Free Land Girls by Angela Huth

the truth: how she had killed the sweet words very early in their marriage by her laughter, her scoffing. It was she who caused his prison of silence when it came to women. The banners, with all the things he wanted to say written on them, still danced in his mind, sometimes, but their benefits went unknown, locked into wordless silence. No problems with Mr Lawrence, with Joe. On occasions he could even mutter a word or two to Mrs L. But three strange new girls all up at the farm in one day … to have spoken was quite beyond him.
    ‘Time to turn on the news,’ said Edith, picking another sock from the basket with the curious gentleness that she employed for inanimate things.
    ‘So it is. I’ll do it.’
    Ratty felt his bones soften with relief as he got up – land girl conversation over for tonight. He hoped it wouldn’t come up again for a while: give him time to gather his thoughts. Edith gave a small nod of her head, which was the nearest, these days, she ever got to a smile. She could never get the hang of the wireless, understand the tuning. Ratty twiddled the knob. His skill in finding the Home Service was one of the small ways in which he could oblige his wife with very little effort. Had she known the paucity of this effort, her appreciation might have been less keen. As it was, admiration for her husband’s technical ability was conveyed in a small but regular sigh that Ratty had learned to recognize. The fierceness went out of her needle.

Chapter 3
     
     
    L and girls were entitled to one and a half free days a week. Mrs Lawrence suggested that this first week they took Sunday off, even though they had only been working for two days. Unused to the physical activity, they would be needing the rest, she said. The girls conceded gratefully. They offered to make sandwiches and go off somewhere for a picnic lunch, keep out of the way. But Mrs Lawrence responded by asking them to stay to lunch with the family: Janet would be coming. She’d like them to meet Janet.
    At five a.m. Prue, waking suddenly, remembered she had no need to get up. About to return luxuriously to sleep, a picture came to her mind of Joe alone in the cowshed. He would have to do all the milking himself today. When did he have any time off?
    In a moment, Prue was out of bed, all sleepiness gone. She dressed quickly and quietly so as not to disturb the others, and chose a yellow satin bow for her hair. What a surprise she would give him. How pleased he would be – someone to share the work on a Sunday.
    Creeping downstairs, Prue heard voices in the kitchen: Joe and his mother talking. She had no wish to dull the impact of her good deed by joining them for a mug of tea, so she crept towards the front door.
    As she put out her hand to turn the key, she heard a sound like the slap of a hand on the kitchen table. And, distinctly, the shouting of angry words.
    ‘You just take care, Joe!’
    ‘Mind your own business, Ma.’
    Prue’s heartbeat quickened. Silly old interfering thing, Mrs Lawrence. His age, Joe could do what he bloody well liked. Quickly she opened the door.
    In the cowshed the animals were chained in their stalls, restless as always before milking (how quickly she had come to learn their ways!), heads tossing, tails lashing, muted stamps of impatience. Prue fetched bucket and pail, began work on the first cow.
    Joe arrived by the time the bucket was half full – she was an even faster milker by now. He must surely be aware of how quickly she’d learned. Prue felt his gaze upon her, from the doorway, but did not look up. She heard the slish and thud of his footsteps as he strode towards her. Still she made no acknowledgement of his presence, kept her head dug into Pauline’s bony side. She knew her yellow bow was badly flattened, but resisted releasing one hand to puff it into life.
    ‘What’re you doing here? It’s Sunday. It’s meant to be your day off.’
    Joe’s voice was far from grateful. For a full minute Prue