Land Girls (32 page)

In the cold of the hall she picked up the receiver, heavy as a hammer, and held it curiously to her ear. Philip’s voice. Her heart gave the merest flutter.

‘Stella?’

‘Philip!’ She was pleased, of course. But wondered why she wasn’t more pleased.

‘Sorry it’s so late. I’ve been waiting in a queue for ages. Everyone wants to ring home.’

‘Of course.’

‘Everything all right?’

‘Fine—’

‘Got my card?’

‘I did.’

‘They’re laying on quite a show on board, Boxing Day. Vera Lynn herself, the rumour goes.’

‘How wonderful.’

‘I’m looking forward to that, I must say.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘This time next year, perhaps it’ll all be over.’

‘Quite. Now America’s joined—’

‘This time next year, you’ll be Mrs Wharton, any luck.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Must go, now. Chaps behind me getting impatient. I think about our weekend a lot. Gosh, I do. The nights.’

‘So do I.’

‘Love you, Stella. Love you, darling.’

‘Love you, too.’

Conversation over, Stella remained sitting on the stairs in the dim hall. The mean thought entered her mind that Philip was no better on the telephone than he was at letters. Perhaps talking across distances was an art not yet much practised, and future generations would take to it with complete ease, laughing at those who still regarded the telephone with dread and awe: a machine which had the power to make articulate men stumble, and those less talented with words cause endless disappointment.

She was aroused by footsteps, and the appearance of Joe.

‘Boyfriend?’

Stella nodded.

‘All well, I hope.’

‘Fine. They’re expecting a Vera Lynn concert on Boxing Day.’

‘Lucky old them. It’s time to go to church.’

As Stella watched Joe rummaging about through the mess of scarves and gas masks hanging from a row of pegs, she heard herself making a spontaneous declaration. It was one of those peculiar moments, she thought later, when an unpremeditated thought surprises its owner as much as it does the receiver. The sudden idea was not part of the plan she had put to Mrs Lawrence.

‘Joe,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t find anything I thought you’d want in Blandford. So I thought my Christmas present could be a lie-in tomorrow morning. I’ll do the entire milk, scrubbing down, sterilizing, everything. You sleep.’

Joe turned to her, winding a scarf round his neck. She could see the struggle on his face as he grappled to try to decide how to react.

He smiled.

‘Heavens! That’s the most imaginative Christmas present I’ve ever been offered,’ he said at last. ‘It’d be very churlish of me to turn it down. I can’t sleep late, ever. But an extra hour or so in bed, reading … what a luxury. Thank you.’

‘I’d do the same in the afternoon,’ Stella went on, ‘so that you and Janet can have an hour or so to yourselves. A walk, whatever.’

Joe’s eyes avoided hers. ‘Well, yes, perhaps, thanks.’ He pulled on a jacket. ‘But it can’t be all one-sided, this present giving, can it? I’ve done hopelessly by you – hideous little scarf. So my real present can be identical to yours to me – but on Boxing Day. All right?’

‘Lovely.’

They both laughed.

Outside, the cold was bitter, dry. Snow in the air, Mr Lawrence thought. The sky was clear, full of stars. A bright moon lighted their way up the lane.

Stella walked between Mr and Mrs Lawrence. Some yards behind, the engaged couple followed – Janet with an arm tucked firmly through Joe’s. She was prattling on, though Stella could not hear what she was saying. As they neared the church a quiet bell began to chime.

‘Ratty’ll be strung up if anyone in charge gets to hear about this,’ smiled Mr Lawrence. ‘Breaking rules again.’

But as they walked through the porch and saw Ratty at the back of the church pulling on his bell rope, Stella could see Mr Lawrence’s look was one of admiration. Ratty waved. Pulling on the rope lent his old limbs a balletic quality: if he had suddenly alighted from the ground, swung up to the sixteenth-century rafters, clinging monkey-like to the rope, it would have been no surprise.

‘Christmas Eve, bugger the war,’ grinned Ratty. ‘Christmas isn’t Christmas without church bells.’

The echo of his single bell sounded with unusual urgency, thought Stella: a warning of mortality. Just two weeks ago today, HMS
The Prince of Wales
and HMS
Repulse
were sunk. Since then, pictures of a flaming
Apollo
, disappearing between
mammoth
waves, had been haunting her. They came to mind now as the bell insisted. She had always feared the ability of bells to stir unwanted imaginings. But then a woman at the organ – who wore a badge saying
Dig for Victory
among the speckled feathers of her hat – launched into ‘Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring’, her plump fingers chomping at the notes with surprising skill, and the flames faded.

The Lawrences, Stella, Joe and Janet filed into a pew near the front: there were only six others in the congregation. Stella knelt on a tapestry stool made, it said in cross-stitch, in 1916: by someone’s mother or wife waiting for a son or husband to return from that war, no doubt. Stella prayed for peace, for those who were fighting for their country, dying for their country, the wounded and the grieving. She prayed for the safety of her mother, and for Philip, the prayers slipping mechanically through her mind. She glanced at Joe, hands jabbed right over his face, fingers running into his hair, and Janet, mouth pursed, fingers a gloved temple beneath her chin. One last mechanical prayer that they should be happily married, though God knows …

The vicar, wounded in the last war, came limping up the aisle. The congregation stood. Stella looked at the red-berried holly on the altar, the mistletoe that dangled from the pulpit, the jug of white chrysanthemums squat and defiant on the chancel steps. Someone had gone to the same effort as Prue to find candles: they stood lighted on every ledge, their flames making leaf-shadows across the old stone. The thought of all the time that villagers had invested to ensure the church would be the same as ever at Christmas, despite the war, Stella found deeply moving. She sometimes wondered at people’s lack of appreciation of invisible effort: effort that, in the context of the larger world, is of small importance, but whose ultimate results – a decorated church, an embroidered fabric – give so much pleasure. To Stella, such effort, made by what her mother called ‘the unsung saints of England’, could be as disturbing as music.

The party from the farm joined in.

At some point Stella felt Mr Lawrence’s eyes upon her, and saw they sparkled with the kind of embarrassed tears that strong men fight at a funeral but cannot completely control.

‘I’m not sure he noticed,’ said Janet. She dabbed a sad hand at the slabs of loose hair. ‘What do you think? Should I put it back to normal tomorrow, what Joe’s used to? I’ll feel easier like that.’

It was almost one in the morning. Janet sat once more on the edge of Prue’s bed. She made no effort to undress. Stella, in her dressing-gown, put her working clothes into some order on a chair ready for the morning.

‘Do you know something?’ Janet said. ‘Joe’s never kissed me. I mean, not properly. Not what I call a full-blown kiss like you see at the pictures.’

‘He will,’ said Stella. ‘You haven’t had much chance.’

‘We’ve had the odd chance – he’s just never taken it. What worries me sometimes is I think his mind hasn’t been on that sort of thing at all. Not with me.’ She gave a small sigh. ‘I suppose it’ll all be different when we’re married. I expect he’s just holding back, not wanting to alarm me. He knows I … Well, I wouldn’t want that to change, of course, till we’re married. But I wouldn’t mind just a bit of, you know. All the girls at work go quite far with their boyfriends. They all tell each other what they do. I have to pretend Joe and me do much the same.’ She pulled the grey jersey up over her head, revealing small breasts encased in a stiff pink brassiere, its surface a complicated pattern of white stitching. ‘Sometimes I think I just don’t understand men at all.’

‘None of us does, really,’ said Stella, getting into bed. She looked at her watch. ‘The thing is, I have to be up in about four hours …’

‘Goodness me, I’m sorry.’ Janet stood up, attempted to complete the rest of her undressing, but was distracted by the photograph of Philip.

‘Your fiancé?’

Stella nodded.

‘My, he’s handsome. Do you really love him?’

‘I do, I think, yes. It’s difficult ever to be quite sure.’

‘I don’t agree with that at all,’ said Janet. ‘I’m quite sure of my love for Joe. Always have been since the moment we met, years ago, not much more than children. Any little bothers in my mind are all due to this b-war. They’ll all be sorted out when we’re married, that’s what I believe.’

‘I’m sure they will,’ said Stella, almost asleep. ‘Do you mind if I turn out the light?’

‘Oh, I am sorry, chattering on – you go ahead, go to sleep.’

In the darkness, Stella heard Janet get into bed, churn about, making the springs squeak.

‘Just one more thing, Stella: it’s lovely being here. You’re all being so kind. Christmas Day! My goodness, it’s Christmas Day at last. I think what I’ll do is give Joe the surprise of his life. I’ll put on some lipstick, make him
want
to kiss me … What d’you think? Would you lend me some of yours?’

‘Of course.’

‘D’you think it’s a good idea?’

No answer to this question told Janet that Stella had fallen asleep. Still, it didn’t matter: she was quite confident so sympathetic and beautiful a girl would agree with her, Yes: Janet liked Stella.

A few hours later, in a clear, cold dawn, Stella let herself out into the empty yard. She tried to determine whether this morning held the childlike excitement she still felt every year on Christmas Day, whether it was different from normal days. It was, in a way, she decided, on account of the silence. There was no Mr Lawrence trumpeting into his handkerchief, as he did first thing outside every morning. There was no Joe clumping about the place with his long strides and preoccupied face. Besides, the extra exhilaration of having decided to do everything herself added to the especial feeling of the day. Joe had been pleased by her idea just as she had been delighted by his. Tomorrow, her turn for a few extra hours in bed, would be bliss.

She was about to turn into the lane, make for the cows’ field, when she heard a bellow from the shed. Puzzled, she turned and hurried back, wondering if Joe had changed his mind and come to help her after all. In the shed, she found the animals in their stalls, chains clanking with their familiar heavy sound. Steam was rising from muddied hindquarters, strained wide by bulging udders. And hobbling down the aisle came Ratty, in his bell-ringing clothes, looking very pleased with himself.

‘Thought I’d get them in for you, at least,’ he grinned. ‘Knew you were planning to do them on your own. Takes a very long time, no help at all.’

‘Ratty! Thank you. But your best clothes …’

Ratty’s smile disappeared. ‘Didn’t bother to go to bed, as a matter of fact, after the service.’ He paused, wondering whether to confess further. ‘Edith, she doesn’t – well, she doesn’t hold with Christmas. We had words.’ He gave a rattling cough. ‘Better be on my way. Get a bit of sleep before
Christmas dinner
, if you can call it that. Edith’s got in a tin of Spam and a Mrs Peek’s Pudding …’

‘I’ll make sure you have some of ours.’

‘They’re all ready to go.’ Ratty’s cloudy eyes dragged along the rows of black and white rumps. ‘A happy Christmas to you.’

Stella knew that to wish him the same would only encourage further thoughts of his own bleak day, so said nothing.

It was mid-morning by the time she had finished the sluicing down and the sterilizing. Pale sun, colourless as a Christmas rose, slanted through the open door, gilding a patch of watery concrete floor. Stella couldn’t deny feeling a certain satisfaction. She had completed the long job all alone, efficiently, and was undaunted by the thought of repeating the whole process this afternoon.

Mr Lawrence appeared. ‘Happy Christmas, marvellous job, Stella, thanks. But I think you’d be appreciated indoors now. I’ll take them back to the pasture.’

In the kitchen, Mrs Lawrence was stirring a pan of gravy on the stove. Janet, her back to Stella, was at the sink washing the pink glasses very slowly. Stella sat at the table, where she began to prepare the sprouts. Janet turned, dishcloth in hand, back-lit by the winter sun. Her hair had returned to its usual tight roll and she had, as threatened, put on a red lipstick (it must have been Prue’s: Stella did not own such a colour). In the whey colour of Janet’s face it resembled a crude line drawn by a child. When she smiled it emphasized the primrose tint of her long teeth.

‘What do you think, Stella?’ she asked, licking at the gash of red with a nervous tongue. ‘Improvement?’

‘Definitely,’ said Stella.

‘Christmassy, I thought.’ She held up the pink glass, blinked at its crisp shine, gave it another fussy polish.

No wonder more hands were needed indoors, thought Stella, who had been looking forward to the walk down the lane with the cows.

Joe came in, then, his face blurred by unaccustomed sleep. Janet, in her excitement, almost dropped the glass.

‘The best Christmas present ever, Stella,’ he said. ‘Christ, I only woke up ten minutes ago. Unbelievable.’

Janet’s red mouth fell for an instant, then winched itself into a terrifyingly bright smile.

‘Happy
Christmas
, Joe.’

She moved towards him, dishcloth and glass still in hand, head positioned for a kiss. Stella observed the varying emotions that crossed Joe’s face. First, blankness, as if he had forgotten Janet’s existence. Then, surprise at her being present. Finally, horror at her appearance. Janet seemed not to notice any of these reactions. By the time she had reached Joe, he had organized an expression of greeting, and obliged with the required kiss on the cheek. This brief affair over, Janet kept her head tilted back, this time awaiting an opinion.