just as Lorna seemed not to like or trust Rowley Wintersgill so she, Ness, had the same sniffy feeling about William. Nothing she could set her mind to exactly; more a feeling of trouble to come!
‘We’ll see if the hens have gone in to roost,’ she said as they went downstairs, ‘and if they have we can shut them up for the night.’
The hens, she thought, and the garden and the green-cool of the wood behind it and Ladybower and Nun Ainsty were so amazing to a city dweller like herself. Oh, she loved Liverpool to bits and the people and their sense of humour and the mucky old Mersey, but Nun Ainsty was a special place she would be glad for all time to have lived in and would remember for ever. And she was lucky to have found it when she was so in need of comfort and a new start, away from Liverpool. And from memories of Patrick.
She sat on the wooden bench beside the rose bushes, closed her eyes, took a deep, calming breath then said,
‘Them hens don’t smell, Lorna …’
It was all, in that moment of unguarded remembering, she could think of to say.
‘Well!’ said Lorna, turning off the wireless at the end of the news. ‘What does the government think it’s doing! Income tax up a shilling to eight and six in the pound – that’s more than a third of all you earn! And beer up a penny a pint! They just spring it on us without so much as a thought! Who do they think they are?’
‘They’re the government,’ Ness supplied. ‘They’ve given themselves emergency powers to do exactly as they want! Me Da’s goin’ to be sick over the penny on beer, though the income tax won’t affect him. He doesn’t earn enough to have to pay it. Maybe that bloke at the Exchequer thinks he’s Robin Hood, taking from the rich to pay for the war. ’Cause it’s got to be paid for, y’know. Imagine how much it costs when we lose a battleship or a fighter or a bomber. And think how much it costs to feed and pay all those fighting men.’
‘Pay, Ness? How much do you think a soldier gets? Next to nothing! The country calls them up whether they want to go or not, then pays them a pittance for risking life and limb!’
‘You, er – seem to know a lot about what soldiers get …’ Ness was surprised at the ferocity of Lorna’s reply.
‘Well I do, as a matter of fact. William told me exactly how much a private in the Army gets – after all, it’s his job to know. And will I tell you what a woman with two children whose man is in the Army gets? It’s thirty-two shillings a week. One pound twelve shillings a week, for God’s sake! And maybe her rent accounts for ten shillings a week or maybe her house is mortgaged, which is far worse! And then there’s coal and light! How is a woman who didn’t want her husband to join up expected to manage?’
‘Are you sure, Lorna? It’s a bad lookout, if it is …’
‘Look, I can tell you exactly how the Army arrives at that figure. They call a man up and reckon he’s worth seventeen shillings a week; they also give the woman five shillings for the first child and three shillings – three shillings! – for the second. And because that isn’t enough for hér to live on, they take seven shillings out of her husband’s Army pay to give to her without even asking! So the poor soldier is left with a few bob a week and his wife has to try to manage on one pound, twelve shillings!’
‘Ar, but the announcer gave it out that the Armed Forces are to get a rise – had you forgotten?’
‘How could I have? Sixpence a day is such a huge sum! So the poor private will probably make his pay rise over to his wife when he gets it. I bet she’ll be over the moon with an extra three shillings and sixpence, Ness!’
‘Hey up, queen! What are you getting so het up about? Life’s like that – always has been.’
‘I know. And how do you think it makes me feel? Grandpa left Ladybower to me and all his money and stocks and shares and things. It’s all invested, but it gives me an income of my own – and I pay tax on a part of it I might add. And I wouldn’t complain at all if I could say where my income tax goes and who shall get it – but I can’t! The war, like you say, has got to be paid for!’
‘So where would you have your tax go, if you could?’
‘I’d give it to a young woman in Meltonby. She’s got two children and was drawing her Army allowance at the post office when I was in buying stamps. The post office sells other things as well you know, and the other day they’d got sweeties to sell – rationed out to an ounce for each child. “Would you like a few dolly mixtures,” Mrs Benson asked the lady, but she said, “No thanks. Sweeties cost too much.” That woman probably thought that when everything was taken care of out of the one pound twelve shillings she’d just drawn, she hadn’t enough to pay sixpence for dolly mixtures. After all, sixpence buys two small loaves of bread!’
‘Ar. Poor kids. But I suppose you bought the sweeties for them?’
‘Of course I didn’t! How could I, without hurting her pride? Because when push comes to shove, pride is about all that woman has left!’
‘Well, for a lady who’s pretty well-heeled, you can do a very good imitation of a Bolshevik, might I say? And how did we get onto this subject?’
‘We got onto it because of a pesky sixpence a day rise for a man who is fighting for King and Country! And I’ll bet you anything you like he’d rather be at home with his wife and two little girls! And they aren’t called Bolsheviks now. They’re called Communists, and Joseph Stalin has just confirmed his pact of non-aggression with Hitler, did you know? And what an unholy alliance it is! Communists and Facists the best of friends and each not trusting the other farther than either could spit!’
‘Now see here, Mrs Hatherwood, you’ve got yourself into a real state! What’s to do, then? Time of the month, is it?’
‘I – I suppose it might be, but the dolly mixture thing happened last week and I keep remembering it and wanting to do something for that poor young woman.’
‘Well, you can’t, and that’s all there is to it. Mind, you could offer her charity, but I can’t see that going down very well, can you – her pride, an’ all that?’
‘You’re right. Charity is a cold thing. But when I last saw Mrs Benson, she did mention that her postman is expecting his call-up any time now and she’s going to split his round into two. She’s got a man – elderly, he is – to do Meltonby and said if I knew of anyone who’d care to take on Nun Ainsty, she’d be glad to hear from them. The pay isn’t all that good – not for the few houses I’d be delivering to – but there’s the morning paper round as well. Easy enough to push a paper through the letterbox with the mail. I’m thinking of –’
‘You’d be deliverin’ to? You’re not thinkin’ of bein’ a lady postie and paperboy? Flamin’ Norah! What would Himself say!’
‘He’d say, as would most patriotic men, that I was doing the right thing by the war effort. I mean – young men have got to join up, so someone has to take on their jobs. Why shouldn’t I help out? I’ve thought for a long time I ought to be doing more to help the war effort.’
‘All right. You fancy bein’ a postie – so how’s that going to help the soldier’s wife who can’t afford to buy her kids a few sweeties?’
‘I
