Читать книгу Wave Me Goodbye - Ruby Jackson - Страница 6

Bedfordshire, March 1940

She had never been so cold in her life. Grace stood in her pyjamas beside her abandoned bed and wanted nothing more than to climb back in. Where were her clothes? It was so dark that she could see nothing.

Don’t panic, Grace, she told herself. You’re standing beside the bed, and the chair where you put your clothes is … She bent down and felt along the bed until she came to the short iron foot rail. She turned round so as to be facing the head. ‘Yippee,’ she whispered through chattering teeth. She stuck out her right arm and followed its path till she stumbled against the easy chair that she had nicknamed Saggy Bottom the night before. Her clothes were folded up in a neat pile on the collapsed chair seat. She felt through them until she found her knickers and, as quickly as she could, pulled them on. Next, her thick – and blessedly warm – woollen socks. A cream WLA-issue Aertex shirt and a warm green jumper followed, and, last of all, her corduroy breeches. ‘I hate you, silly breeches,’ she said as she struggled with the laces at the knees. She had not yet mastered how to get the breeches on or off quickly. Under the door, she saw light shining in the corridor.

‘Are you awake, Grace?’ called a voice.

‘Yes.’

The door opened and she saw a female figure. ‘Welcome to Whitefields Court. If you didn’t catch the name of the station, it’s Biggleswade and we’re in Bedfordshire.’ She changed the subject very quickly: ‘Why are you dressing in the dark?’

The woman did not wait for an answer but struck a match, which flared up for a moment, showing Grace someone probably the same age as her sister, but who was dressed exactly as Grace would be dressed if she could see to wash and finish dressing.

‘Why haven’t you got an oil lamp?’ The woman sounded brusque but kind.

‘It wasn’t issued.’

A second match flared and the woman walked across to the little dressing table and lit the candle that sat there. ‘There, now you can see your way to the lavatory. Don’t be shy, girl. We all go. If you’re downstairs in five minutes, you can have a cup of tea to warm you before the milking. Otherwise, you’ll have to wait till it’s finished. Now scoot.’

Grace ‘scooted’. Something about the voice suggested that the woman was used to being obeyed without question, and besides, Grace wanted a cup of tea, hot and sweet – well, that would be nice, but hot would do.

She had never washed and dressed so quickly in her life but, carrying her heavy WLA-issue boots, she fell into the kitchen no more than five minutes later. Mrs Love, the woman Grace had met the previous night – possibly the cook or housekeeper – was busy at the large, shiny kitchen range, and the woman who had been in Grace’s room was leaning against the sideboard, smoking a cigarette. She looked Grace up and down. ‘Give her some tea in a tin mug, Jessie, and she can drink it as we go.’

‘Yes’m.’

Grace had never really believed that people actually said, ‘Yes’m,’ but that certainly seemed to be what Mrs Love had said.

‘Don’t gawp, Grace, frightfully rude. Now, bring your tea. She’ll be back in time for breakfast, Mrs Love.’

Was there a warning note in her voice? Grace wondered, but she took the mug, thanked Mrs Love and followed the other woman out into the darkness. Biting cold hit her like a shovel.

‘Where’s your greatcoat?’

As Grace stumbled over her answer, the woman interrupted her. ‘Don’t tell me: wasn’t issued. How does this country expect to win a war?’

Grace assumed, rightly, that her companion did not seek an answer to that important question; at least, not from her. She tried to gulp the hot liquid as she hurried, in the pitch-darkness, after her. Must be the boss one from the War Office, she thought. Never thought they’d be awake earlier than the workers, or even here at all. Maybe it’s because it’s my first day.

A large rectangular shape loomed up before them and a faint glow showed Grace that it was a building. Cows, she realised, lovely, lovely warm cows. Milking was never going to be her favourite job – whatever Ryland had said – but sitting with her head close to a cow’s bulky side was warmer than being outside.

The woman from the ministry was as keen on cleanliness as George had been at the training farm. ‘We have managed to avoid tuberculosis, foot and mouth, and God knows what other diseases these lovely silly animals get, Grace, and absolute hygiene is the key. There will be a clean overall on the door for you every morning and I will inspect your hands – sorry – until I know that I can trust you.’

‘The dairyman at the training farm was a martinet.’

The woman laughed. ‘Ah, old George, best man in the business. You can see that we don’t yet have the new-fangled milking machine. Neither do we pasteurise, on this farm, partly because our local customers tend to want milk “straight from the cow”. They like what they call “loose milk”, not bottled, and we do the old-fashioned churns and jugs. As with you and your greatcoat, however, I’m assured that modern methods are on the way. Now let’s get started.’

Grace looked: there had to be thirty or forty cows waiting patiently to be milked. The byre was full of the sweet smell of hay overlaid by another smell, familiar and not entirely unpleasant but certainly more pungent. She had smelled it often, if not quite so strongly, during her training. ‘Ugh,’ she said, and buried her nose in the warm side of the cow she was milking.

‘All part of the fun of the farm,’ said her companion. ‘I’ll start at the other end, but shout if you need help, and watch big Molly, third down; she loves to knock over the pail.’

Great, thought Grace. Is there going to be a cow on every farm whose joy in life is to kick the milk or me? First day: no breakfast yet, and a cow that plays football. But Molly gave her no trouble as she worked her way steadily along her line. Eventually, she was side by side with the War Office lady and was troubled to see that she had milked at least five more cows than Grace herself had. Grace watched her surreptitiously, as they worked side by side. What beautiful hands she had. Her nails looked professionally manicured, just like her sister, Megan’s, but better. She looked at her own work-worn hands and sighed.

‘Problem, Grace?’

‘No, miss. I have a school friend who’s with ENSA and your fingernails reminded me of her.’

‘These won’t last long with milking. I should have cut them but hadn’t time. And please don’t call me “miss”. I’m his lordship’s daughter. Doing my bit, too. Call me Lady Alice. Now, can you find your way to the kitchen? Off you go. I can spare you for thirty minutes. Back here for deliveries as soon as.’

Grace hurried and her mind was working as quickly as her feet. She had been working beside an earl’s daughter. When she did write, she would tell Daisy that. And she was just normal, she would say, slim and elegant, with really pretty brownish hair and the creamiest skin, and knew better than me how to milk. Imagine. War did strange things, did it not? Lady Alice had been wearing a land- girl’s uniform, just like Grace’s own, with the exception of that lovely warm coat. ‘Doing my bit, too,’ she had said.

Two men were eating breakfast at the long wooden table in the kitchen and Grace hesitated for a moment.

‘If you’re here for breakfast, Grace, sit down,’ said the cook. ‘I’m not handing it to you over there. They’re only men, you know. They don’t bite.’

One of the men laughed and Grace saw that he was quite young. ‘Do join us,’ he said. He gestured with his hand, as if to point out the size of the table. ‘Sit down as far away from us as you like. We’re the unpatriotic conchies.’ There was a note of sarcasm in his voice. ‘We’re what’s called noncombatants, but we’re important, too, and we don’t bite.’

Grace blushed and sat down but chose a chair not far from the older man’s place. Conchies? Conscientious objectors. She had heard of these men, whose principles would not allow them to fight in the war. Surely, that did not make them unpatriotic.

‘Hush, you, Jack. You’re after scarin’ the lass,’ the other man said. ‘She only arrived last night and probably thought she was going to be alone. We’re clearing the ditches, and happen you’ll only see us at meals.’

Grace smiled at them tentatively. She was used to working-class men like the older man, but the tall, and somewhat aloof Jack, with his plummy voice, was rather different.

A plate was put before her and she forgot about the men as she looked at it. Bacon, two eggs, some fried potato and a thick slice of bread that had obviously been fried in the bacon fat. She wouldn’t mind how much work she had to do if she was to be fed like this. ‘Thank you,’ she said, with some awe in her voice.

She could not help comparing this table with those in the training school. No named individual pots here, but two large bowls, one full of butter and the other of marmalade.

‘There’s tea in the pot,’ the red-faced cook said as she returned to her range. ‘Pour yourself some.’

Grace looked askance at the round brown teapot and wondered if she could lift it up and pour without spilling.

The older man spoke again: ‘That slip of a girl’ll never lift such a heavy pot. You’re nearer to it, Jack, lad.’

Without a word, Jack poured Grace’s tea. She was embarrassed to be the focus of so much attention, but she thanked the men for their kindness and began to eat.

For some time, no one spoke, and Grace wondered if it would be thought forward of her to start a conversation. At the training farm, everyone had talked all the time. Why should this farm be any different?

‘Clearing ditches must be hard work.’

The men looked at her and then, without a word, reapplied themselves to their almost-empty plates.

The atmosphere in the room, never light, was now really heavy.

‘Not hard enough for shirkers,’ the cook said in an acidic tone.

The men stilled for a moment and then continued eating.

Grace took her courage in both hands. ‘It’s one of the most vital war jobs,’ she said quietly. ‘At the training farm, the lecturers told us that before 1939 more than half of Britain’s food was imported. Now, our farmers are being told to double or treble their production, and if the ditches aren’t cleared then the fields won’t drain and crops will rot.’

Embarrassed, she gulped some tea and stood up to go. The cook stood, arms folded, and the look on her face told Grace that, once again, she had made a bad enemy.

‘I’m Harry McManus,’ said the wiry older man, standing up, ‘and thank you, little champion. Young Jack Williams here was learning to be a doctor and save lives, even ones like ’ers,’ he added with a nod towards the robust figure of the cook. ‘I were a bus conductor before. Must say, I like being on a farm. How did you get into it?’

‘You’re all here to work, not chat over the teacups,’ the cook said, reinforcing her position.

Grace smiled at Harry. ‘I volunteered,’ she answered. ‘I’m off to deliver milk,’ she told the men as they moved together towards the door.

‘If her ladyship hasn’t froze to death waiting for you.’

Grace gasped and hurried out of the kitchen. Had she taken more than thirty minutes? ‘Please, please …’ she muttered as, hampered by her heavy boots, she tried to run.

Lady Alice was seated in the delivery lorry, and all she said as Grace climbed in was, ‘There’s an old coat of mine just behind you, Grace. It’ll do for now, but I will ring up about your uniform one. As usual, they’ll assure me that it will turn up one of these days.’

She had started the engine as she talked and they headed out of the farm.

‘Thank you. I don’t mind waiting, Lady Alice.’

‘I mind. Wear the coat.’

They drove in silence, Grace going over and over in her head all the things she thought she should have been saying. Seeing Lady Alice in the uniform, albeit a uniform that had been made to measure from finer materials, had made Grace think of all the unwritten words describing her WLA uniform she had intended to write to her friend Daisy. She had intended to say it was smart and attractive. In fact, it was ugly, utilitarian and quite inadequate for winter conditions. Her shoes were extremely heavy: wearing them all day exhausted her and she often had blisters on her heels and her toes. But at least no one else had ever worn these clothes; they were hers.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ asked Lady Alice eventually. ‘Relax, girl. Now, when we get to the village – which is called Whitefields Village, by the way – you take the measuring can, which is beside the churns in the back, fill it with milk, and then go to the first house. Knock, and if no one answers, walk in, the door will be open, and the housewife’s measuring jug will be on the sideboard or the table. Fill it, come out and go to the next house. There will probably be one or two people up, having breakfast, getting ready for school or work. Just say, ‘Hello, I’m Grace,’ and you’ll be fine. Any questions?’

‘No, Lady Alice. Thank you for the coat.’

‘“The labourer is worthy of his hire.” Right, I’m stopping here. Coat first and then the milk.’

Grace stretched in the general direction of her employer’s pointing finger until her hand met something soft. She grasped the material and pulled.

‘You’ll need two hands, Grace; it’s bigger than you are.’

Grace pulled with both hands and, eventually, the coat gave up the fight and fell over into the front seat. Grace looked at it in awe. ‘Lady Alice …’ she began.

‘It’s twelve years old, Grace. I trust it will keep you warm until the Requisitions Department has its house in order. Now, for heaven’s sake, girl, put it on and deliver the milk.’

The dark brown skin coat was fur-lined and very heavy. The weight surprised Grace as she struggled into it. It was so long that it reached nearly to her ankles and, initially, made walking rather difficult. Grace felt sure that, even if she were to lie down in the street wrapped in this wonderful coat, she would still be cosy and warm. The thought made her smile. ‘But I’m not going to experiment,’ she said aloud as she reached the first house. She knocked, opened the door and found herself in a small, dark room, where the smell told her that the fire had been banked up with potato peelings in a futile attempt to keep it burning until morning. She made out the shape of a jug on the wooden table top, filled it, and hurried out as quickly as possible. She had been brought up in poverty and the sight of it was just as depressing as it had ever been.

A gas mantle lit the next small house. A tired-looking woman was bending over the fire where a pot bubbled.

‘Oh, thank you, miss,’ said the woman with a smile. ‘You’re new. Where did the other girl go? Woman really, much older than you. I’d enlist myself if I didn’t have three upstairs waiting on their porridge.’ She stopped stirring and stood up. ‘And another one on the way. There’s the jugs. I take two lots on a Friday; get my sister’s lads for their dinner.’

Grace filled the jugs, smiled at the woman, said, ‘See you tomorrow,’ and hurried back to the milk lorry.

‘I should have warned you about Peggy; she’ll talk your head off given half a chance. Nice woman and a good mother but we don’t have time to chat. I suppose children are more difficult than animals because they certainly let one know when they’re hungry. Not being a mother, I can say that animals are just as important. Does that shock you, Grace?’

There was no time for Grace to answer even if an acceptable answer had occurred to her. Megan had certainly thought anything and everything more important than the one child she was supposed to look after, but not everyone was as selfish as Megan.

Lady Alice knew the area well and effortlessly manoeuvred the lorry and its rapidly diminishing load up and down dark, narrow streets and alleys, until the last customer in the grey-stone village had been served.

‘Can you drive, Grace?’

The question surprised Grace, who, eyes closed, was drifting into a doze.

‘No, Lady Alice. I can ride a bicycle and I’m not afraid to dangle on the broad back of a shire, but that’s as far as it goes.’

Lady Alice made a very unladylike noise. ‘Should we ever need to deliver milk on horseback, I’ll remember your talents, but we really need someone who can drive. Otherwise, I will spend the rest of the war driving a milk float.’

Grace thought of her friends, Daisy and Rose Petrie. Both of them could not only drive but also maintain car engines. Their father and their brothers had taught them. ‘Do none of the men drive, Lady Alice?’

‘Just how many men have you seen on the estate, girl? Most of our young unmarried men enlisted after a rousing talk in the village hall. Saw themselves coming home heroes, I think, God help them. The married men stayed. We have a few middle-aged farm hands with a wealth of knowledge and experience between them, and several retired men who’ve come back. They live either on the estate or in the village and most work a full day. “Farm work keeps you fit”, could well be a slogan. Not one has even driven a tractor.’

‘The two men—’ began Grace.

‘Are you deaf? There are no …’ Lady Alice paused, thought, and began again: ‘Sorry, Grace, you mean the conscientious objectors. I’d forgotten about them. Like you, they have just arrived. Yes, they’re men, and I suppose you’re right and there’s a good chance that the student one can drive. They are, however, supposed to cut down trees and dig ditches – very sensible use of a medical student, don’t you think?’

Grace hoped she was not expected to answer that question, although there was something in Lady Alice’s voice that made Grace wonder what her employer was thinking. She herself thought that a medical student would be more sensibly employed studying medicine, but who was she to say?

The pale grey light of early morning was beginning to spread itself across the sky. Grace sat up, anxious to get a proper look at the house where she was now living. The night before, she had been aware only of a huge mass at the end of a driveway that had to be longer than Dartford High Street.

‘Golly,’ she said as the great building revealed itself. Now she saw that the splendid sandstone building consisted of a magnificently proportioned central wing, standing proudly, and almost defiantly, between two other wings, which stood back from it a little, as if assuring the central building of its importance. The exquisite whole, its many windows looking out over possibly hundreds of acres of gardens and rolling farmland, was in the style Grace was later told was Jacobean. As it was, she could only gasp and admire. ‘That’s one house, for one family. It’s bigger than all the houses on our street stuck together.’

Lady Alice glanced across at her. ‘Quite something, isn’t it? One never really thinks about the house one lives in. Whitefields Court began as a monastery in the sixteenth century. My family was given it, and most of the land, villages et cetera around it, for reasons best left quiet, just before Henry the Eighth died.’ She stopped in the driveway, as if to see the house better. ‘Most of the land has been sold off, of course. Frankly, I’m never quite sure whether that was a good or a bad thing – being given the house, I mean, not selling the land or poor old Henry dying.’

‘But it’s beautiful.’

Lady Alice started the engine again and swept past the shining windows on the front, carrying on around the building to the kitchen entrance, where she parked. ‘Beauty doesn’t keep out rain. Right, out you get. Lunch is at one, in the kitchen, but now I want you to go to the tiled barn near the dairy. Bob Hazel, one of our senior men, is waiting there to show you the home farm and give you an idea of what will be expected of you. I’ll see you in the dairy tomorrow morning.’

She raised a hand, either in dismissal or farewell, and walked off towards the rear entrance. Grace, conscious of the waiting Bob Hazel, hurried to the barn.

At first, she was sure the building was empty. It was very quiet, peaceful really, and there was a pleasant smell of hay, although, from where she stood at the entrance, Grace could see no evidence of bales. ‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Mr Hazel?’

‘So, you’re our land girl? Well, I’m not likely to make rude remarks about your size, knowing full well that small packages often hold the best presents.’

Grace stifled a laugh, for the old man who had appeared from behind a large container was scarcely an inch taller than she was and just as slender. The hand that gripped hers, however, was hard and strong. She looked into his face and saw strength there and tolerance.

Too fast, Grace. You judge too quickly and you’re usually wrong.

‘Good morning, Mr Hazel.’

‘Hazel’s fine, since I hear tell I even look like a nut.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Had much experience?’

‘Four-week course, sir … Hazel, and I once had a try at growing vegetables in the back garden.’

He was silent for a moment and Grace looked down at her booted feet.

‘Come on then. I’ll show you round. You’ll get plenty learning here. How did your garden grow?’ he asked with a little smile.

‘Frost got some.’

‘Happens.’

Hazel was a man of few words.

The next few hours left Grace both exhausted and stimulated. The home farm covered almost two thousand acres but the seemingly untiring Hazel assured Grace that she had not, as she thought, walked every acre of it. She had seen vast neat acres of young crops, several fields that still had to be cleared and ploughed, grazing cows, hedgerows already in bud, trees that had to be hundreds of years old, ditches in various conditions, a fenced area where several pigs lay happily snoozing in the dust, a few cottages, each with its own well-cared-for garden, and a multitude of farm buildings, both ancient and modern.

‘Somehow, we have to get most of the land into production, Grace. We’ve sold off or slaughtered most of our animals, but the cows are very important, and the pigs. I’ve got some hens in the garden and, if I have more eggs than me and the missus need, then I bring ’em up here. We grow wheat, potatoes, barley, beets …’ He stopped talking, and Grace was saddened by the look on his face.

‘When I started here, more than forty years ago now, this place was a paradise. We grew everything, even had peaches and melons. Ever had a peach, Grace?’

‘Tinned, yes.’

‘Then, believe me, you never tasted a peach. Off the tree, warm in your hand from the sun through the glass, you bites into it and the juice, sweetest juice you ever tasted, runs down your chin. Now we has to do basics and I hasn’t got the manpower. If ’is lordship were ’ere, maybe we’d get more done faster, but Lady Alice works as ’ard as me, for all she’s a lady. She has got us a tractor. She drives it, bless her, and is teaching me, and that will speed up ploughing. There’s a new one ordered for you – a Massey-Harris. Know anything about them?’

‘I can’t drive.’

Hazel’s thin face wrinkled with laughter. ‘God love you, you don’t drive this model, you guide it.’

Grace tried to smile. At least the sun was now shining and areas of the estate were absolutely beautiful; they had walked the length of a brook and seen masses of tiny yellow primroses and even clumps of pink ones. Grace had bent down in wonder to see these exquisite little flowers and wondered if she would be permitted to pick some for her room. She felt that somewhere, a long time ago, she had seen such carpets of spring flowers.

Couldn’t have been Dartford, she told herself, although there were primroses on that farm I trespassed on with Daisy. She tried to bring back the memory that, annoyingly, hovered just out of reach, but Hazel’s voice interrupted her. He was pointing to a small cottage.

‘That’s mine; me and the missus lives there. No electric yet, but we’ll join the grid same time as the oldest part of the Court. Can’t wait. We have in the back some rabbits, an’ all, and I grows flowers in the front: roses mostly, but I love chrysanthemums; have a great show in the autumn.’

‘I look forward to seeing them,’ said Grace.

A look of doubt crossed the old man’s face. ‘I doubt you’ll last, Grace. Too much work …’ He stopped, as she was obviously about to argue with him. ‘I can see you’re a worker and, happen, we’ll be able to get a bit done but, with the best will in the world, unless they send more land girls, or prisoners even, there’s just too much work. His lordship expects to take in refugee families – plenty of rooms, but a lot of them are empty – and he hopes as some will be of help on the farms.’

‘A place this size must need dozens of workers. Lady Alice said all the young men enlisted.’

‘His lordship was called to the War Office and so we hardly see him now. He pops down of a weekend to give her ladyship a bit of company of her own sort but he’s committed to the war effort. Probably shouldn’t tell you, but the young man as Lady Alice walked out with enlisted as soon as war was declared and most able-bodied men around here did, too. Better chance of getting the service they wanted.’

‘But farming’s a reserved occupation.’

‘And very dull if you’re just doing it because it’s a job. You has to be bred to it, I think. The young ones liked the uniforms, the chance to see the world. I were like that myself in the Great War and what I saw of the world was blood-soaked trenches. Best day of my life was then day the war ended and I could get back here.’

‘And you’ve lived here all your life?’

‘Apart from the war. Born here, like my father, my grandfather and as many greats back as we can name – happen as long as the earl’s family. Backbone of England, we are. What more does a man need than a good wife, a good job and a decent employer?’

How wonderful to be so contented, Grace thought, as she listened to him.

‘Where are the farm workers now, Hazel?’

‘You’ll meet them all when we has our dinner. I make up a work roster with Lady Alice every Friday evening and that tells us where we’re supposed to be. Mrs Love can read and she has a copy in the kitchen.’ He looked at Grace questioningly for a moment. ‘You getting along all right with Jessie? She’s a good woman, a widow woman, and ’er son went off to join the navy.’

To Grace, he sounded as if there might be some doubt about Grace’s relationship with the cook. Grace did not want him to be concerned. ‘Of course, Hazel, fantastic breakfast she made.’

He seemed happy with that answer. ‘Good. She can be a tad snippy at times, worries about her boy, you see. Don’t remember when she last heard from him.’

Grace nodded. She could understand that. But his remark reminded her that before another day dawned, she must sit down and write to her friends in Dartford. Why didn’t she write letters? What held her back? Her friends would love to hear all about Lady Alice and Hazel, and even lovely old Harry and … Jack. Grace found herself fascinated by Jack, his beliefs, his obvious education and culture, his voice, more like that of Lady Alice than of old Harry. The Petries, her friends? How often had the four of them vowed that they would be friends through thick and thin? And yet, she found reason after reason to avoid sitting down and writing letters.

‘I’m ashamed of myself,’ she said aloud, as Hazel went to check a field gate was fastened. ‘All they gave me was happiness and a kind of security and I thanked them by leaving like a thief in the night. Surely, they won’t forgive that.’