‘Oh, erm, goodness, hullo!’ Caroline had heard herself stutter. ‘I’m sorry … I thought you were Tilly. She went out to feed the pigs and she’s been gone ever so long. I thought she must’ve fallen over in the mud again …’
She’d blushed, seeing Mrs Postbridge stare at her in astonishment, but the girl had merely grinned at this stammering nonsense, seeming unfazed by it.
‘Sorry,’ Caroline had repeated breathlessly. ‘I don’t usuallylollygag about the farmhouse like this in the middle of the day. It’s just I’d finished my chores for the morning and Mr Postbridge – that’s the farmer – said I could come back to write a letter to my friend Selina before lunch.’ Then she’d blinked, realising she ought to introduce herself. ‘I’m Caroline Ponsby.’
‘Grace Morgan, pleased to meet you.’ The young woman’s handshake was bold and confident, her grin widening. ‘I know, I’ve got a strong accent. It’s not my fault, though. I come from a village near Liverpool. There must be something in the water there, because we all talk like this thereabouts. Well, my dad does, because he was born on the banks of the Mersey, or so he’s always saying, and I suppose I got the accent from him. You get used to it after a bit. At least, I hope you will … Otherwise, we’ll be having some very short conversations.’
Taken aback by that flood of information, Caroline had laughed, and then had stood and listened intently as Mrs Postbridge showed the new Land Girl into her room next door. It was the room that Joan had occupied before she’d left to get married. Now a new girl would be living there …
None of them had wanted Joan to leave the farm, though she’d been quieter than a mouse and rarely joined in with their expeditions to the picture house in Penzance or to any local dances. But she’d always pulled her weight and never said a mean word to any of them.
But Joan’s young man, Arthur Green, had needed her more than they did. Not to grow crops or muck out pigs, but to be his ‘friend and helpmate’, as Joan herself had described it a few days before their wedding, while poorArthur struggled to get past his awful experiences in the war.
After Mrs Postbridge had shown Grace her room, and discussed rent, uniforms and the rules of the house, she’d left Caroline to show her about the rest of the farm.
They’d walked across the farmyard, Grace telling a funny anecdote about her train journey to Penzance, and met young Tilly leaving the pigsty, empty swill bucket in hand.
‘Who’s this?’ Tilly had asked in blank astonishment, and then beamed when she discovered who she was. ‘Gosh, how marvellous …’ She’d pumped Grace’s hand enthusiastically before realising her glove was filthy. ‘Oops, sorry.’
‘That’s all right,’ Grace had insisted, wrinkling her nose while producing a hanky to wipe her dirty palm. ‘Farms are all about muck, aren’t they? Can’t have one without the other.’
‘I suppose not.’ Tilly had bitten her lip, looking contrite. ‘I say, why don’t you come and meet the pigs? They do smell dreadful, but they’re awfully good fun.’ As they’d hung on the iron gate, gazing down into the pigsty at the young pigs grunting and snuffling, she’d added joyfully, ‘Oh, I’msoglad you’re here. Caro and I have been doing the work of three for absolutely yonks. Now the time will just fly by.’
To Caroline, though, it seemed as though time were standing still. At least, that first evening meal with Grace went on far longer than usual, with everyone reluctant to leave the table even after they’d finished their dessert of bread and butter pudding, too entertained by lurid tales of her previous experience as a Land Girl to stop listening and head up to bed for the night.
‘It’s quite rural where I was brought up,’ Grace explained, leaning both elbows on the table, without Mrs Postbridgetelling her off even once for bad manners, ‘so it wasn’t too much of a shock to find myself on a farm for the first time ever. But I was only just out of school, and I swear, I had no idea how to milk a cow.’ She looked round at them all. ‘Now don’t laugh. But, to be honest, I didn’t even know that’s where milk came from.’
‘Eh?’ Joe scratched his head, clearly perplexed. ‘Where did you think it came from, then?’
‘A bottle,’ Grace told him, chuckling at her own naivety. ‘Well, you can imagine my surprise when the farmer handed me a bucket and a three-legged stool and pointed me towards a ruddy great cow, saying, “Milk her!” I was that confused, I was tugging on the poor animal’s tail for the first half-hour.’ And everyone roared with laughter.
The clock chimed ten, yet nobody moved towards the stairs, except Mrs Postbridge, who went up briefly to check on her little girl. Mr Fisher, Alice’s dad, produced a deck of cards, and Joe brought out a book of matches, and they played a lively game of three-card brag for matchsticks.
Halfway through this epic game, Mrs Newton announced that she would open a bottle of her home-made sloe wine, since it was such a special occasion, and soon everyone had a small glass of the near-lethal concoction at their elbow.
Grace gasped and choked at her first mouthful of Mrs Newton’s famously potent sloe wine, while they all watched in expectant silence.
But the new Land Girl soon rallied, and even asked for a second helping, adding in a faint voice, ‘Only, make it a thimbleful this time, please,’ so that Joe gave a guffaw and Mr Fisher rocked back and forth, thumping the table in his mirth.
Eventually, this impromptu party was broken up by the overhead light going out abruptly. Everyone groaned. But Mrs Newton said it was for the best, as they would need to be up early as usual in the morning.
‘Is it a power cut?’ Grace asked in surprise as Mrs Postbridge brought out a handful of old candle stumps to light them to bed. ‘I thought it was only big towns that were getting blackouts.’
‘Bless you, no,’ Mrs Newton exclaimed, a shadowy figure at the foot of the stairs. ‘They’re worse out here in the sticks, love.’
‘They certainly are,’ Tilly agreed gloomily, pulling her cardigan close about her narrow shoulders. ‘Better get used to it, Grace. The cuts started off being once or twice a week, and only for an hour or two. Now they seem to be switching the power off after ten o’clock most evenings. So if you’re not done reading by then, it’s lights out, like it or not.’
‘Yes, like a curfew,’ Caroline added.
‘Saints alive!’ Grace had groped for all the glasses, crowding them together on a tray, and now carried this carefully to the draining board. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’
‘It’s this new Labour government. Power cuts, fuel shortages … They need to get their act together,’ Mr Fisher muttered.
‘Is there any hot water left?’ Grace asked.
‘Yes, but leave ’em, love. I’ll wash those glasses up in the morning,’ Violet insisted, steering Grace towards the stairs. ‘That’s not your job.’
They all traipsed up to bed in the dark, clutching their candle stumps and trying not to get hot wax on their fingers.
