Land Girls (31 page)

‘How many customers did you have, in the end, then?’ He tried to give the question lightness.

‘Seven or eight in all,’ said Edith, without hesitation. She moved away.

Fear spread over Ratty like a cold dew. From now on, for survival, he knew he must keep a close watch on Edith. Driven by some cankerous demon, there was no knowing how far she would go in her bitter hatred of mankind.

Ag went up to bed early. She was almost asleep when Stella and Prue returned from the late bus, string bags full of Christmas presents. Prue, flinging herself on her bed, chattered excitedly about the outing. She hadn’t a penny left, she said, but had bought all the presents she needed. No: they hadn’t found a Barry replacement in the tea-shop or in the pub, but a friendly old farmer had bought them two gin and limes and told them there was to be a New Year’s Eve party in the town hall to raise money for the Red Cross.

‘So there’s hope
there
.’ She giggled. ‘Barry’ll do till then.’

She lay on her back on the bed, lifted her legs, admiring the rayon stockings and dove-grey suede shoes, with their neat little pattern of holes, and thick platform soles.

‘So let’s hear about your news, then, Ag. What were you and Joe up to?’

‘We bought a lot of books, we had tea,’ said Ag.

‘Come on. You don’t expect Stella and me to believe that, do you? Not with two hours on your hands, Joe plainly keen for you.’

‘It’s the truth.’

Prue sighed, mock impatient. ‘We don’t want details, do we, Stella? We just want to know how it was. What it was like.’

Ag imitated the mock sigh. ‘Don’t go
on
, Prue. I’m almost asleep. I tell you, it was shopping and books. If you don’t believe me, I can’t help it.’

Prue screeched with laughter, squirming on the bed, clutching her knees to her chest. ‘I can see by the look on your face. Okay, you go to sleep. But we’ll get it out of you one day, see if we don’t.’ She winked at Stella.

It wasn’t till 1947, their second lunch after the war, that Ag confessed. By then the activities of the afternoon had turned to such fine dust in her memory that secrecy was no longer of any importance.

S
tella had never intended to go home for Christmas. She had had her two nights away and her mother, who drove ambulances for the Red Cross, was to be on duty in London. Ag had planned long and complicated train journeys to King’s Lynn. She would arrive home, after many hours waiting on cold platforms, late on Christmas Eve, and have two days with her father. She, like Prue, would return the day after Boxing Day. Both promised to undertake unpaid overtime when they came back.

On the night before their departure, Prue lighted the candles on the tree. She had devoted an entire half-day off to finding them. After several long bus journeys, and a ride in a farmer’s cart, she had returned triumphant with two dozen small red candles, and tin holders shaped like daisies. General appreciation made her declare her terrible afternoon had all been worth it. Mr Lawrence produced a new bottle of ginger wine, which they drank, from the pink glasses, round the fire. Small presents were exchanged. Ag came in with a tray of white hyacinths – a single flower for everyone, in a pot tied with a red bow. Mrs Lawrence gave Ag a parcel to take home with her. To Prue she gave a flat white envelope.

‘I know I shouldn’t, now,’ Prue said, ‘but I’m that intrigued I can’t wait.’

She sat down and split open the envelope. Dizzy blonde curls jumped excitedly round the tinsel star, left over from the decorations, on her head. She pulled out a Christmas card. A page of clothing coupons fell to the floor. She leapt up, incredulous, scarlet with pleasure.

‘Oh, Mrs Lawrence – I don’t believe it! Better than
diamonds
, better than anything you could possibly have thought of. Thank you ever so much.’

Prue hugged her employer, who stood stiffly by the tree. Small shadows from the candles flickered over Mrs Lawrence’s brown dress, softening the rigidity of her thin body. Unused to such celebration – for years Christmas had been just the three members of the family – she smiled at Prue’s delight.

‘When I get back,’ Prue gabbled on, ‘I’ll be off to some great town, kit myself out with a whole new wardrobe – you wait!’ The others laughed. ‘Can you really spare them?’

‘What would I do with them?’ asked Mrs Lawrence, glancing at her husband.

Joe refilled glasses. There was the sound of a hand-bell ringing outside. Then, singing.

‘That’ll be Ratty and his carol singers,’ said Mr Lawrence, going to the door.

Ratty trudged in, thickly coated and scarfed, carrying a church candle.

‘No lantern again this year, blackout rules, blasted war,’ he said, ‘and only these members of the choir willing to come with me.’

He was followed by two young boys, also holding candles. Each cupped a hand round the flame, so that their palms shone pinkly as shells, and a visible incense of cold blew off all three of them.

‘What’ll it be, then?’ asked Ratty. ‘Come all this way up the lane, we got to give you your pie’s worth.’

“‘In the bleak mid-winter”,’ suggested Ag.

This time last year she had heard it sung at King’s College. She had spent every minute of the carol service looking round for Desmond. She did not see him.

‘
In the bleak mid-winter
,’ the small choir began. Ratty’s deep growl made an unharmonious base to the boys’ pure voices. After a line or so, the others joined in. They stood in a semicircle, eyes filtering from flames of the fire to the miniature flames on the tree. They stood very upright, as if for ‘God Save the King’, private thoughts hidden behind the familiar words. A particularly sweet female voice stood out from the rest. Mr Lawrence let his eyes glide towards Stella. Tonight, as on the night of the dance, she was so beautiful in her unadorned way that he felt his heart contract, and a pricking behind his eyes. He quickly dashed his look from her face, left the room to fetch more glasses.

The evening passed with more carols, and hot mince pies sprinkled with sugar that Mrs Lawrence had been saving all autumn. Two bottles of ginger wine were drunk. The room had never been so warm. The candles on the tree burned down to their stubs. Prue extinguished them with an expert pinch of her fingers dampened with spit. Brief wisps of smoke replaced the flames. Ratty, confused by several drinks, observed to no one in particular: ‘Look at that! The floozie’s gone and filled the tree with smoke!’

He swayed slightly, pleased to find laughter at his comment. Had he said anything so foolish at home, Edith would have struck him. Joe took his arm.

‘And leave me be, thanks, Joe. The boys here’ll see me home. Sober up in the midnight clear, I will.’

He smiled for the first time since his lecture on ratting all those weeks ago. And, heaven forbid, bless her lovely heart, the holy one smiled the sweetest smile back. That made his Christmas, that did.

Not till after midnight did Ratty and the boys leave. Mrs Lawrence pulled back a corner of the blackout to watch their departure. The girls crowded round her. They could just make out the trio – dark figures against dark – moving across the yard, the boys each holding one of Ratty’s arms. With their free hands, they held up their candles, which made firefly lights to guide their way under a sky devoid of stars.

Prue and Ag left early next morning. Janet arrived in the evening.

She came in the Austin Seven, carrying a utility suitcase and a string bag of presents wrapped in Christmas paper. Mrs Lawrence was shutting up the hens, Joe was out somewhere, Mr Lawrence was affording himself the rare treat of an evening bath. Stella found herself the one to welcome Janet, who looked cold, pale and tired. She led her upstairs to the attic, where Janet was to sleep in Prue’s bed.

‘Goodness me … Aren’t you frozen up here? And no privacy. I wouldn’t like that.’

‘We’ve grown used to it,’ said Stella. ‘In fact I think we’d miss each other if we had separate rooms.’

‘Well, well. Better than a hostel, I suppose.’

Janet took off her grey coat, to reveal a grey skirt and matching jersey – clothes no more alive on her dull body than they would be on a coat hanger. She sat on Prue’s bed.

‘At least it’s comfortable,’ she said, with a grateful smile.

‘Why don’t you unpack your things? Prue’s cleared two top drawers. I’ll go down and make a pot of tea.’

‘I haven’t brought much. I’ll come with you. I’m not here to be waited on.’

‘Don’t be silly. You must be tired after the journey.’

‘Well, my goodness, I did get a little lost once it was dark, I must say. No signs make it so confusing. Don’t tell Joe: he’d think me so stupid. He’d never get lost.’

She pulled some hairpins from the roll of hair that coiled round the back of her neck. Shaking her head, she stirred her hair with cautious hands. Lustreless locks fell on to her shoulders, altering her face: the pale eyes seemed to retreat, while the nose gained prominence.

‘After I was here last time,’ she said, ‘seeing all of you … I thought maybe Joe would like me to let it loose over Christmas.’

Stella nodded kindly, unable to find an answer.

In the kitchen Mr and Mrs Lawrence were stuffing the turkey. Mr Lawrence held the bird’s thighs while his wife spooned in a coarse mixture of chestnut and onions. They greeted Janet without pausing in their task, leaving Stella to fetch the girl bread and tea.

‘What a lovely sight, very Christmassy,’ said Janet shyly. Stella observed a small shiver under the grey wool.

Then Joe came in, the dogs behind him. He did a swift double-take, for a second confused about the creature with forlorn locks. To mask his hesitation he hurried over to her, gave her a peck on the cheek.

‘Good journey? I’ve put the car in the barn.’

‘Oh, Joe. Thank you. Four and a half hours. Sorry I was a bit late.’

Joe was already far from her, washing his hands in the sink. He returned to the table, picked up the bread knife.

‘I’m famished,’ he said.

‘Let me,’ said Janet.

‘You never cut it thick enough.’ Thin smile.

‘Then let me get you a mug of tea.’

Janet stood up, awkwardly bustled between stove and table. Her desire to please was so blatant Stella found it painful to watch.

‘I mean, goodness me, I’m here to help, you know.’

‘That’s very kind, Janet,’ said Mrs Lawrence, after a silence which no one else attempted to fill, ‘but I should think you could do with a couple of days’ rest.’

She pulled a flap of skin across the stuffing-filled cavity. Mr Lawrence let go of the bird’s legs, wiped his hands on his corduroy trousers. His eyes drifted over the grey figure of his future daughter-in-law before swerving to Stella, healthy-cheeked under the kitchen light, messy hair lit with reddish gold. She gave him so faint a smile he understood it was private. In
acknowledgement
, Mr Lawrence returned her sign with so slight a movement of his mouth that it, too, went unobserved by the others.

None of the gaiety of the previous evening prevailed. The hours were long until it was time to go to church. They sat by the fire listening to carols on the Third Programme: Mrs Lawrence with her usual darning, her husband stretched out in his customary position, eyes closed. Janet placed herself close to Joe on the sofa. He concentrated on a crossword puzzle, only half listening to her news about life as a sparking-plug tester.

‘It’s getting so cold, the work, now, we freeze to the bone,’ she was saying. ‘We take turns in getting the sniffles, although none of us ever takes a day off. I’m still hoping to become a radiographer, but the path doesn’t seem clear. I talked to Andy Barrett – he’s our boss – about it the other day: he said he’d bear it in mind but didn’t hold out much hope.’

Janet’s prominent ankle bones just touched each other: she always sat with her feet together, as if for security, Stella noticed. Her hands were in their habitual position, too – tense on her lap, fingers of the right one rubbing knuckles of the left.

‘Actually,’ Janet went on, with a coy look at Joe, ‘Andy called me aside last week.’

She paused, waiting for the impact of this information. Joe carried on with his puzzle. The small attempt to arouse jealousy, or at least interest, was pathetic. Stella felt acutely for her.

‘But don’t worry, Joe – it was nothing, really.’ Janet, suddenly bold, nuzzled one of her fiancé’s knees with a screwed-up fist. ‘It was just that apparently his wife was having trouble setting up their Anderson shelter. Would I take a few hours off and help her, he said. Of course, I could tell he didn’t approve of the whole idea, anyhow. “I said to Marion,” he said, “what do you want with an Anderson shelter out here? We’re not London. It’s not the Blitz, here.” But she’s apparently the nervous type, Marion, and insisted. So, anyway, off I go. At least it made a change, an afternoon digging up earth in their back garden, trying to stop it sliding off the roof of the shelter. We did quite a good job of it together, Marion and me. But was Andy grateful? Huh! We’d made a b-awful mess of his Brussels sprouts was all he said.’ Janet returned her hand to its place on her own knee. “‘People like Marion go to pieces in a war,” he said, which I thought was rather unkind, don’t you?’

Stella nodded, to make up for lack of agreement from anyone else. From the hall came the unusual sound of the telephone. It had not rung more than a dozen times since the girls’ arrival. The older Lawrences regarded it with misgiving. For them it was an instrument that conveyed either bad news from John’s brother in Yorkshire, or dull information. None of them stirred. Puzzled by their peculiar reluctance to answer it, Stella – to whom the telephone had been a wondrous link with the love objects in the past – offered to do so herself.