Land Girls by Angela Huth

in.’ He made to open the gate.
    ‘I’m not coming.’ Prue began to pull at the heavy steering wheel, a dimpling of sweat on her nose and scarlet cheeks. ‘So don’t bother.’
    ‘It’s lunch-time, near as dammit.’
    ‘I’m not eating a thing till I’ve finished this bloody field.’
    Their eyes met.
    ‘Very well,’ shouted Joe. ‘I’ll tell Ma …’
    The tractor was turning. She managed it with skill. For several moments longer, deep in thought, Joe watched the bobbing and leaping of her small bottom and the bow on her bouncing hair, then made his way to the barn.
     
     
    ‘Trouble with hedges is they don’t stand still,’ Mr Lawrence explained to Ag as they walked the lane carrying their hooks, bill-hooks and slashers. ‘They get in the hell of a mess if they’re not cared for, sprawling out into the fields either side, clogging the ditches. Some people think hedging’s a boring business, but I’m not one of them. In fact, there’s no job on the farm I like better. You’ve got something to show for your work very quickly, besides a pile of firewood. There’s a lot of satisfaction.’
    Ag nodded in silence, wondering how skilled she would be at wielding the heavy tools.
    They arrived at the destined thorn hedge, which divided a recently cut cornfield from a strip of mangolds. There were ditches, invisible under a mess of bramble and wayward shoots, both sides. Ag let her eyes trail the length of the hedge, which ended at the entrance to a small copse. She doubted her enthusiasm for trimming it into shape would match that of her employer, but gave a gallant smile.
    ‘Don’t despair,’ said Mr Lawrence. ‘You’ll soon get the hang of it.’
    He started to hack dead wood from the bottom, singling out new young shoots to judge their worthiness of being left to flower. The hedge, he explained, was a windbreak, so it should be left at a good height.
    ‘I’ve been neglecting it, though, what with all the extra work,’ he said. ‘It takes time and a certain skill, that I will say, to lay a hedge decently, but it’s a pleasing sort of task, to my mind. What you want to do is get a flexible stem, like this, weave it through other wood across a hole – something like darning – and make sure it’s secure, won’t pull out in a wind. Next spring, shoots will start to appear from every joint.’ He turned to Ag for a moment, judged from her expression she understood. ‘Best thing to do is you watch a while, then get into the ditch behind me and gather any stuff I throw down for a bonfire. When you’re not dealing with my stuff you can start hacking away at the sides of the ditch: neaten it all up.’
    Once Mr Lawrence had given his instructions he no longer seemed aware of Ag’s presence, concentrating fully on the complicated geography of the thorn hedge. For a long time, Ag watched his deft gloved hands foraging in the leaves, weaving shoots, snapping off dead wood, hacking at stubborn joints with his slasher. She was glad he had not asked her to begin in front of him, and after a while began her own task of clearing the ditch. She stood on its muddy floor, a stream of brown water lying slackly around her boots. Slashing at the long grass and brambles was not hard and when, after twenty minutes, she paused to look back on the neat bank of her own making, she began to understand her employer’s pleasure in the job.
    After an hour, they paused for a few minutes’ rest. The sun was high by now and they were hot. Mr Lawrence rolled up his sleeves. Ag, with aching back, sat a few feet from him on the ground. Mr Lawrence took a packet of Craven A from his pocket, offered her one, which she refused, and lit his own. They sat in easy silence, their eyes following the smoke.
    ‘Finding it hard, this land girl business?’ Mr Lawrence asked eventually.
    ‘I ache a bit. We all do. But we’re enjoying it.’
    ‘Good, good. It’s healthy work, anyway. As for the war … Terrible in London last