by Katie Flynn
‘You’re right. We’ll go down Mere Lane and take our usual route,’ Tess said, though not without a qualm. She had always thought Snowy kind, easy-going and sweet-tempered, but today she had seen a side to him she had never even suspected. She knew he thought quite a lot of himself but had not realised that, when crossed, he could be downright vicious. She was glad she had hit first and then run like a rabbit, though she did not suppose that he would have done more than give her a clip round the ear and a mouthful of abuse. But as Lucy said, she would have to meet him on other occasions. So the two girls took their usual route to school, and though there had been no sign of him Tess entered the classroom feeling a trifle apprehensive in case one of her schoolmates had seen the fracas. But apparently no one had observed Snowy’s humiliation, and when Tess left school at the end of the day, casting panicky glances around as she emerged through the gates, there was no sign of him.
‘Come back to the flat with me; I’m scared he’ll be lying in wait,’ Tess urged Lucy. ‘If you do I’ll tell you the whole story and we’ll have lemonade and Gran’s shortbread. In a way it’s fairer to Snowy if I do, because I suppose he did have a reason to feel rather cross with me. But there’s no point in asking for trouble and I simply don’t want to have to listen to his woes all over again.’
Lucy agreed, and the two girls got safely to the flat over the milliner’s shop without so much as a glimpse of a tall, fair-haired figure. Once there, they took the shortbread and a bottle of Corona and went and sat in the parlour window, where they could watch for anyone approaching the flat. But they saw nothing of Snowy, and by the time Gran arrived home, full of the day’s doings at the bakery and wanting to hear how Tess had got on in her new class, Tess had managed to convince herself that Snowy’s rage would cool and that even if they could never be friends, at least they need not be enemies.
She had to admit to Gran that there had been what she described as ‘a bit of a falling out’, but did not say that they had actually come to blows. And anyway, she told herself with an inward grin as she got ready for bed that night, it had scarcely been an exchange of blows, since she had been the one doing all the blowing. She just trusted that Snowy would leave her alone in future. After all, if he thought about it logically and coolly, instead of when he was hot with disappointment and temper, he would surely realise that losing his girlfriend had had nothing to do with Tess, and that handsome as he was he would soon find a queue of girls anxious to replace Marilyn Thomas. And once he got himself a new girlfriend, surely he would not continue to be angry with Tess?
But two days later, as Gran was placidly preparing their evening meal, the kitchen door was flung open and Tess burst in. She was red in the face and clearly very annoyed about something. Gran raised her brows. ‘What’s bitten you, my love?’ she asked. ‘Don’t say you and Snowy have had another falling out!’
Tess ground her teeth. ‘Gran, you know you said you didn’t mind continuing to work at the bakery if I wanted to try for the scholarship?’ she asked. ‘If you really meant it then I mean to study like crazy and come top, and that’ll show him.’
‘Show who?’ Gran asked placidly. ‘Never make import-ant decisions when you’re in a rage, queen. Tell me what’s bitten you.’
‘It’s that bloody Snowy White; he’s been talking about me, Gran, saying I’m just a jumped up little nobody without a brain in my head. Saying the school won’t put me in for the scholarship because they know I’m not bright enough to get it. So will you, Gran? Go on working at the bakery, I mean.’
Gran had been buttering slices of the loaf, but she put her knife down and crossed the room to give Tess, half in and half out of her jacket, a hug. ‘Of course I will, silly,’ she said warmly. ‘I’ve told you over and over that your education is the most important thing, so if I’ve got Snowy to thank for your decision to sit for the scholarship I’m downright grateful to him. And I’ll tell anyone who wants to listen that I’m backing you to win!’
Chapter Six
‘SOMETHING SMELLS GOOD, Ma. Grub ready yet?’ Jonty Bell came into the kitchen in his stockinged feet, wellingtons in one hand. ‘I got up early so I could finish all my chores and have time to clean up before I go down to the station to meet Tess. She’s really looking forward to seeing all the changes which have taken place over the past three years. Can you believe it, Ma? It’s three whole years since Crippen escaped, and three whole years since Tess has set foot on Bell Farm.’ He stood his boots down by the back door, shrugged himself out of his waterproof and looked appreciatively at the large pan in which his mother was frying sliced potatoes. ‘I bet Tess doesn’t have lunches like the ones you make, Ma. Oh, I can’t wait to see her funny old face again! Of course I’ve tried to tell her about all the changes that have taken place . . .’
Mrs Bell clicked her tongue reprovingly. ‘My dear boy, you’re about as fond of writing letters as your pa, which means not fond at all. How often have you written over the past three years?’ She smiled as Jonty felt his cheeks begin to grow hot. ‘Well, never mind. You’re seeing the gal in a couple of hours, so you can catch up with each other’s news then.’
Jonty came across the kitchen and examined the cold beef joint and the jar of horseradish which would accompany it. ‘I love a cold beef dinner, but what are we having for supper?’ he asked as Mrs Bell began to dish up. ‘I hope it’s something special, being as how it’s Tess’s first day back.’ He looked searchingly at his parent. ‘You know what we agreed, Ma? That now we’ve got our farmhands back she won’t need to work. Only she’s here for just a couple of weeks, though when I spoke to her on the phone last night I tried to persuade her to stay longer. I don’t see why she won’t,’ he added in an aggrieved tone. ‘When you consider how she’s slogged at her books, first to get that dratted scholarship and then to get her School Certificate, you’d think she’d be glad of a break. Isn’t it odd?’ he continued. ‘She found the maths paper really difficult but thought the other subjects – English, history and so on – a doddle, whereas I was the exact opposite. I waltzed through maths and physics, but I had hard work with what you might call the arts subjects. So I suppose you could say Tess and I were like Jack Sprat and his wife.’ He put on a childish lisp and quoted the old nursery rhyme. ‘Jack Sprat would eat no fat, his wife would eat no lean, and so betwixt the two of them they licked the platter clean.’
Mrs Bell was laughing and exclaiming that both he and Tess were grand trenchermen when it came to their grub when the back door opened again and Mr Bell came in with Adam and the other two farm workers, Harry and Daniel, all in their stockinged feet. They slung their wellingtons under the coat rack and hung up their oilskins, for the day had begun wet, though Daniel, coming in last, commented that ‘the rain be clearing nicely; ‘twill be a sunny afternoon, I reckon, so young Jonty can wear his best to meet his girlfriend.’
Mr Bell nodded placidly but his wife gave Daniel a reproving frown. ‘She int his girlfriend, she’s just a friend,’ she said. ‘Why, you fool, Dan’l, they hant met for three years; if she were his girlfriend I reckon she’d ha’ come a-visitin’ every time I invited her.’
‘Oh, Ma, you know very well why she’s not come until now,’ Jonty said. ‘She’s been taking exams, and when she wasn’t actually in school she’s been working, so the expense of her education didn’t fall just on her gran. But the exams are over for a bit, which is why she’s agreed to spend two weeks with us now.’
‘Ah well, if she int your sweetheart, she int,’ Daniel said peaceably. He took his place at the table as Mrs Bell began to heap golden fried potatoes on a plate already generously spread with thick slices of cold beef, and licked his lips. ‘Gor, missus, that don’t only smell good, that look good, and I reckon that’ll taste good,’ he said. ‘Pass the ketchup, young Jonty.’
An hour later Jonty viewed his reflection in the long mirror which graced his bedroom with some satisfaction. He was wearing his Sunday clothes – well-pressed grey flannels, a white shirt
, old school tie and tweed jacket – and thought he looked just as he ought. The rain had stopped, though the puddles still glittered when he glanced into the farmyard below his window, and he had slicked his hair down with water and meant to wear the new cap his mother had bought him last time she had visited Norwich. It was a heather mixture tweed, almost the same as his hacking jacket, and he thought his mother had done well to get such a close match.
Having satisfied himself that he looked all right, Jonty glanced at the heavy watch adorning his wrist. If he left right away he could catch the two-thirty bus, which would get him to Thorpe station about five minutes before Tess’s train came in, but he did not intend doing so. He meant to linger in his bedroom until he had managed to miss the bus so that he might ask his father if he could borrow the Ford. Jonty had passed his test the previous year and often drove into the village or the city. He was hopeful that in time his father might agree to his having the Prefect whilst Mr Bell himself continued to use the Morris. In truth, Jonty had begun to wince inwardly every time Mr Bell took the wheel of the Ford, for the older man was not a good driver. Self-taught, he seemed to think changing gear unnecessary, never depressed the clutch when braking suddenly and would demand in a hurt tone: ‘Why do the perishin’ engine cut out whenever I stop? That don’t do it when you’re behind the wheel.’
Jonty had tried to explain but his father had only sniffed. ‘Nonsense, bor,’ he had said robustly, and next time he wanted to turn left had set the windscreen wipers going. Jonty still cringed when he remembered what had happened next. His father had let go of the wheel and leaned forward until his nose almost touched the windscreen. ‘What’s them things a-doin’, when I told ’em to turn left?’ he said in an aggrieved tone. ‘Oh, I don’t like these new-fangled things. And the roof won’t fold back, it’s made of some hard stuff, I dunno what you call it, and the windows is glass not Perspex; what’ll happen if a stone fly up and hit the windscreen? Answer me that.’
Naturally enough, Jonty had decided not to try to explain, save to say that the Morris was on its last legs, only really fit for short runs into the village, whereas the Ford, a far younger vehicle, would still be in excellent trim in twenty years. ‘You bought the Ford to replace the Morris,’ he had reminded his father on several occasions. ‘I learned to drive in it, because you didn’t think the Morris was reliable. But now all you do is moan, and drive the Ford as if it were a tractor. It won’t do, Pa! Why not let me take over the Ford and you stick to the Morris, since you clearly prefer it?’
They had been in the old cart shed at the time, for both cars were now garaged there, and Jonty had looked hopefully at his father across the cracked and much dented bonnet of the bull-nose. ‘Well, Pa? Wouldn’t that be the best solution? Only I worry that your style of driving is more suited to the Morris, and if you go on refusing to depress the clutch . . .’
‘That there Ford Prefect cost me a deal of money and I int ready to hand it over to a young greenhorn,’ his father had said obstinately. ‘When you’ve got the money to pay off the instalments, then we’ll mebbe discuss it again.’
So now Jonty checked that the bus would have roared into the village and roared out again without him before he descended the stairs and emerged in the kitchen. His father was sitting at the table drinking a large mug of tea. He looked up as his son entered the room. ‘You’ve been prettyin’ yourself too long; you’ve missed the perishin’ bus,’ Mr Bell said. ‘And don’t think I can’t see through you, because I can. You’ll be wantin’ to drive me lovely new car so you can show off to young Tess. Am I right?’
Jonty grinned. ‘Got it in one, Pa,’ he said breezily. ‘But of course I’ll borrow the Morris if you’d rather.’
Arthur Bell gave a contemptuous snort. ‘Have you drivin’ my poor old Morris as if you was Juan Fandango or whatever his name is. No siree!’
‘Fangio. Juan Fangio,’ Jonty murmured. ‘And if I could drive like him I might even get the Morris to go at more than thirty miles an hour. As it is, however, I’d be happy to take the Ford off your hands full time; you can take the payments out of my wages.’
This was a nasty one, because like all farmers’ sons Jonty was unpaid, but his father, grinning, raised a hand, acknowledging a hit. ‘All right, all right, you can meet your young lady in the new car,’ he said. His eyes raked his son from head to toe. ‘If she reckernise you, that’ll be a miracle! Fine as bloody fivepence you are. The last time she seen you, you were in gumboots and school uniform. Ah, well, times change and young men with ’em.’
So it was with his father’s blessing that Jonty jumped into the Ford, put it into reverse, backed out of the shed and then slammed it into first. The car, though the family always referred to it as ‘new’, was in fact a couple of years old, having been bought second-hand at a car auction the previous year. It was blue with red leather seats and Jonty had wanted to name it Priscilla, after his favourite cow, but his mother preferred Bluebell, and in general the family just referred to her as ‘the Ford’. Jonty wound down his window and drove carefully along the ruts and puddles of the lane, keeping to a steady fifteen miles an hour until he reached the tarmac road whereupon he put his foot down and sped towards Norwich, only slowing and stopping when he reached the traffic lights where Thorpe Road and Riverside Road met.
Outside the station he parked the car and glanced at the clock above the entrance to the concourse. Tess’s train was not due for another half-hour, so Jonty went to the Gents where a glance in the mirror above the handbasins confirmed his worst fears: the pleasant summery wind had dried out his carefully smoothed hair, which now stood on end as though he had suffered a bad shock. Jonty wet his hands under the tap and applied both palms to his sandy mop until it agreed to lie down once more. Then he went to the refreshment room, bought a cup of coffee and sat down to wait.
Tess sat in the corner seat which she had managed to acquire after her last change and glanced out at the passing scene, reflecting that Norfolk looked the same as ever. Who had said Very flat, Norfolk? She rather suspected it was Noël Coward, and though as a lover of the county she naturally resented the remark, she was forced to admit that there was some truth in it. Later on, when they were nearing Norwich and were crossing the Halvergate marshes, one could see miles and miles of level, watery countryside, the view only broken here and there by a farm or cottage.
Because telephone calls were expensive and had to be carefully planned, she and Jonty had mainly kept in touch by letter and Tess had to admit that because of the pressure of schoolwork and her various jobs – she had cleaned offices, served in small shops, become a Saturday waitress at a big Lyons restaurant and worked as a holiday relief on the Irish ferry – her letters to her friend had been scrappy affairs. As for his to her, ‘few and far between’ would be putting it mildly. But none of that mattered now; she was on her way to see Jonty and the Bells, the four horses and Crippen the boar, and would spend two whole weeks in their company.
Mrs Bell had invited her before, but Tess had been firm, assuring her would-be hostess that she dared not leave her studies until the exams were over. But now she was the possessor of her School Certificate and would start studying for her Higher when school reopened in September. When Jonty had passed his School Certificate two years before she had suggested that he might take his Higher and then go on to university, which was what she intended to do, but in his reply to her letter he had not attempted to hide his horror. I’ve had enough of being taught, he had written in his round, rather childish handwriting. I’ve told you before, Tess, that since I’m going to farm there’s no point in all this education stuff. Ma and Pa insisted that I should take my School Cert, and now that I’ve got it I’m glad I did, but that doesn’t mean I intend to shut myself up in a classroom for another two years. Besides, most universities want Latin and I never did it. So though I’m longing to see you and talk over old times, just don’t you mention education, or I’ll punch you on the nose.
She had laugh
ed and replied in kind, but understood his views. Striding his father’s acres, one day to be his, in a howling gale, with the rain driving into his face and the mud trying to suck his boots off with every step, he was happy and fulfilled. His maths would come in handy when ordering up foodstuffs for the beasts, or checking accounts, but history, geography and English would have been forgotten and unregretted as soon as he left the hallowed premises of the grammar school. For her part, Tess knew her feelings about the farm were ambivalent. She loved it in the summer, but she remembered from her days as an evacuee how she had hated the cold winters. It was all very fine when the ponds and lakes froze, when even the Broad became a solid block of ice, because then you wrapped up well and skated or sledged or snowballed to your heart’s content. But she remembered being told all about the winter of ’47 when the poor little birds had frozen on the trees, and Jonty had seen a water vole frozen into the ice, his little legs stretched in a desperate attempt to swim through water which was becoming more solid with every second that passed. He had told her how they had driven the pigs into the big barn, having to carry some of the piglets because the snow was so deep, and Mrs Bell had sent her cuttings from the Eastern Evening News about the devastating floods which had followed the freeze when warmer weather had melted twelve-foot drifts, as well as the foot-thick ice. It had sounded terrible yet exciting and Tess thought the children had probably enjoyed the whole experience, but she was no longer a child and knew that she would have hated the cold, worried when food ran short, and wept over the devastation of so much that the Bells had worked for with increasing despair.
But they had weathered it – excuse the pun, she told herself – in their usual sturdy fashion. The orchards had borne fruit that summer of ’47 but it was a poor crop compared with previous years, and the sprouts in the five acre had emerged smashed into the mud and stinking of rotting leaves as the flood receded. But the Bells had gritted their teeth, given their workers a raise in wages and continued to spend their money cautiously, for mechanisation was beginning to make itself felt, and Jonty was pushing his father to buy modern machinery, to restock one orchard whose trees had been particularly badly affected, and to sell off stock, which would cost more to feed than they would bring in as full-grown cattle.
