Once a Land Girl by Angela Huth Page B

She had asked him in for a cup of tea – her mother was still at work – and they had had a long talk about the breeding of rabbits. Then they’d rogered
themselves to a standstill in her virgin bed, and he had slipped out just before Mrs Lumley arrived home. He also reminded her, this stranger waving a letter in his hand, of a sweet looking
sub-lieutenant who had once sat beside her in a cinema and added hugely to the pleasure of the film.
    ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ said the man. ‘I’m looking for Barry Morton. I’m Johnny Norse.’
    ‘Prue. His wife.’ They shook hands.
    ‘Nice to meet you. I’m one of Barry’s tenants, as I expect you know.’
    Prue smiled. She had never met any of Barry’s tenants, had no idea how many there were. ‘He should be back in an hour or so. Would you like to come in?’
    ‘I don’t want to bother you.’ He waved the letter again. ‘Just want a word about the tenancy agreement, that sort of thing. As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask about . .
.’ He trailed off.
    ‘Come on. I’m not exactly busy.’ Prue liked the way his eyes screwed up when he gave even a minor smile. She opened the front door. The early-evening light was flung over the
heavy furniture, the elaborate mirror, the grim pictures of unknown ancestors, certainly not Barry’s.
    ‘Blow me down,’ said Johnny. ‘It’s not at all like this next door, my place.’
    They stood awkwardly in the hall – awkwardly because, as Prue explained on the telephone to Ag the next day, she had suddenly found herself in a social dilemma. Her instinct was to go to
the kitchen, put on the kettle, settle down at the table. But she knew that was not possible in this house. The kitchen was out of bounds. To take a visitor there and start finding tea and biscuits
was not something Bertha, so fierce in her silent way, would tolerate. Prue knew the housekeeper was capable of being rude in her disapproval, and she did not wish anyone to be rude to this
friendly man, who had turned out to be the next-door neighbour. The alternative was to go alone to the kitchen and ask Bertha if she would mind bringing a tray of tea into the sitting room. But in
the shadow-packed hall Prue’s courage left her. Even if Bertha agreed, her grim disapproval would shade, rather than ease, the atmosphere. Nothing for it but to go and sit down and make
conversation. She led the way not into the front room but to the smaller sitting room that overlooked the garden.
    Johnny immediately went over to the window and stood staring out, his back to Prue. ‘Same shape garden as mine,’ he said, ‘but otherwise different altogether. You could do a
lot to this – lots of potential.’ He turned round. ‘Have you and Barry got plans? Because I know a lot of plants people . . . I could put you in touch.’
    ‘I’m not sure Barry’s a very keen gardener,’ said Prue. ‘Won’t you sit?’ She asked this so primly she made herself giggle. ‘I’m sorry I
can’t offer you—’
    ‘Oh, don’t worry about that sort of thing. I only wanted to deliver this.’ He smoothed the envelope with a swirl of his long fingers. There was a faintly expectant silence, as
if each of them was waiting for the other to suggest the next move. Prue uncrossed her ankles, gave a high kick with one leg and crossed it over the other.
    Johnny did not smile, or compliment her on the prettiness of her legs, but seemed deep in thought. ‘You know what?’ he said at last. ‘All that grass? Chickens would make all
the difference.’
    ‘Chickens?’ Funny they should both have the same thought. Prue felt almost faint with excited possibility.
    ‘Chickens. I’ve got a couple of dozen Rhode Island Reds, fresh eggs every day in the laying season. It’s a bonus, I can tell you. They’ve got a good run, and a house at
the end of the garden. I’ve camouflaged it with a few bushes. They’ve made a real difference to the place.’
    ‘I can imagine.’ Prue now chose to