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
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.’