The Girls They Left Behind (22 page)

Not that many of the girls looked smart as it was, Betty thought. The clothes had been allocated as small, medium and large, and within each category there was quite a range of sizes. She had been lucky, but some of the girls looked half swamped by baggy breeches and socks that had been folded over half a dozen times at the top, and others looked as if they might burst all the seams at any minute.

Eventually, the coach driver managed to find all the places on the list, dropping girls off at each one. Miss Andrews checked and counted them all again each time - ‘as if someone might have slipped through the floorboards,’

Yvonne muttered in Betty’s ear - and at last there were only three left, Betty, Yvonne and a slender girl with china-blue eyes and fair hair curled in ringlets. She looked more like a fairy off a Christmas tree than a land girl, even in her uniform, Betty-thought, and wondered if she would be able to do the work. She caught the girl’s glance and gave her a smile, but the china-blue eyes were cold and the fair head turned away.

Betty felt irritated. I was only trying to be friendly, she thought.

The coach rounded a last corner and stopped in the narrow main street of Bishop’s Waltham. The girls looked out with interest. There were a number of people about, all staring at the bus, and Miss Andrews poked out her head and asked for directions to the farm.

‘It’s another mile down that lane,’ she reported. ‘And we can’t get the coach all the way - the last bit’s too narrow. Mr Spencer’s going to meet us there.’

Once more they set off, coming to a halt at a little crossroads. The coach driver stopped again.

‘I’m not going any further. I’ll have a job to turn round here

‘It’s all right,’ Miss Andrews said stiffly. ‘This is as far as we have to go.’ She looked out. The hedges were thick with blackberries but there was no sign of a farmer. ‘Where is he?’

‘Well, this is it,’ Yvonne remarked, standing up and bumping her head on the overhead rack. ‘Ouch! Why do I have to be so tall?’ She glanced at the fair-haired girl. ‘I bet they’ll put us together. We’ll get called Lofty and Titch!’

‘They’d better not try,’ the girl said grimly. She picked up her kitbag and pushed past them to the front of the bus where Miss Andrews was once again consulting her clipboard. ‘My name’s Erica Jones and I must have a bedroom to myself.’

‘Coo-er,’ Yvonne murmured, not too quietly. ‘Someone thinks a lot of herself.’ A flush touched the fair girl’s neck and it was clear she had heard the penetrating whisper. She lifted her head a little higher and said coldly, ‘I enquired at the recruiting office and was told it would be arranged.’

‘Well, I don’t know anything about that,’ the woman said in a harassed voice. ‘You’ll have to see what Mr Spencer says about it.’ She looked down the lane and tutted. ‘He ought to be here now. I said we’d be here about two, and now it’s gone three.’

‘Maybe he thought you’d stood him up,’ the driver suggested.

Erica Jones sighed impatiently and tapped her foot on the floor of the bus. Betty thought she was probably about twenty-one or two. Her golden curls shone and she wore make-up, though not so much that she looked what Betty’s dad would call ‘cheap’. Her uniform fitted beautifully, as if it had been made to measure, and she wore small gold earrings.

Pierced ears, Betty thought enviously. Neither Annie nor Ted would have allowed her to get her ears pierced. It was obvious that she came from a home with more money than the Chapmans had.

Yvonne looked as though she had been wearing her uniform for the past three months. Her aertex shirt was crumpled and damp, her breeches as creased as if they had been rolled into a ball. Her shoes were already scuffed, her hat battered and her green pullover unravelling at one sleeve.

She winked at Betty.

‘Are we all going to the same place?’ she asked. ‘Is Mr Spencer the farmer?’

‘What? Oh - yes, that’s right.’ The clipboard woman had been talking to the driver. She came back looking distracted.

‘You’re all three down for his farm. But there seems to be some hold-up. I don’t know why he isn’t here.’

‘Because it’s milking time.’

The voice made them all jump. They peered out of the bus at the young man who stood smiling up at them. He was tall, lean without being skinny, and had a mop of brown, curly hair. He glanced at the three girls and then smiled again at Miss Andrews. ‘I’m Dennis Verney. I work for Mr Spencer.

He told me to come down here and meet the young ladies. I’m to take them to their billet.’ His gaze travelled slowly over the three staring faces, and Betty felt a tiny shock as his eyes rested upon her face. ‘Why don’t you all come with me now?’

he suggested, and there was a hint of laughter in his voice, as if Dennis Verney found quite a lot of things funny. ‘I reckon Mrs Spencer’ll have the kettle on by now and I bet you could all do with a cup of tea.’

‘A cup of tea!’ Yvonne exclaimed. ‘Could I ever!’ She jumped down from the bus and linked her arm with Dennis’s.

They were almost exactly the same height, Betty noticed, and she felt left out and a bit annoyed with Yvonne. Was she a flirt?

Erica too was looking annoyed. She climbed down into the lane, dragging her kitbag behind her, and made a great show of hoisting it on to her back. She looked back at Miss Andrews, who was fussing helplessly, obviously wondering if she should allow her three remaining chicks to go off with this unknown man.

‘I still expect a room to myself, you know,’ she said accusingly, but the woman shook her head.

‘I’m sorry. We can’t get the bus down the lane and I have to go back. If there’s anything you’re not happy about, you’ll have to get in touch with the Office.’ She stood back to allow Betty to dismount from the bus. ‘Someone will call round in a day or two to see that everything’s all right. And remember that you’re here to work!’

Betty heaved her kitbag on to her shoulder and marched away down the lane after the others. For a moment, she caught herself wishing that she was the one to be swinging along with her arm through Dennis Verney’s. Then she frowned and scolded herself.

Didn’t she already have a boy, away at sea? Wasn’t she wearing his ring this very minute, even if it was on her right hand? And what about Tommy Vickers’ warning to be careful of the farmer’s boys?

Anyway, a tall, strong young chap like Dennis Verney wasn’t going to be around for long. He’d be called up himself in a week or two. And then there’d be three of them - him, Graham and Bob Shaw - to worry about.

I won’t get too friendly with him, she decided. It’s not worth it.

Dennis Verney led the three girls down the lane. It wound away from the main road and over a little bridge with a watercress-filled stream running lazily beneath it. On either side were broad, sloping fields and the lane twisted between tall hedges to climb a steep hill.

The farm lay at the bottom of the hill, set back off the road, with a large farmyard. The girls looked about with interest.

‘My, that’s a big house,’ Yvonne said with awe. ‘It’s like a mansion!’

‘It’s the farmhouse,’ Dennis said. ‘It’s not as big as it looks - all that part on the end is a barn. The hay’s kept there for the animals.’

The house was built of grey flints. It had several windows and to Betty looked as big as three of the little terraced houses in April Grove. She shared Yvonne’s awe, but Erica sniffed.

‘This yard’s mucky.’

Dennis grinned.

‘It’s a farmyard. The cows come through here to be milked.

That’s the milking shed, over there. The poultry are kept in that other shed and let out during the day.’

The yard was full of hens, picking at the earth. At the far side there was a pond, half covered in green, with a few ducks paddling about at its edge. There was a patch of grass with an apple tree hanging over it and someone had left a chair and a basket in the shade. Two large horses were grazing in a small paddock.

‘It’s lovely,’ Betty said. ‘It’s real country.’

‘It’s a farm,’ Dennis said again, and smiled at her.

Betty looked at him. He had warm hazel eyes, full of laughter. She felt suddenly confused, but before she could say anything the farmhouse door opened and a woman bustled out. She was about Betty’s height and rather plump, with grey hair. She was smiling but looked anxious, and her eyes moved quickly over the three girls.

‘So you’re our land girls.’ Her voice had a soft burr to it, quite different from the sharper accents of Portsmouth.

‘Well, I’m pleased to see you. You’ll find things a bit different here from what you’re used to, I daresay, but we’ll all shake down together. Now come in and tell me your names and I’ll show you where you’re to sleep.’

Betty glanced sideways at Erica, expecting her to claim her own room again, but for once the fair-haired girl was silent.

She had put down her kitbag as they stood in front of the house, and now she moved to pick it up.

‘Here, little ‘un, let me carry that for you,’ Dennis said.

‘Good lord, it’s nearly as tall as you are. How ‘

Whatever he had been going to ask was lost as Erica whirled round, fists clenched and eyes blazing, and stamped her foot at him. He backed away, an almost comical expression of amazement on his face, as she let fly.

‘Don’t call me that! Don’t call me “little ‘un” or “Titch” or “Shorty” or anything else you might think’s funny - I don’t like it. It’s bad enough being short, without everybody else treating it like a joke. So just keep your funny remarks to yourself, see?’ She hoisted up her kitbag and swung it on to her shoulder, then looked at Mrs Spencer. ‘I’d like to see my room now, please.’

‘Whew! She’s a star turn and no mistake,’ Yvonne muttered in Betty’s ear. ‘Talk about Lady Muck.’

Mrs Spencer looked taken aback. She tightened her lips and turned to Dennis. ‘You’d better go and help with the milking. I can see to these girls.’ She waited while he disappeared across the yard, then went back into the house, leaving the girls to follow her.

Erica went first, explaining that she had only agreed to come on condition that she was given her own room. The other two followed, more interested in the farmhouse than in the other girl’s demands, and gazed about them at the big kitchen.

It was large and untidy, with a dresser taking up most of one wall and an assortment of cupboards and drawers around the others. The dresser was piled with papers, bills, invoices, numerous forms, letters and old newspapers. A rough topped table stood in one corner, with what looked like an old church pew with a high back on each of the long sides, and chairs at the end. There was a wide range, with its fire lit in spite of the hot weather, and a door leading into a long sitting-room with two sagging sofas and a couple of armchairs. Each held a pile of washing, evidently waiting to be ironed.

It didn’t look as if the Spencers had much more money than the Chapmans, Betty thought in some surprise. Her own mother would have been ashamed to let visitors come in and see the house looking as untidy as this, in fact, it never did look as untidy as this. And the furniture looked old-fashioned and not at all up to date.

‘Fancy living in a lovely big house like this and not keeping it nice,’ she whispered to Yvonne, but the lanky girl gave her a puzzled look.

‘It looks all right to me. Hell of a lot better than down Rudmore Alley, that’s where I live. Five of us to a bedroom and she wants one all to herself!’ She gazed around the room, her eye wide. ‘I reckon we could get our whole house in this kitchen.’

Betty said nothing. She knew where Rudmore Alley was, over near Stamshaw, where the gasholder had got hit during the first raid. But she had never been there. It wasn’t much better than a slum, her mother said, with narrow passageways of tiny houses, and too many people living too close together.

They were all poor down there, working either at the timberyard or on the wharves, and a lot of the children went to school with no shoes on their feet. She wondered what her mother would say if she knew that Betty would be sharing a room with a girl from Rudmore Alley.

‘But I told them in the office,’ Erica was saying. ‘I told them, I have to have my own room. I’m not used to sharing with other people. I won’t be able to sleep.’

‘You’ll sleep all right, after you’ve done a good day’s work.’

Erica gasped and they all turned quickly and saw the doorway blocked by a large man. He stood surveying them, his hands on his hips, face shadowed. He moved forwards, his eyes narrowed. ‘It’s hard work on a farm, aye and mucky too.

You’ll be no good if you’re afraid of mucking out the pigs or milking a cow. I hope you don’t think you’ve come out here on holiday, to get away from the bombs.’

‘Of course we don’t,’ Betty said indignantly. ‘We want to help win the war. At least, I do.’ She glanced at the other girls.

Yvonne, thin but tall, looked ready to do her bit, but what about Erica? She didn’t look as if she’d ever got her hands dirty in her life.

‘So do I,’ Yvonne said warmly. ‘And I’m not afraid of pigs, or cows. I’ll do whatever you want me to.’

The farmer looked at her, his eyes moving over her lanky body: He’s looking at us just as if we were cattle in a market, Betty thought, suppressing a nervous giggle.

‘Well, maybe you’ll be some use when you’ve got a bit of flesh on you,’ he remarked. ‘It’s soft living in the city, so they tell me. A couple of weeks harvesting’ll soon build you up.’

‘It’s good food that’ll build them up,’ his wife said. ‘A few eggs and a bit of butter. And proper milk, not like that thin stuff they get out of bottles.’ Her voice was warm and motherly as she looked at the three girls. ‘We still have to take what rations they give us, but there’s always a bit extra being on a farm - a drop of milk in the pail, a cracked egg now and then. And you’ll need it, with the work you’ll be doing - my husband’s right there.’

Erica had recovered herself. She stepped forward, tilting her head to look up at the big farmer, but before she could speak Mrs Spencer said hastily, ‘I was just telling you about the sleeping arrangements. I’ll take you upstairs now and then Mr Spencer can show you the farm before tea.’ She turned and opened a door which Betty had thought to be a cupboard but now saw to lead to a narrow flight of stairs. Bumping their kitbags on the wall, the three girls followed her, Erica looking annoyed.