Foxden Acres (The Dudley Sisters Quartet Book 1)

by Madalyn Morgan

  Mr Porter stood open-mouthed as the vision of peroxide curls and red lips that was Kitty Woodcock sashayed towards him singing, ‘We’re here.’

  Ticking off the last two names on his list, Mr Porter directed the young women to the vehicles that were waiting to transport them the short distance to Foxden Hall.

  Having never learned to drive, Bess had booked Mr Crane’s taxi for the return journey to Foxden. Laura, Iris and Mavis settled themselves in the back of the black Austin, while Bess sat in the front next to Mr Crane. Mr Porter drove the farm pick-up truck with Kitty and Fanny in the front next to him, and Sylvia and Polly astride bales of hay in the back.

  Mr Porter had changed since she’d been back. He still enjoyed a good grumble and almost always compared the old farming ways to the “new-fangled” ones, but he appeared to be more content. Bess had even seen him smile when he thought no one was looking.

  On the day she returned to Foxden Mrs Hartley, the housekeeper and cook, was in tears. ‘I’m so glad you got here in time, Bess,’ her old friend said. ‘You’ve got to do something.’

  ‘Do something?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve got to stop him,’ Mrs Hartley said. ‘You’ve got to stop him!’

  ‘Stop who?’

  ‘Mr Porter, of course. Stop Mr Porter from leaving. He’s all packed, look,’ Mrs Hartley said, pointing to a large leather trunk and two suitcases standing in the middle of the kitchen. ‘Crane’s taxi is picking him up at ten to take him to the station.’

  ‘Why is he leaving? Is it because of me, because I’ve come back?’

  ‘No... Yes… Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think it’s because of you personally. Well, it might be a bit because of you. Oh dear,’ she said, lowering her ample body onto a chair at the kitchen table.

  Sitting down beside her, Bess said, ‘Tell me exactly what he said, Mrs Hartley.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘Ernest has got it into his head that there won’t be a place for him at Foxden now you’re in charge of things. He said an old stick like him would be in the way when young women are running the Estate. He’s never been very good around women as you know, especially young ones, and I don’t think he can face the changes.’

  Mrs Hartley took a handkerchief from her pinafore pocket and rubbed her eyes. ‘Ernest hasn’t had a happy life,’ she said. ‘His parents were estate farmers for his Lordship’s father and when they died, Ernest was sent to live on the Suffolk Estate. There were no women at Suffolk. No one to show him affection, poor little mite. But he did well at school and when he grew up, he became a jockey. In his heyday he won cups at Towcester and Cheltenham,’ she said proudly. Mrs Hartley’s mood darkened. ‘Until a big stallion was stung in the ear by a wasp and went mad. The horse trampled Ernest almost to death. His left leg and shoulder were broken in so many places.’ She paused briefly. ‘He never raced again.’

  Bess understood Ernest Porter better now. He was an excellent horseman. His knowledge of horses, and all that ailed them, made him indispensable. Now the stables, which for the last thirty years had housed more than twenty horses and had buzzed with lads and grooms, were empty except for Sable and Sultan, two ponies, and a pair of Suffolk Punches. No wonder he felt his life had become meaningless.

  Walking across the courtyard, Bess caught sight of Mr Porter sitting alone in the stables. He’d aged. His shoulders seemed narrower. His hair, which had been thick and salt-and-pepper in colour, was thin and almost white. But the most obvious change was in his face. His former bronzed complexion, from years of working outside, was now sallow. The old man no longer looked weather-beaten. He just looked beaten.

  Turning quickly, before he’d seen her, Bess walked silently back across the courtyard and approached the stables again, this time with heavier footsteps. And by the time she entered Mr Porter was on his feet. ‘Mr Porter, it’s good to see you.’

  ‘Miss Dudley,’ he replied solemnly, as if he was expecting to hear bad news.

  ‘Mr Porter, I’m so sorry you’re not happy with the situation. If it’s any consolation, nor am I,’ Bess said. ‘When I agreed to come back to Foxden, I thought you and my father would be here to help me. Turns out it’s not to be.’

  Mr Porter didn’t say anything.

  ‘The thing is, Mr Porter.’ Bess hesitated, choosing her words carefully. ‘I’m not going to be able to do the work that’s required of me on my own. I could handle the young women who are coming to work on the land well enough. I’ve had experience with young people. But as for turning the Foxden Estate into arable land – I don’t have the knowledge or experience to do that without help! I need someone to work with me who does have the knowledge and experience. Someone who knows the Estate farms and farmers. Someone who not only knows the land, but knows the Foxden Estate. In short, Mr Porter, I need you.

  ‘Would you consider staying and working with me, Mr Porter?’ Bess said, leading the way to the servant’s kitchen, where Mrs Hartley, freshly baked scones, homemade jam, and a large pot of tea awaited them. They ate in silence and when Mr Porter had finished, Bess said, ‘Will you stay, Mr Porter? Will you help me turn the Foxden Estate into arable land?’

  The old man took a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches from his pocket and said, ‘Yes, miss. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll take my leave and go outside for a smoke.’

  ‘And then you can take these cases out of my kitchen,’ Mrs Hartley said, winking at Bess.

  There was no need for Mr Porter to go outside to smoke his cigarette but Bess didn’t object. She guessed he wanted to be alone. It was quite something for him to accept Bess as his equal. She knew he did because when he said, ‘Yes, miss.’ there was no emphasis on the word “miss.”

  Mrs Hartley waited until Mr Porter had closed the kitchen door before putting her arms around Bess. ‘Thank you, Bess. It hasn’t been easy for him, watching the lads go off to war,’ she said. ‘It’s the guilt, you see.’

  ‘Why should he feel guilty? His generation did their bit in the last war.’

  ‘That’s the problem, Bess. Ernest didn’t go to war. He volunteered time and time again, but the Army wouldn’t have him because of his damaged leg.’

  ‘He’s certainly had his share of heartache over the years,’ Bess said. ‘Well, we can’t change what has happened to Mr Porter in the past, but we can make sure he feels needed and worthwhile in the future.’

  Standing in the doorway of the groom’s old sleeping quarters, Bess marvelled at the transformation. She had only been inside the dormitories once before, with her father, and remembered them to be plain and bare. Now, instead of a row of wooden bunks, the room was divided by tall screens into seven spacious areas, with a bed, chest of drawers and a chair in each. Blue curtains hung at the windows and behind them were small squares of black fabric with a small brass ring at each corner. During the day the blackout curtains couldn’t be seen but at night, when it was dark, the black squares would be hooked up behind the curtains and held in place by four small nails so the lights in the dormitory couldn’t be seen from the outside.

  ‘Good idea, Mr Porter, to have blackout curtains behind the blue ones.’

  ‘That was Mrs Hartley’s doing,’ he said, proudly. ‘She made the curtains, and those screens.’

  ‘Gives the young ladies some privacy,’ Mrs Hartley said, suddenly at Bess’s side.

  Looking again, and taking in the whole space, Bess said, ‘I would never have believed the lads’ old sleeping quarters could look like this. These are terrific billets, Mrs Hartley.’

  *

  Bess sat at the scrubbed table in Mrs Hartley’s warm kitchen reading the agricultural college reports on the women and drinking coffee. She savoured every mouthful. When the coffee she had brought from London had gone, she’d have to resort to drinking Camp, with its sickly sweet aftertaste.

  The estate farmers and their wives arrived at four o’clock, the land girls fifteen minutes later. Laura, a physical education teacher before the war who had been mad
e redundant when the children she taught were evacuated, was the first of the land girls to arrive, followed by Polly, who was as petite and dark as Laura was tall and fair. Iris, Mavis and Sylvia came in next. Iris, in her late twenties, was the oldest of the girls and the only one wearing a wedding ring. Mavis, dressed in a pretty floral dress, was the youngest, and Sylvia, in government issue khaki shirt and trousers, green pullover, brown riding boots, and hair cropped like a boy, was the only one who looked like a land girl.

  The last girls to arrive were Myfanwy and Kitty. Myfanwy, or Fanny, as she preferred to be called, was from North Wales. She wore an old-fashioned grey pinafore dress and flat brown shoes. Kitty, a typical cockney sparrow, was outgoing, loud and funny, with permanently waved bleached blonde hair. She’d changed out of the tight fitting skirt and blouse that she arrived in, into an equally tight fitting dress with a sweetheart neckline. She was still wearing red high heels. Kitty, at nineteen, was younger than Fanny by two years but unlike Fanny, who was shy, Kitty exuded confidence. When Kitty entered the room everyone turned to look at her, which delighted her but embarrassed Fanny, whose cheeks were now the colour of Kitty’s lipstick.

  Having visited the Estate farms, Mr Porter knew what each of them required to cope with the extra workload. Charity and High Fields Farm needed two land girls, but Low Farm only needed one, leaving two girls to work with Bess and himself at Foxden. And each farm needed girls with different skills. Except for a couple of dozen laying hens, Low Farm’s meadows and pastures were going to be turned into arable land. Charity Farm and High Fields Farm had the same directive, with the proviso that Charity would keep a small flock of sheep and a dozen pigs, and High Fields a dairy herd. High Fields also needed domestic help because the farmer’s wife, Annie Baylis, had been ill. Whoever worked at High Fields would be expected to help Annie in the house occasionally, and spend time with her as a companion.

  The wishes of the land girls were important too. They not only needed to be trained for and suited to the work they would be doing, but it had to be the kind of work they enjoyed. It was also important that they get on with the people they were going to be working with. What they earned and how many hours they worked was standard. They would be billeted together in the dormitories above the stables and eat their main meals - breakfast and supper - in the servants’ kitchen at the Hall. The farmers would provide lunch and any other refreshments that the girls wanted during working hours.

  Getting to and from work was easy. All three farms were within walking distance of the Hall, but if transport was needed each farm had some sort of vehicle, and every farmer’s wife owned a bicycle.

  Finally, time off. Everyone agreed that the girls would have their evenings, after dinner, to themselves and their day off would be Sunday. If they had to work on Sunday for any reason – like in the lambing season, or bringing in the harvest – the girls would be given time off in lieu. The only exception to having all day off on Sunday would be at High Fields Farm. High Fields had a dairy herd so whoever chose to work there would have to alternate their day off, so there was always someone to help with the milking.

  Bess was delighted when Laura and Sylvia said they wanted to work with her on the Estate. Laura could not only drive a motorcar, she could also drive the new Fordson. At the agricultural college she’d been top of her group for ploughing with a horse and a tractor. She’d be an asset. Sylvia would be invaluable too. She had been part of an all-girl threshing gang and knew how to thatch. She knew how to stook wheat sheaves, fork hay and build hayricks and offered to teach those who didn’t when the time came. An advocate of traditional farming, Sylvia preferred ploughing with a pair of Suffolk Punches, which was handy because the Estate only owned one tractor. Polly was a good all-rounder and said she didn’t mind where she worked, which suited Bess because she needed someone who was flexible enough to work at Low Farm and Foxden.

  Iris and Mavis said they’d like to work with the sheep at Charity Farm, and Fanny and Kitty had worked together in the dairy at agricultural college. ‘I came top of my group,’ Kitty said. ‘The teacher said I was one of the best milkmaids they’d ever had.’

  Everyone applauded Kitty, which made her blush. She enjoyed shocking people by wearing lots of make-up and high heels, but she took her work as a land girl seriously and was proud to receive a compliment from her teacher at college. Probably the only sincere compliment the girl has had, Bess thought.

  By the time tea was finished each of the women of Foxden’s Land Army knew where she would be working and what her responsibilities were.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bess wasn’t able to see any light, not even a chink, through the blackout blinds at the windows of the new dormitory. It didn’t mean the girls were asleep, but if they weren’t they soon would be. It had been a long day and tomorrow was going to be longer. She looked at her watch. The job of turning the Estate into arable land was going to begin in a few hours.

  She crossed the courtyard to the stables. Whatever the weather, making sure the horses were safe and settled for the night was the last thing Bess did before going to bed. When she rubbed Sable’s nose, the horse lowered her head and gently butted her until Bess said, ‘All right, girl, I know what you want.’ Laughing, Bess took two carrots from her pocket, which she did most nights even though there was a food shortage, and flat-handed both animals a treat. Sable shook her head from side to side, flaring her nostrils and exhaling warm breath.

  Looking up at the full moon in the clear sky reminded Bess of New Year’s Eve, and James. She hadn’t seen James since she’d been back, which was probably a good thing. Whatever happens, James must never know her feelings for him were more than those of a friend. For the most part, she had put what happened in the filthy alley in London behind her. Even so, loving James, or anyone else for that matter, could never happen now. Bess had made a decision before coming back to Foxden that James would never know she loved him – had loved him – and why she no longer could. Perhaps it’s not such a bad thing that James has Annabel Hadleigh, she thought. Closing the stable door, Bess wiped tears from her eyes.

  *

  It was the tradition that on Sunday afternoons, after tea, the Dudley family gathered round the fire to tell each other their news. Everyone had something to say, but it was Margaret who took centre stage. ‘I’m going to live in London with Bill.’

  You could have heard the proverbial pin drop. It was her mother, Lily, who broke the silence. ‘Being the capital, it’ll be the first place the Germans bomb. You’re not going to London. It’s not safe!’

  ‘It’s safe where Bill’s staying, Mam, in north west London. There aren’t any Army or Air Force bases; there isn’t even a factory for miles. It’s the suburbs and it’s a long way from the centre of London – it’s as far away as Lowarth is to Rugby,’ Margaret explained. ‘Honestly, Mam, there’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘If Bill wants to live in London that’s up to him, but--’

  ‘He’s not there by choice. He’s there because he failed his medical!’ Margaret said indignantly. ‘He wants to do his bit for the country.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but he doesn’t have to go to London to do it. There’s plenty he could do for his country up here.’

  ‘He’s transporting top secret documents from the Ministry of Defence in Whitehall to-- well, I can’t say where, because it’s top secret. But it’s a very important job!’

  ‘What about your job?’ her father asked.

  ‘I’ve handed in my notice. I’ll get another job when I get to London. The Goldmans are in business. I might be able to work for them.’

  ‘Ha! The Goldmans, is it? I might have known our Bess had something to do with it.’ Their mother glared at her, but Bess said nothing. Margaret’s news was as big a shock to her as it was to everyone else. ‘So what kind of business are these Goldman people in?’

  ‘All sorts,’ Margaret said, looking at Bess. ‘They own a theatre. And a smart club. They’re bound
to need book-keepers and clerks and things.’

  She needs me to back her up, Bess thought, and opened her mouth to speak.

  ‘Sounds to me as if you’ve made up your mind,’ her father said.

  ‘I suppose I have,’ Margaret admitted.

  ‘In that case,’ her mother snapped, ‘there’s nothing more to be said! You’re your husband’s responsibility now.’ With that, she turned on her heels and stormed out of the room.

  ‘It might only be for a few months,’ Margaret called after her mother, ‘until Bill finishes his training. I miss him. Mam!’

  From somewhere a door slammed shut.

  ‘What next?’ their father said.

  ‘I’ve joined the WAAF,’ Claire announced.

  ‘What?’ He turned and looked at her sternly. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘A few weeks ago. I’ll be training up in Morecambe, in Lancashire.’

  ‘But--’

  ‘I’m coming home, Dad,’ Ena said. ‘I’ve got a job at the Rover munitions factory in Lowarth. Not as exciting or heroic as Margaret and Claire’s work-’

  ‘Did you know about this, Bess?’ their father asked.

  Smiling apologetically at Ena, Bess shook her head. Then, turning her attention to her father, she said, ‘No. And for the record, I didn’t know Margaret was going to London either.’

  Feeling sorry for Ena, because her homecoming had been overshadowed by Margaret and Claire’s shocking news, Bess put her arm around her youngest sister’s shoulder. She listened to the rest of the family’s domestic dramas, giving her opinion only when asked. She was more concerned with the bigger drama that was taking place across the Channel, in which her brother Tom was playing a part.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Bess shivered. The air was damp as well as cold. It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, but the winter sun was fading fast. She looked up and waved to Polly, who had attracted her attention by blowing a piercing whistle. ‘Look, no hands,’ Polly shouted, waving her hands above her head and freewheeling down the lane towards them on Mrs Hartley’s bicycle. Laura, who had been checking a crop of winter cabbage in a neighbouring field, was standing on the bottom rung of the five-bar gate that separated the two fields pointing at her wristwatch with exaggerated actions. Bess looked up at the darkening sky. If they were going to get back to the Hall before dusk they’d have to leave soon.