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to do either at this precise moment.

      George’s emitting a sound that could possibly have been an attempt at laughter broke into her thoughts. ‘Happen you’ve landed on your feet; you have friends, you know.’

      ‘We all thought that, too, George,’ said Betty, ‘although she’s hard to convince. There’s a Mr Urquhart who’s been in her corner more than once.’

      ‘Aye. Thrawn bugger, Urquhart. Just be careful to pick your fights carefully, Paterson, and you, too,’ he added, looking at Betty. ‘Now here’s station; out you get.’

      The two land girls dropped down to the ground and hurried to the back of the lorry to retrieve their suitcases. ‘Thanks, George,’ they said together.

      ‘If you should see Mr Urquhart—’ began Grace.

      ‘Expect he knows already, lassie. Cheerio.’

      He drove off, leaving the two girls standing looking after him.

      ‘He couldn’t be.’ Grace continued to look until the dilapidated-looking lorry was out of sight.

      Betty started to laugh. ‘He could, you know. I bet you half a crown that he’s your knight in shining armour.’

      Grace shook her head. George was a kind and patient, if demanding, teacher, but a knight in shining armour …? There was no opportunity to dwell on it, though, as there was little time to spare before they caught their different trains.

      ‘You will write, Grace?’

      Grace promised, although even as she did, she remembered all the letters that needed to be written. I will be better organised. I will keep in touch with Betty but, before I do, I will contact all my old friends.

      Only when she was seated in the railway carriage, which was for once not crowded, did she have time to think about her new posting. Miss Ryland had given her an unsatisfactory report and dismissal had been threatened. Mr Urquhart had intervened and, instead, Grace was being sent to a large estate that had only just requested government aid.

      ‘Urquhart thinks you’ll do us proud, Paterson,’ Miss Ryland had said when she had told Grace of her new posting. ‘It’s a rather grand estate, owned by a real lord, not that anyone like you is ever likely to be anywhere near him or his family. You’re to be given quarters in the main house, somewhere off the scullery, I expect, so you’ll feel right at home.’

      Grace would not allow herself to be baited. She felt strongly that Miss Ryland was hoping that she would say something that would lead to dismissal but she would not give her the satisfaction.

      How could she have taken me in so easily? Grace asked herself again. I thought she was a good, caring person.

      Miss Ryland turned away abruptly, as if she preferred not to show her face, stood for a few moments, and then turned again, once more in control. ‘You do understand the phrase “grand estate”? Not only is it the seat of a nobleman but also it is extensive. Unfortunately for you, his lordship encouraged the estate workers to enlist and he is now … rather short of manpower. Possibly several qualified land girls will be assigned there in due course, but meantime, you, a few of his retired workers and whoever else can be found will be working the home farm – and possibly his other farms. Do you have the slightest idea what that means? A few elderly men and Grace Paterson, land girl, will be responsible for the year-round work of a large farm; not only your favourite tasks – milking docile cows and delivering that milk – but cleaning shit-filled byres, and real farming: preparing the soil, ploughing, sowing, feeding, weeding, harvesting. I’m sure you grew up in some mouse-ridden slum but have you dealt with rats, Paterson? And I’ve scarcely begun. Oh dear, you will be tired. Certainly, there will be no time for sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted. Dismissed.’

      Now Grace looked out of the window and heaved a sigh of relief. Despite everything, she had made it. She was a land girl and she was being sent to work on a farm. She could handle anything, including rats, she decided with a tiny shiver. Life could not possibly get better. The bubbles rose again and cavorted about in her stomach. This is the beginning of a fantastic new life, Grace, she told herself. Look forward to the future and try to remember only the good things about the past.

       TWO

       Bedfordshire, March 1940

      She had never been so cold in her life. Grace stood in her pyjamas beside her abandoned bed and wanted nothing more than to climb back in. Where were her clothes? It was so dark that she could see nothing.

      Don’t panic, Grace, she told herself. You’re standing beside the bed, and the chair where you put your clothes is … She bent down and felt along the bed until she came to the short iron foot rail. She turned round so as to be facing the head. ‘Yippee,’ she whispered through chattering teeth. She stuck out her right arm and followed its path till she stumbled against the easy chair that she had nicknamed Saggy Bottom the night before. Her clothes were folded up in a neat pile on the collapsed chair seat. She felt through them until she found her knickers and, as quickly as she could, pulled them on. Next, her thick – and blessedly warm – woollen socks. A cream WLA-issue Aertex shirt and a warm green jumper followed, and, last of all, her corduroy breeches. ‘I hate you, silly breeches,’ she said as she struggled with the laces at the knees. She had not yet mastered how to get the breeches on or off quickly. Under the door, she saw light shining in the corridor.

      ‘Are you awake, Grace?’ called a voice.

      ‘Yes.’

      The door opened and she saw a female figure. ‘Welcome to Whitefields Court. If you didn’t catch the name of the station, it’s Biggleswade and we’re in Bedfordshire.’ She changed the subject very quickly: ‘Why are you dressing in the dark?’

      The woman did not wait for an answer but struck a match, which flared up for a moment, showing Grace someone probably the same age as her sister, but who was dressed exactly as Grace would be dressed if she could see to wash and finish dressing.

      ‘Why haven’t you got an oil lamp?’ The woman sounded brusque but kind.

      ‘It wasn’t issued.’

      A second match flared and the woman walked across to the little dressing table and lit the candle that sat there. ‘There, now you can see your way to the lavatory. Don’t be shy, girl. We all go. If you’re downstairs in five minutes, you can have a cup of tea to warm you before the milking. Otherwise, you’ll have to wait till it’s finished. Now scoot.’

      Grace ‘scooted’. Something about the voice suggested that the woman was used to being obeyed without question, and besides, Grace wanted a cup of tea, hot and sweet – well, that would be nice, but hot would do.

      She had never washed and dressed so quickly in her life but, carrying her heavy WLA-issue boots, she fell into the kitchen no more than five minutes later. Mrs Love, the woman Grace had met the previous night – possibly the cook or housekeeper – was busy at the large, shiny kitchen range, and the woman who had been in Grace’s room was leaning against the sideboard, smoking a cigarette. She looked Grace up and down. ‘Give her some tea in a tin mug, Jessie, and she can drink it as we go.’

      ‘Yes’m.’

      Grace had never really believed that people actually said, ‘Yes’m,’ but that certainly seemed to be what Mrs Love had said.

      ‘Don’t gawp, Grace, frightfully rude. Now, bring your tea. She’ll be back in time for breakfast, Mrs Love.’

      Was there a warning note in her voice? Grace wondered, but she took the mug, thanked Mrs Love and followed the other woman out into the darkness. Biting cold hit her like a shovel.

      ‘Where’s your greatcoat?’

      As Grace stumbled over her answer, the woman interrupted her. ‘Don’t tell me: wasn’t issued. How does this country expect to win a war?’

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