It was sad, Kath thought, that Barney’s letter should be there when she got back to Peacock Hey a little before noon, and even though she had been expecting it for days, she wished it could have waited until tomorrow or have arrived a day earlier, for nothing at all should be allowed to spoil the joy of this special Christmas. This day above all others she wanted to think kindly of her husband, not shrink from his disapproval; wanted to laugh a lot and eat Christmas dinner with the landgirls who were drifting back to the hostel in ones and twos, the remainder of the day their own. Carefully she slit open the envelope, steeling herself against her husband’s anger.
The letter from North Africa confirmed her worst fears. Barney’s reply was crisp with dissent, accusing her of deceit when she must have known all along that no married woman could be made to do war work away from her home. It was open condemnation; it hurt her deeply.
Selfish, that’s what you are, Kath. The minute I’m gone you’re parading around in uniform making an exhibition of yourself and against my wishes, too …
She swallowed hard, anger rising briefly inside her. She was not parading anywhere and if getting up at half-past five to deliver milk on a pitch-black winter morning was making an exhibition of herself then yes, she supposed she was.
Well, Kath, you’ve made your bed so you’ll have to lie on it. It’s too late now for regrets. You’re stuck with it for the duration, so don’t come crying to me, Barney warned, when you realize you’d best have stayed at home.
She took a deep, calming breath then pushed the letter into the pocket of her jacket, acknowledging that perhaps Barney could be right, that maybe she had been just a little deceitful. When dinner was over, she would sit down at once and tell him how sorry she was; not sorry for joining, she could never be that, but for not asking him first. Then she would tell him about Alderby and Roz and little Daisy; about Mat and Grace and the tractor she was learning to drive. He’d be pleased to hear about the Post Office bank account she had opened and into which every penny of her Army allowance was being paid.
She would not, she determined, tell him about Jonty yet awhile, for young men who did not answer their country’s call made Barnaby Allen’s hackles rise. Nor would she tell him, ever, about the prisoner of war soon to arrive at Home Farm. Barney held all things Teutonic in contempt and it would do nothing for his peace of mind to learn that his wife might soon be working alongside the Germans’ closest ally.
Lastly, she would tell him that she loved him and missed him and thought about him a lot, for no matter what a letter contained or what it omitted to mention, the loving and the missing was an essential part of every letter to every serviceman overseas.
Now that letter was on its way and the new year nearly six hours old. Surely Barney would come to understand that this was the first real freedom she had ever known – might ever know – and that she must be allowed to make the most of every single day. Soon, her loving letters would reassure him, let him know how deeply she cared.
‘A happy new year, Barney,’ she whispered. ‘Take care.’
‘Happy new year!’ Roz was loading milk-crates on to the trap when Kath arrived at Home Farm. ‘Up early, aren’t you? Don’t tell me you haven’t been to bed.’
‘No such luck. No parties for me last night; Paul was flying. Make you sick, wouldn’t it, flying ops on New Year’s Eve and not one of them back yet. Lord knows where they’ve been all this time. Even if it was Berlin, they should have been back before now.’
‘They will be,’ Kath consoled. ‘It’s early, yet.’ And dark, and almost two hours still to go before the blackout could be lifted. ‘He’ll be all right, I know it. You’ll see him tonight.’
‘Yes I will. I know I will. Look, Kath – can I ask you something a bit personal?’
‘Try me.’
‘Well, were you a – a virgin when you married Barney?’ The words came in a tumble of embarrassment. ‘What I’m trying to say is –’
‘Was I a virgin when we married or had we been lovers?’ Kath looked at the downcast eyes, the pink spots on the young girl’s cheeks. How naïve she was, how painfully unworldly. ‘Well, since you ask, no, we didn’t make love. Mind, we got into a few heavy clinches from time to time, but one of us managed to count up to ten in time.’ One of us. Always me. ‘But it was very different, you see, when we were courting.’ They could talk about tomorrow because then there had been a tomorrow; lovers weren’t snatched apart and homes broken up, children left fatherless. Once, there had been all the time in the world. ‘But what brought all this on?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. There isn’t an awful lot going for it these days, is there – being a virgin, I mean. I wish I weren’t. Does that make me sound like a tart, Kath?’
‘No. In fact I think it must be awful for you, loving Paul so much. Why is it,’ she demanded, ‘that we’re old enough to go to war but not old enough to get married till we’re twenty-one? Crazy, isn’t it? You’re worrying about Paul, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I always do. I’d have thought they’d have started getting back long before this.’
‘They’re a bit late, that’s all – a headwind, maybe. Well, they can’t all be –’ She stopped, biting back the word missing. ‘What I’m trying to say is –’
‘Ssssh. Quiet!’ Ears straining, Roz gazed into a sky still inky dark. ‘There’s one of them now, I’m sure it is!’
It was several seconds before Kath could hear the faint tired drone of aircraft engines but then, she considered, she wasn’t waiting for the man she loved to come back from a raid over Germany; wouldn’t keep tally as each one thrashed overhead and circled the aerodrome, asking for permission to land, waiting for the runway lights to be turned on.
‘How many went? Did you count them?’
‘Yes.’ Roz always counted. ‘Eleven last night.’
‘Fine. Then we’ll count them in, shall we?’ Kath opened the delivery book. ‘Any cancellations?’
‘None. Ivy Cottage would like an extra pint, if we’ve got one to spare, that’s all.’ She glanced up again, relief in her voice. ‘It’s them, all right, and that’s the first. I wonder where they’ve been till now?’
‘He’ll tell you tonight.’ Kath smiled. ‘By the way, I don’t suppose you’d remembered that it’s today the Italian is coming?’
‘Could I forget? Gran’s still going on about it.’
‘I wonder what he’ll be like.’
‘Oh, short, fat and greasy, according to Gran, and every bit as bad as a German.’ Roz shrugged, only half listening.
‘I always thought Italians were tall, dark and romantic.’
‘I couldn’t care less what he’s like. All I want is for him to keep out of Gran’s way and help out with the ploughing. Oh, come on. Let’s make a start.’
She glanced up sharply as the first of the homecoming Lancasters roared in low over Alderby. She didn’t speak, but already the words ‘Ten to go’, had formed in her mind and ‘Please God, ten more. Please.’
Kath was leading Daisy into her loose box when the truck stopped at the farm gate. Arms folded, she stood to watch.
The man who jumped out at a sharp command from the guard was tall and young and fairer than she would have thought.
‘Come on, you! Chop chop, there! We haven’t got all day!’
The guard was the smaller of the two and a great deal older but he carried a rifle on his shoulder, so size and age didn’t count for a lot, Kath reasoned. Perhaps his animosity sprang from a still-remembered Dunkirk or a bomb-shattered home. You couldn’t blame him, she supposed, for throwing