style="font-size:15px;"> ‘And I did, and it’s all right. But supposing something did happen? They’d die of shock. It’s crazy. I’m old enough to get called up and Paul’s old enough to fight, yet still we’ve got to act like it’s wrong for us to be in love.’
‘I know. It isn’t a lot of fun being young these days. But be careful, Roz. You said the Alderby folk could be funny – think of the gossip and what it would do to your gran.’
‘I will, I do, so stop your worrying. We’re not entirely stupid. We both know the way it is for us, that my getting pregnant isn’t on. I want Paul’s babies but not yet; not in this mad world. I wouldn’t be Skip’s wife for anything – wondering when she’ll see him again, if she’ll see him again; wondering if she’ll have to face life without him. Don’t worry, Kath. And for goodness’ sake let’s talk about something else – and not the weather, either. There’s been enough weather-talk since this snow came to last us for the duration. And don’t ask about York, because the more I think about it the more I think we’ll never be able to make it, not even for a night.’
‘Then let’s talk about tinned peaches, all thick with syrup and smothered in cream, and chocolate biscuits and big, thick steaks with onions fried in butter and boxes and boxes of chocolates. Let’s remember when we could buy silk stockings and all the clothes we wanted without coupons, and lipsticks and scent? Where did all the lovely scent go?’
‘Yes, and what about ice-cream? Think about strawberry ice-cream, Kath. Remember when the man came round, ringing his bell, and big cornets for a penny?’
Remember-when was a game, a nostalgic wallowing, a calling back of things almost forgotten.
‘And banana sandwiches, all crunchy with sugar and bread thick with butter – white bread …’
‘Oh, Kath, how long is this war going to last? How long, will you tell me?’
The snow that lay grey and frozen for almost a week gave way to a warm wind that thawed it overnight. Almost at once Peddlesbury’s bombers were airborne again and the ploughing of Ridings’ acres was resumed.
They cut the last furrow on the fourth day of March, three days late yet still a jump ahead of the man from the War Ag. who had not yet come to inspect it.
Mat Ramsden was pleased and relieved. Between them the young men had ploughed close on six acres a day and for more than eight weeks, too. They’d done a grand job. He said as much to Hester Fairchild and she had acknowledged the fact and said she was grateful.
‘So what now, Mat?’
‘So now we get the harrow over it to break up the clods, aye, and some good manure on it, too. Still plenty to be done yet,’ he’d stressed.
‘So you intend keeping the prisoner? There’s no chance of finding a local man – well, they’re so lazy, the Italians …’
‘Not this one, ma’am. He’s worked like a good ’un. Wouldn’t find better, nor cheaper,’ he added in final mitigation.
‘Potatoes, you said, and sugarbeet?’ She knew when enough was enough; she could wait. ‘The War Ag. pay a subsidy on potatoes, didn’t you say?’
‘They do. It’ll nicely cover the cost of the seed. Those old acres of yours’ll be paying you back, come Michaelmas.’ Mat smiled as he took his leave. ‘It’ll be right grand to see things growing again at Ridings.’
‘I hope you won’t make it difficult for the prisoner, Gran, now that the ploughing’s finished,’ Roz said later, careful not to use his name.
‘Difficult? Has anything been said then, at Home Farm?’
‘Not that I’ve heard, but I do know Mat wants to keep him.’
‘I still say they’re lazy,’ Hester sniffed. ‘Used to siestas, no doubt.’
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