‘I can’t explain – I can’t ever explain.’
‘No, well, OK, but put this round you. You’re shivering.’ He fumbled to put the jacket round her shoulders.
‘I don’t want your bloody jacket. I want . . . I don’t know what I want.’
His jacket rejected, Johnny put an arm round her shoulders with a sudden firmness of purpose. He pulled her close to him and kissed her cheeks, which were awash with salt tears. Prue resisted
for no more than a moment. Exhausted, despairing, not caring, she lay back on the bale. She could feel the strange, light weight of him, and the rasping of their two sodden shirts. She heard him
saying things, but couldn’t be sure what they were.
A few moments later Prue was able to sit up. She was no longer crying. She knew her cheeks were black and her lipstick was all over the place, and the rain was still drumming in her ears. Johnny
was on his back beside her.
‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how that came about. I—’
‘Let’s not talk about it.’ On one of the nearby bales Johnny’s wet but well ironed, prissy trousers lay neatly folded. When had he had time to fold them up? It had all
been so hurried. Prue felt sick. ‘We’d better be getting back,’ she said. ‘Long way to go.’
Johnny bent his long thin legs: his shoes had gone but green socks were held up by suspenders. Droopy underpants were askew round his thighs. He sat, stood, reached for the trousers. Repelled,
appalled, Prue looked away.
They slid down the bales, dashed out into the bare yard cross-hatched with rain – a place that seemed unrecognizable, as things often seemed to Prue when they were touched by unusual
events. They hurried to the car in the lane. Johnny got into the driver’s seat. Prue, glancing at his grim profile, could not decide whether he was full of fury or afraid of her own
wrath.
Half an hour later Prue patted her wet hair. ‘Must have left my bow in the hay,’ she said. ‘When the new people come across it one day, they’ll wonder.’
After that, neither of them spoke till they reached The Larches.
F
or three days after their visit to Hallows Farm Prue did not see Johnny. Each morning when she went to feed the chickens she looked up at his
window, but there was no sign of him. On the fourth day he was at his usual place, and waved. Then he beckoned. For a moment Prue wondered whether or not to go to his flat. She was not sure what
she felt. The anger that had struck her in the barn had long since disappeared. What had taken place there had not been rape, but apathy on her part. It had been a one-off, and there had been many
of those. It had meant nothing to her. But she wondered, as she had constantly wondered since they had got back, what Johnny was thinking. Was he apologetic, pleased he’d had his way,
ashamed? Eager to find out, Prue abandoned the thought of ignoring him, and knocked on the door of his flat.
‘Oh there you are,’ he said, and immediately turned from her, a slight flush rearing up his neck, and made for the kettle.
‘You haven’t been around, at least not at your window,’ said Prue. She took her usual place in the arthritic chair by the window.
‘No.’ A few silent moments later he handed her a cup of coffee. ‘The Ganders are looking forward to meeting you,’ he said. ‘I thought we might go over this
afternoon, if that’s convenient.’ There was a trace of sarcasm in his voice that Prue had never heard before. He was indicating that he knew her afternoon, like most of her afternoons,
would be empty.
‘The Ganders? You mean the farmer I might work for?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well. Fine. That would be OK – this afternoon.’ Prue concentrated on her coffee. She was determined not to be the one to bring up the subject of the incident in the barn.
‘I suppose we’d better get the matter of . . . the other day cleared up,’ Johnny said after a while. ‘Then I hope we’ll be back to normal.’
‘I hope so.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. At least, I do. I was suddenly gripped by the longing to comfort you. You seemed so sad, so overcome, back in your barn.’
‘You don’t have to explain,’ said Prue. She was troubled by the harshness of his voice and the regret in his eyes.
‘But I want to. I don’t want you to think I’d planned to take you to the barn at Hallows Farm on purpose to seduce you.’
‘I didn’t think that.’
‘It was completely spontaneous. What I had in mind was . . . just a hug, brotherly, sisterly. But it went wrong. Got out of hand. I mean, you’re not exactly resistible.’ He
gave the faintest grim smile. ‘And somehow, weakness of the flesh and all that, my planned brief hug turned into—’
‘Quite.’
‘What happened was a misjudgement.’
Having heard this word from Joe so recently, Prue flinched. ‘Heavens, Johnny,’ she said, as lightly as she could, ‘we all misjudge all the time.’
‘Are you angry with me?’
‘Not any more.’
‘Thank God for that.’ He came and sat down on the chair opposite her. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m the kind of man bent on seducing other men’s
wives.’
‘Of course not. I’ve never had any such thought.’
Johnny now gave a wider smile, almost back to his usual demeanour. ‘You have to admit, when we first met, I didn’t respond with so much as a flicker to your flirting.’
‘My flirting?’ Prue was shrill with mock-indignation.
‘There was the odd cock of the head, the odd look, the occasional positioning yourself close enough for me to ease an arm round your shoulders had I felt inclined – wasn’t
there?’
Prue laughed, really laughed. ‘Honestly, Johnny, I’m surprised you noticed. You call that flirting? I know when I was younger I was a bit wild, but I’m a married woman now,
aren’t I? And I behave with – what’s the word Ag was always using? – decorum. That’s it. I behave with “the utmost decorum”.’ She said this in what
she liked to think was a grand, prim voice.
Johnny laughed too. ‘What I’d like to suggest . . .’ He clasped his hands, perhaps to stop their slight shaking, perhaps to assist his thoughts. ‘What I’d like is
that we put all this behind us. No need to mention it again. Go back to being straight and narrow friends. I’d hate to lose you. There aren’t many people here—’
‘Agreed,’ said Prue. ‘Let’s just carry on as before.’ She felt the small thrust of a tear behind one eye, and quickly stood up.
‘I’ll pick you up at two,’ said Johnny. ‘I think we’d better go in my van. Mr Gander might be unnerved by the Sunbeam Talbot. It might make him think you’re
not the sort of girl he’s looking for.’
‘Fine. I like your van.’
Johnny held the door open for her. Recently, on meeting and parting, they had exchanged a quick peck on the cheek. Now Johnny made no move to approach her for their customary farewell. Prue
shrugged. The tear continued to threaten. She wondered if their friendship could ever be quite the same again, or if its innocence was shadowed for good. The Ganders’ farm was only a
twenty-minute drive away, an oddly rustic place so near to Manchester. Johnny explained that Steve Gander was a widower. He lived with his daughter, Dawn, and son-in-law Bert, a printer, who worked
in the city.
‘Dawn’s a bit of an odd one,’ he said. ‘Chippy. You want to mind your words there. Just keep asking about her is the best thing. She won’t want to know about
you.’
‘Right.’ Prue, looking out at the unkempt hedges, was wondering whether this was going to be the job of her dreams, after all. The van bumped down an uneven track to a clear area of
rough land on which the farmhouse stood. ‘Farmhouse?’ said Prue. ‘It’s the most hideous bungalow I’ve ever seen.’
‘Well, you won’t be in it much. And I do promise you the view from the other side is a surprise. Wonderful oaks, elms, ash, chestnut. Must have been someone’s carefully planned
wood in the past. When the Ganders bought the land they just chopped down half of it to build the bungalow.’
They parked in a corner beside a large farm building made of corrugated iron. Prue, glancing inside, was pleased to see a jumble of farm tools, an old tractor and a large stack of pig feed.
‘Wow, Prue,’ she heard Johnny say. ‘I’ve only just noticed.’ He looked her up and down, fighting natural appraisal. ‘Your land-girl gear?’
‘Just the breeches.’ Prue blushed. ‘OK, do you think?’
‘Fine.’
‘I mean, I’ll wear them when I work here. Why not?’
‘Why not?’ Johnny laughed. ‘There’s Steve. Come and meet him.’
A small bent man was hobbling towards them. He wore gaiters and a cap whose tweed shone greasily with age. A pipe hung from his mouth. When they were close enough to shake hands he removed the
pipe to a place between his ear and the cap. The smoke stood up like a feather. Prue had to control her smile.
‘Welcome, my dear,’ said Steve Gander, gathering Prue’s hand in both of his. The hard roughness of his skin felt unnervingly familiar: farmer’s hands, Mr Lawrence’s
hands. His eyes flicked up and down Prue. He gave a thrilled wail. ‘Well I never! Well I be dashed! You a land girl, were you? I believe Johnny mentioned it.’ Prue nodded.
‘I’m proud to meet you. I want to shake you by the hand again.’ This he did, squeezing her fingers till they hurt. ‘What would we have done without you? I always wanted our
Dawn to join the Land Army, but it wasn’t for her, she said. She’s never been one to get up early. So my wife did the milking, Dawn did her best at the stove.’
‘Do you still have cows?’ Prue withdrew her hand.
‘That we don’t. We had a fine herd of Herefords before the war, but had to turn over to arable like everyone else. Once it was over I hadn’t the heart to start again.’ He
turned towards the bungalow, retrieved his pipe and waved it about. ‘As you can see, things have gone downhill a bit. Amy gone, it’s not the same. But I was hoping you might help us get
it together again, few hours a week.’
‘I’d love to try,’ said Prue.
‘Let’s go into house. Dawn’ll maybe get us a cup of tea.’
Johnny and Prue followed his rocking progress to the front door of the bungalow, a building of rough grey concrete and window-panes in rusting frames. The old man had some trouble pushing open
the front door, obviously not often used. ‘Don’t usually go in this way,’ he said, ‘but I’d like you to see . . .’
Prue was expecting a dark passage, in keeping with the outside, and it
was
dark, painted a sour brown – but the paint was scarcely visible between the dozens of glass boxes of
butterflies on the walls. Steve turned on a switch. Strings of small bulbs lit up in the cases. The colours were brilliant in the dusky light of the corridor. Prue went from case to case, enchanted
by the fragile wings so carefully preserved.
‘Used to be my hobby, butterflies,’ he said. ‘When I was a lad I went all over, collecting. I was in the Merchant Navy so I had the opportunity – all over the world. Very
fine specimens I was lucky enough to find. They’ve done me well. I spend a lot of time here, just looking. Dawn, now – well, it could be said Dawn doesn’t see the point of
butterflies the way I do.’
He turned off the lights. In the instant gloom the creatures’ colours were lowered into a minor key, but still they glowed magically.
Steve led them to the kitchen, a room so crowded with furniture, boxes, piles of old newspaper and general detritus that it was hard to weave through the junk to chairs at a chaotic table. A
very tall, bony woman was pouring tea. ‘Dawn,’ he said. ‘This is my daughter Dawn. Looks after me. Dawn, this is Prue, coming to help us out. You know Johnny.’
By way of acknowledgement Dawn blinked lashless eyes in Prue’s direction. She gave a reluctant smile that was hampered by a pair of exceptionally long front teeth. ‘Hello,’ she
said. ‘What – you the land girl?’
‘I was once,’ said Prue.
Dawn banged the teapot onto the table. ‘If you ask me, they didn’t know how to behave,’ she said.
‘No one’s asking your opinion,’ her father quietly chided.
‘I’ve got a friend who knew a land girl,’ Dawn went on. ‘You’d be shocked if I told you what they got up to.’ Prue and Johnny exchanged a glance.
‘They weren’t all the same, Dawn,’ said Steve. ‘And it’s good for us we’ve found someone who knows about farm work.’
‘Maybe,’ said Dawn, and left the room.
Over the horribly strong tea Steve began to explain the kind of job he would want Prue to do. ‘The pigs,’ he said. ‘They’re in a field down the hill, round the other
side.’
‘I love pigs,’ said Prue.
Steve clattered at his teeth with the stem of his pipe. ‘Some of them can be right buggers,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to mind your step.’
Dawn came storming back into the room. ‘The main thing for you to take over,’ she said, sitting down next to Prue, ‘is my job.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Exercising my horse. Jack the Lad.’
As she showed no sign of explaining any further, Steve braced himself, with a long suck on his pipe, to enlighten Prue. ‘See, before the war we bred Shires. Amy loved them. Suffolk
Punches, Clydesdales – won a lot of prizes. We kept three for the field work in the war, but then . . . they went the same way as the cows. Great pity.’
‘But we kept Jack the Lad,’ Dawn suddenly offered, with a liveliness she had not previously displayed, ‘because he’s my horse. He’s a bloody great stallion.
Marvellous. I love Jack.’
Prue saw Johnny had turned away from the table and was concentrating hard on the view from the window. His mouth twitched as he fought a smile.
‘It was like this,’ Steve went on. ‘He was a fine stallion. We’d this idea of keeping him, getting another mare one day. But that wasn’t to be. And he became
– how can I put it? – restless. Dangerous, sometimes. He’d go for people.’
‘Not for me.’ Dawn banged the table.
‘Not for you, Dawn, no. But in he end there was nothing for it. We had to have him cut.’
‘I’ve never forgiven my father for that.’ Dawn banged the table harder.
‘No. But he’s a lovely quiet horse, now, docile as a lamb. He can live out his days here, far as I’m concerned.’ Steve averted his eyes from his furious daughter, turned
to Prue. ‘Thing is, there’s not much for him to do. Bit of harrowing, that’s all. So he’s bored. He needs a bit of exercise.’