‘Whatever is going on, Mr Tipton?’ she asked him.
‘Those two are skiving off again.’
‘Mrs Hughes and Mrs Little?’ she asked, confused as to what they might be skipping.
‘Aye. Those two are what the Board of Trade calls help. I’m supposed to have the same yields from the farm even though my men are all gone, and in their place, they’ve sent me two village women who run off whenever my back’s turned.’
‘You need a supervisor for your new workers, Mr Tipton,’ she said.
‘Women,’ Mr Tipton said with a shake of his head, as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘No disrespect to you, Miss Cotham, but we’re never going to win this war if we have to rely on the likes of those two. The government’s lost leave of its senses if it thinks it’s so.’ He put his hands together in a prayer. ‘Please Lord, don’t send me any more of your women,’ he said, face upturned to the heavens, before he trudged back to the farm.
That was another thing the person who sent her the newspaper notice didn’t realise. She could be as highly trained as any man, but Mr Tipton would never view her as anything other than the owner’s daughter.
April 1915
She marched across the lawn on her way back from the farm. She’d start with Mother, simply show her the newspaper notice from the Standard and explain how she needed to take the training so that she could help Mr Tipton keep the women in order. They owned the farm, and as the family depended on its profits she might just see it as a solution. It was wildly optimistic. Her pace slowed as she pictured Mother frowning as she read the article.
Once she reached the terrace her courage began to fail her. Mother’s knitting-party guests stood at the floor-length sitting room windows. There were two smaller figures – her mother one of them, the other most probably Norah Peters, the village solicitor’s wife. And there was a woman with a stout gait, which must belong to Lady Radford from Finch Hall. Members of the titled upper class like the Radfords and the industrial middle class like the Cothams mingled frequently in the countryside, which was a shame because Lady Radford was at their house far too often and always telling Mother how to think.
At the French door, Emily muttered, oh dear. The stout hips weren’t Lady Radford’s at all. Neither was Norah Peters standing beside Mother. Instead, a clean-shaven, smart young man in a suit, and an older woman, wearing one of the widest brimmed and heavily feathered hats Emily had ever seen, waited with smiles on their faces. Mother glared at her daughter’s muddy and torn skirts and her brother’s large work boots protruding from beneath her soggy hem.
She remembered then: it hadn’t been a knitting party at all. It was afternoon tea with Mother’s friend’s son. It was another of the faceless young men from good families that Mother kept inviting for her to meet – someone who might take care of the both of them. His family were something in construction, middle-class industrialists like them, but he was in banking. Would this one be any more interesting than the others? They were always a little cold, and distant, superior even, and their favourite subject was usually themselves.
‘Goodness me, Emily!’ Mother exclaimed, as she opened the door, blocking Emily’s path. ‘Your head is much better then?’ Behind her, Daisy bit her lip and pretended to focus on replenishing the teacups. Emily pulled an errant leaf from her hair and straightened her skirt.
‘I always said that the expression “being dragged through a hedge backwards” was custom-made for you.’ Mother’s voice was false, raised with an edge to it that kept up appearances whilst telling Emily she’d be in for it later.
‘Use the back entrance, dear,’ Mother said with a steel and tightness in her tone that only Emily could detect. ‘Smarten up and then you may join us.’
Emily tried to smooth some of her hair back into its chignon, but so much had fallen loose it was hopeless; just like her. What had she been thinking, running off to the farm like that? No wonder Mother was never satisfied with her.
In her bedroom, she made an extra effort to smarten up. She put on a hideously frilly dress that Mother liked best, shook her hair loose and tugged the brush through it again and again until it had the sheen of a sweet chestnut. Then she backcombed and pulled her locks over a pad to create a respectable, curved pompadour. For the finishing touch, she lifted a fuchsia-coloured camellia bloom from the vase on her dresser and tucked it behind her ear.
Downstairs, the man, whose name she couldn’t remember despite Mother having talked about him all week, had left the women to talk and was on the terrace admiring the view.
‘Lovely day,’ he said, as she approached him. He was quite handsome, she supposed. It was his nose that spoiled him; it was too big for the rest of his face, though his ears were in proportion with the nose, which was something.
‘Oh, it really is,’ Emily said.
He stood so at ease with his hands in his trouser pockets that HopBine could have been his own home. He seemed quite comfortable with the silence. Then he pointed up to the roof.
‘You’ve some tiles missing, and the guttering is in a bad way.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, sneering at him as he turned away. ‘We’re aware the house needs some repairs. My brother is away at the Front at present, so our priorities have changed. You work in banking, I understand,’ she said. ‘Is that interesting? A challenge?’ She was talking too fast. It happened when Mother was watching her. The pauses between words evaporated making them all slide together into a chaotic jumble. ‘I can’t say I know much about money, or investments.’ Her mouth really was running away from her. She should be quiet, adopt some of his detached, confident demeanour.
She checked over her shoulder. The women were talking, but Mother’s gaze was resolutely on her daughter. She gestured for Emily to remove the bloom from behind her ear.
‘No, I don’t suppose you do,’ he said, not without a hint of superiority. ‘It takes a certain level of skill and education to master the markets.’
Her back straightened at his condescension. She twirled the camellia between her thumb and forefinger, before lifting her head and capturing him in her gaze. ‘I’ve always regarded the world of finance to be a little soulless. And you are helping to confirm my theory that people who enjoy the company of numbers are insentient beings themselves.’
‘Oh, …’ he said, breaking eye contact. ‘Well, let me assure you that isn’t the case at all.’
‘No? Perhaps your remarks don’t represent you well.’
He concentrated on the horizon, but she continued to study him fixedly, let him bathe in the discomfort. He found something of interest on the concrete floor of the terrace. His hair flopped forwards to obscure his oversized nose. She paused a while longer, let the silence hang between them and then checked the window. Mother’s gaze was still trained on her; probably trying to read her daughter’s lips. She shouldn’t be picking arguments.
‘Do you play tennis often?’ She dropped the pink bloom to the ground, slipping into the polite patter expected in these circumstances. But the chap was frowning, he hadn’t liked being told off by a young woman.
He told her he didn’t, no, he was training to fight a war, and then he excused himself and slipped back in to the safety of the older women’s conversation, slamming the French door harder than was necessary, and trampling on the camellia’s petals. She hesitated before following him in. Mother’s expression was granite-edged. There was nothing she could do about it but limit the damage, which for now meant she would keep her newspaper clipping to herself.
*
When she found Mother in the sitting room after the guests had gone later that evening, she