Whisper on the Wind. Elizabeth Elgin
Читать онлайн книгу.
cheek.
‘It’s almost dark. Did you manage to finish?’
‘We did. All over and done with till next year. God! I’m filthy! There wouldn’t be any hot water to spare, Gran? My hair’s thick with dust and I’ve got chaff down my shirt and it’s itching like mad. I need a bath.’
‘I thought you might; towels are on the fireguard. I held back supper till you came in. How did it go, darling?’
‘Fine. Well – up to a point, that is. Kath took a tumble over the side of the stack. She’s okay, but still a bit shaken. Marco grabbed her, just in time.’
‘The Italian?’
‘Yes, Gran. Marco. If it hadn’t been for him, there could’ve been a nasty accident.’
‘When am I going to meet your friend?’ The conversation took an abrupt about-turn. Not that she was not relieved, Hester acknowledged silently, that something awful hadn’t happened to the poor young woman, but it could not be discussed at Ridings if the credit must go to an Italian. ‘She seems nice. Ask her to tea sometime, and show her the house. You said she was interested to see it.’
‘Okay. Sunday’s her day off, same as mine. Maybe she’d like that.’
‘All settled, then. Perhaps Grace could spare me a couple of eggs for sandwiches,’ Hester murmured, ‘and there’s a little of the Christmas cake left.’ An almost fatless, almost fruitless, almost sugarless Christmas cake, she sighed, remembering the take-six-eggs-and-one-pound-of-butter recipe of pre-war days. ‘I’ll look forward to meeting her. Now upstairs with you. Supper’s at six sharp, so don’t lie there wallowing.’
‘All right now, Kath?’ asked Flora as they pedalled back to Peacock Hey. ‘Sorry I had to be a bit sharp this morning.’
‘I’m fine – you were right to make me stay up there. And one thing I’ve learned – not to go threshing again without tying my trouser bottoms. Did I make an awful fool of myself?’ she asked, frowning.
‘No more than I’d have made if it had happened to me. But farms are notorious places for accidents, Kath, so try to forget it. And we’d better get a move on, or there’ll be no hot water left.’
A letter was waiting at the hostel; Kath had sensed there would be one. It bore the Censor’s stamp and the handwriting on the envelope was Barney’s. She could have done without a letter from North Africa, she thought petulantly. Today of all days she needed Barney’s disapproval like she needed a rat up her trouser leg!
Lips set tightly, she returned it to the letter-rack. Right now she needed a hot bath more than anything else in the world. The letter must wait until after supper.
‘Ready for your supper?’ Grace asked of her son who sat in the fireside rocker.
The departure of the threshing team had not signalled the end of Jonty’s day; there had still been cows to feed and milk. Now he was so weary that if the house took a direct hit, he doubted he could get out of the chair.
‘Can you keep it warm till I’ve had a bath?’
‘I can. Kath offered to stay on and help with the milking, mind, but your dad sent her back with the Forewoman. She was badly shaken this morning, though she tried not to make a fuss. I like that girl, but just when I think I’ve got the measure of her and start treating her like I treat young Roz, then a barrier comes down, if you see what I mean?’
‘Sorry, Mum, no. Kath seems ordinary and normal to me, and for a towny she’s fitted in fine. What do you mean – a barrier?’
‘I don’t know; not exactly. But I’m right, I’m sure I am. Woman’s instinct, you could call it.’ Of course Jonty hadn’t sensed it; what man would? ‘And get yourself off your behind, lad. You’ll feel all the better when you’ve washed that muck off you.’ Oh, yes. It took a woman to know a woman. ‘And don’t forget to rinse out the bath when you’ve finished!’ she called as he slowly climbed the stairs.
There was something, Grace insisted, but she couldn’t pry – even in wartime, when people had grown kinder and closer, she couldn’t. Poor lass. Even in that hostel amongst all those girls, she’d still be alone, she wouldn’t mind betting; still holding back that last little bit of herself that no one would be allowed to see, or know.
‘Take care, Kath,’ she whispered, wondering how she was feeling and what she was doing. ‘Take care, lass.’
Kathleen Allen sat beside the common-room fire, a notepad on her knee. Only when she had bathed and eaten her supper had she returned to the letter-rack to pick out the blue air-mail envelope. And she had guessed right; Barney was still angry with her, though when he wrote he had not received the Christmas Day letter she hoped would make things right between them. Things would be better, when he did. When he read of her love; when he realized how she missed him and worried for his safety then perhaps he’d be the Barney she had cared for, and married. It stood to reason, she supposed, that a man should feel resentment when he was parted from all he cared for most.
She looked down at the pad.
Dearest Barney,
Tonight, when I got back to the hostel, your letter was waiting for me. It is very cold here, the skies are grey and darkness comes early. I tried to imagine you sitting there writing to me, with the sun beating down and you trying to keep cool.
She had not mentioned his annoyance in her letter, nor apologized again. By now, surely, he must be prepared to forgive and forget?
Today at Home Farm we all worked very hard, threshing the last of the wheat. Everyone who could be spared came along to lend a hand and we finished just a little before dusk.
She would not tell him about the rat, nor about what happened to her. It might only cause him to worry – or prompt him to say he’d told her so. To tell him was impossible, anyway, because he still didn’t know about Jonty who should have been in the Army, and she could never tell him about Marco.
Tomorrow things will be less hectic and Roz and I will be back to normal again. Roz isn’t very happy, at the moment. Her boyfriend has gone home on leave and she misses him, as I miss you, Barney.
Yes, she did miss him, but not with the tearing ache with which Roz missed Paul. Her eyes misted over. Roz and Paul had no secrets yet she, Kath, must measure every word she wrote to her husband and it was wrong, for he was all she had in the world. He had married her knowing what she was, and given her his name. And having that name, one which was really hers, was more important to her than ever she would admit.
Yet how could she tell him? How would he react if ever he was to discover that an Italian – a man who was his enemy – had today almost certainly saved her life? And how could she argue that it had been Marco who was there when she needed help; when she needed comfort?
‘Marco is your enemy, too,’ whispered her conscience. ‘His country is at war with your country.’
‘Think,’ demanded the voice of her reason, ‘that if Barney and Marco had faced each other in North Africa and each had carried a gun …’
She shivered with distaste. It was all so wrong. Wars were wrong. If women governed the world there’d be an end to war. Women would say, ‘No more sons; we will conceive no more children if every score of years you send them to war!’
She clucked angrily. She was being stupid, her with her grand thoughts. Women would never be anything but women. It was the way it was; the way it always would be unless – or until – women stood together and demanded to be as good as men. They’d done it before, hadn’t they; had chained themselves to railings and gone to prison, died even. And because of that, a woman could vote and need never tell her husband how she voted. Now women were at war, really at war. They wore the uniforms her husband detested and tried not to be afraid. They weren’t comforts for officers!
Barney