by Ruby Jackson
‘Mr McManus, my friend, he didn’t move at all. Is that all right?’
‘We don’t want extra movement at this point. Try to visit later in the week but in the evening, after tea. Maybe he’ll be on solid food by then. Has to be awake to eat, right?’
‘Nurse, is this normal?’
‘As night follows day, love. Your friend’s doing well.’
Considerably relieved, Grace left the hospital, found the ancient bicycle and cycled back to Whitefields Court.
By the time she arrived back, Grace was exhausted. As she parked the bicycle, she wondered how long it would take for her to become accustomed to it. Maybe I should put some hay on the seat like they told us to do with tractor seats, if we drove one, that is. She was about to giggle at the amusing mind picture of her cycling through busy streets with hay sticking out all over the place when she remembered that she had been told to report to Lady Alice at four.
Ten past. Oh, God, she’ll be furious.
Grace was hot and thirsty, and her legs, unused lately to cycling, felt as if they might buckle at any moment. She was also quite sure that her hair was an absolute mess. Would it be better to run – or crawl – upstairs to wash her face and brush her hair, or to go directly to the estate office?
Of course, she made the wrong decision.
‘Good heavens, Grace, how dare you come into my home in such a mess? You look as if you’ve been ditch-digging all day. No,’ she said, as Grace made to leave, ‘now that you’re here, we might as well get it over. Sit down before you fall down.’
She pointed to a chair and, when Grace was seated, she moved to sit behind the beautiful wooden desk that dominated the room. ‘I take it you saw Harry. Is he improving?’
‘I don’t really know, Lady Alice. He … he seemed to be unconscious but the nurse said that was normal. She said to come in the evening, sometime after his tea.’
Lady Alice made a sound that could have signified either agreement or disagreement. ‘My father was here this afternoon,’ she said after a pause. ‘I’m sure Jack will tell you what the result of their discussion was, but in the meantime, I have to think about your future, Harry’s and, more importantly, I have to consider what is best for this estate. Relationships with the village are extremely important and, quite frankly, they have suffered a blow—’
Grace interrupted. ‘Harry is not to blame.’
‘When you’re quite finished.’ For a moment, Lady Alice looked angry and then, she said, ‘You really must learn to trust us to know what is best, Grace. Harry is going to need care for some time. We will arrange that. The man who knocked him down will undoubtedly go to prison for assault; that will not be accepted quietly by some. You see, it means that a woman with several children will be without her husband for who knows how long. Work will have to be found for her, probably here. In light of some unsubstantiated threats, by the lowest element, against Jack and, I’m afraid, you, Grace, you will be moved.’
‘No, please, you have to believe that we did nothing wrong for you to send us away. It’s not right. I know I have a lot to learn but I’m learning and I work hard. I’ll do better, I promise I will. And I can’t believe you’d send Jack away. He’s doubly punished because of his principles.’
Lady Alice stood up. She was white with anger but obviously determined to keep control of her emotions. She remained silent and motionless for a moment and then, she said, ‘Did no one fight for you as you were growing up, Grace? Is that why you seem to have assumed the role of Lord Protector of everyone else? I suggest that you allow me to look after the people on this estate as I have been trained to do. Go to your room now and we’ll talk when you have learned to control your tongue.’
Grace tried to walk proudly from the room, embarrassment and anger warring inside her. What had happened to her since she had made the decision to leave Dartford? It was as if she had left the quiet, docile Grace behind. At the training school she had fought with Miss Ryland. Here in this glorious part of England that she already loved, she had at first antagonised Mrs Love and now made an enemy of Lady Alice.
She tried to calm herself down before she reached the kitchen door. I want to stay here. I want to plough and plant and watch things grow. She bent her head. I want to … be friends with Jack.
‘Don’t be childish, Grace. You need to eat something.’ Mrs Love, carrying a tray, had climbed the back stairs to bring Grace an evening meal, and now saw that not so much as the cup of tea had been touched.
Grace looked at the food. ‘I can’t.’
‘Can’t. You will not or you are unable to eat?’
‘Your father an English teacher like Jack’s?’
Mrs Love took a noisy and deep breath, which she expelled before speaking. ‘Her ladyship wants you fit for the milking at five in the morning. Now, eat your tea, have a hot bath and listen to your elders and betters.’
‘Elders, maybe. Betters? Explain. I haven’t done anything wrong and I’m being sent away.’
‘For your own good, you silly girl. There’s talk in the village as how you led Archer on.’ She saw that Grace was ready to erupt again, and went on: ‘Yes, yes, everybody knows it’s rubbish but it’s better for now while we wait to see how Harry does and what the police say. Now, have your soup.’
Grace looked at Mrs Love quietly. Was there a look of dear Mrs Petrie about her? ‘It stuck in my throat.’
‘Tomato soup does have that annoying property. Come along, everyone else has gone and I’ll warm this up for you.’
Mrs Love waited and, eventually, Grace stood up.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I am, too, mostly about this ridiculous situation; must have been something to bring his lordship up from London.’
‘Did Jack say anything?’
‘Not to me. Perhaps he’ll say something in the morning. Business as usual for now.’
They continued down to the kitchen and were surprised to see Jack sitting in the inglenook.
For just a second, Grace wished she had tidied her hair and then, stoically, she decided that her hair didn’t matter. ‘Hello, Jack,’ she said, just as Jack asked her about her visit to Harry.
‘Sit down, the pair of you, and I’ll make some cocoa. We have Bournville and Rowntree’s.’
‘Bournville, please,’ said Grace, just as Jack called out Rowntree’s.
‘There, that’s settled,’ said Mrs Love, and took down a tin of Ovaltine.
Somehow, that little silliness relaxed the atmosphere and Jack moved to the table and pulled out the chair beside his, for Grace.
‘Did you see him?’
‘I sat beside his bed for quite a while, hoping he’d wake up.’ She bent her head to hide the ready tears.
‘A head injury.’
‘The nurse said a fractured skull.’
Jack made no comment and his face was impossible to read.
‘How did he look?’
‘Thin.’
‘Thin, Grace?’ broke in Mrs Love. ‘He’s as skinny as a stick.’
Jack reached out and covered one of Grace’s hands with his own. ‘I know exactly what you mean. Don’t worry; it sounds as though they’re keeping him sedated. Give his skull a chance to mend.’
Mrs Love put cups in front of them. ‘Don’t know why I’m spoiling you two but that one’s Bournville and that’s Rowntree’s.’
Jack smiled and switched the cups.
Mrs Love returned to reheating Grace’s soup and, with her back to them, asked how long Harry was likely to remain in hospital.
‘It’s a serious injury; probably several weeks.’
‘But when will he be well enough to get back to work?’ Grace asked. ‘Surely, he won’t be ready for ditch-digging?’
‘For goodness’ sake, girl, you’re not responsible for everyone. Drink your cocoa.’ Mrs Love turned to Jack ‘What’s her ladyship supposed to do with no workers? The land won’t plough itself. When are you going, Jack?’
Jack stood up, took
Grace’s bowl of soup from the cook and ushered her over to the table. ‘Bring your Ovaltine with you, Mrs Love, and I’ll tell you as much as I can.’ He waited until they were settled. ‘Lord Whitefields is allowing me to stay here and work as best I can until he can find a better solution. This bit you know already, Mrs Love. Lady Alice is concerned for Grace, and his lordship feels strongly that she should be with women of her own age. He’s gone back to London to talk to various bodies about rehoming refugees, hiring more land girls, getting me into some kind of medical role. We’ll be informed when we’re informed. In the meantime, Grace, we’ll work with Hazel to the best of our ability.’
‘I don’t need to be with women of my own age.’
They ignored her. ‘There’s too much work for me and a few old men. I can’t do all the hedging and ditching on my own. Who knows, maybe the powers that be will send more …’ He hesitated, as if he did not want to say the words ‘conscientious objectors’, but, eventually, he took refuge in, ‘… men like Harry and me. If that happens, you’ll still be one very pretty young lady in a house full of men of all ages.’
Mrs Love bristled. ‘I know how to run a household. They won’t be nowhere near her.’
‘Please, Mrs Love. We know that, but no one else does.’ He stood up and hesitated, as he looked down at Grace. ‘Got to get up early. Thanks for the cocoa, Mrs Love.’
And he was gone.
Grace finished her meal, her appetite reduced once more.
‘Haven’t you never met a lad before, Grace? You got too fond of Jack too quickly. Best put him out of your mind.’
‘Thank you for …’ Grace gestured towards the remains of the food on the plates. ‘I’ll have a breath of air, a bath and off to bed.’
‘Best thing, lass. You’ll get over this, you know; we all do.’
Grace left the kitchen and stood with her back against the ancient stones of the building. They comforted her somehow. What had they seen and endured in their hundreds of years of history? With all her might, she wished that no German bomber would find this lovely building. She would remember its strength, its resilience, wherever she was sent. She turned to go back inside, heard a sound and she jumped in fright.
‘Didn’t mean to startle you, Grace.’ It was Jack.
‘I came out for some air – just felt unable to breathe for a minute there.’
‘Poor Grace,’ he said, ‘none of this is your fault and I’m so sorry you got involved in it.’
How sad he sounded. She felt an urge to put her arms around him. Did he not need reassurance as much as she did?
‘Don’t worry, Jack. I’m a qualified land girl,’ she said proudly, ‘I’ll be fine.’
To her surprise, he moved even closer to her and, for a second, she froze. ‘Jack …’ she said.
‘Let’s not lose touch, Grace. Will you write to me? If you write here, I’m sure they’ll forward it.’
He did not give her time to formulate an answer but, in the evening twilight, he leaned forward, touched her lips with his, turned and was gone.
‘I’ll write.’ Her words disappeared in the twilight’s lilac air and she did not know if he had heard.
But all their problems seemed suddenly very minor when they arrived for breakfast next morning.
‘Shut up, all of you.’ The shouted order was so unlike Mrs Love that everyone in the kitchen stopped what they were doing – eating, talking, moving – and looked at her in consternation. Mrs Love continued, ineffectually, to twiddle the dials on her wireless set.
‘Give over, Jessie, what’s up? Your Football Pools?’ Hazel had gone over and gently moved her away from the wireless. ‘I’ll do it, Jess. This isn’t like you. What station are you after?’
‘Bob, I saw today’s headline in her ladyship’s paper when I were in the main house. All our troops, they’re in France, and they’re getting killed, all of them.’
At that, everyone in the room stood up, their eyes expressing all their fears, and looked at Bob Hazel.
‘I’ve found the damned wavelength. Sit down and listen.’
They had missed most of the Home Service broadcast but, from the few sentences that summed up what had gone before, they learned that thousands of British troops were stranded on beaches in France, to which they had retreated, or been pushed, by the advancing might of the German army.
When nothing new could be learned, Hazel switched off the wireless. ‘I want every man here – and girl,’ he added, almost glaring at Grace, ‘to eat their dinner and get back to work. We’re a man short since last Saturday, in case you’ve already forgotten. Walter, you’ve a good strong back on you; give young Jack a hand. Our lads’ll need feeding with good English food when we get them home, and we will have it ready for them.’
Grace tried but, although she drank tea, almost gulping it as if she were parched, she could force nothing solid across her lips. Sam Petrie was a soldier in Europe somewhere. Her heart broke with pity for her friends as they, no doubt, waited for news of him.
For several days, the workers on the Whitefields estate gathered in the kitchen at every moment they could spare from the fields or the barns. They listened in fear and gradually dawning hope as the word Dunkirk was burned into their brains, and they cheered as they learned of the Armada of little ships that set out across the Channel in the most glorious of rescue missions. Lady Alice left the newspapers for them, so that they could read over what they had just heard on the wireless, and, encouraged and strengthened, they worked harder than ever. For each one, it seemed to Grace, somewhere over there, there was a Sam.
And then, one morning, even before the tales of courage from Dunkirk had finished, there was more news. Italy had declared war on Britain and France and the German army had taken Paris.
All Grace knew of Italy was that Italians made delicious ice cream.
‘What happens to people from Italy who live here?’ she asked. ‘The ice-cream man where I grew up was Italian; really kind man, but if people don’t like Jack and Harry, what will they feel about Italian people living here?’
‘Shouldn’t think anyone will worry, Grace,’ said Hazel. ‘Britain’s a civilised country.’
‘Course they will,’ argued Walter. ‘They’ll be smashing chip-shop windows like them buggers do with the Jews in Germany.’
A few days later, Grace was put on a train to a village she had never heard of in Scotland.
‘It’s for the best, Grace,’ said Lady Alice, as she handed her a rail warrant. ‘You’ll like the farm, and we have land girls there already. You’ll make friends.’
EIGHT
Scotland, before Christmas 1940
Grace sat back against the pillow on her bed and pulled her feet up so that she could rest a book on her thighs while she read – bliss. Her ever-active conscience, however, would not allow her to lose herself in Kidnapped, an exciting book by Robert Louis Stevenson. She was both embarrassed and angry that until she had arrived at this farm, she had never read Mr Stevenson’s work; why had no one told her about these exciting stories? There was a name written on the inside cover, Elsie McGregor. Had Elsie been a servant in this house? She was not among the land girls who now worked Newriggs Farm on the East Lothian estate of Lord Whitefields. Since she had arrived in Dartford thirteen years before, Grace had scarcely left the town, and yet now, here she was in another country, Scotland. She had laughed with pleasure on the cold train journey north when, after examining her rail warrant, the train guard had told her that the carriage she was in was half in Scotland and half in England. When he was gone, she had looked round quickly and then, childishly, she had stood, legs wide apart, one foot she hoped in Scotland, the other still in England. Grace had joined six other land girls: two Poles, three English and one Scot. Grace remembered saying that she did not need other girls or women around her but she had to admit that it was stimulating to find herself one of so many. The Polish girls, Katia and Eva, fascinated her, for she had not been intimate with any foreign peopl
e before.
‘Her ladyship expects you to look after the Polish lassies, Grace,’ said Mrs Fleming, the farmer’s wife. ‘She knows you’re a bit shy but they’re not, they’re very friendly, and God knows what they’ve been through for they haven’t enough English to tell us. One sings all the time – can’t make out a word, Polish probably – so they can’t have been through too much, right? Only happy people sing.’
Grace wondered at the truth of that statement. Not that she could sing, but she did remember rocking and humming to herself whenever Megan had gone out after locking her in. Enough of that. She returned to the book. Had Elsie brought the book to remind her of home? But why would she need to be reminded of home if Scotland was home? Her random thoughts went on.
Am I Scottish? Paterson doesn’t sound Scottish, does it? All the Scottish people I’ve met here have names beginning Mc or Mac. No, Fiona hasn’t, and she is most definitely a Scot.
Oh, the longing to know where she came from, what her parents had been like, if they had loved her. She thought of the dream or memory that came to her, always when she deliberately did not seek it. She saw a field drying under a hot sun. There were rows of plants she now recognised as strawberries. A young woman with dark hair was kneeling between two rows, pulling off fat red berries and putting them in a trug held by a sunburned little girl in a patched cotton frock. This dream or memory had started the day Grace, and Ron and Phil, her friend Daisy’s brothers, had started to dig a plot for vegetables in the wasteland of a garden behind the cottage in Dartford. Grace could almost feel the heat, smell the strawberries, savour the warmth of the dusty ground between her bare little toes. She started and looked down at her feet. She did not have bare little toes. She was a young woman, not a child. But could it possibly be that she was that little girl and, if so, who was the pretty young woman? Her mother? Megan?
Grace sat straight up on the bed. ‘Grace Paterson, the things that go through your head,’ she said loudly. ‘Read the book or go to sleep. You have to be up before five.’
