milk trickled from the teat.
‘Easier on a real cow,’ he said. ‘Here, you have a go.’
Stella took his place, held the smooth pink teat.
‘It’s a rhythm you want to aim for,’ he explained, when he had watched her for a while. ‘Once you’ve got the rhythm, you’re there, and the cow’s happy. That’s it, that’s a girl.’ The farmer moved proudly back from his pupil. She was bright, this one, as well as attractive. ‘Fill the bucket a couple of times, and you can be on to the real thing tomorrow. All right?’
‘Fine.’
Mr Lawrence allowed himself a few moments in silent appraisal. Funny girl. So formal in her speech, and yet so quick. He let his eyes rest on her back, the pretty hair tumbling forwards. Where it parted he could see a small patch of her neck, no bigger than a man’s thumbprint. With all his being he wanted to touch it, just touch it for an infinitesimal moment, feel its warmth. As he stood there, fighting his appalling desire, his hands and knees began to shake. Dizziness confused his head. Stella’s voice came from a long way off.
‘Am I doing all right, d’you think?’
It was several moments – silence rasped by the silly sound of the squirting milk – before he dared answer. ‘You’re doing fine.’
He took a step towards her, watched his hand leave his side, stretch out to her innocent back: hover, quiver, withdraw.
Stella turned, smiling. She saw what she thought was a look of deep misgiving in Mr Lawrence’s eyes. The shyness of the man! It must be dreadful, she thought, to find the peace of Hallows Farm suddenly disrupted by unskilled girls from other worlds. Sympathy engulfed her, but she could think of no appropriate words with which to convey her feelings.
‘I’ll be back in a while,’ Mr Lawrence said. He waited till Stella returned to concentrate on the rubber teats, and quickly left the shed.
Alone, Stella sniffed the sour milk and manure smell of the shed. It was cold, damp. Her fingers on the teats were turning mauve. She determined to get her peculiar training over as fast as possible, and concentrated on the rhythmic massage of the ludicrous teats. At the same time she began to compose the funny letter she would write to Philip tonight: my first day a land girl – with a rubber cow . This prompted the thought of the post. Philip had promised to write immediately. She ached to hear from him. The two hours till breakfast, when she could ask about the delivery of letters, seemed an eternity. In some desolation, Stella looked down at the thin covering of milk on the bottom of the bucket.
Two hours later, shoulders and legs stiff from the awkward position (it would be much more comfortable with a real cow to lean against), Stella rose and stretched, her apprenticeship, she hoped, over. She had filled the bucket twice and felt like a qualified milker. Once she had got the hang of it – the rhythm, as Mr Lawrence had said – it had been quite easy. Behind the gentle splish-splash of the milk she had dreamed of Philip, going over in her mind every detail of the few occasions on which they had met. And when she swooped back to the present, she saw the humour of her situation – the adrenalin of being in love making bearable the milking of an imitation cow.
Now, she leaned over the bottom half of the shed door, looked out on to the yard. The Friesians were ambling towards the gate. They took turns to enjoy the distractions of familiar sights. Sometimes one would pause to give a bellow, puffing silver bells of breath into the sharp sunny air. Stella understood their lack of concentration, and smiled at the sight of Prue and Ag urging them on, with the occasional tentative whack of a stick. Prue’s pink bow had lost some of its former buoyancy but still fluttered among her blonde curls like a small demented bird. She bounced and jiggled and enjoyed shouting bossily to the cows. In contrast, Ag walked with large dignified strides, never raising her voice.
‘Easier on a real cow,’ he said. ‘Here, you have a go.’
Stella took his place, held the smooth pink teat.
‘It’s a rhythm you want to aim for,’ he explained, when he had watched her for a while. ‘Once you’ve got the rhythm, you’re there, and the cow’s happy. That’s it, that’s a girl.’ The farmer moved proudly back from his pupil. She was bright, this one, as well as attractive. ‘Fill the bucket a couple of times, and you can be on to the real thing tomorrow. All right?’
‘Fine.’
Mr Lawrence allowed himself a few moments in silent appraisal. Funny girl. So formal in her speech, and yet so quick. He let his eyes rest on her back, the pretty hair tumbling forwards. Where it parted he could see a small patch of her neck, no bigger than a man’s thumbprint. With all his being he wanted to touch it, just touch it for an infinitesimal moment, feel its warmth. As he stood there, fighting his appalling desire, his hands and knees began to shake. Dizziness confused his head. Stella’s voice came from a long way off.
‘Am I doing all right, d’you think?’
It was several moments – silence rasped by the silly sound of the squirting milk – before he dared answer. ‘You’re doing fine.’
He took a step towards her, watched his hand leave his side, stretch out to her innocent back: hover, quiver, withdraw.
Stella turned, smiling. She saw what she thought was a look of deep misgiving in Mr Lawrence’s eyes. The shyness of the man! It must be dreadful, she thought, to find the peace of Hallows Farm suddenly disrupted by unskilled girls from other worlds. Sympathy engulfed her, but she could think of no appropriate words with which to convey her feelings.
‘I’ll be back in a while,’ Mr Lawrence said. He waited till Stella returned to concentrate on the rubber teats, and quickly left the shed.
Alone, Stella sniffed the sour milk and manure smell of the shed. It was cold, damp. Her fingers on the teats were turning mauve. She determined to get her peculiar training over as fast as possible, and concentrated on the rhythmic massage of the ludicrous teats. At the same time she began to compose the funny letter she would write to Philip tonight: my first day a land girl – with a rubber cow . This prompted the thought of the post. Philip had promised to write immediately. She ached to hear from him. The two hours till breakfast, when she could ask about the delivery of letters, seemed an eternity. In some desolation, Stella looked down at the thin covering of milk on the bottom of the bucket.
Two hours later, shoulders and legs stiff from the awkward position (it would be much more comfortable with a real cow to lean against), Stella rose and stretched, her apprenticeship, she hoped, over. She had filled the bucket twice and felt like a qualified milker. Once she had got the hang of it – the rhythm, as Mr Lawrence had said – it had been quite easy. Behind the gentle splish-splash of the milk she had dreamed of Philip, going over in her mind every detail of the few occasions on which they had met. And when she swooped back to the present, she saw the humour of her situation – the adrenalin of being in love making bearable the milking of an imitation cow.
Now, she leaned over the bottom half of the shed door, looked out on to the yard. The Friesians were ambling towards the gate. They took turns to enjoy the distractions of familiar sights. Sometimes one would pause to give a bellow, puffing silver bells of breath into the sharp sunny air. Stella understood their lack of concentration, and smiled at the sight of Prue and Ag urging them on, with the occasional tentative whack of a stick. Prue’s pink bow had lost some of its former buoyancy but still fluttered among her blonde curls like a small demented bird. She bounced and jiggled and enjoyed shouting bossily to the cows. In contrast, Ag walked with large dignified strides, never raising her voice.
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