Lena frowned, not quite sure whether her leg was being pulled or not. ‘I really do think people should respect other people’s property, that’s all.’ She brushed a fleck of mud from her nose, thrown up by the lorry’s wheels. ‘One has to have standards and I really can’t cope with all this - this - ‘
‘Weather?’ A burst of giggles all round.
‘All right. Make fun if you must. I’ve only saying...’
‘We know what you’re saying Lena. Put a sock in it, lassie,’ Jeannie tartly informed her. ‘Ye’re not the only one suffering here. I'd gi’e me virginity, if I still had it, for a guid long soak in a hot tub.’
More snorts of laughter at Jeannie’s bluntness, while Lou glanced anxiously at Gracie who was taking all of this in with a worrying expression of concern. ‘I hope you aren’t considering tackling Matron again. Personally, I’d rather face an enemy tank.’
Gracie merely lifted her pale eyebrows, flicked back her long blond hair and said not a word. Nevertheless on the fifth day, which again poured with rain, an awning for the lorry was indeed provided, as well as wooden benches around each of its four sides. Tired of being blocked by Matron, she’d approached the supervisor directly who had apparently been unaware of the problem, or so she claimed, and was only too happy to put it right. Flushed with pleasure at this small victory, Gracie was given a rousing cheer and treated as a heroine, for all she apologised that she’d got nowhere over the mattresses. Matron was adamant. The “biscuits” would stay.
Lou was astounded and hugely impressed. There was more to this girl than met the eye. However, there remained the danger that in bypassing Matron and achieving her object, this might well inflame relations with the woman still further.
At least the food is good,’ Lou had remarked on the first day as she’d bit into a hefty cheese sandwich. ‘What a treat. I love cheese. Haven’t had any in ages.’
The girls’ appetites, already healthy, grew day by the day and lunch was always a welcome break, time to find a quiet spot under a tree, occasionally to be warmed by the pale autumn sunshine when there was a break in the showers. It was an opportunity to put their feet up for half an hour, to get out their packets of sandwiches and thermos flasks of tea.
The second day Lou had again welcomed the cheese sandwich, and on the third. Even on the fourth day as Lena was loudly complaining and asking for sardines, she’d stoutly devoured it without comment. By the end of the week though, as she opened yet another packet of cheese sandwiches, she began to think that, for once, Lena might have a point. ‘Oh no, not cheese again!’
‘As agricultural workers we’re allowed extra cheese,’ Tess explained. ‘So that’s what we get. Cheese, cheese and more cheese.’
‘One can have too much of a good thing,’ Lou groaned, biting into the thick crust with a grimace of distaste.
At the start of the second week Lou came to regret her objection to cheese when she opened up her lunch packet to find a kipper, complete with bones and tail, stuck between the two slices of bread. ‘Lord, I can’t eat this.’
Some of the girls valiantly tried, picking out the bones with painstaking care. Lou tossed hers into the hedge and, grabbing Gracie, made her do the same. ‘Come on Titch, I spotted a pub down the road. Let’s sweet talk good old Tom-Tom into keeping an eye out for the Super, while we go and get a proper feed.
Keeping a wary eye out herself for the supervisor, Lou threaded her way through the trees, Gracie close behind. Reaching the edge of the woods unobserved, the two girls lay flat on their stomachs and wriggled through a gap in some prickly hawthorn bushes, squealing in agony every time they were stabbed by the sharp thorns. Giggling uncontrollably by this time, they slithered and rolled down the high Cornish hedge, lost their footing and cannoned right on top of a rider and bicycle that had just soared round the corner.
Rose lay on the ground beneath a tangle of bent wheels, arms, legs and prone bodies, Tizz’s anxious barking ringing in her ears, wondering how much worse the day could get. Even as the three girls sorted out which bit belonged to whom, her mind wasn’t taking in a word of their abject apologies, or their offers of a stiff drink. She couldn’t even find it in herself to calm the poor dog down. She was too busily occupied examining the extent of the damage to the bicycle, worrying about lunch and how on earth she was going to get home now in time to make it. Worst of all, what Eddie’s reaction would be to this further evidence of failure on her part.
The day had got off to a bad start already with her being late with his breakfast. He’d paid no heed to her excuses at having overslept because of a prolonged weeding session in the garden the day before. He’d been too busy complaining about his toast being cold and the fact that it was boiled egg again. Couldn’t he have bacon for a change? Rose had longed to remind him that there was a war on and bacon impossible to find, unless they had a pig to kill, which they hadn’t. She’d wanted to say that if he wasn’t in such a fortunate position as to keep hens, or at least to have a sister who kept hens, he would have had to get through the war on dry toast and home made jam with very little sugar just like everyone else. But she’d somehow managed to hold her tongue.
Perhaps she held her tongue too often but such arguments carried little weight. Eddie was far too selfish to care about how other people suffered. He only concerned himself with the war so far as it affected himself, which was hardly at all. Apart from being rather old, at thirty-four, for the armed forces, he’d avoided being called up by taking this job as estate manager though he did precious little work on the estate, leaving that to others, in particular his little sister. Nor did he actually do much in the way of managing. Since the major part of Clovellan House had been requisitioned by the government, there was little for him to do beyond act as a sort of caretaker of the west wing. The Clovellan family had retired to Canada for the duration.
There were times when Rose longed to speak her mind, to point out that she was a person too, with wishes and dreams of her own, yet she rarely did. Rose knew herself for a coward where Eddie’s temper was concerned. He was not a man to cross. It was vital that he be kept in a good humour, because she would be the one to suffer if he wasn’t.
She noted the familiar hump that was Gertie beside him in the brass bed huddled beneath the bedclothes. Not that Rose had any objection to Eddie courting the housekeeper, though whether he’d ever wed her was another matter and not her concern. Bored with having too little to do, the pair seemed a good match and were able to keep each other amused for hours, or so it seemed. No, what Rose did object to, quite strongly, was finding herself waiting on the ubiquitous Gertie, in addition to her brother.
On this subject, at least, Rose made no attempt to hold her tongue. Only the other day she’d had call to remind her that it was the housekeeper’s responsibility to wash the curtains, and not her job at all.
‘Why do it then?’ Had been Gertie’s swift response. ‘Nobody asked you to.’
‘On the contrary, Eddie asked me to. He’s as sick as I am of windows festooned with cobwebs. We can hardly see out.’
Gertie had given a careless shrug. ‘’Oo is there to do the lookin’, ‘ceptin us?’ On the wrong side of forty she was plump, bone idle, took too few baths and had the kind of raucous laugh and loud voice which filled Rose with embarrassment every time the woman opened her mouth. On this occasion as on many another, she’d flounced off in high dudgeon, no doubt to complain to Eddie that his sister was picking on her again.
This morning she stirred, grunted, lifted her tousled head and blinked at Rose, before sinking back under the covers.
‘You haven’t forgotten about lunch,’ Eddie sharply reminded her as Rose slid the tray over his lap, and she flushed bright pink because of course she had forgotten. Entirely. She’d planned to spend this unexpectedly glorious autumn day cutting out the old raspberry canes and tying up the new ones. Now she would have to waste the whole morning sweating over a smoky kitchen stove, cooking for his layabout friends, and no doubt cleaning up after them for the rest of the day. He would also expect her to be suitably agreeable, laugh at their jokes, simper and flirt, as he did with all the other misfits he brought to Clovellan House. Rose shuddered at the prospect.
‘No, no, of course I hadn’t forgotten. How many did you say were coming? Three?’
‘There’ll be six of us. For God’s sake Rose, can’t you remember a damned thing?’ He tapped his egg, growled about its hardness and demanded to know what she planned to cook for them.
‘Sorry, but it’ll have to be good old Woolton Pie again. We’ve loads of vegetables at least,’ Rose said, thinking of her empty cupboards. No doubt his guests would also use up the last of the parsnip wine, leaving them bereft before winter even started. Though that might be no bad thing. Eddie had been plundering Lord Clovellan’s wine cellars even more recklessly than usual of late, and Rose wondered if something was troubling him. He’d certainly become increasingly irascible.
She plumped up his pillows, hoping to keep him in a good mood, thinking how he seemed older than his years, tired looking, hair dark and greasy, a stubble of several days growth on his sunken cheeks and sharply jutting jaw. The eyes bore dark bruises beneath the reddened rims.
‘Vegetable pie! Not again,’ he complained, his voice tetchy. ‘It’s time you got yourself better organised, girl. I told you to get beef steak or chops. Or chicken would be nice.’
‘It would also be quite impossible. If you want to continue to have eggs for your breakfast, hard or not, we can’t start killing off the hens, we’ve barely a dozen left.’ Rose paused at the bedroom door long enough to offer him her most stunning smile and, as so often before, he was startled by her loveliness. The heart-shaped face with its olive-skinned perfection framed by a mane of wildly curling black hair and eyes as blue as a Cornish sea, was a sight worth seeing. But if such beauty was wasted on himself, he had plans to put it to good purpose. She owed him that much at least. He realised she was still talking. ‘Don’t worry, I shall liven it up with powdered egg and tomatoes, we’ve plenty of both of those. Followed by lovely apple dumpling. I’m sure your friends will be very happy with that.’
Eddie felt a stirring of unease as he struggled to imagine the fastidious Dexter Mulligan happily tucking into homely pies and puddings instead of the steak or juicy pork chops he’d been promised. Very particular about promises being kept was Dexter, whether it be a decent lunch, a good hand at poker or a bit of how’s your father. On this occasion he’d been promised all three; Gertie always being willing to spread her favours if necessary. But then she knew full well that keeping Dexter happy was vital, or he might start to tot up just how much in his debt Eddie actually was. And that would never do.
Eddie also made sure that Rose knew nothing of these all-night card parties, or how much of their joint wages vanished on the back of a card.
Gertie’s muffled voice emerged from beneath the covers though no head appeared this time. ‘It’s a wonder we ain’t all bleedin’ clucking. I’ll wake up and find I’ve turned into a flippin’ hen meself one of these days.’
As ever, fears for his own skin spilled over into annoyance at Rose. ‘Gertie’s right. I know I should be grateful when the rest of the world gets only one egg a week but I’m not in the least bit grateful, Rose. I’m simply fed up to the back teeth with your complete incompetence. And they’re not my
friends!
How many times do I have to tell you. They’re colleagues, business colleagues. Useful contacts.
Associates
!’
‘Of course. Sorry, I keep forgetting.’ Seeing his face darken with fresh irritation, Rose began to feel hot and flustered, anxious to escape his censorious attitude. And really she never fully understood what business it was, exactly, that he was involved with. Nor dare she ask, her thoughts flying back to the lunch and an urgent need to inspect the kitchen garden for vegetables. It was all very well saying vegetable pie but there was no guarantee there’d be anything exciting in season, and Eddie always expected the very best. The celery certainly wasn’t ready, nor the leeks. Perhaps she might find the odd remaining courgette in the glasshouse.
‘I just wish you’d try to be more imaginative with the meals you choose to serve, as well as better organised,’ he told her crossly, just as if all the pantries and larders in Clovellan House were still stacked with the best of fare, and the servant’s quarters awash with people to cook it. ‘And you’re forever on the last minute. How many times have I told you to plan properly?’
‘I do my best. For goodness sake Eddie, there is a war on.’
‘I’m sick of the bloody war.’ With one furious gesture he swept the egg to the floor and Rose flew to pick up bits of shell before the spilled yolk ruined the rug. Gathering up the remains of his breakfast, she edged towards the door. ‘Would you like more toast instead?’
He ignored the question. ‘Other people cope, and so should you. Think ahead, why don’t you?’
It seemed the last straw for he was constantly reminding her to be careful with the budgeting, saying how difficult it was to make ends meet. ‘Other people don’t have a house the size of Clovellan to manage, even if it is only the west wing, and all
without
the help of a decent housekeeper.’ She raised her voice to make sure Gertie could hear beneath the blankets. ‘Or a brother who thinks he’s Lord Muck and insists on holding grand luncheon parties he can’t afford. You should cut down on this socialising of yours, Eddie. What with the war and everything, we all have to make sacrifices.’