Whisper on the Wind. Elizabeth Elgin

arrive. Gran swears she’ll have rid of him just as soon as Mat can find someone else and she will, nothing’s more certain, once the ploughing is done.’

      ‘Is it possible to hate someone so much?’

      ‘Gran can.’ Roz ran to the door, wrenching it open, her eyes sliding left and right. ‘Listen! There it is. That’s eleven back! Now what do you suppose kept them?’

      ‘Does it matter?’ Kath flinched as the massive black shape thundered low over the farm. ‘They’re all home.’

      ‘Yes,’ Roz sighed, eyes closed. ‘Don’t ever fall for aircrew.’

      ‘I won’t be falling for anyone. I’m married – remember?’

      ‘You know what I mean. Look, I’ll scald the churns this morning; you feed the cats, will you?’

      Suddenly it was a wonderful day. All at once, at the count of eleven, the cold grey morning was bright with magic. Paul had completed his thirteenth op; the dicey one was behind him. Now surely it would be all right until the last one; until the thirtieth. And tonight they would meet. Perhaps they would dance, perhaps they would walk in the darkness, hands clasped, thighs touching, just glad to be together. Tonight, they might even be lovers.

      She closed her eyes, sending silent thanks to the god who had brought eleven crews safely back, knowing that tomorrow or the next day she would once more be counting the bombers out and willing them home again; living through a fresh anguish.

      But tonight she and Paul would be together. Tonight was as sure as anything could be in this mad, uncertain world, and tomorrow, and all the uncertain tomorrows, were a million years away.

      At eleven o’clock, when they began to wonder if tea-break had been forgotten, Grace called them in to the warmth of the kitchen.

      ‘Sorry it’s late. I’ve been over to Ridings with drinkings for the men and I stayed to watch. Jonty’s made a start with the tractor and Mat and the prisoner are trying out Duke, and the hand-plough. It’s good to see Duke working. I’m glad we didn’t get rid of him.’ She smiled.

      Few farmers had kept their horses once tractors came within their means, but Mat Ramsden loved horses and the great grey Shire was a joy to him.

      ‘Tractors don’t need feeding and mucking-out,’ some had scoffed.

      ‘Aye, I’ll grant you that, but my Shire runs on hay which isn’t rationed like tractor fuel is and it don’t have to be brought here, neither, in a convoy. And what’s more,’ he’d grinned, ‘you don’t get manure from tractors!’

      Duke weighed a ton, almost, and his hooves were the size of a dinner plate. Such creatures were living miracles, Mat declared; tractors were cold, smelly contraptions and bother or not, the Shire horse had stayed.

      ‘I’m glad they’ve made a start.’ Roz watched the saccharin tablet rise fizzing to the top of her cup. ‘That ploughing business was really getting Gran down. Will it be finished on time, Grace?’

      ‘It will.’ The reply was quietly confident. ‘My, but it was grand to see that land getting turned over, coming to life after all those years.’

      She had stood there, jug in hand, watching the plough bite deep into the sward; watched it rise green then fall dark and soft as a wave falls on the shore. She had smiled to see the seagulls wheeling overhead then settling in the wake of the plough, grabbing hungrily for grubs. Yes indeed, those long-idle acres were stirring themselves at last.

      ‘Is the prisoner going to be any help?’ Roz ventured.

      ‘That he is. He’s framing-up nicely. Him and Duke were turning over some good straight furrows.’

      ‘How far must a man walk,’ Kath asked, ‘just to plough a single acre? And how does he get such straight furrows?’

      ‘He walks miles and miles, that’s a fact,’ Grace acknowledged, ‘and he keeps straight by fixing his eyes on something ahead and not losing his concentration.

      ‘By the way, Roz, Jonty said I was to wish you a happy new year. Said he’s hardly set eyes on you since Christmas morning. He wanted to know what you were doing and I said you’d made a start cleaning the eggs.’

      ‘And I suppose he said you were to remind me to be careful?’

      Eggshells were fragile, to be cleaned with care when the packers who called to collect them were entitled to deduct a penny for every mark on every egg.

      ‘Well, he did wonder how many you’d broken.’ Grace laughed. ‘Said he supposed it would be scrambled eggs for breakfast tomorrow. Only teasing, mind. You know Jonty …’

      She knew him, Roz frowned, or thought she had until Kath had assumed he was her boyfriend. Surely Jonty wasn’t in love with her. He mustn’t be.

      ‘Teasing? We haven’t had a single accident, have we, Kath?’

      ‘Not yet.’ Just what was Roz thinking about, Kath brooded, gazing at the suddenly-red cheeks. Jonty was in love with her. Why hadn’t she seen it when it was obvious to everyone else? And did Jonty know about Paul: was he content to wait for the madness to burn itself out – for madness it surely was – and be there when she needed a shoulder to cry on? ‘Come on,’ she said more sharply than she had intended. ‘Let’s get back to those eggs, Roz. There is a war on, you know.’

      Kath sat beside the kitchen fire, toasting her stockinged toes, eating the sandwiches the hostel cook had packed for her. She was always hungry these days; food had never tasted so good nor sleep come so easily.

      ‘Soup, Kath?’ Grace Ramsden stirred the iron pan that hung above the coals.

      ‘Can you spare it?’ Food was rationed and she should have refused. ‘Just a drop, maybe.’

      ‘Of course I can spare it.’ Grace took a pint mug from the mantel-shelf. ‘Only vegetables and lentils and barley in it – bits of this and bits of that. Drink it up, lass, and welcome. Whilst you’re waiting for it to cool, can you take some outside?’

      ‘To the prisoner, Grace?’ Mat’s head jerked up from his plate. ‘He’s brought his rations with him, the guard said, and there’s to be no –’

      ‘I mind what the guard said. No fraternization. And how are we all to work with a man and not speak to him, will you tell me? This is my kitchen, Mat Ramsden. That lad sitting out there has done a fair morning’s work on our land and Kath is going to take him a mug of soup!’ She stopped, breathless and red-cheeked, ladle brandished, glaring at each in turn. ‘Have I made myself clear?’

      ‘You have, Grace love. You have,’ Mat said quietly, though the laughter in his eyes belied the gravity in his voice. ‘We’ll not tell the guard.’

      ‘Good!’ Grace filled the mug to the brim. ‘Glad we’ve got that little matter settled!’

      He loves her, Kath marvelled. He teases her, indulges her and his eyes follow her just as Jonty’s eyes follow Roz. After all the years, they’re still in love, she thought as she carried the steaming mug across the yard. Carefully she skirted a patch of ice, wondering if she and Barney would be as much in love after their silver wedding, confident that they would.

      The prisoner sat on an upturned box, his back against the straw stack. He looked up at her approach, then laid aside the bread he was eating and rose to his feet.

      Kath stood awkwardly, taking in the height of him, the smile he tried to suppress.

      ‘Hullo. Mrs Ramsden sends soup,’ she said slowly, offering the mug. ‘For you.’

      ‘The signora is kind. I thank her. It smell good.’

      ‘You speak English?’ Kath laughed her relief.

      ‘Si. I learn it in school for five years. I speak it a lot, since I am prisoner.’

      ‘That’s