‘Morning, Miss Hugwitty. Isn’t this goin’ to be a lovely day?’
‘No, it isn’t. It’ll be hot and dusty and hard work. And me name’s Martha.’
‘Hot and dusty in the field, you mean?’
‘Oh my word, yes. They’ll be stripped down to bare chests in no time at all. Can’t make hay in the cool and wet, see. Got to be dry and sunny. I’m glad you’re here, Ness. You can take water to the field for the workers – save my old legs. What made you want to leave Liverpool, then?’ The question was direct and unexpected.
‘We-e-ll – why not? Always fancied living in the country,’ Ness hedged. ‘People say that women will be called up like the men before so very much longer, so I thought if I volunteered I could go where I wanted.’
‘And what are you running away from, lass?’
‘Me? Runnin’? Nuthin’!’ Her indignation was showing; protesting too much she reminded herself, regaining her composure. ‘Why do you think I’m running away? Robbed a bank, have I?’
‘Now did I say that? Did I? All I meant was that a young and bonny lass like you shouldn’t want to bury herself in a place like this. Isn’t natural. There’s no picture palaces here, nor dance halls. Wasn’t suggesting nothing criminal.’
‘Well that’s all right then, isn’t it? I just fancied a change and like I said, women are goin’ to get called up before so very much longer, I’d bet on it!’
‘Never! Women aren’t built for fighting wars! A woman’s place is at home, cooking and having children. Men can’t have children so they do the fighting.’
‘So what were those women doin’ that travelled to York on the train with me, then? In the Air Force, they were, and in uniform. And there are women in the Army and the Navy. There’s a lot of Wrens in Liverpewl, it bein’ a port. Seen them with my own eyes.’
‘Happen so.’ It was all Martha could think of to say. The land girl was telling nothing – not this morning, at least. But she would find out sooner rather than later why a good-looking young woman like Ness seemed intent on burying herself in the country. A man behind it, was there, or maybe she really had robbed a bank? ‘Mornin’, Kate lass,’ she called to the farmer’s wife who stood at the back gate. ‘Nice day for it!’
Nice day! Ness was to ponder. Run off her feet, more like. Hosing the cow shed had been the start of it with no one to help her since Rowley was away early to the hayfield and Farmer Wintersgill getting a bite of breakfast before he joined his son, scythe in hand. And there had been the hens to feed and water, the eggs to collect and wipe and arrange in trays ready for the egg packers who collected twice a week on Mondays and Thursdays. And how many times had she trudged to the field with jugs, water slopping over her shoes. Gallons, the haymakers had downed. Martha had been right! Cutting hay was a hot and dusty job, although it wasn’t so much dust as pollen from the long stems of grass, Mrs Wintersgill had explained.
At noon, the workers had taken their places at a long trestle table, set up in the shade of the stackyard, first having cooled heads and bodies at the pump trough in the yard. Rabbit pies, Kate had made, with stewed apples and custard to follow.
‘Hungry?’ she asked when the men had returned to the field and the table taken down and chairs stacked. ‘I put aside enough for you and me and Martha – it’s in the oven, on plates. Reckon we should take the weight off our feet for half an hour, eh? Think we’ve earned it!’
They sat companionably in the stone-flagged kitchen, doors and windows wide open to the day outside, and never had a meal been so well-deserved, Ness thought, nor tasted so good.
‘I was telling Ness that she’s going to find it boring in the country.’ Martha renewed her probing across the kitchen table. ‘Wondered what a town girl like herself sees in a place like Nun Ainsty.’ The beady eyes sparked a challenge.
‘Maybe it’s because I like living in haunted places,’ Ness avoided the question with a grin. ‘And this village is haunted, isn’t it, Mrs Wintersgill?’
‘Now who told you that? Goodness gracious, there’s no such things as ghosts. Lorna been pulling your leg, has she?’
‘No. She told me about the nun who came to the priory, though – the one whose father didn’t want her and sent her to help nurse the sick. Hundreds of years ago, I mean. I’d asked Lorna how the wood at the back of Ladybower got its name and the story just came out.’
‘So you believe in ghosts?’ Martha’s dark eyes prompted.
‘I believe some people think they can see them, but I’m not one of them. I feel sorry for Ursula, though. Must have been awful for her. Nice to think that Dickon cared for her – well, if legend is to be believed.’
‘It is!’
‘Load of old nonsense!’
Martha and Kate replied at one and the same time and they all laughed and the subject of the ghostly nun was dropped by mutual consent. It had served, though, to prevent her answering Martha’s questions. There had been a reason for leaving Liverpool and her Mam and Da and the good job she’d had. But that was nobody’s business but her own, and Martha could probe all she liked; it would get her nowhere. What had happened was in the past and to Ness Nightingale’s way of thinking, there wasn’t a better place than Nun Ainsty to make a fresh start. And to forget what had been.
‘Now what do you want me to do, Mrs Wintersgill?’ She rose reluctantly to her feet.
‘Well, you can call me Kate for a start, like everyone else round this village does. Me and Martha will see to the washing up; I don’t suppose you could get the washing in from the line before it gets too dry to iron?’
‘I could,’ Ness smiled. She liked the drying green from which she could look over towards the hills to her left, mistily grey in a haze of heat. The tops, people called them. And to her right was the back of the manor, where she would try to count all the chimney pots; and could see the stables that were now Jacob Tuthey’s joiner’s shop; and see, too, the many windows, uncleaned for years, and so she felt sad about the neglect of a once-fine house.
She kicked off her shoes, stuffed her socks in the pockets of her overalls, then walked deliciously barefoot to the long line of washing, curling her toes in the cool of the grass. Overhead, a black-bellied plane droned, flying low. A lot of them had taken off last night. Going bombing, Lorna said, from nearby Dishforth and Linton-on-Ouse. Whitley bombers, all of them, which Ness would come to recognize in time. Plane spotting was getting as popular as train spotting.
Not interested, Ness decided, as the plane dropped out of sight. Of much more importance was a letter from Mam, who should have got her new address by now, sent on a postcard bought in Meltonby post office; a view in colour of Nun Ainsty though only Ladybower’s chimneypots had been visible on it. Ness had scribbled her address and Will write soon on the back of it, and tonight, tired or not, she would let her mother know she was all right, that she had landed on her feet in a smashing billet – she would not mention William – and that she had spent her day haymaking.
Squinting into the sun, she took down sheets and pillowslips, towels and working shirts, folding them carefully into the wicker clothes basket. Then reluctantly she pulled on shoes and socks. Tomorrow, she must remember to bring spare socks with her; socks dry and sweet-smelling. Tomorrow, they would mow the second field, Kate had said, after which there would be days of turning the cut grass until it dried out and became winter fodder for milk cows that would spend the cold months in the shelter of the stockyard. And be fed and watered twice a day, and the stockyard cleaned, too.
In summer, Kate said, it was a joy to work a farm; in winter it was dreary, with mud up to the ankles and everything you touched cold and wet. Dark mornings, too, and night coming before five o’clock. Farming, Ness had quickly grasped,