Kath hung her coat and gas mask on the door peg.
‘I do. You’re going to Ramsden’s farm, at the far end of Alderby village. You’re urgently needed, it seems. They want you there in the morning. Now, lassie, do you want to unpack first, or would you rather eat?’
‘Eat – please!’ Kath followed her amiable Forewoman to the warmth of the kitchen, sighing as the plate was set before her.
She would remember this day for ever, she really would. Thursday, 18th December 1941; the day on which her new life began. It had taken a long, long time, but now she was here in the country and it was near-unbelievable and undeniably wonderful.
‘Thanks,’ she whispered huskily. ‘Thanks a lot …’
There was no denying that bicycles figured importantly in Kathleen Allen’s life. They always had, as far back as she could remember, starting with the orphanage and the little tricycles that were the only memory worth keeping from those days of grudging charity. The bright red three-wheeler with the noisy bell was her favourite and she had pedalled around and around the asphalted yard on this gaudy friend who shared her secret dreams; dreams in which she was not an orphan but a real little girl whose mother dressed her in a buttercup-sprigged cotton dress with knickers to match and whose father gave her rides on the crossbar of his bicycle and boasted, ‘Our Kathleen’s doing well at school.’ Our. That lovely, belonging little word.
When her in-service days began, there had been her first proud possession, something entirely her own, paid for at three shillings and sixpence a month, for a whole year. A second-hand bicycle, black-painted, with a bag on the back and a basket at the front.
‘Lizzie,’ she whispered, remembering. ‘Old Tin Lizzie.’
She had ridden Tin Lizzie on her afternoons off and on summer evenings when she finished work. She was cycling in the country the day she and Barney met. Had it not been for a flat tyre, the lorry driver would never have jumped from his cab and offered his help.
‘Oh dear, chucks. Know how to mend it?’
She shook her head, knowing only that the cost of repair would take a large bite from the one pound ten shillings she received on the last day of each month.
So the driver put the bicycle on the back of his lorry and drove to the Birmingham town house in which she worked, offering to remove the wheel and repair the puncture in his own backyard. To her shame she had refused, for where was the guarantee she would ever see her wheel again?
But she saw Barnaby Allen again that very next evening when he knocked loudly on the front door – the front door, mind you – saying he was the bicycle repair man. The parlourmaid pointed in the direction of the area steps, reminding him tartly that the kitchen door was the one upon which to knock when doing business with a housemaid.
Barney. His cheekiness had made her laugh and the dedication with which he courted her had been quite bewildering. And now, at six o’clock in the morning she was cycling into her new, exciting life, wishing she knew where Alderby St Mary was, let alone Matthew Ramsden’s farm.
She stopped, listening, eyes peering into a darkness that came back at her in dense, rolling waves. ‘Alderby’s about a mile down the lane,’ Flora had told her at the hostel. ‘Keep straight on and you can’t miss it. Watch out for the Air Force boys, though. Drive those trucks like fiends some of them do …’
She set off again cautiously; you had to take care in the blackout. Swollen noses, bruises and shattered spectacles had become a joke, almost. ‘Jumped out and hit you, did it?’ Unexpected obstacles had a lot to answer for, especially lamp-posts.
Ahead, the first pale streaks of daybreak coloured the sky, tipping the clouds with yellow, all at once giving shape to houses and trees and the tower of a church. This must be the place, sitting at the end of the longest, darkest, slowest mile she had ever pedalled. Surely she would find someone soon, who could tell her where to find Matthew Ramsden’s farm.
She stood still again and listened, breath indrawn. That was something else about the blackout. You couldn’t see, so you listened. Surprising how another sense took over. Someone was there and not too far away, either. She pulled in her breath once more, heard the slow, rhythmic grating of cartwheels and the clop of hooves somewhere to her right. ‘Hullo?’ she called eagerly. ‘Hullo, there!’
‘Over here! Watch out for the horse-trough!’ A pinpoint of light made circles in the darkness and she walked carefully in the direction of the voice. A pony and trap came into focus; milk bottles clinked.
‘Hullo?’ she said again.
‘Here I am.’ A woman’s voice. ‘Looking for someone?’
‘Goodness! Am I glad to meet you.’ Kath’s laugh was high with relief. ‘I’m looking for Ridings Home Farm. Is this Alderby St Mary?’
‘It is. Just hang on till I check that I haven’t missed anybody.’ A spot of torchlight shone on the pages of a book, lighting a young face and a fall of auburn hair. ‘That’s it, then. Just the school milk to drop off, and Polly’s, then I’m finished. I’m Roz Fairchild, by the way. I work at Ridings.’ A hand reached out.
‘Kathleen Allen. Kath.’ She grasped the hand firmly, ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’ She really was.
‘Not as glad as Mat Ramsden’s going to be to meet you. He’s desperate for help. Hope you’re his new landgirl?’
‘That’s me, though I’ve only just joined. It’ll be my first farm and I’m a bit nervous.’
‘Then don’t be, because I’m new to it, too. This is my first day – my first official day. We’ll muddle through between us.’
‘I can’t milk, Roz.’ Worrying about those cows again, dammit.
‘Neither can I, but it’s machine milking at Mat’s so it won’t be too bad. Jonty will show us how. Let’s be making tracks, eh? I’m just about frozen.’ The weather wasn’t letting up, thank heaven. There’d be no ploughing but there wouldn’t be any flying, either. Paul would make it to the dance tonight. ‘Grace is sure to have the kettle on. C’mon, Daisy. Hup, girl.’
The little pony set off with a toss of its head that set the harness jingling.
Daisy, Kath smiled; Roz and Daisy. Two friends, and she was on her way to hot tea and a welcome.
Happiness flushed her cheeks. She wouldn’t spoil one minute of this day by worrying about what Barney’s letter would bring. There was a war on and a woman whose husband was away at war must learn to think for herself, make decisions she would once never dreamed of making. No, Kath decided, suddenly headily defiant, she wouldn’t worry – well, not until Barney came home.
She smiled with pure pleasure and fell in behind the milk-float that would lead her to the farm. New friends and tea. What more could a girl – a landgirl – want on this most special morning?
They came upon Ridings unexpectedly, rounding the broad sweep of lane to see it there ahead of them. It was one of the nice things about the old house, Roz always
