Allie Burns - The Land Girl

The man held out his manicured hand to Emily.

‘I’m your Uncle Wilfred,’ he said. ‘Your father’s brother.’

‘How do you do,’ she said. Her mother and brothers’ faces were a mask of blank politeness, betraying no clue as to what she should think of this unexpected visit.

‘I’ve come to see your family to talk business.’

So, this must be what she’d overheard them talking about. Why had they excluded her from that?

‘You didn’t speak to my father for years, did you?’ she asked. John shook his head at her for being so frank. He was clearly intent on making a good impression.

‘No,’ Wilfred said. ‘Twenty-five years to be precise. And …’ he pointed a finger at her ‘… don’t forget – he didn’t speak to me either. I regret the whole business terribly.’

It’s a little late now, she wanted to say, but the anguished smile pinned to Mother’s face stopped her short. ‘We used to come to your house in London,’ she remembered, ‘without Father.’

‘A long time ago now. Cecil was just a baby the last time we visited,’ Mother said.

‘Yes. It was a shame you couldn’t come again. Well, if you wouldn’t mind excusing us …’

‘I’ll come too,’ Mother said, her hands twisting and turning again.

‘It’s fine, Mother. Leave it to us,’ John said.

Cecil ambled out of the room and down the hallway whistling to himself.

‘What have I said to you about wearing those boots indoors!’ Mother snapped once the men were out of earshot.

Mother stared at her hands while the conversation took place on the other side of the wall. After a while, Emily realised Mother’s hands were trembling and that she was trying to still them. Within ten minutes voices rose in the room next door. Mother joined them then, and then Cecil, and the conversation continued for a while longer. Emily hovered outside the door, hoping to overhear something, but the voices were quiet.

She sat in her bedroom, the door open. She would demand to be told what was going on. It was ridiculous to exclude her in this way as if she was nothing more than a child.

Voices, sharper now they were out of the library, travelled up from the hallway. She scampered down the stairs, but before she could join the others on the front step, Wilfred’s car was already approaching the cedar avenue.

Mother marched straight back into the sitting room and poured herself a brandy, which she swallowed down in one.

‘Whatever is going on?’ Emily asked. ‘Is he giving us money?’

Mother set her glass back down on the table as if Emily hadn’t spoken.

‘Mother.’ John appeared in the doorway. ‘We need to talk.’

‘Of course,’ Mother said. She followed John into the library, leaving her once again on the wrong side of the door.

July 1915

Dearest Emily,

They have delayed my leave – they can’t spare us. I’ve been promised it should be next week now if I am fortunate enough to escape, or there is a shell with my name on it heading my way first.

I can’t pretend I’m not disappointed that I won’t see you at King’s Cross. Your letters have been the only good thing to come my way since I’ve been here, but I understand the reason why. I’ll linger outside the Telegraph Office just in case you change your mind and can meet me there.

Try not to be too hard on your mother – I’m sure she’s being truthful when she tells you that she thinks it’s for the best if you don’t work, even though you may disagree.

Yours

Theo

The chickens scattered to escape the sizeable boots of Mrs Tipton as she stepped out of the farmhouse door and grabbed John by the shoulders. She pulled him close, thumping the air out of him by patting his back with the palm of her hand, even though she’d only seen him the day before. ‘Ah, what a sight to see the three of you together again at the farmhouse. In you all come now,’ she said as she tugged John over the threshold.

Mrs Tipton poured them each a tea. ‘I’ve been working on him,’ she said.

Emily’s back straightened. It was the first time Mrs Tipton had mentioned the idea of Emily helping on the farm in weeks. ‘The more those women run circles around him, the more his resolve is weakening. Sometimes with men you just have to wear them down – it’s the only way.’

Before their tea had cooled enough to drink, Mr Tipton crashed into the kitchen shouting. Mrs Tipton raised her eyebrows at Emily.

‘Blasted women, blasted women!’

‘Whatever’s happened, dear?’ Mrs Tipton slid a cup of tea in front of him.

‘I thought those cows were temperamental.’ He threw his brown felt hat across the room. ‘Those beasts have nothing on women. I should never ha’ taken them on. They’re either jawing …’ he mimicked a busy mouth snapping up and down with his four fingers against his thumb ‘… or booing …’ he mimed rubbing his eyes with his fists.

‘You upset one o’ them again, have you?’ Mrs Tipton asked, tight-lipped.

‘S’not hard, it really isn’t,’ he said, kicking the table leg with his boot. ‘Another one, Annie, I think she called herself, has just packed her bags. They’re strong enough to lug their cases to the station when it means they can get out of here. You noticed that too, have you?’

Mrs Tipton nodded in reply. ‘What you need is a ganger,’ Mrs Tipton said with a wink to Emily. ‘And look who the wind has blown in for us, eh?’ She gestured with raised eyebrows towards Emily.

Mr Tipton furrowed his brow. ‘No disrespect, but what I need is more men. Cecil, you’re home for the summer. Couldn’t you help us out a bit, lad?’

Cecil’s gaze shifted about in the uncomfortable silence that followed. Cecil? Mr Tipton couldn’t be that desperate for help, surely to goodness. John caught Emily’s eye behind Cecil’s back; despite her disappointment at being overlooked again, it was too much to imagine Cecil milking cows and they both crumbled into laughter.

‘What?’ Cecil straightened his back, and his tie. ‘I think I’d command respect rather well amongst the workers.’

‘A good farmer leads from the front,’ Emily told him, clutching her stomach and grinning. After the drama up at the house, and John’s looming departure for the Front, the laughter warmed her insides.

‘It’s not that ludicrous a prospect, surely?’ Cecil asked.

John and Emily nodded at one another and said in unison: ‘Oh, it is.’

‘I really don’t see what’s so funny.’ Cecil frowned.

‘Oh, come on, Cecil,’ John said. ‘Can you really see yourself muck-spreading, digging, weeding …’ Cecil’s mouth had wrinkled up. ‘My point exactly. You won’t have time to loll around with your book, or write a thesis about the land ownership of the upper classes and the plight of the serfs. Whereas Emily here worked alongside me on the vegetable garden and I was tired and ready for a rest long before her.’

‘Exactly,’ Mrs Tipton agreed.

‘I’d like to try,’ Emily said. ‘Perhaps a trial?’

‘I appreciate you wanting to help,’ Mr Tipton said. ‘And you know I’ve always enjoyed having you around the place and you have a better understanding of the land than most, but I’ve had so much trouble. I don’t want any more. I can’t even risk you, Miss Cotham.’

‘It is her farm,’ Mrs Tipton reminded him. ‘She has every right to take good care of her family’s assets.’

She had been bending her husband’s ear for months now, and he was beginning to cave in.

‘Won’t you give me a chance to prove myself?’ Emily pressed on. ‘If you’d like, I can sign up with the government’s scheme and get some training.’