suggest you make provision for them now. On that note I will close. Give my fondest love to your mother, and pass my good wishes to Pansy, Alice and Timothy.
Write to me when you are abroad.
Regards as always,
Your dear friend
Edward Carrington
*
‘I’m not strong enough,’ Pansy argued, when first confronted with the hand plough. ‘It’s too heavy! I’ll never push it!’
‘You don’t have to push,’ James said. ‘Just keep the blade half covered and follow Goldie. The horse will do the work.’
Wearing a pair of James’s old boots and with her skirt tucked up at the waist Pansy was determined not to be beaten. ‘If Lucy and Alice can do it, then I will do it too,’ she said, as each morning she persevered until she mastered the implement. James quickly realized that Pansy’s frail appearance was deceptive. She was both fit and strong. Living in the country had done her the world of good.
The Indian summer of 1914 lasted well into October and with the bout of steady rain the soil was soft. As Edward’s horse trudged across the field, the simple plough turned a furrow of earth behind it. At first the ruts drew zigzag patterns across the meadow, but slowly, as James showed the women how to work with the plough rather than against it, the lines became straight and parallel. Once Pansy learned to control the horse, the satisfaction became etched in her smile.
Using both horses and two ploughs, it took the women less than three days to turn over the whole of the meadow. James watched from the stable roof where he was working. When Alice lost control of the plough and slid sideways into the dirt, he almost fell off the ladder. The horse stopped, turned and snorted at her lying in the furrow, her hands and face streaked in soil. Alice was sure it was laughing at her, too.
James bought timber and netting and erected a new hen house in Pansy’s back garden. In the past, the chickens had been allowed to range freely but slowly they had disappeared – victims of local foxes, so he made sure the vermin would not get into the new run.
There was quite a commotion the day he arrived home with two sacks of live pullets. Timothy delighted in running through the hen house, making the birds squawk and sending birds and feathers flying. After being scolded, the three-year-old watched anxiously as James clipped their wings.
‘Will it hurt them?’ he asked.
‘Of course not.’
On those late autumn evenings, with the smell of jam bubbling on the stove, the two families busied themselves preparing for Christmas. There was plenty to do. Fruit for the cakes and puddings to be washed and dried, flour to be sieved as fine as dust, apples to be wrapped and put away, jars to be washed, filled and labelled.
Late in the evenings, Alice would play the piano and even though there was no fire in the front room, James would take his paper and sit with her until they were both called for supper.
By late December the pantries in all three cottages were stocked fuller than they had ever been. Apart from the bags of flour, salt and sugar, the shelves were stacked with pots of preserves, jars of sweet chutney and bowls of pickled eggs.
James’s eighteenth birthday fell on a Sunday. The following morning he presented himself at the barracks in Leeds. After being declared fit, he swore the oath with a group of six other men, but much to his frustration, he was told he must wait until mid-January to join his regiment.
Lucy and Alice were quietly pleased. Christmas Day would not be the same without him, especially as Edward could not join them. Lucy wanted to make sure it was a Christmas they would all remember.
The two families had agreed that this year they would have Christmas dinner in Pansy’s cottage. With Timmy’s help, Alice made yards of paper chains to decorate her mother’s living-room. James found a small fir tree in the woods which he potted and placed next to the piano, and, as usual, Lucy made
Write to me when you are abroad.
Regards as always,
Your dear friend
Edward Carrington
*
‘I’m not strong enough,’ Pansy argued, when first confronted with the hand plough. ‘It’s too heavy! I’ll never push it!’
‘You don’t have to push,’ James said. ‘Just keep the blade half covered and follow Goldie. The horse will do the work.’
Wearing a pair of James’s old boots and with her skirt tucked up at the waist Pansy was determined not to be beaten. ‘If Lucy and Alice can do it, then I will do it too,’ she said, as each morning she persevered until she mastered the implement. James quickly realized that Pansy’s frail appearance was deceptive. She was both fit and strong. Living in the country had done her the world of good.
The Indian summer of 1914 lasted well into October and with the bout of steady rain the soil was soft. As Edward’s horse trudged across the field, the simple plough turned a furrow of earth behind it. At first the ruts drew zigzag patterns across the meadow, but slowly, as James showed the women how to work with the plough rather than against it, the lines became straight and parallel. Once Pansy learned to control the horse, the satisfaction became etched in her smile.
Using both horses and two ploughs, it took the women less than three days to turn over the whole of the meadow. James watched from the stable roof where he was working. When Alice lost control of the plough and slid sideways into the dirt, he almost fell off the ladder. The horse stopped, turned and snorted at her lying in the furrow, her hands and face streaked in soil. Alice was sure it was laughing at her, too.
James bought timber and netting and erected a new hen house in Pansy’s back garden. In the past, the chickens had been allowed to range freely but slowly they had disappeared – victims of local foxes, so he made sure the vermin would not get into the new run.
There was quite a commotion the day he arrived home with two sacks of live pullets. Timothy delighted in running through the hen house, making the birds squawk and sending birds and feathers flying. After being scolded, the three-year-old watched anxiously as James clipped their wings.
‘Will it hurt them?’ he asked.
‘Of course not.’
On those late autumn evenings, with the smell of jam bubbling on the stove, the two families busied themselves preparing for Christmas. There was plenty to do. Fruit for the cakes and puddings to be washed and dried, flour to be sieved as fine as dust, apples to be wrapped and put away, jars to be washed, filled and labelled.
Late in the evenings, Alice would play the piano and even though there was no fire in the front room, James would take his paper and sit with her until they were both called for supper.
By late December the pantries in all three cottages were stocked fuller than they had ever been. Apart from the bags of flour, salt and sugar, the shelves were stacked with pots of preserves, jars of sweet chutney and bowls of pickled eggs.
James’s eighteenth birthday fell on a Sunday. The following morning he presented himself at the barracks in Leeds. After being declared fit, he swore the oath with a group of six other men, but much to his frustration, he was told he must wait until mid-January to join his regiment.
Lucy and Alice were quietly pleased. Christmas Day would not be the same without him, especially as Edward could not join them. Lucy wanted to make sure it was a Christmas they would all remember.
The two families had agreed that this year they would have Christmas dinner in Pansy’s cottage. With Timmy’s help, Alice made yards of paper chains to decorate her mother’s living-room. James found a small fir tree in the woods which he potted and placed next to the piano, and, as usual, Lucy made
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