Write me a Love Story Ch 8

Write me a Love Story Ch 8

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER 8

         I bit down hard on my lower lip as I watched the man. My heart was pounding. I’d realised Joe wouldn’t be pleased but I’d not anticipated the depth of his anger. Transfixed, I watched as his florid face mottled with fury.

        

         ‘Are you telling me, you do’n want me to plough your land?’ He thrust out his head and spittle sprayed my face.

        

         As I wiped it away my throat closed up and, as dumb as the beast waiting patiently outside the stable, I couldn’t speak. Instead, I just nodded, wishing I could melt into one of the puddles on the stone floor.

        

         ‘Do you know,’ he bellowed, ‘jus how much work I turned down to be ‘ere this week?’

        

         I noticed that a stray piece of hay, perhaps disturbed by his outburst, had drifted down from a manger and settled on his head. Every time he shouted, it nodded delicately as if in agreement. In another situation it would have been funny but I didn’t feel like laughing.

        

          ‘We had an agreement missus.’ He took a step towards me and, taking the full force of his rotten breath full in the face, I jerked backwards.

        

         ‘Is anything wrong?’

        

          Georg was standing in the doorway, his figure a black outline pasted on the morning light and at the sound of his voice I felt weak with relief.

        

         Joe swung his head around and his face darkened in a scowl. He was silent for a moment then his lips twisted into a smirk.

        

         ‘Oh, so this is where the land lies does it?  You and your pet Jerry getting cosy eh? ‘

        

         My cheeks burned with fury at his insinuation. How I wished for the courage to slap his loathsome face but then I saw Georg’s hands tighten into fists and found my voice at last.

        

         ‘I’m sorry Joe, but I’ve made up my mind. I know I should have told you before but I’ll pay you. You won’t be out of pocket.’

        

         ‘You bet I won’t,’ Joe growled.  ‘I’ll take five poun’ and not a penny less.’

        

         Trying not to show my shock, without a word I turned, motioning Georg to follow me.  Back at the cottage, I opened the drawer of my desk and drew out a battered tin box. In the bottom, as thin as tissue paper, there was just one fiver left.  I looked at it and sighed.   Although Frank had promised to send me money each week, I hadn’t been to the Post Office since he’d left. Tomorrow, I would have to swallow my pride.

        

         Joe all but snatched the note from my hand.

        

          ‘An’ remember, not too many oats, unless you want trouble. An’ no dry beet, otherwise you’ll have a dead ‘oss on your hands. An’ that’d cost you.’

          

         He shambled away and I glanced at Georg, catching a gleam in his eye. He winked and suddenly hysteria bubbled up inside me as I remembered the piece of hay pirouetting on top of Joe’s head.  Convulsing with hysterical laughter, my body shook until my stomach hurt and doubled up I had to cling onto the stable door for support.

  * * *

               Frank had been as good as his word. After Elsie the postmistress had totted up the figures in my bankbook, I realised that every week he’d sent a little something. There were also a couple of letters and I felt a surge of guilt that I’d not thought to call in before.

        

         I wandered over to the seat underneath the ancient and gnarled oak, near to where the Saturday market was held.  Slitting open the first envelope, I sat holding the single sheet for a moment before unfolding it, my hands trembling. In fact, it said very little except that he sent his best wishes and was training somewhere in the midlands.   The second, equally brief, told me he was being sent abroad. There was no address on either of the letters, neither was there any hint of warmth. Slowly, I re-folded the letters and put them in my pocket. I didn’t know what I’d expected but nevertheless felt a huge sense of disappointment. For a long time, I sat oblivious to the life of the village going on around me. Once, Frank and I had meant everything to each other. Neither of us had any other family and when we’d first met and fallen in love, the idea of having someone else to care for us was a revelation and we’d clung to each other as survivors cling to a raft. Now, I sat wondering how our marriage had gone so wrong and feeling dead inside.

        

         I stood up from the seat and walked back to the High Street making a determined effort to keep my tears at bay by concentrating hard on everything that was going on. It was obvious that, even in this sleepy part of England, people had the wind up. There was a constant background noise of hammering as men on ladders tacked  wire netting over windows and every telegraph pole and shop window  was festooned  with leaflets: ‘Beat Firebomb Fritz’,‘Careless talk costs lives’,‘Dig for victory’. By now, the slogans were yellow and dog-eared but they still had the power to unnerve. The daily papers, now down to two thin sheets only, were dominated by news of the Blitz and although the photography was in black and white, graphic images of the flames engulfing London leapt out from the page as if in full and lurid colour.

        

         Because most of my days were spent at the smallholding, it had been easy to push the thought of war to the back of my mind, but now just walking through the village made me nervous. And it wasn’t just me, as I walked through the streets, I passed clusters of people, gathered outside shops, houses and on street corners, chatting quietly together a mixture of anxiety and almost feverish excitement in their eyes.

        

         But life must go on and as I came to a stop outside the grocer’s; my eyes automatically honed onto the sign above the shop, as they had always done ever since I was a young servant girl just arrived in the village. The years between seemed to evaporate as I looked at the familiar words, as always admiring the showy curlicues decorating their capitals. The letters were faded but still readable. ‘A. Purdy & Daughters, Provisioners to the King,’ with a golden lion and unicorn rampant at either end. As ever, I wondered about the daughters. Mr Purdy was always alone behind the counter and, ducking under the low lintel, I saw, in that respect, nothing had changed. The shop always used to remind me of Aladdin’s cave, stuffed full with an abundance of goods, so much of everything it used to make my head whirl. Whatever one wanted, Mr Purdy stocked it and with a magician’s flourish could produce anything from a rat trap, or a length of clothesline, to a wedge of ripe cheese. But today, although I was momentarily blinded by the darkness inside the shop, as my sight adjusted I noticed that even though the mingled odours of cheese, spices and freshly baked bread had seeped into the woodwork and were still faintly present, the actual produce was sparse and several of the shelves were completely empty.   

        

         As I began to trawl its interior, I noticed two women standing talking in a corner. One was Mrs Rattray, a small husk-like woman with a marked dowager’s hump. The other had her back to me but I thought I recognised the untidy mane of black hair hanging almost to her waist.  As I wandered around, snatches of their conversation drifted towards me.

        

         ‘It’s terrible…. you don’t feel safe in your bed these days.’

        

         Long black hair moved up and down vigorously as the other woman nodded in agreement.

        

         ‘I seen ‘em wandering about the lanes as if they don’t have a care in the world.  Wicked brutes they are, if I had my way I’d hang the lot of ‘em.’

            

          Mrs Rattray’s mouth dropped open and her face seemed to collapse in on itself.

        

         ‘Oh, my dear.....do you think that awful Mr Hitler is hanging our poor boys?’ Her voice trembled and her eyes had the viscous sheen of dirty water.

        

         ‘Now, don’t you worry…. I’m sure yer grandson will be fine. Come on, let’s get you home.’

        

         The woman turned and I saw that I’d guessed right. It was Becca Smith. Our eyes met and her face tightened. She shot me a glance of such malice that I took a step backwards. Then, she turned her back and bent towards the older woman. I felt my face grow hot and the tips of my ears tingled as she whispered and I caught the look of astonishment on her companions face. Certain that they were talking about me, I began to tremble. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand the venom in Becca’s eyes. Surely, it wasn’t because of the incident in the barn: after all Joe had been well paid for his trouble. Trying to ignore them, I turned back to the shelves, forcing myself to concentrate.  Right in front of me was a tin of peaches and although they weren’t on my list, I stared at it until my vision blurred.

        

         There was a soft rustle behind me. Without thinking, I grabbed the peaches and turned. Mrs Rattray’s recent distress had obviously been forgotten and her face was avid with curiosity. She reached out for my arm and I flinched at the touch of the old woman’s dry, claw-like hand.

        

         ‘I’ve just heard you’ve got one of those Nazis working at your place. For all the world, I wouldn’t be in your shoes. Tell me dear, what on earth made you do that?’

        

           I gasped and shot a glance towards Becca, catching a sly look of triumph on her face. Taking a deep breath, I made an effort to answer the question civilly but was distressed to hear the tremble in my voice.

        

         ‘I needed help Mrs Rattray and he’s no trouble and seems very nice.’ 

        

         Immediately, an ugly noise erupted from Becca. ‘Nice! Well, that’s a word I wouldn’t use about the enemy. I ‘spose you’ll be telling us he’s good soon.’  She cocked her head. ‘You know what they say? The only good German’s a dead German.’ 

        

         ‘I speak as I find, Becca. He’s very helpful and works hard.’

        

         Her eyes glittered. ‘We all work hard me dear, but we don’t all bomb innocent folk. And, if you ask, me I think what you be doing is disgusting. Consorting with the enemy when your own husband is away fighting them…’

Furious anger consumed me. I fought to control myself but it was a losing battle.

        

         ‘How dare you talk to me like that Becca? And how dare you gossip about me?  What I do is absolutely none of your business…..’ I paused, then opened my mouth for another salvo but Mr Purdy interrupted his heavy voice acting like a fire blanket.

        

         ‘Now then, ladies, that’s enough. Both of you, calm down. Becca, if I were you I’d keep your opinions to yourself. I’m sure that Mrs Harper is not doing anything to be ashamed of.  And, if you want my opinion, there’s all sorts of Germans. Like there’s all sorts of us English. For instance, the bloke that delivers our wood also delivers to the camp an he says that some of them are real nasty bits of work, but others seem decent enough.’

 Becca shot him a furious glance. Her spine rigid, she marched up to him and slammed down her goods so hard the empty show cans on the counter rattled.

        

         ‘I make that two shillings and sixpence, Mr Purdy. Good day.’

        

         She turned and swept out of the shop, Mrs Rattray hobbling after her as fast as her bent body was able.

        

         My legs were shaking as I walked towards the counter.

        

         ‘Thank you, Mr Purdy. I only really came in for a packet of Rinso. I didn’t realise I’d cause so much trouble. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.’  Shame made my smile wobble.

        

         The grocer stared at me over the top of his half-glasses, his moonlike face kind.

        

         ‘Don’t you worry, m’dear.  Wasn’t all your fault.  That Becca has a sharp tongue in her head sometimes. But not many people pay her much mind. Not those that matter anyway.’

Reaching underneath the counter, he pulled out a carton of washing powder.  As he did, I realised I still had the can of peaches in my hand and suddenly, I had an idea.

‘Oh, and I’ll take these as well and do you have any braising steak?   Here’s my ration book. I think I’ve got enough points.’

As I left the shop I looked at him standing in his usual place behind the counter and felt a sudden rush of affection. He was one of the good ones, I could only hope he wasn’t outnumbered.

 I stared at Barley’s mane as the pony carried me back up the hill.    Gradually my anger drained away and self pity took its place. My eyes prickled and I blinked hard. I had enough trouble without Becca spreading rumours about me.  But as the path wound upwards, I grew calmer. The hedgerows were bright with berries and as the cart rumbled by small birds burst out of the bushes and shot into the sky. The sun was still high and I closed my eyes, feeling the warm breeze on my face. In spite of Becca, in spite of everything, I knew that there was no other place I’d rather be.

Prince was standing outside the barn when we arrived, his rough coat dark with sweat. Georg came across the yard carrying two buckets that slopped water as he walked. As the horse lowered his head and began to drink, Georg unbuckled the harness and let it drop to the ground. Kicking it to one side, he picked up a curry comb and started to groom, whistling softly as he worked.  

He looked round as we turned in at the gate and smiled as I raised my hand.

‘Finished?’ I called.

‘For the moment. He has worked hard today. He needs a rest.’  He patted Prince’s neck affectionately.    
        

‘And so do you, I expect. Give me a moment and I’ll bring you some food.’

As I brewed tea and buttered thick slices of bread, my mind was busy. For the first time in a long while, I was looking forward to the next day.

Copyright Janet Baldey