Where Bluebells Chime

‘We-e-ll – I did suggest the potting-shed fire, for the time being. After all,’ she hastened, ‘that would give you first refusal of the hen muck when I clean out the shed each week. Would only be fair,’ she stressed.

‘Fair.’ Jack Catchpole coveted the droppings to make into liquid manure. When it came to fertilizers, hen droppings were in a class of their own. ‘You got a pan for the fire, then?’

‘No, but Mrs Sutton is sure there are old iron pans they used to use at Rowangarth before they got a gas stove. I’m to have a word with Cook about it. Tilda never throws anything away, I believe.’

‘So it’s all cut and dried, Gracie,’ he murmured, relieved the hens would be housed well away from his garden.

‘Almost. I’m really looking forward to having them.’

‘Do you like it here, lass? Are you going to settle?’

‘Oh, yes! I knew it the day I came. No complaints, I hope? I’m doing my best,’ she added anxiously.

‘Aye. You’m a trier, I’ll say that for you, and as long as you see to it that I get that hen muck and don’t let Tom Dwerryhouse get his hands on it, I won’t grumble.’

Gracie let go a sigh of pure contentment. Of course she was going to settle at Rowangarth – for the duration, if she had anything to do with it. She loved living in the country; even in winter when it would be cold and wet and muddy she would still love it. She liked the land girls in the bothy, too, and the food was every bit as good as Mam’s. And Daisy and Tatty were nice and Drew was lovely and not a bit snobby like she’d thought a sir would be. And then she felt a terrible sense of guilt.

‘Oh dear, Mr C. I’m enjoying this war and I shouldn’t be, should I?’

‘Happen not, lass.’ He gave her shoulder a brief, fatherly pat. ‘But take my advice and make the most of the good days, ’cause for every good day, there could well be a bad one. Now get that branch out of sight like I told you and let’s get on with some work. Have you ever clipped a box hedge, Gracie?’

‘I haven’t, Mr Catchpole.’ Until she came to Rowangarth she hadn’t even seen a box hedge.

‘Then today, lass, you’m about to learn!’

‘You aren’t one bit interested in my medical, are you, Tatty? You’re miles away.’

‘No, Daisy, I’m not – not miles away, I mean. But they’ve been doing circuits and bumps all day at Holdenby Moor and you know what that means?’

‘Mm.’ Bombers taking off, doing two or three circuits of the aerodrome, then landing. Flight-testing the aircraft, which was always a giveaway that they’d be operational that night. ‘But they mightn’t go, Tatty.’

‘They’ll go, all right. There’s no moon at all – not until the new one on Tuesday. Perfect flying conditions.’

‘Fine. They’ll have good cover, then. Fighters won’t find them so easily. Don’t worry so, please. It’s the Air Ministry’s job to worry about flying conditions and it’s yours to wish Tim luck every inch of the way; get him back safely. And Tatty – try not to get too involved.’

‘Why? Because he’s a tail-gunner and gunners get killed, even when the rest of the crew make it back? And why shouldn’t I get involved? Why did you get involved with Keth?’

‘Because I love him.’ It was as simple as that.

‘And I’m not capable of falling in love, is that what you’re trying to say?’

‘No! But I’ve known Keth all my life. He’s always been there. When did you meet Tim? You hardly know him!’

‘You know when I met him! I’ve known him thirty-seven days exactly. And I loved him the minute I saw him and now it’s more serious than that.’

‘Oh, my Lord – you haven’t …?’

‘No we haven’t, but we will, Daisy. It nearly happened on Wednesday night. We both of us know it will, one day soon. And don’t look at me all holier than thou, as if I’m a common little tart! If you loved Keth as much as I love Tim, you’d understand.’

‘Tatty! I’m not judging you – truly I’m not. And anyway, the pot doesn’t call the kettle black!’

‘You mean you and Keth – you’ve …?’

‘Been lovers? Yes. When Keth came home because he thought there was going to be a war – the summer of ’thirty-eight it was. It happened before he went back to America to college.’

‘And was it marvellous? Was it worth it – all the worry? Because I know I shall worry – looking Mother in the face afterwards, I mean. Funnily enough, I’m not so bothered about getting pregnant because Tim says he wouldn’t let it happen. And you didn’t get pregnant, did you?’

‘Tatiana Sutton! You are so innocent!’

‘I suppose I am, but I trust Tim.’

‘Oh, famous last words! Please, please be careful? And make sure Karl doesn’t catch you out. You know he’s always hovering.’

‘Karl’s getting old now. I can give him the slip any time I want to.’

They had come to the crossroads, to where a signpost once stood with ‘Holdenby 1

/

’ on one arm and ‘Creesby 5’ on the other. Only signposts weren’t allowed now, because of the invasion, nor names on railway stations.

‘I’ll be careful. Both of us will. And, Daisy – was it marvellous? If you were me – would you?’

‘You’ll be taking an awful risk, you know that? And I can’t advise you now, can I? Your circumstances and Tim’s – well, they’re a whole lot different to ours. There’s a war on now.’

‘I know there is. And it wasn’t fair of me to ask, was it?’ She gave a little shrug of despair. ‘Well – good night, then. Is tomorrow your half-day off, Daisy? Will I see you?’

‘It is, but let’s leave it? You’ll probably be meeting Tim, anyway.’

‘God, I hope so!’

‘Of course you will! Tim will be just fine. And you don’t know for sure he’ll be on ops. tonight. Want me to walk to the gates with you?’

‘No thanks. I’ll be all right. I’m a big girl now – really I am.’

‘Hmm.’ Daisy watched her walk away into the twilight, shoulders drooping. Oh, damn this war and damn the stupid politicians who let it happen! Old men, all of them! Just declared war, they had, then expected the young men to fight it! ‘Hey, Tatty!’ she called.

‘Yes?’ Tatiana stopped, then turned slowly.

‘It was marvellous! Good night, love.’

Tatiana smiled suddenly, brilliantly. Then she turned, head high, shoulders straight and walked with swinging stride towards the gates of Denniston House.

Good old Tatty, Daisy smiled. She still hadn’t told her about the medical, but what the heck? Medicals were two a penny. And she had passed, anyway. She had known she would. Now all she had to do was wait until They sent for her.

She crossed the field where only yesterday sheaves of wheat had stood in stooks, drying. Today they had been piled high on carts and stored to await threshing after Christmas. She winced as the sharp stubble scratched her feet through her sandals then thankfully climbed the fence into Brattocks Wood. Here, in the shifting half-light, the wood was settling down for the night. She squinted at her watch but could not see the time. About ten o’clock, she supposed. Not a light was to be seen. Official blackout time tonight was 8.31, though it would not be completely dark for a little while. Yet despite the extra hour of daylight the nights were drawing in now. Soon the leaves would begin to yellow and then would follow the misty mornings, with swallows chattering on the telegraph wires, making ready to fly away.

Clever little birds. They came in May and left, suddenly, when they knew the time was right. The war made no difference to their migrations. Swallows didn’t know about war.