The Girls They Left Behind (23 page)

‘I daresay you’re hungry after your journey,’ Mrs Spencer said. ‘I always cook a meal at teatime. The men need it. My husband’s always had a good appetite, and Dennis eats whatever’s put in front of him. Oh, you’ll need to give me your ration books, I’ll have to register you in the shops.’ She was leading them along a narrow passage and then set off again, up a further flight of stairs. ‘Here. This is your room.’

The three girls crowded into the room behind her. It was long and narrow, with sloping walls, and the windows were so low that you would have to kneel on the floor to look out of them. There were three folding camp beds, close together, and three small chests of drawers.

‘Coo,’ Yvonne said, ‘the ceiling’s a bit low. I can’t stand up straight, except in the middle.’

Betty stared at the room. She felt a twinge of excitement. It was bigger than her room at home, even if she did have to share it, and the sun was slanting in through the low windows and making striped patterns on the floorboards. The curtains were old but pretty, with patterns of flowers faded to a soft blur. It was like a room out of an Enid Blyton story.

‘You’re expecting us to sleep here?’ Erica said, her voice high with disbelief.

Mrs Spencer looked at her. ‘What’s the matter with it?’

‘What’s the matter? It’s an attic’

‘It’s the only room we’ve got that’s big enough.’

Erica sighed impatiently. ‘I’ve told you, I’m to have my own room. I’ve never snared a room. I’m afraid there’s been some mistake. You’ll have to do something about it.’

Mrs Spencer shook her head. ‘I can’t do anything about it.

Nobody said anything to me about a separate room. Anyway, it’ll have to do, there’s nowhere else for you to go. All the rest of the rooms in the house are occupied.’

‘How many people live here?’ Yvonne asked curiously.

‘Have you got evacuees?’

‘No, but there’s me and my husband, and Dennis, and old Jonas - he’s been with us for years. And we’ve got my sister and her two children staying with us. They’ve got Dick and Gerald’s rooms.’ She looked at them again. ‘You’ll have to sleep here.’

Yvonne picked up her kitbag and marched into the room.

She dumped it on one of the camp beds and said cheerfully, ‘Suits me. Which bed d’you want, Bet? The one by the window?’

Betty agreed eagerly. She thought of lying close to that window at night, gazing out at the stars, waking in the morning to see the apple tree outside, its leaves dancing against the sky - why, it was as good as a holiday. She dropped her bag on the bed and grinned at Yvonne, then looked at Erica.

‘That leaves you the bed at the end. Come on - it won’t be that bad, sharing with us. We haven’t got fleas. Anyway, it’s that or walk back to Pompey on your own, take your choice.’

She lay back on the bed and laughed. ‘I think it’s a smashing room. I’ve never slept in an attic before.’

‘We haven’t even got an attic,’ Yvonne remarked, and pulled open the neck of her kitbag.

Erica stared at them both. She turned to look at their hostess, but Mrs Spencer had disappeared down the stairs.

She hesitated for a moment, then walked to the end of the room, her back stiff.

‘It’s only for tonight,’ she said haughtily. ‘I’ll get something done about it first thing in the morning, see if I don’t. I’d never have come if I’d thought I was going to be treated like this.’ She dumped her kitbag on the bed and sniffed. ‘Not that I’m going to be here for long anyway.’

‘What d’you mean?’ Yvonne was fishing out all her belongings and strewing them about her bed. It looked as if she was turning out a ragbag, Betty thought. The Land Army uniform must have been the first new clothes Yvonne had ever had. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Oh, I’m getting married.’ Erica held up her left hand and they saw the tiny diamond glinting on her finger. ‘My fiance’s in the RAF and as soon as he gets leave we’ll be having a big wedding. And then I’ll go with him, wherever he’s stationed.’

‘So why did you join the Land Army?’

‘It was either that or one of the Services and I wasn’t going to join them. In any case, we’ll be having a baby straightaway so there was no point starting anything important. And then I shan’t have to work at all.’

‘Having a baby?’ Betty said incredulously. ‘But why?’

‘Why d’you think? I might not get another chance. If Geoffrey gets killed …’ she shrugged. ‘At least I’d have something to remember him by. And I won’t have to go into the Services.’ Her red lips wrinkled in distaste.

Yvonne stared at her. ‘You talk as if a baby’s a - a fancy photo or something. It’s a person. You can’t have a baby just to get out of doing war work.’

‘I can if I like,’ Erica said coolly. She glanced disparagingly around the attic. ‘I suppose these hooks and nails on the wall are their idea of somewhere to hang our clothes. Honestly!

Not even a wardrobe. It’s disgusting.’

‘It’s clean.’ Betty didn’t feel like talking to Erica any more.

She opened one of the chests of drawers and began to put away her clothes. ‘And Mrs Spencer seems quite nice, though I’m not so sure about the old man.’

‘What about the young one, though?’ Yvonne’s eyes sparkled. ‘He’s a bit of all right, isn’t he? Dennis, I think that’s a lovely name.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Who d’you suppose he is?

He doesn’t seem to be their son.’

‘No, both their boys are away in the war.’ Betty remembered Dennis’s warm hazel eyes and felt the colour rise in her cheeks. She turned her head away quickly. ‘Maybe he just works here. He’ll probably be called up any time. Or he might even be on leave.’

‘I don’t think he is.’ For the first time, Erica joined in a conversation that was not centred upon herself. ‘If you ask me, there’s something funny about him.’

‘Funny? What d’you mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. She sat on her bed, unrolling a pair of thick socks, and gazed at them. ‘But I don’t believe he’s in the Forces and I don’t believe he’s been working on the farm for long. He’s not the kind of person who works on a farm. You can tell by his voice. And there’s something about him, something I can’t quite put my finger on. But I don’t trust him.’

The other two girls stared at her. Betty felt a twinge of unease. Something not quite right? Something not to be trusted? She thought of the laughing eyes, the ready grin, and shook her head.

He’d seemed such a nice sort of chap. But it was funny that he was working on the farm instead of being in the Forces.

And he didn’t seem like the sort of chap you’d expect to find doing the milking and things like that. And his voice was too posh, almost as posh as one of the announcers on the wireless.

Maybe Erica was right. There were spies everywhere. And you had to be careful these days about who you trusted.

The three girls looked at each other, suddenly solemn. And somewhere in the distance, so faint that it was little more than a prickle along their spines, they heard the wail of the siren, and then the muffled thud of bombs as they began once more to fall on the city of Portsmouth.

The working day started early on a farm, and the three girls were up by six o’clock next morning and drinking tea at the kitchen table. And that was the last lie-in they’d get, Mr Spencer told them when they went out to the byre where the three men were already milking.

‘Lie-in!’ Erica exclaimed. ‘I don’t get up till eight o’clock at home.’

Dennis chuckled and the old farmhand, Jonas, snorted. He was sitting on a milking stool, his head pressed against the flank of a large brown cow, his hands squeezing her udder with rhythmic ease. He had already expressed his opinion of the new Land Girls when Mr Spencer had shown them the farm the evening before.

‘So you’re what they’ve sent to replace our Dick and Gerald, are you?’ He hadn’t even bothered to take the straw out of his mouth as he stared at them. ‘Well, I suppose the three of you together might be able do the work of one of’em, but I must say you don’t look up to much. Specially you,’ he said to Erica, who quivered with fury. ‘Why, you’re no bigger than a threepenny bit.’ Yvonne stifled a giggle and he turned his rheumy eyes on her. ‘And you’re just a couple of yards of bloody tapwater, but at least you’ll be able to reach things. As for you - he turned to Betty - you’ll not be able to keep that perm, not when you’re out in all weathers, so you might as well forget it.’

‘My hair’s not permed,’ Betty said indignantly. ‘It’s naturally curly.’

He gave a cackle of laughter. ‘“Naturally curly”, is it! Well, that’s a load off my mind, I must say. Hear that, boss? That’s one of ‘em won’t be bothered about setting her hair every bloody Friday night.’

And how much work could he do in a day? Betty had wondered as Mr Spencer led them on around the yard. He wasn’t much bigger than Erica himself and was as bent as a hairpin. But he looked as tough and scrawny as an old hen, as if he was nothing but bone and sinew. And he’d been on the farm all his life, Mrs Spencer had told them, worked for Mr Spencer’s father when he was alive and knew all that there was to know about the job.

Now he finished the cow he was milking and the farmer suggested that each man should show one of the girls how to milk. Betty bit her lip, trying not to giggle again as Jonas gave Erica a look of pure disgust and rose to let her take his place at the next stall.

‘Here’s the stool. Three-legged - it’s steadier that way. You don’t want it toppling over every time the beast shifts her weight.’ He sat Erica down on it and guided her hands to the udder. ‘I ‘ope you’re not too dainty to touch her teats. Put your fingers round ‘em good and hard. You got to squeeze - no good bloody stroking ‘em. You ain’t doin’ it for her delight.’

Betty and Yvonne watched as the blonde girl settled herself gingerly beside the cow. She looked even smaller beside the huge brown beast, and her fingers barely closed around the teat. She looked with some trepidation at the smooth brown flank and gave a tentative squeeze.

‘That ain’t no good,‘Jonas said disgustedly. ‘Lean into ‘er.

Never mind yer pretty hair. Press yerself against ‘er belly and give them tits a proper squeeze. You’re milkin’ er, not askin’

‘er to purr. She ain’t a pussy-cat.’

Erica bit her lip. Betty could see the frustration on her face.

She squeezed again, and nothing happened. The cow shifted as if in irritation, and Erica flinched.

‘She doesn’t like it. I don’t believe there’s any milk there.’

‘So what’s that in ‘er bag, bloody champagne? Mebbe you’d get it out quicker if it was.’ The old man elbowed her aside and set his own hands on the udder. Immediately, two streams of milk gushed into the pail. ‘Looks like milk to me.’

Erica made a sound of exasperation, and Mr Spencer laughed.

‘Have another go. Nobody gets it right first time, even Jonas, only he’s so old he doesn’t remember learning. Just keep trying, little ‘un.’ He didn’t seem to know that Erica hated reference to be made to her smallness. ‘Now you other two try. You - Yvonne - come here with me, and Betty, you go with Dennis.’ He led the way into another stall and Betty and Dennis looked at each other.

‘A case of the blind leading the blind, I’m afraid,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ve only been doing it a few weeks myself. But I reckon I’ve just about got the hang of it now. Come and try Buttercup, she’s usually pretty generous.’

Betty sat down on the little stool. The cow looked bigger than ever. She laid her face against its side and gave a little exclamation of surprise.

‘Isn’t she warm!’

Dennis chuckled. ‘Of course she is. And I’ll tell you something, Betty, this’ll be one of the best jobs on the farm in winter. Imagine it in here on a cold, frosty morning, with all the cows breathing out nice warm air and heating the place”up with their bodies. The best excuse in the world to spend a couple of hours all cosy against a warm body, better than a teddy-bear any day. What d’you think?’

Betty laughed. ‘I think you could be right.’ Tentatively, she touched the udder. It felt smooth and firm. Remembering what Jonas had said, she took experimental hold of two opposite teats and began to squeeze.

‘No, not quite like that.’ Dennis squatted beside her and reached in to cover her hands with his own. ‘More like this.’

His fingers tightened over hers. His face was very close. She could feel his breath on her cheek. ‘That’s better,’ he said, and there was an odd note in his voice as he drew quickly away. ‘Look…’

Betty opened her eyes, surprised to find that she had closed them. Her heart was beating quickly and she could feel a warmth in her face that was nothing to do with the cow. She looked into the pail and saw the milk already covering the bottom.

‘Am I doing that?’ Her momentary embarrassment was forgotten as she stared in delight at the jets of milk still issuing from the teats as she squeezed. ‘Hey, look, I’m really milking!’

Dennis laughed. He had moved away now and she could no longer feel the warmth of his body close to hers. She blushed again, feeling her heart skitter, then called to the other girls. ‘I’m really getting milk out. How are you getting on?’

By the time milking was over each girl had managed to draw off about half a pailful from their respective cows and even Jonas admitted that it wasn’t bad for beginners - ‘and bloody townies, at that’. But their fingers were stiff and aching and they wondered if they would ever be able to milk the whole herd, as the men were accustomed to do.

‘You’ll get used to it,’ Mrs Spencer assured them, serving everyone with a hearty breakfast of fried potatoes. ‘Come next month and you’ll be experts.’

‘Experts!’ Jonas said with a snort. ‘Takes longer’n a few months to make experts. Takes a bloody lifetime.’

‘Well, you’ll have to make do without experts then,’ Betty retorted. She was getting tired of Jonas. ‘We can’t go back to the beginning and get ourselves born on a farm just to please you.’

‘Now look you here,’ he began, lifting a gnarled finger to point at her. ‘I don’t ‘ave to sit ‘ere and be spoke to like that by a chit of a bloody girl ‘

‘You don’t have to sit here at all,’ the farmer’s wife said sharply. ‘I’ll have no squabbling at this table, Jonas, and well you know it. The girls have come to help us and they’ve got to learn, and it’s up to you to teach them and look pleasant about it, so mind your manners. And your language. If you don’t want to share your meals with the rest of us, you can have ‘em out in the barn, it’s all one to me.’