Free Land Girls by Angela Huth Page B

that morning Prue found herself triumphant. How she enjoyed the careful analysis of that short remark! What he meant was, he wouldn’t mind a lot of sauce, but he would be grateful if she was careful. Well, she’d never been one to enjoy upsetting any apple carts. She’d play the game by his rules, if that’s what he wanted. But there was no reason not to enjoy herself until the time came.
    Prue slipped into the kitchen where Mr Lawrence was polishing his shoes. The three women were all hard at work, stirring, tasting, moving in and out of clouds of steam that billowed over the stove.
    ‘Can I do the gravy or anything?’ Prue asked.
    ‘It’s all done.’ Mrs Lawrence sniffed, distaste less well disguised than her husband’s. She seemed to have some sixth sense, aware no doubt of everything that went on under her roof. Her disapproval would be terrifying to behold.
    Prue left the room.
    She found herself in the yard, leaping over patches of mud on to small islands of dry ground, trying not to ruin her scarlet Sunday shoes. On reaching the barn – she had grown to like the barn – she crossed her arms under her breasts, shivering. It was a cold, sunless morning. She leaned against the icy metal mudguard of the tractor, making sure she was hidden from the house. There was no time to ask herself why she was there, the tractor her only companion, because almost at once a small navy Austin Seven, beautifully polished, drew up to the front door. Rigid with curiosity, Prue watched a girl – probably about her own age – get out of the car, lock the door with a fussy gloved hand. She wore a grey coat. Her hair was rolled into a bun. She stood looking about, as if disappointed there was no sign of Joe to greet her. Then she moved to the door and rang the bell. Prue decided the girl’s prim little step, in highly polished lace-up shoes, was proprietorial.
    Joe opened the door. They exchanged a few words, moved back to stand by the car. Joe seemed to be admiring it. He put a hand on the gleaming bonnet. Janet patted his arm, tipped back her head. She seemed to be asking for a share of his admiration. Joe bent down and gave her forehead the merest brush of his lips. Janet took his arm. Together, they went into the house.
    That’s all I need to know, Prue said to herself. She skipped back across the yard so fast she splashed both the red shoes and her thinnest pair of silk stockings, but she didn’t care.
     
     
    Janet sat on the edge of an armchair at one side of the fireplace in the sitting-room. Joe sat in the chair opposite, while the hard little sofa was occupied by Stella and Ag. Ag looked about the olive and green furnishings, the cracked parchment of the standard lamp, the faded prints of York Minster. Joe fiddled with a minute glass of sherry, cast in silence. Janet, who had refused a drink of any kind, feet crossed on the floor, hands asleep on her lap, registered in her pose something between demure good manners and disapproval. She had a long face and a down-turned mouth set awkwardly in a protruding chin, giving her a look of stubborn melancholy. The surprising thing was that, when she ventured a smile, her down-turned eyes turned up, and the plainness of her face became almost appealing.
    Stella, sensing the awkwardness, felt she should make some effort at conversation.
    ‘What is your actual job in the WRAF?’ she asked.
    ‘Sparking plug tester.’ Janet thought for a while, decided to go on, seeing the genuine interest in Stella’s face. ‘What I want to be, eventually, is a radiographer. But I don’t suppose I’ll ever make it.’ She shrugged, looked at Joe. The thought of disputing this did not seem to occur to him.
    ‘I’m sure you will,’ said Stella, surprised by Joe’s meanness. ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like, the job of testing sparking plugs.’
    ‘No, well, it’s not that interesting. And the working conditions aren’t very nice. All day in a cold and draughty warehouse,