Land Girls (29 page)

‘Was?’

‘Never
was
, really. Still
is
, in a way. I still cling to the idea of him, though I knew him even less well than Stella knew Philip. Just saw him in the distance a few times. Had one tea in a café with him and a few friends. Listened to him. You’ll think this mad, but if, that evening, he’d asked me to go anywhere in the world with him, I would have gone without further thought.’

‘Highly romantic. Good thing he didn’t give you the chance to be so unwise.’

Ag smiled. ‘I wouldn’t expect anyone to understand,’ she said, ‘but I felt a kind of
certainty
. I felt such certainty, such conviction, that here was my other half, or whatever the silly phrase is, that in some strange way my life changed absolutely from that day on. From June the sixth, 1941, I’ve been borne along by the indescribable sensation that … everything I do is significant only in that it’s a step nearer to the inevitable outcome …’ She sounded solemn, shy.

‘And what’s that outcome?’ There was a trace of sceptical laughter in Joe’s voice.

‘Him and me. Together in some form.’

‘Ah.’

‘I suppose you think all that’s ridiculous?’

‘No. Most people need their fantasies. I rather envy you such a dream. What happens if it doesn’t work out?’

‘It will,’ said Ag, ‘but if it doesn’t I’ll be all right – just lesser, somehow.’

She glanced sideways at Joe, could just see a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. Suddenly she felt the warm rush of an unfamiliar feeling: skittishness, she thought it was. Confidence, ease. And the vague shapes of the plan that had come to her earlier in the afternoon returned, beating faster.

‘But if it’s all a disaster, doesn’t happen, I never see him again, then I’m quite prepared to live a solitary life.’

‘For a clever graduate with a face which won’t go unnoticed, you’re talking a lot of nonsense,’ Joe laughed. ‘Aren’t you cold? Shouldn’t we be getting back?’

‘Not very. In a moment.’

Scarcely aware of what she was doing, Ag, inspired by some peculiar boldness, stepped on to the gate and sat on the top bar. She faced Joe.

‘Here’s some more nonsense,’ she said. ‘If it
does
go right, and we meet again one day, I want to go to him
experienced
…’ Her face blazed in the darkness. Wondering at her own recklessness, she went on. ‘I don’t want him to think I’d been pathetically keeping myself for him.’ She paused. ‘I’m quite keen to be shot of my virginity … There: I’ve said it.’

In the silence that followed, Ag realized the extent of her impropriety. But, still fired by her inchoate aims, she went further in her madness, and rested her arms on Joe’s shoulders. He did not protest, or move, but kept his silence.

‘I knew I’d go too far eventually,’ Ag murmured at last. ‘I’ve made a complete fool of myself. Please don’t tell the others.’

She removed her arms, climbed back off the gate to the other side. Joe followed her.

‘I think I could probably oblige,’ he said.

‘
What?
I didn’t really mean you, Joe …’ His reaction caused her such confusion she turned from him, began to walk.

‘I think you did.’

‘I’ve been in a terrible muddle. Waiting, waiting: it’s a sort of canker. It does things to you.’

Joe caught up with her. He took her hand.

‘I can imagine that,’ he said.

They walked in silence up the dark lane, so fast that the cold that had bitten into them was replaced by an almost feverish heat beneath their thick clothes. As they turned the corner to the farmyard gate, Joe released Ag’s hand. She felt briefly deprived of warmth, comfort, understanding. The expectation that his offer had provided was a calm, sweet thing: no desire attached, just curiosity.

‘When?’ she said.

‘Soon,’ said Joe.

Two days later, Mrs Lawrence, recovered but weak, was up and resuming her usual duties. The first evening of her return to normal life, she stirred the Christmas pudding in a huge bowl.

‘It’ll be a thinnish pudding, this year,’ she said to Stella, who was chopping vegetables at the other end of the kitchen table. ‘Rich only in sixpences. I’ve been saving as much dried fruit as I can, and John’s let me have a bottle of brandy from the cellar. But it won’t be like the old days.’

Stella smiled. In her pocket was an unopened letter from Philip – the first since Plymouth. Curiously, her impatience to read it was manageable. The idea of keeping it till she was in bed throbbed no more fervently than the idea of a minor luxury. Her chief feeling was one of a childlike excitement about Christmas. Earlier in the day Mr Lawrence had brought in a Christmas tree, and set it in the sitting-room. Mrs Lawrence had brought down a box of decorations from the attic, and given them to Prue. As the experienced window-dresser of a leading Manchester hairdresser, Prue had said, she was the most qualified to dress the tree. No one had quarrelled with this. She burst into the kitchen now, twigs in her hair – there were twigs in her hair most days, Stella quietly observed – starfish lashes blinking wildly.

‘It’s done, it’s beautiful! No one’s allowed to go in and see it till after supper. Only thing that’s missing, Mrs Lawrence, are small candles. I’ll get some in Blandford tomorrow. You coming, Stella? It’ll be good fun. We could get Christmas cards and presents and things, and go back to the tea-room. Then we could see what’s on at the picture house, have a drink somewhere, catch the last bus … couldn’t we, Mrs Lawrence?’

Mrs Lawrence nodded. She passed the spoon to Prue. Prue stirred the uncooked pudding.

‘Shouldn’t I be making a wish?’ she asked. She shut her eyes for a moment. ‘I know what I’m wishing.’

Stella thought she had a pretty good idea of Prue’s wish, too: she wondered what her own should be. For a return of the old impetus, perhaps.

‘I always wish the same, every year,’ said Mrs Lawrence, taking back the spoon. What could
that
be? Stella wondered.

‘You just keep on,’ giggled Prue. ‘You just need enough faith, and anything’ll come true.’

‘I hope so,’ said Mrs Lawrence. ‘Come on, Stella, your turn. Where’s Ag?’

Ag, her three days of intense domestic duties over, had returned with some relief to her tasks outside. She was pleased to be reunited with the bantams and hens. Collecting eggs, feeding and cleaning their houses, had become one of her regular jobs. She had come to learn the birds’ various moods, their stubborn ways, their flights of stupidity, their sense of detachment. While the others stirred the pudding in the kitchen, Ag searched the barn for two missing bantams: the rest were shut up in their houses for the night.

She held a hand over her torch, released a few bars of almost useless light. But she knew her way about well by now: knew their favourite corners, far from the tractor – they had separate places for sleeping and laying. As Ag felt among the sacks she could hear the familiar churring of pigeons high in the rafters. Then, from a place near her, the higher, tremulous clucking of bantams. She uncovered the face of the torch, swept its dim beam over a cluster of nesting places. In a comfortable dip in the hay, croodled the two lost birds.

‘Come
on
,’ she chivvied. ‘You’re late.’

In an obedient mood, the bantams flopped to the ground, squawking and flapping. They ran towards the farmyard, heads jabbing furiously. Ag switched off her torch. Turning to follow them, she saw the dark silhouette of Joe. Her heart quickened. The arranged seduction, whenever that was to be, was not going to take place here in the barn, copy of Prue’s experience. Of that, Ag was determined.

I need some books, Ag,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve finished everything. If I take you all in to Blandford tomorrow afternoon, would you help me choose some?’

Ag was glad of the darkness. Glad he could not see her blush. Glad it was only books he wanted.

‘Of course.’

‘Then,’ said Joe, ‘we could go out to tea.’

‘Fine. Anything. I must make sure the bantams have gone back, shut them up.’ She hurried past him.

‘Hurry in and stir the pudding,’ Joe shouted after her, ‘and wish us luck.’

Five minutes later, it was Ag’s turn with the spoon. Screwing up her eyes, she saw a picture of Desmond’s face, and wished to do the right thing. When she opened them, she found Joe looking at her. This unnerved her. She had been strangely calm since their conversation two days ago at the gate. Now, her usual composure left her.

‘I think we all need a drink,’ said Mrs Lawrence. ‘Joe, there’s a bottle of whisky in the cupboard.’

Joe fetched glasses and the bottle. Stella and Ag exchanged looks. Apart from the ginger wine on the first night, it was the first time an alcoholic drink had appeared since they had arrived. Ag drank hers, neat, in one gulp. It would steady her, she thought. She needed something to dissipate troubling thoughts of Janet. Her own conscience was not loud enough to halt the planned deed, but planned betrayal, she was finding, is full of noisy rebuke.

‘Joe,’ Mrs Lawrence was saying, ‘Janet rang earlier. She says she can get off midday on Christmas Eve, be here by supper time.’

Ag took a quick look at Joe’s face. The neat whisky had had its impact already: his features spun like a Catherine wheel. Indeed the whole room, all faces, trembled with uncertainty. Joe had no time to answer his mother before Prue dashed in singing
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas
. She wore garlands of tinsel round her neck. Silver balls hung from her ears and gold paper stars were wedged in her hair. Everyone laughed: Joe poured her a drink. Ag, to her own amazement, found herself moving right up to Prue and putting her hands on her shoulders – the same gesture she had so curiously made to Joe by the gate.

‘Prue,’ she said, ‘you look
marvellous
. You should be on top of the tree.’ The words, like the glittering vision before her, were a little unsteady.

‘Good heavens, Ag,’ said Prue, ‘whatever’s got into you?’

There was more laughter.

Joe answered for Ag. ‘The Christmas spirit,’ he said.

My dearest darling Stella
, Stella read in bed later that night. Well, at least he’s upped the tempo a little, she thought. A good start.

Stella folded the letter, returned it to its envelope, put the envelope by the photograph, still in its same place. She sighed, turned out the light.

‘Letter from Philip?’ Prue’s whisper came out of the darkness. She never missed a thing, Prue.

‘Yes.’

‘Anything the matter?’

‘No. I’d just hoped it would be a bit longer. A bit—’

‘Don’t worry. Practically nobody in the world can write a good letter.’

‘True,’ Ag joined in, from her end of the room. She had been wondering, now the spinning of her head had calmed down, whether or not she should buy a Christmas card for Desmond in Blandford tomorrow. She turned this way and that, making the bed creak. Yes, she decided. She would.

‘Stella?’ It was Prue again.

‘Yes?’

‘Are you coming, tomorrow?’

‘If you like …’

‘Ag? How about you? Do our shopping, have some fun?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Ag, ‘Joe mentioned that on condition I helped him choose his books he’d give us all a lift.’

Prue giggled. ‘Blimey! You mind out. Choosing books is as good a way as any.’ There was a brief silence. ‘Shall I tell you something? Barry says he’s not sure how much longer he can keep up all this cycling.’ Prue giggled again. ‘So, obviously, I’ve got to be on the lookout for a replacement, for when he’s finally exhausted. We could go to the pictures, Stella, couldn’t we? Always a chance, there. Will you come, too, Ag?’

‘Think I’ll come back earlier, if Joe will give me a lift,’ Ag answered carefully. ‘I’ve got letters to write, Christmas cards.’

‘Anything you say.’ Prue gave a final giggle. ‘Tell you what, I recommend the barn. One of those stacks up on the right – very comfortable.’

‘Don’t be
silly
, Prue,’ said Ag. ‘You know there’s Desmond.’

‘Well, there
isn’t
, exactly. Desmond, I mean. Is there?’

There was another long silence. Ag thought the other two had gone to sleep. Then Prue had the last word.

‘Ag, you awake? Because let me tell you something. What you’re going to be shocked by, this time, is
yourself
. I bet you.’

Ag put her head beneath the bedclothes. She had no wish to hear any more truths from Prue. She had no wish to think further about the extraordinary resolve to behave badly that seemed to have overwhelmed her.

While the others went off for their Christmas shopping, tea, and the hunt in the cinema for a Barry replacement, Joe and Ag spent a long time searching the shelves of a small bookshop. Joe was keen to buy the entire works of Gissing. Ag persuaded him that to start Balzac would be more rewarding: the compromise was
Eugénie Grandet
and
Born in Exile
. Joe began to enjoy himself. He randomly chose a disparate selection of Penguins:
Can You Forgive Her?
, Chekhov short stories, Hardy’s poems (Ag’s strongest recommendation), various books that had slipped through the net of his reading, as he put it. It took over an hour to fill the large shopping basket Ag had brought.