Letters To Alice. Rosie James

Foulkes shuffled in his chair, clearly not too happy at this proposed arrangement, but Mabel spoke up, as usual.

      ‘Well – good, then, that’s settled,’ she said, getting up to clear the pudding dishes. ‘And if I were you, I’d make an early start on Sunday – well, you’re used to early starts now, aren’t you, luvvers, say 9 o’clock? And then on the way back p’raps not too late ’ome, because Monday’s are always busy, aren’t they?’ She looked down at the girls. ‘It’ll be lovely for you to see your families, luvvers. They must be missin’ you,’ she added.

      Alice was pleased that they were going home – it would be good to see Gloria, to tell her about the goings-on at the farm, and to hear her news. And it was only Tuesday, so if they posted their letters today they’d arrive tomorrow morning in time for the recipients to reply if the proposed visit wasn’t convenient. Despite the war, Royal Mail was always reliable, the post seldom failing to arrive. But anyway, these days no one moved very far from their homes, and it was unlikely there’d be no one about to greet them.

      Roger stood up as well, passing some plates across the table. ‘Good thing you’re going this Sunday,’ he said, ‘because next Saturday night is the Welcome Home concert and that always ends very late…you wouldn’t be fit for a thing next morning.’

      Mabel shook her head at him. ‘Honestly, Rog…stop yer teasin’.’ She looked down at the girls again. ‘See, we have a little do for any local lads who come ’ome on leave,’ she explained. ‘It always takes place in the village hall, and the local children put on a concert, doin’ their party pieces and recitations. It’s always very good – bless their hearts – an’ we ’ave quite a nice supper that everyone contributes to. And at the end of the evenin’ the boys are given a ten shillin’ note each, to spend on their leave.’ Mabel sighed happily. ‘Well, it’s a lovely chance for everyone in the village to ’ave a get-together, and to show our appreciation of our brave boys.’

      Alice glanced at Roger. Perhaps he would like to have had the chance to go into one of the Services, she thought. But farming was a reserved occupation, and he couldn’t possibly be spared – Farmer Foulkes would certainly be in a pretty mess without him, because Roger, obviously younger and stronger, seemed to bear the heaviest burden, sometimes working sixteen-hour days. Once, he’d briefly mentioned that he’d enjoyed spending a year at an agricultural college, but the war had put a stop to that.

      Everyone stood now, helping to clear the table, and Fay said –

      ‘Well – it’s really kind of you to offer to take us home on Sunday, Roger,’ she began, and he cut in, grinning down at her.

      ‘It’ll be my pleasure,’ he said, meaning it. It would be good to get away from the farm for a few hours, and have a couple of pints in town with his mate. Thank God beer wasn’t rationed ( it never was). And to have a couple of women sitting nice and close alongside him on the journey would be an added bonus.

      ‘And don’t worry – I don’t mind sitting in the back,’ Fay told him sweetly.

      By now, Saturday evenings – after their meal – had been set aside for the girls’ weekly baths and hair washing. And it was amazing, Alice often thought, how quickly the three of them had become used to each other in a personal sense…sharing a bedroom and daily washing facilities had soon become normal, and after the first couple of hip bath experiences, that, too, had become commonplace. In fact they all looked forward to the one evening when they had the kitchen to themselves, when they could take as long as they liked over sprucing themselves up, with no interruptions. For one thing, Walter Foulkes only ever seemed to appear at meal times, and Saturday evenings were Roger’s one night off to meet his friends at the Wheatsheaf.

      The kitchen – always heady with the lingering scent of baking bread – was where the ablutions took place. The huge room, dominated by the long refectory table down the centre, had a massive granite range to one side, on which a large black kettle was always gently steaming, ready for tea-making. Above the constantly lit log- and coal-fired range hung a long, wooden, three-tiered drying rack which could be raised and lowered as required. Mabel, of course, did all the washing for everyone, afterwards winding everything through the big mangle in the scullery, her capable hands and arms flexing and straining as she turned the handle to squeeze the water out. After which, everything was pegged outside on the line. Along with sheets and towels, this always included pairs of anonymous thick white hose and Mabel’s large vests and bloomers, and the farmer’s various items of underwear, all of which eventually found its way onto the airing rack above the range to finish off. Even though the consistently good weather had done a good enough job.

      But the girls preferred to wash their smalls themselves upstairs in their room, hanging everything to dry on an ancient wooden clothes horse which Mabel had thoughtfully provided. Fay had been adamant about this at the beginning.

      ‘I do not want my pants and bras being washed next to Walter Foulkes’s long johns, thank you very much,’ she’d said to the others after Mabel had invited the girls to let her do their washing for them, ‘And I certainly wouldn’t want them exhibited on the rail for general observation either,’ she’d added vehemently. And Alice and Eve had been in total agreement about that.

      So on Saturday evenings, two black cauldrons, monstrous things, were lugged in from the scullery by Roger, filled with water, and set to heat on the range. And with her usual foresight, Mabel always made sure the water was ready well before it was needed.

      And after the first bathing session, the ritual became a straightforward and normal event. Fay and Eve had never sat in a hip bath before, but it was nothing new to Alice. It was the only amenity available when they’d lived in Hotwells all that time ago.

      Of course, the girls could all have bathed separately, but it would have taken a very long time, and without even thinking about it they’d elected to make it yet another shared experience. They placed each bath next to each other, but back to back to allow a certain amount of privacy, then filled enamel jugs, provided for the purpose, with piping hot water from the cauldrons, carrying the jugs carefully over to start the filling process. It took about five or six minutes for the baths to reach a satisfactory level, after which, part-immersion took place.

      ‘Blimey,’ Fay had said on the first night, as she dropped her head onto her bent knees. ‘Here we are again – the three wise monkeys! What a bloody carry-on.’ But she wasn’t grumbling…especially as the Radox bath salts she’d bought at the shop – and was sharing with the others – made the water feel lovely. And as they’d idly swish their hands and feet gently around, the warm steam and softly perfumed bath salts always made them feel totally relaxed as they’d chat about the day.

      Then they’d wash their hair while still in the bath, presently helping each other to rinse it off with fresh water carried over from the cauldron and part-cooled from the tap. And there were always plenty of good, comfortable towels to dry themselves with, and to rub briskly at their hair. That always took Eve the longest, with her thick and copious curls and sometimes the others would take their turn helping her, rubbing and brushing until it was done. Even the simple ritual of the collective hair-drying process became a pleasure…something unhurried and enjoyable, and Alice couldn’t help feeling grateful all over again at how her life was. How it had always been, as if someone, somewhere, was making sure she had everything she needed to make her happy.

      The very next morning a letter addressed to Alice arrived in the post. Before she even opened it she recognized the writing. Helena!

      My dear Alice.

      I was so pleased to receive your letter and to know where you are living – and what you are doing. My dear girl…I feel so proud that you are doing your bit for the war effort…I sincerely wish that I, too, could be more use in that regard, but I have not been very well lately, and anyway what on earth would they find for me to do!

      I know only too well that whatever task you are set it will be done with your usual quiet efficiency and good humour. But do be careful, my dear. And please do not wear anything red when you are near the