Whisper on the Wind. Elizabeth Elgin

Flora who carried mugs of tea.

      ‘Just about.’ Kath laughed.

      ‘You’ll be stiff in the morning,’ Flora warned. ‘A good hot bath is what we’ll all need tonight.’

      ‘Mmm.’ Kath nodded to Marco who stood a little apart, unsure amongst strangers. ‘Those sheaves get heavy, after a time. Marco works like a machine. It was hard going, keeping up with him.’

      Not that she was complaining; far from it. She was part of a team; she was with friends. She belonged here. It felt right, and she never wanted to leave.

      They settled into an easy rhythm again. Marco worked steadily, pausing only to mop his forehead or to glance briefly in Kath’s direction and smile encouragement. The height of the stack had already fallen by two feet and in time, by mid-afternoon perhaps, when the stack was lower still, the grain elevator would be pushed alongside and the sheaves fed on to it and carried up to the drum, just as people were carried up a moving staircase.

      But that would not be yet, Kath knew, already hoping it would not be too long before they stopped to eat and could troop, aching and hungry, into Grace’s kitchen.

      She looked briefly down. To her left, Roz and Flora tended the corn sacks and to her right, straw was being forked into a cart. She smiled across at Marco and in that instant she felt and saw a fat, black rat, its body soft against her ankle.

      ‘Aaaagh! No!’ She jumped back, startled, kicking out wildly at the straw beneath her feet. Then she let go a cry harsh with terror for the sheaves were shifting beneath her. She was falling!

      She opened her mouth to cry out, but no sound came. She grabbed blindly at the straw, grasping it tightly, halting her fall only a little. The mass beneath her was still moving; she was rigid with panic and fear.

      ‘Kat!’ A hand caught her wrist with a grip of steel and the sliding and slipping stopped. ‘Your hand! Give to me your other hand!’

      She lifted her arm slowly, felt his fingers grasp hers. The beater drum flailed and crashed below her, the belt slapped and snaked on and if she fell on it – oh, God! Why didn’t they stop the thing?

      ‘Hang on to her.’ It was Jonty’s voice, above her. ‘I’ve got you, Marco. Don’t let her go!’

      ‘Is all right, Kat.’ Marco’s voice was gentle and calm. ‘Be still. Not to struggle.’

      Her body had turned to stone; her mouth was dry with terror. Hands tugged at her shirt. They were pulling her back.

      ‘Relax, Kath,’ Jonty called softly. ‘We’ve got you. Try not to struggle.’

      The straw scratched her face and arms as inch by inch they dragged her back to them. The scream of the belt changed to a soft hum, then stopped; the drum juddered to a halt. Hands grasped the seat of her dungarees. With one grunting, groaning heave she was up and over, landing on top of the stack in a sprawl of arms and legs. For what seemed forever she lay there, shoulders heaving, trying to stop the jerking of her limbs.

      ‘Is all right, Katarina.’ Marco gathered her to him, holding her tightly, stroking her hair. ‘Is all over now.’

      She clung to him and the sobs came; great, tearing sobs of relief. ‘Marco, oh, Marco …’

      ‘Here now, stop that noise! Come on, lassie; blow your nose!’ Flora was there, holding out a handkerchief. ‘What was it? What made you fall?’

      ‘A rat. There, at my feet!’

      ‘A rat, Katarina? A little frightened rat?’ Marco chided.

      ‘I thought it would crawl up my leg.’

      ‘Help her down,’ Jonty said gently. ‘I’ll take over up here with Marco.’

      ‘No! She stays.’ Flora’s voice was sharp. ‘If she doesn’t, she’ll never go on a stack again. Snap out of it, Kath! On your feet!’

      ‘I can’t. The rats. I’m sorry, but –’

      ‘We fix it, yes?’ Marco took two pieces of the discarded twine. ‘We fix those rats good. Stand up, Kat.’

      Unsteadily she got to her feet, watching bewildered as Marco tied round the bottoms of her dungaree legs. ‘Is okay, now. No rats in trousers.’

      He was smiling. Everybody was smiling. Kath sniffed loudly and pulled the back of her hand across her eyes.

      ‘I’m all right, now,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll stay.’

      Grace Ramsden’s midday kitchen was warm and steamy, rich with the scents of cooking; a place of safeness and normality after the terror of the stackyard.

      ‘Feeling better now, lass?’ Grace asked as Kath hung her jacket on the door peg.

      ‘Fine, thanks. My word,’ she smiled shakily, ‘but I caused a bit of an upset, didn’t I? Marco caught me, you know; just grabbed my wrist. And Jonty was on top of that stack in a flash; held on to Marco’s belt with one hand and hung on to the roof beam with the other. Between them – oh, let’s just say I was lucky. I still don’t like to think what might have happened.’

      ‘Might have, but didn’t,’ Grace retorted, ‘so sit yourself down and let’s hear no more about it.’

      ‘But it was so stupid,’ Kath persisted. ‘And all because of a rat.’

      ‘I’m scared stiff of earwigs,’ Grace confided. ‘So away with your bother and find yourself somewhere to sit.’

      Farms were not duty-bound to feed their workers on threshing days, but Home Farm had a reputation for good food, generously served, and even though now she was reduced to providing less than she would have liked, Grace Ramsden still saw to it that no one went without in her kitchen.

      The stackyard workers arranged themselves around the table on chairs and benches, all of them hungry and glad of the break.

      ‘Sorry, Grace, but I don’t much feel like food.’ The familiar churning was inside Kath still, and if anyone else said one more word about it, even in fun, she would break down and weep again, she really would.

      ‘Then how about taking Marco his dinner? I’ll give him yours as well, shall I?’

      ‘You could do worse.’ Kath shrugged. ‘He did the work of two men this morning.’ Apart from saving her life, and holding her comfortingly afterwards, not telling her, either, that she was a silly woman who had no place on a farm if she went berserk at the sight of a rat. ‘Is this it?’ She picked up the tin tray.

      ‘Aye. Hurry along before it gets cold, there’s a good lass.’

      Marco was sitting where he always sat and she settled the tray on his knees.

      ‘Here you are. It’s rabbit pie.’ She sat down beside him, chin on hands. ‘I want to thank you for saving my life, because you did, you know. I could have fallen into that machine and –’ She stopped, remembering the flailing, crashing thresher.

      ‘No. I would not have let you. You are not to think about it.’

      ‘But I must. I can’t forget what you did.’

      ‘Jonty was there. He help, also.’

      ‘Yes, and I shall thank him, too.’ She made a small, appealing gesture with her hands. ‘What can I say?’

      ‘Say you are no longer afraid of rats.’ He smiled.

      ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t. They’ll always frighten me, I think. But at least I know now how to stop them running up my trouser legs.’ She smiled, and the smile came more easily. ‘Well, I’d best be going, I suppose.’ She rose to her feet, then bending quickly, taking his face in her hands, she gently kissed his cheek. ‘Thanks, Marco …’

      She turned then, and ran; back to Grace’s kitchen and the men and women who sat at her table. Pulling