I slapped the clock, and sat on the end of the bed, trusting that the panic would pass. I breathed, slowly, in and out. In and out.
There was no invasion, I told myself. Not yet. I still had time.
‘What time is it?’ Margaret asked. She didn’t sound put out at all. Had she even been asleep?
‘Four,’ I said.
‘I’ll drive down the road and come back,’ she said. ‘Don’t want Vaughn thinking we spent the night together.’
She kissed me, her hand on my cheek where she’d slapped me.
‘You didn’t hold back,’ I said.
‘If a job’s worth doing ...’ she said, with a grin.
*
A pair of headlights wobbled in the distance as a car made its way along the lane to the farm. I stood in the coolmorning air, waiting. Bill Taylor joined me. He’d gone home for the night, liked to sleep in his own bed, but now he was here, ready for the day. It would be the most important day in our year. Make or break.
After months of dry weather, the forecast had suddenly changed. A storm was blowing in from the Atlantic. Twenty-four hours before it arrived, if we were lucky.
Two hundred acres of wheat needed harvesting. Yesterday had been too early. Too much moisture in the stalks. Many of my neighbours had blinked in the face of the oncoming storm, cut their corn even though they knew better. Give it a day and their stooks, bundles of wheat gathered together across their fields, would be steaming, generating enough heat to destroy what had taken half a year to grow. But at least they’d got it harvested, they’d be telling themselves as they rode out across their fields, watching the tell-tale wisps of smoke and praying for rain. Maybe they’d get lucky. Maybe their moisture content was all right. Today they’d be watching the sky as the clouds rolled in, hoping it would arrive before I could get the harvest done. Nothing more pleasing to a man who’s made his own mistakes than seeing his neighbour getting his comeuppance.
The peaceful morning was broken by the throaty cough of the tractor turning over. It fired, then roared. Seconds later, it rolled out of the barn, cracking pebbles under its thick tyres, Elizabeth at the wheel. Bill Taylor had tied a cushion onto the seat so she could see over the steering-wheel. I saluted her, and she nodded. If you’d told me back in November when we planted the seed that come harvest I’d have a twelve-year-old girl in the driving seat, I’d have said you were crazy.
The car pulled into the yard, Vaughn at the wheel, excited as a schoolboy on his way to the beach. Miriam climbed out.Her walking stick was gone, and I hoped her recovery was complete. A long day in the fields would test her, and the last thing I needed was to lose a pair of hands halfway through the day. Freddie slumped in the back seat, asleep under a pile of coats.
Behind them, the lane was filled with people, here to help. Bill Taylor had put the word out that we were paying twenty shillings a person for the day’s work. Good money that for many would help keep the wolf from the door.
Margaret’s car threaded its way through the labourers. Vaughn saw it. He smirked.
It would be a long day, but if the weather played along, we’d get the job done.
66
We put in three hours before breakfast. Elizabeth drove the tractor, towing the binder with its big wheel of cutting blades. Each blade cut and scooped up an armful of wheat, and dropped it onto a chute. Inside the chute, the machine bundled the wheat and tied it, before spitting it out. One of Bill Taylor’s inventions. I kept a close eye on Elizabeth. Letting her drive at this critical time was a risk. Bill Taylor had argued she was ready. Watching her now, I realised he was right. She did a fine job, kept to straight lines a veteran ploughman would be proud of. The rest of us followed behind, picking up the bundles and stacking them into stooks – small pyramids, six feet across, ready to be carted away.
Most of the day-labourers from Uckfield knew what they were doing. It was all new to Vaughn and his lot, of course. Not on the syllabus at Eton, or whatever Swiss finishing school Miriam had been sent to. But they were quick learners, give them their due. Bill Taylor had given a tutorial – shown them all the technique, hold the wheat upright, slam it into the ground, build the stooks every ten yards until the whole field was covered with them. Even if the rain arrived tonight, once the corn was in stooks, it would weather the storm. We could stack it later on, once it had dried again.
The first field was rough around the edges. A lot of stray wheat on the ground from bundles that broke apart underinexpert handling. A number of stooks falling over. Bill Taylor followed behind, always ready with another lesson or a sharp word, each as required. If the man from the War Ag had been there, he’d have given us a black mark. But we were moving along at a good clip. Not letting perfection get in the way when good enough would do.
Breakfast was at eight, and everyone was ready for a break. The novelty had long worn off. Freddie was in short sleeves already, and his arms were a mess of scratches from the unforgiving stalks. Bill Taylor drove the van out into the field, loaded up with provisions. Everyone settled into their own groups, eating and talking. I sat with Vaughn, Miriam, Freddie and Margaret, on a blanket set out on the headland, the grassy piece of ground next to the hedge that had been left unplanted. No point wasting good seed where the tractor would be making its turns. Frankie poured us tea, doing the rounds. It was good to see him at home in the fields, doing his bit.
Elizabeth ate her breakfast in the driving seat, up in the tractor.
‘How much more?’ Vaughn asked.
‘Eight or nine hours, if the rain holds off,’ I said. We’d been working for three. I watched them as it sunk in. I wanted to see their reactions. If I was going into any kind of action with this lot, I wanted to see how they handled a bit of adversity. Nothing like farming to tire a man out, and test his endurance, mental as well as physical.
‘The rain will delay the invasion,’ Vaughn said. ‘Their first step will be to bomb our airfields. You can’t do precision bombing if you can’t see the targets through the clouds.’
‘What does the forecast say, Bill?’ I asked. I wanted to remind Vaughn that he wasn’t surrounded by fellow travellers. He’d have to watch what he said.
‘Two days of rain, then the clouds pass and a week of fine weather,’ Bill Taylor said.
‘Two days,’ Vaughn said. ‘Then it’sAdler Tag.’
‘Adder Dog?’ Frankie asked, spilling tea on the ground as he looked up. I’d been teaching him about some of the local wildlife. He was desperate to see an adder, the only poisonous snake in Britain. I’d told him its bite wouldn’t kill him, but I could tell he didn’t believe me.
