Whisper on the Wind (19 page)

‘So you intend keeping the prisoner? There’s no chance of finding a local man – well, they’re so lazy, the Italians …’

‘Not this one, ma’am. He’s worked like a good ’un. Wouldn’t find better, nor cheaper,’ he added in final mitigation.

‘Potatoes, you said, and sugarbeet?’ She knew when enough was enough; she could wait. ‘The War Ag. pay a subsidy on potatoes, didn’t you say?’

‘They do. It’ll nicely cover the cost of the seed. Those old acres of yours’ll be paying you back, come Michaelmas.’ Mat smiled as he took his leave. ‘It’ll be right grand to see things growing again at Ridings.’

‘I hope you won’t make it difficult for the prisoner, Gran, now that the ploughing’s finished,’ Roz said later, careful not to use his name.

‘Difficult? Has anything been said then, at Home Farm?’

‘Not that I’ve heard, but I do know Mat wants to keep him.’

‘I still say they’re lazy,’ Hester sniffed. ‘Used to siestas, no doubt.’

‘This one isn’t – lazy, I mean.’

‘I shall not speak to him,’ Hester said with finality. ‘I think, now that we’ll be getting some money from the War Ag. for the ploughing, we ought to be paying you some wages, Roz. I understand that Kathleen gets about two pounds a week?’

‘Can we afford it? Mat’s got to be paid, remember, and I’ve got the rents; I can manage. Anyway, what is there to buy? No make-up, no clothes – well, only twenty coupons’ worth. I’ll be fine, Gran, till we’ve got crops to sell. I wouldn’t mind a couple of pigs, though.’ She smiled. ‘I’d far rather we invested in some livestock of our own. The rents are all I need at the moment.’

The rents. They came from the three cottages given to Janet, her mother, as a wedding gift, and the seventeen shillings they yielded each week had once seemed like a fortune to Roz, though now she was more inclined to wonder where the money would come from should any one of them be in need of urgent repair.

‘We’ll see what can be done,’ Hester said comfortably. ‘Mat says I should keep proper accounts – I think Potter might help, don’t you?’ Mr Potter at the bank usually did. He saw to most things, moneywise, for the mistress of Ridings. He’d be extremely relieved to see a little more money on the credit side, now. ‘Mat feels it might be a good thing to have a separate farm account, and he’s right, of course.’

A farm account. That would really make them farmers. It sounded good to Roz. Far better than
landowner
which her grandfather had been.

‘We really should get a couple of pigs, Gran, and a few hens. They’d be no trouble.’

‘But where on earth would we keep pigs?’

‘Why not in one of the doghouses? They’d do nicely in there.’

‘So near to the house, dear?’

‘They’ll be all right. Pigs don’t like being dirty, you know. They only smell if you let them,’ Roz defended, determined to have her way. ‘We could keep one and sell one. A pig of our own would mean bacon and ham and lard – manure, too.’

‘I’ll see. Perhaps I’ll have a word with Mat about it first.’

‘I’ve already spoken to Jonty. He says we can have a couple from their last litter if I want, and I
do
want, Gran.’

‘I’ll see, I said.’

‘Fine,’ Roz smiled. When Gran said
no
it meant just that. When she said ‘I’ll see’, it was almost a yes. ‘I can get a form for pigmeal. Forms, forms, forms. Mat says it’s forms for everything these days. Farmers are turning into clerks.’

‘You’ll be going to the dance on Friday?’ Adroitly Hester sidestepped the pigs in the doghouse question.

‘Yes. And Kath’s coming, too. I said she could borrow one of my frocks; better than wearing breeches. And some shoes, too. Lucky we take the same size. It gets hot in the dance with the windows closed and the blackouts drawn. Gets a bit uncomfortable for the girls in uniform – collars and ties, you know,’ Roz prattled. Ships and shoes and sealing-wax; talk about anything but Peddlesbury. ‘Must fly, Gran. They’re burning the rubbish from the game-cover this afternoon and it’s all hands to the pumps.’ She placed a kiss on her grandmother’s cheek. ‘Bye, darling. See you.’

‘Yes, dear.’ Another opportunity missed, and she so desperately wanted to know about the airman; hear it from Roz, that was. But Roz had the ability to block a question before it had even been asked which perhaps was as well. Unanswered questions were less hurtful than lies, and maybe some questions were best left unasked.

Letters for the gate lodges and farms around Alderby St Mary were not delivered by the post-lady but by the man who delivered parcels in the red Post Office van, and war or no war he prided himself on his timekeeping. So when Polly heard the crack of the letterbox flap she knew it was half past nine, give or take a minute, and time to be leaving for Ridings.

The envelope lay on the mat at the front door. It was slim and pink and when she picked it up it gave off a whiff of cheap scent. Reluctantly she turned it over. It bore all the signs of trouble, for not only did it carry a Hull postmark, but it was addressed to herself and not to Arnie as pink envelopes had hitherto been.

Her mouth formed a button of disapproval. She could smell trouble a mile off and the more so when it came in pale pink envelopes. She slit it open; frowning, she read its contents.

‘So that’s your game, my lady,’ she whispered, folding the sheet carefully, slipping it back. ‘Well, we’ll have to see about that.’ Oh, my word yes. And thank the good Lord that today was Wednesday, for something had to be done about Arnie’s mother, and done before very much longer. Nowt but trouble, that one.

Dungarees tucked into her boots, hair tied in a turban, Kath walked with Jonty and Marco to the game-cover – or what, until two months ago, had been the game-cover. And they would always know that particular corner of Ridings parkland by that name; long after the war was over and she had gone back to Birmingham it would still be the old game-cover to the people she had left behind her. Now, that corner looked just like the rest of the ploughing save for the pile of uprooted hedges and brambles and tree-toppings that stood thick and high, ready to be set alight.

They would enjoy this afternoon. The burning of all that remained of the spinney would make a pleasant diversion; a celebration, almost, of the finishing of the ploughing.

‘Roz said she’d meet us there after dinner,’ Kath said. ‘Asked me to take along a pitchfork for her. I think she’s quite looking forward to this afternoon.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Jonty grinned. ‘My backside’s still numb from that tractor seat. By the way – about Roz’s birthday. I don’t suppose you’ve heard her mention anything she wants?’

‘Like a dozen pairs of silk stockings or a box of chocolates; a bottle of Chanel, maybe?’

‘Like something I can
give
her – but what?’

‘Well, flowers are about the only thing that aren’t rationed, but they’ll have heaps of flowers by then at Ridings. Apart from that, most things a girl would like are under the counter or unavailable for the duration. There’s the black market, of course. Know any spivs, Jonty?’

‘No, so we’re back to square one.’

‘Afraid so. Mind, there’s something I’ve heard her mention. Only yesterday, in fact, she said she’d like a couple of young pigs.’

‘But of course! She said something about it the other day.’

‘Pigs!’ Marco gasped. ‘You give a lady
pigs
for her birthday?’

‘Talk of angels,’ Kath warned, nodding in the direction from which Roz ran, calling to them to wait for her.

‘Good. You remembered my fork, Kath. Be like the old days, won’t it? Haven’t been to a decent bonfire since Guy Fawkes night was banned.’ Roz beamed.

‘Who is this Guy Fawkes?’ Marco frowned. ‘Why is he banned?’

‘I suppose you could say he’s the patron saint of bonfires, sort of,’ Roz teased. ‘And bonfires aren’t allowed now – not after blackout time, that is.’

‘Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the king and parliament, a long time ago. Until the war came,’ Kath explained gently, ‘we lit bonfires every fifth of November.’

‘To remember him by?’

‘Not exactly. More because we like bonfires, I think.’

‘He was one of us,’ Roz offered. ‘The only Yorkshireman with any sense, some say.’

‘So the English were proud of him, Kat?’

‘No. They hanged him.’

‘Ah,
si.
’ Marco nodded, mystified.

‘We’ll have to make sure it’s properly put out,’ Jonty warned, ‘or there’ll be every air-raid warden from here to York yelling blue murder. Fires can easily start burning again; only needs a wind to get up and we could be in trouble.’

‘I’ll keep an eye on it. We can see it from the house.’ It had seemed strange, at first, looking out of her bedroom window and seeing sky where trees had been. Roz had missed them, just a little, even though they’d mostly been self-seeded, spindly things and choked by undergrowth left to run wild. But by the autumn, they’d be lifting potatoes from the game-cover, and beet for sugar. It would take a bit of getting used to, but if it helped to shorten the war, even by only a day, then all the upheaval would be worth it. ‘Don’t worry, Jonty,’ she smiled, shouldering her pitchfork, matching her step to his, ‘I’ll take a look at it.’

‘Jonty and Roz – they are lovers?’ Marco whispered.

‘No, more’s the pity,’ Kath shrugged.

‘
No
?’

‘No,’ Kath said, flatly and finally. ‘Roz is in love with someone else, but don’t say anything?’

‘Okay,’ he shrugged. ‘So would I be if I were a girl and a man gave me pigs for my birthday.’

‘Oh, Marco,’ Kath laughed. ‘You say such funny things.’

‘Funny? What is funny?’

‘I’ll tell you – one day. Now hurry up, will you? Hey, you two!’ she called. ‘Wait for us!’

Polly buttoned her best maroon coat and pulled on her maroon hat. She always wore her Sunday coat when calling at the house with the bay windows, a dignified arrangement which not even the rationing of soap the previous month had been allowed to upset.

‘Take it or leave it, Arnie. It’s a choice of soap or soap powder, for there’ll only be eight ounces a week between the two of us, now,’ she had mourned. ‘I never thought I’d see the day when they rationed cleanliness. Don’t you dare go leaving the soap in the water, now.’

And Arnie had promised he would not; he even considered giving up his soap ration for the duration if it would help the war effort, though he’d had the good sense not to say so.

On this particular Wednesday afternoon, however, dignity was the last thing on Polly’s mind. If anyone could help her, Mrs Murgatroyd could, and Mrs Murgatroyd, because of the delicacy of her husband’s position, was known never to gossip. To listen, maybe, but never to pass it on. And Polly hoped, lifting her eyes heavenwards, that Mrs Murgatroyd would be in a listening mood.

‘Ah, thank you, Miss Appleby,’ the lady nodded, handing over two half-crowns. ‘I’m most obliged. See you on Saturday, all being well?’ To which Polly should have nodded and murmured that all being well she would, and taken her leave. But this afternoon she stood her ground. Clearing her throat, she murmured, ‘I wonder if I could have a word?’ She glanced to her left and her right. ‘Private and confidential.’

‘Indeed?’ Mrs Murgatroyd had heard nothing lately, of a private and confidential nature. Her husband never spoke about his work, and a little private confidentiality would go down very nicely since she had nothing better to do with the remainder of the afternoon. ‘Come in, do, Miss Appleby. I was about to make a small pot of tea. Perhaps you would join me?’

Gravely, Polly nodded her thanks. She had seen the kitchen from the doorway, of course – a cosy room with upholstered chairs on either side of the cooking range, plants in pots on the dresser and the window sill – but she had never taken tea there.

The kettle was already on the hob; the tea was quickly made and set aside to infuse, to
mash
, as they said in Alderby.

Mrs Murgatroyd drew out a chair. ‘Sit down, do. I hope nothing is troubling you, my dear?’ Nothing too trivial, that was. ‘I do hope,’ she added, suddenly alarmed, ‘that the shirts aren’t proving too much for you?’

‘Nay.’ Polly removed her gloves and set them, with her handbag, at her feet. ‘Shirts is no bother at all.’

‘Then you may speak freely in this kitchen, Miss Appleby.’ She lifted the teapot. ‘Milk in first?’

‘As it comes, thanks.’ Polly took the pale pink envelope from her handbag. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d read this. It’s got me fair worried, and I’d be grateful for your advice.’

‘Ah.’ She took the envelope delicately. Mrs Murgatroyd did not care for pink envelopes that smelled of scent. A gentle blue-grey, maybe, but white for good taste; always white. Carefully she read the page of back-sloping, irregular writing, then read it again. ‘From Arnold’s mother, I take it?’

‘From her.’

‘I see. You know, I’m at a loss,’ she frowned, removing her reading glasses, ‘to find much fault with it – the contents, that is. She asks about her son, encloses a postal order for five shillings and expresses a wish to visit him. Perfectly normal, I would say, for a caring mother.’

‘Aye, and there I won’t disagree. But that woman isn’t normal and she isn’t a caring mother. Since I took Arnie in she’s been twice to see him, and that in the first six months I had him. For close on two years we’ve heard neither sight nor sound from her – till last Christmas, that was.’