‘What about the bow? The make-up?’
‘Nothing we can do.’
‘She’ll be horrified in the morning. Panda eyes for milking.’
‘She’ll cope.’
When they had relieved Prue of her breeches, shoes and socks, they managed to bundle her under the bedclothes.
‘More important, I hope she’ll cope with Joe,’ said Ag. ‘The whole thing seems to be fraught with danger.’
‘With any luck it’ll burn itself out very quickly. No one will come to any harm.’
‘Hope you’re right. Apart from anything else, what land girl could find the time and energy for sex
and
farm work? They’re not physically compatible, I’d say. Though maybe Prue will prove us wrong.’
‘She’s so pretty.’ Stella studied the blonde head nestled in the pillows. ‘You can see why Joe, alone here for so long, finds her irresistible.’
‘He’s an odd one, Joe.’ Ag went to her own end of the room, turned down the bed. ‘I didn’t take to him at first. Now, I rather like him.’
Stella, as she did every night, picked up her framed photograph of Philip. ‘As long as we all keep on liking him,’ she said, ‘we’ll be all right. We’ll be fine. We’ll have a good friend.’
In The Bells Mr Lawrence found Ratty, as he guessed he would. The sight of the old man by the fire, tankard in hand, released some of his guilt. He had lied about a planned meeting, but at least Ratty’s presence meant there
was
a meeting. The full weight of the lie was thus eased.
Mr Lawrence ordered himself a pint of bitter and joined Ratty by the fire. They nodded at each other, felt the warmth of the flames on their hands and shins.
‘Poison day coming up soon,’ said Mr Lawrence at last.
‘This ruddy war.’ Ratty shook his head. His eyes, the colour of tea, rolled about. ‘Messes up everything. Girls ratting! Changes the nature of things.’
‘Girls dagging, hedging, ploughing … odd, I agree. But something we’ll have to come to think of as normal.’
Ratty’s thin brown mouth stretched into an approximate smile. ‘You’ve come round pretty quickly, then? Not two weeks back you were full of doubts, you said.’
‘There’s only one causes a bit of trouble.’
A growl of a laugh came from Ratty’s throat. ‘They’re nice enough girls. The tall one puts me in mind of my mother.’ Brightening, Ratty finished his drink. ‘Then there’s the floozie – you want to mind her. Then there’s the – other one.’
‘Stella.’ The pleasure of saying her name, Mr Lawrence noticed, registered like a tiny graph moving upwards in his heart.
‘That’s right.’
‘Another drink?’
‘Thanks, no. Must be going.’ Back to the furious darning Edith, thought Ratty. She’d managed to burn the single saucepan this evening. Potatoes abandoned, he had had to quell his hunger with drink.
‘Couple of weeks, then, the ratting. I’ll leave you in charge. You can explain to them, can’t you?’
‘Dare say I could if I put my mind that way.’
Ratty stood up, reluctant to think about it. He arched his back, stiff. He didn’t fancy the idea at all. Women screamed when they saw a mouse, in his experience. Lord knows what they’d do at the sight of a rat. As for explaining: words weren’t easy on that sort of occasion. Still, he could
show
– like the day he’d shown the Stella girl to harness Noble. She’d learned surprisingly quickly.
‘Night, Ratty,’ said Mr Lawrence.
‘Night, guv.’
Ratty touched his head with a kind of smudged salute. However close they had grown over the years, Ratty would not consider abandoning this deferential gesture. They were boss and hired hand, and nothing would persuade Ratty to alter his ways: he knew his place, and had no intention of changing the behaviour that was customary in his job.
‘There’s two things we must talk about, Joe, you and me,’ said Prue. ‘Two things we must talk about
first
.’
She stood just inside the door, dressing-gown clutched about her. It was the following night. After a long day lime-washing the cowsheds, she had had some difficulty waiting for the others to fall asleep before she crept downstairs to Joe’s room. But she had promised to keep this date. He had reminded her several times during the day, assured her there was no danger providing she did not put on her torch. His room, luckily, was at the bottom of the attic stairs, the far side of the house from his parents.
It was lit by a dim lamp on the bedside table, knights in armour cut out from a scrapbook stuck on its shade. Even in the poor light, Prue could see it was still a schoolboy’s room: pictures of trains and aeroplanes on the wall, a stack of board games in old boxes under a table. The bed was narrow, covered with threadbare candlewick. Pallid wool slippers stood neatly on the mat, a wooden chair was heaped with untidy clothes. Records in paper sleeves were stacked everywhere on the floor. Wedged in among them were piles of books that overflowed from the many shelves. There was a smell of toothpaste and dung, and it was cold.
Joe sat in the only comfortable chair, in an open-necked shirt and no shoes. ‘Have this chair,’ he said, rising after a long silence.
‘I’d rather sit on the bed.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’
Prue climbed on to the bruise-coloured cover. The springs whined. She curled her legs beneath her, hoping to warm her feet. She would have given anything for a Woodbine, but knew that was not possible – smoke brought on Joe’s asthma.
‘So what is it you have to say – first?’ Joe gave a small smile.
Prue shivered: combination of cold and constraint.
‘First: there’s a party at the RAF camp in a couple of weeks’ time. We all want to go. I mean, we must have a bit of fun.’
‘So?’
‘How do we get there?’
Joe rubbed his jaw, mock-serious. ‘There’s the Wolseley, I suppose.’
‘Exactly. But it needs a driver. Would you – might you … be able?’
‘I could see what I can do. There’s a pretty tight rein on petrol, but we haven’t used much lately. Dare say I could swing it.’
‘Joe! You’re a bloody angel!’ Prue hugged herself.
‘Of course, it would mean my having to
stay
at the party to bring you back. Dad would never agree to a lot of to-ing and fro-ing.’
‘You wouldn’t mind that, would you?’
‘I’m not much of a party man. But no, I wouldn’t mind for once.’
‘We could
dance
.’
‘It would take a lot to get me on a dance floor. A very large reward.’
‘Promise you that!’ Prue fluttered her eyelashes.
‘And what was the other thing?’ Joe began to take off his socks.
‘The other thing was Janet. I think we should talk about her.’
‘No need for that, is there?’
‘I think there is.’
Joe undid the two top buttons of his shirt. ‘You’re at liberty to go back upstairs. I won’t lay a finger on you again if it troubles your conscience.’
‘It’s
your
conscience I’m thinking of.’
‘For various reasons that I won’t bother you with, my conscience is having no troubles at all. But thanks for thinking about it. And come here.’
He put out a hand. Prue took it and slid herself off the bed. Joe guided her on to the floor between his legs. She put a hand on each corduroy knee. Her cheeks were scarlet. She wanted to laugh, but knew she must contain herself.
‘Would you be terribly cold if you took off your
dressing-gown
?’
‘Probably.’ Prue giggled. She untied the cord, slipped it from her shoulders. Joe shifted forward in his chair.
‘You realize,’ he said, ‘I could never see you properly in the barn. I could only imagine.’
‘Well, here you are,’ said Prue, giving a small wiggle so that her breasts shimmered. ‘All right, are they?’
‘All right? My God, come here.’
Joe took Prue’s head in his enormous hands. She opened her shining pink mouth in readiness, the fluttering eyes not quite innocent. Suddenly fierce, he pulled her down.
Some time later Prue slipped out of the small, awkward bed. She felt exhausted by constraint. They had had to stop themselves from shouting. They had had to curb the instinctive wildness of their movements because of the singing bed springs. Prue longed to be back in the barn. Now, Joe put a warning hand on her arm.
‘Listen,’ he whispered.
Prue could hear footsteps in the passage. They hesitated. She quickly slipped into the small space between the wardrobe and the window, dressing-gown slung over her shoulders, heart battering. Joe struggled into his pyjamas. There was a small tap on the door.
‘Joe?’
‘Yes?’
‘I thought I heard you coughing.’
Joe went to the door, opened it a few inches. His mother stood in the passage clasping a candle in a tin holder of cobalt blue. She wore a long cream nightdress of frayed wool: she had worn such nightdresses for as long as Joe could remember.
‘Would you like me to put on the kettle? Do you a bowl of Friar’s Balsam?’
Her sad beige mouth was drawn down, a tail of long dark hair hung over one shoulder. The slight trembling of her hand made the candle’s flame to sway, and shadows to tremble on the walls.
‘No thanks, I’m all right.’
‘Very well, then.’
‘Night, Ma.’
‘Good night, Joe.’
Joe shut the door. Prue came out of her hiding place.
‘Cor blimey,’ she said. ‘That was a near one.’
‘Ma’s always on the alert,’ said Joe. ‘Always worrying about my health. But she didn’t have a clue – honestly.’
‘I’ll be going,’ said Prue. She put up her cheek to be kissed, then on tense bare feet felt her silent way up the stairs. Night three: and complications, she thought. Trouble with Mrs Lawrence was the last thing she wanted.
Perhaps Joe wasn’t such a good idea after all. Perhaps things would be easier all round with the RAF man in the teashop. At the thought of his severe blue cap tipped so neatly over his shaven head, Prue gave a small shiver as she climbed into her cold, dark bed.
S
tella’s prediction that Prue’s infatuation for Joe would burn itself out very quickly was proved right: just a fortnight after the affair began, it came to an end. Prue was exhausted by nights of scant sleep and dangerous journeys to Joe’s room. She was fed up with the constraint, by day, of having to conceal her feelings. The impracticalities of illicit passion were too daunting, she found: she had had enough. For her, as always, the pleasure had been in the snaring. Once in the bag, the familiar melancholy feeling of having won too easily came upon her. Excitement waned. For some, affairs are flamed by enforced secrecy. For others, like Prue, it’s a corrosive element that quells magic in a very short time.
‘That’s it, Joe,’ she said, after an encounter in his unconducive room that had lasted till dawn. ‘I can’t be doing with any more of this. I’ll collapse.’
She stood by the door in her dressing-gown, shivering. Joe scarcely shifted in his mean little schoolboy bed.
‘Anything you say.’
‘You’re not bothered?’
‘No.’
Prue hesitated before she smiled. His take-it-or-leave-it
attitude
was both a relief and something of an insult – mostly a relief, she quickly decided. There was nothing she would fancy less than Joe pouncing on her in the milkshed once she had said
enough
. In fact, his behaviour was so decent she felt she owed him something of an explanation.
‘I can’t take all the worry of creeping back upstairs expecting to run into blooming Lady Macbeth with her candle, night after night,’ she said. ‘It’s a strain on the nerves.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘Besides, they’ve been giving me a hard time, your parents. Why should I be the only one who does the muck-spreading? It’s not fair. Still, it’s been fun – you and me, I mean.’ She paused. ‘I only hope all this won’t change your mind about driving us to the dance …’
‘It won’t, no.’ Joe turned away from her, pulling up the bedclothes. ‘You have my word about that.’
Upstairs, careless in her strange sense of release, Prue made more noise than usual. The others stirred. Prue kept on her dressing-gown as she climbed into her cold bed. She sat with her arms round her knees. There was no point in trying to sleep for the half-hour before it was time to get up. Stella’s voice came out of the dark.
‘What’s going on?’
‘We’ve packed it in, me and Joe.’
‘What?’
From the other end of the room, the squeaking of Ag’s bed indicated she had sat up with some interest. ‘Well, it couldn’t go on, could it?’
‘No,’ said Ag.
‘I think you’ve done the right thing,’ said Stella.
‘Pointless,’ said Prue. Their voices, small chimes of agreement in the dark, were followed by a long silence. ‘So what I’ve got to concentrate on now,’ said Prue at last, ‘is collecting jugs of rainwater. What I need is
rain
.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘The dance, of course, stupid. We’re going to have Drene shampoos and rainwater rinses. I’ve got it all planned. You won’t know yourselves by the time I’ve finished with you. The RAF boys’ll think we’re Rank starlets.’
Stella laughed. Ag lay down again, cold. In the darkness she touched her short, unremarkable hair. She wondered if, had she known about Drene and rainwater at Cambridge, it might have made all the difference.
There was no rain, that day, but the autumn weather had turned dank and misty. Ag, deputed to move the sheep from one pasture to another, strode through the long, grey grass, each blade tinselled with dew. She had no fears about the job: it was simply a matter, Mr Lawrence had assured her, of opening the gate between the two fields. The dogs would do the rest.
The collies swished along beside her, crouched with intent, tails low. Their bodies made dark paths through the grass. Overhead the sky was a dense grey, distinct from the earth only in its lack of sparkle. Earth and sky were divided by indistinct hedgerows, neither green nor brown nor grey, but a colourless density of bare wood. The only points of sharpness in the landscape were the few trees whose branches were raised like charred fans, brittle against the sky, awaiting a breeze to make them flutter.