Land Girls (16 page)

‘Hello, Pig,’ said Prue. ‘Hello, Sly.’

She leaned against the wall of the sty, wondering what first move she should make. Mr Lawrence had left her with a pitchfork and yard broom, and instructions which, the moment he left, ran amok in her mind. The pig lay in its sleeping quarters under a corrugated iron roof, on a bed of straw that gleamed a sodden gold. It appeared to be dozing. Eyes shut. The occasional soft grunt made the whole jelly-bristle fabric of its body quiver.

Apart from disliking roast pork, Prue had never before given any thought to pigs. She had scarcely seen one alive. Now, postponing the dreadful moment when she had to try to move the animal, she fell to wondering about its life.

In her tired state, small blisters and pricks of blood still troubling the inside of her mouth, she found herself full of pity for its boring captivity, and less repelled than she had expected by its ugliness. There was something rather dignified, she thought, about Sly’s swollen pregnant belly of mauve-pink skin, the stubby sprawling legs, the ridiculous tail and huge alert ears. Animals, she was learning from her week of closeness to the cows, are without vanity, and she admired that. Although – she smiled to herself – Sly’s appearance would be much improved with a touch of mascara. The white lashes stubbing round the tiny eyes gave the sow a pathetic, spinsterish look. In fact, Sly was far from a spinster. She’d been mother to dozens of piglets in her time, Mr Lawrence said. Did she enjoy being pregnant again? Prue wondered. Was she lying down out of boredom, fatigue, happiness or misery? Men would do well to concentrate harder on the subject of whether animals had thoughts, rather than how to make bombs and endanger the whole world, reflected Prue, to whom procrastination brought multitudes of thoughts.

She opened the gate and squelched along the muddy floor of the concrete run. A powerful smell came from the straw. The lattice of mud that spurted over her boots was slimy, disagreeable, unlike the dark fresh earth of the fields. The pig opened her eyes, looked without interest at Prue, shut them.

‘Hello,’ she said again. ‘Sorry, but you’ve got to move.’

To give herself further time, Prue thought about what Mr Lawrence had told her concerning the severe shortage of pig food. Many pigs were being slaughtered, he said. For the time being, Sly was in no danger: the Lawrences had a good supply of Silcock’s Pig Feed No. 1, which was supplemented with leftovers from the house and semi-rotted fruit. But what of the future of the unborn litter? Tears came briefly to Prue’s eyes at the thought of killing innocent piglets. She moved nearer to the sow, tapped her with the broom.

The pig heaved herself up so fast, with such a loud and hideous squeal, that Prue leapt back in surprised fright.

Sly gave an ungainly jump off the dented bed of steaming ammonia straw. She skidded towards Prue, who cowered in the corner of the run, planting broom and pitchfork in front of her in pathetic defence. The sow was grunting loudly, intent on something terrible, Prue could see. More than anything in the whole world, Prue wanted to be in the salon at this moment, warm and steamy, cosily surrounded with all the ingredients of a permanent wave.

Don’t annoy her, whatever you do
, Mr Lawrence had said. But he hadn’t told her how to avoid this. Plainly, she’d done something wrong. Sly was definitely annoyed. She stuck her great head between the two handles, looked up at Prue, and furiously wiggled her obscene great snout.

‘Go away!’ screamed Prue, jabbing Sly’s head with the handle of the broom. Then, more quietly, ‘Just let me by, please …’

The pig’s scrubby ears flapped back and forth. One of them brushed Prue’s bare hand. The skin was pumice-hard, cloudily transparent, matted with purple veins.

‘Bugger off!’ Prue shouted again, as the snout now jutted into Prue’s thigh. ‘I’m not a bloody truffle.’

Suddenly bored, the pig turned away. Prue stayed where she was for a moment, contemplating the purple backside, the indecent meeting of bulbous thighs, the swing of dugs already swelling in anticipation of the forthcoming litter.

With extraordinary speed, adrenalin racing, Prue tossed the old bedding over the wall of the sty. Later, should God grant her the strength, she would have to load it into the barrow and put it on the dung heap. Later still – today, of all days – she would then have to spread it in some field, Mrs Lawrence had said. Now the danger was over, her thoughts no longer fled for comfort to the salon, but to the plough. She would like, this afternoon, to go back to ploughing. But no chance of that. What she would like best of all, of course, was the entire afternoon on one of the highest stacks in the barn with Joe.

The sty cleared and swept, Prue spread a pile of sweet-smelling wheat straw. Sly immediately returned to her newly made bed and slumped down on her side, ungrateful as a cantankerous patient. At least the way was clear for Prue to tackle the mud in the outside pen, and sluice down the drain with a bucket of Jeyes Fluid.

‘Doing all right?’

Prue looked up to see Joe.

‘You know she bites if she’s annoyed.’

Prue shrugged. Her shoulders, arms and back were aching. The thought of transferring the muck from where she had thrown it to the dung heap depressed her so much she was unable to answer. She wanted Joe to lift her over the wall, carry her off somewhere – anywhere – and soothe her aches, kiss her, crush her, blast her with his extraordinary explosive force from the reality of pigs and dung and farm life.

‘You look a bit weary,’ he said. ‘I think we should give tonight a miss. Get some sleep. The hay doesn’t do my asthma any good. We’re going to have to change locations.’

‘All right.’

Prue gave a weak smile. She was aware of smelling as
pungently
as the pigsty.
Nuits de
Paris
stood no chance in such circumstances.

* * *

An hour later, Prue realized to her relief and astonishment, the first part of her job was finished. Sly’s dirty straw was piled high on the dung heap. There wasn’t a stray straw in the entire yard: Prue had taken the precaution of sweeping it – Mr Lawrence was obsessive about the neatness of his yard. Now, with squelching triumph, she climbed to the top of the dung heap, leaned on the pitchfork for support. There was no one about, no one to condemn her for a few moments’ rest. The words of a song she’d learned on the training course came back to her. She began to sing.

‘Too bloody true, that bit,’ she added, as she began to sink into the dung. She could feel its heat coming through her boots, and the ammonia smell rose powerful as incense. Prue leaned more heavily on the pitchfork. She felt quite faint.

After the milking was finished, Stella took the cows back to the pasture by herself. Ag went to let out the hens. On her way back to the house she passed the laundry room – a minimally converted old cowshed close to the kitchen – and happened to glance through the open window. There, clouded in steam, she saw Mrs Lawrence at work. The place was littered with sheets and shirts, some soaking, some hanging. There were pools of water on the stone floor. On a slate shelf, two old-fashioned irons were reared up on their backs, their steel underbellies a pinkish bronze in the smeary light. Mrs Lawrence stooped to pick a sheet from an enamel bowl of water. She wrung it out fiercely, the sinews in her thin strong arms pulled taut as cords. Then she manoeuvred the sheet into position in the mangle, and began to turn the handle furiously. Water poured into a bucket below. When there were no more than a few drips left, Mrs Lawrence slung the sheet on to a pile of others. She paused to wipe sweat from her forehead, push back a wisp of grey hair from her eyes. Her apron, faded to a pot-pourri of indeterminate flowers, was damp. She
contemplated
another bowl containing another coil of cotton to be wrung, but seemed to decide against it. Perhaps her hands needed a rest from the cold water. Instead, she pulled a huge, rough man’s shirt from the pile and threw it over the ironing board. She picked up one of the irons – its custard-coloured back, Ag could see, was so chipped it reminded her of a monster ladybird – and thundered it down the length of the sleeve. Her mouth was a single hard line.

Ag took a step back. She had wondered whether she should offer to help, but decided Mrs Lawrence would not have wished anyone to see her working out her private rage. It was then Ag felt sure that there had been no words concerning Prue between Mrs Lawrence and Joe at dawn. Mrs Lawrence was in lone battle with her instincts, her suspicions. She was in a turmoil, no doubt, about what, if anything, she should do. Ag longed to help. But she knew all she could do was to remain alert to any indication that Mrs Lawrence might want to discuss the troubles on her mind, which was unlikely. She was a strong, proud woman who would judge the sharing of private matters a deplorable weakness. Without a sound, Ag went on her way. She had to find Mr Lawrence, put from her mind the pictures of his wife’s battle in the laundry, and concentrate on rounding up the sheep.

* * *

Stella, returning from the field in which she had put the cows, heard singing. She paused, listened. Prue? A harsh, tuneless voice, but some passion behind the words. Stella walked round the side of the barn into the beautifully swept yard. By now the singing had stopped. Prue, on top of the dung heap, rested hands and chin on the handle of the pitchfork.

‘Prue!’

‘I’m resting between jobs. Pausing between
mucking
out—’ she gave a chorus-line twist of her hips – ‘and muck-
spreading
.’ The blobs of rouge, bright as sealing wax, emphasized the whey colour of her cheeks.

‘You all right?’

‘Fine, all the muck-raking considered. I came over a bit dizzy a moment ago. Must be the bending.’

‘You’re not going to join us with the sheep?’

‘Seems not. Instructions to spread this stuff over about a hundred acres.’ She gave a grim smile, digging her pitchfork into the wet straw. ‘To think that once I thought two perms and a colour rinse was a hard day’s work. Well, in a war you learn, I suppose.’ She sighed. Stella, looking up at her, smiled too. ‘You know what I dream of, Stella? Up here – everywhere? I dream that when it’s over I finish my apprenticeship and this man comes along. This
final
man. I tell you: I’ll recognize him soon as he puts his head round the door. He’ll be a great big hulk, something like Joe, except he’ll have pots and pots of money. We’ll get married and live in a huge big house on the outskirts of somewhere posh like York – no more Manchester, thanks very much. We’ll have a marble bath with gold taps and lots of marble shelves where I can line up all my powders and lotions – many as I like. We’ll have wall-to-wall carpeting
all through
, a wireless in every room and one of those big new radiogram things in maple wood that looks like a cupboard, and the maid will bring us
cocktails
, Stella, I’m telling you, on a silver tray every evening, and we’ll be happy. In the day’ – she prodded the dung again – ‘I’ll lie on a sofa like a film star, reading romances and eating chocolates, and all this muck will be a far distant thing, almost forgotten, and every night my husband will come back from his factory – or wherever it is he’s made his money – in a Rolls-Royce. That’s my dream.’

Stella laughed quietly. ‘Children?’ she asked.

‘Kids? Three or four. That’d be nice. But only with a nanny.’

‘What a dream. You’d be bored out of your mind.’

‘No, I wouldn’t. Not for a while, any road. Do you imagine anything like that for yourself?’

‘No, my dream is more modest,’ said Stella.

‘Might as well aim for the big time.’

‘What’s going on?’ Mr Lawrence strode into the yard just then, surprised to see a figure more like a cabaret singer than a land girl on top of his dung heap. ‘Pig done?’

‘Pig done, Mr Lawrence. And yard swept, Mr Lawrence, as you can see.’

‘I don’t want any of your cheek this morning. You’d better get this dung on the trailer and take it down to High Field. Sharp.’ His look swerved to Stella, softening. ‘Come and help me get the stuff, Stella, then we’ll give Ag a hand with bringing in the sheep.’

Prue ostentatiously loaded a heavy lump of dung on to her pitchfork. ‘Do you ever have time to dream, Mr Lawrence?’ she asked.

‘I’m warning you, young lady …’

Stella, following him to the shed to collect shears, knives and clippers, saw a dark flush spread up through his neck and wash over his weathered cheeks.

‘Cocky little film star’ll get her come-uppance one day,’ he said. ‘Though it’s not her work I’m complaining about.’

An hour later Stella and Ag were grappling with their first sheep. The ewe lay on her back on a bench designed to make control of the animal easy. When Mr Lawrence had been there to demonstrate, it had looked simple enough. Left to themselves, the girls were struggling.

Ag had volunteered to hold the animal still while Stella, armed with her paring knife, examined its feet. Hands plunged deep into its greasy wool, Ag sympathetically contemplated the ewe’s unease. The delicate black neck, jutting out of the great rug of its body, spun about, twisting the bony head with its roman nose and indignant yellow eyes. It cried out pitifully, lips drawn back to show long dun teeth scored with green, spittle thick as marshmallow spurted from its gums, flecking Ag’s overall.