Once a Land Girl (30 page)

Rudolph was standing beside her, water pouring down his legs, a little towel round his waist. ‘That was a swim I’ll never forget. Fantastic.’ As he rubbed himself with the
towel drops of sea water swarmed about, gathering miniature rainbow colours. ‘What’ve you been thinking?’

Prue gave him an enchanting smile. Certainty now swept over her, but she was determined to be double-sure. ‘I was thinking we’ve only known each other for a week. Is that long
enough? I mean, to be sure we could be for life?’

Rudolph bent and touched her cheek with an icy finger. ‘As my mother used to say, God deals out His gifts according to His own plan. Sometimes He makes it so plain that time doesn’t
matter. Sometimes it’s just completely sure, obvious, that a person is destined for you, so the chance should be taken. We should recognize the signs, have faith. I believe that. Listen: I
love you.’

‘I love you too,’ said Prue. At that moment she did, very much. She also wanted the talking to stop. She tugged at the towel.

They made love for so long that they did not notice the tide coming in until the water had covered the banks of the channel. There was no time for their picnic. They hurried back over the sand
– colder now the sun had disappeared behind cloud. The old man digging for cockles had gone. They were exhausted, dazed, chilled despite their coats. The bottoms of Rudolph’s neat khaki
trousers were wet and sandy. In the sudden warmth of the Sunbeam, he wrote his address on a piece of paper. He said he had to get back to the base by six, and they should say goodbye here.

The farewell kiss was long and gentle, full of tentative promise. When they finally pulled apart, Prue asked the question she had been meaning to ask all day. What kind of farm was Rudolph going
to manage in Georgia?

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Do you have a favourite? You said you liked milking. We only have a few cows, but we’ve built up a good business in hogs. We’ve got a couple of
hundred. Increase them all the time.’

‘Hogs? Pigs?’

‘Pigs, that’s right.’ He started the engine. Laughed. ‘Do you have anything against pigs? You know something? They’re good animals if you treat them right.’
He touched her hand. ‘Love you,’ he said.

They drove back to the bungalow in silence.

Later that evening Prue told Stella about Rudolph’s proposal. A frown flickered across Stella’s forehead before she could discard it. ‘That was quick,’
she said.

‘Exactly.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said I’d think.’

‘You must. You must think very hard. Do a lot of weighing up. There are so many imponderables between doubt and certainty. I imagine you’d miss living in England.’

‘I would. I’d miss you and Ag. No one else, really. It would be a huge leap into the unknown. On the other hand, as soon as I met him I felt at one with Rudolph.’

Stella gave a wry smile. ‘One does feel that, sometimes, dancing. Even with a stranger.’

‘No, it was more than that. I was totally whirled . . . The best thing was, we didn’t seem to need to talk very much. We exchanged some facts about our lives, but it didn’t
seem necessary to give full histories, in the way some people do. Rudolph reminded me of Joe in that way. The unspoken was just as engaging as the spoken.’

Stella gave her a glass of wine. ‘Does he love you? Do you love him?’

‘I think so. Yes, to both those questions.’

‘Because America is a very long way to go to find out if it was a mad dream.’

‘I know. What should I do?’

‘If you decide to join him, I think you should go with no promises, see what it’s like – a whole very different culture, his friends to turn into your friends, none of your
own. But you’d love being back on a proper farm.’

‘I would. Although pigs . . . I’m not sure I could deal with pigs again.’

‘Of course you could. You loved Sly, remember? Now the unreal week is over you’ll be able to think more clearly. A week is much too short to be positive. But extraordinary things do
sometimes happen. Recognition of what is right can come suddenly from heaven and remain firm, though the chance of that happening is small, I admit. You need to calm down, get some sleep. The
solution will come to you. Why don’t you stay on for another week?’

‘No, I can’t do that. It would all be different. Confusing. I must get back, move to Brighton. But thank you. You’re a wise old bird, Stella. This has been an unforgettable
time, staying with you and Philip.’

James came running into the kitchen in his pyjamas. Stella ruffled his hair. ‘He’s so like . . .’ Prue stopped herself.

‘He’s my saviour,’ said Stella.

Prue picked the child up. He was surprisingly heavy. The skin of his cheek against hers was as soft as fallen rose petals. He smelt of chocolate and milk. It was the first time Prue had ever
held a three-year-old boy. Her eyes swarmed with tears. This was a might-have-been, a could-be-still. She handed James back to Stella, shaken. If she and Rudolph had a baby it would probably not
have her green eyes, but Rudolph’s black ones, and tightly curled hair and skin the colour of wild honey. The idea was overwhelming. Prue drank the wine very quickly, wanting to blur the
imponderables.

The next morning she drove away, confused that her aching for Rudolph was as deep as anything she had ever known, though the absolute certainty of love, such as she had felt for Barry One, was
not quite there: mysteriously, it had faded a little in the night. But certainty was always elusive: its vagaries were mystifying. She had no doubt it would return.

The journey to Manchester seemed, in Prue’s state of exhaustion, to take for ever. Her plan was to spend a last night at The Larches, pack her things and leave for
Brighton next day.

Bertha’s bicycle was not in its usual place. Prue, wondering if she had already gone, let herself in through the front door. She picked up a couple of letters waiting for her in the hall
and took them to the sitting room. There, it seemed to her at a glance, a few things were just perceptibly different: cushions changed round, strange candlesticks over the fireplace, two pots of
hideous scarlet flowers on the window-ledge. Prue felt a stab of annoyance. Her mother, presumably already installed as housekeeper, had not been slow to make her imprint on the house.

She went to the window, looked out at the bare garden. It was bigger. An illusion, of course, she told herself: the chicken run and shed had gone. Johnny had moved them while she was away. She
had forgotten that he would, and their absence added to the feelings of unease that had confronted her since returning to the house.

With a pang of foreboding Prue took her case up to the spare room she had moved into on her last visit home. Barry had been generous to her so it was her turn to be generous to him and let him
have the main bedroom again.

There, the clutter she had left on the dressing-table had disappeared. In its place were her mother’s myriad aids to her routine of beautifying: pots of cold cream, round boxes of
Pond’s powder decorated with randomly flying puffs, a bottle of lavender water – things so associated with Prue’s childhood when she had stood beside Mrs Lumley as she had put on
her makeup that a kind of desolation crept into her tiredness. She did not know why, for she wanted her mother to be secure in this job, happy. She opened the cupboard. Her own clothes had been
pushed to one side. Mrs Lumley’s homemade drooping garments replaced them, the familiar dewlap hems and flabby collars. Shoes of delicately punctured leather, their sides swollen in permanent
imitation of Mrs Lumley’s bunions, crowded on the floor. There was a strong smell of lavender mixed with nervous sweat. Prue turned to the bed.

On the table next to it there was an expensive-looking travelling clock in a leather case that she had not seen before. Perhaps Barry had found a substitute recipient for his presents. Prue
picked up an ancient nightdress-case made of imitation fur in the shape of a cat. She could tell from its swollen belly that a pre-war nightdress was bundled inside. As a child in her
mother’s bed on stormy nights she had liked to use it as a pillow. Prue lay back on the bed and closed her eyes, the cat now making a childhood pillow behind her neck.

When she opened them, her mother was looking down at her. ‘Oh, darling,’ she was saying, ‘we didn’t know when to expect you. You’ve been gone a long time.’
Prue sat up. They kissed each other on the cheek. ‘Everything all right with you, is it? You look quite pale. Tired.’

‘I’m fine. Had a wonderful time. Everything all right with you?’

Mrs Lumley moved away from the bed. She dithered about, snapped at a curtain that was not completely drawn back. She pushed at her things on the dressing-table, glanced at her reflection in the
looking glass. ‘If I’d known you were coming back to stay, of course, I would never have settled in this room till you’d gone for good.’

‘I’ve not come back to stay, Mum. I’m here for the night, too tired to drive any more today.’

‘Of course. You look exhausted.’

‘Before I left, Barry said that would be OK.’

‘And so it is. Of course it is.’ Her voice rose higher, as it always did when she was nervous. She swivelled to face her daughter. ‘But as you can see there was a change of
plan.’ Their eyes met. Prue had no intention of helping her mother break the news. ‘It soon seemed it was a very silly idea, coming here daily, catching the bus morning and
night.’

‘Very soon,’ snapped Prue. ‘Not quite two weeks.’ She was confused by her own annoyance.

‘Yes, well. “Much easier if you live in,” Barry said. “You won’t have to be up so early to get my breakfast.” ’ She giggled.

Prue wondered if her own giggle would sound the same, apeing youth, in thirty years’ time. ‘So he helped me bring my stuff round in the Daimler – or was it the Humber?
I’m not sure, to be honest. Not much, though. I didn’t bring much because the idea is that I spend weekends at home, leave a few things for Barry in the fridge. Well, that’s the
plan for the moment. One day, of course, if Barry’s thinks it’s a good idea, I might sell the lease. He’s got a good head for business, you can tell.’

‘Quite,’ said Prue. A fading wash of sky now filled the north-facing window. Her mother turned on the overhead light. Its forty-watt bulb, beneath a shade decorated with a zigzag
pattern, made no more than a dispiriting glow in the dimness of the room. Prue went over to look out at the front drive. She saw Barry pull up in the Humber. ‘He’s back,’ she
said.

‘Good. Nice and punctual. I’ve got a nice piece of plaice.’ She picked up a tortoiseshell hand mirror from the dressing-table, glanced at herself with smile. ‘Listen,
darling, I don’t want you to think there’s anything to it, this arrangement with Barry. It’s just a job. It’s safety. No more worries. You understand?’

‘Of course.’

‘Anything else would be quite inappropriate.’ She struggled with the word. ‘Anything else would never happen.’

Prue granted her a smile. ‘Of course not. I can’t imagine it would.’

‘Very well, then, darling, that’s cleared up. It’s been on my mind. Now, let’s go down. We can easily stretch the plaice. We can have a nice supper, the three of us.
I’m sure Barry would like that. Then we can make up the bed in the other spare room.’

‘I think I’ll go back to Wimberly Road, Mum, thanks.’

‘Very well. Please yourself. But you’d be very welcome.’

Prue saw the humour in being welcomed to what was recently her own house, and smiled.

As she came down the stairs, carrying her case, she found a cheerful husband at the bottom, arms wide open, demanding a hug. Too tired to argue, she agreed to stay for supper, but insisted on
leaving afterwards. Barry gave her an envelope with the key to the Brighton flat, and a map. Over the plaice and sprouts, he and his housekeeper kept up a constant ping-pong of fatuous observations
designed to lighten the tension. Prue left as soon as the pancakes had been admired. She drove recklessly fast to her childhood house, went straight to her shabby bedroom, posters of Vivien Leigh
in
Gone with the Wind
still on the walls. All she could think was: Rudolph.

When she woke, early next morning, Prue allowed herself only a moment to remember the flotsam of her childhood that accosted her all round the room. Her eyes dashed past the
slumped animals, dusty ornaments, the first hair ribbons of her collection hanging from the dressing-table mirror, and came finally to rest on the table by her bed, where a small snapshot of a man
in air-force uniform, her father, taken by her mother, had always stood in a cheap little frame of imitation leather.

‘Tom Purdy was his name, I think – though it might have been Tim,’ she had explained to Prue on her tenth birthday. ‘We met in a pub. He was in uniform, ever so smart,
handsome. I happened to be carrying my new Box Brownie. It was my most precious possession. I took it with me everywhere. I persuaded him to stand outside the pub, let me take his picture. I think
he was flattered. He was going back up north next day, where he was stationed. Anyway, I got the sun behind me, he gave a lovely smile, said “Cheese”, when I gave him the signal, and
that was that. You were born nine months later. I never saw him again. We were in that much of a hurry we never exchanged addresses. I often wish we had.’

Sometimes Prue had asked her mother to try to track down Tom, or Tim, Purdy, but she said there was no use, what was the point? As he’d never known about his daughter, he probably would
not want to be bothered all these years later, she said. Prue’s only – possible – inheritance from her father was her eyes: Mrs Lumley said she thought they were a deeper emerald
than her own though she couldn’t be sure, could she? Their meeting had been in a dark shed. And as she had been unsure of the spelling of Purdy (Purrdy?) she had thought it safer to pass on
her own maiden name to her daughter. Prue had managed to extract from her the only facts about her father that her mother had gleaned. But there were not many, for she and Prue’s father had
not been concentrating on conversation, Mrs Lumley had snapped one day, when Prue was goading her. He had grown up in Yorkshire and was an electrician by trade before joining the RAF. He did not
like pork crackling – a fact Mrs Lumley had proudly observed for herself in the pub – and had very shiny shoes. There was no point in asking for more, for there was no more. As Prue
grew older, questions about her unknown father faded. She thought ignorance about one parent was sad but not traumatic, and for months on end she gave him no thought.