Free The Farmer's Daughter by Mary Nichols Page B

week later, as they began the afternoon milking. ‘August the nineteenth, is that right?’
    They had spent the day harvesting the potatoes, with the helpof about twenty children from the local school who had arrived in a charabanc, fresh-faced and eager. There had been a great deal of laughter and chattering, but that had gradually subsided as the day wore on. It was back-breaking work bending to pick up the potatoes the digger had turned up and they longed for their elevenses: lemonade and a bun brought to them by Doris. They had returned reluctantly to work afterwards, driven by the thought that it would soon be dinnertime. At four o’clock the charabanc had returned to take them to their various homes, each clutching a pay packet. The bags of potatoes had been taken away by lorry. The rotten and green ones had been heaped at the side of the field to make pig swill.
    â€˜Yes, how did you know?’
    â€˜Donald told me. Your twenty-first, I believe. It is a special one, no?’
    â€˜Yes, key of the door and all that.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve had the key of the door for ages, the key to everything really. It’s just another birthday.’
    â€˜But you are going to celebrate?’
    â€˜A small party at home, as it’s a Saturday. I wish you could come.’
    â€˜And I should like to be there but you know it is not possible.’
    â€˜I know.’ She sighed. ‘I wish you were not a prisoner.’
    â€˜I wish it too.’
    â€˜Of course you do. You want to be free to go home to your family. And one day it will happen. When it does, I shall miss you.’
    â€˜And I you,’ he said softly.
    â€˜When is your birthday, Karl? I don’t even know how old you are.’
    â€˜I was twenty-six on the first day of May,’ he said. ‘I have been in the army for over six years.’
    â€˜Since before the war?’
    â€˜Yes, every German youth must serve his time and in 1938 it was my turn. Then the war came. We did not expect it to last so long.’
    â€˜Neither did we, but we have to carry on as best we can.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    They heard the lorry arrive just as they finished milking. He washed his hands and delved into his coat pocket to offer her a small parcel. ‘I made this for your birthday.’
    â€˜Oh, thank you. I never expected … May I open it?’
    â€˜Of course.’
    She unwrapped an exquisite carving of a dog. It was only about six inches long made from a streaky kind of wood whose grain he had used to great effect. It was so detailed she felt she could almost stroke its fur. She did stroke it, overwhelmed by the care that had gone into the making of it. ‘Oh, Karl, it’s lovely. Thank you so much. It must have taken you ages to make.’
    â€˜It was my pleasure.’
    They heard the horn again, more impatiently. ‘You must go.’
    He turned to leave. Impulsively she grabbed his arm and pulled him back to kiss his cheek. It was smooth and cold. ‘Thank you again. It’s lovely. I shall treasure it.’
    She did not go with him to the transport, but stood looking down at the little dog in her hand, wondering what had been going on inside his head while he was carving it. Was he thinking of her or was he thinking of home and Heidi? Had she become a sort of substitute for Heidi? Did his fiancée like dogs? Did she know how clever he was with his hands? She shook herself, wrapped the dog back in its paper, put it in the pocket of her jacket and went into the house.
    Instead of going into the kitchen she went up to her bedroomand put the carving beneath the underwear in her dressing table drawer. She had a feeling that her parents, and Bill particularly, would not approve of her accepting it. But she couldn’t have refused it, could she? It would have hurt his feelings terribly after he had taken the trouble to make it.
    Her mother was laying the table for the evening meal when she