Free Once a Land Girl by Angela Huth Page B

roll of hair at her neck. Her posture, Prue supposed, was
meant to indicate triumph. Bugger her, she thought. Witchy old cow. She’s not going to lord it over me.
    It took her longer than she had imagined to round up the hens in the dark. They skittered about, avoiding the beam of the torch. Sometimes one gave an uncanny squawk as she ran hither and
thither. Prue was half entertained by their silly lack of direction, then remembered the place was new to them: they would take a while to become familiar with the geography of their house and run.
She was also impatient – not a born chicken lover, like Ag – but she’d get used to them.
    When she had finally shut the door on every bird, Prue looked over to the house next door, Johnny’s lighted window, undrawn curtains – actually, she remembered, there hadn’t
been any curtains. He was standing at the window. He waved. She waved back, and turned towards the house.
    The kitchen light was on, the curtains there, too, not drawn. Prue turned off her torch and walked down the lawn keeping close to the wall. Something compelled her to study Bertha on her own. To
spy, she supposed.
    But Bertha wasn’t on her own. Barry was there, too. He stood, hands in the pockets of his overcoat, at the opposite side of the table. He seemed to be listening intently to Bertha, who
gave an occasional stiff movement of her arm. Then suddenly he put both hands on the table, leant over and shouted. Prue couldn’t hear what he was saying, but it was plain he was angry, or
threatening. Bertha now wiped floury hands on her pinafore and put them over her ears. Barry turned away and quickly left the room, taking a cigar from its case as he did so. He slammed the door
behind him. Bertha picked up a tea-towel and dabbed at her eyes.
    Prue felt the battering of her heart, a kind of unexplained guilt. She could think of nothing she had done wrong, but guessed she was the reason for the row between her husband and the
housekeeper, and felt uneasy.
    Barry was sitting by the gas fire, a balloon glass of brandy by his side, cigar lighted. He looked up when Prue came in, gave one of his wider smiles. ‘Hello, sweetheart.’
    ‘Barry.’ Prue went over to him, bent to kiss his temple. It shone a little with recent sweat and left a trace of salt on her lips. This evening greeting had become a ritual.
    ‘I hear the whole chicken business is up and going,’ he said.
    ‘It is. Johnny and I went to fetch a dozen Rhode Island Reds this afternoon. They seem quite happy. I’ve just shut them up for the night.’
    ‘Good, good.’ Barry stared at the peach flames of the gas fire. ‘I hear you went over to his place for a visit.’
    As far as Prue could tell this wasn’t an accusation: his voice was light. ‘I did. He asked me in for a cup of tea. Well, I mean, I couldn’t very well ask him here, could
I?’
    ‘No.’ Suddenly Barry stirred, shifted. ‘I mean, why not? It’s your house. You can ask who you like here, right?’
    ‘I had the feeling Bertha wouldn’t much like that, using her kitchen. I thought I couldn’t very well ask her to bring us a tray in here.’
    Barry looked at his wife very hard, a look she couldn’t fathom. Then he spoke loudly, close to anger. ‘Listen to me, sweetheart. Bertha is the housekeeper. She’s in my employ.
I pay her good wages. I give her a roof over her head. If my wife wants to bring the next-door neighbour in for a cup of tea, a man who’s given his time and trouble to set up your chicken
thing, then that’s fine by me and it’s bloody well going to be fine by Bertha. I’ll see to that.’
    ‘Right,’ said Prue, confused. She watched Barry visibly calm down and sink back into the chair.
    ‘Here,’ he said at last, and held out his hand. Prue gave him her wrist. ‘Sweetheart, sweetheart,’ he said quietly. ‘I know we’re a funny mixture, but
we’re all right.’
    Blimey, thought Prue. What’s got into him? Not a man for declarations,