Stella saw Mrs Lawrence’s eyes raised to her husband’s flushed face.
He went with the girls out into the cold early air of the yard. Stella followed him to the shed where she would receive her ‘training’, as he called it.
As she walked beside him, the squelch of their gumboots in step, the farmer felt an acute sense of betrayal.
He kept his eyes from Stella, and cursed the war.
Ag stood alone in the yard, hands in her pockets, wondering what to do. She could see no one who might be Ratty Tyler, and did not feel like shouting his name. Ratty? Mr Tyler? What was she supposed to call him? And who was he? Ag listened to the sharp clash of farmyard noises. She dreaded Mr Lawrence returning from the shed, to which he had gone with Stella, and finding her not at work.
A tall, large-boned man, hooded lids over very dark eyes, appeared from behind the barn. He carried a heavy spade, a pitchfork and a broom. Unsmiling, he approached Ag.
‘Thought you might be wanting these,’ he said.
‘Thanks. I was looking for Mr Tyler.’
‘Ratty appears when he appears. I’m Joe.’
‘I’m Ag.’
Joe handed her the broom. He had had a hard five minutes in the barn trying to persuade Ratty to come out and show the girl what to do. But Ratty, in one of his most stubborn moods, insisted on staying hidden. He wanted to sum up the strangers unseen, he said. Take his time to get used to them. Joe was sympathetic. But in the end he took pity on the tall girl in the yard and agreed with Ratty to set her on her way.
‘You want to sweep the yard absolutely clean, sluice down the drains with Dettol – buckets and water over there. Dung heap’s round the corner. Pigsty’s past the cowshed: only the one sow. Not good-tempered. Shouldn’t get in her way. Plenty of clean straw in the barn. I’ll be milking if you want anything.’
He strode away. Their eyes had never met.
Ag tested the weight of the broom, surprised at its heaviness. She must devise her own method, she thought, and began sweeping the corner farthest from the barn.
As there was no sign of Joe Lawrence in the milking shed, Prue took her chance to become acquainted with the cows. They were a herd of twenty Friesians. Each one, chained to her manger, had a name over the stall: Betty, Emma, Daisy, Floss, Rosie, Nancy – Prue wondered if she would ever be able to distinguish between them. She observed their muddy legs, but clean flanks and spotless udders. Looked as if someone else had done the washing down, thank goodness. That was the part of this job she could never fancy.
Prue came to an almost entirely black cow, Felicity. She had particularly intelligent and gentle eyes, surrounded by long blueish eyelashes. Prue wondered what they would look like with mascara, and smiled to herself. She glanced down at the swollen pink udder, with its obscene marbling of raised veins. She ran a finger the whole length of Felicity’s spine, the wrong way, so that the cow’s black hair was forced up over the bone.
‘I like you,’ she said aloud.
She raised her eyes above the animal’s spine and found herself looking into the hooded eyes of the man she assumed was Joe. Cor!
He
was quite something … Her mind flicked through the handsome film stars she had dreamed of, but could come up with no one comparable. Anyway, she quickly decided, she’d be happy to sacrifice ploughing, and milk the whole herd morning and night if this Joe was to be her supervisor. His eyes shifted, expressionless, a bit
spooky
, to her hair, the bow. Funny how she’d been impervious to everybody else’s opinion, but there was something about Joe’s look that made her feel a bit foolish. The one thing she did not want was instant disapproval. That would start them off on the wrong foot.
‘Why’s she called Felicity, this one?’ she asked at last, head on one side, coquettish – a gesture she had learned from Veronica Lake.
‘She was a happy calf. She’s a happy cow.’ Joe slapped Felicity on the rump. He seemed to have forgotten about the bow.
‘Can I start on her?’
‘No. We start at the other end with Jemima.’
Prue pouted. ‘I’m Prue, by the way. Your father calls me
Prudence
.’
‘I know. How’s your milking?’
‘Just the few weeks on the training course. I’m not bad.’
‘Gather you’re keen to get on the tractor.’
‘I
said
that, just in case Mr Lawrence had any ideas about women not liking ploughing. I’m quite happy to milk.’
‘Rather enjoy it myself. A lot of farms have gone over to machines. Isn’t really worth it for a herd of our size, though Dad was talking about it before this bloody interruption.’ They both listened to the noise of a small aircraft squealing overhead. Joe pointed to the far end of the shed. ‘There are a couple I haven’t washed down – Sylvia and Rose. Mop, bucket and towels through there. Rule here is that we change the water every two cows. Stool and milking bucket in the dairy. I’ll show you how to put on the cooling machine when we’ve finished.’
‘Don’t worry. I
understand
about cooling machines,’ said Prue. She managed to sound as if her understanding went far beyond mere technicalities.
‘We should get going. I’m running late this morning, seeing to your friend.’
‘I’ll make a start.’
Prue blushed with annoyance: to think that Ag, asked merely to sweep the yard, had been the first to engage Joe’s attention. She moved slowly down the concrete avenue that divided the two rows of cows’ backsides, swinging her hips. Joe’s eyes, she knew, were still on her. She picked up the mop and bucket with the calculated flourish of a star performer, and began to swab Sylvia’s bulging udder as if the job was a movement in a dance. When she had finished washing both cows, she sauntered back to where Joe was milking a restless creature called Mary.
‘And where,’ she asked, hand on one hip, provocative as she could manage in her given surroundings, ‘might I find a cup for the fore milk?’
Joe released Mary’s teats. He looked up at Prue, impassive. ‘I don’t believe we have one,’ he said.
‘Don’t have one?’ Prue’s voice was mock amazed. ‘We were taught it was
essential
—’
‘Dare say you were. We don’t do everything by the book, here. We just draw off the first few threads before starting with the bucket.’ He turned back to his milking.
‘On to the
floor
? Do you suppose,’ said Prue, after a few moments of listening to the rhythmic swish of Mary’s milk hitting the bucket, ‘this is a matter I should bring up with your father? Or the district commissioner? Or—?’
‘Bring it up with who you bloody like,’ said Joe. Although his face was half-obscured by Mary’s flank, Prue could see he was smiling.
In the dairy, she washed her hands with carbolic soap in the basin. She was aware of a small triumph, a feeling that some mutual challenge had been recognized. If nothing else, a teasing game could be played with Joe. That would give an edge to the boring old farm jobs – and who knows? One game leads to another …
Astride the small milking stool, head buried in Jemima’s side, hands working expertly on the hard cold teats, Prue allowed herself the thrill of daydreams. Surprisingly, she was enjoying herself. She liked the peaceful noises – muted stamp of hooves, and chink of neck chains – that accompanied the treble notes as jets of milk sizzled against metal bucket. She was aware that the sweet, hay smell of cow breath obliterated her own
Nuits de Paris
– she would tell Mr Lawrence, at the right moment, he need have no fears. The thought of the hugeness of Joe’s boots made her feel at home, somehow – which was an odd thought considering this chilly milking parlour was as far away from her mother’s front parlour as you could get. She found herself praying that milking would be her regular job, if Joe was to be her milking partner. But her mind was diverted from imagining the many possibilities of this partnership by the distant sound of rattling marbles. She stiffened.
‘Miles away,’ shouted Joe. Just practice, by the sound of it.’
Prue waited tensely for a few moments, fingers slack on the teats. She had forgotten the war. She stood up, easily lifted the bucket of foamy milk. It smelt faintly of cowslips. Beaten Joe to it, she saw with pleasure. It was tempting to point out to him what a quick milker she was. But Prue decided against this. She went to the dairy, sloshed the milk into the cooling machine and chose a bucket from the sterilizing tank for the next cow. She had had her one small victory this morning. That was enough to begin with.
Stella, when she saw her ‘cow’, laughed out loud. It was a crude, ingenious device: a frame made of four legs, inward sloping, like the legs of a trestle table. From its top was slung a canvas bag roughly shaped like an udder and from which dangled four rubber teats the pink of gladioli. It reminded Stella of a pantomime cow.
‘Oh Mr Lawrence,’ she said, ‘is this to be my apprenticeship?’
‘Won’t take long. You’ll soon get used to it.’
Mr Lawrence gave her one of his curt smiles. He picked up a bucket of yesterday’s milk and poured it into the bag. Then he squatted down on the stool drawn up to the ersatz udder, placed the bucket beneath the empty bag, and took a teat in the fingers of both hands.
He was no expert, and was aware of the ridiculous picture he made. His fingers were curiously shaky. A feeble string of milk trickled from the teat.
‘Easier on a real cow,’ he said. ‘Here, you have a go.’
Stella took his place, held the smooth pink teat.
‘It’s a rhythm you want to aim for,’ he explained, when he had watched her for a while. ‘Once you’ve got the rhythm, you’re there, and the cow’s happy. That’s it, that’s a girl.’ The farmer moved proudly back from his pupil. She was bright, this one, as well as attractive. ‘Fill the bucket a couple of times, and you can be on to the real thing tomorrow. All right?’
‘Fine.’
Mr Lawrence allowed himself a few moments in silent appraisal. Funny girl. So formal in her speech, and yet so quick. He let his eyes rest on her back, the pretty hair tumbling forwards. Where it parted he could see a small patch of her neck, no bigger than a man’s thumbprint. With all his being he wanted to touch it, just touch it for an infinitesimal moment, feel its warmth. As he stood there, fighting his appalling desire, his hands and knees began to shake. Dizziness confused his head. Stella’s voice came from a long way off.
‘Am I doing all right, d’you think?’
It was several moments – silence rasped by the silly sound of the squirting milk – before he dared answer. ‘You’re doing fine.’
He took a step towards her, watched his hand leave his side, stretch out to her innocent back: hover, quiver, withdraw.
Stella turned, smiling. She saw what she thought was a look of deep misgiving in Mr Lawrence’s eyes. The shyness of the man! It must be dreadful, she thought, to find the peace of Hallows Farm suddenly disrupted by unskilled girls from other worlds. Sympathy engulfed her, but she could think of no appropriate words with which to convey her feelings.
‘I’ll be back in a while,’ Mr Lawrence said. He waited till Stella returned to concentrate on the rubber teats, and quickly left the shed.
Alone, Stella sniffed the sour milk and manure smell of the shed. It was cold, damp. Her fingers on the teats were turning mauve. She determined to get her peculiar training over as fast as possible, and concentrated on the rhythmic massage of the ludicrous teats. At the same time she began to compose the funny letter she would write to Philip tonight:
my first day a land girl
–
with a rubber cow
. This prompted the thought of the post. Philip had promised to write immediately. She ached to hear from him. The two hours till breakfast, when she could ask about the delivery of letters, seemed an eternity. In some desolation, Stella looked down at the thin covering of milk on the bottom of the bucket.
Two hours later, shoulders and legs stiff from the awkward position (it would be much more comfortable with a real cow to lean against), Stella rose and stretched, her apprenticeship, she hoped, over. She had filled the bucket twice and felt like a qualified milker. Once she had got the hang of it – the rhythm, as Mr Lawrence had said – it had been quite easy. Behind the gentle splish-splash of the milk she had dreamed of Philip, going over in her mind every detail of the few occasions on which they had met. And when she swooped back to the present, she saw the humour of her situation – the adrenalin of being in love making bearable the milking of an imitation cow.
Now, she leaned over the bottom half of the shed door, looked out on to the yard. The Friesians were ambling towards the gate. They took turns to enjoy the distractions of familiar sights. Sometimes one would pause to give a bellow, puffing silver bells of breath into the sharp sunny air. Stella understood their lack of concentration, and smiled at the sight of Prue and Ag urging them on, with the occasional tentative whack of a stick. Prue’s pink bow had lost some of its former buoyancy but still fluttered among her blonde curls like a small demented bird. She bounced and jiggled and enjoyed shouting bossily to the cows. In contrast, Ag walked with large dignified strides, never raising her voice. There was something both peaceful and wistful in her face. Stella felt drawn to this girl, wondered about her.
The last cow left the yard. At that moment two men came out of the barn. Stella assumed the tall one to be Joe, and recognized at once the shape of the man she had seen last night. His hand was on the shoulder of the much older man who wore thickly corrugated breeches and highly polished lace-up boots, the uniform of grooms before the last war. Joe seemed to be trying to persuade the old man of something, and was meeting resistance. On their way across the yard, Joe looked up and spotted Stella.
‘Breakfast,’ he shouted, but did not wait for her.
The idea of breakfast reminded Stella of her hunger. But reluctant to go into the kitchen alone, she made her way down the lane to meet the others returning from the meadow. They, too, declared their hunger. All three compared stiff joints and cold fingers, and hurried back to the farmhouse.