Читать книгу The Land Girl: An unforgettable historical novel of love and hope - Allie Burns - Страница 7

April 1915

She marched across the lawn on her way back from the farm. She’d start with Mother, simply show her the newspaper notice from the Standard and explain how she needed to take the training so that she could help Mr Tipton keep the women in order. They owned the farm, and as the family depended on its profits she might just see it as a solution. It was wildly optimistic. Her pace slowed as she pictured Mother frowning as she read the article.

Once she reached the terrace her courage began to fail her. Mother’s knitting-party guests stood at the floor-length sitting room windows. There were two smaller figures – her mother one of them, the other most probably Norah Peters, the village solicitor’s wife. And there was a woman with a stout gait, which must belong to Lady Radford from Finch Hall. Members of the titled upper class like the Radfords and the industrial middle class like the Cothams mingled frequently in the countryside, which was a shame because Lady Radford was at their house far too often and always telling Mother how to think.

At the French door, Emily muttered, oh dear. The stout hips weren’t Lady Radford’s at all. Neither was Norah Peters standing beside Mother. Instead, a clean-shaven, smart young man in a suit, and an older woman, wearing one of the widest brimmed and heavily feathered hats Emily had ever seen, waited with smiles on their faces. Mother glared at her daughter’s muddy and torn skirts and her brother’s large work boots protruding from beneath her soggy hem.

She remembered then: it hadn’t been a knitting party at all. It was afternoon tea with Mother’s friend’s son. It was another of the faceless young men from good families that Mother kept inviting for her to meet – someone who might take care of the both of them. His family were something in construction, middle-class industrialists like them, but he was in banking. Would this one be any more interesting than the others? They were always a little cold, and distant, superior even, and their favourite subject was usually themselves.

‘Goodness me, Emily!’ Mother exclaimed, as she opened the door, blocking Emily’s path. ‘Your head is much better then?’ Behind her, Daisy bit her lip and pretended to focus on replenishing the teacups. Emily pulled an errant leaf from her hair and straightened her skirt.

‘I always said that the expression “being dragged through a hedge backwards” was custom-made for you.’ Mother’s voice was false, raised with an edge to it that kept up appearances whilst telling Emily she’d be in for it later.

‘Use the back entrance, dear,’ Mother said with a steel and tightness in her tone that only Emily could detect. ‘Smarten up and then you may join us.’

Emily tried to smooth some of her hair back into its chignon, but so much had fallen loose it was hopeless; just like her. What had she been thinking, running off to the farm like that? No wonder Mother was never satisfied with her.

In her bedroom, she made an extra effort to smarten up. She put on a hideously frilly dress that Mother liked best, shook her hair loose and tugged the brush through it again and again until it had the sheen of a sweet chestnut. Then she backcombed and pulled her locks over a pad to create a respectable, curved pompadour. For the finishing touch, she lifted a fuchsia-coloured camellia bloom from the vase on her dresser and tucked it behind her ear.

Downstairs, the man, whose name she couldn’t remember despite Mother having talked about him all week, had left the women to talk and was on the terrace admiring the view.

‘Lovely day,’ he said, as she approached him. He was quite handsome, she supposed. It was his nose that spoiled him; it was too big for the rest of his face, though his ears were in proportion with the nose, which was something.

‘Oh, it really is,’ Emily said.

He stood so at ease with his hands in his trouser pockets that HopBine could have been his own home. He seemed quite comfortable with the silence. Then he pointed up to the roof.

‘You’ve some tiles missing, and the guttering is in a bad way.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, sneering at him as he turned away. ‘We’re aware the house needs some repairs. My brother is away at the Front at present, so our priorities have changed. You work in banking, I understand,’ she said. ‘Is that interesting? A challenge?’ She was talking too fast. It happened when Mother was watching her. The pauses between words evaporated making them all slide together into a chaotic jumble. ‘I can’t say I know much about money, or investments.’ Her mouth really was running away from her. She should be quiet, adopt some of his detached, confident demeanour.

She checked over her shoulder. The women were talking, but Mother’s gaze was resolutely on her daughter. She gestured for Emily to remove the bloom from behind her ear.

‘No, I don’t suppose you do,’ he said, not without a hint of superiority. ‘It takes a certain level of skill and education to master the markets.’

Her back straightened at his condescension. She twirled the camellia between her thumb and forefinger, before lifting her head and capturing him in her gaze. ‘I’ve always regarded the world of finance to be a little soulless. And you are helping to confirm my theory that people who enjoy the company of numbers are insentient beings themselves.’

‘Oh, …’ he said, breaking eye contact. ‘Well, let me assure you that isn’t the case at all.’

‘No? Perhaps your remarks don’t represent you well.’

He concentrated on the horizon, but she continued to study him fixedly, let him bathe in the discomfort. He found something of interest on the concrete floor of the terrace. His hair flopped forwards to obscure his oversized nose. She paused a while longer, let the silence hang between them and then checked the window. Mother’s gaze was still trained on her; probably trying to read her daughter’s lips. She shouldn’t be picking arguments.

‘Do you play tennis often?’ She dropped the pink bloom to the ground, slipping into the polite patter expected in these circumstances. But the chap was frowning, he hadn’t liked being told off by a young woman.

He told her he didn’t, no, he was training to fight a war, and then he excused himself and slipped back in to the safety of the older women’s conversation, slamming the French door harder than was necessary, and trampling on the camellia’s petals. She hesitated before following him in. Mother’s expression was granite-edged. There was nothing she could do about it but limit the damage, which for now meant she would keep her newspaper clipping to herself.

*

When she found Mother in the sitting room after the guests had gone later that evening, she caught her reading a letter, a smile on her face. As Emily crossed the threshold, Mother hastily balled the letter up, stuffed it in her pocket and lifted the knitting from her lap.

‘You didn’t mention that you’d had some post,’ she said wondering which brother it might be from. ‘Cecil or John?’

‘What?’ Mother’s cheeks coloured. ‘No, no, neither.’

It should have been cosy in the sitting room. Daisy had cleverly used their scant coal supplies to time the fire to perfection for the early evening, but there was a persistent chill in Emily’s spine.

‘I caught two of Mr Tipton’s volunteers in trouble on the farm earlier on,’ Emily said before Mother could mention the mess she’d made of the house call. Lawrence, as it turned out he was called, had shown no interest in wanting to hear from her again. No one would ever ask her what she thought about him. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the impression she made, while the men could be as rude as they liked.

‘If I hadn’t been there to rescue them, Mrs Hughes and Mrs Little might have been trampled to death by Lily,’ she continued.

‘I wonder …’ Mother said looking up.

‘Yes?’

‘If Cecil might be able to come home from Oxford when John is next on leave. Wouldn’t it be nice to have the boys back together?’

‘I suppose it would, yes,’ she replied. ‘We could have a Christmas celebration for John – he’d like that, to mark the one he missed.’ It would be wonderful to see John again, he always listened when she told him about her adventures on the farm.

‘Good idea,’ Mother said. Emily paused for a moment to savour the rare praise. She smiled. Mother’s eyes glistened, a sure sign she was thinking up ideas of what they could do for John on his next leave. Perhaps this was her moment. She took a deep breath, rummaged inside her pocket for the newspaper article. Just as she was lifting it out, Mother changed the subject.

‘Despite what happened today, all is not lost. I told Lawrence’s mother that you’d write to him when he gets his first commission.’

‘Would Lawrence like that?’ Emily asked. He’d hardly said another word to her once he’d been back inside the sitting room.

‘Why ever not?’ Mother smiled to herself as she began a new row. Emily’s stomach tightened; Mother mustn’t have false hope. Lawrence had probably already forgotten about her, and she would gladly forget about him.

She may as well get it out of the way. She reached inside her pocket and handed Mother the article, flattening it out for her. Mother reluctantly gave up her knitting, held the piece of paper to the lamplight.

‘I suppose if they train up these educated girls they’ll soon bring the likes of Olive Hughes and Ada Little under control.’

‘Exactly.’ So, Mother had been listening to her after all, but Mother handed her back the piece of paper and resumed her knitting. She hadn’t understood the relevance of Emily handing her the announcement.

‘The thing is, Mother, I wonder, could it be me? I love the outdoors and—’

‘You?’ Mother said. ‘Do you mean go off on a training course? And how much will that cost? We’re already paying for your brother’s officer commission; his mess fees won’t pay themselves.’

‘They would pay me,’ she said.

Mother pinched her nose. ‘I have enough to worry about with your brother away at the Front, and with conscription looming I might end up with both sons fighting.’

The reply would have been the same no matter what she’d said. Many of her old school friends had answered the call for nurses, canteen supervisors, ambulance drivers, tram conductresses, even policewomen. Lady Radford was now the commandant of the hospital she’d set up in her home, Finch Hall, the village’s big manor house. Clara Radford, the same age as Emily, was the assistant for goodness’ sake. Her ambition was humble in comparison; she only wanted to help out on their family’s estate.

‘Even if I were to work here on our own farm?’

‘Even then.’

Mother glanced up from her knitting. ‘Don’t look at me like that. It isn’t right for you, an educated girl with an Oxford Board School Certificate, to be a labourer. On land we own as well. No, no, no. Not when you’re in the market for a decent husband.’

‘Lady Clara is of higher standing than us, and she’s working,’ Emily argued. ‘I would be able to live here, and I could work part-time hours so you aren’t on your own.’

Mother tossed her knitting to her lap and raised a hand to her head. ‘What did I do to deserve such a difficult daughter? I turn a blind eye to you wallowing about in the soil in the kitchen garden. Yes, don’t think I don’t realise. Climbing trees – I see you doing that, a girl of nearly twenty, of marriageable age, up a tree in her best clothes. Tailing Mr and Mrs Tipton around, making a nuisance of yourself on the farm, when I have other, more important, things to worry about and need a daughter as a companion while she finds a husband and supports me through a difficult time.’

‘I only want to do my bit for the war.’

They knitted in silence. The war was choking her, making her life smaller. Emily dropped a stitch and in the act of trying to pick it up a second loop of wool had slid from her needle point.

Emily paused while Mother dug the tip of her needle into a new stitch. ‘Is this what you were daydreaming about when you lost your self-control and made inconsiderate and hurtful remarks to Lawrence?’ Mother said.

Emily groaned, threw the knitting needles clattering to the floor.

‘Emily Cotham,’ Mother exclaimed. ‘He is a very charming chap, who offers a prospective wife a comfortable life, perhaps with your own garden to tend. The sort of chap who takes care of his mother and would do the same for his mother-in-law. But instead you tried to belittle him.’

‘He was rude first,’ she began, but stopped herself before she made things worse. Mother was right: she had been trained to show better character than she had today. The newspaper article had fired her up, but she should have shown restraint and not retaliated. Mother was only trying to help and now she was being ungrateful.

‘I hope when you write to him you show him more interest, and gratitude for what he’s doing for the country.’

‘Of course. But would you at least agree to think about me doing some war work?’

‘We have pressing issues closer to home to tend to.’

What could be more pressing than putting food on the table, and keeping their own farm productive and running? The movement was growing. The newspaper had spoken of a land army for women; the need for girls like her was growing and she wouldn’t give up.

‘Please?’ she asked. Shouldn’t her mother be proud of her?

‘Oh dear, your whining is giving me a migraine. I think you overestimate the extent of what you might do. You’re not very strong – there’s nothing of you and no one will take you seriously if you’re smaller than them. Mr Tipton will laugh you off the land.’ Mother’s withering look and cutting words made her head bow. She couldn’t bring herself to say another thing in response to that.

Emily picked up the heel stitches with her needle, a task that could make her distracted by something as benign as the ticking clock, but worse still, she inspected the whole sock; she’d made a mistake when casting off the toes. She couldn’t go back and correct it now. She toyed with the idea of throwing the knitting onto the fire and letting it burn. She grabbed the newspaper cutting, folded it back in her pocket and clomped up the stairs. Mother didn’t even look up or show that she’d noticed Emily’s display of frustration.

In her room, she stopped herself from slamming the door shut. Mother always reduced her to a child, and each time she reciprocated with childish behaviour. She must learn to not yearn for her Mother’s approval or affections because it was futile of her to hope for them. She couldn’t help herself and slammed the door shut anyway, not caring if she was nearly twenty. If she was going to be treated like a child, why not behave like one?

She slid down the wall and sat with her back to the bedroom door and flicked through the newspaper.

Corporal Williams, fighting for King and country in Flanders, seeks a well-bred country lady for correspondence and conversation and tales from our green and pleasant land.

Well, Corporal Williams. She’d be delighted to write and tell him all about this pleasant land, and it would be jolly nice to correspond with someone who was interested in what she had to say.