Land Girls (10 page)

In her last letter to Philip, Stella had tried to describe how she enjoyed the privacy of leaves, their green flickering with sun and shadow all about her, the whispery silence snapped by the breaking of a twig or the rhythmic thud of the new fruit dropping into the basket. Even as she wrote such things, she had been aware of her mistake. In their short acquaintance, Philip had never shown much interest in nature: most probably all he wanted to hear were declarations of undying devotion. She had
included
those, of course, at the end, but had wanted to convey what it felt like, this strange land girl life – one moment so funny, milking the rubber cow, another so hidden, among the fruit. She had written him three letters. By now, although her impatience for a reply was almost unbearable, she decided to prolong the agony. The reading of the letter would be a reward for filling the basket.

Stella picked faster than ever before, with agitated fingers. Yellow freckles were beginning to splatter the leaves. Some of the fruit had burst upon the stem. From the gashes in the flesh, a kind of transparent gelatinous stuff had bubbled up and hardened, and sparkled fiercely as crystal. Stella threw these wounded fruit into the long grass under the tree. Sometimes she tried to polish a damson before eating it, but could not brush the blue haze from its skin. Damsons could not be made to shine like plums. Each fruit has its reasons, she supposed: fruits had as many different habits as roses. But she was too excited to dwell further on the nature of damsons, and as she was alone in the orchard she sang ‘The Rose of Tralee’ out loud in her clear voice. The letter burned in her pocket.

The basket was full. Stella wedged it between two branches. She could see no more damsons within reach. Her brown arms were warm, her job well done. She settled herself on the platform of the stepladder in an archway of branches, tore at the envelope of cheap paper that was standard issue for officers on HMS
Apollo
. There was a single sheet within. As Stella began reading, the leaf shadow jigged among the words, at first confusing. 

Stella read the letter twice, incredulous. She crumpled up the horrible paper, then quickly straightened it out again, returned it to the envelope and put it back in her pocket.

There was nothing between those lines: nothing, nothing.

She lifted down the basket of damsons – oh, the stupid hope that had speeded her picking! – struggled back down the ladder, and set it on the ground. Then she sat in the grass beside it, leaned back against the trunk of the tree. She found tears of furious disappointment plundering her cheeks. She bit her knuckles to silence her sobs. How could he? How could a man who so recently had declared himself so passionately in love write such a hopeless, useless letter, giving her no indication of how life was at sea, how he felt, how he loved and missed her? Whereas she had done so much describing, so much declaring.

When the worst of her sobs were over, a new thought came. Perhaps it was merely that Philip didn’t like writing letters. There were, amazingly, such people. A dynamic communicator of the flesh, perhaps he suffered from gross disability when it came to expressing himself on paper. Perhaps he had no notion of the pleasure of winging thoughts to someone else, or indeed the pleasure such a letter would give. That must be it, surely. No man was perfect, and the man she loved had just one small imperfection: rotten at letters. There could be many worse faults: she must consider herself lucky. Besides, once the war was over, there would be no need to correspond. They would be married almost at once.

Consoled by such thoughts, although they scarcely added up to a satisfactory solution, Stella got up at last, lifted the heavy basket of damsons. She dried her tears with the coarse wool of her sleeve, and turned to make her way back to the farm. Joe was coming towards her, not ten yards away. There was no escaping him.

With just a yard between them, he stopped. ‘Anything wrong?’

Stella sniffed, managed a smile. ‘Not really, thanks. Just overcome by my first letter from Philip.’

‘Ah. He’s, what …?’

‘Sub-lieutenant. HMS
Apollo
. Escorting convoys across the Channel, that sort of thing. Nothing exciting. Hasn’t seen any fighting yet.’

‘Lucky.’

‘Anyway …’ Stella shrugged, prepared to move.

‘It must be worrying. I mean, all the time.’

Stella nodded. ‘The missing,’ she said. ‘The waiting for leave. The not knowing. Still, after the war we’ll get married straight away. At least, I suppose we will.’

‘Might not be too long a wait.’

‘Hope not.
You
must know what it’s like: you and Janet. Waiting.’

‘I was on my way to see how Prue was getting on,’ said Joe, as if he had not heard her. ‘If there’s a single wavy furrow, there’ll be trouble.’

Stella found herself laughing.

Leaning against the gate, Joe watched Prue for some time before she saw him. The tractor was at the far end of the field, its snorting reduced to a distant stutter. The tiny figure of its driver, very upright, was bobbing up and down on the seat, so light she was bounced by every jolt. There was a speck of colour just visible on her head – a scarlet bow. In the air just behind her, a flotilla of gulls dipped and soared, while on the ground the dark earth was dragged into a sluggish wave by the teeth of the ploughshare.

The tractor disappeared down a dip in the land, the noise of its engine now even fainter. A hundred yards to the hedge, Joe calculated, then it would have to turn. He waited to see it reappear over the slope.

But there was sudden, complete silence. After a few moments, Joe shifted his position. He made no move to enter the field. For some minutes, weight on the gate, he let his eyes follow a collection of clouds that chased, crashed, snapped off and went their newly ragged ways. At last a couple of snorts puckered the silence, then the rhythmic stutter began again, and the gulls reappeared.

Joe’s eyes never left the tractor as it chuntered towards him across the long field: he saw the precise moment Prue noticed him, clutched harder at the steering wheel, deciding not to wave. She had managed almost a quarter of the field – not fast, but reasonably straight. When Prue was almost at the gate she stopped the tractor, but did not turn off the engine.

‘How’m I doing?’ she shouted.

Joe touched his forelock with a seriousness to match hers.

‘Not bad. Not bad at all.’

‘I’ve had trouble stalling.’

‘Remembered to put in the paraffin?’

‘’Course.’

‘And the sewing-machine oil?’

‘What d’you take me for?’

‘How about the plugs?’

‘I checked them, idiot.’

‘I’ll look at her when you come in.’ He made to open the gate.

‘I’m not coming.’ Prue began to pull at the heavy steering wheel, a dimpling of sweat on her nose and scarlet cheeks. ‘So don’t bother.’

‘It’s lunch-time, near as dammit.’

‘I’m not eating a thing till I’ve finished this bloody field.’

Their eyes met.

‘Very well,’ shouted Joe. ‘I’ll tell Ma …’

The tractor was turning. She managed it with skill. For several moments longer, deep in thought, Joe watched the bobbing and leaping of her small bottom and the bow on her bouncing hair, then made his way to the barn.

‘Trouble with hedges is they don’t stand still,’ Mr Lawrence explained to Ag as they walked the lane carrying their hooks, bill-hooks and slashers. ‘They get in the hell of a mess if they’re not cared for, sprawling out into the fields either side, clogging the ditches. Some people think hedging’s a boring business, but I’m not one of them. In fact, there’s no job on the farm I like better. You’ve got something to show for your work very quickly, besides a pile of firewood. There’s a lot of satisfaction.’

Ag nodded in silence, wondering how skilled she would be at wielding the heavy tools.

They arrived at the destined thorn hedge, which divided a recently cut cornfield from a strip of mangolds. There were ditches, invisible under a mess of bramble and wayward shoots, both sides. Ag let her eyes trail the length of the hedge, which ended at the entrance to a small copse. She doubted her enthusiasm for trimming it into shape would match that of her employer, but gave a gallant smile.

‘Don’t despair,’ said Mr Lawrence. ‘You’ll soon get the hang of it.’

He started to hack dead wood from the bottom, singling out new young shoots to judge their worthiness of being left to flower. The hedge, he explained, was a windbreak, so it should be left at a good height.

‘I’ve been neglecting it, though, what with all the extra work,’ he said. ‘It takes time and a certain skill, that I will say, to lay a hedge decently, but it’s a pleasing sort of task, to my mind. What you want to do is get a flexible stem, like this, weave it through other wood across a hole – something like darning – and make sure it’s secure, won’t pull out in a wind. Next spring, shoots will start to appear from every joint.’ He turned to Ag for a moment, judged from her expression she understood. ‘Best thing to do is you watch a while, then get into the ditch behind me and gather any stuff I throw down for a bonfire. When you’re not dealing with my stuff you can start hacking away at the sides of the ditch: neaten it all up.’

Once Mr Lawrence had given his instructions he no longer seemed aware of Ag’s presence, concentrating fully on the complicated geography of the thorn hedge. For a long time, Ag watched his deft gloved hands foraging in the leaves, weaving shoots, snapping off dead wood, hacking at stubborn joints with his slasher. She was glad he had not asked her to begin in front of him, and after a while began her own task of clearing the ditch. She stood on its muddy floor, a stream of brown water lying slackly around her boots. Slashing at the long grass and brambles was not hard and when, after twenty minutes, she paused to look back on the neat bank of her own making, she began to understand her employer’s pleasure in the job.

After an hour, they paused for a few minutes’ rest. The sun was high by now and they were hot. Mr Lawrence rolled up his sleeves. Ag, with aching back, sat a few feet from him on the ground. Mr Lawrence took a packet of Craven A from his pocket, offered her one, which she refused, and lit his own. They sat in easy silence, their eyes following the smoke.

‘Finding it hard, this land girl business?’ Mr Lawrence asked eventually.

‘I ache a bit. We all do. But we’re enjoying it.’

‘Good, good. It’s healthy work, anyway. As for the war … Terrible in London last night, they said on the radio this morning. Poor devils.’

‘We’re lucky here. Hardly aware of it.’

‘Only danger is those German buggers dropping off their bombs on the way home. That happened not twenty miles from here just before you came. Flattened half a village, killed two.’

Ag’s burning face was beginning to cool. The sweat on her back was drying. Mr Lawrence drew deeply on his cigarette. The smoke smelt pungent, good. A churring and a flapping of wings behind them broke the silence. A speckled bird flew into the sky, swerving towards the copse.

‘Bugger me if it’s not a mistlethrush, a storm cock. Haven’t seen one for a week or so,’ said Mr Lawrence. He gave a small smile. ‘I used to know the Latin name.’

Ag paused. Then she said: ‘
Turdus viscivorus,
isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. That’s it! Stone the crows – are you a scholar?’

Ag laughed. ‘Far from it. But my father used to teach me about birds.’

‘Know some of its other names?’

‘I know shrite, and skite.’

‘How about gawthrush?’

‘Gawthrush, yes. And garthrush?’

‘Then there’s the more common jercock: Ratty talks of jercocks.’

‘How about syecock?’

‘I’d forgotten syecock.’ Mr Lawrence stubbed out his cigarette. ‘So you know your birds,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s good. That’s quite unusual, these days.’ He smiled. ‘Here’s a bit of rum information for you: did you know there’s a saying that a mistletoe berry won’t germinate till it’s passed through the body of a mistlethrush?’

‘I’ve heard of that, yes. I think the idea came from the Roman writer Pliny.’

The expression on Mr Lawrence’s face made Ag bite her lip.

‘Did it, now? There’s university education for you.’ He stood up brusquely, took up his bill-hook. Ag feared she had offended him in some way. Perhaps the airing of such arcane knowledge sounded boastful. ‘Joe got into Cambridge, you know,’ Mr Lawrence said, back to her, surveying the hedge again. ‘Rotten luck he wasn’t able to go.’

Two hours later Ag had cleared several yards of ditch, and had made a large pile of undergrowth for burning. Her back ached horribly. Despite thick socks, her feet were cold in her
Wellingtons
from standing in the stream, and a blister seared her heel. Reluctant to say she had had enough for one morning, she remembered a promise to Mrs Lawrence.