Once a Land Girl (22 page)

She went cautiously down the steep stairs and into the kitchen. The table was already laid, candles lighted.

‘Crikey, I’m guilty,’ she said to Desmond. ‘You’ve beaten me to it.’

He smiled at her. ‘My job,’ he said.

Ag, whose only concession to sartorial change was the rolling up of her sleeves, turned from stirring something on the stove.

‘Have I gone over the top?’ Prue asked.

With a straight face Ag looked her up and down. ‘I don’t suppose you have,’ she said, ‘by your standards.’

‘You look fantastic,’ put in Desmond, quickly. ‘Paul will be dazzled.’

The compliment had a deliquescent effect on Prue: it was a very long time since anybody had remarked on how she looked. She didn’t give a fig about Ag’s disapproval. Ag had always
had her prissy moments.

Desmond handed her a glass of wine.

‘Gosh, you two are so kind having me here,’ she said. She had wanted to choose better words, but they came in a rush, no time to think. ‘I love it here so much. Thank
you.’

She tottered over to Ag, high heels uncertain on the rough stone floor, put her arms round her. They stood locked for a moment, arms about each other. Ag made no comment about her friend’s
sparkly jersey, more suitable for a nightclub than a vicar. Prue moved on to Desmond. She felt his skin on her cheek, the momentary pressure of his huge hand on her back, and a flicker of mercury
went through her. Quickly she backed away. Not for anything in the world would she try it on with Desmond. But if they were left alone on a desert island, she reckoned, they wouldn’t ignore
the opportunity.

The doorbell rang. Desmond went to answer it. Prue pushed down the floppy wool neck of her film-star jersey.

Paul Simmons followed Desmond into the kitchen. He carried a bottle of sherry and was smiling a smile that looked as if it had been arranged for some time and was cracking at the edges. He was
extraordinarily pale, with a wide, weak face framed by tufts of prematurely greying hair. From a distance, Prue thought, he might be mistaken for handsome. But there was something – not quite
detectable – spoilt the first impression. And he was not exactly manly, like Desmond. Tall and thin, concave chest, bony fingers fashioned to pray, Prue supposed. You couldn’t really
ask him to pick up a heavy suitcase or a dead sheep. They were introduced, shook hands. ‘Crikey!’ squealed Prue. ‘A dog collar! You really are a vicar.’

The smile fell from the Reverend’s face. ‘I’m afraid I am,’ he said. Then, guilty of disloyalty to his beliefs, he added, ‘Though before my calling I was in the
navy.’

‘You fought in the war?’

Paul Simmons blushed. ‘Unfortunately not. On account of asthma. It took a turn for the worse just as Germany invaded Poland.’

‘Crumbs,’ said Prue.

Ag, wary of this first encounter, was eager for everyone to sit down at the table. She produced her triumphant Greek lamb, deep in its sea of cider and rosemary, and dishes of bright vegetables.
Prue sat opposite Paul and was quickly aware he found it difficult to turn his opal eyes away from her. She flashed her eyelashes at him, to encourage him just a little, and listened to his story
about one of his parishioners, who had run off with the chairman of the parish council, with an air of intense interest.

As Ag had promised, Paul did not talk much about God. Hardly a mention. After a good many glasses of wine he became bolder, and dared make a few jokes. Not a natural humourist, they were funny
enough to make everybody laugh slightly and, yes, thought Prue, Ag had been right. The vicar had a certain charm, not least in his self-deprecating stories. Luckily nothing went wrong in church, he
said, but in the real world everything conspired against him. His car had a habit of breaking down on the way to funerals, his surplice was ruined at the cleaner’s, his paperwork was in such
a state of chaos you’d have thought some pernicious spirit had been at it in the night. Once, on the occasion of a visit from the local bishop, he had found himself in the pulpit without his
sermon. ‘All I could do was ask God’s blessing,’ he said. ‘And, well, though I say it myself, words miraculously came to me. The bishop congratulated me on a certain . . .
freshness.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Prue.

‘But oh my goodness, what a time.’ He was filling his glass again.

Prue, who found his language funnier than his stories, laughed encouragingly. He looked a little surprised, though grateful that his contribution to the evening was so appreciated by Ag’s
friend.

After they’d finished the Sussex Pond Pudding, Mrs Lawrence’s recipe, they sat round the kitchen table drinking till almost midnight, when Ag said she had to go to bed if she was to
be up at five. Desmond, having dealt with the washing up, said he must join her. Paul claimed he was about to walk home: the night air would clear his head.

When they were left on their own, Prue filled his glass again. ‘Know something?’ she said. ‘I’ve never, ever met a vicar before.’

‘And I’ve never met a girl like you before. Glorious, glorious, glorious,’ he added. ‘A free spirit. A true wonder.’ He gave a small, almost soundless laugh.

If laughs were animals, Prue reflected, this one would have been a snail. She blushed, and giggled. She, too, was feeling the effects of more wine than she usually drank.

‘Get away with you, Vicar,’ she said. ‘I was worried you were going to talk about God all evening.’

He gave a small frown. ‘No point talking about God when it’s inappropriate,’ he said. ‘I’m always thinking about our Maker, mind. He’s always with me, every
moment of the day.’

‘Gosh, golly, gosh,’ said Prue.

‘But I leave Him alone until I feel called upon to ponder on Him. This evening wasn’t that sort of occasion.’

‘I can see that. Mr and Mrs Lawrence, whose farm Ag and I worked on in the war, they were believers, but they kept quiet about it. I found that rather inspiring.’

‘Quite. For God to be appreciated, He must fit in appropriately – though that’s not something I learnt in my training. Well, I’d say I’ve had more than enough to
drink . . . Think I’d better be going.’ He stood up, wavered a little. ‘How long are you here for?’

‘Not sure. A week, perhaps.’

‘Then I hope you’ll wander over to the vicarage, let me show you the church.’

‘I’d love to.’ Prue managed this with conviction.

She followed him to the front door. An oil lamp was lighted in the hallway. It made long umber shadows that cut into the small space. Prue put a hand on the latch. She could feel Paul standing
very close behind her, his wine breath strong. With what she imagined was a fierce expression that would deter him from any hanky-panky, as her mother called it, she turned to face him. Startled
– so the expression must have been successful – he took a step backwards. Then he raised one hand slowly, as if it was a heavy weight, and held up two fingers in a V. Prue was puzzled
as to whether he was copying Winston Churchill’s famous victory sign, or whether it was something rude. The fingers made an uncertain flight to her shoulder, where they alighted for just a
moment, then moved to her cheek. Prue allowed them two seconds’ rest before she flicked them away with a toss of her head.

‘I’ve been wanting to do that all evening,’ he whispered.

If that was all he’d been wanting, Prue thought, then she was happy to oblige for a moment, despite the danger of one thing leading to another. ‘You are a one,’ she said.

‘Yes, I am a one.’ The vicar sighed. ‘You could say that. I am indeed a one. But then it’s not very often that living in this rural place a one has the opportunity of
running into anyone as . . . delicious as you.’

‘Suppose not,’ agreed Prue. The word ‘delicious’ seemed odd, coming from a vicar. Not something she’d ever been called before. She wanted to hurry along with the
weird farewell now. Go to bed.

Paul aimed the V towards his dog collar. When his fingers reached it, and tapped to make sure of its certainty, the small click of his nails chipped the silence. ‘Well, I really must be on
my way, difficult though that is. My whole being wants to stay a while longer, but that would be untoward, would it not?’

Prue considered the question not worth a reply. She opened the door. A blast of night air flew in.

‘God bless you, dear Prue.’

‘Good night, Vicar.’

‘I trust you’ll come and see my church?’

‘I might.’

‘Dear Prue . . .’ He wavered down the path shaking his head, his gait that of a much older man.

‘Cripes,’ said Prue to herself, and shut the door.

Prue’s habit of early rising was broken next morning. She woke with a headache at ten o’clock and came down to the kitchen in her pyjamas. There was no trace of
last night’s supper: everything was orderly, the cat asleep on the window-sill, breakfast laid just for her.

‘Christ, I’m sorry, Ag,’ she said. ‘I meant to help with the milking.’

‘Desmond’s here on Saturdays. He did it. He likes it. He’s getting quite good.’ Ag smiled, poured coffee. ‘Anyhow, you cast your spell as usual. I’ve had Paul
on the telephone already. He wants you to “take tea”, as he calls it, at the vicarage. He’s dying to show you the church.’

‘OK, OK.’ Prue rubbed her forehead. ‘Have you got an aspirin?’

Ag handed her a bottle from the dresser. ‘You don’t normally drink that much,’ she said.

‘Not often, no. Though you remember the dance? When Joe carried me home? But I’ve given up most of my wicked ways. Barry’s not a keen drinker, though he likes champagne. He
flashed a lot of it when we were courting – if you can call it that.’

Desmond came through the back door carrying a large cabbage and a knife. He wore an ancient weatherproof jacket that cracked as he moved. His eyes went at once to his wife. ‘Everything all
right?’

‘Fine,’ said Ag.

Desmond put the cabbage on the table. ‘Got a touch of frost, but it’s OK.’ Again he looked anxiously at Ag. ‘You’re not feeling . . .?’

‘No. I’m fine.’

A look swift as light passed between the three of them. Desmond moved to Ag, put a hand on her shoulder. Despite her muzzy, aching head, Prue quickly guessed the reason for his unease. Perhaps
he and Ag had agreed not to mention babies – hers or theirs. She conjured a smile. ‘It’s such good news,’ she said, ‘your baby. It’s wonderful. I’m so
pleased. How much longer?’

‘Six months.’

‘I wouldn’t mind being a godmother.’ Prue got up, went to Ag. They hugged.

When she returned to the table Desmond took his turn in embracing Ag. He looked over her shoulder to Prue. ‘She’s been feeling so wretched,’ he said. ‘I automatically
check up on her every day.’

‘We decided on no baby talk,’ said Ag, ‘but I suppose that would have been unnatural.’

‘It would.’ Prue managed a small laugh. Anyway, I’m absolutely fine. And I’m thrilled for you.’

Ag and Desmond drew apart, but their eyes remained linked as if by invisible cobwebs.

‘I haven’t collected the eggs yet,’ Desmond said. ‘Coming?’

Ag nodded and took a duffel coat from the back of the door.

‘Can you remember how to cut up a cabbage, Prue?’ Desmond asked. He handed her a huge knife. ‘It’ll make your hands cold but it’s one of the nicer chores.’ He
opened the back door for Ag, put a hand on her shoulder. They went out.

All that day Prue watched her hosts very carefully. She was mesmerized by the deep, almost tangible link between them. Their oneness, she supposed it must be. Their absolute rightness for each
other. Their certainty of life together, their profound happiness, their quiet humour, their constant but unspoken awareness of the other’s feelings. Ag only had to glance at Desmond and he
seemed to know what she was thinking, and vice versa. Much of their communication seemed not to be put into words: their silences were easy. And they seemed utterly content with their lot: a
smallholding, a few animals, fruit trees, hedges, a vegetable patch. They conveyed no longing for nights out at posh hotels, foreign travel or any kind of exotic life. The fact that they had
finally found each other, and the war was over, and they had their small patch of land was all they asked. One day, when their child or children were old enough, Ag said, she would consider going
back to the Bar, but for the present she had no plans to further her career. She was utterly content, moving in her stately way from stove to table to garden to chicken shed, waiting only for
Desmond’s return each evening. Cripes, thought Prue, cutting into the noisy block of icy blue cabbage, that’s what I want one day.

Later that morning, as Ag ironed Desmond’s shirts at one end of the kitchen table, Prue ventured to explain the wonder she was feeling in their cottage. ‘Your happiness – you
and Desmond,’ she said. ‘It sort of rubs off. It’s extraordinary.’

Ag smiled. ‘There’s always the risk of complacency,’ she said, ‘but I think we’re lucky enough to be blessed with
eudaimonia –
an Ancient Greek
word.’

‘You and your scholarship,’ giggled Prue. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘It’s difficult to translate, but something along the lines of flourishing happiness, well-being.’

‘Well, I hope some of it comes my way.’ Prue piled up a few folded shirts. ‘That’s what I’m after.’

‘You’d be bored by our sort of quiet life.’

‘Not if I was with someone I really loved. It could have been with Barry One. Maybe I’ll be lucky again one day.’ She smiled at Ag. ‘But I tell you what: the man of my
dreams doesn’t live next to the church. Can’t really see myself as a vicar’s wife, can you?’

‘No,’ said Ag, ‘but be careful. He’s a vulnerable soul, not used to dazzling girls. He could lose his heart.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Prue, who was thinking she would wear her dullest bow for tea at the vicarage.

Her headache gone, the navy striped bow in her hair, Prue arrived at four-thirty. It was a bitterly cold afternoon. The short walk from the cottage had left her shivering. Paul
Simmons, who had been standing on guard at the front door for half an hour, observed how cold she was as soon as she appeared through the gate at the end of his long front path. By the time she
reached him, shoulders hunched, lips blue, he had decided on a quick change of plan: tea before a tour of the church. The beautiful but thin girl needed warming up.