Land for a Lost Generation E-Book

Michael J. Richards

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 423

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Three middle-class sixth-form girls leave their independent boarding school in the summer of 1918. They are told by their headmistress that their prospects of marriage have been reduced following the Great War. Vera, determined to get the most out of life in a changing world, marries David, a wounded officer and veteran of the war. Their lives as tenant farmers are threatened by the prospect of losing their livelihoods. Against a backdrop of agricultural depression they struggle to achieve their dreams. Meanwhile Lillian, talented and attractive, finds little time for marriage during her busy career as an actress and singer. Dotty finds work as a secretary and seems destined for spinsterhood – but this is a rapidly changing world, and no-one knows what lies ahead.

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© 2024 novum publishing

ISBN print edition: 978-3-99130-208-7

ISBN e-book: 978-3-99130-209-4

Editor: Philip Kelly

Cover photos: Jodielee, Natalie Shmeleva, Everett Collection Inc. | Dreamstime.com

Cover design, layout & typesetting: novum publishing

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

CHAPTER 1

ALMA MATER

Endacott Ladies’ College is perhaps a misnomer inasmuch as it is not an institution for young women, but a fee-paying school for girls. It was founded by Ernestine Endacott, a Victorian educationalist who championed feminine causes and had the good fortune, through a substantial legacy, to put her theories into practice. Thus it came to pass that a red-brick pile mushroomed amongst the woodland and pasture of the Sussex Weald.

This unlikely incursion into the countryside was completed in 1863, with Miss Endacott installing herself as its first headmistress. A bust of this formidable lady is unmissable as one passes through the main entrance. Five years ago, the school celebrated its golden anniversary – an occasion witnessed by me as a new entrant to its student body.

Perhaps I should introduce myself. I am Vera Stansfield. There is nothing particularly remarkable about me. I was born in 1900 as the nineteenth century staggered to its close under the shadow of Britain at war in South Africa. Now that I have celebrated my eighteenth birthday our country is once more embroiled in conflict and has been for nearly four years. This is a salient time in my life, for we are in July and the summer term is drawing to its close. As an upper sixth-former I am about to leave school and be cast with my contemporaries upon an unsuspecting world.

Geographically, Endacott is not so very far from the horrors of the Western Front, yet within its cloistered walls we seem to be as remote from that conflagration as it is possible to get. Boys’ schools, I know, have memorial boards listing past pupils who have fallen in battle. We girls are spared that sobering reminder – or at least we were until it was announced during assembly a few days ago that Edith Nixon, one of our alumnae, was killed by a shell which hit her ambulance as she was ferrying wounded men from a field dressing station. So Endacott is to have its own memorial board. Mercifully, there will be only one name on it, and we can but pray there will be no additions.

Apart from this grisly episode, Endacott’s only concession to the war is that we make and send items to soldiers at the front. We knit woollen gloves, scarves and balaclavas, and write letters of gratitude and hope which, I am given to understand, reduce some battle-hardened men to tears. Sometimes we receive replies, only to learn subsequently that their authors have perished; and then it is our turn to be upset.

I share a room at the end of a corridor with two other girls: Dorothy Postgate and Lilian Cairns. Dorothy – or Dotty, as we call her – is a jolly person and certainly not dotty by reputation. She cannot by any stretch of the imagination be regarded as fat, but she is, shall we say, amply provided for. Lilian is beautiful. I do not think I am bad-looking, yet I cannot compare with Lilian’s elegance and vivacity. She is also highly talented and is always chosen for the lead roles in school plays. Her fine soprano voice is admired and she delights us with her solo performances. Lilian wishes to become a professional actress and singer, and she has already secured a place at a London drama and music academy. I wish her well.

Dotty and I are uncertain about our futures. It seems that Endacott has merely prepared us to become embraced in the arms of holy matrimony. We can both cook and sew to a reasonable standard. I can play the piano and I am quite good at English literature, largely because I am a hopeless romantic who has read all of Jane Austen’s novels. Sometimes I think that I might like to be a writer, but I am not sure whether I should be good enough or have the necessary discipline. Dotty is matronly and ideally suited to motherhood. If she has to earn her own living, I think she would make a very good nurse or children’s nanny.

All this speculation about our adult life, however, is brought into stark reality. A few days before school breaks up for the summer vacation, our headmistress, Miss Buckmaster, calls the upper sixth into the assembly hall.

‘Girls,’ she begins. ‘It has always been my policy to address those of you who are due to leave us at the end of term. Two years ago, in the wake of the first day of the Battle of the Somme, I changed the tone of my message of goodwill for your futures. It became evident to me then – and my view has hardened ever since – that this war has killed and continues to kill thousands upon thousands of our young men. This is the generation from whom you might expect to secure husbands. The blunt truth is that, no matter when this conflict comes to its conclusion, there will not be enough eligible young men to go round for girls of your age. I should be failing in my duty if I did not appraise you of this unpalatable fact. You must all accept the very real possibility that you will spend your entire adult lives as spinsters. I cannot hide from you the prospect that the prettiest girls will have the best chances. You owe it to yourselves to make as much provision for your futures as you can with particular regard to a career. Some of you, I know, have already done this, but there is no room for complacency. Do not imagine that the cessation of hostilities will bring a large influx of men back to this country, all wanting to sweep you off your feet to a life of domestic bliss. They will be relatively few in number, and some of them will be damaged in mind or body and will be very different from the boys who volunteered in a wave of patriotism and hope. If I can be of any assistance in helping you to secure a position of employment, or a place at an institute of learning, then my door is always open. It only remains for me to wish you every success as you embark upon your lives in the outside world.’

As we emerge from the hall our dispositions are in marked contrast to the chatter which usually accompanies an exodus of this nature. An eerie silence has descended upon us as we digest the full import of Miss Buckmaster’s address. It is not that the implications of war have not crossed our minds hitherto, but the grave tones in which our headmistress has delivered the awful truth have cut through us like a knife.

I can see that some girls are on the verge of tears and most faces are ashen. There is one notable exception. Millicent Harper is the school swot to end all school swots. She has won a scholarship to read classics at Girton College, Cambridge. I do not begrudge Millicent her success. She is the plainest of girls, with thick-lensed spectacles. I suspect she inured herself long ago to the notion that no young man was ever likely to woo her. So here is nemesis for more attractive females of my generation and retribution for those whose assets are confined to the cerebral.

Dotty, Lilian and I sit on the ends of our beds and stare into oblivion. We do so probably for no longer than thirty seconds, but it seems like a millennium before Dotty breaks the silence.

‘Well, what do you think of that?’

‘Bit of a squashed tomato,’ Lilian suggests.

‘It’s all right for you,’ laments Dotty. ‘You’re pretty and have a career lined up. You’ll have no trouble finding a husband; and even if you don’t, you’ll earn a good living.’

I try to deflect the aura of depression which is threatening to envelop us.

‘There’s no point in our feeling sorry for ourselves. Think of what our poor men are going through. This is a picnic compared to their situation.’

So we bottle up our thoughts on the subject as far as interaction is concerned, yet I find my mind occupied by little else.

The last day of term arrives and there is the usual buzz and bustle associated with being released from an institution and gaining a freedom not enjoyed since Easter. Some parents have come by a variety of horse-drawn or motorised conveyances to collect their daughters and luggage. Most girls, however, make their way on foot to the village railway station. All this activity has been familiar to me for some years now; but of course, for those of us departing for the last time there is an added poignancy. We are saying goodbye to friends and colleagues whom we may never see again. It is an anticlimax, a sadness, possibly even a fear of the unknown beyond. My two room-mates and I resolve to keep in touch and we make reference to the Old Girls’ Association and school reunions. This has cheered me a little. I hate goodbyes and dread the possibility of their permanence.

CHAPTER 2

THE REAL WORLD

During the spring Germany had launched an offensive in a desperate attempt to force a victory in France. There was a fear that the Hun would break through our lines. Field Marshal Haig said that with our backs to the wall and believing in the justice of our cause each one of us must fight to the end. The German advance, however, stalled and ran out of steam.

I learn now from August newspapers that we have launched an offensive of our own at Amiens under Sir Henry Rawlinson. He was the general who presided over the Somme disaster of 1916, when twenty thousand of our men were slaughtered on the first day of the battle. Fortunately, it seems that our military leaders have learnt a great deal about modern warfare since then. It only appals me that the fees of such an education have been paid in the blood of so many others. On this occasion the wisdom of a co-ordinated attack involving artillery, tanks, infantry and aircraft has been employed with considerable success. There is now an expectation, particularly with the Americans operational in France, that we can press on to ultimate victory.

If only this optimism is well founded. The stalemate and attrition of trench warfare have blighted so many lives for so long. My enduring regret is that so many more of our men may have to die before this insanity is terminated. Then, if we do win the war, can we also win the peace?

My father is a country solicitor and my mother runs our home as his dutiful wife. We live in Sussex, within twenty miles of Endacott. I have a younger brother, Edwin, who is just twelve years old and therefore likely to be spared the horrors of military conflict.

Since returning home I have exercised my mind more fully about my future. There is the short-term future and the long term. While our country is engaged in hostilities it is the short term which should take precedence. I have to make my contribution to the war effort. I have done my bit as a schoolgirl, knitting and sending warm clothing and letters of encouragement to the front; now I must participate as an adult, even though, as my parents constantly remind me, I am but an adolescent. What can I do? Not much, probably. I am too young to become a VAD like Edith Nixon and run the risk of sacrificing myself. Of course, boys of my age are volunteering for active service and, once nineteen, can be conscripted. People, however, keep telling me it is different for girls.

A chance conversation with a friend of my mother’s provides a possible solution. Within a bicycle ride of our home a convalescent camp for wounded soldiers has been constructed. There are rows of wooden huts augmented by several tents – an emergency measure to accommodate the ever-burgeoning number of casualties. The largest hut, to which the kitchen is attached, serves as a room for dining and recreational purposes. Inside there is an upright piano which no one can play properly. My mother’s friend tells me how helpful it would be if a competent pianist can be found.

Endacott has a strong music department, and much of my time there was spent learning to play the instrument in question. Thus proficiency in this regard came to be what Victorians might have called “one of my accomplishments”. I suspect that Miss Ernestine Endacott had in mind a young lady entertaining dinner guests in a private residence with classical selections on the pianoforte. One can scarcely imagine what her thoughts would have been on one of her alumnae plonking out popular numbers in front of raucous battle-scarred troops in a wooden hut!

Nevertheless, it comes to pass that this unusual activity provides me with an opportunity to do something worthwhile. Each day I arm myself with a sheaf of sheet music and cycle to the camp, where my material reward comes in the form of luncheon, during which I share conversation with my audience.

I play songs which soldiers like to sing, such as ‘Tipperary’ and ‘Pack up your Troubles’. Their favourite is ‘Mademoiselle from Armentières’, to which they have their own words – lyrics that make me blush with embarrassment. They know my reaction and sing all the louder with mischievous grins on their faces. Despite their crudities I am full of admiration for them. Some are amputees, yet their spirits are almost inexplicably high. It breaks my heart to see their broken bodies. How small and inadequate I feel in comparison! But these poor fellows, who have given so much, call me their ‘angel’. I am no angel, and when I have a moment to myself I break down in tears.

In addition to playing the piano I help other lady volunteers by handing out books and magazines to the wounded men, all of whom wear blue uniforms. What they want more than anything, however, is for me to talk and listen to them. A female voice and presence remind them of home and for what they fought. They show me photographs of their families. These include baby sons and daughters whom they are yet to see in person. Some soldiers, whose relatives live not too far distant, receive visitors. When a wife sees her amputee husband for the first time it can be and usually is a most distressing experience. I try to comfort these women as best I can.

‘How is he going to provide for us now?’ is a familiar question which I cannot answer, particularly when someone like a tram driver in civilian life has lost his hands.

I receive a letter from Lilian. There is such demand for entertainment in London that she has been plucked from her drama and music academy to be given a small part in a West End show. I am so pleased for her. She is doing what she wants to do in a world where so many are obliged to do what they least wish.

I write back and offer my congratulations. I mention that her success must preclude her from getting any spare time. To my surprise she replies quickly, saying that generously she is given two free days each fortnight. I have a brainwave and suggest that she visits me during her next break. To my delight, she agrees and I invite Dotty to come too.

Dotty is working at a shell-shock hospital in Surrey. It is a most heart-rending and depressing experience for her. Apart from the drudgery of her duties, such as scrubbing floors and emptying bedpans, it is almost impossible to build any rapport with the poor, wretched patients. Some of them shake uncontrollably, while others just stare at the wall. Now and again a deeply disturbed fellow will begin shouting and try to escape through a window or crawl hopelessly about the floor. I see the physical scars of war and Dotty the psychological. She is only too pleased to accept my invitation to give herself the rest and recuperation she needs.

So the three of us are to be reunited, albeit briefly. I wait on the platform of our village station one morning during late September. A puff of smoke in the distance tells me the train is approaching. It soon steams in and comes to rest with the brake pump of its locomotive panting as though to remind everyone of the huge effort expended in getting here. Only one carriage door opens on to our short rural platform, and I see Dotty and Lilian about to come towards me as I do to them. It is only two months since we last met, but it seems to be a lifetime. The feeling is accentuated by the fact that then we were schoolgirls and now we are, to all intents and purposes, women.

Lilian is resplendent in a bright-green outfit with feathers. She looks every inch the showgirl, and I am almost jealous. Dotty understandably appears somewhat careworn, but soon returns to her old ebullient self. We exchange stories, and to my delight Lilian volunteers to sing to my piano accompaniment at the convalescent camp. I point out that she is supposed to be having a rest, but she dismisses my concern through reminding me that her expected audience has given so much and she owes them at least a little in return. I am so glad that Lilian has not allowed success to go to her head. If she becomes really famous, then I think she will be able to handle the pressure without relinquishing her good heart.

Today is supposed to be one of my days off from the camp, but Lilian’s generosity has impelled me to reciprocate. The autumnal weather is wonderful and we sit in garden deckchairs after lunch, drinking tea before setting out on bicycles for our destination. Lilian borrows my mother’s machine while Dotty has the most precarious ride on Edwin’s cycle, which is smaller and possesses a lady’s inconvenience of a crossbar.

So we are to give an unexpected performance and the boys in blue make their way into the large hut, some on crutches and others with the aid of wheelchairs. The walking wounded wait politely for the less ambulant to be settled before they find a seat themselves. I decide to give Lilian a big introduction.

‘Right, boys – you weren’t expecting to see me today, but we have a special guest with us. She is a star from the West End stage in London and has just arrived by train specially to be with you. Will you please give a very warm welcome to Miss Lilian Cairns!’

The soldiers cheer and applaud enthusiastically. I do not doubt they are besotted by her beauty and attire. I take up my usual position at the piano and turn the sheet music to the first song which Lilian has chosen. ‘Roses of Picardy’, written only two years ago by Haydn Wood, has taken London by storm and it is now up to Lilian to do it justice.

Whenever I have performed here before there has always been an undercurrent of sound from the audience, but, as I play the prelude and Lilian prepares to come in at the appropriate moment, one could hear a pin drop were it not for the piano.

I always knew Lilian could sing well at school, but I never dreamt that in such a short space of time she could elevate her ability to the stunning level she is now attaining. Her control is exquisite. She can hold a note and allow her voice to rise or fall as the best interpretation of the tune demands. My playing is but incidental to the performance. If she were to sing unaccompanied it would be just as beautiful, probably better. This is professional standard par excellence. A mere two months of extensive work in the metropolis has produced a future star indeed – and when I think that singing is but one of her talents!

When the song is finished I look up from the sheet music and observe that nearly every soldier has tears streaming down his face. They have known unspeakable horrors, and now they have seen and heard something beautiful which they could not have contemplated at this remote camp in rural Sussex. A few poignant seconds elapse before everyone bursts into loud applause with shouts of “Encore!”

It is not only singing to this high level that Lilian has learnt, but also how to respond to an appreciative audience. She beams broadly and bows in gratitude. The soldiers demand the same song again, and she is only too willing to perform it. She signals her instructions to me, whereupon we repeat our efforts to another rapturous reception.

Our next song is Ivor Novello’s ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’, written in the autumn of 1914. In late 1915 the Daily Mail reported that this ‘has become the Battle Hymn of the Great War’. When the boys in blue ask for an encore Lilian agrees, provided they join in. They need little encouragement. So, with Lilian leading, the wooden hut reverberates to its rafters. If anyone wanted a morale booster in this place, then he has it in Lilian.

She now takes a bold and very risky step by asking for requests. We do not want to disappoint anybody, so Lilian has to hope she knows the song and I have to hope that I have the music to play it. Fortunately, all is well and finally we take a rest to walk around with Dotty to talk with our wounded heroes. Lilian is in her element and the soldiers cannot get enough of her. I speak briefly with Dotty before the men start attracting our attention again.

‘Look at her, Dotty – she’s really got it, hasn’t she?’

‘Yes, I never realised she could be that good.’

As we cycle back to my parents’ house I cannot begin to thank Lilian enough.

‘This bicycle ride has got to be the worst way of expressing my gratitude, Lilian. After a performance like that you deserve a motor car to whisk you away to the Ritz or somewhere.’

‘Don’t imagine, Vera,’ she replies philosophically, ‘that the theatre is as glamorous as many may think. It’s jolly hard work and I’m still learning my craft.’

CHAPTER 3

DAVID

October arrives and there is encouraging news from the Western Front. A series of co-ordinated attacks by the Allies along the Hindenburg Line has forced the Germans to retreat. The Americans under General Pershing are involved in large numbers near the Argonne Forest and River Meuse. Is this the beginning of the end for our enemy? One can only hope. Everybody seems to be asking, “Will the horror of this dreadful war never end?”

As though providence wishes to punish mankind for the foolishness if its conflict, an influenza epidemic has spread across the globe. It seems to have begun in the Near East. Having reached Central Europe in August, it is now with us. So virulent is this outbreak that, like the war, it is killing large numbers of people. Now even within our own shores we fear death. Lilian writes to tell me that she and many others walk about London with their faces covered lest they become infected.

Dotty comes to stay for a weekend. Lilian’s work schedule does not permit her to join us. It is not Lilian, however, whom I am worried about, save for the influenza issue. She is happy, motivated and successful. Dotty on the other hand is being ground down by her duties in Surrey. It is valuable work yet utterly debilitating. The whole ethos of the hospital is one of hopelessness and containment. It is no place for a girl of eighteen, but how can I tell her that she ought to leave? What I am able to do is invite her to Sussex and try to cheer her up.

There is to be a dance with refreshments in the village hall, and I think this is exactly what Dotty needs. No doubt there will be a dearth of young men, but everyone is used to that in Britain at present. The dance is in aid of local war widows, so it is likely to be well attended. Dotty is looking forward to it, and this pleases me greatly.

We are indeed fortunate to have a village hall. Many communities are without them. Ours is a corrugated-iron structure built and donated by a local landowner to mark the coronation of King George V in 1911. It is soon pulsating with activity as the dance gets under way. Dotty and I are fully engaged with partners who are old enough to be our fathers, or even our grandfathers. We take it all in good part, but, when there is an interlude to give the small band a rest, we scan the room in search of someone a little younger.

It seems to be a fruitless quest, and then I notice him. I can scarcely believe it: a young army officer sitting at a table and gazing around as though he is waiting just for me. He has three pips and two rings on his sleeve, so he is a captain. Frustration – Dotty has seen him too.

‘I saw him first,’ she avers.

‘How do you make that out?’ I query.

‘All right – I’ll toss you for him.’

‘Done.’

Dotty produces a penny.

‘Call,’ she demands.

‘Heads.’

Oh dear – it is disappointment for Dotty, whom I was trying to hearten by bringing her here.

‘Look,’ I tell her, ‘you go on. I don’t want you to lose out.’

‘No,’ she insists, ‘you won fairly and squarely, so you get first try’

I feel a bit mean, yet I am lured to this dashing young man. If he is not interested in me, then good luck to Dotty. I approach the table where he is sitting and introduce myself rather boldly.

‘You must think this very forward of me,’ I confess.

‘I’m David Coulthurst; and no, I don’t think you’re very forward. This war is changing everything. Gone are the days when a young lady would not speak to a gentleman without first having been introduced by a third person – not that I consider myself to be a gentleman exactly. You don’t have a chaperon either, do you? The old order changeth, blown away on the fields of France like so much else.’

‘I was going to break another convention and ask you for the next dance.’

‘Well, that is unusual and very flattering, coming from one as pretty as you.’

I blush uncontrollably.

‘So,’ I reply expectantly, ‘will you partner me?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t.’

I feel like a pricked balloon.

‘Oh,’ I sigh, barely able to conceal my disappointment, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you’re booked with someone else.’

‘I’m not – it’s just that I can’t dance.’

‘Can’t dance? A young officer like you! Of course you can dance! All officers are supposed to be gentlemen and able to dance, aren’t they?’

‘I didn’t say I don’t know how to. I just said I can’t’

‘I don’t understand.’

At this point he holds up a walking stick previously hidden by the table.

‘I’ve got this, you see. It’s as much as I can do to walk more than a few yards in one go without taking a rest.’

‘Oh, you’ve been wounded.’

‘Afraid so – piece of shrapnel in the lower left leg. They got it out, but let’s just say I’ll never play cricket again. I expect you’ll want to ask somebody else now’

To my shame, I hesitate. I need to say something quickly.

‘No, I don’t want to ask anyone else.’

‘You’d better sit down, then.’

So I sit opposite him and we converse copiously. He tells me that he is the son of a tenant farmer. I enquire whether he could have claimed exemption from military service on the grounds of reserved occupation. He says that he could have done, but both he and his elder brother, Vere, were determined to enlist at the outbreak of war, nearly two years before conscription began. Vere was not so lucky. He perished last year in the mud of Passchendaele, the Third Battle of Ypres. His body was never recovered. I cannot speak.

David goes on to say that his hard-working father lost the will to live after this and was himself dead before the new year dawned. So his distraught mother is trying to keep the farm going and prays for her younger son’s safe return.

‘The problem is,’ he admits sadly, ‘that with a gammy leg I’m not likely to be much use on a farm now. I could give orders to the men and handle the paperwork, but that would just about be it.’

I can see that he is really depressed and, in the absence of anything more constructive to say, I enquire whether I may fetch him some refreshments. He nods gratefully. As I queue for sustenance, Dotty buttonholes me and suggests that I have been given the brush-off. I deny this and relate what has happened.

‘Poor boy!’ she concedes.

‘Yes, Dotty, and he needs someone to talk to. So I think I should help him; and if I help myself too, then that’s a bonus.’

Dotty – bless her – wishes me well and I return to David with a tray of sandwiches and lemonade. He has a healthy appetite, which is encouraging, and he seems willing to tell me all as though it is some cathartic process.

It transpires that he and Vere began their army service as private soldiers, advancing through the ranks to earn their commissions.

‘There would have been no such opportunity in peacetime,’ David reveals. ‘The officer corps is reserved for the privileged classes as a rule, but when nearly everyone is getting killed the powers that be are forced to start scraping the barrel.’

‘You shouldn’t put yourself down,’ I tell him.

‘I think you’re a good egg,’ he responds, ‘but I just explain things as they are.’

I detect a cynicism in his demeanour, yet how can I blame him in view of what he has been through? Despite all these dreadful experiences I can see he has a concern for others. In particular he is worried about his mother.

‘I don’t know what’s going to happen about the farm,’ he confesses. ‘My mother cannot continue as she is for much longer, and I don’t really see how I can help.’

‘When will this awful war finish?’ I ask.

‘How long is a piece of string?’ he answers rhetorically. ‘I suppose it’s just a question of how long the Hun wants to go on fighting. We’ve blockaded them, so if they’re starving, they’ll pack up. They’re also continuing to retreat, and they can only run so far.’

‘So you think we’re going to win?’

‘Probably, but what exactly should we win? Pride, influence, wealth? I don’t think so. When the final audit is taken we shall ask, how could we all have been so stupid?’

He enquires whether I should like to visit the farm and meet his mother. I say that I should be delighted. I introduce him to Dotty.

‘We’re old school friends,’ I explain.

‘Which school?’ David enquires.

‘Endacott Ladies’ College,’ reveals Dotty.

‘Well, that puts you both in a higher social bracket than I am.’

‘Nonsense!’ I declare. ‘What was that you were telling me about the old order changing?’

David ponders a response.

‘Yes, there will be changes,’ he asserts. ‘I just hope they’ll all be for the better.’

CHAPTER 4

DOWN ON THE FARM

Vine’s Farm extends to about one hundred and fifty acres and it forms part of the Cloudsley Estate owned by the fifth Earl of Cloudsley. David’s family have been tenants here for two generations. The farm is a twenty-minute cycle ride from my parents’ home, and I pay my first visit to the Coulthursts one afternoon just days following the fundraising dance.

Despite the time of year it is not raining, and this gives me an opportunity to survey the steading at my leisure before presenting myself at the front door of the farmhouse. It is a mixed agricultural enterprise: arable, dairy and other livestock. The cows – a herd of dairy shorthorns – are already winter-housed to protect the pastures from being poached. There are well-stocked pigsties, while free-range hens appear from every nook and cranny before disappearing again. I spy sheep grazing in the distance. Pest control seems to be vested in an army of cats, which stick together and keep a suspicious eye upon me. A pair of Shire horses poke their heads beyond stable doors in expectation that I might bring them oats to supplement their hay.

The buildings appear to be well maintained, and there exists a general tidiness about the place which has often been absent in other farms I have observed. The farmhouse dates from the mid-nineteenth century – local brick topped with a slate roof. It is surrounded on three sides by horse chestnut trees. I can imagine Vere and David as boys playing conkers during autumn. How innocent they must have looked, and no one then could have predicted the tragedy which lay ahead!

I knock on the front door. There is a delay before David answers, leaning awkwardly on his walking stick. He is out of uniform, dressed in a thick woollen jumper with a high neck, not unlike the type sailors wear.

‘I’m sorry I can’t get to the door any quicker,’ he laments.

I tell him he has nothing for which to apologise. He shows me into the parlour – a welcoming room where a log fire is burning in the grate.

‘I trust it’s not too hot in here for you,’ he says. ‘Perhaps we’re a little extravagant in heating the house, but on a farm there’s always plenty of wood about.’

‘Not at all – it’s all very cosy.’

A middle-aged lady enters. David introduces me to his mother. The stress of responsibility and bereavement is clearly etched in her countenance. She is polite but unsmiling. I get the impression that she has not smiled for many months. The three of us take tea together. Mrs Coulthurst has help in the house in the person of Rosie, a rather simple village girl, who appears willing yet in need of direction. She acts as our waitress.

‘We require three teaspoons, Rosie, as there are three of us today,’ advises Mrs Coulthurst. ‘You do take sugar, don’t you, Miss Stansfield?’

‘A little – yes, please. Can you still get sugar with all the shortages?’

‘We save it for special occasions. One good thing about being farmers is that we have several kinds of food with which we can barter. It also helps that David is in the army. I always get him to wear his uniform when we’re in need of something.’

I smile benignly, although Mrs Coulthurst remains stony-faced.

‘David tells me you’re an Endacott girl.’

‘Yes.’

‘What does your father do?’

‘He’s a solicitor.’

I begin to feel that I am being interviewed, and it would seem to be the case.

‘Have you embarked upon any sort of career?’

‘No, Mrs Coulthurst, but I play piano for convalescent soldiers at the nearby camp.’

‘So you are a musician?”

‘Well, not professionally, you understand. I learnt to play and read music at school.’

‘Yes, I suppose they would teach that kind of thing in a place like Endacott.’

‘Oh, yes, a wide range of subjects is taught. Even riding was offered in the sixth form before the war, but then the army came and took all the horses away.’

David’s mother takes a sip of tea.

‘Can you ride, Miss Stansfield?’

‘No, worst luck; I didn’t enter the sixth form until 1916. All the stables were emptied long before then.’

‘How very irritating for you!’

I am unsure whether I detect a whiff of sarcasm directed against me at this point.

‘I shouldn’t complain though, should I, Mrs Coulthurst? We have to give precedence to our men at the front.’

I sense that I have struck a raw nerve with my hostess, who probably wishes not to be reminded of activities in France.

‘Will you take another scone, Miss Stansfield? They are homemade. Rosie helped me to make them, didn’t you, Rosie?’

A grin develops on the girl’s face.

‘Rosie, go and make another pot of tea.’

‘But there’s still some in here, Mrs Coulthurst.’

‘It’s stewed. Go and make a fresh pot.’

‘Yes, Mrs Coulthurst.’

Rosie departs in the direction of the kitchen. David’s mother looks me hard in the face.

‘I’m not one to beat about the bush, Miss Stansfield. Have you any idea what it would be like to take on a crippled man?’

‘Mother, really!’

‘David, be quiet!’ ‘Well, Miss Stansfield?’

I hardly know where to put myself. I know I am blushing and cannot control it. I am also unable to speak. Mrs Coulthurst, however, is quite capable of speaking and desirous of doing so.

‘David has told me he has fallen for you.’

‘Mother, I –‘

‘David, I told you to be quiet! Miss Stansfield, you are very young.’

‘I am eighteen.’

‘Precisely. David is twenty-four and knows his own mind. Isn’t it true that you only left school three months past?’

‘Yes, but I could have finished schooling some years ago. I wanted to prepare myself for adulthood properly, and that’s what my parents wanted for me.’

‘Evidently if they were paying the fees demanded by Endacott, but a young person can just as easily prepare himself or herself in the world of work. You have very little experience outside of school, haven’t you, Miss Stansfield?’

‘Are you saying I’m not good enough for your son, Mrs Coulthurst?’

‘I’m saying nothing of the kind. What I am saying is that you are inexperienced.’

‘Mrs Coulthurst,’ I reply, shaking my head in bewilderment, ‘David has not asked me to marry him, and unless he does I see no point in this conversation.’

‘Well, I can tell you, young lady, he’s probably going to ask you and it’s as well you’re prepared when he does. I can’t manage this farm much longer and I’m unsure whether David in his condition will be able to either. He isn’t trained for anything other than farming and soldiering, and he’s unlikely to do one and certainly can’t do the other. Have you thought about that, Miss Stansfield?’

Rosie re-enters with a fresh pot of tea.

‘Put it down there, girl, and go and make yourself useful in the kitchen.’

‘Yes, Mrs Coulthurst.’

I am feeling decidedly uncomfortable. Had I known what lay in store, I should never have come here.

‘I think, Miss Stansfield, you need to consider your position very carefully. I appreciate you will want time to consider it and that you need time alone. You must also talk privately with David. Beware of whirlwind romances, Miss Stansfield. One can always act in haste and repent at leisure.’

I cast my mind back to Miss Buckmaster’s address to the upper sixth in which she declared our marriage prospects to be so bleak. Now it seems I have been catapulted into prospective wedlock that I should reject. I am confused, upset and even angry.

When it is time to leave David dons his overcoat and accompanies me outside.

‘I don’t know how to apologise’ he says. ‘I had no idea my mother was going to be so blunt. She’s a very down-to-earth woman, as one might expect from a farmer’s wife, but I found her behaviour towards you totally unacceptable.’

‘It’s all right, David – really. She must be finding life extremely difficult at present. She’s lost her husband and her elder son, and now she’s seen you return from France wounded. That’s more than most women could bear, yet she’s putting a brave face on it all – no widow’s weeds, no drawn blinds, just trying to carry on as normal.’

He looks pensively at me.

‘She’s right about one thing though. I only had to meet you once to know that you are the one for me. When you learnt I had difficulty in walking you could have made your excuses and left. I shouldn’t have blamed you if you had, but you stayed and listened intently to everything I said. You fetched me something to eat and drink, whereas most girls wouldn’t have even bothered to think of my needs. You’re a caring person in a world where so many people don’t care. It would make me the happiest man alive to be your husband, but I don’t want you to answer now. You deserve and need time to think carefully on this issue. My mother is also right about that. If it will help you to make your decision, I can tell you this: I shall take on the tenancy of this farm no matter what. This wretched leg of mine should improve even though it won’t mend completely. I’ll get about all right. I’ll have men here to do the things I no longer can. I have made my resolution. As soon as the war’s over I’ll get my discharge and be here permanently. Nothing and nobody will stop me.”

In the two days which follow, David and I see more of each other quite deliberately so as to assist me in deciding whether he is truly the man with whom I wish to spend the rest of my life. Have I really any doubts? Frankly, I can conjure none. I talk the matter over with my parents. I thought they might have objections given that they have spent so much on my education and probably hoped a suitor could be found from the professional classes. The war, however, has changed so many of people’s perceptions. Nothing is so predictable as in the past, and class barriers are becoming a little more blurred than anyone in Edwardian Britain could have envisaged.

Can I imagine myself as a farmer’s wife? I had certainly not planned to become one. What would my erstwhile headmistress say? Perhaps she would advise me that it might be the only offer I am likely to get. Would it then be folly to refuse? What should become of me if I did? Were I to be an old maid, how should I earn my living? Should I be happy? Even if I could succeed as a writer, could I cope with the isolation? Would Edwin’s future children come to regard me as funny old Aunt Vera, not quite like other women?

These and other questions have my mind leaping in all directions simultaneously. For sure though, if I am to accept David’s proposal, then I first need to learn something about agriculture. So I elect to sample a little more of life down on the farm.

CHAPTER 5

NEW HOPE FOR THE FUTURE

Just when I need to see more of David, his home leave comes to an end and he is required to report to Aldershot. I suppose I have to remember that, despite what he calls his ‘Blighty wound’, he is still in the army and subject to its discipline. Our contact now, therefore, is restricted to written correspondence, there being no telephones as yet in our rural community.

We exchange letters every other day. David tells me that he is trying to ‘work his ticket’ by securing a medical discharge. The army, however, will have none of it and requires him to perform administrative duties. He hates being tied to a desk and has told his superiors that, if he is only fit to do paperwork, then he might as well do it for the benefit of the family farm. His commanding officer asked him whether he realised there was a war on, to which David replied that, with a chunk out of his leg, he had not got the faintest idea! This very nearly got him into hot water.

It seems that David is stuck in uniform for the duration of hostilities and there is no telling how long that will be. I advise him that I am a very busy girl, dividing my time between playing piano for wounded soldiers and trying to learn about farming from his mother and her workers. I see my parents when I return home each evening.

David is very impressed that I have graduated from feeding chickens to helping milk the cows. The dairyman, George Akehurst, is assisted by Stella, a girl from the Women’s Land Army. She hails from the city and admits that she must have had a sense of humour to move from London to the wilds of Sussex. I like Stella. She is a Cockney with a never-say-die attitude to life. Her upbringing was difficult: one of seven children in a tiny, overcrowded terraced house. She takes a delight in teaching me to milk because, like me, she was all at sea when she first came to the farm. Warming one’s hands before pulling on the teats is apparently the secret of success.

I also help to feed the pigs. This can be quite a struggle owing to these powerful creatures being so greedy to get at the swill that they jostle me and the bucket, whereby some of its contents spill down my legs to make life wet and uncomfortable. I have been put in charge of giving the cats their milk from the dairy. They know instinctively when I am about to perform this task. One can look around the farmyard and not see a feline. Then suddenly the whole pride appears from nowhere, each cat with its tail erect in expectation. They are not domesticated, so I am unable to get near enough to stroke one. If I attempt to do so, the cat will back away, seeing my friendliness as a threat.

The two Shire horses, Boxer and Cedric, are wonderful. They seem to have smiles on their faces when it is time to muck them out and bring their oats, hay and water. They appear to combine gentleness with their great strength. This pair of chestnut geldings represents the bare minimum of motive power on which the farm can function. All the other draught horses were requisitioned by the army. There is, however, one more equine: Tommy, an elderly pony too light for military duties, is used to haul the trap which provides wheeled transport for Mrs Coulthurst.

Sheep graze the pastures throughout the winter as their tiny feet do not poach the grass. The flock is in the tender care of a shepherd who rarely needs assistance, so I am not involved with these woolly creatures. There is just one more animal I have yet to mention. Rufus, a red cocker spaniel, is a gun dog, who initially pined for his master when David’s father died. The dog’s feeling of loss, however, was assuaged through everyone else lavishing their attention upon him. I join in the healing process by making a fuss of him and being a walking companion. He follows his nose into every bush and hedgerow, his tail wagging in the hope of finding something interesting. What he really wants, of course, is someone to go rough shooting with him so that he can retrieve a shot rabbit – one day, perhaps. An important fact I have to remember is that feeding Rufus is strictly the province of Mrs Coulthurst.

Thus is the livestock of Vine’s Farm complete: a clucking, lowing, grunting, mewing, neighing, bleating and barking menagerie amongst whom I have made friends.

David and I have resolved to become engaged with an understanding that we shall not arrange a marriage ceremony until the war is over and we can be together. This gives us time to consider our future very carefully. My parents have advised me not to be rushed. I think this is wise counsel. David and I need to be sure we are fully committed to each other, which also involves my being committed to the farm.

In both these areas my sternest critic is Mrs Coulthurst. I sense she is watching me and, although nobody lets on, I suspect she also quizzes the labourers about my progress. She does not volunteer to show me the farm accounts. Perhaps she considers these to be none of my business while I am still, to all intents and purposes, an outsider. It is my belief that David’s mother cannot convince herself that an Endacott girl can adapt to the rigours of agricultural life. She probably thinks I am a middle-class adolescent playing a game, acquiring rich material with which to regale my peers at fashionable dinner parties. If so, then I am determined to prove her wrong.

One Monday afternoon in November, I am distracted from my farming labours by bells tolling at our parish church. They have remained silent since the war began. Farm staff are beginning to gather in the yard, apparently summoned by this irregular event.

‘Can this be what I hope it might?’ queries Stella.

I stare vacantly at her.

‘You’ve got a bicycle,’ she reminds me, ‘and you’re free to come and go as you please, so why not ride down to the station and see if anyone on a train has brought some news?’

My heart starts to race and I heed Stella’s advice, grabbing my cycle and pedalling as fast as I can to the railway.

‘Is it true? Is it true?’ I ask the stationmaster, who performs a variety of tasks at our small country stopping place.

The fast trains from London do not call here, but the railway system provides a network of communication which reaches even wayside communities like ours.

‘Yes,’ answers the stationmaster. ‘Word was brought about an hour ago. The guns fell silent at eleven o’clock this morning. I’m told crowds are thronging the capital’s streets. Everybody seems to be waving a Union Jack. They’ve even been waving them from train windows as they pass through here.’

I burst into tears and do not care if I make a fool of myself. I remount my bicycle and head back to Vine’s Farm with all celerity. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, and suddenly – without expectation, it seems – this whole ghastly war is over. Can we now begin to live sensibly again?