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.’
Jack was clearly embarrassed. ‘Don’t know a thing about buses.’
‘Can you drive, Jack?’ Grace had remembered her early-morning conversation with Lady Alice.
Again he seemed ill at ease. Could he be embarrassed by his obvious advantages?
‘Sorry, Jack, I don’t mean to be nosy; it’s just that Lady Alice needs someone to help her drive the milk lorry.’
‘If you’ve all finished eating, pass the plates down to the end of the table. The tea is ready and there’s a box of biscuits. It’s Jacob’s 1940 Assorted but it’s never been opened; two each.’
The question of Jack’s driving ability was shelved. Grace drank her tea and took one digestive biscuit when the tin was passed to her. Mrs Love was correct. Even though the biscuits had been in the box for some time, they were still crisp.
Esau drank two cups of tea and ate his allotted biscuits very quickly and then stood up, wiping his mouth with his hand. ‘I’m off home and I’ll see you all tomorrow. Weeding the corn, Jessie?’
Mrs Love nodded but got up and walked him to the door.
Grace stood up, said, ‘Good night’ to the two men, who were still drinking tea. She was not expected to wash dishes and so intended to go to her room, write at least two letters, and then fall into an exhausted sleep.
‘I’ve put a pig in your bed, Grace.’ Mrs Love was in the hall.
For a moment, Grace was puzzled. A pig? And then, realising, she started to laugh. ‘Thank you, Mrs Love. It’s not really cold but that was very kind of you.’
‘We don’t want you catching cold on your first day with us,’ said the cook, and disappeared into the scullery.
Grace hurried up the uncarpeted backstairs and then along a linoleum-covered corridor to where the carpeting started – the dividing line between the servant areas of the great house, she thought, and the family part. That meant that she, Grace Paterson, land girl, was in the family quarters. Would that change when the several other land girls they were expecting arrived? As she opened the unlocked door of her room, she wondered idly where Jack and Harry slept and then rapidly pushed all such thoughts out of her mind.
First, she looked for her pig. She laughed when she saw its outline under the covers. What a woman of contrasts Mrs Love was: touching kindness one minute and grouchy martinet the next. Grace pulled back the covers to see the pig, the fat earthenware bottle that, filled with hot water, was used to warm cold sheets, or feet.
Megan didn’t use pigs, certainly not for me. I don’t remember one in the house at all.
Once again, she was beset with the annoying feeling that a distant memory was hovering just out of reach. ‘Who did give me a pig?’
Unable to drag up the memory, Grace hurried to undress and, then, once she was washed and ready for bed, she took a new writing pad, which she had bought at the station, and climbed into bed. Yes, buying Basildon Bond paper and envelopes had been the right thing to do. She wrote her new address and the date and then sat back to think about how to write the letter. She could make Mrs Petrie smile by telling her that she had been given a hot-water pig. ‘Imagine,’ she could almost hear Mrs Petrie say, ‘it’s so cold where Grace is, she needs a hot-water bottle.’
At last, Grace was really ready and the words flowed across the lovely blue paper:
Dear Mrs Petrie,
I am so sorry that I did not tell you that I had joined the Women’s Land Army. I wanted to do more for the war effort than file pieces of paper but it was wrong not to tell you and Mrs Brewer who have always been so good to me. Why the Land Army? I don’t know exactly but I just felt that it was the right place for me. Megan never told me anything about our family but sometimes I seem to remember being in a field and being happy. Silly, I suppose. As you can see, I’m in Bedfordshire. I was sent to a training place in Kent, not really so far from you.
She stopped writing, wondering how to tell Mrs Petrie about Miss Ryland and poor Olive, and decided to skim over the training experience.
The four-week course is over and here I am, the only land girl on this farm. More are coming and there are some real farm workers and two other men. There’s a cook, Mrs Love, and there’s Lady Alice, whose father owns the place. She helps with the milking, would you believe? Even drives the lorry and would Sally ever be jealous of her beautiful fingernails!! Please tell Daisy and Rose where I am. I hope they are both well and that the boys are safe and sound. I’ll stop now to write to Mrs Brewer. Thank you for everything.
She signed it and put the sheet in an envelope, which she addressed quickly, as if afraid that if she did not do it at once, she might not do it at all. Her letter to Mrs Brewer was almost an exact copy and that too was quickly put in an envelope and sealed. She would worry about stamps in the morning.
Feeling as if an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders, Grace turned off the small bedside oil lamp that had been put in her room at sometime during the day, lay down and, within a few minutes, was fast asleep.
A loud ringing woke Grace and, for a moment, she could not remember where she was. Then she threw back her covers and got out of bed. A quick glance at the clock, which had stopped ringing, told her that she had better hurry, or ‘scarper’, as Mr Petrie used to say.
She scarpered and, less than fifteen minutes, later was in the kitchen, hoping for a hot cup of tea. There was no sign of Mrs Love, but Jack Williams appeared through the scullery door.
‘Tea’s ready, Grace, and I’ll be going along with you on the milk run this morning. Have to learn the route.’
‘So you do drive.’
‘I don’t very often, but I can.’
She turned away from him in annoyance. Had he just corrected her grammar, pompous oaf?
‘I’ve made you angry and I didn’t mean to. My father’s an English teacher, and my sister and I used to try to be one-up all the time. Wasn’t your family like that?’
‘No,’ she answered shortly, and made to push past him.
‘Miss Paterson, I apologise. Please allow me to pour you a cup of tea.’
Grace walked back towards the range. ‘I can pour it for myself, thank