Wave Me Goodbye

THREE

Grace had worked up a healthy appetite when they eventually returned to the house for dinner. Again, she looked at the mass of the building. So this part, the huge kitchen, the bedrooms above it, was contained in the oldest part of the great historical building. She shivered with delight. The history of England was all around her. She washed her hands in the deep stone sink in the scullery before walking, with Hazel, into the kitchen.

Bob Hazel greeted Mrs Love, who stood before the great iron range, stirring something appetising, and then he turned to the men who sat on either side of the long wooden table. ‘This here’s our land girl, Grace Paterson. She’s not had much farming experience but was highly recommended and we’re lucky to have her. Don’t have to ask any of you to give her a hand when you see as it’s needed.’ He ushered Grace to the seat on his right. ‘Sit yourself there, Grace, and I’ll work down the table and back up t’other side. First, Walter Green, head dairyman and does pigs, too. Dave Semple, Esau Youngman and Maurice Fox, general farm work. There isn’t anything they don’t know about the land, so don’t be shy of asking. Jack Williams and Harry McManus, you knows already; they’re doing a grand job and we’re all pleased they’re ’ere.’

Did Grace detect a stern note of warning in the older man’s voice and, if so, who was he warning?

Three of the four men whom she had not met before appeared to her to be older. Each one had to be fifty at the very least but, like Hazel himself, had a look of physical strength. The dairyman, Walter Green, who nodded to her with a shy smile, was younger, but he too looked so healthy that it was difficult to calculate with any real accuracy.

No one spoke while Mrs Love put a large plate of thick vegetable soup in front of each person. In the middle of the table were two round crusty loaves, which Hazel cut into thick slices. Grace was delighted to see a plate of golden curls of fresh butter; someone, probably Mrs Love, had made a real effort to make the table appealing. She remembered her arrival at the nearest station where she had surrendered a half-coupon for a sandwich that was spread with butter. Mrs Love, however, had taken her ration book without comment. Happily, Grace helped herself to a piece of the fresh bread when the plate was passed to her. After the soup, almost a meal in itself, came a dish of minced sausage meat, onions and dumplings. This too was tasty. They finished with tea and a slice of sponge spread thinly with marmalade.

Grace was to be very glad of the filling meal as, immediately after dinner, she spent two hours weeding a field of young corn. Hazel gave her a short hoe called a paddle, explained how to use it, reminded her that she needed to be back at the milking parlour at half-past three for the afternoon’s milking and left her alone. She stood at the edge of the seemingly endless acres of corn and looked around. Row upon row upon row stretching out on all sides. She had a fantasy that she would become lost in the field and never be seen again.

‘Well, you’ll jolly well have to be found by three thirty, Grace Paterson,’ she told herself, ‘or Lady Alice will be looking for you.’

She spat on her hands as she had seen Hazel do and began. Some time later, her complaining back forced her to stop. She yelped in pain as she forced herself to straighten up. A quick glance at her watch told her that she had thirty-five minutes to find her way back to the byre, where at least thirty cows would be waiting for her. She longed to be sitting down, her head pressed close to the warm side of a healthy cow.

‘I have never been so tired in my entire life,’ she said aloud, and was startled to hear her voice in the vast stillness. All afternoon she had heard nothing but the sound of her paddle raking the weeds from around each plant, and the occasional hum of a flying insect.

Grace looked down the row she had been weeding. She was distressed to find that she was scarcely more than halfway along. Did her schedule state that she should return to her weeding after the milking or was she involved in a second milk delivery? If so, when was she supposed to weed the field? The days were growing longer. She could weed before tea, and after, too, she supposed. Apart from the ache in her lower back, Grace had felt only happiness as she weeded in the soft spring air, but now a frightening vision of weeds growing faster than one girl could pull them out stretched before her. Hazel would be angry – had he not already said the work would be too much for her? And what would Lady Alice say?

*

‘You look tired, Grace,’ was what she did say when Grace met her in the dairy. ‘Weeding can be hellish but, on a brighter note, believe me, it would be so much worse if you were taller.’

‘Yes, Lady Alice.’ Grace replied without thinking, but Lady Alice merely walked to the head of her line of healthy cows and began to work.

For the rest of the afternoon there was no noise apart from the swishing sound made by the milk as it was directed into the pails, the shuffling of hoofs, the constant chewing from the animals and the clatter of filled pails being moved around on the stone floor.

At last, all the cows were milked.

‘We’ll drive them down to the east field, Grace. Walter will take over in here. How much of the weeding did you get done? Finish a line?’

Grace felt a blush of shame spread across her face and was surprised to hear Lady Alice laugh.

‘Poor Grace. I’m teasing. Two of the men are already there. Get yourself a cup of tea and then give them a hand until dinner.’

What did she mean? They had had dinner hours earlier.

‘Tea, Grace, the evening meal,’ said Lady Alice, who had obviously correctly interpreted the puzzled look on her land-girl’s face. ‘My family talks about breakfast, lunch and then dinner, with afternoon tea, of course, between lunch and dinner. Don’t worry, you’ll learn a great deal more here than how to poleaxe a pig. Go on, girl, a cup of tea will revive you and there’s a piece of chocolate, not much, in the pewter beer mug on the right-hand side of the mantelpiece; help yourself.’

Chocolate. When had she last treated herself to some chocolate? Just the thought of it was making her mouth water. Grace hurried off to the kitchen and was delighted to find it empty. As always, the heavy teapot was on the hotplate, together with a spluttering kettle of boiling water for those who preferred a weaker brew. Above it on the carved stone mantel stood a very old and very large beer mug. Had Lady Alice been teasing or was there indeed a delicious treat inside?

She reached up and took down the beer mug. She lifted the lid, looked inside, and, yes, there at the bottom lay something in a paper wrapping. Tentatively, Grace put her hand in and pulled out the paper. She smelled it. Chocolate. What did she want it to be? Cadbury’s Whole Nut, Milk Chocolate, or their Coffee Cream, or, no, even better, Duncan’s Hazelnut? She unfolded that paper to find two sections of Barker and Dobson’s Fruit and Nut.

‘And just what do you think you’re doing?’

The unexpected voice surprised Grace so much that she flinched, dropping the chocolate almost into the fire.

Mrs Love was glaring at her and for a second Grace quailed before her. She shook off her fear, bent down and picked up the chocolate. ‘I was helping myself to her ladyship’s chocolate to have with my tea but, as it happens, I loathe fruit and nut.’ She dropped the chocolate and the paper into the waste bin that stood under the sink and walked out of the kitchen without another word.

Her bravado lasted until she got outside and then her legs started to tremble. ‘I’ve done it again,’ she muttered. ‘I am really good at annoying people. Where will I end up this time?’

As she walked quickly back towards the cornfield, Grace fought back tears as the realisation hit her that she did not want to leave this place, that already she liked Hazel and Lady Alice, even if she did have her dinner at teatime.

To add to her feelings of isolation, it started to rain and, by the time she reached the field, the rain was so heavy that she could barely see. She had learned on the training farm that ‘inclement weather’ was not an acceptable excuse for stopping working and so she tried to count down the rows to see where she had started and where she had left her paddle.

‘It’s here, love.’ One of the older men had appeared out of the deluge.

Grace, trying desperately to remember which one he was, took the paddle and thanked him.

‘Esau Youngman,’ he said. ‘Easy to remember – I’m oldest.’

Grace laughed and a smile lit up his craggy features. ‘A bit easier in the rain. Very devil to dig out when frost’s on the ground. Why don’t you finish this row and I’ll do next?’

Esau worked so quickly that soon Grace could see only a vague outline as he moved rapidly along his row. She tried to copy his action but missed the weed completely and decapitated the plant.

‘Damn.’

She tried again and hit her own shin. She winced and decided that she could not become a master weeder on her first attempt. She was surprised, however, to find that the more she worked, the more efficient she became. She did hit her legs now and again but, when she did hit the corn, it was no more than a glancing blow from which the plant seemed to recover. The afternoon and the rain went on. She finished her first row, quite happy with her accomplishment, and looked for her companion. His rhythmic movement had taken him several rows down the field.

Grace was now absolutely wet through. She did have a waxed hat but her hair had slipped out and was plastered to the side of her face. She had taken off her gloves so as to hold the paddle more securely and her hands were so cold and wet that they were painful. Still the rain went on. Still Esau worked methodically along the rows.

He’s an old man, Grace told herself, must be all of sixty, and look at him. He’s wetter than I am and not a complaint. And look at all the rows he’s done and I’m only on my second.

She wiped her hand across her wet face – her handkerchief was soaked – and gripped her paddle.

‘Grace, call it a day. Time for a hot cuppa.’ Esau had stopped weeding and was making his way back towards her.

‘I can’t stop, Esau. I’ve barely begun.’

‘You’re wet through, girl, and you’ll be no use to anyone if you’re sick. Jessie’ll have water ready for baths. It’s near teatime. Come on.’

When she hesitated, Esau grabbed her hand and pulled her. ‘Use your head, girl. There’s no one on this estate, from his lordship all the way down to me, as would expect you to work in this. We’ve already done a good day’s work and you were milking too. Now run, the weeds and all their relatives’ll be there tomorrow.’

They ran as best they could through mud that gripped at their boots, and arrived at the kitchen door looking as if they had been swimming through mud. Mrs Love met them and, to Grace’s surprise, it was Esau she scolded. ‘Get you to the fire to dry, Esau Youngman, you old fool. Always first out last in, and you, Grace, away and have a hot bath before I put the tea on the table.’

Grace turned to leave but Mrs Love stopped her. She looked ill at ease and hesitant but, eventually, she said, ‘I spoke to Lady Alice about the chocolate. I’m sorry; sometimes my tongue gets away from me. I won’t be so quick in future.’

‘That’s all right.’ Grace had never had an apology from anyone before and was slightly embarrassed, unsure of what to say.

She was more embarrassed when she reached her room and found the latest copy of the popular magazine Woman’s Own lying on her bed, and a sixpenny bar of Cadbury’s Whole Nut chocolate lying on her pillow. Grace picked up the chocolate and smelled it. Lovely. It had to be from Mrs Love; a peace offering perhaps. She would insist that Mrs Love share it. Still sopping wet, she leafed through the magazine of stories, knitting patterns and handy hints, and vowed to read it as soon as tea was over.

She grabbed her towel, some dry clothes, and hurried off to the bathroom. She had it all to herself since no one else appeared to live in this part of the house, but surely that would change when other land girls arrived.

A notice on the wall above the huge bath with its great feet, not unlike those of a primeval monster, warned the bather to use only as much hot water as was absolutely necessary. Grace, who was beginning to thaw, thought that to lie in this enormous bath with hot water covering her all the way to her chin, would be the ultimate luxury, but having no idea of who might need a bath – what if Lady Alice herself hoped to soak? – abandoned all her dreams of hedonism and resolved to measure the water she allowed to flow into the bathtub. It was so large and so deep that after several minutes of flowing from the taps, the depth of water measured scarcely what the law allowed.

Grace undressed and sat down in the water, admiring the bruises on her legs. What will my poor legs look like by Sunday? Sitting in hot water was delightful, but the air around her shoulders was cold. She allowed the water to flow again and then, luxury of luxuries, lay down and found that the hot water, limited as it was, did indeed cover much of her. She lay there lazily until the water began to grow cold and then she sat up abruptly and began to scrub herself with her face cloth and the tiny square of carbolic soap she found on the soap tray. The smell reminded her of something and she shivered.

A bath somewhere else and I didn’t like it – because of the soap? Grace put the fragment of soap back on the tray that was stretched across the bath, and stood up. As she rubbed herself dry, she thought of many things. There was so much of her early life that she did not know and she determined to find out as much as she could. She would ask Megan. ‘Damn.’ Again she spoke out loud; she had not written to Megan either. Not, she felt sure, that Megan was at all concerned, but Grace had to write to friends first.

She dressed, but not in uniform as she was off-duty. Her green-and-white-striped short-sleeved dress was one she had bought just before she left Dartford. She had thought it perfect for any social occasion at the training centre: the attractive matching bow that filled the neckline could be removed, leaving a small area of exposed skin.

Quite daring, she had decided at the time. She did not remove the tie now, however, as she felt tea was not really a social occasion.

She had expected to see the farm workers in the kitchen, but only Esau, Harry and Jack were there. Jack stood up as she entered.

What a surprise. She had seen men stand up when a woman entered a room but no one had ever stood up for Grace Paterson. She was thrilled and smiled at him as she sat down.

‘Did you have a nice bath, Grace?’ It was Mrs Love. She put a plate, with two large baked potatoes and a heap of grated cheese in front of Grace and smiled somewhat nervously.

Grace realised that what she said and did next was important. It was possible that she might be asked to remain on this farm for the duration of the war. Life would be unpleasant if she and the cook could not get on with each other.

‘It was super, Mrs Love, the biggest bath I’ve ever seen in my life. And a friend –’ she stressed the word and hesitated for a moment before continuing – ‘a friend gave me a bar of chocolate.’ She looked at the hungry men sitting waiting patiently at the table. ‘It’s big enough for us to have a piece each with our cuppa.’

Mrs Love smiled and looked as if she was about to speak, but Harry spoke first. ‘I thought I saw the postman’s bike. So you’ve got a sweetheart somewhere, young Grace. Happen he’d like you to eat all of it, thinking of him with every delicious morsel. Young Jack here read something the other day about introducing sweet rationing. Being talked about, isn’t it, lad?’

Jack did not answer and it was Esau who broke the silence: ‘Can’t have a bit of her chocolate before I have my tea. Was them venison sausages I saw coming out of the freezer, Jessie? That’ll be a right nice treat and good for us an’ all, my late wife always said. Scotch, she was, an’ that’s where venison comes from. Ever had it afore, lad?’ he asked Jack, but carried on talking without waiting for an answer. ‘His lordship has a place in Scotland. That’ll be where this comes from.’

Mrs Love had been filling plates that she put down in front of each of them. She had served them at dinnertime, too. She did not sit down to eat with them but stayed near the great range, fussing with the fire and the enormous blackened kettle that sat on a hotplate. ‘I do have venison sausages for tomorrow’s dinner, Esau, and, yes, a friend of his lordship brought a box down for the house. Last year’s culling, of course, but they’re better, having been fed on grass all year. They’re like cows and sheep: need a hand from farmers during the winter.’

Perhaps the short lecture on animal husbandry was too much for the hungry workers gathered around the table because, for a time, the scraping of a knife on a plate or an occasional cough were the only sounds that disturbed the silence.

Mrs Love turned to Grace and Jack. ‘Were you thinking it odd that we keep meat in a freezer and yet much of this great estate is still not on the National Grid? We have several generators and, believe you me, the earl is as anxious as anybody to get rid of them. His lordship has offered to house refugees. He – and Lady Alice, naturally – are aware that there are many unused rooms in this magnificent old house. The displaced of Europe will be made welcome, and with freezers, they hope to be able to feed them adequately.’

‘The others not eating with us, Mrs Love?’ Grace’s voice sounded loud in the large room.

‘The others go home at teatime, Grace. Esau eats his main meals here, but you do your own porridge of a morning, don’t you, Esau?’ Mrs Love turned to the older man.

‘I could do my own tea, too. Not so well as you cook, Jessie, but I was learned to make a good barley soup.’

Silence fell again.

At last, when the atmosphere was becoming oppressive, Harry spoke: ‘Saw you in the cornfield today, Grace. Weeding’s a never-ending job.’

Grace smiled. ‘Like ditching.’

‘I like it better than the buses. Good fresh air, no difficult passengers, and young Jack here to explain things; nothin’ this lad don’t know.’