by Rachel Malik
It didn’t do to delay: he was here about the farm. Starlight. The Land Ag had met, the Land Ag had decided …
‘They can’t give me orders after all this time,’ said Elsie. She felt sure of her ground. ‘It’s my place. I know it. I know it best.’
‘Miss Boston, I don’t think you understand.’
‘Yes I do. You want to tell me what to do.’
And him most of all, she thought. No one sat in that chair now, not even Missy.
‘Miss Boston?’ He wanted to get on.
But she wouldn’t look up, she was too busy thinking. She stared down her nose at her hands, fingers crossed and clenched together.
‘Miss Boston, it was a C they decided on.’
At the end, he couldn’t quite blame it on Ainsley.
She looked up, uncertain, trying to understand.
‘A C?’
Did Elsie even know there was a C? Had Rene told her?
‘Poor.’
Townsend’s hands slipped awkwardly from the table on to his lap.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I know this is a big shock. C means poor, I’m afraid. They didn’t think you could make the farm work. No one blames you, I’m sure you did your best. It’s a tough job for anyone … In an ordinary situation it wouldn’t have mattered, but this is war, things can’t be left to run on. You’re being asked to leave.’
Like Elsie, Phil wasn’t used to making long speeches, but once he made his mind up about something he somehow managed to get it out.
There was a silence.
‘But this is my farm.’
‘Not now, not in wartime. They have the right to take it over, to own it.’
There would be a letter soon, he said, official, but he thought she would rather hear it from someone like him.
‘After all, your dad and me were quite friendly like.’
‘He never trusted you.’ She flashed him a look and then her eyes were back on her hands, crossed and clenched.
‘It’s a shock, I can see that. Look, I won’t stay.’
‘No,’ she said, and stood up. She wouldn’t look at him again and he took his cue.
It hadn’t gone too badly, considering. He paused in the doorway. She was still standing by the table.
‘The Land Ag thought it best if I took over. It’s handy me being so close, and I know the land.’ He didn’t want her to hear this from anyone else, not yet.
She looked at him properly then but dully; he hovered in the doorway.
‘I’d be happy to take any stock off your hands. Not that pony, mind, but the rest. I’ll give you a fair price.’
‘No,’ she said.
‘Righty-ho. Fair enough. Better be on my way now. Let me know if you change your mind about the stock.’
* * *
Poor farmer.
When Rene got back from Lambourn and didn’t find Elsie in the yard or the kitchen, she called out briskly, but thought little of it when she got no reply. She untied Smoke and filled his water bowl, splashing soft water over her face and neck. The old dog wagged his tail gratefully and tried to follow her inside. She wouldn’t have minded but Elsie was strict, so she shut the back door. Inside, she unpacked the shopping and sat down with a big glass of squash. It was then that she heard noises from next door. Rene stood up on the instant.
‘Elsie?’
No reply.
Too much noise for Missy. An intruder?
The noise again: rustling – she hoped it wasn’t rats. She opened the back door quickly and called Smoke, who trotted across the yard with unexpected energy. Next door, more rustling – Smoke’s ears were pricking – then she heard the crash of something heavy falling.
The parlour door was closed, which was odd, but Smoke started to squeal and scratch at the door.
As soon as Rene pushed the sticky door open, Smoke rushed in, then stopped and sank to the floor, whimpering.
Elsie was sitting on the floor beside Alfred’s old desk; hardly sitting – huddled into herself, hands across her knees; she seemed to be staring at her clenched fingers. She was surrounded by paper. She was paper-pale too; her thick springy hair had been sunk by the heat and lay lank around her neck; strands of it were streaked across her face.
A great moat of paper surrounded her, cutting her off. Most of it was yellowing newspapers and magazines, part of Alfred’s ‘record’ – kept so lovingly by Elsie in the boxes behind his desk. These had all been turned out, shaken out with force. They were mixed with official correspondence, typed and acronym-heavy: the letters from no one – not a single one had been thrown away. There was loose paper too, handwritten: letters and notes and charts. Rene could make out what looked like a map or plan of the farm; pages torn from an account book, sketchily filled in. These had been shaken on top of the yellowing print, like an afterthought of angry confetti. But perhaps Elsie had thought better of all her turning out; some of the papers and magazines had been coaxed back into precarious piles – how long had she been here? What had happened?
‘Elsie.’
In the late-afternoon sunlight, the room swam with dust. Elsie wasn’t paper-pale at all but dust-pale and ghostly. A few feet from Rene, she seemed so far away.
‘Rene, I’m a poor farmer.’ She didn’t look up. ‘Do you know what that means, a poor farmer?’
‘Yes,’ Rene whispered.
Smoke whimpered and inched forward.
‘After all this time, it turns out I’m a poor farmer, all my life …’
‘You’re not a poor farmer.’
‘Yes I am. It’s what they said. They’re sending a letter to prove it. You said it would be all right …’ She looked up for the first time, looked straight at Rene. Her face was so empty it was worse than crying.
‘I’m sorry,’ Rene said.
‘You said.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s what he said – Ainsley. B: fair. It’s what he said.’
‘I’m not a fair farmer.’
‘Oh Elsie, I’m so sorry. Is there anything we can do … to stop it?’
But Rene knew the answer to that already.
‘We can’t do anything. It’s the war; the war owns Starlight now … and Phil Townsend.’
Smoke whined and slithered forward. Rene stayed where she was, uncertain.
‘I can’t find it,’ Elsie said, after a pause.
‘Can’t find what?’
‘My board exam … they sent a letter. It was a letter. I’ve been looking for a certificate all this time, but they sent a letter because I failed.’
‘Elsie? What are you saying?’
‘I failed the school board exam – everyone wanted me to be a teacher but I didn’t. It would have taken me away from Starlight. Rene, you must help me find the letter.’
‘Yes of course.’ If there was any way she could make amends.
‘That bastard Townsend.’
Elsie never swore.
‘That’s what my dad called him. He was right … That bastard Townsend,’ Elsie said again, more slowly this time, more distinctly. ‘He said there’d be a letter. Rene, will you open it when it arrives? I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to see.’
‘Yes,’ said Rene, ‘anything, anything.’
Elsie reached out her hand to Smoke and burst into tears.
7.
The Changing View
Elsie was calm after this episode, directing all her energies towards the disposal. She sold the Guernseys to a farmer on the other side of the valley, she sold them cheap, but they were going to a good home, well away from the Townsends. Elsie’s eyes pricked as she urged them up the ramp, but there was a biting pleasure in knowing Phil Townsend would see the trailer and its cargo, bumping back up Sheepdrove.
In the evenings, they made and remade lists and piles of what to wrap and scrap. Elsie was determined that as little as possible got into enemy hands, and for now there was only one enemy. Objects, long forgotten and uncared for, made her suddenly, painfully, tender. She would not have them
picked up clumsily, fingered by the Townsends. What couldn’t come with them would be safer with strangers. And so, although Elsie flinched at the idea of a proper house sale, Rene quietly put the message round that they were leaving and soon there was quite a line of traffic up to the house and all manner of people, who left with bedsteads and mattresses, chairs and chests of drawers, some strapped on to carts and others on to trolleys and backs. Carriers sometimes coming away with a jacket or a couple of old jumpers for good measure. Slowly and carefully, Starlight was dismantled.
Calm as she appeared after the outburst, capable too as she made her lists and did her sorting, Elsie could make no grasp at what had happened. If a great tidal wave had come in over the Isle of Wight and Hampshire, sinking Starlight and the rest of Berkshire, Elsie would have borne it better; a flashing September storm that set the downlands alight after a tinder-dry summer, a plague of slugs, even an earthquake – any of these would have made more sense to Elsie. Starlight was hers and it always had been hers. How could the Land Ag take it away?
It was up to Rene to secure a future and she was nervous: it had gone so badly wrong with Ainsley. They were to leave as soon as possible – it didn’t do to linger, she was sure of that – and she was in charge of making it happen: dates, times, transport, destination. Elsie showed no interest in any of it. It made matters easier for Rene in some ways, but the stakes were very high. One Friday morning she took the early bus to Newbury where she bought a notebook and a pencil along with writing paper and envelopes (she had borrowed old Alfred’s pen). On the notebook cover, she wrote, simply, Arrangements. She had her whole day planned out: library, train station, back to the library again to write her letters, and then to the post office. Any time left over and she’d buy a few things they needed for the journey. She’d told Elsie she’d be back by the end of the afternoon.
She had already decided they would go north; now it was a matter of where, and she couldn’t afford to be too choosy. In the library she searched through magazines, registers and maps. She chose a farm from a map only if it was on a named road near a town; for the rest she searched through all manner of articles and advertisements and made a list as best she could, filling in here and there with what she hoped were sensible guesses. Anywhere they went had to be easily reached by train, and whatever she arranged, it was a leap in the dark. Leaps in the dark were not something that Elsie was used to, so many of the farm names came as some relief: Top Farm, Hill Farm, Fern Farm, Drove Farm, Home Farm – names familiar from the valley, names Elsie had known all her life.
She was back at Newbury library by quarter to twelve (not a patch on the Manchester Free), still plenty of time to write her letters and get them to the post office. When she started writing, though, things didn’t happen so easy. Her handwriting was the same as usual, the handwriting that Elsie admired; perhaps it was the words. We are two maiden ladies, two spinster ladies … one has worked the land all her life, the other … All reasonable work considered. Some parts just looked awkward, wrong: independent accommodation required, such as a cottage … Please write care of … But eventually she found her rhythm and the words came quicker. After a time, her hand even started to ache and it was a relief, the side of her little finger smudged with ink, but then the tears were pressing into her eyes, remembering the last time she had made plans.
She wasn’t running away, not like Manchester, not like before. She and Elsie weren’t running away. But they must leave soon, leave before the Townsends came knocking, before they had to. This rush to look free when you weren’t – perhaps that was why it felt like flight. It was very quiet in the library; for all that she was busy, the big, empty room made her feel idle. She wrote out the farm names on to the envelopes in very clear capitals – TOP FARM, HILL FARM, FERN FARM, DROVE FARM, HOME FARM – and as much of the addresses as she knew or could guess.
After she had finished writing, Rene folded each letter neatly into three and slid it into the envelope; how thin the paper was. She licked each envelope, aware that the woman at the desk was watching her. What kind of letter did she think she was writing? They made quite a little pile – twelve in all. She would get stamps at the post office.
Those mornings at the park in the hot August days before the war started. Jessie would skip ahead and Stevie would try to keep his hand on hers. Along the dusty gravel path, the woods are lovely, dark and deep, past the refreshment shed and the bandstand – the banner Homeless and Unemployed drooped lifelessly around the railings. The words had run so you could hardly read them, but no one would take it down. Her fingers hot and sticky from the pram. Every day the same. Push and up on the swings and whee on the slide and then off to the pond where they always stopped. And that was where little Mikey would wake up and start bawling and Jessie would try to distract him, throwing bread for the ducks. Here, Mikey … Look, Mikey … Look. Trying to hear without listening too carefully – that was the trick with children and she didn’t have it. Silly baby, stop crying, look at the duckie. Look! A RAFT of ducks – Rene had been teaching Jessie her collectives – a FLOCK of seagulls, a DRIFT of swans, but it was something else when the swans were flying, she couldn’t remember. Out of the park on to Kingston Street, Stevie banging his sand bucket like a drum. And not to be outdone, Jessie would start her reciting:
‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.’
Wirelesses on everywhere, in all the shops, smart London voices, a PRIDE of lions, a PARLIAMENT of owls, everyone waiting. The sweat trickling down the back of her neck and Stevie and Jessie squalling, But you said. The tears brimming in Stevie’s blue eyes, Jessie grabbing her hand, He’s a liar, Mum, he’s a liar. And somewhere inside she was being tuned up high and tight. Mikey’s little face all flushed in the pram and thank God they were nearly home and here was Alan waiting at the door, such a sweet smile, leading her into the sitting room, over to the settee – a little more tattered than the last time she’d seen it, some four months ago. The two uncomfortable armchairs Bertha had given them were back too, and her wireless – last spotted two weeks ago in the window of Silver’s Pawnshop. A big win then, he had a rose in his buttonhole. Swings and roundabouts, but it felt more like the deep blue sea. Jessie and Stevie squealing on the carpet – so happy and quite made up – and Mikey sleeping through it all. And still strung so tight inside. She knew what was coming. There would be food, a feast. Roast beef and fondant cakes and jam tarts and ham with a marmalade crust – he had surpassed himself this time. Peaches on the japan tray and a huge, orangey-brown pineapple. The children would eat too much and get excited, she would try to settle them, and finally she would go upstairs. A big win, she knew the drill: his light tread on the stair, his light cough (that was more recent), the pause outside the bedroom door. He had come to stroke her out of uncertain humour, bring her back to safer ground. He could calculate her like he calculated odds – he was usually very good at it. And the money was hers of course, all hers. And there was a lot of it, she had to admit … Spend it, hide it if you want, buy Jessie a new coat, treat Stevie for his birthday. Save it. All yours, I don’t want a penny.
Never trust a gambler bearing gifts.
Oh Ren, he used to say. Just oh Ren, which meant ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I’m such a fool’ and ‘please don’t kick me when I’m trying’, and ‘aren’t you just a bit impressed?’ No one else ever called her Ren. A charm of finches. A string of ponies.
Two days later it was gone. She’d hidden the notes ever so carefully in the old copy of Treasure Island and the book at the back of the crock cupboard in the kitchen. Vicky’s letter was still folded neatly inside, with Pearl’s card and the other card, the card that Vicky had sent her. He had even tied the ribbon back. A temptation of greyhounds, a glitter of gamblers.
There was a long queue in Newbury post office. Rene was glad she wasn’t wearing her land-girl unif
orm, she would have stood out. Besides, she had resigned from the Land Army – another letter – they would want the uniform back, but she hoped she could keep the boots. The queue waited patiently; they were a girl down behind the counter and everyone wanted their money’s worth when they reached the front – no one wanted anything as simple as postage stamps. Across the road from the post office was the Majestic; the programme started at two: Three Girls and a Boat and then the main feature, The Black Cat.
Those last weeks in Manchester had gone by at such speed, but at the very end everything slowed right down and separated and each bit was perfectly, painfully clear – even now she didn’t understand how they fitted together.
She was standing outside Bertha’s. How helpless she must have looked, and Bertha poised on her spick-and-span doorstep. ‘Take the whole afternoon, don’t you dare come back before six. Are you going to the pictures?’
Sitting on the tram, Rene wondered about Bertha. Today Bertha had set her free, looking after the children, cooking a meal for Alan that Rene would carry back home, wrapped in a towel. She couldn’t have been kinder, and Rene was grateful but there was always a rub. ‘Do you need money?’ she had asked. ‘I can always help you out.’ And Bertha was too careful not to tot it all up. Somewhere, Rene thought, everything was reckoned and it went back years. Did she do the same with Ernest, she wondered, would he one day receive a bill? He was a good few years older than Bertha – he might die before he could settle up. What did Bertha make of married life? She and Ernest seemed to get on perfectly well in their way. She was meek with Ernest, careful, but it didn’t quite ring true. Oh Bertha, Bertha. The problem with having your hands free for a couple of hours, thought Rene, was that it freed up your head in ways you didn’t want.
