Wave Me Goodbye. Ruby Jackson

with such lovely eyes had suddenly glared at her as she tried milking it in the way that had been explained and then demonstrated, and had deliberately kicked over her pail, spilling the precious milk, which ran down the drain. The instructor had glared.

      ‘Try to keep hold of the milk, Paterson; there’s a war on and we need every drop.’

      Now at the end of a week of learning how to milk, Grace felt quite secure in her ability. She could manage to wash the rear end of the cow and its udders before starting either hand or machine milking and the workspace was warm. Cleaning out the parlour after milking was not such a pleasant job. The water was always ice cold and the smell of cow waste was, to Grace, unpleasant.

      ‘Rubbish,’ announced George, the head dairyman, his Scottish accent giving the word a fierce emphasis, when some of the girls complained. ‘Nowt wrong with a good, clean farmyard smell. Too dainty by half, some of you.’

      But if George was difficult to please, he was also patient and fair, and the girls enjoyed his crustiness.

      Milking was done and the cows had to be taken out to fields close to the farmhouse. There was still no sign of new growth and so Grace and Olive Turner were assigned to fork hay into large feeding troughs, back-breaking work but warming.

      ‘Hope they’ve left us some breakfast,’ moaned Olive, as the rumbling in her empty stomach reminded her of the time.

      ‘Warden’ll make sure we eat.’

      ‘Happen you’re right, Grace, here at the training centre, but I’m worried about postings. I’ve heard ever so many stories about how mean some farmers are. All they want is cheap labour, and the less they have to give in return the better.’

      Grace had also heard scare stories but preferred not to believe them. Farmers were people and there were different types of people: mean ones like her sister, Megan, and decent, generous ones like the Petries and the Brewers. ‘Everything will be fine, Olive. Now let’s finish this and get back to the house.’

      ‘Wouldn’t it be terrific if Wellington boots had fur linings?’ Olive – who had just stepped into something that smelled terrible, looked awful, and was very wet and cold – stood on one wellingtoned leg and looked down at the one caught tight in the mire.

      Grace helped her pull her boot out and it came with a rather horrid slurping sound. It was quite common to lose boots in farm muck and to be forced to dance around on one leg while trying not to put the bootless foot down. ‘Best idea I ever heard, Olive, love. In the meantime, wear more socks.’

      ‘I don’t have many pairs, and not thick ones.’

      ‘I’m sure I can lend you some. Brighten up; it’ll soon be spring – daffodils, primroses, little lambs. Now cheer up and smell your breakfast.’

      They had arrived at the kitchen door and the smell of sizzling sausages came out to welcome them.

      ‘I hope there’s enough porridge left for the pair of you, but there are three sausages and so you may have one and a half each in a fresh-baked roll. Luckily for you, I came to make myself a fresh pot of tea,’ said Miss Ryland, the manager of the hostel.

      Grace and Olive washed their hands in the deep sink and sat down gratefully at the table with their plates of porridge.

      ‘Ambrosia,’ Olive said as she finished her bowl.

      ‘I never heard that word before. What’s it mean? I’d like to write it to my friend Daisy; she loves learning new words.’

      Olive shrugged. ‘Dunno, really. Something special, I think. Just heard someone say it when something really tasted good.’

      ‘Ambrosia was a honey-flavoured food of the Greek gods, girls,’ said Miss Ryland. ‘And if it does for you two what it was supposed to do for the gods, you have years of cleaning out cowsheds ahead of you.’

      The girls looked at her in astonishment.

      ‘Would you explain, Miss Ryland, please?’ Grace asked. ‘I don’t know about Olive, but I’ll happily clean cowsheds if it helps the war effort, but for how many years?’

      ‘Ambrosia promises immortality, Grace. You’ll live for ever, cleaning up cowpats.’

      Olive looked as if she might burst into tears.

      ‘She’s joking,’ said Grace. ‘It’s only a story but, just in case, you’d better start knitting more warm socks.’

      ‘Enough chatter, finish your sausages and get on with your next cowshed.’

      When they had finished the hearty breakfast, the land girls wrapped themselves up again and left the hostel.

      ‘What’s next?’ Olive was already shaking with cold. ‘When were we supposed to get the warm coats?’

      ‘I hope they’ll be sent to us here, but I think Miss Ryland is the type who won’t mind if we ask her about them.’ Grace looked at her companion, who was almost blue with cold. ‘You need to put on two jumpers, Olive, or at least a liberty bodice. Don’t you have one of those? If you don’t, I can let you have mine when we go back for our dinner.’ Grace remembered, all too clearly, how it felt not to have enough warm clothes. Her sister had not been the best provider, seeming to begrudge every penny that was spent on the little girl who, for reasons known only to her, Megan had promised to bring up.

      ‘I did have a nice liberty bodice,’ said Olive with a sneeze. ‘My mum said, “Take it with you and wear it over your vest,” but I’m not a child any more.’

      ‘No, you’re a young woman who’s catching a cold. Just as well it’s a lecture. You can warm up and put more clothes on before the sheep this afternoon. Come on.’

      They hurried to the main building where, they were later told, a fascinating lecture on arable farming was in progress but, instead of being allowed to go in, they were yelled at for daring to enter wearing such filthy Wellingtons. ‘No one ever teach you to wash off mud before you enter a building?’

      ‘We did,’ began Grace, but she was given no chance to explain that the new mud had been acquired on their way to the classroom.

      ‘Never make excuses, and keep your eyes open for pumps. Now get out and get clean.’

      They backed out as quickly and as gracefully as they could, washed off the mud and went back in.

      Betty Goode was waiting for them, her round rosy face tense with anxiety. ‘You missed the first half of the lecture but I’ll share my notes. It was an absolute hoot. Did you get breakfast?’

      ‘Yes, thank you, Betty,’ said Grace, just as Olive sneezed loudly.

      The two other girls looked at each other anxiously, over Betty’s head, and Grace made a swift decision, based on her ever-present memories of neglect. It was not just that Olive was sneezing but the girl was shivering and the entrance hall was quite warm.

      ‘I’m taking her back to Miss Ryland. If they call my name, tell them I’ll come as soon as I can.’

      Olive protested feebly.

      ‘Come on, the rest of the day in bed with a hot-water bottle and you’ll shake it.’ She smiled. I’m doing for someone else what Rose and Daisy and Sally and their families have always done for me.

      It was a lovely feeling, until she remembered that she had not contacted her friends. They’re not Megan; they’ll forgive me because they care about me.

      She shepherded Olive back to the hostel, where she found Miss Ryland in her office. The manager looked up from the papers she had been reading and was visibly startled by the sight of two bedraggled land girls.

      ‘Why aren’t you two in class?’ Her usually calm and friendly voice was now quite icy in tone.

      Olive sneezed loudly several times in quick succession; almost drowning out Grace’s explanation. ‘Olive’s unwell, Miss Ryland.