A Scent of Lavender. Elizabeth Elgin

ready for wounded soldiers – a convalescent home, he told me. Makes sense. There were a lot of wounded at Dunkirk.’

      ‘I see. So Rowley Wintersgill can rest easy,’ Lorna said tartly. ‘I can’t imagine men on crutches, maybe men who have lost a limb, rampaging over Glebe Farm land taking anything that isn’t nailed down, as he put it.’

      ‘Kate was quite pleased when I told her. At least there won’t be drill sergeants yelling orders, nor firearms practice. And talking about firearms, the Local Defence bods have got their uniforms. Bob and Rowley went to Meltonby to collect theirs. But no rifles, as yet, so what they’re going to stop them Jairmans with, I don’t know.’

      ‘Makes sense. The Army blew up our ammunition dumps before they left France. Our lot might be a bit short on rifles. But let’s not get back to the invasion.’

      ‘Fine by me. Saw Flora Petch on the way here. The baby arrived at Meltonby early this morning. She said being wakened up in the small hours wouldn’t have been a lot of good for me but better luck on the next leave. No more babies expected hereabouts – or none she knows about.’

      ‘Lucky woman. I wouldn’t mind a baby, Ness. Oh, I know starting a family in wartime – especially now when things are in such a mess – might not be the wisest thing to do, but if an accident happened, I wouldn’t care. Anyway, what else is news?’

      ‘They’re getting another worker at the farm. They’re still in need of help, and I know I’m not a lot of good to them. I said so, but Kate said to let her be the judge of that; said she wouldn’t mind another one like me. But there’s no chance of getting a land girl – not till they find another hostel around these parts to put more of them in.

      ‘So Bob got in touch with the Ministry of Labour, oh, ages ago. Had given up all hope of getting more help, then he got a letter on Saturday. Said there’s a man available, but it was up to Bob whether or not he took him.’

      ‘Why? Is he fresh out of prison,’ Lorna grinned.

      ‘No. Worse. He’s a conchie, and men who won’t fight are trouble. But Bob said he’d give it a try.’

      ‘Then he must be desperate! How are you going to feel, working with him, Ness? Don’t think I’d much like one of those working for me.’

      ‘One of those? I don’t think he’s a Nancy boy, Lorna. He just has conscientious objections to being in the Armed Forces. Maybe he doesn’t want to kill. Live and let live, eh? Kate said if there was any trouble he’d have to go, but that he might be a decent young man underneath. And Rowley smirked and said he’d see to it that the conchie would get all the dirty jobs around the place, and see how much he liked being a conchie then!’

      ‘Rowley makes me sick. He should think himself lucky that farming is a reserved occupation and he won’t ever have to join up!’

      ‘You don’t like him, do you? What’s he ever done to you, Lorna?’

      ‘Nothing. He wouldn’t dare. But he’s got a reputation for womanizing, and I don’t like that. Has he ever tried anything on with you, Ness?’

      ‘I told you he hadn’t. I can deal with him if ever he gets fresh. So what say we sit in the garden? I missed the garden over the weekend. I think that no matter where I go I’ll remember it, and Dickon’s Wood and the smell of flowers.’

      ‘Well, now you’ve got the smell of hens to add to your memories!’

      ‘They don’t smell; not if you clean them out regularly. Goff Leaman said that hen droppings make good manure and he’d clean our ark out every week if you’d give him the hen muck. I told him I’d ask you about it.’

      ‘He’s welcome, tell him and – oooh! The phone!’ She was across the room and down the stairs to snatch up the receiver with a breathless, ‘Hullo? William?’

      Ness closed the bedroom door, glad for Lorna yet hoping William would say nothing to upset her. Lorna was trying to convince herself she had got the measure of her husband, and that from now on she would stand up to his demands and sulks. But the speed at which she had taken the stairs showed how pathetically eager she was to speak to him.

      ‘Everything all right?’ she smiled when a pink-cheeked Lorna opened the door.

      ‘Fine – if you’re meaning did he bring up the matter of Ness Nightingale again. He didn’t, so I took that as an apology for leaving in a huff like he did. Said he’d had a nice leave, though, and that he was busy getting his kit ready for the move tomorrow. I think he’ll be all right now he’s got a permanent posting. Said he’d let me have the address as soon as he got there. So do you still want to sit in the garden?’

      And Ness said of course she did and was thankful, inside, that things seemed back to normal between Lorna and her man, and the matter of Ness Nightingale shelved, for the time being at least.

      But just as Lorna seemed not to like or trust Rowley Wintersgill so she, Ness, had the same sniffy feeling about William. Nothing she could set her mind to exactly; more a feeling of trouble to come!

      ‘We’ll see if the hens have gone in to roost,’ she said as they went downstairs, ‘and if they have we can shut them up for the night.’

      The hens, she thought, and the garden and the green-cool of the wood behind it and Ladybower and Nun Ainsty were so amazing to a city dweller like herself. Oh, she loved Liverpool to bits and the people and their sense of humour and the mucky old Mersey, but Nun Ainsty was a special place she would be glad for all time to have lived in and would remember for ever. And she was lucky to have found it when she was so in need of comfort and a new start, away from Liverpool. And from memories of Patrick.

      She sat on the wooden bench beside the rose bushes, closed her eyes, took a deep, calming breath then said,

      ‘Them hens don’t smell, Lorna …’

      It was all, in that moment of unguarded remembering, she could think of to say.

      

      ‘Well!’ said Lorna, turning off the wireless at the end of the news. ‘What does the government think it’s doing! Income tax up a shilling to eight and six in the pound – that’s more than a third of all you earn! And beer up a penny a pint! They just spring it on us without so much as a thought! Who do they think they are?’

      ‘They’re the government,’ Ness supplied. ‘They’ve given themselves emergency powers to do exactly as they want! Me Da’s goin’ to be sick over the penny on beer, though the income tax won’t affect him. He doesn’t earn enough to have to pay it. Maybe that bloke at the Exchequer thinks he’s Robin Hood, taking from the rich to pay for the war. ’Cause it’s got to be paid for, y’know. Imagine how much it costs when we lose a battleship or a fighter or a bomber. And think how much it costs to feed and pay all those fighting men.’

      ‘Pay, Ness? How much do you think a soldier gets? Next to nothing! The country calls them up whether they want to go or not, then pays them a pittance for risking life and limb!’

      ‘You, er – seem to know a lot about what soldiers get …’ Ness was surprised at the ferocity of Lorna’s reply.

      ‘Well I do, as a matter of fact. William told me exactly how much a private in the Army gets – after all, it’s his job to know. And will I tell you what a woman with two children whose man is in the Army gets? It’s thirty-two shillings a week. One pound twelve shillings a week, for God’s sake! And maybe her rent accounts for ten shillings a week or maybe her house is mortgaged, which is far worse! And then there’s coal and light! How is a woman who didn’t want her husband to join up expected to manage?’

      ‘Are you sure, Lorna? It’s a bad lookout, if it is …’

      ‘Look, I can tell you exactly how the Army arrives at that figure. They call a man up and reckon he’s worth seventeen shillings a week; they also give the woman five shillings for the first child and three shillings – three shillings!