There was something both peaceful and wistful in her face. Stella felt drawn to this girl, wondered about her.
The last cow left the yard. At that moment two men came out of the barn. Stella assumed the tall one to be Joe, and recognized at once the shape of the man she had seen last night. His hand was on the shoulder of the much older man who wore thickly corrugated breeches and highly polished lace-up boots, the uniform of grooms before the last war. Joe seemed to be trying to persuade the old man of something, and was meeting resistance. On their way across the yard, Joe looked up and spotted Stella.
‘Breakfast,’ he shouted, but did not wait for her.
The idea of breakfast reminded Stella of her hunger. But reluctant to go into the kitchen alone, she made her way down the lane to meet the others returning from the meadow. They, too, declared their hunger. All three compared stiff joints and cold fingers, and hurried back to the farmhouse.
By the time they reached the kitchen the three men were already half-way through huge plates of bread, bacon, eggs, tomatoes and black pudding. Mrs Lawrence was shifting half a dozen more eggs in a pan at the stove. She wore the same faded cross-over pinafore as yesterday, which hid all but the matted brown wool of the sleeves of her jersey. There was something extraordinarily detached, but reassuring, in her back view, thought Ag. It was as if the outer woman was performing her chores, while an independent imagination also existed to power her through the mundane matters of daily life.
Mr Lawrence introduced Ratty to the girls, remembering all their names, having checked with his wife. Ratty, a man of economy in his acknowledgements, made his single nod in their direction extend to all three of them. In that brief moment of looking up, Ag observed his extraordinary eyes, grained with all the colours of a guinea fowl’s breast. Here was a man who would provide much material for her diary, she felt, as she sat beside him, unafraid of his distinctive silence. Prue took her chance to sit next to Joe. Mr Lawrence observed her choice with a hard, flat look.
‘Well, we got through that all right, I’d say, didn’t we, Joe?’ Prue turned to the others. ‘I did twelve cows, Joe did the other eight. Just think, only a few more hours to go and we start all over again, don’t we, Joe?’
Joe shook his head. ‘Not me. Dad’s on the afternoon milk.’
Prue’s face fell. She accepted the plate of fried things from Mrs Lawrence and concentrated on eating.
Mr Lawrence, finishing first, seemed eager to be away. He outlined the chores for the rest of the morning. Ag was to help Mrs Lawrence with the henhouse, and try to patch up the tarpaulin roof. Prue was to sluice down the cowshed, sterilize the buckets, scour the dairy, and put the milk churns into the yard. ‘Ready,’ he added, ‘for the cart. Think you’ll manage to get them on to the cart, Prudence?’
Prue looked up from her eggs, alarmed, knowing what a churn full of milk must weigh. But she had no intention of looking feeble in Joe’s eyes. ‘Of course,’ she said.
‘I mean, you’re at least a foot taller than a churn, aren’t you?’ Mr Lawrence’s fragment of a smile indicated he was enjoying his joke.
Now he turned to his left, where Stella swabbed up egg yolk with a fat slice of bread. ‘Know anything about horses?’
‘A little.’
‘Then you can come with me. We’ll walk down to Long Meadow, give you an idea of the lie of the land.’
The three men rose, leaving their empty plates and mugs on the table. Mrs Lawrence sat down at last, with a boiled egg. Her cheeks were threadbare in the brightness, caverns of brown fatigue under both eyes. She cracked the egg briskly, looked round at the girls.
‘You’ll get used to it,’ was all she said.
By the end of their first day, the land girls were exhausted. After four o’clock mugs of tea, they lay on their beds, trying to recover
The last cow left the yard. At that moment two men came out of the barn. Stella assumed the tall one to be Joe, and recognized at once the shape of the man she had seen last night. His hand was on the shoulder of the much older man who wore thickly corrugated breeches and highly polished lace-up boots, the uniform of grooms before the last war. Joe seemed to be trying to persuade the old man of something, and was meeting resistance. On their way across the yard, Joe looked up and spotted Stella.
‘Breakfast,’ he shouted, but did not wait for her.
The idea of breakfast reminded Stella of her hunger. But reluctant to go into the kitchen alone, she made her way down the lane to meet the others returning from the meadow. They, too, declared their hunger. All three compared stiff joints and cold fingers, and hurried back to the farmhouse.
By the time they reached the kitchen the three men were already half-way through huge plates of bread, bacon, eggs, tomatoes and black pudding. Mrs Lawrence was shifting half a dozen more eggs in a pan at the stove. She wore the same faded cross-over pinafore as yesterday, which hid all but the matted brown wool of the sleeves of her jersey. There was something extraordinarily detached, but reassuring, in her back view, thought Ag. It was as if the outer woman was performing her chores, while an independent imagination also existed to power her through the mundane matters of daily life.
Mr Lawrence introduced Ratty to the girls, remembering all their names, having checked with his wife. Ratty, a man of economy in his acknowledgements, made his single nod in their direction extend to all three of them. In that brief moment of looking up, Ag observed his extraordinary eyes, grained with all the colours of a guinea fowl’s breast. Here was a man who would provide much material for her diary, she felt, as she sat beside him, unafraid of his distinctive silence. Prue took her chance to sit next to Joe. Mr Lawrence observed her choice with a hard, flat look.
‘Well, we got through that all right, I’d say, didn’t we, Joe?’ Prue turned to the others. ‘I did twelve cows, Joe did the other eight. Just think, only a few more hours to go and we start all over again, don’t we, Joe?’
Joe shook his head. ‘Not me. Dad’s on the afternoon milk.’
Prue’s face fell. She accepted the plate of fried things from Mrs Lawrence and concentrated on eating.
Mr Lawrence, finishing first, seemed eager to be away. He outlined the chores for the rest of the morning. Ag was to help Mrs Lawrence with the henhouse, and try to patch up the tarpaulin roof. Prue was to sluice down the cowshed, sterilize the buckets, scour the dairy, and put the milk churns into the yard. ‘Ready,’ he added, ‘for the cart. Think you’ll manage to get them on to the cart, Prudence?’
Prue looked up from her eggs, alarmed, knowing what a churn full of milk must weigh. But she had no intention of looking feeble in Joe’s eyes. ‘Of course,’ she said.
‘I mean, you’re at least a foot taller than a churn, aren’t you?’ Mr Lawrence’s fragment of a smile indicated he was enjoying his joke.
Now he turned to his left, where Stella swabbed up egg yolk with a fat slice of bread. ‘Know anything about horses?’
‘A little.’
‘Then you can come with me. We’ll walk down to Long Meadow, give you an idea of the lie of the land.’
The three men rose, leaving their empty plates and mugs on the table. Mrs Lawrence sat down at last, with a boiled egg. Her cheeks were threadbare in the brightness, caverns of brown fatigue under both eyes. She cracked the egg briskly, looked round at the girls.
‘You’ll get used to it,’ was all she said.
By the end of their first day, the land girls were exhausted. After four o’clock mugs of tea, they lay on their beds, trying to recover
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