Wave Me Goodbye. Ruby Jackson

first, she was sure the building was empty. It was very quiet, peaceful really, and there was a pleasant smell of hay, although, from where she stood at the entrance, Grace could see no evidence of bales. ‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Mr Hazel?’

      ‘So, you’re our land girl? Well, I’m not likely to make rude remarks about your size, knowing full well that small packages often hold the best presents.’

      Grace stifled a laugh, for the old man who had appeared from behind a large container was scarcely an inch taller than she was and just as slender. The hand that gripped hers, however, was hard and strong. She looked into his face and saw strength there and tolerance.

       Too fast, Grace. You judge too quickly and you’re usually wrong.

      ‘Good morning, Mr Hazel.’

      ‘Hazel’s fine, since I hear tell I even look like a nut.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Had much experience?’

      ‘Four-week course, sir … Hazel, and I once had a try at growing vegetables in the back garden.’

      He was silent for a moment and Grace looked down at her booted feet.

      ‘Come on then. I’ll show you round. You’ll get plenty learning here. How did your garden grow?’ he asked with a little smile.

      ‘Frost got some.’

      ‘Happens.’

      Hazel was a man of few words.

      The next few hours left Grace both exhausted and stimulated. The home farm covered almost two thousand acres but the seemingly untiring Hazel assured Grace that she had not, as she thought, walked every acre of it. She had seen vast neat acres of young crops, several fields that still had to be cleared and ploughed, grazing cows, hedgerows already in bud, trees that had to be hundreds of years old, ditches in various conditions, a fenced area where several pigs lay happily snoozing in the dust, a few cottages, each with its own well-cared-for garden, and a multitude of farm buildings, both ancient and modern.

      ‘Somehow, we have to get most of the land into production, Grace. We’ve sold off or slaughtered most of our animals, but the cows are very important, and the pigs. I’ve got some hens in the garden and, if I have more eggs than me and the missus need, then I bring ’em up here. We grow wheat, potatoes, barley, beets …’ He stopped talking, and Grace was saddened by the look on his face.

      ‘When I started here, more than forty years ago now, this place was a paradise. We grew everything, even had peaches and melons. Ever had a peach, Grace?’

      ‘Tinned, yes.’

      ‘Then, believe me, you never tasted a peach. Off the tree, warm in your hand from the sun through the glass, you bites into it and the juice, sweetest juice you ever tasted, runs down your chin. Now we has to do basics and I hasn’t got the manpower. If ’is lordship were ’ere, maybe we’d get more done faster, but Lady Alice works as ’ard as me, for all she’s a lady. She has got us a tractor. She drives it, bless her, and is teaching me, and that will speed up ploughing. There’s a new one ordered for you – a Massey-Harris. Know anything about them?’

      ‘I can’t drive.’

      Hazel’s thin face wrinkled with laughter. ‘God love you, you don’t drive this model, you guide it.’

      Grace tried to smile. At least the sun was now shining and areas of the estate were absolutely beautiful; they had walked the length of a brook and seen masses of tiny yellow primroses and even clumps of pink ones. Grace had bent down in wonder to see these exquisite little flowers and wondered if she would be permitted to pick some for her room. She felt that somewhere, a long time ago, she had seen such carpets of spring flowers.

      Couldn’t have been Dartford, she told herself, although there were primroses on that farm I trespassed on with Daisy. She tried to bring back the memory that, annoyingly, hovered just out of reach, but Hazel’s voice interrupted her. He was pointing to a small cottage.

      ‘That’s mine; me and the missus lives there. No electric yet, but we’ll join the grid same time as the oldest part of the Court. Can’t wait. We have in the back some rabbits, an’ all, and I grows flowers in the front: roses mostly, but I love chrysanthemums; have a great show in the autumn.’

      ‘I look forward to seeing them,’ said Grace.

      A look of doubt crossed the old man’s face. ‘I doubt you’ll last, Grace. Too much work …’ He stopped, as she was obviously about to argue with him. ‘I can see you’re a worker and, happen, we’ll be able to get a bit done but, with the best will in the world, unless they send more land girls, or prisoners even, there’s just too much work. His lordship expects to take in refugee families – plenty of rooms, but a lot of them are empty – and he hopes as some will be of help on the farms.’

      ‘A place this size must need dozens of workers. Lady Alice said all the young men enlisted.’

      ‘His lordship was called to the War Office and so we hardly see him now. He pops down of a weekend to give her ladyship a bit of company of her own sort but he’s committed to the war effort. Probably shouldn’t tell you, but the young man as Lady Alice walked out with enlisted as soon as war was declared and most able-bodied men around here did, too. Better chance of getting the service they wanted.’

      ‘But farming’s a reserved occupation.’

      ‘And very dull if you’re just doing it because it’s a job. You has to be bred to it, I think. The young ones liked the uniforms, the chance to see the world. I were like that myself in the Great War and what I saw of the world was blood-soaked trenches. Best day of my life was then day the war ended and I could get back here.’

      ‘And you’ve lived here all your life?’

      ‘Apart from the war. Born here, like my father, my grandfather and as many greats back as we can name – happen as long as the earl’s family. Backbone of England, we are. What more does a man need than a good wife, a good job and a decent employer?’

      How wonderful to be so contented, Grace thought, as she listened to him.

      ‘Where are the farm workers now, Hazel?’

      ‘You’ll meet them all when we has our dinner. I make up a work roster with Lady Alice every Friday evening and that tells us where we’re supposed to be. Mrs Love can read and she has a copy in the kitchen.’ He looked at Grace questioningly for a moment. ‘You getting along all right with Jessie? She’s a good woman, a widow woman, and ’er son went off to join the navy.’

      To Grace, he sounded as if there might be some doubt about Grace’s relationship with the cook. Grace did not want him to be concerned. ‘Of course, Hazel, fantastic breakfast she made.’

      He seemed happy with that answer. ‘Good. She can be a tad snippy at times, worries about her boy, you see. Don’t remember when she last heard from him.’

      Grace nodded. She could understand that. But his remark reminded her that before another day dawned, she must sit down and write to her friends in Dartford. Why didn’t she write letters? What held her back? Her friends would love to hear all about Lady Alice and Hazel, and even lovely old Harry and … Jack. Grace found herself fascinated by Jack, his beliefs, his obvious education and culture, his voice, more like that of Lady Alice than of old Harry. The Petries, her friends? How often had the four of them vowed that they would be friends through thick and thin? And yet, she found reason after reason to avoid sitting down and writing letters.

      ‘I’m ashamed of myself,’ she said aloud, as Hazel went to check a field gate was fastened. ‘All they gave me was happiness and a kind of security and I thanked them by leaving like a thief in the night. Surely, they won’t forgive that.’

       THREE

      Grace had worked up a healthy appetite when they eventually returned