LITMIR.BIZ

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one from the War Office, she thought. Never thought they’d be awake earlier than the workers, or even here at all. Maybe it’s because it’s my first day.

      A large rectangular shape loomed up before them and a faint glow showed Grace that it was a building. Cows, she realised, lovely, lovely warm cows. Milking was never going to be her favourite job – whatever Ryland had said – but sitting with her head close to a cow’s bulky side was warmer than being outside.

      The woman from the ministry was as keen on cleanliness as George had been at the training farm. ‘We have managed to avoid tuberculosis, foot and mouth, and God knows what other diseases these lovely silly animals get, Grace, and absolute hygiene is the key. There will be a clean overall on the door for you every morning and I will inspect your hands – sorry – until I know that I can trust you.’

      ‘The dairyman at the training farm was a martinet.’

      The woman laughed. ‘Ah, old George, best man in the business. You can see that we don’t yet have the new-fangled milking machine. Neither do we pasteurise, on this farm, partly because our local customers tend to want milk “straight from the cow”. They like what they call “loose milk”, not bottled, and we do the old-fashioned churns and jugs. As with you and your greatcoat, however, I’m assured that modern methods are on the way. Now let’s get started.’

      Grace looked: there had to be thirty or forty cows waiting patiently to be milked. The byre was full of the sweet smell of hay overlaid by another smell, familiar and not entirely unpleasant but certainly more pungent. She had smelled it often, if not quite so strongly, during her training. ‘Ugh,’ she said, and buried her nose in the warm side of the cow she was milking.

      ‘All part of the fun of the farm,’ said her companion. ‘I’ll start at the other end, but shout if you need help, and watch big Molly, third down; she loves to knock over the pail.’

      Great, thought Grace. Is there going to be a cow on every farm whose joy in life is to kick the milk or me? First day: no breakfast yet, and a cow that plays football. But Molly gave her no trouble as she worked her way steadily along her line. Eventually, she was side by side with the War Office lady and was troubled to see that she had milked at least five more cows than Grace herself had. Grace watched her surreptitiously, as they worked side by side. What beautiful hands she had. Her nails looked professionally manicured, just like her sister, Megan’s, but better. She looked at her own work-worn hands and sighed.

      ‘Problem, Grace?’

      ‘No, miss. I have a school friend who’s with ENSA and your fingernails reminded me of her.’

      ‘These won’t last long with milking. I should have cut them but hadn’t time. And please don’t call me “miss”. I’m his lordship’s daughter. Doing my bit, too. Call me Lady Alice. Now, can you find your way to the kitchen? Off you go. I can spare you for thirty minutes. Back here for deliveries as soon as.’

      Grace hurried and her mind was working as quickly as her feet. She had been working beside an earl’s daughter. When she did write, she would tell Daisy that. And she was just normal, she would say, slim and elegant, with really pretty brownish hair and the creamiest skin, and knew better than me how to milk. Imagine. War did strange things, did it not? Lady Alice had been wearing a land- girl’s uniform, just like Grace’s own, with the exception of that lovely warm coat. ‘Doing my bit, too,’ she had said.

      Two men were eating breakfast at the long wooden table in the kitchen and Grace hesitated for a moment.

      ‘If you’re here for breakfast, Grace, sit down,’ said the cook. ‘I’m not handing it to you over there. They’re only men, you know. They don’t bite.’

      One of the men laughed and Grace saw that he was quite young. ‘Do join us,’ he said. He gestured with his hand, as if to point out the size of the table. ‘Sit down as far away from us as you like. We’re the unpatriotic conchies.’ There was a note of sarcasm in his voice. ‘We’re what’s called noncombatants, but we’re important, too, and we don’t bite.’

      Grace blushed and sat down but chose a chair not far from the older man’s place. Conchies? Conscientious objectors. She had heard of these men, whose principles would not allow them to fight in the war. Surely, that did not make them unpatriotic.

      ‘Hush, you, Jack. You’re after scarin’ the lass,’ the other man said. ‘She only arrived last night and probably thought she was going to be alone. We’re clearing the ditches, and happen you’ll only see us at meals.’

      Grace smiled at them tentatively. She was used to working-class men like the older man, but the tall, and somewhat aloof Jack, with his plummy voice, was rather different.

      A plate was put before her and she forgot about the men as she looked at it. Bacon, two eggs, some fried potato and a thick slice of bread that had obviously been fried in the bacon fat. She wouldn’t mind how much work she had to do if she was to be fed like this. ‘Thank you,’ she said, with some awe in her voice.

      She could not help comparing this table with those in the training school. No named individual pots here, but two large bowls, one full of butter and the other of marmalade.

      ‘There’s tea in the pot,’ the red-faced cook said as she returned to her range. ‘Pour yourself some.’

      Grace looked askance at the round brown teapot and wondered if she could lift it up and pour without spilling.

      The older man spoke again: ‘That slip of a girl’ll never lift such a heavy pot. You’re nearer to it, Jack, lad.’

      Without a word, Jack poured Grace’s tea. She was embarrassed to be the focus of so much attention, but she thanked the men for their kindness and began to eat.

      For some time, no one spoke, and Grace wondered if it would be thought forward of her to start a conversation. At the training farm, everyone had talked all the time. Why should this farm be any different?

      ‘Clearing ditches must be hard work.’

      The men looked at her and then, without a word, reapplied themselves to their almost-empty plates.

      The atmosphere in the room, never light, was now really heavy.

      ‘Not hard enough for shirkers,’ the cook said in an acidic tone.

      The men stilled for a moment and then continued eating.

      Grace took her courage in both hands. ‘It’s one of the most vital war jobs,’ she said quietly. ‘At the training farm, the lecturers told us that before 1939 more than half of Britain’s food was imported. Now, our farmers are being told to double or treble their production, and if the ditches aren’t cleared then the fields won’t drain and crops will rot.’

      Embarrassed, she gulped some tea and stood up to go. The cook stood, arms folded, and the look on her face told Grace that, once again, she had made a bad enemy.

      ‘I’m Harry McManus,’ said the wiry older man, standing up, ‘and thank you, little champion. Young Jack Williams here was learning to be a doctor and save lives, even ones like ’ers,’ he added with a nod towards the robust figure of the cook. ‘I were a bus conductor before. Must say, I like being on a farm. How did you get into it?’

      ‘You’re all here to work, not chat over the teacups,’ the cook said, reinforcing her position.

      Grace smiled at Harry. ‘I volunteered,’ she answered. ‘I’m off to deliver milk,’ she told the men as they moved together towards the door.

      ‘If her ladyship hasn’t froze to death waiting for you.’

      Grace gasped and hurried out of the kitchen. Had she taken more than thirty minutes? ‘Please, please …’ she muttered as, hampered by her heavy boots, she tried to run.

      Lady Alice was seated in the delivery lorry, and all she said as Grace climbed in was, ‘There’s an old coat of mine just behind you, Grace. It’ll do for now, but I will ring up about your uniform one. As usual, they’ll

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