‘I said I’d bring in the eggs before lunch. Would it be all right—?’
‘Off you go,’ shouted Mr Lawrence, no pause in his slashing at a root. ‘Thanks for the help. You’ve done pretty well.’
Ag hobbled back down the lane, coarse wool chafing her blister. She was hot, sweating, tired, hungry. The thought of a whole afternoon’s hedging was daunting, though perhaps lunch would recharge her. Hedging and ditching were hard work, she thought, but she had enjoyed it. She had enjoyed her bird conversation with Mr Lawrence: funny man – sudden spurts of talk, then back to long, concentrated silences.
As soon as Ag reached the barn she sat on a pile of straw and began to pull at her boot. As she struggled, she wondered if there was any valid excuse for sending a postcard to Desmond. She knew instinctively, from the few brief conversations they had had, he would enjoy hearing about her life as a land girl. But what excuse would she have to write to him in the first place? He might not even remember her – despite her explanation about her odd name. He might have no recollection of their occasional meetings, which he believed were by chance. To write would perhaps embarrass, confuse, or, worse, warn him off an unwanted affection on Ag’s part. So the answer to the question she asked herself was
no
: she should not write to him. Wait till it was time for a Christmas card.
Depressed by the solution she had known for days she would come to, Ag looked up to see Joe watching her.
‘Can I help?’ he asked. ‘Looks as if you’re having a bit of trouble.’
‘Thanks.’
Ag lifted her leg. Joe pulled at the boot with both hands. It came off easily.
‘You should put fresh chalk inside,’ he said. ‘We’ve got some in the house. Makes them much easier to get off and on.
‘Right. I will.’
‘How did the hedging go?’
‘I enjoyed it. I liked watching your father. His skill and speed are amazing. And I liked looking back to see the job I’d done on the few yards of ditch. Certain feeling of job satisfaction. I can agree with him there.’
‘Looks as though Prue’s experiencing some of that, too. She’s managed a third of the field but refuses to stop till she’s finished the lot. As a matter of fact, she’s done rather well.’
They both smiled. Joe sat down opposite Ag. He watched her as she rolled off her thick wool sock, and the thin one beneath it. He watched her bending the leg so that she could look closely at the blister on her heel.
‘It must be a funny contrast, this life, with Cambridge,’ he said eventually.
Ag shrugged. She touched the soft swelling with a gentle finger.
‘Well, that had come to an end anyway. I only half wanted to do a graduate course. I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to do, in fact. Farm work gives me plenty of time to think.’
‘I was due to go to Trinity,’ said Joe.
‘You still could, couldn’t you? When all this is over.’
‘Suppose I still could. Though I don’t much fancy being a mature undergraduate.’
‘Lots of others will be in the same position.’
‘True. Meantime, the brain’s rotting.’
‘No!’ Ag smiled.
‘It is. When do I have time to read? It’s a sixteen-hour day here. I listen to music on my gramophone when I’m in bed – five minutes later I’m asleep, book in hand.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘So I might have to ask your help for some mental limbering up.’
‘Fine! Sunday afternoons I could tutor you in the
Iliad
.’ They both laughed. ‘That is, if Janet wouldn’t mind.’
‘Janet’s not here many Sundays.’
Joe got up and moved closer to Ag. He bent down, took her heel from her hand, gazed at the blister intently as a doctor preparing his opinion.
‘Nasty. Ask Ma for something. Best cover it up.’ He handed back her foot. ‘You must have the smallest ankles in the world,’ he said.
Ag laughed again, and put the socks back on.
‘Sticks, my legs,’ she said. ‘I was dreadfully teased at school.’ She made to get up. Joe put a hand under her elbow to help. ‘Thanks. I promised your mother I’d collect the eggs from the barn …’
‘I’ll do that. You go on in, see to the blister.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’ Joe moved away. ‘I’ll be quicker than you. I know all their favourite places.’
‘Thanks very much.’
‘It’ll cost you something.’
‘My reflections on the
Iliad
? Really? Any time you like.’
Joe nodded. He cradled two brown eggs in his hand, that he had plucked from a hiding place. ‘To begin with,’ he said.
For the space of her hobbled journey back across the farmyard, Ag thought about Joe. Was it disappointment about Cambridge that made him so gruff? Was it the punishment of asthma upon his youth and regret at his inability to join the war? Or was he by nature an unforthcoming and gloomy figure? And why – perhaps an unnecessary question – did Janet’s presence on Sunday do nothing to cheer his spirits? For her own part, Ag would be delighted to find a kindred spirit with whom she could share ideas. She rather fancied herself bringing succour to the starved soul of Joe Lawrence. It was the sort of thing that would appeal to Desmond’s humour. In fact, Desmond would hardly fail to be interested in the whole curious Lawrence family of Hallows Farm … If he responded to her Christmas card, she would write to him in the New Year. It would be an excitement she instantly imagined herself looking forward to.
Ag began to compose a description of the very gradual unbending of father and son, and of the strong and dignified figure of the woman who gently tended her blister, for whom, already, Ag felt considerable affection.
That afternoon, after milking with Stella, Joe walked down to the field where his father and Ag were still working on the hedge. He helped Ag drag the heavier stuff to the large pile of wood and bramble that would be burned before nightfall. None of them spoke. The quietness of the autumn afternoon was broken by the soft-edged sound of Mr Lawrence’s slasher among thorn leaves: the snapping of small twigs, the drag of leafy branches over hard ground. Ag, proud of the length of her cleared ditch, could smell the pungency of her own sweat. She found herself working harder and faster than she had in the morning. Her blister no longer stung, her back no longer ached. The nearness of the earth affected her, as it did at home: the cloud of distant war was dissipated in the low light of the late sun, the long shadows thrown by the hedge, field, copse and men.
Oh, Desmond,
she thought.
At five, Mr Lawrence laid down his tools. ‘Time for burning,’ he said.
Joe took a box of matches from his pocket, bent down to light the base of the bonfire. In seconds it had caught, flames leaping high among the dry crackling stuff, their yellow matching a few high clouds in the sky.
They stood watching, Joe close to Ag, soon feeling the warmth. Ag had no idea how long the three of them remained there, unmoving: but suddenly she was aware of Mrs Lawrence and Stella at the gate. They carried a basket full of tin mugs, and a large thermos.
‘Tea,’ called Mrs Lawrence. ‘We thought it might be welcome.’
Indeed, by now a thin sharp prickle of chill, intimation of a cold autumn ahead, had crept round Ag’s body like a frame, while the centre of her being was still warm and sweating from her labours. She was glad of the hot, sweet tea, and of the flames on her face.
By the time Prue arrived the sun was low. Violet clouds were adrift among the yellow – gathering, consolidating, putting up an impenetrable defence against the last of the light.
Prue’s entrance on the scene, catching the last webs of light, was impeccably timed. She prettily climbed the gate, scarlet bow bobbing on curls whose blonde rallied with a last shimmer.
‘Field’s finished
, all! How about that?’ She did not try to conceal her pride.
Mrs Lawrence handed her a mug of tea. ‘Well done,’ she said.
But Prue was looking for other praise. She cocked her head at Joe.
‘You didn’t think I could do it, did you?’
‘I didn’t have any opinion, as far as I remember.’
‘Like to come and see my furrows? Straight as a die.’
‘I will later.’
‘It’ll be dark in a minute. If you don’t come now, it’ll be too late.’
Joe slashed the fire. The confetti of ash made by his stick briefly arched before falling to the ground. The tiny red eyes went out as they touched the earth.
‘Then I’ll come in the morning,’ he said.
‘You mean beast, Joe Lawrence.’ Prue stamped her foot. Ag saw she was near to tears.
‘Will my opinion do, child?’ Mr Lawrence asked with a smile.
‘Suppose so. God, I’m hungry as a dog, aching all over, juddering from that bloody seat. My whole body’s juddering still – do you realize?’ Prue’s petulance made everyone uneasy.
Again she looked at Joe. He concentrated on more bashing of the flames.
‘Calm down,’ said Mr Lawrence. ‘We’ll all come and see your handiwork. Joe can take back the tools.’
As Joe went to pick them up, Ag turned to tell him she had left hers some way along the ditch. As she did so, she saw Ratty leaning over the gate, his face flame-pale under a dark hat. She felt a moment’s fear: the unexpected sight of him, the anguish in his face.
‘Ratty!’ she called. ‘Come and have some tea.’
Mrs Lawrence, too, turned to the gate. But Ratty had already gone.
‘He can smell a bonfire five miles off,’ Mrs Lawrence said. ‘He never misses one.’
‘Come on, you lot. Please. My ploughing—’
Prue impatiently opened the gate. Mrs Lawrence gathered empty mugs into her basket. All but Joe followed Prue into the lane. He remained behind to quell the fire, knock out the last remaining flames, and to spread the embers to die in the cool of the evening that was now falling fast.
E
dith Tyler was the first to congratulate herself on making her war effort. In Hinton Half Moon she led the way, when the rallying call came, to hand in aluminium saucepans to make Spitfires. She left herself just a kettle, a frying pan and one small saucepan, and thrived on the difficulties that this heroic parsimony caused.
Generous, noble and honourable though Ratty was often forced to agree she had been, the culinary inconvenience they now had to put up with fired him with an irritation that often he could not control. Lack of kitchen implements became the most frequent reason for their quarrels. In Edith’s relish of these rows Ratty was able to discern a malicious pleasure in taunting him that, he feared, might not cease even when the war was over. He increasingly suspected that victory would not be celebrated by Edith re-stocking with saucepans, and she would make some new excuse to keep the kitchen under-supplied.
On the evening of the bonfire, Ratty walked home with slow, reluctant step. He had set out, lured by the sweet smell of thorn smoke, to enjoy himself: he always enjoyed a bonfire. But he had arrived too late. By the time he reached the gate a tableau was in place round the flames. He felt that to enter would be to interrupt, to intrude. Nothing unusual about the sight of the boss and Mrs L., of course: it was the girls who had cast their spell. Unseen, Ratty had gazed for a few moments on their fresh young faces, eyes full of the sort of wonder that never dulls when confronted by flames, and a million unspeakable regrets had gathered in his breast mysteriously as the swifts overhead were gathering in the sky. What were those regrets? Ratty had not liked to question himself too deeply: something to do with missed chances, unfulfilled love, wasted youth. The tall one with the short, dark hair – Ag – she was the one who had nearly been his undoing … the way she called to him asking him to join them – thoughtful, kind, such sweetness in her unformed face, lighted by the flames. He would almost call it holy.
Ratty had been tempted to hurry to her side, accept a mug of tea from Mrs L., join the magic circle. But even as he put a hand on the latch to open the gate, he knew he could go no further: he would be committing himself to too much enjoyment, a sensation Ratty had guarded himself against for years. He had learned from experience: on the occasions he had allowed himself unexpected moments of deep happiness, the return to reality, the barrenness of his life, had been too cruel.
So now he walked the lane, through a rising ground mist, with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he would have liked so much to have been part of the brief group, the fire a symbol of triumph at the end of a hard day’s work. On the other, he knew that had he allowed himself to do this, the inevitable homecoming, and Edith’s sneering, would have added further pain to his corroded heart.
Edith! Ratty saw her face in the evening sky, jaws working furiously in response to some imagined insult, unfairness or domestic difficulty. Was it his fault that she had turned so swiftly into one of life’s enemies? When Ratty reached the cottage he paused for a moment on the front path, looking into the lighted window of the kitchen. Why hadn’t the bloody woman put up the blackout? He had to tell her every day. They’d already been reprimanded by the warden a couple of times. Why couldn’t she understand the necessity of any war effort, or cooperation, beyond saucepans for Spitfires? The selfish cow … Ratty could see her at the sink, peeling potatoes with the same defensive hunch as she darned, making the knife, like the needle, seem fierce as a dagger. And why weren’t the bloody potatoes
on
, cooking? Ratty’s hunger was a twisting fist in his stomach. He went in.
‘No, your tea’s not ready yet so there’s no use looking like that,’ was Edith’s greeting. The smell of frying bacon increased Ratty’s hunger. ‘Potatoes not boiled yet,’ she added triumphantly, ‘then there’s the carrots to do. I don’t know how you expect me to get it all up together, just the single saucepan …’
‘If we had just one more …’ Ratty trailed off. He knew any such suggestion was a waste of breath.
‘The command from the government was: give up your saucepans for Spitfires.’
‘It wasn’t a command,’ Ratty sighed.
‘Good as. Besides, if I bought another one I’d have to give
that
up, wouldn’t I? Logic. Bare necessities are what we’ve got to put up with. Hardships of war. No point grumbling.’