Once a Land Girl (21 page)

Prue looked down at her clasped hands. Barry gave a small laugh.

‘When I picked you up that night, you know what? I looked at your mother, who jumped quickly in beside me, you remember, and I thought, Here’s an attractive older woman. Good deal
older than me, she must be. I thought a lot about what to do before I sent those flowers. But I convinced myself the answer was to marry you, the young one, have children. Win you over, best as I
could. Very quickly I knew I’d snared you, and that you were strong enough to say no if you didn’t want me. But you didn’t do that. You went along with it. We both went along with
the mistake.’

With an air of exhaustion Barry took to his chair again and at last allowed himself to light a new cigar. Once he had drawn on it, he exhaled deeply. He had managed his long, pent-up speech
without breaking down, and that had brought relief and strength.

‘There’s just one more confession, sweetheart, though I suppose by now you’ve worked it out. The Bertha business. I didn’t tell you at the time, but I suppose it’s
my funny liking of older women, particularly indigent older women, that led me into all that foolish nonsense. I’ll never forget how understanding you were about all that.’

Prue, who did not like to ask the meaning of ‘indigent’, nodded. ‘I didn’t mind,’ she said.

‘I know you didn’t. And the reason you didn’t was because you were never in love with me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘So, sweetheart – and this is almost over, I promise – let me tell you my plan. When a mistake is made the best thing is to find a remedy as soon as possible. Now there’s
no Alfred, there isn’t anything to keep us together. It wouldn’t matter how much we tried, we’d never have more in common. Pulling in different directions would lead to terrible
resentment, unhappiness. So what I thought was this: we should go our separate ways.’

Prue’s eyebrows flicked up, then down. ‘How could I—’

‘You’d have nothing in the world to worry about. When you’ve made up your mind where you’d like to go, what you’d like to do, I will take care of everything. Buy
you a house, a flat, whatever you want. Give you an allowance for the rest of your life – give you whatever you need. You’ll always be able to count on me, always.’ He stopped,
his voice breaking. ‘I think we should set sail towards the next era as soon as possible.’

Prue nodded, unable to speak. This was a Barry she had never known existed, and for whom she had never thought of looking. Life unprotected by the claustrophobia of The Larches was an alarming
prospect. But Barry was right: it was what she wanted, and he was keen to replace her with some wrinkled old woman. ‘I don’t know what to think.’

Barry moved over to the window. His back to the light, his expression was unclear. ‘You’ve been so brave about Alfred,’ he said quietly. ‘Much stronger than me. No
weeping. No collapsing. And yet you must be feeling . . .?

Prue shrugged. ‘Oh, I’ve been
feeling.
What mother wouldn’t, when her baby dies? But I don’t see there’s any point in trying to describe those feelings. I
couldn’t find the right words. I could say I’m traumatized, devastated, but what would that mean to anyone? It wouldn’t give a picture of what’s going on in my heart and of
course’ – she gave a faint smile – ‘it isn’t really my heart that’s hurting, is it? It’s just battering away, while it’s my stomach, my innards, that
are churning about. . . There, you see. No good. Can’t do it. Difficult feelings need a poet, like Johnny, to explain. I’m sorry. But I tell you this.’ She paused, made an effort
to control her voice. ‘I’ll never forget Alfred. I don’t suppose a day will go by when I don’t think of him.’

Barry, a fist damming the tear that came from one eye, went back to his favourite chair. ‘You’re a strong girl, Prue,’ he said at last. ‘God knows, I wish things
hadn’t turned out like this. But you must go away now, to your friends. Make plans. Take their advice, sweetheart. Come back and tell me what to do.’

Prue felt herself hurrying to his side. She knelt down, put her head on one of his knees. ‘You’re so generous,’ she said. ‘I’d never have guessed you could be so
wise.’ She felt his fingers weaving through the strands of her hair.

‘There you go, then,’ he said. ‘I’ve surprised you. I’ve surprised myself.’ He managed a smile. ‘Time for bed. Off you go.’

‘Thank you for everything, really.’ From the door Prue blew him a kiss. But Barry’s eyes were shut against more threatening tears. A tremulous cigar made its way towards his
mouth.

Prue’s first visit was to Ag and Desmond. As soon as she arrived she observed that they moved very slowly, which perhaps accounted for the peaceful air of their cottage.
They filtered round the huge kitchen table one after the other: Ag collected plates to be washed, Desmond collected knives and forks that had not been used. Ag sauntered to the sink at the window,
Desmond moved as if on wheels to the drawer in the dresser. Within a couple of days of staying in their cottage Prue found herself in awe of their unspoken marital harmony. They did not seem to
need to communicate about mundane matters: one simply observed the other and got down to whatever was the next job that needed to be done. This, she thought, was a proper marriage.

Ag was almost as tall as Desmond. Both of them, standing upright, came within an inch or two of the low ceiling. Ag had lost none of her somewhat fierce beauty – which, when they had first
met, had intimidated Prue. Her own flirtatious instinct did not exist in Ag’s being. She was serious – how they had teased her for her brains – and strong and kind. And patient.
She’d waited so long for Desmond. She’d almost given up hope of ever seeing him again when they had met by chance in the National Gallery. Desmond himself, Prue reckoned, with her
critical eye for looks, was almost good-looking, but not quite. His nose was lopsided and his eyebrows too wild. But when he smiled his whole body reverberated with pleasure, and the person on whom
he smiled felt the strength of that delight.

When Ag and Desmond had re-met after the long absence, Ag had just finished her degree in law and was planning to practise at the Bar. But given the choice of working in London or a country life
in Devon, there was no hesitation in her decision. They had found a run-down cottage on the edge of a village not far from Exeter: with it came an apple orchard and some decaying milking sheds.
Within weeks of moving in they had bought two Jersey cows and a dozen hens, and Ag was attending to the hedges even before she had begun on the interior of the cottage. Desmond worked for a firm of
long-established solicitors in Exeter. The plan, when they had managed to save some money, was to buy more land, extend the cottage, find a herd of Hereford cattle and settle down to serious
farming.

It was early January, a colourless morning. Outside the window the bare apple trees made a complicated sketch in the sky and the two Jersey cows stood head to tail, disinclined to graze on the
frosty grass. Earlier, Prue had gone out with Ag to milk them. They had led them into the rickety shed, sat on stools, balanced buckets between their knees and pulled at the cold teats. When the
first familiar sizzle of milk against tin sounded, Prue laughed so much she almost fell off her stool. ‘This is the life!’ she shouted. ‘This is what I’ve been missing, Ag.
This is what I want to get back to. Chickens in a Manchester garden, walking a giant horse round the fields – rubbish. This is the real thing. You’re so lucky.’

‘Not so lucky milking at dawn in freezing weather, rain coming through the roof.’ Ag lifted her head from the russet flank of her cow. Prue could see her smiling. ‘One day,
perhaps, we’ll have milking machines for our herd.’

Their post-breakfast chores finished, Desmond kissed his wife on both cheeks and left for work. Ag picked up the pot of coffee he had left for them on the stove. She sat at the end of the table,
pouring it into old mugs. Prue’s fingers gripped the edge of the table. This was the third morning of her Devon stay and time was racing in an alarming way. The length of her visit had not
been discussed. Dreading her return to Manchester, she hoped they would not mind if she stayed for at least a week. She loved the cottage, despite the cold, though in the kitchen, with its log
fire, it was warm. Her bedroom under the eaves was icy, but with a hot-water bottle each night and plenty of blankets, she had slept better than she had for months. Each morning she had woken at
dawn, looked out of the small window onto the orchard and the ruddy Devon earth of the rising fields beyond, and her heart had contracted. This was where she was meant to be, she thought –
this sort of place.

It reminded her of Hallows Farm in so many ways, especially the kitchen. Mrs Lawrence’s way of doing things had brushed off on Ag: the random arrangement of objects, pictures of pre-war
prize cows on the wall, mugs hanging on the dresser among faded plates from local markets. And somehow the smells were the same: the coffee, the slow-cooking stew, the sharpness of wet earth
clinging to carrots waiting to be scraped.

‘Crikey, Ag,’ said Prue. ‘It’s all wonderful here, utterly wonderful.’

‘It’s going to take a long time to get it into shape,’ said Ag, ‘but we like that. Slow progress has its own pleasures.’

Prue had recounted a detailed story of the birth of her son the night she arrived – she had wanted it out of the way – and also told them of Barry’s suggestion that they
separate. She had made light of this, even made them laugh with her descriptions of Barry and his cigars, his flapping hands. They had understood the seriousness of the decision she had to make,
but come up with no immediate solutions.

‘What do you think I should do, Ag?’ Prue now asked.

‘I think you should probably live on your own for a while. Solitude’s nothing to be afraid of as long as you don’t indulge in too much rumination.’

‘I’ve never tried it. Dare say I could manage it. But where? Where would I go? I couldn’t ever live in a city again. But if I was somewhere miles from everywhere, like here,
wonderful though it is, who would I find to have a laugh with in a pub? Where could I go dancing?’

Ag laughed. ‘There are plenty of young farmers back from the war. If you found somewhere with a pub and a village hall you’d have no problem at all – knowing you.’

Prue giggled.

‘Talking of which . . .’ Ag got up and took a small leg of lamb from the fridge – swapped with a neighbouring farmer for two dozen eggs: she explained that there was much happy
bartering in the village. She pulled a jar of honey out of a cupboard and, with a knife, began to spread it over the meat. Then she shook powdered ginger over it. Prue watched her in amazement. She
was so competent, Ag. Whatever she put her hand to, she did well.

‘Talking of which,’ Ag went on, now pulling spikes of rosemary from their stalks, ‘Desmond and I are aware you’ll have a very quiet time here. It’s far from a giddy
life. We don’t know many people, yet, and those we do aren’t the sort of people you’d be naturally drawn to.’

‘Oh, Ag, don’t be silly. I don’t want entertainment, meeting people. It’s just wonderful to be with you both in this perfect cottage, catching up, getting your advice . .
.’

‘But we’ve managed to lay on one man for you—’

‘A man?’

‘A very unalarming man, doesn’t know what flirting is.’

‘There’s a challenge! Listen, Ag, I don’t want another man of any kind for a very, very long time. What’s he called? What’s he like? What does he do?’

‘He’s called Paul Simmons. He’s a kind of low-key charmer, sublimely sympathetic . . .’ Prue laughed.

‘Is he a young farmer?’

Ag took some time arranging the lamb in a roasting tin and covering it with a dishcloth, then took it to the fridge. Her back to Prue, she finally answered the question. ‘He’s our
vicar.’

‘A
vicar
? Don’t be utterly daft, Ag. How would I cope with a vicar? What vicar would want anything to do with me, bursting with sins?’

‘He’s only coming to supper.’

‘I don’t know how to talk about God.’

‘He doesn’t talk much about God over supper.’

Prue sighed with relief. ‘How old is he?’

‘Possibly thirty, possibly not. Hard to tell.’

‘Oh, lawks, another older man.’

Ag laughed. ‘He’s rather nice, honestly. He lives in an enormous cold vicarage near here, looked after by his sister. She’s a bit – unusual. We haven’t asked her.
Once was enough.’

‘I’m used to unusual,’ said Prue. ‘You should’ve seen Dawn Gander.’

Ag returned to sit at the table. She opened a tin of homemade biscuits. ‘These were Mr Lawrence’s favourite. Remember?’

‘What shall I wear?’ Prue asked.

‘Honestly, Prue, don’t give clothes a thought. I mean, just keep on your dungarees. There’s no dressing up here.’

‘OK,’ said Prue, a touch disappointed. ‘I’ll just put on my spotted bow and a flick of mascara.’

‘You haven’t changed, thank goodness,’ said Ag, smiling.

That evening, soon after Prue and Ag had shut up the chickens and checked the cows, Desmond arrived home with three bottles of wine. He brought with him a flurry of cold air, a touch of frost
that cut into the thick warmth of the kitchen. He piled more logs on the fire and a new flare of heat was added to the old.

Prue asked how she could help. Ag suggested she lay the table.

‘I’m just off up to my room,’ she said. ‘Then I promise I’ll do it.’

In the cold of her bedroom she sat huddled under several cardigans contemplating what to wear. She had given her word that she would not appear overdressed, but was determined to change out of
dungarees that smelt of hens and cows. She opened the small wardrobe where the ‘few’ things she had chosen to bring were jammed together. After much contemplation she chose a soft
violet jumper with a dipping neck and a scattering of diamanté leaves – she’d seen a picture of Rita Hayworth in something similar. She put on a black skirt and judged it needed
cheering up so chose her scarlet patent shoes with ankle straps. Finally, she fixed her best satin bow – scarlet with white spots – in her hair. In the poor light it was hard to be
accurate with her makeup but she did her best to plaster her long eyelashes with mascara – she loved the routine of spitting on the brush and scraping at the black stuff in the small box
– then made her mouth a perfect bow with a fiery red lipstick. Had she overdone it for a vicar in a kitchen? Probably, but she didn’t care. She wanted Ag to see she hadn’t given
up trying.