by Ruby Jackson
It was now impossible for Grace to concentrate on the film. She seemed unable to think of anything but Jack’s arm; the men and horses galloping across the screen in front of her were no more than a blur. She heard shouts and shots but made no sense of them and was quite, quite sure that she had never been happier in her entire life, except that the weight of the masculine arm on her shoulder had reminded her of other masculine arms that had comforted the child Grace. Like a brother. Sam.
The film over, they stood up and followed the sizeable crowd outside. ‘Don’t think I would go to a crowded cinema in a big city, Grace. My mind would be on air raids throughout the evening. Not what I call fun.’
‘You’re right; we have been lucky, compared to my friends in Dartford. There were alerts while I was there at the beginning of the year, and here we have the occasional sortie over the Forth and one or two of the local farms have had bombs jettisoned in the middle of productive fields, but when we hear the planes we sit holding hands, and this lovely Polish girl sings.’
‘Sounds nice, especially the holding-hands bit. But old Hitler’s determined to get Mr Churchill and destroy London.’
‘He’ll never do it, Jack, not against forces like ours. My friend Daisy is a Waaf and her brothers are in the services. The oldest one is a prisoner of war in Germany,’ she said sadly.
‘I salute them, Grace, but I just couldn’t do what they do.’
Was the lovely evening to be spoiled? Jack had sensed a change in mood too and made an obvious effort to cheer her up. ‘I’d best get you back to the farm. Nice not to have to be up for milking, though.’
Grace laughed. ‘Yes, Mrs Fleming milks her three cows but we’re still up before five. There isn’t a time on a farm when workers sleep late – apart from the day off, that is, but two of the girls, both from Cornwall, as it happens, have been on farms where the rule is: if you’re not there for breakfast when it’s served, you have to do without.’
‘That’s appalling. Land girls have the price of their meals taken out of their wages before the farmer hands on what’s left. That is so dishonest. I hope they reported the farmer.’
‘No idea. I certainly wouldn’t have argued with Mrs Love.’
Jack laughed and held her close against his side. ‘You fought with everyone.’
‘But not for me, Jack; I don’t think I’m good at fighting for myself. Daisy’s brother, Sam, he looked after all the weaker ones.’
They had reached the car but, before unlocking the door, Jack pulled Grace round to face him. ‘And you fell in love with big, strong Sam and want to be just like him. That’s a lovely story, Grace. I hope he loves you, too.’
‘Don’t be silly, Jack, and besides, I think Sam’s in love with another of my friends.’
Jack opened the car door and waited until Grace was sitting down before going round to the driver’s side and getting in himself. He said nothing as he started the car and reversed it out of the space he’d found.
‘Thank you for taking me to see the film, Jack, and for buying the sweets.’
He smiled at her, and her heart, which seemed to have sunk, lifted again. He really did have such a lovely smile.
‘You’re very welcome, Miss Paterson. The next time I have some leave, I’ll try to do better than three-penny bars of stale chocolate.’
‘It wasn’t stale,’ said Grace, but her brain was repeating ‘the next time’ over and over.
‘You, miss, didn’t eat any, so how would you know?’
Everything was normal again and they were able to talk about their work, the latest news, and even what they hoped to do when the war was over.
‘I hope you’re going to finish learning to be a doctor, Jack,’ Grace said as she looked out at the countryside, illuminated by a bright moon and – shockingly to someone used to the complete blackouts of the south of England – an occasional lighted window.
‘Those idiots seem to forget how close they are to Edinburgh. That’s right, guide them on their way.’ Jack fumed at the careless householders but had not answered her question.
‘We have had a few bad moments. Aberdeen gets a pasting regularly and, of course, Glasgow and the docks. I suppose they’d like to knock out the Forth Bridge, and maybe some factories. But don’t worry about the lights. The wardens will spot them. Jack, I hope you’re planning to go back to the university?’
‘First, I have to survive, Grace.’
The words hit like a blow. Survive? He was going out to a war zone to drive ambulances through everything the enemy could throw at him. Her heart seemed to leap with terror. ‘But you will, you must.’
He looked at her face in the limited light from the sky. ‘Sweet, sweet Grace. You really care.’
‘Of course I care.’
‘I have to kiss you; I’ve wanted to all evening.’ Jack pulled onto the rough grass verge and stopped the car. He did not wait for her to say anything but leaned over and kissed her passionately on her lips. He was indeed doing a better job than the first time.
Grace was surprised by the strength of the first kiss and more or less merely accepted it. Then Jack leaned over her again; he did not kiss her but looked into her eyes and then he traced the contours of her face, her cheeks, her forehead, her nose and, finally, delicately, her mouth. His touch set her on fire. He bent to kiss her again but connected with the brake lever and swore softly.
‘Grace, I can’t kiss you properly in the front seat of this car.’ He stopped for a moment, as if thinking, and then continued. ‘There’s a lovely long seat in the back. Could we … would you sit with me there for a few minutes? It’s too cold now for kissing outside and perhaps the Flemings might not be happy to see one of their land girls being kissed good-night at their front door.’
She hesitated for a moment and he saw that and said, ‘Don’t be frightened. I want us to … well, I want us to write as you promised and to see each other when I come back. Don’t you want to write to me? I’m not a fearless soldier but I am going into battle. If you’d rather not, then that’s all there is to it.’
‘Of course I want to write, Jack, and to get letters from you. It’s just that Mr Brewer always told my friend Sally not ever to get into the back seat.’
‘A few kisses, Grace, for me to remember. Oh, God, that sounds so corny. In fact, it’s just what some Lothario would say. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.’
He sat up straight and reached out to turn the key, but Grace stopped him. ‘A few minutes, just to say, till you come home safe, right?’
‘Of course. Now, you mustn’t feel pressured, Grace. I respect you and I still want us to write and to see each other.’ She turned away from him, opened the car door, got out and let herself into the back of the car. Jack followed her.
They sat for a moment, quietly looking at each other. Grace could feel heat all over her body and her heart seemed to be beating so loudly that she thought he must be able to hear it. This then, this turbulence, was love. She had no more time to think as, with a sound like a strangled groan, Jack drew her into his arms and began to kiss her.
‘What time, in the name of God, do you call this, Grace Paterson? We were worried sick. We’re responsible for you, you know, and let me tell you –’ Mrs Fleming pointed to the old grandmother clock in the hall – ‘if you’d been two minutes later, I would have been telephoning Lady Alice in the morning. What have you been up to?’
Grace’s already flushed face coloured deeply. She put up a shaking hand to try to tame her hair, which she just knew had to be untidy, and lowered it again. ‘We went to the pictures, the cowboy one, and then we drove back.’
‘And stopped to look at the view, I suppose.’
‘We’re walking out, Mrs Fleming, when Jack gets back, and we’re writing to each other. I gave him my address.’
‘I hope to heaven that that’s all you gave him. Get upstairs, and don’t wake any of the others.’
Spring came with its abundant beauty, as if nature were rewardi
ng the seven land girls for tolerating the miseries of the past winter, but no letter arrived from Jack. Grace tried to hide her growing misery from the others but she could feel the questioning but caring eyes of Eva and Katia. Mrs Fleming’s eyes were not so friendly.
One morning, she encountered Grace alone in the farmhouse vegetable plot. ‘You’re looking awful peeked these days, Grace; you’re not coming down with something, are you?’
Grace glanced up from the carrots she was thinning and tried to smile. ‘No, Mrs Fleming, I’m not.’
The farmer’s wife looked her up and down, until Grace flushed at the scrutiny.
‘If there’s something you need to tell me, best to do it early.’ Still she stared.
‘I need to get on with my work, Mrs Fleming.’
Mrs Fleming made a sound not unlike that made by the farm collie when it sneezed, and stalked off. Grace bent once more to her task but her mind continued to work as furiously as her hands.
What if? What if …? It can’t be anything else. Dear God, what will I do if I am? Where could I go? Why hasn’t Jack written? He has no respect for me. No, perhaps he’s hurt. Would Lady Alice tell me if …? Would she know?
She had been so used to finding solace when she worked directly with the soil but, today, no gentle peace caressed her. Her whole body was filled with memories of that time with Jack. Merely giving herself permission to think of it filled her with pleasure. Oh, they had not meant it to happen; Jack had assured her over and over again, but it had happened and it had been wonderful. Never had she been so close to another human being. The feeling of complete belonging, of loving and being loved, was something that she had never before experienced.
And just then it was as if the dream girl in the field was with her there in that orderly kitchen garden. She could see her smiling, bending closer: ‘My precious little Grace, my own little lamb.’
My mother. Grace straightened up. She had had a mother; of course she had, and it was the pretty girl in the field.
‘Her speaking voice is pleasant but is it her voice or am I imagining it? I have to find her or to find out what happened to her and why I was …’
A huge wave of nausea rose up in Grace’s stomach and she managed to turn quickly and vomit over the small dry-stone wall and into the field.
Trembling and sweating, she sat for a moment on the wall, until her stomach behaved itself.
‘You all right?’ It was Jane, another of the land girls. ‘God, girl, you look bloody awful. First, you stand talking to yourself and then you barf for England. How are you going to tell the Flemings that you’re up the spout?’
‘Up the spout?’ Grace had never heard the expression before.
‘Preggers, you idiot.’
Pregnant? Oh, no. Grace was forced to face a dilemma she had been avoiding for weeks. She was, she had to be, and the other girls thought so, too. Did she have the courage … ‘No, no, I had a turn, that’s all. Please, Jane, don’t say anything.’
‘Won’t need to if you behave like that again. I’m off to cut down a tree. I came looking for a helping hand but you won’t be any good.’
‘Yes, I will, Jane, and I’ve finished the carrots. Need to spend some time on the onions but I can do them after dinner. I’ve never cut down a tree before.’
‘Neither have I, but that doesn’t seem to bother the Ag. Committee. Come along, but the slightest hint of vomit and I’ll tell the Flemings your secret.’
No point in trying to persuade her that there was no secret. All was not well but, if the power of prayer really existed, there would be no secret. If the power of prayer was real, a letter would come from Jack … today, tomorrow, next week, next month.
She picked up her bag, which contained her midday meal, and followed Jane out of the garden.
‘Seemingly, the Ag. people are saying that every bit of land that can be ploughed and planted must be ploughed and planted, and the Flemings have one or two trees that have grown in the wrong place. So, down they come.’ Jane saw the look of panic in Grace’s eyes and laughed. ‘They’re not giant oaks that have been growing since the Roman invasion, Grace; they’re fairly young saplings and shouldn’t give us any problems. Ever used a saw?’
‘Sorry, no.’
‘Me, neither. For goodness’ sake, girl, don’t look so terrified. Together, according to the War Office, there is nothing we can’t do.’ She laughed at the puzzled expression on Grace’s face. ‘Tell yourself that every morning when you’re cleaning your teeth with your bright, sparkling Kolynos dental cream, available at two shillings and two pence, or a handy portable size at one and three. Not got a wireless, Grace? They advertise like this in newspapers, too.’ A moment later, she became very serious. ‘Look, there they are.’
Two tall, slim beech trees were growing almost at the very edge of a ploughed field. Beside them, someone had left an axe and a double-handed saw.
‘If I remember rightly, we have to decide which way is safest for them to fall. Frankly, I don’t know if they told us which side to make the original cut – seemingly, that’s quite important but they’re not huge chestnut trees, are they? So let’s not worry too much. Come on, Grace, think. Where should they fall?’
Grace looked and thought. ‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ was what she wanted to say but decided that honesty was perhaps not always the best policy. ‘Into the field,’ she said after some deliberation. ‘Any other direction and they will get caught in other trees. The field hasn’t been sown yet; fewer problems. Do we have to cut them up, too?’
Jane agreed that that was probably part of the job. ‘Right, I’m older and bigger. You don’t look as if you could even lift the axe. Stand over there. I’ll give it one or two whacks and I suppose there will be flying chips.’
‘Wait, aren’t we supposed to wear protective clothing? Eye shields or something like that?’
‘No idea, and I don’t think the Flemings have either.’
Jack and Harry had cut down trees. Had they had special equipment? Grace realised that she had never actually seen Jack working – once in a ditch, perhaps, but never cutting down trees. She looked again at the two trees they intended to fell, and shrugged. They’re not really that big.
‘I’m ready, Jane.’
Grace moved away from the first tree, as Jane lifted the axe and positioned herself so that she was facing the tree, but not in its path if it fell the way she hoped it would. Once, twice, three times, she hit it.
‘I’ve got it started, Grace, yippee.’
Grace moved closer. Yes, there was a large gash in the trunk. ‘Poor tree. I wonder if it hurts.’
Jane threw down the axe in disgust. ‘Don’t be stupid. It’s a tree.’
‘It’s alive.’
‘It won’t be when we’re finished with it. Come on, take your side of the saw.’
They had been given a long bendable saw that had a handle on either end. Grace picked up her end and together they approached the tree.
‘I believe a steady rhythm is needed,’ said the more experienced Jane. ‘You stand that side and I’ll stand this and we’ll start. I’ll pull and then you’ll pull, evenly. I do remember Mr F saying pull, don’t push. It should fall straight ahead if we get the cut right but, just in case, make sure you keep your eyes on it and listen. Maybe it will warn us. Probably, it’ll groan sadly for you as its weight pulls it over.’
Grace ignored the teasing and they began. It did take some time to set a rhythm as, occasionally, because of the weight of even such young trees, the saw stuck and they had to start all over again.
‘Is there anything lying around that looks like a wedge, Grace? There was something in the manual about using a wedge to keep the gash open.’
No wedge was spotted. ‘Possibly smaller trunks don’t use wedges,’ suggested Grace after admitting that she had never read any manuals.
‘Never mind, let’s set up the rhythm again.’
They started once more, pull and pull, pull and p
ull, and eventually – at least to the two inexperienced land girls – their actions seemed totally professional and the gash in the trunk grew deeper.
They stepped back and jumped up and down with excitement as the tree did indeed begin to groan.
‘It’s going, it’s going …’
Jane jumped over the fallen trunk and hugged Grace. ‘We did it, we did it. Mr Fleming thought we were just “bits o’ lasses”, as he calls us. How are your hands? Mine are red-hot even with gloves.’
‘Beginning of a blister. It’s not too bad, though.’
‘Let’s have a break and eat our sandwiches.’
They spent very little time on their meal; cold water, one sandwich with a scraping of Marmite and another with slices of beetroot was hardly the most appetising picnic lunch, especially if you loathed Marmite, as Grace did.
‘At least the bread’s home-baked,’ she tried to cheer them, ‘although I do think I’ve eaten quite a lot of beetroot this summer.’
‘Different grub from Whitefields, I expect,’ said Jane, who had pulled apart what was left of a sandwich and was staring at the Marmite as if she hoped that it would turn miraculously into something else.
‘Yes, but we were told that things would get tighter there, what with more rationing and no fruit coming in any more. I do miss fresh fruit.’
‘This farm’s got berries: rasps, strawberries and gooseberries. They’re for the market, of course, but he does give us the bruised ones and any he can’t sell.’
‘I’ll look forward to that,’ said Grace, getting up from the clump of heather on which she had been sitting.
‘August earliest, unless there’s a heat wave.’
‘Never mind; it’s nice to look forward. Now for the second tree.’
At the idea of herself as a feller of trees, Grace started to laugh and Jane joined her.
‘I think it was imagining a strawberry, which no doubt we’ll be planting, fertilising, weeding, picking and packing, side by side with a tree,’ said Grace. ‘Is there anything we won’t be able to do when the war’s over?’
