A mothers love, p.11
A Mother's Love, page 11
The production of bombs in the munitions factory was now even more vital to the war effort, so much so that the factory manager at the Dove called a meeting begging the workers to extend their hours and build more bombs.
‘Let’s blow the Nazis to buggery!’ he cried.
A patriotic cry that was echoed by the workforce a thousand times over.
More shifts meant more mouths to feed, and, with rationing getting worse by the month, Stella’s culinary skills were stretched to the limit. Her weekly menu (posted up in the canteen) centred around tried and tested popular savoury dishes: curried corned-beef balls, shepherd’s pie, potato hash, stuffed sheep’s heart, mock roast with mince and spam, cheese-and-onion flan, spicy sausage casserole, tripe and onions, mutton stew and fish pie were followed by the workers’ favourite puddings – jam roly-poly, Bakewell tart, sticky gingerbread, stewed apple and cinnamon, fruit pie, rhubarb crumble and rice pudding or sago. Fortunately, five o’clock teas were a lighter meal: beans on toast, macaroni cheese, smoked mackerel, toad in the hole, baked potatoes, spam fritters, sausage butties – all disappeared in no time.
There was little available to heighten the bland taste of most of the food, but Stella tried her best with sprinklings of fresh tangy herbs, gravy stock, dripping or just bog-standard sauces like HP and Lea & Perrins. Occasionally, a local farmer or one of the workers who shot game on the moor would turn up with a brace of pheasants, or wild rabbits, very occasionally a hare and plenty of pigeon, which helped enhance the flavour of cheap mince, corned beef and spam, even if it did mean Stella had to do all the plucking and disembowelling herself.
Whenever she had a free moment, Stella wrote to Bill, sometimes from the kitchen table in between washing, and preparing, cooking and serving meals. She poured out her heart to her lover while keeping him informed of the local news in her part of the world.
My precious love,
Summer’s slipped away from the moors, the cool misty mornings are back, and the days are getting shorter. It’s so long since we met – I count the weeks that we spent together, recalling every golden moment of our summer romance.
Life trudges on here, as we do our bit, building bombs to fight the enemy, but, as the air raids increase, many led by you brave Yanks, I can’t help but think of all the German civilian lives that have been lost. They’re humans just like we are; though their leaders are monsters, there are still women, children and babies suffering for something they never even started.
I wonder how you’re settling in down South, if you’re taking care of yourself, not getting into trouble? I hope not! I’m sure you’re far better provided for than us Brits. If I have to cook one more mince-and-onion pie or another rice pudding (without milk!), there’s a very good chance I might throw one or both of them straight out of the window. I’m quite sure you have got your Coca-Cola, chocolate, cold beer, Lucky Strike and gum. Keep a stash for when we meet, my darling.
The munitions factory still hosts dances on Saturday night. I only go now to help out in the kitchen, serving food to the dancers when the orchestra take a break. They always play our favourite songs, ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’, ‘In the Mood’, waltzes, foxtrots, jives, but I don’t dance, except with Doreen if she’s stuck for a partner. Remember the line from the song ‘I’ll Never Dance Again till I Dance with You’? Well, that’s me: there’s no joy in dancing without you, my sweet Bill.
I enclose some photographs. I have yours in a frame next to my bed. I kiss your photo every night before I fall asleep. Stay safe, my beloved.
Your adoring Stella xxx
16. Keswick
With Tom the stable lad gone, and Wilf still laid up with sciatica (which didn’t stop him dragging himself out of bed every Friday night to stagger down to the pub), Lillian took complete charge of Major and Daisy and all the accompanying work that was required of a stable girl. Hitherto unknown tasks – feeding, grooming, mucking out, cleaning tack, maintaining farm machinery – completely occupied Lillian from dawn till dusk. Fortunately, she had finally managed to get hold of a proper Land Girl’s uniform: brown breeches, green jumper and leather boots, which she alternated with dungarees and cotton shirts, depending on the weather. With Lillian now firmly established with the horses, she had suggested that Sal take over the tractor driving. Mo and Pat, terrified at the thought of sitting behind the wheel, had insisted that they were both ‘too numb’ to handle the tractor gears, never mind steer a straight course.
‘I’d finish up in’t blody beck!’ Pat had threatened.
And she meant it too. After Mo had cheerfully announced that she was as thick as two short planks, nobody even bothered to persuade her. Though funny and good-natured, Mo really was the dimmest young woman, with no ambition other than to meet the Italian prisoners of war who had recently landed in the valley.
‘They all look like Frank Sanitary,’ Mo had excitedly told her friends.
Puzzled, Lillian had asked, ‘Who’s Frank Sanitary?’
Sal shook her head. ‘Frank Sinatra,’ she explained. ‘To this day Mo’s never got his name right yet!’
In all weathers Lillian worked with her powerful horses; attached to their shafts, they turned the rich black earth which curled and broke under the sharpened blades. Later, after the earth had been exposed to wind, ice and rain, they would drill wheat and barley, but not before the Land Girls had weaned the youngest lambs and prepared the ewes for sale at Keswick market. No sooner was one back-breaking job done than another began, and it was the faithful horses that bore the brunt of the hard, slogging work, without complaint, steady, patient and reliable. They were the best example of selflessness and devotion Lillian had ever seen.
‘They’re more patriotic than we are,’ she declared in a moment of passion, as she, Mo, Sal and Pat cycled the ten miles from Rosthwaite village to Keswick on their ‘war agricultural’ bikes to pick up personal provisions.
Knowing just how much Lillian adored Major and Daisy, her friends couldn’t resist teasing her. Wobbling dangerously close to the banks of the gurgling River Derwent, Mo joked, ‘Don’t be daft, hosses can’t beat Hitler.’
‘Course they can!’ Lillian staunchly exclaimed. ‘They help us provide food for the nation. Like you yourself once said, nobody can fight on an empty belly,’ she reminded her friend.
Pulling over to the side of the road by the Bowder Stone in order to allow a loaded farm cart – pulled by a fine pair of enormous shire horses, who tossed their heads and jingled their harnesses as they clip-clopped by – to pass, Sal agreed with Lillian’s sentiments. ‘You’re right, Lil,’ she joked. ‘If it weren’t for the likes of Major and Daisy, Wilf would saddle up us lasses and have us dragging carts and ploughs around the fields.’
‘And whip us if we did so much as stop for a breather,’ Pat joked.
When they got into Keswick, the four women made a beeline for the shops. Clutching their clothing coupons, which Mrs M had not managed to filch, they bought cotton knickers and warm vests, new socks, fashion magazines, cigarettes and strong thread to sew their ripped work clothes. Afterwards they went to a steamy hot café opposite the Moot Hall in the centre of town, where they ordered tea, rock buns and spam sandwiches.
‘This is the life,’ sighed Pat, as she sipped scalding hot tea. ‘No filthy pots on the table, no stale bread and no Mrs M with a fag hanging out of her gob serving us rissoles that you could bounce off the wall.’
Helping herself to the biggest rock bun, Sal said with her mouth full, ‘What will we all do when this rotten war is over?’
Taking the second biggest rock bun, Mo immediately answered. ‘Get married, have kids and never so much as visit the countryside again.’
Lillian gazed at her in astonishment. ‘Do you really mean that?’
‘I bloody do,’ Mo forcefully replied. ‘I hate the great outdoors. Gimme a little terraced house, two up, two down, in Barnsley, with an indoor privy, running water and a nice fella to cuddle up to every night,’ she said with a dirty laugh.
Thinking how hard it would be to leave the land and the horses that she loved so much, Lillian shook her head. ‘I don’t know whether I could go back to “normal” any more.’
Remembering her life in the plush interior of Blackpool’s Regal picture house, Lillian couldn’t equate that small, slim, glamorous young woman with the woman she was now. Over the months of lifting farm machinery and controlling two powerful shires, Lillian had developed muscles in her legs and arms she never even knew she had. Her delicate, heart-shaped face, previously always highly made-up, was now deeply tanned, which contrasted prettily with her sparkling honey-brown eyes. These days Lillian didn’t even care what she wore; at the end of every day she always finished up covered in mud, rain, sleet and every kind of muck. Clean underwear was altogether another matter and vital to Lillian’s sense of well-being – hence their trip into Keswick that afternoon.
Curious, Sal asked, ‘So what will you do when the war’s over – carry on working with horses?’
Lillian thought about what Sal had said. ‘I’d love to, but I don’t know how I could ever do that,’ she answered honestly.
Mo gave a throaty chuckle. ‘You could always marry a farmer like Wilf, who would land you with the horses and every other job going.’
Lillian grimaced. ‘And turn into a sloven like Mrs M? No thanks!’
Lillian’s care for Daisy was especially touching as the mare’s pregnancy advanced.
Watching her development like a hawk, Lillian logged any changes in a little notebook which she kept in the tack room. Though she had never met the vet, she knew immediately who he was when she spotted him out in the farmyard checking the cattle. Wearing old tweeds, a crumpled felt hat and knee-high leather boots, he looked like a classic old-fashioned vet. Hurrying across the yard to introduce herself, Lillian smiled as she extended a rather grubby hand.
‘Hello, I’m Lillian, the new stable girl,’ she said.
Turning, the vet was struck by this young girl he had never seen before: young, strong and astonishingly beautiful, she exuded health, youth and energy.
‘Pleased to meet you, Lillian. I’m Robbie Allen, from Seatoller.’
‘Tom told me about you before he left,’ Lillian explained. ‘He said I was to get in touch with you if I have any concerns about Daisy’s pregnancy.’
The vet’s brow crinkled in concern. ‘Is she having problems?’
Lillian quickly shook her head. ‘No, she’s healthy enough, as far as I know, though I have to admit I am very inexperienced, but I have been keeping an eye on her progress.’
‘I’m happy to take a look at her while I’m here,’ Robbie said kindly.
Lillian smiled in relief. ‘Thank you, I’d be most grateful.’
Following Lillian to the paddock, where the shires were grazing in the fading light of the autumn evening, the vet confidently approached both horses, who raised their heads to snicker as he approached.
‘Hello there,’ he murmured softly, before stroking a firm hand first down Major’s broad glossy neck, then Daisy’s. ‘How are you doing?’
At the sound of his soft voice Daisy’s ears twitched and she pushed her muzzle into his chest.
‘They really like him,’ Lillian marvelled as she watched Robbie Allen bend down gently to examine Daisy, who was obedient to his bidding.
The only people Lillian had seen previously with the horses were Wilf, who was a brute, and young Tom; the vet was altogether different. It wasn’t just Robbie’s easy, confident manner; it was his knowledge that struck Lillian. He knew these beasts, understood them; they in return instinctively responded to his touch and voice. Major, jealous of all the attention that the mare was getting, gave the vet a strong nudge on the arm.
‘All right, big boy,’ Robbie smiled. ‘I’ve not forgotten you.’ Straightening up, he gave Daisy a gentle pat on the rump, then turned to stroke Major, who towered head and shoulders over the vet. Snorting down his nostrils, the horse blew into Robbie’s thick, auburn-grey hair.
‘They’re playing you off,’ Lillian chuckled.
‘They’re beautiful beasts,’ Robbie answered affectionately. ‘Let’s get away from them for a few moments, then I can report on Daisy’s condition,’ he suggested.
Leaving the horses to graze in the paddock, they stood in the yard, the vet lighting up a pipe, which he puffed on for a few seconds before speaking. Inhaling the nutty dark smell of the burning tobacco, Lillian thought how much nicer pipe tobacco smelt than the cheap cigarettes she smoked.
‘She’s doing fine – on track to drop the foal sometime mid-November, so not long now,’ Robbie told Lillian. ‘Take it easy with her from now on, though,’ he warned. ‘Let Major do the work where possible or use the tractor, if you can. Daisy needs to rest, and eat well, as much as that’s possible these days.’
Just listening to Robbie talking about the imminent birth made Lillian’s pulse race, as she realized that she was both excited and nervous.
‘I could leave Daisy in the paddock throughout the day when I’m working,’ she suggested. ‘The grass isn’t as rich as it was in the summer, but there’s still some there to graze on.’
Robbie nodded in agreement with her idea. ‘Leave her in her stable on cold days; if she’s out and it’s chilly, she’ll drop weight and that might affect the weight of her foal. Right,’ he concluded, as he tapped his pipe on a fence post. ‘I’ll be off – nice to meet you, and keep in touch,’ he said cheerily, before heading off to his mud-spattered old Jeep.
Lillian watched him go with a quizzical expression on her face. He had assured her that all was well with the mare in her charge, and the advice he had given her was sound and sensible; but it was Robbie Allen’s way with the animals that lingered with her after his departure: the instant rapport between man and beast had deeply moved her. A shrill neigh from the paddock recalled Lillian to the here and now, and, hurrying back to the field, she nimbly leapt over the gate to attach lead ropes to Major and Daisy and take them back to their snug, straw-littered stalls, where, after a warm bran mash supper, they peacefully settled down for the night.
17. Peterborough
Dearest, darling Stella Star,
Good news! I’ve got leave in October, so get your gorgeous self to Peterborough, where I plan to meet you. I appreciate you’ll have to get leave too, but, considering you’ve not had time off in months, I’m really hoping you can swing it with your factory manager. You’ll never guess where I’m planning to take you for five days – just believe me when I say it’s quite uniquely lovely. No more clues, so don’t ask!
After reading Bill’s letter, Stella danced around the canteen kitchen in sheer joy, so much so she didn’t hear her young assistant, Nellie, enter the room. It was only after she had spun full circle, wildly waving her hands in the air, that she came face to face with her colleague, who gawped at her boss in disbelief.
‘Is summat up?’ she asked bluntly, as Stella came to a stumbling halt.
With a wide smile still on her face, Stella answered, ‘Everything’s fine. I’ve just had good news, that’s all.’
‘Shall I mash the spuds before they get cold?’ Nellie continued pragmatically.
Trying to gather her thoughts, Stella answered, ‘Yes, please,’ just as the smell of burning assailed her senses.
Stating the obvious Nellie grumbled, ‘You’ve burnt yon sausages.’
After smothering the sausages in onion gravy, Stella popped the heavy trays into the big industrial oven, and, leaving Nellie to mash pounds and pounds of spuds, Stella made several huge dishes of jelly, which she planned to serve with tinned peaches. All the time she worked her mind raced: what exactly was Bill planning for her? In truth she didn’t care where they went, or where they stayed, just as long as she could see him, hold him, kiss him – nothing else mattered. But he had sounded so excited about his plans that now she couldn’t help but wonder what they might be. Tapping her feet to the music blaring out from Workers’ Playtime on the canteen wireless, Stella dreamily wondered if she and Bill might go dancing during their leave. The thought of being in Bill’s strong arms, swinging around a ballroom-floor made her heart beat double time; he was such a wonderful dancer and could move to any tune, foxtrot, waltz, tango but best of all jive. Hearing ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’ blasting out on the air waves, Stella itched to dance, and, quickly checking that dour Nellie was nowhere in sight, she jived around the large kitchen table, waving a dishcloth over her head.
Serving dinner to a long queue of hungry munitions workers, then clearing away, followed by a constant stream of washing-up, slowly brought Stella down to earth. Realizing that she wouldn’t be going anywhere if she didn’t get official leave, she decided to pop over to the factory manager’s office. Leaving Nellie to start the teas (fortunately a simple meal of baked potatoes and beans) for the first shift of diners, Stella dashed across the site to the old mill building which housed the management. After considering the long hours Stella had worked throughout the summer, plus the overtime she had put in when the workers had been asked to voluntarily work a longer day in order to increase the munitions output, the manager kindly granted Stella five days’ leave at the start of October.
‘You’ll leave everything in order before you go?’ he asked sharply. ‘We don’t want the workforce starved to death in your absence.’
Knowing that she would prepare at least half of the meals before she left, and that Nellie would be helped by a young girl whom Stella had been training up as a junior cook, she was able to assure the manager that everything would be under control. Leaving the office with wings on her feet, Stella completed the teas, then, while Nellie cleared away, Stella, keen to catch the last post, quickly answered Bill’s letter.
Darling!
I can barely think straight. Your letter put me in a flat spin and, though I’ve managed to prepare and serve food all day, my mind has been elsewhere. The thought that we’ll meet soon makes me giddy with happiness, and I’m intrigued by your mysterious plans, but I won’t ask any questions. Believe me, I want to, but I don’t want to spoil anything. I was worried that I might not get permission to take leave at such short notice, but the manager agreed to the dates you suggested, so that’s a huge relief. All I’ve got to do now is arrange train tickets for the journey down to Peterborough; as soon I have times I’ll let you know but you know how late trains are running these days, so please wrap yourself up warm as you might be in for a long wait at a draughty station. OH! I just can’t believe I’ll see you soon, my precious love. I’ll write more later but for now I must dash to catch the post.
‘Let’s blow the Nazis to buggery!’ he cried.
A patriotic cry that was echoed by the workforce a thousand times over.
More shifts meant more mouths to feed, and, with rationing getting worse by the month, Stella’s culinary skills were stretched to the limit. Her weekly menu (posted up in the canteen) centred around tried and tested popular savoury dishes: curried corned-beef balls, shepherd’s pie, potato hash, stuffed sheep’s heart, mock roast with mince and spam, cheese-and-onion flan, spicy sausage casserole, tripe and onions, mutton stew and fish pie were followed by the workers’ favourite puddings – jam roly-poly, Bakewell tart, sticky gingerbread, stewed apple and cinnamon, fruit pie, rhubarb crumble and rice pudding or sago. Fortunately, five o’clock teas were a lighter meal: beans on toast, macaroni cheese, smoked mackerel, toad in the hole, baked potatoes, spam fritters, sausage butties – all disappeared in no time.
There was little available to heighten the bland taste of most of the food, but Stella tried her best with sprinklings of fresh tangy herbs, gravy stock, dripping or just bog-standard sauces like HP and Lea & Perrins. Occasionally, a local farmer or one of the workers who shot game on the moor would turn up with a brace of pheasants, or wild rabbits, very occasionally a hare and plenty of pigeon, which helped enhance the flavour of cheap mince, corned beef and spam, even if it did mean Stella had to do all the plucking and disembowelling herself.
Whenever she had a free moment, Stella wrote to Bill, sometimes from the kitchen table in between washing, and preparing, cooking and serving meals. She poured out her heart to her lover while keeping him informed of the local news in her part of the world.
My precious love,
Summer’s slipped away from the moors, the cool misty mornings are back, and the days are getting shorter. It’s so long since we met – I count the weeks that we spent together, recalling every golden moment of our summer romance.
Life trudges on here, as we do our bit, building bombs to fight the enemy, but, as the air raids increase, many led by you brave Yanks, I can’t help but think of all the German civilian lives that have been lost. They’re humans just like we are; though their leaders are monsters, there are still women, children and babies suffering for something they never even started.
I wonder how you’re settling in down South, if you’re taking care of yourself, not getting into trouble? I hope not! I’m sure you’re far better provided for than us Brits. If I have to cook one more mince-and-onion pie or another rice pudding (without milk!), there’s a very good chance I might throw one or both of them straight out of the window. I’m quite sure you have got your Coca-Cola, chocolate, cold beer, Lucky Strike and gum. Keep a stash for when we meet, my darling.
The munitions factory still hosts dances on Saturday night. I only go now to help out in the kitchen, serving food to the dancers when the orchestra take a break. They always play our favourite songs, ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’, ‘In the Mood’, waltzes, foxtrots, jives, but I don’t dance, except with Doreen if she’s stuck for a partner. Remember the line from the song ‘I’ll Never Dance Again till I Dance with You’? Well, that’s me: there’s no joy in dancing without you, my sweet Bill.
I enclose some photographs. I have yours in a frame next to my bed. I kiss your photo every night before I fall asleep. Stay safe, my beloved.
Your adoring Stella xxx
16. Keswick
With Tom the stable lad gone, and Wilf still laid up with sciatica (which didn’t stop him dragging himself out of bed every Friday night to stagger down to the pub), Lillian took complete charge of Major and Daisy and all the accompanying work that was required of a stable girl. Hitherto unknown tasks – feeding, grooming, mucking out, cleaning tack, maintaining farm machinery – completely occupied Lillian from dawn till dusk. Fortunately, she had finally managed to get hold of a proper Land Girl’s uniform: brown breeches, green jumper and leather boots, which she alternated with dungarees and cotton shirts, depending on the weather. With Lillian now firmly established with the horses, she had suggested that Sal take over the tractor driving. Mo and Pat, terrified at the thought of sitting behind the wheel, had insisted that they were both ‘too numb’ to handle the tractor gears, never mind steer a straight course.
‘I’d finish up in’t blody beck!’ Pat had threatened.
And she meant it too. After Mo had cheerfully announced that she was as thick as two short planks, nobody even bothered to persuade her. Though funny and good-natured, Mo really was the dimmest young woman, with no ambition other than to meet the Italian prisoners of war who had recently landed in the valley.
‘They all look like Frank Sanitary,’ Mo had excitedly told her friends.
Puzzled, Lillian had asked, ‘Who’s Frank Sanitary?’
Sal shook her head. ‘Frank Sinatra,’ she explained. ‘To this day Mo’s never got his name right yet!’
In all weathers Lillian worked with her powerful horses; attached to their shafts, they turned the rich black earth which curled and broke under the sharpened blades. Later, after the earth had been exposed to wind, ice and rain, they would drill wheat and barley, but not before the Land Girls had weaned the youngest lambs and prepared the ewes for sale at Keswick market. No sooner was one back-breaking job done than another began, and it was the faithful horses that bore the brunt of the hard, slogging work, without complaint, steady, patient and reliable. They were the best example of selflessness and devotion Lillian had ever seen.
‘They’re more patriotic than we are,’ she declared in a moment of passion, as she, Mo, Sal and Pat cycled the ten miles from Rosthwaite village to Keswick on their ‘war agricultural’ bikes to pick up personal provisions.
Knowing just how much Lillian adored Major and Daisy, her friends couldn’t resist teasing her. Wobbling dangerously close to the banks of the gurgling River Derwent, Mo joked, ‘Don’t be daft, hosses can’t beat Hitler.’
‘Course they can!’ Lillian staunchly exclaimed. ‘They help us provide food for the nation. Like you yourself once said, nobody can fight on an empty belly,’ she reminded her friend.
Pulling over to the side of the road by the Bowder Stone in order to allow a loaded farm cart – pulled by a fine pair of enormous shire horses, who tossed their heads and jingled their harnesses as they clip-clopped by – to pass, Sal agreed with Lillian’s sentiments. ‘You’re right, Lil,’ she joked. ‘If it weren’t for the likes of Major and Daisy, Wilf would saddle up us lasses and have us dragging carts and ploughs around the fields.’
‘And whip us if we did so much as stop for a breather,’ Pat joked.
When they got into Keswick, the four women made a beeline for the shops. Clutching their clothing coupons, which Mrs M had not managed to filch, they bought cotton knickers and warm vests, new socks, fashion magazines, cigarettes and strong thread to sew their ripped work clothes. Afterwards they went to a steamy hot café opposite the Moot Hall in the centre of town, where they ordered tea, rock buns and spam sandwiches.
‘This is the life,’ sighed Pat, as she sipped scalding hot tea. ‘No filthy pots on the table, no stale bread and no Mrs M with a fag hanging out of her gob serving us rissoles that you could bounce off the wall.’
Helping herself to the biggest rock bun, Sal said with her mouth full, ‘What will we all do when this rotten war is over?’
Taking the second biggest rock bun, Mo immediately answered. ‘Get married, have kids and never so much as visit the countryside again.’
Lillian gazed at her in astonishment. ‘Do you really mean that?’
‘I bloody do,’ Mo forcefully replied. ‘I hate the great outdoors. Gimme a little terraced house, two up, two down, in Barnsley, with an indoor privy, running water and a nice fella to cuddle up to every night,’ she said with a dirty laugh.
Thinking how hard it would be to leave the land and the horses that she loved so much, Lillian shook her head. ‘I don’t know whether I could go back to “normal” any more.’
Remembering her life in the plush interior of Blackpool’s Regal picture house, Lillian couldn’t equate that small, slim, glamorous young woman with the woman she was now. Over the months of lifting farm machinery and controlling two powerful shires, Lillian had developed muscles in her legs and arms she never even knew she had. Her delicate, heart-shaped face, previously always highly made-up, was now deeply tanned, which contrasted prettily with her sparkling honey-brown eyes. These days Lillian didn’t even care what she wore; at the end of every day she always finished up covered in mud, rain, sleet and every kind of muck. Clean underwear was altogether another matter and vital to Lillian’s sense of well-being – hence their trip into Keswick that afternoon.
Curious, Sal asked, ‘So what will you do when the war’s over – carry on working with horses?’
Lillian thought about what Sal had said. ‘I’d love to, but I don’t know how I could ever do that,’ she answered honestly.
Mo gave a throaty chuckle. ‘You could always marry a farmer like Wilf, who would land you with the horses and every other job going.’
Lillian grimaced. ‘And turn into a sloven like Mrs M? No thanks!’
Lillian’s care for Daisy was especially touching as the mare’s pregnancy advanced.
Watching her development like a hawk, Lillian logged any changes in a little notebook which she kept in the tack room. Though she had never met the vet, she knew immediately who he was when she spotted him out in the farmyard checking the cattle. Wearing old tweeds, a crumpled felt hat and knee-high leather boots, he looked like a classic old-fashioned vet. Hurrying across the yard to introduce herself, Lillian smiled as she extended a rather grubby hand.
‘Hello, I’m Lillian, the new stable girl,’ she said.
Turning, the vet was struck by this young girl he had never seen before: young, strong and astonishingly beautiful, she exuded health, youth and energy.
‘Pleased to meet you, Lillian. I’m Robbie Allen, from Seatoller.’
‘Tom told me about you before he left,’ Lillian explained. ‘He said I was to get in touch with you if I have any concerns about Daisy’s pregnancy.’
The vet’s brow crinkled in concern. ‘Is she having problems?’
Lillian quickly shook her head. ‘No, she’s healthy enough, as far as I know, though I have to admit I am very inexperienced, but I have been keeping an eye on her progress.’
‘I’m happy to take a look at her while I’m here,’ Robbie said kindly.
Lillian smiled in relief. ‘Thank you, I’d be most grateful.’
Following Lillian to the paddock, where the shires were grazing in the fading light of the autumn evening, the vet confidently approached both horses, who raised their heads to snicker as he approached.
‘Hello there,’ he murmured softly, before stroking a firm hand first down Major’s broad glossy neck, then Daisy’s. ‘How are you doing?’
At the sound of his soft voice Daisy’s ears twitched and she pushed her muzzle into his chest.
‘They really like him,’ Lillian marvelled as she watched Robbie Allen bend down gently to examine Daisy, who was obedient to his bidding.
The only people Lillian had seen previously with the horses were Wilf, who was a brute, and young Tom; the vet was altogether different. It wasn’t just Robbie’s easy, confident manner; it was his knowledge that struck Lillian. He knew these beasts, understood them; they in return instinctively responded to his touch and voice. Major, jealous of all the attention that the mare was getting, gave the vet a strong nudge on the arm.
‘All right, big boy,’ Robbie smiled. ‘I’ve not forgotten you.’ Straightening up, he gave Daisy a gentle pat on the rump, then turned to stroke Major, who towered head and shoulders over the vet. Snorting down his nostrils, the horse blew into Robbie’s thick, auburn-grey hair.
‘They’re playing you off,’ Lillian chuckled.
‘They’re beautiful beasts,’ Robbie answered affectionately. ‘Let’s get away from them for a few moments, then I can report on Daisy’s condition,’ he suggested.
Leaving the horses to graze in the paddock, they stood in the yard, the vet lighting up a pipe, which he puffed on for a few seconds before speaking. Inhaling the nutty dark smell of the burning tobacco, Lillian thought how much nicer pipe tobacco smelt than the cheap cigarettes she smoked.
‘She’s doing fine – on track to drop the foal sometime mid-November, so not long now,’ Robbie told Lillian. ‘Take it easy with her from now on, though,’ he warned. ‘Let Major do the work where possible or use the tractor, if you can. Daisy needs to rest, and eat well, as much as that’s possible these days.’
Just listening to Robbie talking about the imminent birth made Lillian’s pulse race, as she realized that she was both excited and nervous.
‘I could leave Daisy in the paddock throughout the day when I’m working,’ she suggested. ‘The grass isn’t as rich as it was in the summer, but there’s still some there to graze on.’
Robbie nodded in agreement with her idea. ‘Leave her in her stable on cold days; if she’s out and it’s chilly, she’ll drop weight and that might affect the weight of her foal. Right,’ he concluded, as he tapped his pipe on a fence post. ‘I’ll be off – nice to meet you, and keep in touch,’ he said cheerily, before heading off to his mud-spattered old Jeep.
Lillian watched him go with a quizzical expression on her face. He had assured her that all was well with the mare in her charge, and the advice he had given her was sound and sensible; but it was Robbie Allen’s way with the animals that lingered with her after his departure: the instant rapport between man and beast had deeply moved her. A shrill neigh from the paddock recalled Lillian to the here and now, and, hurrying back to the field, she nimbly leapt over the gate to attach lead ropes to Major and Daisy and take them back to their snug, straw-littered stalls, where, after a warm bran mash supper, they peacefully settled down for the night.
17. Peterborough
Dearest, darling Stella Star,
Good news! I’ve got leave in October, so get your gorgeous self to Peterborough, where I plan to meet you. I appreciate you’ll have to get leave too, but, considering you’ve not had time off in months, I’m really hoping you can swing it with your factory manager. You’ll never guess where I’m planning to take you for five days – just believe me when I say it’s quite uniquely lovely. No more clues, so don’t ask!
After reading Bill’s letter, Stella danced around the canteen kitchen in sheer joy, so much so she didn’t hear her young assistant, Nellie, enter the room. It was only after she had spun full circle, wildly waving her hands in the air, that she came face to face with her colleague, who gawped at her boss in disbelief.
‘Is summat up?’ she asked bluntly, as Stella came to a stumbling halt.
With a wide smile still on her face, Stella answered, ‘Everything’s fine. I’ve just had good news, that’s all.’
‘Shall I mash the spuds before they get cold?’ Nellie continued pragmatically.
Trying to gather her thoughts, Stella answered, ‘Yes, please,’ just as the smell of burning assailed her senses.
Stating the obvious Nellie grumbled, ‘You’ve burnt yon sausages.’
After smothering the sausages in onion gravy, Stella popped the heavy trays into the big industrial oven, and, leaving Nellie to mash pounds and pounds of spuds, Stella made several huge dishes of jelly, which she planned to serve with tinned peaches. All the time she worked her mind raced: what exactly was Bill planning for her? In truth she didn’t care where they went, or where they stayed, just as long as she could see him, hold him, kiss him – nothing else mattered. But he had sounded so excited about his plans that now she couldn’t help but wonder what they might be. Tapping her feet to the music blaring out from Workers’ Playtime on the canteen wireless, Stella dreamily wondered if she and Bill might go dancing during their leave. The thought of being in Bill’s strong arms, swinging around a ballroom-floor made her heart beat double time; he was such a wonderful dancer and could move to any tune, foxtrot, waltz, tango but best of all jive. Hearing ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’ blasting out on the air waves, Stella itched to dance, and, quickly checking that dour Nellie was nowhere in sight, she jived around the large kitchen table, waving a dishcloth over her head.
Serving dinner to a long queue of hungry munitions workers, then clearing away, followed by a constant stream of washing-up, slowly brought Stella down to earth. Realizing that she wouldn’t be going anywhere if she didn’t get official leave, she decided to pop over to the factory manager’s office. Leaving Nellie to start the teas (fortunately a simple meal of baked potatoes and beans) for the first shift of diners, Stella dashed across the site to the old mill building which housed the management. After considering the long hours Stella had worked throughout the summer, plus the overtime she had put in when the workers had been asked to voluntarily work a longer day in order to increase the munitions output, the manager kindly granted Stella five days’ leave at the start of October.
‘You’ll leave everything in order before you go?’ he asked sharply. ‘We don’t want the workforce starved to death in your absence.’
Knowing that she would prepare at least half of the meals before she left, and that Nellie would be helped by a young girl whom Stella had been training up as a junior cook, she was able to assure the manager that everything would be under control. Leaving the office with wings on her feet, Stella completed the teas, then, while Nellie cleared away, Stella, keen to catch the last post, quickly answered Bill’s letter.
Darling!
I can barely think straight. Your letter put me in a flat spin and, though I’ve managed to prepare and serve food all day, my mind has been elsewhere. The thought that we’ll meet soon makes me giddy with happiness, and I’m intrigued by your mysterious plans, but I won’t ask any questions. Believe me, I want to, but I don’t want to spoil anything. I was worried that I might not get permission to take leave at such short notice, but the manager agreed to the dates you suggested, so that’s a huge relief. All I’ve got to do now is arrange train tickets for the journey down to Peterborough; as soon I have times I’ll let you know but you know how late trains are running these days, so please wrap yourself up warm as you might be in for a long wait at a draughty station. OH! I just can’t believe I’ll see you soon, my precious love. I’ll write more later but for now I must dash to catch the post.
