Once a Land Girl (36 page)

‘I can imagine,’ said Prue, though in truth she couldn’t. ‘In this house no one could be lonely for a moment.’

‘Quite. There are all the books. The piano. The gramophone. The garden. Are you a reader, Prudence?’

Prue felt herself blush. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘There were no books at home, though there were lots at Hallows Farm – but not much time for reading, there.’

‘Of course not. All that farm work. Still, I dare say you managed a few pages of Hardy, from time to time, as you were in Dorset?’

‘I didn’t, no. I sometimes looked at Mr Lawrence’s copy of the
National Geographic
magazine. And Mrs Lawrence’s
Picture Post
.’

‘Oh my dear girl, you’ve got a long and exciting road to travel.’ Ivy moved to the bookshelves, took a leatherbound volume from a row of identical ones. ‘Dickens?’
Prue shook her head. ‘Well, then, I think you should begin with the master.
Great Expectations.
Here, take it. Bring it back when it’s finished, and we’ll replace it with
something else.’

Prue looked at the tooled leather, the gold writing. ‘I’d be terrified of something happening to it,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen such a beautiful book.’

‘Books are for reading. If it falls on Johnny’s kitchen floor, well, that’s not important.’ She took the photograph from Prue, returned it to its place on the table.
‘I’ll try to get Gerald over one day when you’re here. You might find him quite amusing.’

‘Thank you so much.’ Prue’s sudden flare of great expectations concerning Gerald seemed to be far stronger than those for the book.

‘And please mention my stable doors to your friend.’

‘Of course.’

Ivy held out a papery hand, which Prue took care to shake gently.

‘Come on Monday morning, why not? We won’t talk about money, wages, that sort of tedious thing now. We’ll see what happens.’

When Prue went through the hall to the front door, the grandfather clock struck twelve. As she wrote to both Stella and Ag later, it was the weirdest, maddest morning of her life. Although the
nature of the work remained not quite clear, she found herself looking forward to it with peculiar excitement.

Johnny was pleased by the idea of the Hon. Ivy’s job: he liked making doors. He did not show much interest in Prue’s descriptions of the house, or of its elderly
owner, and spent most of the weekend in his shed. From time to time Prue went in with cups of tea or coffee, but really to check that he wasn’t drinking. He had convinced himself he had given
up, at least for the time being, and was happy with the quantities of ginger beer she provided.

The weekend, for Prue, went very slowly. She was bored by now with housework and reduced it to half an hour every morning after breakfast. She was impatient to start working for Ivy, and tried
to imagine what the job would entail. A restlessness came over her: there was no reply to her letter from Rudolph. On the occasions she thought of him, she still felt uneasy about her decision, but
the pictures of him grew more distant.

Johnny, she quickly realized, with his fluctuating moods and his evident unhappiness, was not going to be easy to lodge with. She had constantly to guess what best to do for him. He seemed to be
a different man from the neighbour she had known in Manchester – but then, of course, she had seen him only from time to time. She knew that it would be much better to live alone than with an
imperfect man, though she wasn’t sure she was ready just yet for solitude.

She paced about, made a bread-and-butter pudding to use some of the many eggs and in the hope of disguising the hard bread (Johnny was appreciative of her cooking). She went for a walk, but in a
state of such agitation that, for once, the swooping Downs and hovering skylarks were no comfort. When she returned to the cottage, cross with herself for such unreasonable discontent, she went to
the sitting room and picked up
Great Expectations
.

At first Prue just held the book, turning it in her hands, in some awe. She ran a finger along the gold-tooled patterns inset in the claret-coloured leather with its soft smell of . . . what?
she wondered. Rain, perhaps? A lighter smell than the rough leather of Noble’s harness, but a reminder. She turned over a few of the thick, cream pages with their rough edges, as if they had
been gently torn. She had not held a book, let alone read one, for a very long time. This beautiful volume made her oddly nervous, but she was determined to have a go. She could not possibly go
back to Ivy and say, no, she hadn’t tried it. She glanced at the print – very small. Very dense paragraphs. She was going to have to try very hard.

Within a moment she was in the churchyard with Pip – amazed that a writer could make her see a picture so clearly. The marshes were just a long black horizontal line . . . and the river
was just another horizontal line, not nearly so broad or so black . . . and the sky was just a row of angry red lines and dense black ones intermixed . . . She could see it all, feel the cold, the
damp. She was there.

Prue read for the rest of the day, stopping only to eat. Her enthusiasm for Dickens seemed to please Johnny. He said she should try
David Copperfield
next. And there was much more to
come. Dickens would keep her going for a long time. Prue read most of Saturday night, and much of Sunday. On Monday morning, tired but exhilarated, she took the book back to Ivy, pleased at the
thought of surprising her, and longing for the next one.

Johnny followed her to the Old Rectory in his van so that he could get back to the cottage and start work once he had measured up for the stable doors. He parked in front of the house, beside
the Sunbeam, and came over to Prue. ‘Nice house,’ he said, fighting against extravagant praise. He took Prue’s elbow with a tense hand.

She had the fleeting thought that, were he a husband, he would be good about keeping to his wife’s side. Then she realized he only kept close to her on this occasion because he was nervous
about meeting Ivy.

Ivy opened the front door even before they were climbing the steps. She stretched out both hands in greeting and Johnny, on reaching her, took both her hands in his with all the ease of one who
is used to unusual handshakes. Prue smiled. She and Ivy did not shake hands. ‘How lovely of you to come,’ she said to Johnny. ‘I can’t tell you how much I need a master
carpenter. The stables are falling to pieces. Wasn’t it lucky, Prue being your friend?’

She led them into the sitting room. Johnny glanced surreptitiously about him, trying to disguise his interest.

‘Now, why don’t Johnny and I go and look at what’s to be done? Then we can all have a cup of coffee. Oh, Prue, my dear girl, you’ve brought back the book. How quickly
you’ve read it! And what did you think?’

‘I was astonished, overwhelmed,’ said Prue, unable immediately to come up with more literary praise.

‘That’s marvellous! Why don’t you go and choose yourself another Dickens?’

‘I recommended
David Copperfield
,’ said Johnny. He seemed pleased to show he shared his new employer’s literary knowledge.

‘Good idea, dear boy,’ said Ivy. ‘And when I come back I’ll get you, Prudence, to run me to the post office.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘You know what? I rather
fancy a little run in your lovely red car.’

‘It’s terrific,’ said Johnny.

When they had gone, Prue replaced the book in the shelf and took out
David Copperfield
. She sat on her old place in one corner of the sofa, and looked about her. She wanted to check it
was all just as magical and extraordinary as it had appeared on her first visit. Though as she was in a calmer state, she was able even better to enjoy the room. She realized that, amazingly, she
felt almost at home here. She could imagine living in this house. Arranging the flowers on the desk. Drawing the curtains on winter evenings. Coming down in the mornings to find sun on the fragile
carpet, which must have come from one of the eastern countries Ivy had lived in. Boldly, as these sensations swept over her, Prue picked up the silver-framed photograph of Gerald. She stared at it
for a long time, consigning every inch to memory. Gerald. Very distinguished name. ‘Prue and Gerald’, she said to herself, for she always liked trying out her own name with other
possibilities. They went well together. One day, perhaps, there could be thick white invitations propped up on the mantelpiece, ‘Prue and Gerald’ in fine handwriting at the top . . .
Somehow, she must subtly remind Ivy that she’d be very interested to meet her nephew.

Prue had no idea how much time went by caught up in her day dreams. She was conscious of an almost tangible happiness – the sort of happiness she used to sense sometimes when she was
ploughing Lower Pasture, and the chimes from the hall clock scarcely interrupted her thoughts.

When eventually Ivy came back, she seemed thrilled by the promises Johnny had made. ‘What a talented young man,’ she said. ‘I dare say I can find all sorts of jobs for him on
the estate. There’s always so much repair work that needs doing. He wouldn’t even stay for a cup of coffee – said he wanted to get going straight away. He’s gone off to
order the wood. So: how about you and I making a small trip to the post office? Only a mile or so. I usually walk it, but . . . Edward and I loved fast cars. Once, we had a Lagonda.’

Prue took the precaution of not driving at speed along the narrow lanes, but Ivy did not object. She moved about in her seat like an excited child. At the post office Prue saw her reluctance to
get out, so offered to post the letter for her.

‘You’re a good girl,’ Ivy said. ‘We must go for a proper drive one day. I only have a tiny Ford. Not much more than a perambulator – no fun at all.’ Suddenly
she fell silent. Then she said, ‘You know, I’ve been taxing my mind about this job I’ve asked you to do, and I’m still not quite sure what it should be. Still, we’ll
see what comes up. This afternoon we could perhaps attack the linen cupboard, and when that gets boring, well, you could begin
David Copperfield
while I have my rest . . .’ She trailed
off, uncertain of the appeal of her idea.

‘That would be lovely,’ said Prue. ‘I don’t mind what I do.’

‘And then one day, I suppose, we could go through all the clothes I had as a young girl, box them up and send them somewhere.’

‘That’d be good, too.’

As she turned into the drive, for Ivy’s sake she accelerated very slightly and was rewarded with a shout of delight. Then the old lady clamped a hand over her mouth, for a moment, cutting
off the scream. ‘Oh, my goodness, Prue. Look who’s here! Isn’t that an astonishing coincidence? I was going to telephone Gerald today. He needs to meet a few bright young things.
I have a notion his life is quite dull.’

A large car was parked by the house – not as large as the Humber or the Daimler, but sportier. There was no sign of the driver. Prue wished she’d been less economical with her
mascara. She and Ivy got out of the car. Ivy called Gerald a couple of times, her voice scarcely audible over a sudden clatter of rooks in the high trees.

He appeared round the corner of the house and sauntered over to his aunt, apparently not noticing Prue. He wore the kind of clothes that Prue had only seen on the gentry in church on Sunday at
Hallows Farm: sharply pressed trousers, beautiful tweed jacket, fine shirt with regimental tie, yellow silk handkerchief flopping from his top pocket. He drew on a cigarette whose smoke, even in
the sharp air, indicated it was some kind of exotic brand. He waved it about in an amber holder, then held it above his head as he kissed his aunt.

‘Gerald, what a lovely surprise,’ she said. ‘I was about to ring you.’

‘Thought you wouldn’t mind if I dropped in. I’m not skiving.’ He smiled at his aunt. ‘I’m on my way to Salisbury Plain. Business, I promise.’

‘Now come and meet Prudence. She’s going to help me a few days a week. Prue, this is my nephew, Gerald Wickham.’

As Gerald did not move, Prue stepped towards him. They shook hands. His eyes, Prue noticed at once, slanted upwards from each side of his nose like two small wings. In repose, his mouth was
severe, almost sneering, but when he smiled again, as he did shaking hands with Prue, it cracked his face making friendly, endearing wrinkles. She felt relieved.

The three of them went to the sitting room. Gerald sat on Prue’s sofa. Ivy fetched a glass ashtray and put it on the table beside him. Prue chose the chair opposite. She wished Gerald did
not have his back to the light, and she herself was not so exposed to it. Ivy suggested Gerald stayed for lunch. He declined with apologies, said he could only stay for a short time.

‘Duty calls, I suppose,’ said Ivy. ‘I’ll just go and . . .’ She whipped out of the room, once again scarcely leaning on her cane.

Gerald crossed his legs, studying Prue with the intensity of a man looking at some rare object for which he might be persuaded to put in a bid. Prue noticed that his kneecap was a sharp little
plate showing through the thick material of his trousers. Good sign, that. Meant he had good legs. Barry Two’s knees she had always found unappealing.

‘So what on earth are you doing here?’ he asked. His voice was a languorous drawl, something like Rudolph’s but minus the charm of the Southern accent.

‘I’m not really sure.’ Prue giggled. ‘I’m not sure your aunt knows, either. She said we’d see how it goes. See what comes up.’

‘I see.’ Gerald inhaled deeply. ‘What do you like doing? What kind of work?’

‘Looking after animals. I used to be a land girl. I love cows. I love ploughing, driving a tractor.’ She fluttered her eyelashes. ‘As a matter of a fact, I got pretty good at
straight furrows.’

‘I bet you did.’ Gerald smiled very slightly. ‘Well, I’m afraid there are no cows here, no animals at all, though there will be again when I take over. Like everyone
else, Ed and Ivy had to turn to arable during the war and still haven’t changed back. Still, I dare say we could find somewhere for you to do a bit of ploughing one day.’

Prue dismissed the thought that he was faintly sarcastic. She didn’t really care what he said or didn’t say. She was happy just to look at him. She loved his very shiny shoes, and
the way he looked serious when he inhaled his cigarette. She would be quite happy as Mrs Gerald Wickham.