could absolutely see the appeal of that.
She flipped slowly through the papers in the box. Old letters, a few postcards. And then a folded piece of yellowing typewritten paper. She picked it out and unfolded it carefully, and in an instant she understood. The farm picture, Gran in overalls with her hair tied up, chickens all over the place. Women’s Land Army, it said at the top in capital letters. It was addressed to Olive Bratton, at an address in Canterbury that Lucy didn’t recognise, but which she supposed must have been Gran’s childhood home.
‘I have pleasure in enclosing your full Land Army uniform,’ she read aloud. ‘Then there’s a list of stuff … dungarees, breeches, gumboots.’ She stared down at it in amazement. ‘Jack, she was a Land Girl in the Second World War. How did I never know this?’
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