The Land Girl: An unforgettable historical novel of love and hope. Allie Burns

on the farm earlier on,’ Emily said before Mother could mention the mess she’d made of the house call. Lawrence, as it turned out he was called, had shown no interest in wanting to hear from her again. No one would ever ask her what she thought about him. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the impression she made, while the men could be as rude as they liked.

      ‘If I hadn’t been there to rescue them, Mrs Hughes and Mrs Little might have been trampled to death by Lily,’ she continued.

      ‘I wonder …’ Mother said looking up.

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘If Cecil might be able to come home from Oxford when John is next on leave. Wouldn’t it be nice to have the boys back together?’

      ‘I suppose it would, yes,’ she replied. ‘We could have a Christmas celebration for John – he’d like that, to mark the one he missed.’ It would be wonderful to see John again, he always listened when she told him about her adventures on the farm.

      ‘Good idea,’ Mother said. Emily paused for a moment to savour the rare praise. She smiled. Mother’s eyes glistened, a sure sign she was thinking up ideas of what they could do for John on his next leave. Perhaps this was her moment. She took a deep breath, rummaged inside her pocket for the newspaper article. Just as she was lifting it out, Mother changed the subject.

      ‘Despite what happened today, all is not lost. I told Lawrence’s mother that you’d write to him when he gets his first commission.’

      ‘Would Lawrence like that?’ Emily asked. He’d hardly said another word to her once he’d been back inside the sitting room.

      ‘Why ever not?’ Mother smiled to herself as she began a new row. Emily’s stomach tightened; Mother mustn’t have false hope. Lawrence had probably already forgotten about her, and she would gladly forget about him.

      She may as well get it out of the way. She reached inside her pocket and handed Mother the article, flattening it out for her. Mother reluctantly gave up her knitting, held the piece of paper to the lamplight.

      ‘I suppose if they train up these educated girls they’ll soon bring the likes of Olive Hughes and Ada Little under control.’

      ‘Exactly.’ So, Mother had been listening to her after all, but Mother handed her back the piece of paper and resumed her knitting. She hadn’t understood the relevance of Emily handing her the announcement.

      ‘The thing is, Mother, I wonder, could it be me? I love the outdoors and—’

      ‘You?’ Mother said. ‘Do you mean go off on a training course? And how much will that cost? We’re already paying for your brother’s officer commission; his mess fees won’t pay themselves.’

      ‘They would pay me,’ she said.

      Mother pinched her nose. ‘I have enough to worry about with your brother away at the Front, and with conscription looming I might end up with both sons fighting.’

      The reply would have been the same no matter what she’d said. Many of her old school friends had answered the call for nurses, canteen supervisors, ambulance drivers, tram conductresses, even policewomen. Lady Radford was now the commandant of the hospital she’d set up in her home, Finch Hall, the village’s big manor house. Clara Radford, the same age as Emily, was the assistant for goodness’ sake. Her ambition was humble in comparison; she only wanted to help out on their family’s estate.

      ‘Even if I were to work here on our own farm?’

      ‘Even then.’

      Mother glanced up from her knitting. ‘Don’t look at me like that. It isn’t right for you, an educated girl with an Oxford Board School Certificate, to be a labourer. On land we own as well. No, no, no. Not when you’re in the market for a decent husband.’

      ‘Lady Clara is of higher standing than us, and she’s working,’ Emily argued. ‘I would be able to live here, and I could work part-time hours so you aren’t on your own.’

      Mother tossed her knitting to her lap and raised a hand to her head. ‘What did I do to deserve such a difficult daughter? I turn a blind eye to you wallowing about in the soil in the kitchen garden. Yes, don’t think I don’t realise. Climbing trees – I see you doing that, a girl of nearly twenty, of marriageable age, up a tree in her best clothes. Tailing Mr and Mrs Tipton around, making a nuisance of yourself on the farm, when I have other, more important, things to worry about and need a daughter as a companion while she finds a husband and supports me through a difficult time.’

      ‘I only want to do my bit for the war.’

      They knitted in silence. The war was choking her, making her life smaller. Emily dropped a stitch and in the act of trying to pick it up a second loop of wool had slid from her needle point.

      Emily paused while Mother dug the tip of her needle into a new stitch. ‘Is this what you were daydreaming about when you lost your self-control and made inconsiderate and hurtful remarks to Lawrence?’ Mother said.

      Emily groaned, threw the knitting needles clattering to the floor.

      ‘Emily Cotham,’ Mother exclaimed. ‘He is a very charming chap, who offers a prospective wife a comfortable life, perhaps with your own garden to tend. The sort of chap who takes care of his mother and would do the same for his mother-in-law. But instead you tried to belittle him.’

      ‘He was rude first,’ she began, but stopped herself before she made things worse. Mother was right: she had been trained to show better character than she had today. The newspaper article had fired her up, but she should have shown restraint and not retaliated. Mother was only trying to help and now she was being ungrateful.

      ‘I hope when you write to him you show him more interest, and gratitude for what he’s doing for the country.’

      ‘Of course. But would you at least agree to think about me doing some war work?’

      ‘We have pressing issues closer to home to tend to.’

      What could be more pressing than putting food on the table, and keeping their own farm productive and running? The movement was growing. The newspaper had spoken of a land army for women; the need for girls like her was growing and she wouldn’t give up.

      ‘Please?’ she asked. Shouldn’t her mother be proud of her?

      ‘Oh dear, your whining is giving me a migraine. I think you overestimate the extent of what you might do. You’re not very strong – there’s nothing of you and no one will take you seriously if you’re smaller than them. Mr Tipton will laugh you off the land.’ Mother’s withering look and cutting words made her head bow. She couldn’t bring herself to say another thing in response to that.

      Emily picked up the heel stitches with her needle, a task that could make her distracted by something as benign as the ticking clock, but worse still, she inspected the whole sock; she’d made a mistake when casting off the toes. She couldn’t go back and correct it now. She toyed with the idea of throwing the knitting onto the fire and letting it burn. She grabbed the newspaper cutting, folded it back in her pocket and clomped up the stairs. Mother didn’t even look up or show that she’d noticed Emily’s display of frustration.

      In her room, she stopped herself from slamming the door shut. Mother always reduced her to a child, and each time she reciprocated with childish behaviour. She must learn to not yearn for her Mother’s approval or affections because it was futile of her to hope for them. She couldn’t help herself and slammed the door shut anyway, not caring if she was nearly twenty. If she was going to be treated like a child, why not behave like one?

      She slid down the wall and sat with her back to the bedroom door and flicked through the newspaper.

       Corporal Williams, fighting for King and country in Flanders, seeks a well-bred country lady for correspondence and conversation and tales from our green and pleasant land.

      Well,