by Angela Huth
‘Do you ever feel,’ she asked, ‘such total confusion that you don’t know where to begin to untangle the various strands? You don’t even know what the strands consist of? An amorphous confusion? Do you ever feel that, Joe?’
He glanced at her, saw the beautiful mouth turned down.
‘Of course. Often. All the time.’
He held up a huge black shoe, admired its shine, took up a duster. One of the dogs, asleep by the stove, growled in its dream.
‘We’re the ones who’ve decided on marriage. Do you think we’re right?’ Again Joe glanced at her. ‘I mean, why are you going to marry Janet?’ Even as she asked, Stella realized the silly risk she might have taken.
Joe put down the finished shoe, sat down, picked up his drink. He fought for calm, forced himself to look her in the eye. Oh God, please give me the strength not to let her see …
‘I could ask you the same question. Why are you going to marry Philip?’
Stella gave an embarrassed smile. She shrugged. ‘I was in love with an idea – one of my weaknesses. I’ve been in love with lots of ideas. I thought he was the right person. Perhaps it was the urgency of war …’
‘You thought?’
‘I thought.’
‘You still think?’
‘I don’t know. To confess any doubts would be too disloyal.’
‘I know those feelings.’
‘I’ve given him my word.’
‘I’ve done the same to Janet. You never said how it was, your weekend in Plymouth.’
‘It didn’t occur to me you’d be interested.’
‘I admit to being intrigued about the sort of man you love.’
Stella hid her face behind a structure of hands and mug. She tried for lightness.
‘Philip’s a good man. The weekend wasn’t … entirely perfect.’
Joe nodded, began to chip mud off the second heel. It fell on to the paper in dark curves, like giant nail parings. Stella stood up, took her empty mug to the sink. She was not sure if Joe had heard her last remark. She hoped he had not, for it was a first act of betrayal.
‘I must go to bed,’ she said.
‘We haven’t really answered each other’s questions.’
‘No. Perhaps we will some other time. Call me if you want any help in the night.’
‘You need your sleep.’
‘Really. Please.’
Joe nodded. He did not watch her leave the room, but continued to work with manic concentration on the shoe. He polished and repolished till no brighter shine could be achieved. A possibility he hardly dared to think about added to the general morass in his mind. Surely it wasn’t his imagination: surely, tonight, there was some indication …
Joe felt he had seen signs of something so small, so amorphous – in Stella’s words – that she herself was perhaps innocent of its existence. But it was there, within her. It had taken root. The question was, should he stamp on it before it flared into consciousness? Or should he abandon all principles and encourage it to life?
Some days later, Ag finished her morning duties earlier than normal, so joined Mrs Lawrence in preparing the lunch. Joe came into the kitchen carrying a couple of dead rabbits. He slung them on the draining board. From the stomach of one of them purple blood oozed through the pale fur on to the dark wood.
‘Thanks, Joe. Your father will be pleased.’ Mrs Lawrence turned to Ag. ‘John’s expected home this evening. He’ll be wanting his rabbit stew and boiled onions. There’s suet left over for a treacle pudding – his favourite, too.’
The news came as no surprise to Ag. She had noticed early that morning that Mrs Lawrence’s spirits had risen. Her inner life, always so carefully concealed, emanated in subtle hints of private exuberance. She moved faster between table, sink and stove. Her worn hands, sometimes slowed and dull with fatigue, fluttered happily among soapy plates. She buttered slices of newly made bread with extraordinary speed. Her beige lips, released from their usual cautious clench, kept breaking into a smile.
Ag had often thought how she would have liked Mrs Lawrence for a mother: the idea was renewed this morning. She sensed that this strong woman, in her state of anticipation, exuded a kind of approachability which was rarely apparent. Ag, who loved as well as admired her, yearned to talk to her. She wondered if it would be untoward to try.
Mrs Lawrence darted to the sink holding a lethal knife. She began to skin one of the rabbits. Ag watched her firm hand grasped round the animal’s neck: the head flopped over, an obscene bunch of fur, bone, tooth resting on stiff lip, blubbery balls of dead eyes.
‘Could you do the other one for me, Ag? It’s not difficult. Common sense.’
‘I’m afraid I … I’m no good with dead things. Birds, fish, animals. For some reason, I can’t touch them.’ It was the first time Ag had had to refuse Mrs Lawrence any request. ‘I’m sorry,’ she added, ashamed of her squeamishness.
Mrs Lawrence glanced at her. ‘That’s all right. I used to feel the same. I had to get used to it. I was sick, I remember, the first time I drew a pheasant. I don’t mind any of it, much, now.’
She tugged at the rabbit skin, turning it inside out as she pulled. It came off clean as a glove. Ag regarded the naked pink body beneath, the legs bent as if still running, their flight frozen by death. Feeling sick herself, she chivvied about, laying the table, not wanting to see more of Mrs Lawrence’s butchery.
The rabbits were quickly chopped into a jigsaw of pathetic joints and piled into a large bowl. Mrs Lawrence poured in a dash of cider, bay leaves, juniper berries, pepper. Her movements were light, happy. When the bowl of hideous contents was complete, she carried it to the larder as if it weighed no more than an empty plate.
‘John’ll love that,’ she said, on return. ‘When we were first married, not a brass farthing between us, we ate a lot of rabbit.’
She sat down at the table, correcting the position of a fork, a glass. She tweaked at the few sprigs of forsythia, still in bud, that Ag had arranged in a jug. She put one hand over her heart.
‘Ridiculous! I ought to be ashamed of myself, at my age. I’m all of a flutter.’
Ag smiled back at her. Here, perhaps, was her chance.
‘We’d be lucky,’ she said, ‘any of us, if we ended up with a marriage like yours and Mr Lawrence’s.’
Mrs Lawrence looked surprised. ‘Really? I don’t know about that. I think if you’re happy working together for the same end, it’s a help. We’ve been so lucky in that respect, John and me. I wouldn’t have wanted to marry a man who went off on a train every day. Like that, there’s so much of your lives unknown to the other … Absence can mean a blurring of the rules. I wouldn’t want to go away from home myself, either. I suppose I’m terribly old-fashioned. I can see an age, a generation or so ahead, when women will think it quite natural to go out to work. Mere housewives, like me, perfectly happy with their lot, will be scoffed at. Perhaps we are even today. But I’m too busy to dwell on things like that. I’m so out of the real world, I don’t know much of what is going on. But what about you, Ag? Have you thought about what you want to do after the war?’
Ag thought for a silent moment, decided to confide.
‘I’ve been thinking: I’d like to study law, go to the Bar. I’ll go on being a land girl, or do some other war work, while I’m needed; then I’ll try for law school. The ultimate plan – the old plan—’ she gave a self-deprecating smile – ‘is to marry Desmond.’
‘The one who sent the Christmas card?’
Ag nodded. ‘I sometimes think my dream of him is a stupid waste of time and energy. But then I remember the certainty I felt. Instantly. Positively. Mysteriously … Foolish, I suppose, but I’m relying on that.’
‘You must. You should.’ Mrs Lawrence sighed. ‘I wish Joe felt such certainty.’
‘Doesn’t he?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Well, he shows no great outward signs of it. We don’t talk of Janet. We talk about books. But he
’s a dark horse, Joe.’
There was a long silence.
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say this, Ag, and I would ask you not to repeat my indiscretions to the others. But I think John and I may have made the greatest mistake of our lives over Janet. And I don’t know what we can do.’ Mrs Lawrence spoke quietly, unsure she should be saying such things but compelled, after so many months of silence, to tell this sympathetic girl for whom she had particular affection.
‘Joe was such a daffy young boy, seducing every girl for miles, breaking hearts all over the place. We found ourselves lecturing him on the wisdom of looking beyond physical attraction, of choosing a good, solid girl for life. He used to scoff at such concepts, say the only marriageable woman he’d ever met was me!’ She smiled to show she knew this admission of vanity was an indulgence. ‘And of course he didn’t change his ways. Then – I don’t know how it came about, exactly, he never said – but he announced he’d proposed to Janet. Janet! Well, we’d known her for years – they used to live in Somerset. We liked her parents. She was a childhood friend of Joe’s – plain, gawky, kindest heart in the world. He treated her like another boy; she loved him from the age of twelve. As I say, I don’t know what drove him to his decision, but a lot of bad luck came at once – no Cambridge, no fighting. I suppose he felt bitter, a failure, useless, though he never actually complained.
‘Anyhow, unofficially engaged, as it were, he stopped chasing girls. He spent most of his free time with Robert, talking, talking: they have a lot in common. Then, out of the blue, this proposal; entirely to please us, we now think. And at the time we were pleased. We felt, here was security. Not very exciting, perhaps, but security, support, devotion.
‘But then, in a way, he seemed to give up. The life went out of him. He said, “I’ve done what you want, you ought to be pleased.” We said, “Joe, you must do what you want.” Timing was against him, of course. Just as they’d announced their engagement, Janet was posted to Surrey. Joe didn’t express any great sadness. I still have to chivvy him to write to her. As you’ve seen, they hardly ever have a chance to meet.
‘Then, you girls arrived. John and I were worried, of course. Especially, when all of you turned out to be so … well, it would have been easy for Joe to fall back into his old ways. We trusted him, naturally. He’s an honourable man, Joe. Once he’s given his word, he sticks by it. What’s happened, you coming, as you’ve probably noticed, is that he’s come out of his shell. He’s still tense, restless, full of regrets: but happier. Don’t you think? I think you must be his first women friends, all three of you. I have to admit I had my suspicions Prue would get her pretty little hands on him, and I dare say she tried, but she wouldn’t have succeeded. I know he enjoys your company so much.’ To Ag’s deep discomfort, their eyes met. ‘Intellectual equivalent. With all the farm work, he’s been denied so much of that sort of stimulus, apart from Robert. Prue amuses him – he’s amazed by her capacity for hard work, hand in hand with all her silliness. And he seems to like Stella – their mutual interest in music. Really, you’ve done him the world of good, the three of you, in your different ways.’ She paused, began to knead her knuckles.
‘You’ve also shown him … But I don’t want to be disloyal to Janet. Suffice to say that at Christmas the contrast between her and all of you … must have made him think. Besides which, Janet seems to have changed: jumpy, eager, irritating in her desire to be of use, to be liked, to be loved. The poor girl. She must see he doesn’t love her, she must see he’s merely trying to stick to his word.
‘We blame ourselves, John and I. We blame ourselves. We taught Joe to stick by his promises and now, in doing that, he may have a lesser life. What can we do?’
Mrs Lawrence gave Ag a look in which desperation was bound with regret. Ag, astonished by the confession of her normally reticent employer, felt unable to advise. She could give no immediate answer. To play for time, she fetched the warm plates from the stove, stirred the pan of carrot soup. Then she returned to her seat.
‘By strange irony,’ she said at last, ‘I think it’s a case where maybe the war can save. I mean, as it twists and breaks so much anyway, perhaps it could be used as an excuse. Perhaps both Janet and Joe will just drift apart, and blame only the war. The end of their arrangement could come about for the same reasons as it began: pressures of war, decisions forced by an unnatural time.’
‘You’re not accounting for his honour,’ said Mrs Lawrence.
‘I am. But even honour, distorted by the events of war, can be seen as foolishness. So if a word is broken, it may be forgiven.’
‘I hope that’s so. Perhaps events will right themselves. Now: not a word of all this, Ag, please.’
‘I promise.’
‘Take out the potatoes, if you will. I’ll call the others – only a few hours.’ She was cheerful again. ‘John’ll be back about five.’
Mrs Lawrence put on a clean pinafore for her husband’s return and her rabbit stew was appreciated by all but Ag, who could not bring herself to eat the running legs even though they were half disguised by gravy, having seen them in their naked form.
Mr Lawrence came back with the news he had expected. His brother’s illness was in remission. The prognostication was that he might now live months rather than weeks. Together they had agreed that the Lawrences would move to Yorkshire in the following new year.
He left no pause, after this fact had been announced, going on to explain his plans for Hallows Farm before their departure. He wanted as much as possible to be turned over to arable land before it was put up for sale. The cows – all but Nancy – would have to go within a few weeks. Sly likewise. At Prue’s squeal of protest he refrained from mentioning the fate that would befall her litter. But pig feed was scarcer than ever, he patiently explained to the distressed Prue, and their supply was almost finished. He spoke of detailed plans concerning which fields would be best planted with which crops.
‘I’m warning you,’ he said, ‘it’ll be the busiest spring of your lives. Harrowing, ploughing, weeding, sowing: good thing you’re all so fit. Half-diamonds well deserved, by the way. But I don’t want you to underestimate the hard work ahead. Tell me honestly: do you think we can manage, six pairs of hands and Ratty, or should I think about more help?’
‘We can manage,’ said his wife quickly, for all of them.
Next only to ratting, Ratty loved shepherd’s work. Lambing time was his favourite season, the nights away from home, the ‘dozens of bloody miracles’, as he called the births. Besides which, the night work afforded him the excuse of sleeping a few hours during the day, thus avoiding the increasingly irascible Edith.
The night Mr Lawrence returned home was a busy one for Joe and Ratty. Nine lambs, including twins, were born. It was six in the morning when he walked home – not tired, the adrenalin of wonder kept him going till the last lamb of the season was born – but hungry. There were signs of a fine day to come. Signs spring was not far away.
Ratty looked forward to an hour’s peace in the kitchen, frying himself rashers of bacon in the one pan, and a slice of bread. But to his dismay he found Edith already downstairs. She stood before a large box on the table, rummaging through deep litter of paper cut-up squares, as if searching for something in a bran tub. The squares, he noticed, had become smaller in the last week or so. Their symmetry took hours of her time.
‘Out with the girls again,’ Edith greeted him, a strange bleak look on her face.
‘I’ve been lambing with Joe. Nine since midnight, including black twins. You know I’ve been lambing. I could do with some breakfast.’
‘Breakfast!’ Edith cackled. ‘You can get your own rotten breakfast, or get one of those girls to get your breakfast.’
‘Now, look here, Edith …’ The pleasures and achievements of Ratty’s night suddenly left him. They were replaced with a cold anger, spurred by hunger and the desire for peaceful sleep. ‘You’re being unreasonable,’ he said.
‘Unreasonable?’ E
dith snapped round. Her hands flew out of the box, scattering paper. She clutched its sides, threw its contents at Ratty. ‘That’s what I think of you, Ratty Tyler.’
The paper showered over Ratty: bright little sparks from old coloured books and postcards, dull flakes from newspapers, soft, clinging fragments of tissue. They chipped his coat, clung to his cap. Edith began to laugh.
‘Confetti! That’s it, confetti. We never had any on our wedding day, remember? You wouldn’t run to confetti. I should’ve known then …’
Ratty began to shake the paper from his clothes. He was suddenly very tired. Empty. Cold.
‘We did, didn’t we …? Surely?’
‘That we didn’t.’
Edith stomped over to the dresser and snatched up a small brass frame containing a sepia photograph. She thrust it at him.
‘Our wedding day, right?’
Ratty blinked at the faded image of the young foolish hope in his own wooden smile. Had Edith ever really been like that, smiling too?
‘No confetti. No confetti! See?’
‘It wouldn’t show, not in an old photograph. I’m sure we had. Pink stuff, petals.’ He was confused, dizzy.
‘I’m telling you. This is proof.’
Edith’s old indignation died down in her triumph. She stepped back, replaced the frame. ‘Well, what we didn’t have, at least the Government’s getting.’ Ratty could not see the logic of this argument, but was too weary to contradict. ‘I’ll just sweep this lot up, get going on some more.’
‘Is there a rasher?’ Ratty tried to dodge the broom she had picked up.
Edith swept the kaleidoscope of paper pieces with peculiar relish, for some moments, before she answered.
‘No,’ she said at last. ‘There’s not so much as a slice of bread, Ratty Tyler, neither.’
Chapter 11
