of getting me a decent piece of meat if I wanted it. Wasn’t that nice of him?’

‘It was, Mum.’

‘Come and see me very soon, Prue.’

‘I will. Tomorrow.’

‘Love you very much, darling.’

‘Love you too, Mum.’

Prue went over to Johnny’s flat as she had said she would and found the door ajar. He was at his desk, drawing. There were a few moments before he became aware of her
presence in the doorway.

‘You all right?’ he asked at last, looking up. His anxious face told Prue he knew she had had a turbulent night and was exhausted. She nodded, said she was fine. Her concern was for
him: he was red-eyed, haggard. She wondered whether he had some illness he did not want to mention. One day she would ask. But now he braced himself, managed a smile. ‘I’ve news for
you,’ he said. I talked to these people who farm about ten miles from here, nothing very grand, couple of hundred acres, mixed crops, a few pigs—’