by Mary Wesley
‘Mind your feet.’ She was shaking with sudden inexplicable fury.
Bert raised his voice in high-tenored surprise above the swooshing broom, ‘I can’t be having it, it ain’t fitty.’
Sweeping, Juno shouted, ‘You complained that eight cows were too much for you, I heard you.’ Briskly she swept cowpats and shovelled them onto a barrow. ‘And now, when you get help, you resent it.’ She wheeled the barrow to the dung heap and tipped it. Returning, she turned on the tap and began hosing the concrete between the cowstalls. Bert stood nonplussed and staring. She swooshed the water towards the drain. ‘There.’ She wound the hose and put the broom in its place. ‘There,’ she said viciously. ‘Done.’
Bleakly Bert repeated, ‘It ain’t fitty.’
‘What?’ Juno faced him. ‘What isn’t fitty?’
Searching for a suitable reply, Bert glared.
Juno said, ‘Look. I offered to help because it happens I can milk and you are short-handed. I like cows and I like milking. I promised Mr Copplestone I would stay until he gets back and that is what I am doing, filling in time while he is away. But while I am milking, you shout at your cows—“A-r-r-r”.’ Juno mimicked Bert’s voice and from its stall the cow with the calf mooed in protest. ‘You resent me but you take it out on your cows. And,’ Juno narrowed her eyes, ‘I don’t mind betting that as you make them nervous they are not letting their milk down as easily as they should. Right? You are not stupid, you must have noticed.’
Bert said, ‘I never,’ voice rising higher but eyes full of doubt.
‘So what is it?’ Juno asked. ‘What, apart from my being a girl, is making you so pestilential?’ She was angry with a consuming pent-up rage. The accumulation of her fear and emotion in London, the interminable wait at Reading, the desolate surreptitious visit to her old home. She could not stop herself; she shook with a terrible frightening fury. ‘What is it?’ she hissed, staring closely at the man’s bristly chin. ‘Tell me.’
Bert stepped backwards. ‘Gawd,’ he said later to Ann, ‘that little maid did frighten me. Her face was chalk white and she did not know she was crying.’ But he must not show his fear, he must make an effort, try. ‘’Tis your coat,’ he exclaimed, his voice cracking. ‘You come poncing into my farmyard in that—that thing—that coat, that’s what ain’t fitty. This ’tis a farm, ’tisn’t Piccadilly,’ he shouted, and in the corner of the shed, so old he was hardly noticeable, his old sheepdog yelped in sympathy, roused from its sleep.
Juno faced Bert for long seconds, then she said, ‘But it’s all I have.’ Her rage drained away, leaving her spent. ‘Perhaps I should have nicked mink? Would you have preferred that? Or sable?’ she suggested sweetly. Then she turned away and raced up the hill. She did not look back.
He hurried to the dairy, caught up the sheepskin coat and brought it up the hill and into the house to give to Ann. His dog, who usually rested his old bones in retirement, bestirred himself and tried to follow.
‘So we had explanations,’ Ann said on Robert’s return while he stretched his legs in front of the library fire, rubbed tired eyes and gratefully accepted whisky. ‘She said she was sorry, something had snapped; she was very rude to Bert. She has no other coat, no clothes other than the few in her case—’
‘What’s this got to do with coats? Clothes?’ Robert interrupted. ‘Sorry, go on.’
‘They are in Canada by now, there was a houndstooth tweed Bert might have approved of and, oh God, she would apologize.’
‘A great mistake. Go on—’
‘And be on her way as soon as possible. Those were her words, if you can make sense of them.’
‘On her way? Where to? Where is she now?’ Robert straightened up.
‘In the bath.’
‘I must talk to her, get to the bottom of this.’ Hastily Robert swallowed his whisky. ‘Damnation!’
Ann said, ‘I should leave her alone, if I was you. She was in a state, been crying, Bert said. She—’
‘But I am not you.’ Robert heaved his length out of the armchair. ‘Evelyn sent her to me. I’ve lost the bloody letter and now this happens! Explanations! I don’t notice much in the way of explanations,’ he was shouting as he made for the door.
‘Please, sir, take it easy.’ Ann watched him take the stairs two at a time. ‘She’s—’
‘Bugger easy!’ He had reached the landing and was heading towards Juno’s room.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ Ann addressed the husband she had already sent back to the farm with a flea in his ear. ‘Stupid tactless old fool,’ she muttered. ‘If that poor child noticed you upset the cows so that they won’t let down their milk easy, what have you done to upset her?’ She had mocked him standing there hangdog and embarrassed, clutching the sheepskin coat. Now, in spite of herself, Ann experienced a spasm of amusement, remembering her husband’s description of the scene in the cowshed. ‘That girl struck home,’ she said out loud, savouring Bert’s indignation.
‘So this Juno knows one end of a cow from the other,’ she had teased, taking Juno’s coat from him, giving it a shake and hanging it carefully up. ‘And you are jealous, you silly old fool.’
Now she stood in the hall at the foot of the stairs half on tiptoe to hear better. Along the upstairs corridor she heard Robert knock and again, louder. There was apparently no response.
She heard him open the door and call, Juno, Juno? It’s me, Robert. May I come in?’ Then a scuffle and, ‘Oh Jessie, Jessie, yes, yes, I’m back, good girl, good dog. Go on now, down to Ann, go and get your dinner,’ and Jessie came hurrying and wriggling down the stairs, her toenails clattering on the polished treads, blocking out all other sound, her wagging tail banging against the banisters.
Straining her ears as the dog came to rest on rugs, Ann heard Robert’s raised voice, ‘I have to talk to you. Yes, now. Can you come down? Please.’
And Juno faintly, ‘I’m just out of the bath, I haven’t any clothes on—’
And Robert, ‘Then put on a dressing-gown.’
And Juno, ‘I have been appallingly rude to Bert. I can’t, I—’ And then faintly, ‘I have no dressing-gown.’
And Robert loud again, ‘Don’t prevaricate. Evelyn’s dressing-gown is hanging on the bathroom door. Put that on and buck up.’
Ann put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh!’ she said as Robert shouted again, ‘Buck up, put it on. I am waiting. Hurry up.’
There was no answer from Juno, but hearing footsteps Ann retreated to the kitchen from where she was able to call, ‘Yes, sir, of course,’ when Robert called from the hall, ‘Ann, could you be kind and bring Juno a hot drink? I think she could do with one.’
Putting Jessie’s dinner down on the floor, Ann remarked out loud, ‘Better be giving her some soup and him, too. They both look clemmed.’
In the library Robert, standing with his back to the fire, looking down at Juno sitting upright in an armchair, small in Evelyn’s dressing-gown, pale, her hair damp, pushed back from her face, said, ‘Idiot that I am, I have lost Evelyn’s letter, the one you brought with you, so you will have to tell me what was in it. Tell me about yourself. All I can remember, I was distracted when I read it, I had just come from London, from his funeral, I was not thinking straight; the little I remember is that he said I would find you rewarding. So it’s up to you to tell me what he said, what was in the letter. Oh! Here comes Ann with soup. Oh, Ann, for me too? Oh God, I am talking too much. Eat your soup first.’
Juno said, ‘I didn’t read the letter. He wrote it and licked the envelope and handed it to me. Sorry.’
She sat up in the chair and took the bowl of soup Ann was handing her. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you very much.’
Robert said, ‘Oh,’ nonplussed. ‘Thanks, Ann,’ he said, taking the bowl she handed him.
Juno swallowed some soup and said, ‘I was so rude to Bert. I am so sorry and it wasn’t really anything to do with him. It was dreadful of me.’
Robert said, ‘He has a thick skin. It wil
l not have hurt him, will it?’ addressing Ann, who was on her way to the door.
Ann said, ‘Hide of a rhinoceros. Will there be anything else?’
Robert said, ‘No, thank you, Ann.’
Ann said, ‘Mrs Villiers brought Anthony back for his things and took him to his train, and John will be back at work tomorrow.’
Robert said, ‘Did she want anything?’
Ann snorted, ‘Nothing new! If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen.’ She left, closing the door.
Robert spooned soup into his mouth, his eyes on Juno. ‘Could you for instance tell me how—um—Evelyn seemed when you saw him last?’ He put the half-eaten soup on the table beside him.
Dead. He had been dead. She couldn’t possibly tell this man, Evelyn’s father, that she had not even paused to close his son’s eyes. She looked wildly at Robert and, in almost a whisper, said, ‘He was drinking whisky. He was wheezy, very wheezy, seemed exhausted—’
‘And?’
‘He gave me some because I was frightened. There was a big raid going on. I didn’t like it, but he said to drink it. I had never tasted it before.’ Juno began to shake, her voice tailing off. ‘Oh God, I am spilling the soup.’
Robert sprang forward and took the bowl from her. ‘I am being selfish, please forgive me. Sit quiet for a little and we will talk about you. Take your time—’
Juno said, ‘But I have to go,’ half rising from her chair.
Robert said, ‘Sit down, you are not going anywhere,’ and sat down himself.
EIGHTEEN
BUT ROBERT COULD NOT sit. He got up and, standing with his back to the fire, looked down at Juno sitting, knees drawn up, clasped hands close to her chin. She looked small in the armchair, her frame almost lost in Evelyn’s cashmere dressing-gown, an extravagant garment bought on a whim ‘because I like the colour’. Robert remembered his son’s voice and, too, the conversation that had followed, tracing men’s fashions back a century or more to the time when men did not only wear drab greys, blacks and restrained check tweeds, but peacocked shamelessly in bright colours. The dressing-gown was a rich raspberry pink; the shop man, Evelyn told him, had eyed him with caution, mistakenly suspecting him perhaps of belonging to the persuasion of Oscar Wilde.
‘Do you suppose if we live long enough we shall see the return of bright colours for men?’ Evelyn had queried. ‘Bright colours would be nice.’
And he, laughing, had said, ‘For you perhaps, for your generation or your children’s, but I shall be long gone.’
And Evelyn, putting on the dressing-gown, had said, ‘Then in my small way I shall start the ball rolling with this.’
And now the girl was wearing it and Evelyn was dead.
Robert cleared his throat. ‘Are you warm enough?’
‘Oh yes, thank you.’ Juno jerked upright. ‘This is lovely and beautifully warm.’
‘Finish your soup, to please Ann.’ Robert handed her the bowl. ‘It’s still hot.’
‘Thanks.’ Juno took the bowl, finished the soup, hesitated, said, ‘I—’
‘Yes?’ Robert took the empty bowl from her, put it aside. ‘Yes?’
‘Nothing. There is nothing.’ She stared at the fire.
Robert said, ‘I spoke abruptly just now. I would love you to stay—um—stay, but if you are not happy? I could, we could, work something out. Where would you like to go? What do you want to do? I will help if I can. Why else did Evelyn send you here?’ When Juno found no answer, did not look up, he said, ‘To begin with, should we not tell your family where you are? Or perhaps you have done that? Written or telephoned while I was away. They must be anxious.’
Shrinking back in the armchair, Juno said, ‘I have not written or telephoned.’
‘Your father?’ Robert persisted. ‘Surely he—’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘He went to prison.’ Juno sat up straight. ‘He was a conscientious objector in 1914.’
‘Bully for him,’ Robert exclaimed. ‘And your mother? Is she dead, too?’ He lowered his voice.
‘Canada, she’s gone to Canada, and she’s taken all my clothes with her.’
‘That sounds a bit extreme.’
‘That is why I was so offensive, so rude to Bert. I only have the coat he sneers at—objects to. I asked him whether he would rather I wore mink or sable. I was surprised at myself, I am not usually like that. I raged at him.’ (It had not been Bert, it was quite another pain, loss, fear. She had snapped.) ‘I snapped,’ Juno admitted. ‘I am sorry.’
‘I don’t suppose Bert knows what sable is.’ Robert grinned.
Juno said, ‘I am not sure myself.’
‘A sort of pine marten, the fur worn by the very rich.’
‘Thank you. And I think I shouted that I had stolen it, stolen the coat.’
‘And did you?’ Robert was interested; this girl of Evelyn’s was not at all like the others.
‘Yes, I did.’ Juno looked Robert in the eye. ‘I had spent my last coupons on a splendid houndstooth tweed, but my mother packed it with my other clothes and took it to Canada. She—’
Robert guessed, ‘Where you are supposed to join her?’
‘Where I do not want to join her. I can’t, anyway. I got the money back on my ticket and I just do not want to go, and then my Aunt Violet—’ Juno stopped abruptly.
‘So you have some family?’ Robert pounced. ‘An aunt at least.’ When Juno said nothing, he said, ‘But perhaps you do not like this aunt?’
‘I don’t. I should, but I don’t. She is bossy, and insulting about my father; she is ashamed of him. She tried to push me into one of the services to “do my bit”, “fight for my country”.’ Robert was laughing. ‘It’s no laughing matter. She also insinuates the man my mother is going to marry is German.’
‘And is he?’ Robert grinned.
‘He is Dutch or Nordic, something like that, but really Canadian. The name just sounds German.’ Juno flushed. ‘My mother hasn’t had much fun and he is safe, even if—’
‘Dull?’
‘You guess a lot.’
‘Your tone of voice.’
Juno breathed in. ‘Aren’t you shocked that I stole the coat?’ she enquired.
‘It shows enterprise. I suppose you were cold.’
‘I was, very cold. But the cap, I didn’t steal that. A sailor left it on his chair in the station buffet, so I—’
‘Appropriated it?’
‘Yes.’
‘That makes sense.’
‘I feel somewhat bereft of that commodity.’ Which of them had said that? ‘I am somewhat bereft.’ She tried to remember, could not, wracked her brain. Thinking back, which of them had said, ‘I am bereft’? She strained to hear their voices. Was it Francis? It might have been either of them.
Watching her, Robert thought, she is far away. Jerk her back, catch her attention, pin her down.
‘Why not,’ he said rather loudly, ‘stay here with Ann and me? Ann can fix you up with clothes. It is what Evelyn wanted, isn’t it? What he suggested in his letter? The letter you brought with you.’
‘But you have lost it.’
‘Yes, but I know what it said.’ Robert visualized the letter, the stiff white paper folded square, the square envelope addressed to himself: Robert Copplestone, Copplestone, Catchfrench, Cornwall, its message as always brief, for Evelyn was ever succinct. He could hear his son’s voice, ‘Someone you will like, who will help on the farm, who will love the place as we do, not a regulation landgirl like the one you tried, who stuck to the rule-book and didn’t know a thing anyway.’
Out loud he said, ‘Evelyn wrote he would find someone, man or woman, to help me now I am short-handed. He has already sent Anthony Smith to work in the kitchen garden. Did you meet him? He has been working, too, for Priscilla Villiers? No? He left today, you must have missed him. Jolly good worker, he will come again when he gets leave. He works, as you know, in the same Ministry as Evelyn, but perhaps Evelyn d
id not tell you about him. No reason he should.’ Juno shook her head. ‘Then, as I say, having found Anthony, he finds you at a loose end and dispatches you at once with the letter which you brought with you, and—’
Juno interrupted, ‘He can’t have said all that. I was with him; I saw him write it. It did not take long.’
Robert said, ‘Of course not, the bits about Anthony were months ago. I am running the two, the several letters into one for your convenience.’ Robert wondered whether what he was telling Juno was strictly true or merely careless. ‘What I am getting at,’ he said, ‘is this. Will you do what Evelyn suggested, what Evelyn wanted for you, what I would of course very much like, stay and help on the farm? You have already shown you can milk a cow and demolish Bert. You can pick up the rest as you go along, and if you are happy I can get you registered as my landgirl, or whatever. That should satisfy your aunt and your mother. You had better write and tell them pretty soon, to relieve their anxiety—’
Juno said, ‘I don’t think—’
And Robert said, ‘Oh, but you must. I always worry if I don’t know where Evelyn is. Oh my God, what am I saying! Oh my God, death is so bloody hard to accept,’ and burst into tears.
Juno watched him weep and, remembering his son, said nothing, for there was nothing consoling to say. Then, finding herself close to weeping too, she got up from the chair and stood beside him, waiting for the storm to subside. When Robert blew his nose and wiped his eyes, she still said nothing but was partially consoled when he said, ‘Evelyn said in his letter that I would find you rewarding, and I do.’
Perhaps this was the moment to tell this man, Robert Copplestone, how little she had known his son?
A matter of minutes? Hours, if you counted the time she had slept while, lying on his side, his arm across her body, he had wheezed out of life? Or tell him how she had freed herself from that chill embrace, tiptoed to the lavatory, slid down the banisters? Juno moved back into the armchair to stare miserably into the fire and chivvy her brain for suitable words, succinct phrases.
