Once a Land Girl (23 page)

The vicarage, a large red-brick Victorian house, was a sullen-looking building, uncared for. Paul led Prue down a long dark passage that smelt of boiled fish and rotting apples. From behind one
of the many closed doors there was the sound of loud banging, then wailing.

‘My sister isn’t the most domestic woman on earth,’ he explained. ‘She’s probably having trouble with the kettle. Still, I’m fortunate to have someone for
company.’

He opened a door and ushered Prue into his study. He gave a small bow as she passed him. ‘This is where my parishioners come with their grievances.’ He pointed to a desk piled with
papers, some of which had fallen onto the floor. ‘I write my sermons here, too.’

It was a room of such utter cheerlessness that Prue could find no words. The walls were painted the yellow-green of elderly toenails, while the threadbare carpet and two armchairs on spindle
legs matched exactly the colour of the dung heap at Hallows Farm. Jesus, appropriately, was the only agreeable presence in the room: in a picture above the fireplace He smiled down at them. His
shirt – well, sort of shirt – was drawn back to show a glowing red heart from which spurted yellow and orange flames.

Prue kept her arms folded beneath her breasts. She had no intention of abandoning her jacket. Paul indicated she should take a chair to one side of the two-bar electric fire. ‘It’ll
soon warm up,’ he said. ‘I only put it on . . .’ He couldn’t quite remember when he had taken this precaution, but Prue was faintly endeared to him by his optimistic hope of
imminent warmth. ‘One day,’ he added, suddenly misty-eyed, ‘the Church Commissioners might afford us central heating. Until then, well, I just pile on the jerseys. You get used to
it.’

‘You’re very – stalwart,’ Prue said, not altogether sure that that was the word she wanted.

‘Oh yes, that’s me. Stalwart. But, you see, I love the place. Been in the village all my life. My uncle was the vicar before me.’ He looked up at the dun ceiling, its centre
light covered with a mesh of cobwebs. ‘I don’t suppose, looking round, you can see why I hold the house in such affection.’

‘No,’ said Prue, because he was expecting an answer, and she didn’t like to lie to a vicar.

‘People often find it difficult to see what others see . . . Especially about houses . . .’ He trailed off. ‘But that’s how it is. I understand from Ag that you all loved
the farm where you worked as land girls, though that, too, was cold and rather dark.’

‘We did,’ said Prue. A silence stretched between them.

A line of red was rising above the his dog collar and jersey and creeping up over his jaw. He was about to pronounce something important. ‘I feel I owe you an apology, dear Prue,’ he
said. ‘That little gesture last night – it was untoward. I should never have touched you. God forgive me, I fear I had imbibed a little too much of Desmond’s excellent
wine.’

‘Didn’t matter at all,’ said Prue. She giggled. ‘I love the way you talk. Such funny old-fashioned language. I could listen to you for hours, though I don’t
understand half the words.’

‘Really?’ His relief that he had not caused offence with his inebriated behaviour, and his delight in her odd praise, sent the wash of red scuttling back down his neck. ‘Well,
I love the English language and all it’s whirligigs of expression. We shouldn’t let it go. We should do our best to keep its intricacies alive, no matter how we’re scoffed at.
Don’t you think? Now, Liz will bring us a pot of tea. Then we might venture out to the church.’

At that moment there was a loud, peevish ring from the telephone buried under the papers on the desk. Scowling, Paul got up and went over to it, scattering more papers onto the floor as he
rummaged to find the receiver.

‘Dash and blow,’ he said. ‘Tell you what, if you could nip down the passage to the third door on the right, you’ll find Liz. She’ll hand over the tray. So sorry
about this.’

The ringing telephone had put him into a considerable dither. He lifted the earpiece to one ear, changed it to the other, signalled with a waving hand to the door, finally made contact with the
caller. ‘My dear Mrs Spooner,’ he said.

Prue went out in search of the right door, opened it, and moved into a kitchen even colder than the vicar’s study. There was someone at the sink, back to her, running a tap. At first Prue
thought it was very short, fat man: cropped hair, man’s trousers, long baggy jersey. The tap was snapped off. The figure turned. Large ungainly breasts now revealed it was a woman.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ Prue began.

‘Oh, it’s no bother.’ There was a sneer in her voice. ‘I’m Liz, the sister. You must be the girlfriend.’

Prue felt herself blush. ‘Not exactly. I only met Paul last night. He’s going to show me the church.’

‘Ah.’ Liz moved to the table, dumped a few rock cakes from a tin onto an empty plate. ‘He’s always got the excuse of the church, hasn’t he? You mustn’t mind
that.’

Prue frowned, puzzled, uneasy. ‘Why should I mind that?’

‘Well, darling, my brother’s in search of a wife. He tries it on, here and there. Doesn’t get very far. Though I have to say he hasn’t come up with something like you
before. It’s usually the older spinster.’

She now smiled, a smile of dark and chipped teeth, her eyes hard on Prue’s face before they scoured her body. It was the most terrifying smile Prue had ever seen, a rape of a smile. A
surge of cold sweat swept over her. She was sickened, giddy, and put one hand on the table for support. In a trice Liz lowered one of her own hands on top of it, squeezed. ‘If it’s
comfort and fun you’re looking for, dear, I’m always here.’ She smiled again, then limped heavily to the boiling kettle, her laugh almost smothering its hiss. ‘I’ve
something of a reputation in this village, so I don’t go out much.’

Prue was sidling towards the open door.

Liz, having filled the pot, shuffled things onto the tray. ‘Don’t worry, darling. I’m not going to hurt you. But it’s always worth a try. I might get lucky one
day.’ She handed Prue the tray.

Prue hurried back to the study. Paul was sitting in his chair again. His surprise at her entrance made him raise both hands – it was as if he had not expected her to return. ‘Oh,
very good, lovely, wonderful, excellent, thank you so much,’ he said in a rush. ‘Put it down here.’ He glanced at Prue, noticed her state. Are you all right? I hope my sister did
nothing to offend. She has her funny ways.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Prue. She dreaded the rock cakes.

Surprisingly, tea with the vicar was less of an ordeal than she had thought it might be. Paul made her laugh from time to time, more by his archaic use of language than his meagre jokes, and she
saw what Ag meant about his mild charm. He was not entirely to be dismissed, she thought, though she could not imagine in what way they might continue an acquaintance.

An hour passed quickly. It was suddenly dark. Paul got up to draw the grim curtains.

‘Bit late to see the church,’ said Prue. ‘I could come back tomorrow.’

‘Oh, do.’ He clapped his hands and gave a sort of skip back to his chair. He looked up at the picture of Jesus over the fire. Are you a churchgoer?’

‘Not really. Christmas, weddings, that sort of thing. I like the hymns.’

‘You sound like the average British Christian,’ Paul replied, with a smile that Prue took to be pitying, ‘but I hope you’re at least in touch with God.’

‘In touch? How do you mean?’

‘Well, He’s everywhere, all the time, to put it in the simplest terms.’

‘You mean He’s in this room? With us?’ Prue glanced up at the picture. She didn’t like it.

‘He is indeed.’ Paul gave a long, inward sigh, then exhaled silently as he pushed his hands against each other to make a steeple.’ I can feel Him beside us.’

‘Well I can’t.’ Prue, close to giggling, looked down at the clerical shoes. They were enough to make anyone stop laughing.

‘Oh dear, oh dear. I don’t know where to begin. I’m always stumped by semi-believers. But at least I must urge you to walk and talk with God. That’s not a bad
beginning.’

‘Walk and talk? What would I say? I’d feel a bit daft talking to someone who’s not there.’

‘You could start by saying thank you. Most people pray to God only when they want something—’

‘I prayed when I thought my premature son was going to die. I admit that. I think I shouted at God.’

‘And did He hear you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, He works in mysterious ways. You may find there was good reason for your son to die. But you’ve plenty to give thanks for, haven’t you?’

‘I suppose I have.’ Prue wriggled in her chair, tugging at her jacket, signalling she was about to leave. ‘I’m a little bit intrigued, I have to admit, Vicar, about all
your God stuff.’

‘Good, good. We could talk some more.’

Prue stood up. Paul went to open the door for her.

At the front door, looking out on to a clump of yew trees, their darkness just touched by moonlight, she shivered. ‘Tell you what, I’ll try talking to God on the way back, shall I?
He might show me the way. I haven’t got a torch.’

‘I think you’re teasing me, Prue.’

‘Course I am. But I will try. It might be easier in the dark.’

‘Come back tomorrow and we really will go round the church before it gets dark.’ He put a brief hand on her shoulder.

‘OK. And thanks for the tea.’

Prue set off down the path, knowing he watched her until she was out of sight. She looked forward to recounting her afternoon to Ag and Desmond. For some reason she decided to leave out the God
bit. In a funny way, it had felt private.

The next afternoon Prue returned to the vicarage. Paul gave her a brief history of the church, which wasn’t nearly as boring as she’d expected. The oldest part was
fourteenth century: no wonder it was even colder than the house. What most fascinated her was the tomb on which a young couple lay, each with marble hands pressed together and legs stretched out
very straight. The woman, who was as po-faced as the woman in the corner shop down the road at home, wore a long dress of many cold and dusty pleats and ruffles. On the side of one of her legs a
dog was stuck, limpet-like: very unrealistic, Prue reflected. If it hadn’t been marble it would have fallen off. And she couldn’t work out what sort of dog it was – either a very
young puppy, or some miniature breed. She didn’t like it. And the couple’s feet, neatly together pointing towards the ceiling, were completely flat. Their shoes had no heels. Prue moved
to study their faces. She wanted to see if they looked happy. Their marble eyelids were at half mast, no expression in them. They looked as if they had never been able to see, as if they had had no
memories.

‘They don’t look as if they’d been hard at it, exactly, do they?’ she asked Paul.

‘I suppose they don’t, no.’ The vicar blushed. ‘I think they’re just sleeping the sleep of the innocent.’

‘Glad I didn’t live then,’ Prue mused. ‘All those heavy skirts. Be so difficult—’

‘Quite,’ interjected Paul. ‘I know what you mean.’

Prue doubted this, but decided it was time to leave speculation about the effigies’ sex lives. She asked to go round the graveyard.

There, she wandered away from the vicar who was pinning up something in the porch. She went from grave to grave, touching the leaning tombstones smothered in brambles and moss, their
inscriptions powdery with age. Some of the names she loved: Dora, Agnes, Violet, Edwin, Sage. She came upon a small headstone: one Hamish, who had lived for three months, born and died before the
Great War. Prue knelt down, put a hand on the small mound of turf. She wished she could find flowers to put on the grave, but she could see none. She stayed on her knees for a long time.

Then a flock of rooks rose from the tops of bare elms to one side of the graveyard and cawed their way into the dense grey sky, startling her. She got up, turned to look back at the church. The
vicar was still in the porch, regarding her.

Prue waved. They walked towards each other, then made their way back to the vicarage for more bitter tea and rock cakes. This time there was no sign of Liz, which was a great relief.

To her surprise, Prue found herself visiting Paul every afternoon for the next five days. Once, there were digestive biscuits instead of the rock cakes: he explained they very
rarely appeared in the village shop, but he’d happened on some this morning and pounced upon them. As they sat by the pallid fire Prue talked a little of her own life. She confessed to the
breakdown of her marriage, which Paul had heard about from Ag, but did not mention the baby. The vicar talked of his love for the village, for Devon, but was not forthcoming about his private life
– well, he probably didn’t have much of one, Prue guessed. With some diffidence she did ask his advice on what she should do once she left Manchester.

‘Go and live somewhere in the country, work on a proper farm. There’s lots of work to be had, now, as the farmers return from arable to dairy. Live on your own. I recommend it. God
will be with you.’

‘Oh, Him,’ said Prue, a touch petulant. ‘I knew whatever your suggestion was that it would include God.’

‘I’m sorry, then. I haven’t been helpful.’ He clasped his hands, looked down at them.

‘Sorry, Paul. I didn’t mean to snap. But life on my own . . . I’ve got to think hard. God might not be there to guide me, whatever you say.’

‘O ye of little faith.’ The vicar smiled. He was used to people having no faith in his suggestions.

‘I’d better be getting back, helping with the supper,’ said Prue. She stood up, which meant the scant warmth from the electric fire fled from the top half of her body.

‘Of course. I mustn’t detain you. How much longer are you staying?’

‘I go home – home! – the day after tomorrow. Ag said I could stay as long as I liked, but I think it’s time to go, make plans.’

‘Quite. And, well, it’s been such a pleasure . . .’

‘Been nice meeting you, too. My mum’ll be over the moon when she hears I’ve been having serious talks with a man of God.’

Paul smiled again, very faintly. What Mrs Lawrence used to call an under-smile. Joe used to give Prue under-smiles sometimes.