there was a war. Her generosity, her concern always for others, her sudden flare of incomprehensible temper when she came across something that,
innocent to others, displeased her. What on earth would Mr Lawrence do without his wife? Much of his huge strength came from her. They communicated more in being than in words, and it had worked so
well. They understood each other without ever having to spell things out. Oh, to find such understanding. Once, the night they had gone to some dance, Mrs Lawrence had come up to the attic to help
the girls dress. The place was a warm litter of slung-down clothes and scattered makeup, the air thick with the scent of Prue’s Nuits de Paris. Mrs Lawrence’s cheeks had turned pink
with vicarious excitement, yet Prue had seen a wistful shadow in her eyes – thinking back to her own youth, perhaps, when she had prepared for just such an evening out. And when the girls
rollicked down the stairs, Mrs Lawrence behind them, Prue had seen Mr Lawrence, waiting below to chauffeur them, give his wife an almost invisible nod and smile, acknowledging her feelings.
Mr Lawrence came so sharply to her mind, too: tall and lean and gruff, wise and silent – he’d do anything for anyone, would Mr Lawrence. Only incompetence or laziness made him angry.
There was some sadness, obviously, that his son Joe was not fit to fight. But he was proud of him, you could see that. He was proud of the way Joe rose above his own disappointment, put everything
into the farm. Joe, Joe . . . Such a good way, he had been, to start life as a land girl. And once their flaming had died down he had remained a good friend, their friendship burnished by the
knowledge of lovers. No wonder poor Stella had loved him so much . . .
Prue put up a hand to stop fresh tears. Her cheeks were cold. Her fingers came away smeared with black. Better clean myself up before the station, she thought, and held up a small mirror to
assess the damage. She saw that she was wearing the old red spotted bow in her hair, the one that had always brought her good luck with ploughing. Ashamed that she could have been so thoughtless as
to wear it on arrival, she pulled it off and stuffed it into her bag. From her coat pocket she drew out a black one and fixed it into her curls. She could, she thought, go without a bow altogether,
but that would be out of character. The others would be surprised. A black bow, she reckoned, they would judge as custom rather than frivolity. But why, at this time, was she thinking about
bows?
Looking out of the window, Prue saw nothing to cheer her spirits. They passed outskirts of industrial towns where bomb damage had still not been cleared, and weeds tall as ripe wheat sprouted
through rubble and broken stone. There were houses that had been cut in half, leaving parts of rooms where paper curled away from cracked walls, and a few pieces of smashed furniture still
stubbornly kept their place on the remaining planks of floor. These ruined houses, their private tastes still exposed to all who passed, perhaps never to be rebuilt, filled Prue with renewed
gratitude for having spent the war in deep country away from most of the bombing. How lucky they had all been: only one bomb and no one killed but poor old Nancy, the cow.
Once the desolate townscapes gave way to the swoops of Yorkshire hills and dales Prue looked out with a farmer’s interest. But still there was little to cheer her in the landscape. While
the fields themselves were in good order – mostly due to her fellow land girls, Prue thought, with a sudden smile – the farmhouses and villages were much in need of repair. A whole row
of cottages was deserted, the roofs caved in, slates still scattered over the weeds of front gardens. Plainly, random parts of the country had not escaped attack. Here, as in Dorset, a German on
his way home must have chosen to drop his excess bombs.
Prue wondered where she was. The train chuntered slowly, parallel to
innocent to others, displeased her. What on earth would Mr Lawrence do without his wife? Much of his huge strength came from her. They communicated more in being than in words, and it had worked so
well. They understood each other without ever having to spell things out. Oh, to find such understanding. Once, the night they had gone to some dance, Mrs Lawrence had come up to the attic to help
the girls dress. The place was a warm litter of slung-down clothes and scattered makeup, the air thick with the scent of Prue’s Nuits de Paris. Mrs Lawrence’s cheeks had turned pink
with vicarious excitement, yet Prue had seen a wistful shadow in her eyes – thinking back to her own youth, perhaps, when she had prepared for just such an evening out. And when the girls
rollicked down the stairs, Mrs Lawrence behind them, Prue had seen Mr Lawrence, waiting below to chauffeur them, give his wife an almost invisible nod and smile, acknowledging her feelings.
Mr Lawrence came so sharply to her mind, too: tall and lean and gruff, wise and silent – he’d do anything for anyone, would Mr Lawrence. Only incompetence or laziness made him angry.
There was some sadness, obviously, that his son Joe was not fit to fight. But he was proud of him, you could see that. He was proud of the way Joe rose above his own disappointment, put everything
into the farm. Joe, Joe . . . Such a good way, he had been, to start life as a land girl. And once their flaming had died down he had remained a good friend, their friendship burnished by the
knowledge of lovers. No wonder poor Stella had loved him so much . . .
Prue put up a hand to stop fresh tears. Her cheeks were cold. Her fingers came away smeared with black. Better clean myself up before the station, she thought, and held up a small mirror to
assess the damage. She saw that she was wearing the old red spotted bow in her hair, the one that had always brought her good luck with ploughing. Ashamed that she could have been so thoughtless as
to wear it on arrival, she pulled it off and stuffed it into her bag. From her coat pocket she drew out a black one and fixed it into her curls. She could, she thought, go without a bow altogether,
but that would be out of character. The others would be surprised. A black bow, she reckoned, they would judge as custom rather than frivolity. But why, at this time, was she thinking about
bows?
Looking out of the window, Prue saw nothing to cheer her spirits. They passed outskirts of industrial towns where bomb damage had still not been cleared, and weeds tall as ripe wheat sprouted
through rubble and broken stone. There were houses that had been cut in half, leaving parts of rooms where paper curled away from cracked walls, and a few pieces of smashed furniture still
stubbornly kept their place on the remaining planks of floor. These ruined houses, their private tastes still exposed to all who passed, perhaps never to be rebuilt, filled Prue with renewed
gratitude for having spent the war in deep country away from most of the bombing. How lucky they had all been: only one bomb and no one killed but poor old Nancy, the cow.
Once the desolate townscapes gave way to the swoops of Yorkshire hills and dales Prue looked out with a farmer’s interest. But still there was little to cheer her in the landscape. While
the fields themselves were in good order – mostly due to her fellow land girls, Prue thought, with a sudden smile – the farmhouses and villages were much in need of repair. A whole row
of cottages was deserted, the roofs caved in, slates still scattered over the weeds of front gardens. Plainly, random parts of the country had not escaped attack. Here, as in Dorset, a German on
his way home must have chosen to drop his excess bombs.
Prue wondered where she was. The train chuntered slowly, parallel to
Similar Books
