This Cold Country Read Online Free PDF

peacetime, Valerie would be unlikely to sit at the dining-room table at Aberneth Farm—which didn’t mean she would have belonged in the kitchen, either—and felt that she did so now under false pretenses. Daisy sometimes wondered what would have happened if a working class girl had been stationed at Aberneth Farm. And why one never had been. Was it by chance or were such things arranged? Fixed? And if they were, how was it done? What code, what euphemisms or words were employed ? “She’ll be good with animals; she has experience with horses and fox-hunting” ? Was it possible that the Land Army was as hierarchical and class conscious as the world to which Daisy, in the now seemingly remote pre-war past, had belonged?
    Stocking-footed, Daisy walked along the corridor from the kitchen to the polished wood of the hall, the surface beneath her feet changing from scratchy to smooth wood, from wood to the tightly woven Turkish carpet and back to polished wood.
    Daisy was twenty years old; letters had associations only of pleasure and excitement. Bills, taxes, appeals, and obligations were not yet part of her life. The post brought letters from home and occasionally news from friends. It was her only personal communication with the outside world; the wireless connected her with the world in general, the post with people she knew. Now, of course, Daisy would sometimes hear on the six o’clock news about bombing raids on places where family and friends lived or were stationed.
    There were two letters, and the envelopes were larger and thicker than those Daisy was now used to. Pre-war stock. She did not recognize the handwriting on either envelope. She opened the larger first. Inside was a stiff white invitation card. Daisy was puzzled; she seemed to have been invited to a dance. Quite a smart one, by the looks of it. A pre-war dance. Daisy did not recognize either the name of her hostess or the location of the dance. Without wasting too much time puzzling over it, she opened the second envelope. As she had imagined, the letter cast some light on the invitation. It was from Lady Nugent, who introduced herself as James Nugent’s mother and hoped that Daisy could stay for the weekend of her eldest daughter’s coming-out dance. Lady Nugent went on to say that James, as well as she, hoped Daisy would be able to come and that she would arrange for someone to collect Daisy from the nearest railroad station.
    Valerie entered through the front door and took off her boots. She tended to avoid going through the kitchen unless she was wet or dirty. In a general way, Valerie did not get as dirty as Daisy did. Her work was no less hard, but it tended to be cleaner. Valerie went to some lengths to avoid working in “blood, shit, and mud,” as the girls called it. Daisy was not squeamish and was very much aware that cow manure and rabbit blood were not what Churchill had been referring to when he had told the English people that he had only “blood, toil, tears, and sweat” to offer them. But since it was all she had to give her country—since she had arrived at Aberneth Farm, Germany had seemingly effortlessly invaded and occupied Denmark, Norway, Holland, and Belgium—she did her work cheerfully and as best she knew how.
    â€œYou’ve got blood on your invitation,” Valerie said with unconcealed disgust.
    Daisy looked down; a faint bloody thumbprint now sullied the pristine whiteness of the invitation card.
    Valerie loitered.
    â€œI’ve been invited to a dance. In...”—Daisy glanced at the letter—“Near Ambleside, in Westmoreland.”
    â€œWhen?”
    Daisy glanced down; the date was some weeks ahead. For reasons she did not quite understand, she felt relieved there was so much time.
    â€œIt’s a whole weekend. I don’t know if I’ll be able to go.”
    Valerie looked at her with the pity and scorn she reserved for those unable to keep