That night, after the last of the workmen had withdrawn and Rose had retreated to her cottage across the yard, Alice was alone in the empty farmhouse and already becoming familiar with its creaking and with the wuthering of the night wind round its chimneys. She sat beside the fire in her room. Images gathered, surrounding her: Rose Crocker, who was hostile; Ferdie Vallance, who was lame; Roger Bayliss, who was disdainful; Margery Brewster, who was anxious; Edward-John in his boarding school dormitory; James, somewhere, probably in bed with Penelope Fisher.
In Alice’s purse were five pound notes and half a crown. For months James’s salary had been thinly spread between his needs in London and those of Edward-John and herself in their rented room in Exeter. The school fees, James’s flat, her expenses in Exeter and the cost of the storage of their furniture had put a strain on their finances, as a result of which Alice found herself with less income than she had received as pin money in happier times. And tomorrow eight strangers, who Margery anticipated would be both discourteous and disobedient, would arrive at the farmhouse. Not only had Alice’s life collapsed, not only had she lost home, husband and the presence of her son but she had contrived to deliver herself into a sort of hell. She had tried hard to do the sensible thing. To find work that would give her an income and put a safe roof over her head and the head of her child but this had proved difficult with a young boy’s needs to consider. Because of him many occupations were barred to her. His safety was paramount so she could not consider working in a major city because of air raids, or volunteer for any of the military services that offered employment more suited to her education and the lifestyle with which she was familiar. There was no one to whom she could turn now that her Aunt Elizabeth was dead, leaving, quite understandably, all her money to her own daughter and not to the ward for whom she had so generously cared and who was, as far as Elizabeth had been aware, well provided for by the worthy husband that James had seemed to be. Faced with such a limited choice and although the prospect of running the hostel was clearly challenging, it had not, when Alice decided to accept the work, appeared to be the nightmare in which she now felt trapped. She stayed by the fire, in her dressing gown, past tears, too tired to get into her bed, while the grandfather clock in the hall chimed away each quarter, each half, each hour. Finally, in the interests of self-preservation, she made herself cross the room to the divan and try to sleep.
The arrivals began soon after noon. Two girls, Christine Wilkins and Gwennan Pringle, were met from the Bristol train, given a spam sandwich for their lunch and driven over to the Bayliss farm to be shown the ropes of the poultry sheds which was where they were to work in the mornings and late afternoons, spending the rest of their time helping out wherever they were required.
Christine was small, blonde and pretty; Gwennan, Alice thought, looked difficult. She was lean and dark with a Welsh accent so strong that Alice, Rose and Margery had difficulty understanding her. At thirty-two, she would be the oldest of the intake. Both she and Christine had previous experience in the Land Army and had brought dungarees, boots, sweaters and waterproof jackets with them. Christine was polite about the tiny room which she was to share with Mabel. Gwennan, because of her seniority, was allocated the smallest of the double rooms which she would have to herself, at least until the workforce was increased at harvest time. She accepted this arrangement as her due and complained about the draught whining through the ill-fitting window frame.
As Rose and Alice snatched a late lunch consisting of a cup of tea and a sandwich made from what was left of the spam, they listened to the wireless, which was powered by the same small, temperamental generator that provided lights for the ground floor. Reception was poor in the deep valley but through the whistling and crackling, John Snagg’s voice informed them that the Eighth Army had taken Tripoli. To Alice this news and the familiar voice was a thin, precious thread, connecting her with the world from which she felt separated. Tears formed and before she could control them, ran down her face. Rose’s chair scraped back across the floor, she picked up Alice’s plate and her own and carried them out into the scullery. When she returned Alice had collected herself and was sipping her tea.
‘Bit of a madam, that Welsh one!’ Rose said nastily. ‘Just as well no one has to share with her! Wonder how they’ll all get on with each other! The woman at the big hostel over to Aunton had a couple there as scratched each other’s eyes out!’ Knowing very little about the in-coming girls, Alice had allocated the rooms on the basis of age and qualifications. Hannah-Maria with Hester because they were both only eighteen years old, Georgina with Winnie and Marion because they were all in their early twenties, Christine with Mabel because they both had previous Land Army experience and Gwennan alone, in deference to her age. It seemed inevitable that clashes of temperament, personal taste or hygiene habits were going to make some of these pairings unsatisfactory.
‘We’ll just have to see,’ Alice said. ‘If they want to change partners, they may.’
‘I’d make ’em do as they’re told!’ Rose snapped caustically. ‘Show ’em who’s boss!’
By four o’clock Mabel Hodges and Hannah-Maria Sorokova had been collected from the London train and delivered to the farm. The list read simply HM Sorokova and M Hodges. As they ticked the name of each arrival on Mrs Brewster’s list, neither Alice nor Rose, who were both preoccupied with the preparation of the evening meal, had time to go into detail regarding Christian names. Alice proposed leaving the introductions until all the newcomers were assembled round the kitchen table and had, she prayed, been fed. Rose had raised her eyebrows at this plan but seemed prepared to comply with what was, in fact, Alice’s first tentative attempt at taking charge of the situation.
It was dusk when Fred’s truck arrived with Hester Tucker, who had stepped down from the bus in Ledburton and stood, transfixed, until he identified himself and persuaded her into the passenger seat beside him. Marion and Winnie had kept him waiting while, at the pub, they lingered over what they feared would be their last hot baths until the bells of victory sounded.
Hester, dressed as she had been when interviewed by Margery Brewster at the Exeter recruitment office, clutched a carpet-bag and stared about her as though she had been delivered into temptation which, of course, she had. Marion and Winnie, casting their eyes over Hester’s dark clothes, thick black stockings and lace-up shoes, decided she was a freak with whom they would have nothing whatsoever to do. Hester, for her part, blushed at the sight of their lipsticked mouths and mascaraed eyes. On arrival at the farmhouse she lowered her lids and stared at her feet.
‘Come on, dear,’ Rose ordered, almost pushing the bewildered girl into the porch.
It was at that moment, while Marion and Winnie were unloading several bulging suitcases from the truck, that the Websters’ car, driven by Lionel and containing Georgina, lurched over the cart ruts and stopped outside the garden gate. The suitcases that Lionel lifted from its boot had been a birthday present from Georgina’s godmother. They were made of soft leather and initialled GW in gold leaf. Georgina emerged from the passenger seat, hat in hand, immaculate in her uniform. She smiled at Alice and Rose, extended a hand to Alice and introduced herself.
‘I’m Alice Todd,’ Alice responded. ‘Your warden. And this is Mrs Crocker, my assistant.’ Georgina smiled at Rose, said hello to her but did not shake her hand. This, Rose’s expression told Alice, was something Georgina would live to regret. Fred, his eyes fixed approvingly on Georgina, took her suitcases from her brother and was about to carry them into the house when Marion’s voice cut the air.
‘’Ere! You!’ she said, indicating the unglamorous clutter of luggage at her feet. Fred knew at once it was him she meant. ‘What about a hand with these ones then!’ Marion stood, implacable, Winnie simpering beside her, as Fred relinquished Georgina’s cases to Lionel and took the weight of the heaviest of Marion’s. Georgina smiled but Marion’s expression was that of a gloating victor. Teetering on stiletto heels, she followed Fre
d into the farmhouse.
The meal, planned for six o’clock and despite the stewpan going off the boil several times and the potatoes boiling dry on the paraffin stove, was less than half an hour late.
Pieces of chicken were doled out onto the plates by Rose, who made a good job of the distribution, managing to save two portions, one for Alice and one for herself, to consume in peace after the girls had been fed. Alice had just invited her charges to help themselves to the vegetables when Hester, flushed with embarrassment, spoke. To begin with no one could quite hear the mumbled words and Alice had to ask her to repeat them.
‘No one’s said Grace, Miss,’ Hester mumbled, still almost inaudibly, her face pink with misery. The girls were aghast and several giggled but Rose tapped a plate with her serving spoon and looked at Alice.
‘Perhaps you would like to, Hester?’ Alice suggested.
Hester gathered herself, lowered her head and muttered, ‘For what we are about to receive,’ and then stopped, her lower lip trembling, Winnie and Marion smothering their amusement as the freak made a fool of herself. Then Rose’s voice cut in, sharp and authoritative.
‘May the Good Lord make us truly thankful. Amen,’ she concluded, glaring round the table and repeating the ‘amen’ so fiercely that Hannah-Maria, Christine, Georgina and Gwennan all joined her.
Rose had knowingly shaken her head when Alice had decided to present the mashed potatoes and cabbage in large dishes from which each girl could take what she required. Unfortunately Mabel, Winnie, Marion and Gwennan required rather more than their share, so that by the time the dishes reached Hester and Georgina they were almost empty. At subsequent meals Alice would distribute the meat and Rose the vegetables.
Mabel, Winnie, Marion and Gwennan ate quickly, using pieces of a thickly sliced loaf to soak up the gravy on their plates.
‘What’s for afters,’ Mabel enquired with her mouth full. Her bovine frame would always be eager for food.
‘Prunes and custard,’ Rose announced.
‘Nursery food,’ said Georgina sociably.
‘You what?’ Winnie and Marion looked genuinely curious.
‘Prunes and custard,’ Georgina repeated politely. ‘What my brother and I always called nursery food because…’ She looked around at the eyes which were observing her, some hostile, some amused. ‘Because we used to eat that kind of thing in our nursery,’ she finished lamely.
‘Eew!’ said Marion, inaccurately imitating Georgina’s accent, ‘Eeen the narsery, what? La-di-da-di-dah!’ Winnie, reacting to Alice’s obvious disapproval, nudged her mate and told her to hush up.
‘Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor,’ chanted Christine, happily counting her prune stones. ‘I’ll need four, ’cos my Ron’s a sailor! Minesweepers, he’s in. We’re gonna save up all our pay so when the war’s over we’ll have enough for a place of our own!’
‘Isn’t that lovely!’ said Marion sarcastically. Winnie giggled.
‘Love’s young dream!’ she added, with her mouth full. For a while no one spoke and cutlery clattered.
‘Perhaps we should introduce ourselves,’ Alice suggested tentatively. ‘We could go clockwise round the table. Would you begin, Christine?’
‘OK then,’ Christine smiled round the chewing faces. ‘I’m Christine Wilkins. Everyone calls me Chrissie… Me and Ron got married two months ago…’
‘Up the spout, are you?’ Winnie asked, nailing Chrissie with her shrewd eyes.
‘No, as it happens,’ Chrissie said cheerfully. ‘We’re not having kids till the war’s over… He looks like Leslie Howard, my Ron. I’ll show you his photo after. He got a forty-eight-hour pass for our wedding and I haven’t seen him since!’ There was a murmur of sympathy as she turned to Gwennan. ‘Your go now,’ she said.
‘Gwennan Pringle. From Builth Wells. My folks are both dead and I live with my aunt and my uncle, who is an undertaker.’ The girls stared at the narrow face with its prim mouth and at the hard, dark eyes that seemed to be daring anyone to make some joke or other at an undertaker’s expense.
‘A “taffy”, eh!’ said Hannah-Maria. ‘How do, Taff!’ Everyone laughed and suddenly the room felt warmer.
‘Next!’ demanded Chrissie.
‘Georgina Webster. My people farm in Taunton Deane.’ Winnie and Marion nudged and giggled. Georgina paused and then continued in a clear voice. ‘I volunteered for the Land Army so that my brother could stay on the farm.’ There was a slight intake of breath. Rose, about to dispense the last of the prunes, paused, spoon in mid-air.
‘And not get called up, you mean?’ asked Gwennan in her clipped, sing-song Welsh voice.
‘He’s a pacifist,’ Georgina said and then, her words dropping into a heavy silence, continued, ‘and so am I.’
‘What’s a pacifist?’ asked Hannah-Maria while Hester’s eyes went anxiously from speaker to speaker because she didn’t understand a word anyone was saying.
‘Someone who…’ Alice began, searching for a definition that would not provoke further dissension.
‘Who’s a friggin’ coward!’ Marion interrupted sharply. ‘And what’s more, Mrs Todd, me and Win’s not sharing a bedroom with no bloomin’ conchie!’
‘We didn’t want to come here in the first place!’ Winnie chimed in, self-righteous and injured. ‘We liked our digs in the village!’
‘Yes!’ said Rose. ‘And there’s some as knows why!’ Marion and Winnie gasped. Hester was now thoroughly alarmed by all this shouting. Hannah-Maria and Gwennan exchanged speculative glances, Georgina dropped her eyes and smiled at her plate as Rose continued, ‘But whilst you’m ’ere you’ll sleep where you’m told! And be in be ten o’clock, like it says in the rule book!’ Alice was slightly taken aback by the ferocity of Rose’s tone and placed a restraining hand on her arm.
‘I noticed that there’s a small single room,’ said Georgina coolly. She was in the habit of getting what she wanted. ‘If you would allow it, Mrs Todd, I’d prefer to sleep there.’
‘Fine by us!’ spluttered Marion.
‘Yeah!’ echoed her shadow.
‘Quiet, you two!’ Rose commanded and the girls subsided into a stunned silence. Alice said she thought it could be arranged, although the room Georgina proposed using was very small. Georgina said she didn’t mind a bit and the matter was closed. Rose offered the last of the prunes and Mabel accepted them with an alacrity that amused Chrissie and Hannah-Maria.
Later, in the double room they were to share, Hannah-Maria, who at supper had invited everyone to call her Annie, was unpacking her suitcase. Hester, whose one change of clothes was already stowed in the wardrobe and in the lower drawer of the shared dressing table, watched, fascinated as Annie shook out frilled blouses, floral frocks, sleeveless Ceylonese nightdresses with lacy inserts and two pairs of cami-knickers, which, she told Hester, had been a farewell gift from her boyfriend, Pete, who had run a barrow in Petticoat Lane until being recently conscripted, but only into the catering corps on account of his flat feet. Hester stared at the curlers and the face powder and the little jars of Pond’s Vanishing Cream and Cold Cream and the bottle of Amami shampoo, which now stood on Annie’s side of the dressing table.
‘What with all that fuss with Georgina, we never got round to you, did we!’ Annie said, adding, when Hester shyly hung her head, ‘Come on! Your name’s Hester. And…?!’
‘And me dad’s a dairyman,’ Hester said. She had difficulty in understanding her room-mate’s cockney accent but, despite worries about Annie’s appearance and shocked by the colours and the cut of her clothes, found that she was reluctantly, almost guiltily, responding to her friendliness.
‘Yeah?… Go on, then!’ Annie persisted, smoothing out the creases in a blue crêpe de Chine frock before hooking it onto the rail in the wardrobe.
‘And he preaches, Sundays.’
‘Oh!’ said Annie.
‘We belong to the Brethren. It’s a religion.’
‘Yeah,’ said Annie. ‘Well, it would be, wou
ldn’t it! Is that why you wear dark colours and that?’ she enquired, running out of coat hangers.
‘Bright colours is sinful.’ Hester’s accent, Annie noticed, was like Mrs Crocker’s only softer. ‘It says so in the book.’
‘What book?’ Annie asked innocently, her face already betraying her response to Hester’s convictions.
‘The Bible!’ said Hester as though there was only one book. Annie, her unpacking finished, had pulled a packet of Woodbines from her handbag and was searching unsuccessfully for matches. She caught Hester’s look.
‘Oh ’eck…I suppose smokin’s a sin an’ all?’
‘Yeah, ’tis,’ Hester muttered almost inaudibly.
Annie got to her feet, showed her teeth in a wide smile and crossed the small space to the door.
‘Reckon I’ll have my fag next door then,’ she said.
Hester sat on her bed beside her carpet-bag from which she lifted a framed photograph of her father, her mother and her young brother. She stared for a moment at the hard eyes of her father and then positioned the photograph carefully on the small table which separated the twin beds.
In the neighbouring room Marion and Winnie had rapidly appropriated the extra space left by Georgina’s decampment. The unoccupied third bed was now strewn with brightly coloured garments and half a dozen pairs of new silk stockings. Winnie lay sprawled on her bed reading a film magazine while Marion, one foot braced against the dressing table, daubed blood-red varnish onto her toenails. When Annie put her head round the door and asked Marion and Winnie if they had a match they responded in unison.
‘Yeah!’ they chorused, ‘your face and my bum!’ Then Marion, tossing a box of Swan Vestas in Annie’s direction, asked sharply whether their visitor had ever heard of knocking.
Although not invited into the room, Annie smiled and lingered in the doorway, smoking.
‘Nice colour,’ she said, nodding at Marion’s nail varnish. ‘Many blokes round here?’
Muddy Boots and Silk Stockings Page 4
