Once a Land Girl (26 page)

‘And I’ve got a story to tell you,’ said Prue. ‘Staying with Ag, I met this vicar. But wait till we’re walking.’

The story lasted all the way up a steep, wooded rise. At the top they sat on a bench and looked down over a soft, open landscape. Groups of Derbyshire’s grand trees flared on the horizon.
Others gathered, less darkly, nearby. Johnny began to laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’ Prue asked.

‘You’re incorrigible. I feel for that poor vicar.’

‘He’ll survive. He’s got God to talk to.’

‘I sometimes think you’ve no idea what you’re capable of doing to men. Your stories – you slay them. But you don’t finally want them.’

‘No. Not yet. Not till I find the right one. Then I’ll be the best wife.’

Johnny folded his arms, stared ahead. ‘I would have done anything to see his face when you accused him in your unGod-like language.’

Prue, encouraged by Johnny’s appreciation of her story, added some details about the Incident of the Spurning of the Man of God, as she called it. Some of these suddenly remembered details
were not entirely accurate but kept them laughing all the way back down a track through the woods to the car.

When Prue left for her visit to Stella and Philip in Norfolk she drove very slowly to save petrol. She chose cross-country roads and stopped every now and then to consult her
map and select a diversion that looked interesting. Late morning she parked in a field to eat a sandwich she had made for herself, and drink a flask of tea. As she drew nearer to the east coast she
marvelled at the swelling of the sky: the vast arc of thin blue, darned with cloud, that exercised her eyes, stretching them as she could never before remember such stretching, such filling of
vision.

It was early spring: the hedges were just beginning to turn – strange hedges in East Anglia, she thought: there was a clump of hawthorn, then a gap, another clump, another gap. From afar
they looked like loosely strung necklaces. The huge fields reminded her that this had been arable country before the war. There were no cows, but patches of just visible green crops, a thin fuzz
scattered over dark earth.

Prue paused for a moment at the top of a hill – cripes, a steep one at that, she’d thought Norfolk was meant to be flat – for her first sight of the sea. It was a silver thread
tacked to the hem of the sky, whose misted blue gave Prue a moment of regret: if she had found that colour when she was looking for her Buckingham Palace dress, she would have thought it even more
appealing than the bluebell blue she had chosen.

A church spire rose from the flat land at the bottom of the hill. There was a gathering of red-brick cottages, thick trees. Beyond them, marshes stretched towards dunes. Beneath the vast sky, in
which clouds scarcely bothered to move across the blue, everything in the landscape looked small enough to gather up in your hand and throw into a basket.

Prue followed Stella’s written instructions through the village and down a wooded track. She came to a bungalow of no great beauty, but it faced the marsh, the dunes, the distant sea and
the overwhelming sky. She got out of the car, leant against it, saw and heard a skylark high above her. A feeling of utter safety warmed her: for a week or so she would have to make no decisions,
no plans. She could just be here quietly with Stella, and get to know Philip.

But the peace she had imagined would greet her was not altogether forthcoming. She saw Stella at the door, arms folded under her breasts, smiling – not quite the old smile, a pinch of
anxiety at its corners. They hugged, went inside.

Stella’s kitchen had less of Mrs Lawrence’s influence than Ag’s: there was a feeling that not much effort to make it welcoming had gone into it – but then Stella was so
constantly busy looking after her husband that anything beyond that priority was probably neglected. There were two big wooden armchairs at the table in the large window, a jug of sea gorse on the
table.

‘That view,’ Prue said.

‘Aren’t we lucky?’ Stella took coffee from the stove, carried it to the table. ‘It never stales. Every morning when I come in here and look out, no matter what the
weather, I think how lucky we are.’

Stella, Stella, beautiful Stella . . . what has happened to you? wondered Prue. Even since Mrs Lawrence’s funeral, there had been a change. There were shadows under her cheekbones, shadows
under her eyes. Her thick hair had lost its shine. Her hands seemed to have aged: there were small blue dips between the knuckles. Her shirt was not ironed – and Stella had always been first
into the laundry room at Hallows Farm, usually to press not only her own things but the others’ as well.

‘Philip will be here in a moment,’ she said, glancing at the clock. ‘It’s a long process, his getting up every morning. Still, we’ve got a pretty good
routine.’ She smiled. ‘It’s just a matter of patience and organization. Though he hasn’t been too well lately, which has meant. . .’

Prue guessed at troubled nights, hence Stella’s look of exhaustion. ‘Can’t you get any help?’ she asked.

‘Oh, we can. A bit. But Philip, poor love, isn’t easy. Really he only likes me to look after him. Though he didn’t complain when I left for the funeral, which was nice of him.
But what about you? I want to hear about this vicar you mentioned.’

Before Prue could begin her story Philip, in a cumbersome wheelchair, came into the room. He, too, was pale, but smiling: Prue remembered his blunt good looks, the kind of face that is at its
best under the peaked cap of some uniform, as it had been in the photograph by her bed in the attic that Stella used to kiss every night. He edged himself close to the table. Prue got up and went
to kiss him on the cheek.

‘So, so glad you’re here,’ he said. ‘Stella’s been talking of nothing else for days. Afraid we haven’t laid on any parties for you – we lead a pretty
quiet life – but you and Stella will be able to go for walks, see the seals, catch up a bit.’

‘Perfect,’ said Prue. ‘That’s all I want.’ She noticed that when he picked up the mug of coffee Stella had put before him, his hand was shaking, as was his lower
lip. With his free hand he supported the one that was taking the weight of the mug.

In Devon Prue had been instantly aware of the deep affection between Ag and Desmond, and was lulled by the slow pace of their contentment. Here, in the Norfolk bungalow, she quickly sensed an
air of anxiety between the couple. Stella’s eyes constantly flicked towards Philip, alert to any sign that he might need something. He smiled a lot in her direction, occasionally moved to pat
her hand.

‘She’s a saint, my wife,’ he said quietly, when Stella had moved away to grill kippers. ‘Don’t know what I. . . I’m the luckiest. . .’ He cleared his
throat. ‘As for this place, don’t know how much longer I’ve got, but whatever it is, I said to Stella, it must be by the sea. Inland, I’d frizzle up and die very quickly. I
think Stella loves it here, too – don’t you, darling?’

‘I do.’ Stella returned to the table, arranged knives and forks. And over lunch – Mrs Lawrence’s homemade bread (Stella had practised her recipe) with the kippers –
Prue told the vicar story with such relish and liveliness that her hosts laughed throughout. The atmosphere lightened. When they had finished Philip said he was going to have a rest. ‘Every
afternoon, I’m afraid. I rest every day. What from? I ask myself. Life’s one bloody long rest.’ His arms jerking sharply on the wheels of his chair, he went skilfully out of the
narrow doorway.

‘In fact,’ said Stella, when he had gone, ‘he’s decided to write about his childhood and his war. Doubt he’ll get it published, but it’ll give him an aim, a
discipline.’

‘Just what we all need,’ said Prue. ‘And where’s James? I’m longing to see him.’

‘Gone to his grandmother in Cromer. He loves it there and I’m afraid . . . we only have the two bedrooms. You’ll be in his, if that’s OK.’

‘Of course.’ Prue smiled, looked out of the window again.

‘I’m sorry he’s not here. I would have loved you to see him. He cheers Philip up enormously. He sits on his knee and gets read to for hours.’

‘And Philip still has no idea?’

‘Not a clue. I’m sure of that. And he never will know.’

‘And Joe?’

‘Joe said it was the price we had to pay, but my having his child is some compensation for having to lead our lives apart. At the funeral I managed to show him a small snapshot. Perhaps I
shouldn’t have done that. He went a deadly white. He said, “Stella – oh, God, Stella, why did it have to be like this?”’ She shrugged. ‘We both knew why it had
to be like this, but I know neither of us regrets James and one day we’ll tell him about his real father. Not possible to do that now. It would kill Philip to think James wasn’t his
son. He’s a marvellous father . . .’

Prue told Stella about the birth of her own son. Stella, horrified by the pigs’ terrifying aggression, suggested the whole thing had been traumatizing.

‘It wasn’t, really,’ said Prue. ‘I know that sounds odd but I felt it was more a waste of time than a devastating event. By the time I became pregnant I knew the
so-called marriage was on the rocks, and my ambition to have a baby by a man I love was not to be. So I was really surprised when the disaster had very little effect on me.’

‘And Barry?’

‘Barry was broken-hearted. The baby’s death was the moment he realized, I think, that there was no use struggling on. He would have loved a son. I sometimes think what life might
have been like, in the claustrophobia of The Larches, confined by looking after a baby, Barry endlessly telling me how it ought to be done . . .’ Prue paused. ‘Besides, as the child
grew up he might have noticed his son hadn’t inherited anything of his dark looks.’

‘You mean . . .’ ‘I’m not absolutely sure.’

‘Oh Prue, what have you been up to? What muddles we get into when timing goes awry.’

‘We do. But there’s no point not hoping.’

They walked along a dyke that curved round fields on one side, marshland on the other. At some point the marsh melded with the waters of the staithe, where small boats
quivered, their sails down. The distant sea seemed never to get any nearer. The horizon played its usual trick of dallying with the water so that it was unclear where one ended and the other began.
The sky, here the colour of sea gorse, was disturbed every now and then by flighting geese. But there were no raucous calls of gulls, just an arched canopy of silence.

‘I didn’t know Norfolk at all,’ said Stella, ‘but I do love it here. It must be one of the quietest places in England. I love the fact that the villagers have lived here
for generations and the shop, where there’s always a run on Oxo cubes, probably hasn’t changed for fifty years. Even in the summer there are few people on the beach. Visitors go to
Cromer, where there are ice creams and amusement arcades. We’re lucky to be here now. One day it’ll all be discovered, changed, overrun. I don’t like to imagine it.’

‘But don’t you sometimes long for a bit of fun?’ Prue asked. ‘You can’t live for ever on scenery.’

‘Philip’s a whole-time job. He does his best, but there’s so much he can’t do himself. And the “scenery”, as you call it, makes up for everything. I go for a
walk every day on my own. I could never miss that, though I always wonder if I’m going to return to some disaster.’

‘Has Joe ever been here?’

‘Not as far as I know. I can’t think of anything I’d love more than for him to come. But after our French trip, when I came back to Philip and he to Janet, we’ve never
been in touch. We can’t be. It wouldn’t be fair. The only time I’ve seen him was at Mrs Lawrence’s funeral, and the shock of that – the shock of realizing nothing had
changed – is still with me. In a silly way I still hope that one day . . . Well, what can I hope for? Janet’s still young and healthy and they’ll have more children. As for Philip
. . . I can’t ever leave him. I can’t wish him dead. I do love him in a way that you can love a good man, and yet not . . . When we left Hallows Farm and I told him I was off to France
for a week with Joe, he was magnanimous. I didn’t ask him. I told him. “A week of your life with the man you love isn’t much,” he said. “You go and enjoy yourselves.
I’ll never be able to give you that.” What it cost him, I’ll never know. Neither of us has ever mentioned it since. He didn’t even ask if Joe had been at the funeral when I
got back from Yorkshire. I don’t think he can bear to mention his name.’

‘What about Janet? How did she take your week away?’

‘She was pretty hysterical, Mrs Lawrence said. But Joe gave her no choice. I think she thought that if she didn’t agree to the plan he might never marry her. But of course once they
were married Joe, being the honourable man he is, behaved – still does behave, I imagine – like a good husband. Though you only have to see him, as we did in Yorkshire, to know
that—’

‘Quite,’ said Prue.

Stella shrugged, her eyes full of sky and tears, and they turned back.

When they arrived at the bungalow they found Philip looking pleased with himself. He had laid the table for tea, a job, Prue realized, that would have cost him many journeys of twisting and
turning round the kitchen in his chair as he fetched plates and jams and everything needed for proper tea. On the table beside him he had the local paper, and was studying a notice he had marked
with a red pencil.

‘Found something that may be of interest here,’ he said. ‘We’re very quiet in Norfolk, but sometimes we burst into parties. It’s not going to be as dull as you
thought, Prue.’ He smiled at her.

‘Don’t be silly. I never thought it would be dull – how could it be with you and Stella? I’ve been longing for it.’

‘Well, anyway, tomorrow night there’s a dance at the air base. Big band. Beer. Sausage rolls and so on. How about that?’

Almost imperceptibly, as she poured the tea, Stella brightened. ‘If Prue wants to go,’ she said, ‘I’m game.’

‘Course I want to go, if it’s OK with you.’ Prue’s least exciting clothes, which she had brought thinking them suitable for Norfolk, were reeling through her mind.
Perhaps her red daisies might do—

‘And actually,’ said Philip, ‘you’ll be surprised to hear I’m coming too. Used to love dancing, didn’t I, Stella?’ He turned to Prue. ‘Oh yes,
Stella and I used to dance.’ He swivelled his head to his wife. ‘Didn’t we, darling?’