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Copyright 2019 by Roberta Grieve
Cover art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book
The hens clucked around Celia’s feet as she shook the tablecloth free of crumbs. She watched them for a moment and was about to go indoors when the sound of a motorcycle in the lane stopped her. She shaded her eyes against the glare from the sun as her heart beat a little faster. She knew of only one person who had a motor bike – her brother’s friend, Flight Lieutenant Matthew Dangerfield.
But what was he doing at the farm? For a brief moment, she wondered if something had happened to Edgar. No, that kind of news would merit an official notification. Still, she couldn’t help being a bit apprehensive. The Battle of Britain had been over for more than a year, but her brother and his fellow airmen still took their lives in their hands every time they flew.
The motorcycle crested the hill and roared down the track into the farmyard. In a flurry of dirt, it roared to a stop, leaving a smell of exhaust in the air and a silence broken only by the sound of the hens clucking around the yard.
To Celia’s relief, she saw that the motorcycle carried a pillion passenger – her brother. Edgar rushed towards her, throwing his arms round her. “Great to be home, sis,” he said, swinging her round.
“Ed, it’s wonderful to see you?”
Despite his being stationed only a few miles away she hadn’t seen her brother for ages but she was surprised he’d come home. Usually, he telephoned asking her to meet him in town. It saddened her that he had avoided confrontation with their father for so long. But he was here now, so perhaps he’d been thinking things over and decided it was time to heal the rift between them. She hoped so.
“Just a flying visit, I’m afraid,” he said. “We’ve been posted up to Suffolk. Had to pop in and say cheerio before we left.” He glanced round, nodding towards the back door of the farmhouse. “Dad around?”
“He’s gone to get the cows in for milking,” Celia said.
“S’pose I’d better say hello. But it’s you I came to see, sis.” He frowned. “Has he come round yet?”
Celia bit her lip and shook her head. If only the two people she loved most in all the world would settle their differences and agree to disagree. As usual, she could see both sides of the question. “Just talk to him, Ed,” she said.
The man who’d accompanied her brother was still standing beside the motorbike, and now he stepped tentatively forward. “Aren’t you going to say hello?” he said, holding out his hand. “You do remember me, don’t you?”
Celia nodded, suddenly feeling a little shy. She had met Matthew Dangerfield several times over the past year, but it had usually been in a crowd. On market days, she and her friends sometimes went to the Unicorn pub in Chichester, a favourite haunt of Ed and his fellow airmen from Tangmere.
Now Matthew shook her hand, a warm firm grasp and said, “I couldn’t pass up the chance of seeing you again before we go off to Suffolk. Giving Ed a lift was the perfect excuse. I’m just glad we found you at home.”
He gave a cheeky grin and Celia felt herself blushing. She was used to such comments from her brother’s friends and usually turned them aside with a tart rejoinder. But this man with his blue eyes and mop of curly black hair evoked a different response and she couldn’t deny that she was pleased to see him again. It wasn’t just his looks. There was a hint of seriousness behind the banter and a warmth in his voice that implied he wasn’t just flirting with her.
Flustered, she turned away. “You’d better come in. I bet you’re both hungry. We’ve just finished tea but I expect I can rustle something up.”
“I don’t want to impose,” said Matt.
“Don’t take any notice of him,” said Ed. “We’re starving.”
“You’re always starving. Hollow legs,” Celia said with a laugh, the tension broken. “Anyway, food may be rationed, but we’ve got plenty of eggs.”
They followed her into the farmhouse kitchen, a large beamed room, warm with the smell of baking.
“Sit down, mate,” Ed said, pulling out a chair.
The two men sprawled at the kitchen table while Celia whisked eggs in a bowl and put two rashers of bacon in a pan. “It’s all we’ve got left, I’m afraid,” she said.
Within minutes she had placed a steaming plateful of scrambled eggs and bacon and large mugs of tea in front of the men. She sat down opposite and watched as they wolfed the food down.
“Better than camp grub,” Edgar said through a mouthful of egg. He finished eating and pushed his chair back. “Better go and have a word with the old man before we leave.”
Matt made to get up, but Edgar told him to stay and chat with Celia. “I need to do this alone,” he said. He went out slamming the door behind him.
Celia stood up with a sigh and cleared the table.
“I know Ed had a bit of a barney with your father but he wouldn’t say what it was about,” Matt said tentatively.
“It was nothing really. I’m sure they’ll sort things out between them,” she replied.
“I hope so.” Matt hesitated. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this. Ed won’t say anything I know, but this posting…well, it’s likely to be dangerous.”
“More dangerous than Tangmere?” Celia scoffed. The airfield at the foot of the Downs had been bombed many times over the past year and she knew that often planes did not return from their mission. Every day she heard the planes taking off, and at night she lay awake listening to the heavy bombers going over.
“‘We’ve been posted to a bomber squadron,” Matt told her. “They’ll be getting the new Lancasters soon and we’ll be training on them before they go into operation.”
“Now I see why Ed needs to talk to Dad. I just hope he’ll listen this time.”
“What’s the problem between them?”
“Dad needs Ed on the farm and doesn’t understand why he had to join the RAF. But Ed’s always been mad about planes, couldn’t keep away from the local flying club. It was all right until we knew there was going to be a war.”
“I can understand Mr Raines wanting his son to follow him. My dad was the same. But I didn’t fancy being a barrister.” Matt laughed. “Can you see me in one of those silly wigs?”
Celia laughed too. “So, you and Ed…both rebels then?”
“I was lucky. Dad saw my point of view.”
“It’s nice you get on well with your father. So why come here instead of going home?” Celia asked.
“Too far, they live in Exeter.” Matt paused. He finished drying a plate and put it on the dresser, then turned to Celia. “This problem with Ed and your father – it’s serious, isn’t it?”
“Dad’s taken it hard. He always dreamt of Ed taking over the farm one day.”
“I’m sure he’ll come back and take his place here after the war,” said Matt.
Celia picked up the kettle which was simmering on the range and poured more hot water onto the used crockery. The unspoken thought that Edgar might not come back at all hung between them.
“Ed tells me you work in an office in town,” Matt said.
“I’d rather be farming, but Dad says it’s not a woman’s job.”
“How is he managing?”
“Not very well. Two of the younger hands joined up at the beginning of the war, and then our cowman left a few months ago. Now there’s only old Len Robson.”
“I thought farming was a reserved occupation.”
“It is, but they volunteered.” Celia sighed. “I wish Dad would agree to me leaving my job and working with him. But he won’t hear of it.”
Matt picked up another plate. “Might as well make myself useful while I wait for Ed.”
“Thanks.” She didn’t try to deter him and they worked in silence for a few minutes. When the last cup was dried and hung on its hook below the dresser shelf, she glanced towards the back door. “He’s been gone a long time,” she said.
“We ought to be getting on,” Matt said, looking at his watch.
Celia took off her apron and opened the door. “Here he is now.”
Edgar was alone, no sign of her father.
“Everything all right?” she asked.
He shrugged.
“What did he say?” Celia asked.
“The usual.” He turned to his friend. “Come on, Matt, let’s be off.”
He gave Celia a hug and, after promising to write, climbed onto the pillion.
Matt kick-started the motorcycle and, as it roared to life, he turned to Celia. “I’ll write too…if I may?”
They disappeared down the lane in a cloud of chalky dust and Celia stood for a few moments until the sound of the bike faded. She sighed. The rift between her father and brother hurt her deeply. She loved them both and understood how they both felt. But she couldn’t help feeling that their father showing his disapproval so strongly was only reinforcing Edgar’s determination to go his own way. “They’re both so stubborn,” she muttered, striding across the yard towards the milking shed.
Her father was washing down the floor, and he looked up as she walked in, his expression grim, “He’s gone then?” He gave a final swipe with the mop and picked up the bucket, pushing past her into the yard. “I s’pose he told you he was off to Suffolk? All the way up there on that damned motor bike. Well, if the Germans don’t get him, that contraption will.”
Celia shivered as much from the truth of his words as from the chill wind that had sprung up, the first sign of approaching autumn after the long hot summer. She watched in silence as he rinsed the bucket and mop under the pump and then slammed them down angrily. But when he turned to her, his face was bleak and she could swear there were tears in his eyes.
“Why did he do it, love? He’d be safe here on the farm, reserved occupation. And he’d still be doing his bit, wouldn’t he?”
What words of comfort could she offer? Too late now. Edgar had joined up at the outbreak of war. She wanted to tell her father that he still had her. She loved the farm and would have worked alongside her father willingly. But he wouldn’t hear of it. He’d insisted on her doing secretarial training and getting a job.
Ever since she was old enough to toddle around after him, she’d tried to help – feeding the motherless lambs, working as hard as any of the men at haymaking time, going with him to the market in Chichester every week.
She had always imagined herself taking over from Dad one day. After all, Edgar had never had any interest in farming. And there was no one else, was there? She’d always thought her father felt the same. But when her mother had died, he’d changed his tune. He’d convinced himself it was his fault that she had got ill, worn out with doing the work of two men during the slump in agriculture when they couldn’t afford to employ farmhands.
“I don’t want you ending up a drudge like your mother,” he’d said. “She was always on the go – hardly ever sat down. And when she did, it was mending, knitting.”
When Celia was about to leave school, he had re-stated his view. “I’m not having that happen to you, love,” he said. “Farming’s no job for a woman. Helping out in the holidays is one thing, but not full time. No. I mean it,” he said when Celia tried to protest.
So, she’d given in and gone to college while still helping on the farm during weekends and holidays, determined that when the course was finished, she would persuade her father to let her join him full time. She’d passed the book-keeping, and shorthand and typing exams with top marks.
“Well done, Cee. I knew you were cut out for better things than milking cows,” said her father. “So, have you thought about where you’ll apply for a job?”
“Plenty of time for that,” she said.
But when he pointed out the vacancy at the Downland Press, she applied for the job without arguing. She had not inherited her brother’s stubborn streak. Besides, she told herself, she wouldn’t get it. There were probably far more experienced applicants.
She’d been wrong. The owner of the printing works, Dennis Allen, had been impressed with her exam results and had taken her on straight away. After two years, she had to admit that she enjoyed her work. And she still had the long summer evenings and weekends free to work on the farm.
The Downland Press was a small printing works in Sullingford about three miles from High Trees Farm. They specialized in printing posters for the livestock market, auction sales, posters and flyers as well as a small weekly newspaper, the Downland Weekly Advertiser, which was produced almost single-handedly by Dennis Allen while his son, Russell, ran the printing side of things.
* * *
The day after Edgar’s visit, Celia cycled into town, still worried about the rift between her father and her brother. She wheeled her bicycle down the alley beside the printing office, leaned her bike against the wall and opened the door to the big shed which housed the printing machines. The noise was deafening and she could only smile in response to the mouthed greeting from old Barney who manned the big flatbed press.
She picked up some proofs from the table by the door and crossed the yard to the newspaper office which consisted of the two downstairs rooms of an old cottage in the High Street. Dennis Allen still lived above the shop, alone now since his wife had died and son Russell had married.
The front room, where Celia worked, housed the main office where customers could come and place advertisements or order their posters and stationery. The back room was the Editor’s domain where he typed his editorials and the main stories of the week at a scarred old oak desk which took up most of the room. His son Russell worked at a smaller desk in the corner, although he mostly supervised the printing works these days. The rest of the space was dominated by a bench along one wall where Mr Allen did the page mock-ups for the paper.
He was already there, hunched over the typewriter, ash from the ever-present cigarette falling between the keys. Celia wondered if he ever retired upstairs to his living quarters. He looked as if he hadn’t moved since she’d left to go home last night.
“Good morning, Mr Allen, lovely day,” she said cheerfully, putting her family worries behind her.
He grunted a reply, then glanced up and said, “It may be a lovely day out here in the country. Not so elsewhere. Haven’t you heard the news?” He proceeded to tell her about the bombs that had dropped on London that night, as well as along the coast at Portsmouth and Southampton.
Celia had been trying not to think about the war, especially her brother’s part in it. The mention of bombing brought it to the fore again and she bit back a sob at the memory of her father’s bleak expression after Edgar had left. She brought her attention back to what her boss was saying.
“Well at least our boys are giving them a pasting now. No more flying over there and dropping leaflets.”
A laugh from the open door caused Celia to turn around. Russell Allen stood there, a bunch of flyers in his hand. “You trying to do us out of a job, Dad? We’ve just printed another batch for the Ministry, you know.”
Dennis Allen looked up from his typewriter. “Can’t you take anything seriously? It’s no laughing matter, people are being bombed out of their homes.”
Russell looked chastened. “Sorry, Dad. Just trying to lighten the mood. It’s all doom and gloom these days.”
For once, Celia agreed with her boss. Usually, Russell’s little jokes cheered up the working day and she knew he was popular with the boys in the printing shed. But she wasn’t in the mood today.
Her face must have showed it as Russell immediately became businesslike. “Actually, I only came in to see if there were any new jobs in.”
“I’ve only just got here,” Celia said. “I’ll go and look.”
She went through to the front office and picked up the post. “Nothing here,” she said, going through the envelopes.
He perched on the edge of the desk and watched her. “Why so glum today?” he asked. “Boyfriend let you down?”
“You know very well I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said, blushing a little at the thought of her brother’s friend and his promise to write.
He grinned. “Pity I’m spoken for then.”
Celia didn’t reply. He’d made similar remarks before and she never knew if he was serious. She liked him, and they got on well at work, but there was no way she’d get involved with a married man, especially one whose wife was an old school friend. Marion was a year or two older, but they’d become friendly travelling to school on the bus. They’d gone to the pictures in Chichester and to young farmers’ dances together, which was where they’d met Russell. Marion, more sophisticated than Celia, had caught his eye straight away. And he had caught hers, drawn by his slicked back dark hair and Ronald Colman moustache. “Not my type,” Celia had told her friend.
He still wasn’t, and she didn’t like him flirting with her. She concentrated on opening the post, sorting the letters into piles, and hoping he’d go away and let her get on with her work.
To her relief he stood up, but he paused before opening the door. “Dad hasn’t been getting at you, has he? I know he can be a bit of a slave driver.”
She shook her head.
“Good. I don’t like to see you upset,” he said.
“It’s just…Edgar turned up yesterday evening, just a flying visit. He’s been posted, came to say goodbye.”
“They have to go where they’re sent, I suppose.” He sighed. “Wish I could get away from this dump,” he added on his way out.
The morning passed quickly as Celia sorted out invoices and typed up the reports sent in by local organisations and village correspondents. The Advertiser’s only staff reporter had joined up a few months ago. Celia knew Russell would like to have enlisted as well, but his father had persuaded him to wait until he was called up.
She got the invoices ready for the post and took the typed reports to Mr Allen’s office. He was still hunched over his typewriter, the cigarette drooping from his lip, the cup of tea she’d taken in to him earlier untouched by his side.
“I’m just popping out, Mr Allen,” she said.
He nodded without looking up. She picked up her handbag and the packet of sandwiches she’d brought with her and went out into the High Street. Sometimes she cycled home at dinner time but she couldn’t face her father today. He would just go over the same old thing again, Edgar’s place was at home on the farm. Why couldn’t he understand that his stubborn attitude would only drive her brother further away?
Celia walked down to the river and sat on one of the benches facing the water. Although the trees were changing colour, the sun was still warm. She was glad she’d come out instead of eating her lunch indoors. She loved being outside and, although she enjoyed her job, she sometimes felt stifled being cooped up in the office all day. The thought brought her back to her father and brother.
She was most frustrated with her father. Why couldn’t he see that he had a ready-made heir to the farm, someone who loved the place and wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of her life there? Why did it have to be a son?
She sighed and stood up. Feeling slightly guilty at the waste of food, she threw the rest of her lunch to the swans hovering expectantly at the water’s edge. She’d better get back to work and make sure Mr Allen had stopped for something to eat. He’d sit at that desk all day if no one interrupted him.
As she walked back through the town, she thought about the men in her life. There was her father wanting Edgar to follow in his footsteps, and Mr Allen was the same with Russell. And Matthew had told her his father wanted him to join the family law firm. Lucky Matt, his parents understood his need to make his own way. She smiled, remembering the easy camaraderie that had sprung up between them as they worked together in the farmhouse kitchen. She hoped he would keep his promise and write to her.
She reached the office just as Marion stormed out, almost knocking her over.
“What’s wrong?” Celia asked, putting out a hand to steady her friend.
“Bloody Russell, that’s what.”
“What’s he done?” Celia couldn’t imagine how he could have upset her. Despite his well-known reputation for casual flirtation, he adored Marion, indulged her every whim. Her expensive shoes and handbag, bought from a top London store, were only some of the gifts he showered on her. He never complained when she went up to town to meet her friends, and he was left to get his own meals.
“I’ve had a fantastic offer from the agency but he won’t hear of me taking it up. I have to stay here in mouldy old Sullingford and be a good little housewife.” Marion tossed her golden curls. “Me, a housewife? Did you know that before we married, I was on the way to being one of the top models for Vogue?’
Celia smiled and nodded. She did know. Marion had told her often enough. Her constant gloating had put a strain on their friendship for a while. But when she’d got married, to Celia’s surprise, she had seemed to settle down, content to put her glamorous life behind her.
Marion pouted. “Well, I don’t care what he or his stick-in-the-mud old father says, I’m going – for the interview anyway. I’m off to London on the early train tomorrow.”
Celia was about to say that perhaps Russell didn’t want her to go to London because of the bombing; he’d be worried about her. But, without waiting for a reply, Marion flounced off.
Good luck to her, Celia thought with a bemused smile. She returned to work wondering if her friend really would defy her husband. Still, she’d always been a bit wayward which had been part of her attraction when they were at school. It had been fun going to dances with her, flirting, staying out late and pretending they’d missed the last bus home. But when Marion went to London to try her luck as a model, urging Celia to go with her, she had realised that wasn’t the sort of life she wanted. It had been fun for a while, but she was a country girl at heart. If she had her way, she would never leave the farm.
A wet and windy morning. Celia shivered as she stood in the yard feeding the hens before going to work. Leaves from the elm trees bordering the lane swirled in the air and she wished she didn’t have so far to cycle into town. No use asking Dad to drive me in, he’ll only say he’s too busy. About time I learned to drive myself, but with the petrol shortage I don’t suppose there’s much chance of that.
She glanced at her watch. Better leave plenty of time. She’d be riding against the wind today. As she turned to go indoors, she saw the postman on his bike.
“Not a very good morning, is it?” he said with a grin, dismounting and handing her a batch of letters.
“Thanks, Bill.” She flicked through them, frowning at the official looking brown envelopes. They seemed to be getting more of those these days as the Ministry of Agriculture dreamed up more and more rules and regulations to harass poor farmers like her father, Larry Raines.
She waved goodbye to Bill and took the post indoors. Her father had finished the milking and was in the kitchen eating the breakfast she’d cooked. She handed him the envelopes and said, “I’m off, Dad.”
“Here, listen to this, Cee.” He’d opened one of the letters and looked up with a grimace. “They want me to take on a couple of land girls. What do I want with girls on my farm? We’re managing all right with Len and there’s young Mickey to help out at harvest time.”
Mickey was Len’s grandson and was always ready to earn a bit of pocket money.
“But, Dad, Mickey will be leaving school soon. He might not want to work here full time,” Celia said. “Besides, they say we’ve got to produce more. We can’t do that now Fred’s gone. And what about poor old Len? Winter’s coming on and his arthritis isn’t getting any better.” She paused, tying her scarf over her head. “Well, Dad, if you’d only let me work here full time instead of sending me off to college, they wouldn’t be telling you to take on land girls, would they?” She hoped her sharp reply would jolt him into changing his mind, but his reply was predictable.
“I tell you, a farm’s no place for young girls. How can you expect them to do the heavy work?”
The same old argument. Celia sighed and picked up her handbag. “I must go. Don’t want to be late.”
She got her bike from the shed and set off with the wind in her face. Although mostly downhill, she had to lean over the handlebars and push hard on the pedals. The effort left her breathless, but it did help work off the frustration she felt at her father’s stubbornness. By the time she reached the printing works, she’d made up her mind to hand in her notice today. She hoped to make her father understand that if she was working full-time on the farm he wouldn’t have to put up with ‘flibbertigibbet girls who didn’t know one end of a cow from the other’ as he put it. And if he wouldn’t give in, she would apply to join the Land Army. She’d show him that girls could work just as hard as men.
When she reached the office, the postman had already been and there were several official-looking envelopes on her desk, similar to those she’d handed her father earlier that morning. She took them in to Dennis Allen’s office without opening them. He thanked her absent-mindedly and went back to checking the page proof on his desk.
She sorted out her own post and settled down to work. To her relief, there was no sign of Russell. He was probably at a meeting or the magistrates’ court. Since their one full time reporter had joined the army, he covered most of the main stories for the paper now. Their other news came mostly from freelance writers who sent in stories from the surrounding villages. Part of Celia’s job was to take them down over the telephone and type them up for the printer.
The phone stayed silent. No one came into the front office either, so she was able to get through everything in record time. It was press day – the day before the paper came out – so it was too late for anyone wanting advertisements or announcements to go in that week. When Mr Allen had finished checking the pages, he would cross the yard to the printing shed and give Barney the all clear to start the big flatbed press.
From then on, it would be a flurry of activity. Celia loved press day, even if it did sometimes mean working late. She decided to eat her sandwiches before the rush began and went in to the little kitchen out the back to put the kettle on. As she passed Mr Allen’s office, he looked up and beckoned her in.
“Sit down, Celia,” he said. He looked serious, his eyes lacking their usual good-humoured twinkle.
Celia felt a little apprehensive. Although she was fully determined to hand in her notice today, she still hoped that she hadn’t done anything wrong, made a silly mistake that warranted a reprimand. Perhaps he blamed her for the amount of time Russell spent away from the works, sitting on the edge of her desk and flirting. Well, she would tell him in no uncertain terms that she had never encouraged him. But what could she do to deter him? He was the boss’s son after all.
As she sat down, Mr Allen smiled and her heart rate returned to normal. “Do you like working here?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. It’s much more interesting than I thought office work would be.” True, even though she’d far rather be working on the farm.
Mr Allen nodded. “Good, good.” He picked up one of the official-looking letters that had come that morning. “This is from the Ministry of Information – a contract for printing leaflets advising people of various new rules. You know the sort of thing – ‘waste not, want not,’ ‘careless talk,’ etcetera.”
“That’s good, isn’t it, Mr Allen?”
“Oh, yes. We’ll be busier than ever. And they’ll guarantee paper supplies too.”
Celia wondered why he wasn’t looking happier about it. They’d had to reduce the number of pages in the Downland Weekly Advertiser due to paper shortages and many of their usual printing jobs had dried up. There were fewer calls for auction posters, business letterheads and other small printing jobs these days.
“Are you worried we won’t be able to fulfil the contract? You know, with only Barney and the other three?” At one time, they had employed fifteen men. Now, in addition to Barney who was nearing retirement, there was only Ray, the linotype operator, who was waiting for his call-up, and the two apprentices. They were too young for the army, but if the war dragged on they’d be off before long.
“We’ll manage.” Dennis Allen shook his head. “It’s you I was worried about. Russell let slip that you’d rather be working on the farm than stuck in an office all day. I wondered if you might be thinking of joining the Land Army seeing as your dad’s not keen on you working with him.”
“Would that matter - me leaving I mean? There must be lots of girls who could do my job.” Celia hoped her earlier decision to give in her notice would not affect the firm too much. She really didn’t want to let Mr Allen down
“It would now,” Dennis Allen said, to her dismay. He picked up another letter and handed it to her. “You see, it’s not just information leaflets we’d be printing. Some of this is pretty sensitive stuff. All my staff would have to sign the official secrets act and pledge to stay with the firm for the duration.”
Celia read the letter with growing dismay. How could she let her boss down now? “Do I have to decide straight away?” she asked.
“They want a quick decision, I’m afraid.”
It didn’t take long for her to change her mind about resigning and she nodded. “All right, where do I sign?”
“I’m not sure what the procedure is. The lads in the works will have to be told too. I’ll sort it all out and call a staff meeting once the paper’s out.” He leaned across the desk and patted her hand. “Thank you, Celia. I’m pleased you want to stay with us.” He lit a cigarette and said through a cloud of smoke, “Now, where’s that tea?”
As she went to the kitchen, she heard from across the yard the thump of the big printing press as it churned out pages of the Advertiser. The men usually brought their own flasks but when they were busy, she often took a tray of tea across to them.
Today, after handing round the mugs, she lingered, watching the paper slide off the press and onto the folding machine. She always found it fascinating. Soon Mrs Jones, the office cleaner who came in for a couple of hours on press day, would arrive and start bundling up the papers and tying them with string. One of the apprentices would load them on the van for delivery to the surrounding villages early next morning. Since most of the workers had joined the forces, Mr Allen or Russell did the deliveries these days.
Celia took the tray back to the kitchen and tidied her desk before going back to the works to give Mrs Jones a hand. She never minded staying late on press day. The only job she didn’t like was making up the posters, one for each of the newsagents they supplied. Mr Allen would hand her a slip of paper with the main story headlines and she would take large sheets of brown paper, an artist’s brush and a bottle of Indian ink. Celia enjoyed drawing and in her limited leisure time had done a little watercolour painting, but she didn’t like doing the posters. Hard to keep the lines straight on posters, and as they had to be done in a hurry, the ink was sometimes still damp and smudged easily.
Once she had asked Mr Allen, rather cheekily, why they didn’t print the posters. He had replied that the men were too busy on press nights and besides, the headlines could not be done in advance. Celia had to admit it made sense when they were so short-staffed, but she knew even when they’d had a full work force the system had been the same.
She was painting in the final word on the last poster when Russell stuck his head round the door.
“Nearly done?” he asked.
She jumped and a splash of ink flicked across the paper. “Look what you’ve made me do,” she exclaimed. “Now I’ll have to start again.”
“Don’t worry about it. No one will notice.”
“Your father will. You know what a perfectionist he is.”
Russell blew on the sheet of paper to make sure the ink was dry and slipped it under the top poster. “I’ll take these out to the van,” he said.
“I really ought to do another one,” Celia protested.
“He won’t know. I’m doing the deliveries tomorrow. Besides, we’ve been told not to waste paper.” Russell laughed and rolled up the bundle of posters, snapping an elastic band round them. “Come on. Dad wants to talk to everyone over in the shed.”
Celia followed him over to the works which seemed almost ghostly now that the machines had stopped. The ‘lads’ as Mr Allen called them, were gathered round the ‘stone,’ which was actually a large metal table where the type was made up into pages before being loaded onto the press.
When Russell and Celia entered, Mr Allen looked up from the sheet of paper he was studying. “Good, everyone’s here,” he said. When he had their attention, he went through the instructions he’d received from the Ministry and outlined what he expected from his workers. “I need to know now if you’re prepared to sign on for the duration of the war,” he said. “This mainly applies to you, Ray.”
The linotype operator nodded. He had been expecting his call-up papers any day and Celia knew he wasn’t keen to leave his wife and young baby. “It’s not that I don’t want to do my bit,” he’d confided to her when she’d stopped by his machine with a batch of copy. “I just don’t think Joan’s cut out to cope on her own.”
Now she could see the relief on his face.
“Does this count as a reserved occupation then?” he asked.
Mr Allen nodded. “If we take on this work, yes. And of course, I do intend to take it on. It will mean the firm can keep going however long the war lasts, and that means the boys who’ve joined up will have jobs to come home to.” He turned to the two apprentices.
“‘Danny, I know you’re itching to do your bit. But you’re far too young, lad. And you’ve got a couple of years of your indentures yet.”
“But what about when I finish my apprenticeship?”
“Let’s hope the war doesn’t last that long.” He turned to the other apprentice. “As for you, Jimmy, only a few months to go for you. If you’re determined to join up, I can release you now. It’s up to you.”
Jimmy squirmed a bit, his face reddening. “I’d made up me mind, sir. I want to join the navy, like me brother. I’ve already applied actually.”
“Well lad. We’ll just have to manage without you, won’t we?”
When the staff meeting broke up, they all, with the exception of Jimmy, had signed up for the duration and were pledged to say nothing of the work they were doing. As far as anyone in the town was concerned, the Downland Printing Works was still printing agricultural posters, church notices and a much-depleted weekly newspaper.
It was almost dark when Celia wheeled her bicycle out of the works shed that evening. No lights showed in the town since the introduction of the blackout. Living out in the country, she was used to that and had no fear of cycling home in the dark. She still jumped when a voice spoke out of the gloom.
“You can’t bike home this late,” Russell said. “I’ve got the van. Let me give you a lift.”
“What about my bike?” She felt uncomfortable being alone with him and wanted an excuse to refuse.
“We’ll put it in the back.”
“I thought you’d loaded up with the papers.”
“Plenty of room.” Without giving her a chance to reply, he pulled the bicycle away from her and wheeled it to where he had parked the van. “Come on,” he urged.
She got into the passenger seat, edging as close to the door as possible. She didn’t think he’d make a pass at her, but his flirty ways at work had left her in no doubt that he found her attractive. She had to admit that he was attractive too in his way, but even if he weren’t married to her friend, she would not have wanted a relationship with him.
To her surprise though, the flirtatiousness was absent tonight, and he began to talk about Marion. “I just don’t know what she’s thinking these days. We used to have fun together. But now she seems discontented and she says I’m boring.” He took his eyes off the road and turned to her. “You don’t think I’m boring, do you, Cee?”
Celia laughed. “That’s not how I would describe you.”
Russell sighed. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have married. I don’t think she was really ready to settle down. Did you know she’s gone to London to see about a modelling job?”
“She did tell me about it,” Celia admitted.
“She should realize she’s a married woman now. She can’t just go swanning off, doing whatever she wants. Besides, I don’t want a working wife.”
“Russell, you’ll have to talk to her about it. I can’t take sides, you know. Anyway, if what I hear is true, all the women will be called up for war work soon, even married ones. She might have to go and work in a factory somewhere.”
“Bloody war. It’s messing up everyone’s lives.”
Celia didn’t reply. She thought he was being selfish. His life was hardly being messed up with his place in his father’s business protected by their war work. What about Edgar, she thought. He was thrilled to have been promoted from ground crew to navigator. But that meant he would soon be flying over enemy territory. Her thoughts turned to Matthew Dangerfield. They’d really only talked for a few minutes, but she felt she’d known him forever.
The van turned into the lane bumping over the ruts, and as it jerked to a stop, she got out quickly, thanking Russell for the lift.
She hurried indoors, hoping her father was in a better mood than he’d been earlier. To her surprise he was in the kitchen heating up the pot of stew that Jean Robson, Len’s wife, had prepared earlier. The table was laid, and he gestured for her to sit down. “Won’t be long. You must be hungry after working late.”
Celia didn’t comment. After all, she worked late at least one evening a week and he’d never had a meal ready for her before. And, although she knew he worked hard all day on the farm, she did sometimes feel a little resentful when she came in to find him sitting in his armchair by the range reading the paper.
She hung up her coat and put her bag on the dresser. “I’m starving,” she said pulling her chair up to the table.
Larry filled two plates and came to sit opposite. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, pausing to take a mouthful of stew. “…about those land girls.”
Celia smiled. So, he’d changed his mind. Just as well if she was to continue working at Allen’s. His next words made her sit up straighter.
“We don’t need them, do we? Len’s grandson will soon be leaving school and he knows there’s a job for him here. Then there’s you.” He wagged a finger at her. “You’re always on about working with me. Well, there you are, two new farm hands so I won’t need the land girls, will I?”
Before she could recover, he said, “I’ll write to the Ministry tonight. Tell them not to send anyone. Besides, I heard they’re taking on girls with no experience whatever, even from the towns. I don’t want townees on my farm.”
“But, Dad…”
“I know, you’ll have to give your notice. But Mr Allen will soon find someone else. Besides, it’ll only be for the duration. You can have your job back when the war’s over.”
Forgetting for a moment that she was committed to staying at the printing works, Celia said, “Do you mean you still wouldn’t let me work with you permanently?”
Larry waved his fork at her. “You know how I feel about that, and I haven’t changed my mind. But this is an unusual situation. We all have to do our bit. Besides, you already help out, feeding the hens, collecting the eggs, and doing some of the milking.”
“But, Dad, I’m already doing my bit as you call it. And Mr Allen says…”
Once more he interrupted. “Printing a few leaflets and posters is hardly going to help us win the war is it? I’m talking about producing more food. They say we’ve got to try to feed ourselves instead of relying on foreign imports. Do you know how many ships have been sunk in the past few months?”
“I listen to the news too, Dad. You don’t have to tell me how important farming is. If we’d had this discussion before today, I would have jumped at the chance of leaving my job and staying on the farm. But it’s too late, Dad.”
“What do you mean, too late?”
Celia explained what had happened that morning, how her boss had impressed on her the importance of the work they’d be doing. “I knew you wouldn’t have me on the farm, so I signed up. I can’t go into details but it’s official; I can’t back out now.”
Larry pushed his plate away, the stew now cold and congealed. “What a turn up for the books. I suppose I can’t do anything about it now. Just have to put up with whoever they send.” He ran his hands through his sparse hair. “Suppose I write to this Ministry of Information, tell them working with me would be vital war work.”
“I don’t think it would do any good, Dad. They have their rules.”
Larry banged his hand on the table making the cutlery rattle. “It’s all damned rules and regulations nowadays. Not content with taking my son away, now they want my daughter too.”
Celia refrained from pointing out that Edgar had volunteered and she had more or less been forced into this position because of his stubbornness. She got up and cleared away the half-eaten food.
Time for the evening news, Larry switched on the wireless, but she only half-listened as she washed the dishes and tidied the kitchen. Talk about bad timing, she thought. If only that letter had arrived in Dennis Allen’s office a day later.
She made a cup of cocoa for each of them and sat down, resting her aching feet on the fender in front of the range. It had been a long day. Dad looked tired too. He’d been finding it hard since losing his best and fittest farmhands to the army. Farming was a reserved occupation but that hadn’t stopped the younger men from wanting to enlist as soon as war broke out. Len was a good worker, but he was nearing retirement and couldn’t do as much these days due to bad arthritis in his hip.
Even with two extra pairs of hands – albeit girls who might never have been near a cow or sheep – they would find it hard to cope, especially at harvest time next year. Celia sighed. Life wasn’t going to get any easier in the coming months. She stood and stretched. “I’m for bed, Dad,” she said.
Larry jerked awake. “I’d better go up too.” He opened the back door and stood for a moment looking at the sky. “Clear night. Might get an early frost.”
Celia shivered. “Shut the door, Dad.” She took the cups to the sink. “I’ve been thinking about these girls. Will they be staying here? I’ll have to sort out rooms, beds and so on.”
“Don’t worry about it now. Let’s get some sleep.”
As she prepared for bed, Celia wondered what the new farmhands would be like. She hoped they would fit in with the household and not be too demanding of home comforts. At least the farm had electricity, installed when Larry had bought the milking machine after increasing his herd. But the plumbing still left a lot to be desired. Oh well, they would just have to muck in and make the best of it. She turned out the light and climbed into bed.
As she fell asleep, her last thoughts were a bitter reflection on the fate that had prevented her from doing what she’d always wanted ever since she was a small child. Oh well, I’ll just have to marry a farmer. But someone else’s farm wouldn’t be the same as High Trees and going by the farmers she already knew she couldn’t imagine being married to any of them. What a pity Matthew Dangerfield wasn’t a farmer. She laughed a little at her foolishness.
Matt and Edgar had arrived at Metworth aerodrome the previous evening, too late to meet any of their fellow crew members. They had been shown into a hut containing two empty bunk beds and fallen on them with sighs of relief. In moments, both were asleep.
Even the drone of a squadron of bombers landing after a night raid didn’t disturb them t took the sound of running feet and shouting from outside the hut to rouse them.
Matt sat up, rubbing his eyes and taking in his new surroundings. He got out of bed, still stiff from the long motorcycle ride of the day before. He was shaking Edgar awake when someone their head round the door.
“Shake a leg, lads. Briefing in fifteen minutes.”
After hastily dressing, the two young men went outside to see groups of airmen walking towards a large Nissan hut. Inside were rows of chairs with a platform at one end.
The briefing didn’t take long and the meeting broke up, leaving Matt and Edgar to introduce themselves to their new crew.
Their pilot, Flying Officer Clive Mitchell, shook hands with both of them and offered to show them round the station. “We’ll go via the mess,” he said. “You chaps haven’t had breakfast yet, have you?”
They grabbed trays and loaded them with scrambled eggs on toast. As they sat down, Matt was reminded of the meal Edgar’s sister had cooked for them the day before. He hoped his friend would invite him to High Trees Farm on their next leave. In the meantime, he’d write to Celia. He hoped fervently that she would write back.
He came out of his daydream to hear Flying Officer Mitchell saying, “We’ll be getting the new Lancasters soon. Meanwhile, we’re carrying on with the Stirlings. You’re both familiar with them, aren’t you?”
Both men nodded. “I hear these Avro Lancasters are supposed to be pretty good,” said Matt. “The lads at Tangmere mentioned them.”
Mitchell scoffed. “Thought those chaps only knew about Spits and Hurricanes.”
Matt grinned at Edgar. They had come up against the rivalry between fighter and bomber pilots before. Did it matter who flew what, so long as they got the job done? And the bombers had done their bit in what was now being called the Battle of Britain. The country might still be worrying about an invasion if it hadn’t been for their raids on the German fleet.
Still, Matt knew that fighter pilots had a far more glamorous image than flight engineers such as himself, and he hoped that Celia wouldn’t meet one of these glamorous heroes while he was so far away.
Edgar punched his arm, rousing him from his thoughts. “We’re as good as that lot, aren’t we,” he said.
Matt pushed back his chair. “Well, we’d better start proving it then. Come on, let’s go and look at the plane.”
* * *