by Allie Burns
Before getting dressed, she pulled her sheet and blanket back over the bed, tucked them under the flimsy mattress and plumped the pillow. She’d learnt not long after moving into the billet that, without Daisy to magic everything away, she’d be too tired and hungry to think of caring for herself at the end of the day.
She fetched the broom from the corridor, scratched the dust into a pile, and shook the rug out of the window.
‘Are you ready?’ Martha called at the door.
‘Just a moment.’
Emily continued with her familiar routine. The pyjama trousers dropped to her ankles. She put on some clean knickers, stepped into her breeches and flung the now redundant dressing gown back over the chair. Next, she fastened her tie beneath her shirt collar, pulled her hair out of the way with a handkerchief, belted the oilskin, and slid her cigarettes and matches into a deep pocket.
She contemplated the bowl on the washstand and dipped an outstretched finger. It was cold but at least at this time of year there wasn’t a film of ice. Hesitating for a moment, she plunged her hands in, splashed her face with the chilled water and shuddered.
‘Morning.’ She opened the door to greet Martha as she did every day. ‘Was that another letter from your brother yesterday?’
Martha patted her smock pocket with satisfaction; she always carried one of Frank’s letters with her.
‘There’s a rumour that you gave the old man a bit of a shock last night,’ Martha said.
The memory of his expression when she mounted the tractor made her smile too. ‘I can’t believe no one told him about the lessons Otto has given me. When I sailed out of the farmyard it was as if I was walking on water.’
The laughter came then, and Martha – seeing the funny side – joined her. The two of them bent double, laughing so much that tears came. It was an alien feeling to her that set her outside of her own body. She hadn’t laughed like this since John had come home on his last leave and they’d shared a joke about Cecil. That memory flooded the laughter now, drowning it and washing it clean away, as if it had never been there.
Outside the lane, she checked the ground, as she did every day. The resentment for Cecil was receding. No one had thrown a blood-stained bandage of protest against the window the night before, which would be the first time since she’d lived at Perseverance Place; perhaps her acceptance amongst the land girls was making a difference.
But her stomach lurched as she caught a glimpse of a scrap of bloodied cloth hanging out of Martha’s smock pocket. She’d been wrong. Cecil had been in prison over a year, and still they hated him. She was just fortunate to have finally got Martha on her side, and that now her friend tried to protect her.
Chapter Seventeen
October 1917
Dearest Emily,
I write with a needle, hence I will keep it short. Don’t think much of the cook here; only meals = bread and water. The entertainment is limited = breaking stone day after day. Stone surprisingly resilient. Thought it would break me instead. Now in solitary, but feel I am being watched. Made a friend, Bill, a spider, even he is miserable and is a terrible debater.
Yours
Cecil
The Bramleys had fallen ripe exactly on time this year; they’d blossomed in the second week in May, which made them ready right then, the first week in October.
Elsewhere on the land, the ears of corn had been shorn, carted and stacked. With the soft fruit and the hop harvest done, the roots and potatoes cooked for a little longer in the still-warm ground and would need to come up before the first frosts.
The numbers working on the farm had swelled and the tractor relieved them of a lot of ploughing. Mrs Tipton was busier than ever catering for the boys and girls who’d been released from school bringing their mothers with them, more Belgian refugees, prisoners of war, retired farm workers, and of course the land girls were all on hand.
She spent the day up at Sunnyside Orchard, filling her basket with apples, and had earned herself a good night’s sleep. Her wrist ached from cupping her palm and twisting the fruit from its bough.
In the darkness, she could distinguish the outline of the small garden she and Martha had planted out on their afternoons off. At the end was the hut, piled to its pitch roof with potato boxes. In the summer, Sweet Williams bloomed and in the autumn Michaelmas daisies shone. She’d added to the herb corner in the autumn, ready to overwinter it while the ground was still warm.
The previous tenants had established pennyroyal, horehound and tansy and Martha had added some lemon balm and rue for physic, while Emily had moved some lavender from the HopBine garden to scent their best clothes, not that they ever had much call to wear them, apart from church on Sundays. But the plants had shrunk back for winter now, except for the rosemary, which she liked to brush with her palm to catch its scent.
Today she was going to take her supper and go straight to bed so that she was strong for the morning. She found the food warming on the range. Boiled onions, creamed potato and a milk pudding.
As she kicked off her faded boots, crusted with barnacles of mud, she started at a pair of men’s shoes, also lined up by the back door.
It had been eight months since Cecil was arrested. Could he have been released already? She hesitated by the parlour door, suppressing a yawn. It was quiet in there. She jumped as Martha appeared behind her.
‘There’s someone waiting inside for you,’ she said with a wink.
Emily put her hand on the parlour-room doorknob. She looked again and realised the shoes were too small for Cecil. Inside, the cramped parlour was dimly illuminated by yellowed candlelight. Martha had already set the fire going with the coal she’d fetched before Emily was even up that morning.
The soot-smudged armchair was tilted towards the fire. The visitor’s face was obscured by Emily’s copy of the Landswoman, feet outstretched towards the flames. Definitely too small to be Cecil’s, but she did recognise the socks. She’d knitted them herself. The visitor flicked down the corner of the magazine. She yelled: ‘Theo!’
He leapt out of the chair, lifted her up and spun her around.
‘You didn’t write to tell me you’d had leave approved,’ she said.
‘What sort of welcome is that?’
‘I meant are you wounded?’ she added quickly.
‘Do I look harmed?’ he said, holding his arms aloft and pausing so that she could look him over. ‘My leave was granted at the last minute and I thought I’d surprise you.’
He’d done that all right. She had lots to do, and her bones ached. If she didn’t go to bed soon she’d never get through the next day.
He was pale and when he blinked his eyes seemed slow and heavy, with no gleam. She imagined much the same could be said of hers. Such a year 1917 had been. There wasn’t much call for radiance any more.
She didn’t want to dwell on anything bad – she’d had enough of that – but she was aware that Theo hadn’t kissed her on the lips when he’d first seen her. He’d simply pecked her perfunctorily on the cheek.
‘You look worn out,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes. I suppose I am. Would you mind excusing me for a moment, please?’ she asked. She shot upstairs to her bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, her pillow muffling her tears. After a while, she sat up, blew her nose and wiped her eyes, straightened herself and went back down to Theo.
‘He said to tell you that he’s gone for a walk,’ Martha called. ‘Emily, is everything all right?’ Martha said when she caught sight of Emily in the hallway.
‘Yes, yes,’ she said. She couldn’t tell Martha, just as she couldn’t tell Theo, that for one silly, mad moment she’d imagined it was John behind that copy of the magazine. She’d once thought the two men were similar, but actually they were nothing alike at all.
*
Theo whistled as he took in HopBine’s three gables and the land that sat around it when she took him on a tour after milking.
Some of the convalescing soldiers
were being pushed around the lawn in their wheelchairs, blankets over their knees, as the wind swirled autumnal leaves about the lawn. It had been an odd sight at first, these strangers in her home, but they belonged there now. HopBine was a sanctuary, somewhere for the men to regain their strength, to rest before returning to battle. Her father and John would approve too, she was sure of that.
‘This is quite some home you have here,’ he said. ‘Your father did well for himself. What’s it worth?’
She was going to tell him. He was her husband and she should be honest with him. If she wanted him to help, he needed to know there was a problem first.
‘It’s not quite as perfect as it seems,’ she said.
‘And why is that?’
‘When father died he left us in debt. John tried to sell some land to free up some capital. The estranged uncle my mother is staying with has had to clear our debts for us.’
‘So what’s going to happen?’
‘The farm gives us a small income and we don’t have to pay to run HopBine while the army are using it.’
‘And after the war?’
‘I don’t like to think about it. We will have to see who wins the war first, but if life returns to normal, I expect we’ll have to sell up, although it breaks my heart.’
She petered out. She’d found the courage to tell him the truth and now he wasn’t even listening.
‘So you’re not sitting quite so pretty then.’ He didn’t look at her; instead he stared straight ahead at the house. ‘Don’t look like that,’ he said tenderly now, stroking her hair. Then he folded his arms and strode off, turning his back on HopBine House.
*
Mrs Tipton had spread out some blankets in the centre of Sunnyside Orchard and set up a picnic of HopBine apple juice, scones and jam with the knife resting in it.
‘And who’s this handsome chap then?’ Mrs Tipton thrust a gypsy tart at Theo, who introduced himself, and stuffed down the treacly pastry in two bites.
Ladders poked out from beneath the branches. They were stairways from the heavens. Had there ever been such a bumper crop? Everywhere the trees were clustered with joyous rosy fruit.
The orchard buzzed, as the pickers filled the boxes littered about the orchard with blushing apples. The wain was over by the path and Bob the horse chomped on an apple a young boy had handed him.
Emily grabbed a ladder before they were all gone, placed a bag over her shoulder and led Theo to an empty tree, some forty-five feet high.
‘Please don’t say anything to anyone here, about the estate,’ she said. ‘Nobody knows.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ Theo said, clearly affronted.
‘For all I know Uncle Wilfred might buy the estate and run it for us. He certainly has the money.’
Theo thawed at the mention of the wealthy uncle. Theo mustn’t think she expected him to do anything about her family’s problems.
‘Do you want to have a go at harvesting?’ she asked. ‘I can show you what to do.’
She told him how he’d bruise the fruit if he held them with his hands, and demonstrated by cupping an apple with her palm and releasing it with a gentle twist.
‘You go,’ she said. ‘That’s it.’
He had a gentle touch and the satisfaction ironed out his face as she balanced the pink-hued globe on his flat palm. Emily looped the apple sling over his head. He disappeared up the ladder into the shadows of the canopy, and after a while it became clear that he was in no hurry to come back down. There was still a spare ladder. If it had eyes it would be following her about the orchard, but if she went up, then she’d have to come down, and whenever she did she was always expecting to find John waiting for her, and he never was.
‘I thought we’d got the best of the crop yesterday,’ Emily said when she met Olive at the crates.
‘I thought the same,’ Martha said, picking up a stray apple and popping it in to join the rest. ‘Perhaps it was a mirage and we were delirious yesterday.’
Hen appeared, gently tipping her yield into the same crate, and chuckled. ‘That or Mrs Tipton is fastening the fruit back on to the trees at night so she’s got an excuse to keep us company while she drinks that scrumpy of hers.’
Down the orchard at that moment Mrs Tipton took a vessel out of the blanket she’d fashioned into a knapsack and took a discreet swig. The three girls laughed.
‘I’m surprised you’ve the energy to find things funny.’ Mr Tipton folded his arms and raised his eyebrows at their empty slings.
‘I was just saying that it’s a bumper crop,’ Emily said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen these trees so full.’
‘Aye, it’s bad news.’
‘Is it?’ Martha asked.
‘Aye. Supply and demand. The more apples nature gives us, the lower the prices, but we still have to harvest the darn things and more fruit means more labour and that means less profit.’
‘Oh well,’ said Hen, rolling her eyes when he wasn’t looking. ‘At least it’s a nice day. There’s always some good to be found in everything, don’t you find, Mr Tipton?’ she said.
Martha had her hand over her mouth to smother her laughter as one of the ewes lifted her tail beside him and sprayed pellets from its backside onto Mr Tipton’s boots. Emily held her breath, and the suppressed mirth pushed out of her belly.
‘Oh, come on, you puddle ducks. We’re not here to be cheerful – get back to work, for heaven’s sake.’
As soon as he was out of earshot Martha pulled the two girls close.
‘We’re not puddle ducks, we’re the Bramley Battalion. I feel like telling him so …’ The sap was rising in Martha, but it wouldn’t do her any good if she crossed Mr Tipton.
‘He’s right about one thing: it’s time to get back to work,’ Emily echoed the master.
Martha lifted a stray branch from the ground and held it vertically down her chest like a rifle. She and Hen saluted Emily and the three of them marched off back to their work.
Emily checked on Theo. His sling bulging, he emerged from the tree a different person to the one who’d gone up. How quickly he could change. Only then was she aware that she’d been holding her breath. Now he’d ripened like an apple himself. The fresh air and the exertion had reddened his cheeks and his skin glowed with perspiration. He’d forgotten their earlier uncomfortable exchange. Telling him the truth had been the right thing to do; things were how they should be.
But there was still his last letter. Should she mention this chap Gerald he’d asked after? It would just have been a silly mistake at the end of a long day under fire – crossed wires, that was all.
‘Farm work suits you,’ she said.
‘I never would have believed it, but I think you might be right. How long was I up there?’ he said. ‘I lost track of time.’ She caught a glimpse of Mr Tipton shaking his head at her and set back to work.
She snuggled up beside Theo that night, not minding one bit that the bed wasn’t big enough for the two of them. She was so worn out from the day’s work. A blanket of contentment was pulled over her, and she was sure she could have slept on the cart-shed floor just as long as she was in Theo’s arms.
Chapter Eighteen
December 1917
My dearest sister,
I have been released from prison. It will only be a short respite before they come for me again. Could I impose myself upon your humble abode? Uncle Wilfred has declined my offer to visit on the grounds I’m a disreputable house guest. I won’t be any trouble; I just want to rest my tired bones and regain some strength before the King’s men come for me once more.
Fondest
Cecil
The girls stuck up paper chains with flour and water around the steamy farmhouse kitchen. It was Christmas Eve 1917 and another year had spun around.
Mrs Tipton had been busy in the kitchen for days, knuckle deep in forcemeat, pig trotters constantly simmering on the range.
Emily still hadn’t been to London to visit Mother, but th
en she hadn’t been invited. Perhaps she was a disreputable house guest as well. She nearly wrote to suggest she visit for Christmas, but then Cecil had written and if he wasn’t going to get a welcome in London, she would have to accommodate him in Kent.
Besides, there wasn’t much to celebrate and even less energy with which to do it. The whole country was exhausted, the losses becoming harder and harder to bear. The threat of Zeppelin attacks had shifted from night to day leaving them forever on guard.
Emily hadn’t seen Theo since the apple harvest in October. Happy memories as they were she had seen him so infrequently since they’d been married. He’d let slip on his leave that he’d been in England in the summer. His mother’s health was failing, but still, he might have thought to tell her that he was home. It followed a pattern though; he often went quiet for a month and then a letter would appear out of the blue with no mention of his silence.
The winter was the hardest time on the farm, but they had to keep their spirits up. No one dared contemplate what sort of country this was now, but one thing was certain: they absolutely couldn’t become a hungry nation.
The government had issued more ploughing orders, with never-seen-before guaranteed prices for crops. The district war agricultural committees visited them to check the scheduled land for ploughing. The Tiptons were threatened with ejection if they didn’t comply. With the government curtailing beer consumption, they no longer needed the same amount of land for hops. More and more was given over to potatoes, wheat, peas and beans, and it was the land girls and Emily driving the Fordson who ploughed and drilled, sowed and reaped the crops that helped feed the country, and the men at the Front.
She and Martha were on their way back from making a special delivery to the convalescing soldiers at HopBine House. They had used some of their egg supply and saved up their sugar to make the recovering soldiers a proper Christmas pudding. The alternative, as theirs would be, was a pudding sweetened with grated carrot. The matron asked them to sing ‘Silent Night’. All those eyes on them had made her cheeks burn.
