Land Girls by Angela Huth

Joe’s eyes, she knew, were still on her. She picked up the mop and bucket with the calculated flourish of a star performer, and began to swab Sylvia’s bulging udder as if the job was a movement in a dance. When she had finished washing both cows, she sauntered back to where Joe was milking a restless creature called Mary.
    ‘And where,’ she asked, hand on one hip, provocative as she could manage in her given surroundings, ‘might I find a cup for the fore milk?’
    Joe released Mary’s teats. He looked up at Prue, impassive. ‘I don’t believe we have one,’ he said.
    ‘Don’t have one?’ Prue’s voice was mock amazed. ‘We were taught it was essential —’
    ‘Dare say you were. We don’t do everything by the book, here. We just draw off the first few threads before starting with the bucket.’ He turned back to his milking.
    ‘On to the floor ? Do you suppose,’ said Prue, after a few moments of listening to the rhythmic swish of Mary’s milk hitting the bucket, ‘this is a matter I should bring up with your father? Or the district commissioner? Or—?’
    ‘Bring it up with who you bloody like,’ said Joe. Although his face was half-obscured by Mary’s flank, Prue could see he was smiling.
    In the dairy, she washed her hands with carbolic soap in the basin. She was aware of a small triumph, a feeling that some mutual challenge had been recognized. If nothing else, a teasing game could be played with Joe. That would give an edge to the boring old farm jobs – and who knows? One game leads to another …
    Astride the small milking stool, head buried in Jemima’s side, hands working expertly on the hard cold teats, Prue allowed herself the thrill of daydreams. Surprisingly, she was enjoying herself. She liked the peaceful noises – muted stamp of hooves, and chink of neck chains – that accompanied the treble notes as jets of milk sizzled against metal bucket. She was aware that the sweet, hay smell of cow breath obliterated her own Nuits de Paris – she would tell Mr Lawrence, at the right moment, he need have no fears. The thought of the hugeness of Joe’s boots made her feel at home, somehow – which was an odd thought considering this chilly milking parlour was as far away from her mother’s front parlour as you could get. She found herself praying that milking would be her regular job, if Joe was to be her milking partner. But her mind was diverted from imagining the many possibilities of this partnership by the distant sound of rattling marbles. She stiffened.
    ‘Miles away,’ shouted Joe. Just practice, by the sound of it.’
    Prue waited tensely for a few moments, fingers slack on the teats. She had forgotten the war. She stood up, easily lifted the bucket of foamy milk. It smelt faintly of cowslips. Beaten Joe to it, she saw with pleasure. It was tempting to point out to him what a quick milker she was. But Prue decided against this. She went to the dairy, sloshed the milk into the cooling machine and chose a bucket from the sterilizing tank for the next cow. She had had her one small victory this morning. That was enough to begin with.
     
     
    Stella, when she saw her ‘cow’, laughed out loud. It was a crude, ingenious device: a frame made of four legs, inward sloping, like the legs of a trestle table. From its top was slung a canvas bag roughly shaped like an udder and from which dangled four rubber teats the pink of gladioli. It reminded Stella of a pantomime cow.
    ‘Oh Mr Lawrence,’ she said, ‘is this to be my apprenticeship?’
    ‘Won’t take long. You’ll soon get used to it.’
    Mr Lawrence gave her one of his curt smiles. He picked up a bucket of yesterday’s milk and poured it into the bag. Then he squatted down on the stool drawn up to the ersatz udder, placed the bucket beneath the empty bag, and took a teat in the fingers of both hands.
    He was no expert, and was aware of the ridiculous picture he made. His fingers were curiously shaky. A feeble string of