thought of an honest day’s work.
‘Everything else’s up to Joe and me and you lot. You can all have a go at different things, see what you’re best at. Five twenty a.m. there’s tea on the kitchen table, five thirty it’s down to milking. I’ll sort you out, your various duties, in the morning. Anyone have any preferences?’
Prue volunteered at once. ‘Well, I found on the course I loved tractors, Mr Lawrence. Don’t suppose you’d ever believe it, but I could plough a pretty straight furrow, they said.’
‘I’d find that hard, I must admit,’ he replied, unable to resist a slight smile.
‘I loved working with cows,’ said Ag. She would be the one, perhaps, he would introduce to hedging. He could imagine her, slasher in hand – kind, studious face, thoughts hidden behind hooded eyes. He couldn’t picture her, somehow, serious head bent into the muddy side of a cow.
‘I’ll remember that, then. And you?’ He turned to Stella. The picture of her knee still flickered in his mind.
I’m afraid I got to the course late because my father was ill, so I missed learning to milk. I’m just a general sort of all-rounder … I’ll do anything.’
‘That’s good. Well, then, you start at dawn tomorrow. I warn you now, I’m a fairly easy man’ – Ag saw his wife’s mouth twitch almost imperceptibly – ‘but one thing I can’t stand is anyone late for anything, see? And another thing: there’s to be no shirking. It’s tough work, long hours, but it’s the satisfaction of a job well done you’ll get. The satisfaction of knowing you’re doing your bit for your country in this damn war. Now—’ he pushed back his chair, flushed from the exertion of so much speaking. ‘I thought we should … celebrate your first night with a sip of the wife’s home-made ginger wine. You’ll never have tasted anything like it, I can tell you that.’
He strode over to the sideboard, opened a cupboard, took out five wineglasses and put them on the table. Their glass, so pale a pink as to be almost an illusion, was engraved with butterflies that flew through swirling ribbons. It was a wonder their fine stems did not snap in Mr Lawrence’s huge clumsy hands, thought Ag. They were the first beautiful objects she had seen in the house. She could not contain her response of pleasure.
‘They’re so pretty,’ she said.
Mrs Lawrence blushed. She was confused by the least of compliments. ‘My mother’s,’ she said. ‘My mother liked to collect pretty things. We’ve not many left. We had to sell off gradually. Bad years.’ She put her hand to her mouth, as if she had said too much. The merest gathering of shadows beneath her eyes – which almost smiled – indicated a feeling of modest pride as she watched her husband pour the thick golden wine. Filled, the blush of the glass deepened against the wine.
By now it was almost dark outside. No one put on the light. The room was warmer, furred with the merged smells of food and polish, and the faint note of musky scent that came from Prue. Mr Lawrence, his dutiful speeches over, was suddenly looser in his movements, sitting heavily back in his chair – the only one with arms – swinging a frail glass to his lips.
‘A toast,’ he said. ‘To Mr Churchill.’
‘To Mr Churchill,’ the girls muttered, holding up their glasses.
The smoky light through the window joined the pink of glass and gold of wine. So now the glasses were the colour of misted plums, thought Ag, spurred by her usual private wonder at the antics of colour.
‘And, of course, to you girls.’
‘Thank you, Mr Lawrence,’ giggled Prue. ‘That’s nice of you.’
Again the farmer could not resist a smile as he watched three white little hands tipping the glasses to their pretty little mouths: tomorrow they’d be piling the dung heap, sweeping the yard, slapping grease on sore udders.
They all drank, Mrs Lawrence with tiny sips. The fiery wine burned their throats, their chests, their
‘Everything else’s up to Joe and me and you lot. You can all have a go at different things, see what you’re best at. Five twenty a.m. there’s tea on the kitchen table, five thirty it’s down to milking. I’ll sort you out, your various duties, in the morning. Anyone have any preferences?’
Prue volunteered at once. ‘Well, I found on the course I loved tractors, Mr Lawrence. Don’t suppose you’d ever believe it, but I could plough a pretty straight furrow, they said.’
‘I’d find that hard, I must admit,’ he replied, unable to resist a slight smile.
‘I loved working with cows,’ said Ag. She would be the one, perhaps, he would introduce to hedging. He could imagine her, slasher in hand – kind, studious face, thoughts hidden behind hooded eyes. He couldn’t picture her, somehow, serious head bent into the muddy side of a cow.
‘I’ll remember that, then. And you?’ He turned to Stella. The picture of her knee still flickered in his mind.
I’m afraid I got to the course late because my father was ill, so I missed learning to milk. I’m just a general sort of all-rounder … I’ll do anything.’
‘That’s good. Well, then, you start at dawn tomorrow. I warn you now, I’m a fairly easy man’ – Ag saw his wife’s mouth twitch almost imperceptibly – ‘but one thing I can’t stand is anyone late for anything, see? And another thing: there’s to be no shirking. It’s tough work, long hours, but it’s the satisfaction of a job well done you’ll get. The satisfaction of knowing you’re doing your bit for your country in this damn war. Now—’ he pushed back his chair, flushed from the exertion of so much speaking. ‘I thought we should … celebrate your first night with a sip of the wife’s home-made ginger wine. You’ll never have tasted anything like it, I can tell you that.’
He strode over to the sideboard, opened a cupboard, took out five wineglasses and put them on the table. Their glass, so pale a pink as to be almost an illusion, was engraved with butterflies that flew through swirling ribbons. It was a wonder their fine stems did not snap in Mr Lawrence’s huge clumsy hands, thought Ag. They were the first beautiful objects she had seen in the house. She could not contain her response of pleasure.
‘They’re so pretty,’ she said.
Mrs Lawrence blushed. She was confused by the least of compliments. ‘My mother’s,’ she said. ‘My mother liked to collect pretty things. We’ve not many left. We had to sell off gradually. Bad years.’ She put her hand to her mouth, as if she had said too much. The merest gathering of shadows beneath her eyes – which almost smiled – indicated a feeling of modest pride as she watched her husband pour the thick golden wine. Filled, the blush of the glass deepened against the wine.
By now it was almost dark outside. No one put on the light. The room was warmer, furred with the merged smells of food and polish, and the faint note of musky scent that came from Prue. Mr Lawrence, his dutiful speeches over, was suddenly looser in his movements, sitting heavily back in his chair – the only one with arms – swinging a frail glass to his lips.
‘A toast,’ he said. ‘To Mr Churchill.’
‘To Mr Churchill,’ the girls muttered, holding up their glasses.
The smoky light through the window joined the pink of glass and gold of wine. So now the glasses were the colour of misted plums, thought Ag, spurred by her usual private wonder at the antics of colour.
‘And, of course, to you girls.’
‘Thank you, Mr Lawrence,’ giggled Prue. ‘That’s nice of you.’
Again the farmer could not resist a smile as he watched three white little hands tipping the glasses to their pretty little mouths: tomorrow they’d be piling the dung heap, sweeping the yard, slapping grease on sore udders.
They all drank, Mrs Lawrence with tiny sips. The fiery wine burned their throats, their chests, their
Similar Books
Twist of Gold
Michael Morpurgo
Buck and the Widow Rancher (2006)
Carlton Youngblood
Sealing Death
Basil E. Bacorn
Challenging the Center (Santa Fe Bobcats)
Jeanette Murray
Bewitched
Melissa Lynne Blue
Arise (Book Three in The Arson Saga)
Estevan Vega
The Leprechaun Who Wished He Wasn't
Siobhan Parkinson
Colum McCann - Let the Great World Spin
Colum McCann