Land Of Plenty

There’s a mystery to solve in this charming short story by Alyson Hilbourne.

THE brakes squealed as the train pulled into the station and a guard hurried along the platform, opening carriage doors. I gripped my suitcase and stepped out on to the platform with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.

Several other girls got out, too.

I was pleased I wasn’t alone. The decision to join the WLA hadn’t been easy, as it left Mum on her own, but I wanted to do something.

I followed everyone to the exit.

Outside, people were calling out names.

“Esther Fields?”

I hurried towards a man with a bushy moustache wearing a tweed jacket. “That’s me.”

“Wait here,” he said with a smile. “Jean Sawdry?”

A girl sauntered over, wearing a printed frock with padded shoulders and belted waist.

There was something strange happening on the farm, I was sure of it . . .

A little hat was pinned on her head and a winter coat slung over her arm.

I stared in envy.

“Hello!” Her voice tinkled like glass.

“This way,” the man said, leading us over to a horse and cart.

He swung my suitcase up. Jean’s suitcase was heavier, judging by the grunt he gave.

She kept tight hold of a little clutch bag and a large wooden box.

“Climb in,” the man said, indicating the back of the cart.

I went first, stretching to get my foot on the iron step, and used the sides of the cart to haul myself in.

Jean followed and, despite her dress and shoes, made a better job of it.

The man clicked his tongue, twitched the reins and the horse pulled away from the station and plodded along the road past houses and cottages.

“Jean.” The girl in the seat opposite me offered her hand.

“I heard,” I said, giving her a smile. “I’m Esther. I suppose we’re assigned to the same farm?”

“I expect so,” Jean replied with a sigh. “I volunteered to drive trams. Not quite sure how I got into the Land Army.

“Still, I hope I can drive the tractors.”

I nodded at the horse, ambling slowly along.

“Don’t bet on them having a tractor,” I said. Jean grimaced.

“Where are you from?” I asked as we swayed with the gentle movement of the cart.

We had passed the last of the cottages and were in open countryside with fields of crops.

“London,” Jean replied. “Me, too. I’m a dressmaker. Dad’s in the Navy and my two younger brothers have been evacuated.

“I didn’t want to leave Mum, but the Land Army was the thing to do.”

Before I could say more, the horse turned into a yard, hooves sparking on the cobbles, and pulled up in front of a farmhouse.

The farmer swung himself down.

“Mrs Bream’ll be out directly,” he said, undoing the straps that attached the horse to the cart.

I put my foot on the step and jumped to the ground. Then I turned and held out a hand to Jean.

“Too kind,” she said with a grin.

As we retrieved our cases, a big woman in a flowery apron hurried out of the house, followed by a tall, dark, smiling young man who could only be her son.

“Hello. Good journey?” She beamed. “I’m Mrs Bream. You’ve met Mr Bream and this is Sam, who looks after the livestock.

“We’ve converted the cottage for you. Thought you’d prefer a place of your own. This way.”

She led us across the yard to a smaller building.

The walls had been whitewashed, and the beaten earth floor swept. There was a fireplace in one wall, with a metal grate.

It had been laid with logs and there was a

basket of wood. Two worn armchairs were placed either side.

A plain wooden table and two chairs were the only other furniture. A steep ladder staircase was against the wall opposite the fire.

“Bedroom’s upstairs,”

Mrs Bream said. “Tap’s outside and I’ll get you a jug and bowl. Toilet block to the side.

“Arthur has the other half of the cottage next door.” She pointed.

Jean raised her perfectly groomed eyebrows.

“Dinner is at seven. You’ll need to be up at six to help with milking, and breakfast is at eight-ish when the dairy is clean.

“I’ll give you lunch to take with you if you’re working across the fields, otherwise it’s in the farmhouse. See you in an hour.”

Mrs Bream gave a quick wave and pulled the door shut behind her.

Jean looked around. “They’ve made an effort,” I said. “It’s nice to have our own place.”

Jean nodded.

“Let’s see what’s upstairs,” she said, putting her box and bag on the table.

She climbed the stairs, dragging her case behind her.

I pushed at it from below. We opened our suitcases and hung our clothes on the pegs in the wall.

“Oh, that’s beautiful.” I’d turned round to find Jean shaking out another dress.

“My dance dress,” she said. “Can’t miss a

Saturday night.”

I smiled.

“Where can we go dancing round here?” I spread my hands.

“We’ll ask Mrs Bream,” Jean said. “Maybe Sam will come with us?”

She gave me a wink. At supper, we met

Arthur. He was an older man, tall but greying.

After introductions had been made, he said nothing but concentrated on eating.

Jean asked about dances.

“Yes, on Saturday evenings in the village hall,” Mrs Bream said. “The vicar organises them.”

“Excellent,” Jean declared. “That’s where we’re going, then, Esther.”

“I’ll come, too.” Sam was standing by the stove.

He was watching us both. I guessed he was watching Jean. Even in the WLA bottle-green sweater and brown britches she looked gorgeous.

I focused on eating. Mrs Bream had made a chicken pie, which had more chicken than neeps in it.

“This is really good,” I told her.

She smiled warmly.

When dinner was over we went outside.

“Let’s look around,” Jean suggested, “before we turn in.”

Arthur grunted.

“There’s nowt to see,” he said, frowning, then hurried into his cottage and slammed the door.

We peered into the dairy, easily identified by the stools hanging on the walls and the individual stalls for the cows.

A low sink and draining board were stacked high with milking pails.

The next shed was locked, a padlock on the door.

Jean pressed her eye to the joins between the wooden panels.

“It’s dark,” she said. “Can you hear anything?”

I moved closer. There was a rustling coming from inside as if something was moving about in straw.

“Rats?” I asked, my eyes wide.

Jean shook her head. “Too big. A pig?” “Why would they keep the pig inside?”

“Who knows,” Jean said as we went into the cottage. “Do you dance, Esther?”

“A little,” I admitted. “But not well.”

“You shall now,” Jean said, going to the box she’d placed on the table.

She opened the lid to reveal a gramophone.

“Ta-da! Glenn Miller. Come on.”

She wound the handle and put the needle down on the record, and the saxophone riff began – “In The Mood”.

Jean grabbed my hand and started a Lindy Hop.

I tried to follow her, but my feet didn’t move as fast as hers.

Eventually I flopped in the chair.

“You’re good!” I exclaimed. “But you have to go slower for me.”

We went through the dance several more times, Jean breaking it down into steps for me. She was a good teacher.

“Enough,” I said at last. “We’ve to be up for milking.”

Jean made a wry face. “I suppose.”

We climbed the stairs. The room felt odd, not at all like my room at home. I wriggled in the bed, trying to get comfortable. I wondered how Mum was doing without me, and about what the next day would bring.

My mind was a whirl of thoughts as I listened to Jean’s gentle snores.

At some point I must have dropped off because I woke suddenly, convinced I’d heard something.

I leaned on one elbow and listened. A chill ran down my spine.

It sounded like footsteps outside. ****

Next morning, Jean was still sleeping deeply and I had to shake her.

We dressed in uniform, then Jean put her hair up in a scarf and ran lipstick across her lips before declaring herself ready.

Mrs Bream set us up with stools and buckets. I leaned into the warm side of the animal as we’d been trained.

Milk shot into the pail, steaming and creamy.

There was no sign of Sam or Arthur. I wondered what they were doing.

I was hungry when we’d finished cleaning the dairy. Breakfast was porridge and a boiled egg.

“What is this?” Jean said, head on one side and peering at the egg.

I laughed and put butter – real butter – on my toast.

“We’ve died and gone to heaven,” I replied.

After breakfast Mr

Bream took us out to clear ditches.

“Have they been saving this for us?” Jean said when Mr Bream was out of earshot. “I thought we’d be picking food.”

She leaned on her shovel and wiped her brow. Even this looked elegant when Jean did it.

“I heard Sam say there’d be peas in a few weeks, followed by cabbage and beans,” I said.

We worked on. My hands began to sting inside my gloves. I was getting blisters.

Despite Jean’s wiry frame she worked hard, although she always appeared to be standing doing nothing when anyone approached. “Enjoying yourselves?” Sam arrived on a bicycle, carrying a flask of tea.

“The most fun I’ve had in ages.” Jean rolled her eyes.

“Has to be done,” Sam said, turning to me. “How long have you been a Land Girl?”

“Only the training.”

“You handled those cows well,” he said with a nod. “I think Mum’ll leave you in charge of the dairy soon.”

My face warmed and I looked back at the ditch.

“Shame I’m not good with this,” I said gloomily. “You’re doing fine.”

Jean looked on with a wry smile.

“He likes you,” she said when Sam had ridden off.

“He was being polite,” I argued.

“Well, he wasn’t polite to me,” Jean said with a flick of her head.

She was right. I was surprised Sam talked to me when Jean, who was so gorgeous, was there.

“What do you think?” Jean asked. “Interested?” I laughed.

“How do you know I don’t have a young man at home?”

“Because there are no young men at home.” Jean pulled a face. “Anyway, you’d have said.”

“How about you?” I asked, changing the subject. “Have you got anyone special?”

“Not me!” Jean’s voice tinkled. “I don’t like being

tied down.”

“Let’s get finished. Then dinner,” I said, remembering the chicken pie.

“Do you only think of food?” Jean asked.

“I’m so fed up with rationing,” I explained. “Never enough to make a proper meal.” ****

We fell into a routine over the next few days.

Milking was followed by days of clearing ditches, then evening milking, and after dinner Jean and I played the gramophone and danced.

At night, I slept badly. Strange noises disturbed my sleep and often I woke convinced I’d heard something.

One night I distinctly heard an owl calling and another answering from near our cottage.

I presumed I’d get used to country noises soon enough.

On Saturday we had work as usual, but after evening milking we washed and changed.

I looked enviously at Jean’s frock and back to my own skirt and blouse.

“Borrow my spare dress,” she said. “It will bring out your colour.”

I hugged myself. I was so lucky to find a nice place to work and a friend as well.

Mr Bream loaned us a bicycle to get into the village, which I rode. Jean sat on the carrier at the back.

“One shilling.” The vicar collected entrance money on the door.

Inside the hall, the windows were blacked out and a spotlight had been rigged up on a reflecting ball, which threw spots of light around like paint droplets.

A three-piece band was already playing a foxtrot, and people were dancing. Jean wrinkled her nose. “I hope it’s going to liven up,” she said. “I wonder when Sam will come?”

She gave me a nudge. A few men in uniform stood around smoking, while others were obviously villagers or farmers and their wives.

I recognised some of the Land Girls who had arrived on the train and went to talk. I thought Jean had followed, but when I looked round she had gone.

I saw her whispering to the pianist and immediately the music changed to a livelier beat.

People moved on to the dance floor and it was difficult to see until I caught sight of Jean’s frock.

She was talking to a tall, distinguished man in uniform at the far side of the room.

It appeared she had found the most eligible man in the room. I wasn’t surprised.

I turned back and saw Sam coming towards me. “Dance?” he asked. I smiled.

When the number was over we moved to the edge of the room.

Jean joined us.

“I must say, you WLA girls scrub up pretty well,” Sam said, looking us both up and down.

“Of course,” Jean said, linking arms with me. “Shall we dance?”

I knew what was coming. She’d asked the band to play “In The Mood.”

The opening notes sounded. We took a place in the middle of the floor and tapped and swung our way through the routine we’d practised.

Several other couples took to the floor, but most people stopped to watch.

Round we went, Jean tall and glamorous, while my face glowed with effort. People clapped as we finished.

Sam came over.

“Bravo,” he said.

“Jean taught me,” I replied, embarrassed. “Next one is my dance.” I danced the rest of the evening with Sam. From time to time I caught a glimpse of Jean.

She moved from one partner to the next with each dance, though the tall man reappeared several times.

Sam introduced me to various people we passed.

“George Coleman, butcher. Freda works in the greengrocer’s. Her father owns it. Hetty.”

He let go of me for a moment and gave Hetty a hug.

“Hetty’s father runs a farm nearby. We were at school together.”

By the end of the evening my head was a whirl of different names and faces, but there was only one I really cared about.

Sam was a perfect gentleman, stopping to get me a drink and