He put out his hand, led Stella towards the floor. They were quickly lost in the crowd.
Ag felt all the humiliation of failure. There was no one, she noticed, on the way to ask her to dance. The agony of teenage parties, when the same sort of thing had happened so often, returned. She felt a fool in Prue’s silly chiffon scarf and the ridiculous curls: she wished she hadn’t come, she wished Joe didn’t look so bored.
‘Your curls seem to be falling out,’ he said.
‘The damp.’ Ag managed a smile.
‘Much better your usual way.’
‘Prue enjoyed doing it.’
‘I bet she did.’
A small, irrational pain skewered Ag’s heart. She watched Joe looking into the distance – remembering Prue, she supposed.
‘Who are the other girls here, do you think?’ she asked.
Joe stirred himself. ‘Some from the Services. Probably quite a few other land girls.’ Then he smiled at her kindly. ‘Can’t say any of them look as if they’ve made the same effort as all of you.’
‘It’s a pity Janet can’t be here,’ said Ag.
‘She wouldn’t like this sort of thing. She doesn’t like dancing.’
‘Then you have that in common.’
‘I suppose we do have that, yes. Shall I get you another drink?’
‘It’s my turn. I’ll come with you.’
‘I can’t let you buy me a drink …’
‘You can in a war. Besides, how can I spend my vast wages? My fourteen shillings a week?’ Ag jumped up, suddenly carefree. She would enjoy the sensation of walking across the hall with Joe behind her.
When they reached the dance floor, he said:
‘Shall I surprise you?’
Without waiting for an answer, he took her loosely in his arms. Neither was a skilled dancer: they shuffled awkwardly, others twirling past them. ‘Are you as much in love as Stella, with someone far away?’ asked Joe.
Ag felt herself blush. She spoke the truth. ‘I dream about someone who scarcely knows of my existence,’ she said. ‘He was a graduate student, medicine. We did once have tea, with some other friends. For some reason, I found myself telling him my name was really Agapanthus and he didn’t laugh. But I don’t suppose he’d remember.’
‘Agapanthus? Well, it’s hard not to laugh.’ Joe suppressed a smile. ‘You are an odd lot, you three. Not at all as I imagined land girls.’
By now they had reached the bar and gave up all pretence at dancing. Ag bought Joe a pint of beer and an orange squash for herself. They made their way back to the table.
‘I like your
deportment
,’ teased Joe. ‘You walk so straight, ramrod back like a gym mistress.’ He pulled out her chair.
‘I went to a very strict convent,’ said Ag. ‘We had to train with books on our head.’
Joe smiled. A jitterbug number had started. ‘Lucky we missed this one,’ he said.
Their eyes were drawn to the dancing. It was an exuberant crowd on the floor, some skilled at the steps, others merely jumping about, not caring. Then it became apparent there was unanimous recognition of a couple of stars among them, and they were being given space. Lesser dancers had drawn back, still moving, but their concentration was on the stars: Stella and her partner.
The wing commander’s short, bulky figure, lightened by the music, was transformed. His jitterbugging had all the vitality of a younger man’s actions, but also a precision that was astonishing to watch. He flung Stella hither and thither and she followed, sure as Ginger Rogers, adding her own inventive little flurries – a flick of the head or skirt, a sharp circling movement of her hands. The band, aware they were playing for experts at last, stepped up the tempo: the rest of the dancers fell away, leaving Stella and her unlikely Astaire on their own till the end of the number. Stella kicked off her shoes. The combs fell out of her hair. Her cheeks were scarlet as she spun faster and faster.
When the music stopped, the wing commander lifted her easily above his head, like a ballet dancer. There was cheering all round the hall, applause. Stella dizzily returned to earth. She hurried back to the table, followed by her smiling partner. Her hands rushed through her now wild hair. She was panting.
‘You can
dance
,’ said Joe. He stood up in acknowledgement. His clear admiration spurred Ag to rise, too, and turn to the wing commander.
‘
You
must have been jitterbugging all your life,’ she said. ‘I like to dance,’ he conceded. ‘Your turn. Shall we?’
‘I can’t do anything like that,’ said Ag.
‘It’s a nice slow number. Come on.’
‘I’m in the mood for love’ was rising and falling through the hall. Ag followed the wing commander to the floor. He clasped her with such expertise, his lead making the slow steps so easy to follow, that she began not to mind the fact she was a good head taller than him. She looked down, studied the intricate waves of his Brylcreemed black hair, then averted her eyes. All round them, other couples, on just an hour or so’s acquaintance, clung to each other as if to make the most of the last moments of life on earth: eyes shut, whispering things inspired by the rarity of such occasions. One of these couples was Prue and her tea-shop flight lieutenant. His chin nuzzled into the bow in her hair, her arms were clasped round his back. Again, Ag felt a pang of a sensation she despised. How did Prue manage it, every time?
At the table, Stella finished her ginger beer in one gulp. Her face shone, excited.
‘You were amazing,’ said Joe.
Stella shrugged. ‘I’ve always loved dancing, singing.’
‘Is that what you’re going to do, eventually, be a dancer?’
‘Heavens, no. I’m nothing like good enough for that. I’d like to teach the piano – though I’m so out of practice I may never get it back. Where’s the nearest piano to Hallows Farm?’
‘There’s always The Bells,’ said Joe. ‘There’s an old one there, very out of tune.’
‘Anything’d do me.’ Stella leaned back in her chair, eyes shut. ‘That was fun,’ she said. ‘You don’t find many men as good as that. I’d have done anything tonight. Celebration.’ She opened her eyes, smiling.
‘Might I guess? Something to do with the sailor?’
Stella nodded. ‘I heard at last. Two weekends from now he’s got several days’ shore leave. He wants me to join him for forty-eight hours. Do you think your Ma …? Mr Lawrence?’
Joe rubbed a huge hand across his face, straightening out a frown. ‘Dare say that could be arranged. It seems very unfair, land girls only entitled to a week’s holiday a year. Ma appreciates that.’
‘I’d make up for it.’
‘I’ll put in a word for you.’
They sat listening to the music, watching the dancing. Prue and her partner had by now ceased to move at all. Ag and the wing commander were nipping expertly through the more statuesque dancers, Ag with a tight little smile.
‘Do you know what Prue wants in the end?’ asked Stella. ‘She wants a rich Yorkshireman, gold taps, cocktails on silver trays. She told me her dream, standing on the dung hill.’
Joe smiled. ‘What Prue wants, Prue’ll get. She’s a determined little thing if ever there was one.’
Their eyes met. They laughed.
‘Jesus, I was rash,’ said Joe, ‘but it didn’t seem worth resisting, offered like that on a plate. Couldn’t have lasted long – too dangerous, under my own roof. I like her spirit, though. And I don’t know any girl better at ploughing a straight furrow.’
Stella smiled, honoured to have been taken into Joe’s
confidence
.
She watched his eyes, suddenly dulled, trail round the hall.
‘Times like this,’ he said, ‘it hits you. Being one of the very few not in uniform. You feel such a rotten shirker.’
‘Well you certainly shouldn’t,’ said Stella. ‘Everyone knows if a man doesn’t join up it’s for good reason.’
‘Not much comfort in that sort of logic, I’m afraid. The day I failed my medical was the worst day of my life. Never forget it: this icy room with that poster on the wall – you know the one,
Your Country Needs You.
This cocky little doctor. Afraid your country doesn’t need
you
, my lad, he said. You can’t expect to fight the enemy if you’re fighting for your own breath. Stands to reason. I told him – I told him I was much better than I had been as a child – growing out of the asthma fast. But nothing would change his stubborn little mind. Same thing happened to my friend Robert – his lungs are seriously rotten. They laughed at him wasting their time, turning up for a medical. But Robert’s a pacifist at heart. He didn’t give a damn that he was ordered to stay at home. My ambition was to join the HAC.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Stella. She paused, knowing the inadequacy of any sympathy. ‘But think about what you are doing. Someone’s got to organize the massive job of feeding the country. Hallows Farm is making the sort of contribution you shouldn’t
undervalue
.’
Joe shrugged, looked Stella in the eye.
‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘You’re wise and you’re right. But I can’t help the guilt, the shame. I’d rather be fighting.’
Ag and her partner returned to the table. The four of them sat talking over more drinks. The wing commander was a married man, his wife at home in Edinburgh. In civilian life, they had won prizes for dancing. He missed regular dancing, he said.
As midnight drew near, the evening sloped into a minor key. The music slowed. Couples disappeared. Prue and her flight lieutenant were nowhere to be seen.
They reappeared just in time for the national anthem. Intent on reaching the table, Prue’s progress across the hall was uncertain. She leaned heavily on the flight lieutenant, his scant baby hair a pinkish gold under the harsh lights. Her ankles gave way several times, but he supported her nobly, rewarded with a constant, lipstick-smudged smile.
‘Rather overdone the gin and limes, I have,’ she said. ‘This is Barry.’
Barry had just time to shake hands all round before his body was flicked to attention by command of a thunderous chord from the band.
God Save Our Gracious King
boomed out. All the uniformed men, moments ago so slack and soft on the dance floor, now adopted unblinking rigidity. Prue, through the gin-induced silvering of her mind, somehow appreciated that to cling to Barry at this solemn moment might be unwise. Instead, she leaned against Joe with the lack of inhibition of an old friend who dares to impose. She then found herself firmly guided to the door between Ag and Stella.
They supported her in the doorway of the hall while Joe went to the Camp car park to fetch the Wolseley. Cold night air ripped through their bones. Barry, still in his upright national anthem position, boldly stayed close enough to the trio of girls to plant a kiss on top of the sagging head of the one in the middle.
‘See you, Prue,’ he said. Saluted. Left.
‘What did I tell you?’ Prue giggled. ‘Mind out – your feet! I think I’m going to be sick.’
After supper at Hallows Farm, Mr Lawrence went out to check a sick cow. Mrs Lawrence settled to a pile of darning by the wood fire, listening to a concert on the wireless. When her husband returned, he slumped in his usual chair, tipped back his head and shut his eyes.
‘Strange, having the place to ourselves again for an evening,’ ventured Mrs Lawrence.
Mr Lawrence nodded, but did not answer. He slept for a while, then roused himself to go to bed. Mrs Lawrence knew that if she followed him she would not sleep. She stayed where she was, put more logs on the fire as the night grew colder.
Sometime after midnight, she heard the car. Quickly she switched off lights and went to the window. She pulled back a little of the blackout stuff, peered through a chink. The girls and Joe were getting out of the car: there seemed to be some confusion. By the light of a full moon Mrs Lawrence could see a discussion between Joe, Stella, and Ag. Then Joe bent down to the front passenger seat. He emerged with Prue in his arms, awkwardly propped her up against the open car door. Mrs Lawrence had a brief glimpse of a floppy blonde head, smudged lips. Then she saw Joe pick up the girl, sling her over his shoulder like a sack. The thin legs and silly shoes twitched against him but Prue made no protest.
Mrs Lawrence stood in the darkness of the room watching the last flames. She heard Joe and the girls make their way upstairs.
There was laughter, urgent whispers as they urged each other to be quiet. Mrs Lawrence waited till she heard Joe return from the attic to his own room, shut the door. She wondered if there was any chance of waking John. Her own wakefulness, alone, was almost unbearable.
After the house had been silent for some time, she made her way to the sitting-room door, crept upstairs through the darkness to the bedroom. Would any of them tell her how the evening had been? She wondered, too, at her own curiosity, and the impatience she felt for the morning.
I
n the wake of his success as a lecturer, Ratty found himself newly impervious to Edith’s unreasonable behaviour. When she claimed it had been his fault the saucepan had flown through the window, and his fault it was lost, he did not offer to go and look for it (knowing quite well in which patch of long grass it lay) or attempt to extract himself from the blame. In silence, he ate fried vegetables and bacon, gleefully aware of Edith’s own distaste for fried food. Give her a few days, he thought, and the saucepan would be back, no explanation.
The girls, he was bound to admit, had grasped the nature of the sport better than he had supposed they would. The floozie swore she had seen a right great bugger of a rat hiding in its own shadow. Here, Ratty felt, was an element of exaggeration – it wasn’t something he often saw himself. He had a feeling she was trying to please, worm her way into his good books. The holy one, he must confess, had not come up to scratch. She reported one tail trail in the grain store – right enough – but tapped a wooden spoon on the side of a pan with such feebleness Ratty could tell her heart was not in it: the pathetic noise wouldn’t have scared a mouse. In a word, though Ratty hated even privately to recognize this, when it came to ratting the holy one was a disappointment.