Once a Land Girl (8 page)

‘Goodness, is it?’ said Prue. ‘I don’t really understand about poetry.’

‘I’ll read you some one day. Here.’ He handed her a cup painted with such delicate roses that the suspicion of a wife occurred to her. Surely he couldn’t have chosen such
prissy china himself. ‘Why don’t you sit on one of my battered armchairs?’

Prue chose one by the window, a morose but comfortable-looking piece of furniture. On the ledge beside her was the single frivolous object in the room: an empty vodka bottle in which was propped
a child’s windmill on a stem. She wondered whether, when the window was open, a breeze would power the paper arms. She flicked the bottle with a finger.

‘Is there something significant here I’m missing?’

‘No. Just a silly moment of a minor triumph,’ Johnny said gruffly, and lowered himself onto a stool opposite her.

The thing about Johnny, thought Prue, was that he never seemed to think that talking instantly was necessary and he wasn’t one for explanations. He’d leave you to marinate in silence
for a few moments, which indicated he was thinking seriously about whatever you had last said. Though probably he wasn’t.

As she shuffled about in the chair during one of these silences, Prue studied his slightly out-of-kilter face in which the air of cheekiness seemed too young for it. He wasn’t the kind of
man she would have looked at twice a few years ago: too thin, a touch too tall, altogether too indeterminate. But now she was older – more mature, she reckoned – she found his outward
melancholy rather appealing. And the really intriguing thing was that she had no idea whether or not he fancied her. Usually she could tell in an instant. One flick of her curls, one
moue
of
her scarlet lipstick and men (so many) could hardly contain themselves. It had all been easy. But Johnny – did he even register that she was a pretty girl? They had seen each other most days
in the past two weeks, bonded by their project, but there hadn’t been the smallest signal that he had anything on his mind other than completing the chicken run. Ridiculous, thought Prue. Or
perhaps she was losing her touch.

She put the cup of tea on the window-ledge, then leant back into the unstable arms of the chair, which creaked as she moved, and bent one leg up onto the seat. She gave a shake of her head, a
pat to her hair, the fraction of a smile. If he was inwardly on fire with lust for her, Johnny gave no sign of it.

‘Shall I put the lights on?’ he said.

‘Shouldn’t bother.’ Prue changed her position, now crossing her legs. ‘It’s nice in here, all grey.’

Her movement stirred in Johnny a look that Prue interpreted as a first positive reaction, almost interest. She blinked at him slowly, aware of the weight of her black-encrusted eyelashes.

‘You know something funny?’ he said. ‘I always wanted to meet a land girl. I had this feeling they weren’t quite real. I used to look at pictures of them in
Picture
Post –
those sexy breeches and tight jerseys. Have you kept yours?’

So odd, the extraordinary impression that land girls’ breeches seemed to have made on the men of the British nation. ‘I have.’ Prue felt a flicker of apprehension. ‘We
weren’t meant to – we were only allowed to keep our coats. But somehow I had two pairs so I kept one.’ Surely nice reticent Johnny wasn’t some kind of creep who wanted . .
.

‘You must put them on for me one day.’

‘Not on your life!’ Her answer was a squawk.

‘I was only joking.’ They smiled at each other, and the moment of awkwardness evaporated. But it was then that Prue decided she was not going to make any attempt to seduce him. She
liked to think that had she tried she would have succeeded just as easily as she had with all the others. But she wasn’t going to. Because somewhere deep within her lay the morals taught in
childhood: a girl could have as many boyfriends as she liked (this being her mother’s teaching rather than that of the Church) but once married, no matter how difficult, you remained
faithful. She liked to think she would remain faithful to Barry because he was – well, he provided many things she had always wanted, and he was kind and tranquil. He just wasn’t
there
.

‘Are you married?’ she asked suddenly, studying her cup and saucer with its prim roses.

‘Was once. Briefly.’ Johnny shook his head. ‘Pretty much of a disaster. Nothing in common. The wife was cursed with a vicious tongue and a pretty mean streak, though none of
that was apparent before we married. Or perhaps I was blind. Strange how you can be taken in, wanting to believe. What I thought, though, and luckily she agreed, was that having made a mistake we
should undo it as quickly as possible. No hanging about hoping for things to get better. She had money of her own and I had none so there were no financial fights. She’s married to a man in
Las Vegas now.’

His large hands were clasped tightly round his cup, as if for comfort against the thought of a past wife. They trembled slightly. Then, Prue noticed, a small pulse in his jaw began a regular
beat. She began to think that here was a neurotic neighbour, a touch highly strung, nervous. She’d have to take care to avoid any minefields. Not mention the wife again. But then he looked at
her with such a disarming, happy smile that she thought she must have been mistaken. ‘Can’t say I ever think of her,’ he said. ‘But Barry? Your Barry? I scarcely know him.
We have occasional landlord-tenant conversations, but that’s all.’

Prue tipped up her head. (There was a way in which a head could be tipped that signalled nothing more than polite interest.) ‘He’s a good man, Barry. I don’t see much of him.
His work. But he’s generous.’ She held out her wrist, tapped the gold watch.

‘He is. Are you happy?’

‘What a question!’ Prue giggled, caught off guard. ‘Course I’m happy. I wouldn’t have married him if I hadn’t thought we’d be happy – though I
have to admit we’re a bit chalk and cheese. But there’s no saying what makes a good marriage. Sometimes the most unlikely—’

‘Quite.’ It was almost completely dark by now. ‘Really is time to put on a light,’ said Johnny, getting up and taking Prue’s empty cup.

‘And time for me to be getting home. Barry’ll be wondering,’ she added, knowing that this was unlikely.

Now that Prue had taken her decision not even to flirt with Johnny, she felt unconstrained, able to make gestures that she knew were innocent and assumed Johnny would see as innocent too. She
moved to face him, standing close. ‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ she began. ‘You’ve taken so much time and trouble. They’ll change my life, those hens.
Isn’t there something I can do for you in return?’

Johnny frowned. There was a pause while he gave thought to the question, plainly not seeing in it a devious signal. Then he smiled. ‘Well, there is, come to think of it. Your car . . .
I’ll never afford one even half as beautiful. I’d love a ride in it. Would that be possible?’

‘Of course.’

‘We needn’t go far. And I’ll bring a can of petrol. I’ve stored a bit.’

‘But I’ve only just learnt—’

‘I’ll drive, if you let me. I’ll show you its paces. I know a good straight trunk road.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and swivelled her gently to face him. Then he
kissed her forehead. ‘It’ll be fun,’ he said. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

When Prue arrived home she found that the Daimler was not in the garage and the house was in darkness. She let herself into the hall, switched on the light. From the passage that led to the
kitchen Bertha appeared. She moved to the point where the passage widened into the hall, stopped and stared at Prue who gave a nervous laugh. ‘Johnny Norse has finished the chicken run. The
hens are all there. Perhaps you’ve seen them?’ she said.

‘I haven’t looked,’ said Bertha. ‘I’m not that interested in hens.’

‘But there’ll be the eggs,’ Prue floundered. ‘Do you know when Barry’s coming home?’

Their eyes met. Bertha folded her arms across her hollow chest. ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘How should I know? It’s not my place to know, is it?’

Prue hated her. ‘Well, I’m going to shut up the chickens,’ she said, picking up the torch from the hall table. ‘It’ll be my nightly duty from now on.’ She
tried for a carefree voice – no intention of acknowledging Bertha’s powers of intimidation.

‘Very good.’ Bertha turned away, strode back down the passage, her shoulders lifted so high they touched the mean little roll of hair at her neck. Her posture, Prue supposed, was
meant to indicate triumph. Bugger her, she thought. Witchy old cow. She’s not going to lord it over me.

It took her longer than she had imagined to round up the hens in the dark. They skittered about, avoiding the beam of the torch. Sometimes one gave an uncanny squawk as she ran hither and
thither. Prue was half entertained by their silly lack of direction, then remembered the place was new to them: they would take a while to become familiar with the geography of their house and run.
She was also impatient – not a born chicken lover, like Ag – but she’d get used to them.

When she had finally shut the door on every bird, Prue looked over to the house next door, Johnny’s lighted window, undrawn curtains – actually, she remembered, there hadn’t
been any curtains. He was standing at the window. He waved. She waved back, and turned towards the house.

The kitchen light was on, the curtains there, too, not drawn. Prue turned off her torch and walked down the lawn keeping close to the wall. Something compelled her to study Bertha on her own. To
spy, she supposed.

But Bertha wasn’t on her own. Barry was there, too. He stood, hands in the pockets of his overcoat, at the opposite side of the table. He seemed to be listening intently to Bertha, who
gave an occasional stiff movement of her arm. Then suddenly he put both hands on the table, leant over and shouted. Prue couldn’t hear what he was saying, but it was plain he was angry, or
threatening. Bertha now wiped floury hands on her pinafore and put them over her ears. Barry turned away and quickly left the room, taking a cigar from its case as he did so. He slammed the door
behind him. Bertha picked up a tea-towel and dabbed at her eyes.

Prue felt the battering of her heart, a kind of unexplained guilt. She could think of nothing she had done wrong, but guessed she was the reason for the row between her husband and the
housekeeper, and felt uneasy.

Barry was sitting by the gas fire, a balloon glass of brandy by his side, cigar lighted. He looked up when Prue came in, gave one of his wider smiles. ‘Hello, sweetheart.’

‘Barry.’ Prue went over to him, bent to kiss his temple. It shone a little with recent sweat and left a trace of salt on her lips. This evening greeting had become a ritual.

‘I hear the whole chicken business is up and going,’ he said.

‘It is. Johnny and I went to fetch a dozen Rhode Island Reds this afternoon. They seem quite happy. I’ve just shut them up for the night.’

‘Good, good.’ Barry stared at the peach flames of the gas fire. ‘I hear you went over to his place for a visit.’

As far as Prue could tell this wasn’t an accusation: his voice was light. ‘I did. He asked me in for a cup of tea. Well, I mean, I couldn’t very well ask him here, could
I?’

‘No.’ Suddenly Barry stirred, shifted. ‘I mean, why not? It’s your house. You can ask who you like here, right?’

‘I had the feeling Bertha wouldn’t much like that, using her kitchen. I thought I couldn’t very well ask her to bring us a tray in here.’

Barry looked at his wife very hard, a look she couldn’t fathom. Then he spoke loudly, close to anger. ‘Listen to me, sweetheart. Bertha is the housekeeper. She’s in my employ.
I pay her good wages. I give her a roof over her head. If my wife wants to bring the next-door neighbour in for a cup of tea, a man who’s given his time and trouble to set up your chicken
thing, then that’s fine by me and it’s bloody well going to be fine by Bertha. I’ll see to that.’

‘Right,’ said Prue, confused. She watched Barry visibly calm down and sink back into the chair.

‘Here,’ he said at last, and held out his hand. Prue gave him her wrist. ‘Sweetheart, sweetheart,’ he said quietly. ‘I know we’re a funny mixture, but
we’re all right.’

Blimey, thought Prue. What’s got into him? Not a man for declarations, but he could surprise.

He let go of her wrist, gave her a fond look. ‘That Johnny Norse is a good tenant,’ he went on. ‘Good neighbour, though I don’t see much of him. He helped with a leak
upstairs once. Seems he’s a good carpenter. Writes a bit, too, I gather. Any road, if you want Johnny Norse as your friend, me away so much of the day, that’s fine by me and you ignore
Bertha’s cheeky disapproval. She’s probably jealous. I saw her giving him a look once – he was walking down the road, she was polishing the front door. I happened to mention what
a nice young man he was, and she bit her lip, near to tears, I thought. I scarpered, as you can imagine.’ He laughed his growling laugh, stood up. ‘Let’s go and eat,
sweetheart,’ he said, and in that moment Prue was near to loving him.

It was customary for Bertha, at supper, to bring in two plates of whatever unappetizing food she had cooked and put it down in front of them – Barry always first. This evening they saw a
change in her habit. She had left two slivers of cod in a dish on the hotplate. There were boiled potatoes but no other vegetables.

‘She knows how to send a message, Bertha does,’ said Barry, and again he laughed.

A few days later Prue invited Johnny to try out the Sunbeam Talbot as she had promised. He sat for several minutes without moving in the driving seat before he started the engine. Then he coaxed
it into an exciting roar, something she had never achieved, and moved off with confident swoops of the steering-wheel.

The fog that had lingered for a week had lifted. It was a sunny morning and soon they were on a clear road. Johnny drove more slowly than Prue had expected, but she said nothing. Impatient for
speed herself, she supposed he was getting used to the car before putting his foot down. They seemed very quickly to leave the suburbs of the city: the country suddenly swept upwards from each side
of the road. Johnny accelerated, smiling. ‘This is more like it,’ he said. ‘What a car.’