Very original!’
‘Not exactly. Think I can remember what the man on the news said. It was freedom of information and religion and freedom from want and fear and persecution.’
‘So what’s new? Don’t we all want things like that? What else was there?’
‘Seems the Luftwaffe bombed Welsh ports last night; didn’t say where, but I reckon it was Cardiff and Swansea. All to do with softening us up, if you ask me, because our convoys in the Channel were attacked, an’ all.’
‘Any more bad news?’
‘Yes. There’s to be no August bank holiday this year.’
‘But there’s always been a bank holiday Monday! They can’t do that!’
‘Well, they have. Cancelled. And before you blow your top, you’d better sit down, ’cause tea is going to be rationed. As from tomorrow.’
‘Tea? But they’ve already rationed butter and sugar and bacon and meat!’
‘So now it’s two ounces of tea each person each week.’
‘Four miserable ounces between you and me, Ness? Well, all I can say is that it’s a good job I have two packets in the store cupboard! I mean – rationing tea.’
Tea was the universal comforter, the bringer-together in afternoons of neighbours and friends. Tea was so – well – British!
‘I can only tell you what was said on the news. It’ll be in the papers in the morning, if you don’t believe me.’
‘Oh, I believe you, Ness, and rot his socks the Clever Dick who thought of it! Tell you what – shall we have one last cup of unrationed tea? I’ll make it in the silver teapot and we’ll use the best cups and saucers.’
‘Might as well, queen. Go out with dignity. And it’s a good job me Auntie Agnes passed on last year, ’cause drinkin’ tea was like a religion to her, God rest her. Rationing tea would have been unthinkable to her.’ Go out with dignity all right, Ness pondered. She’d never had tea from a silver pot.
‘Put the kettle on there’s a dear, and Ness – did anyone phone whilst I was at the WI?’
‘No one. Was you expecting one from William?’
‘I’m always expecting one from him. What I didn’t want was for him to ring and you to answer it.’
‘Well, he didn’t ring so you’re off the hook. You’re still jumpy, aren’t you, about me bein’ here?’
‘No. You’re staying. But I am jumpy about William, and it isn’t just you. He hasn’t seen my hair yet!’
‘He’ll like it. I said so, didn’t I?’
‘You did. And Nance Ellery likes it, too. She didn’t ask me where I’d had it done, thank heaven, so she doesn’t know it was you.’
‘But why shouldn’t she know I cut it?’
‘We-e-ll, if William should happen not to like it, then –’
‘Oh, I see. It’ll be one thing less to lay at the land girl’s door, eh? Well, if he makes a fuss, tell him you don’t much care for his moustache, but you haven’t told him to shave it off! And you don’t like it, do you?’
‘If I’m honest, no. It makes him look older and it’s scratchy.’
‘When he kisses you?’
‘Yes.’ Her cheeks reddened. ‘But let’s get this tea made. Let’s forget the awful news and go into the garden. It isn’t blackout time just yet. Let’s listen to the blackbird and pretend there isn’t a war on – just for a little while.’
She was getting good at turning hay, Ness thought. There was a way of holding the long, two-pronged fork so the weight on the end of it was manageable. The only trouble was that her right hand had blisters on it and Kate had been obliged to give her an old leather glove to protect it.
‘Your hands will toughen up. When those blisters are gone, Ness, I’ll give you some methylated spirits to rub on your palms. Meths will fettle it.’
‘Hey! Ness Nightingale!’ Rowley was calling from the fieldgate. ‘Didn’t you say there was someone in the manor this morning?’
‘I heard voices when I came to work. Didn’t bother to find out who it was. Could have been a couple of tramps, sleeping in one of the outbuildings.’ Fork in hand, she crossed to where he stood. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Over there.’ He pointed in the direction of the back entrance to the manor. ‘Two army trucks, and soldiers. What the hell are they up to?’
‘Search me, Rowley. Why don’t you ask them?’
‘I intend to! Glebe Farm rents the manor fields!’
Red-faced, he strode towards the trucks. Curious, Ness followed.
‘A moment, please!’ Rowley vaulted the gate that divided manor yard from field. ‘Can you tell me what you are doing?’
It was almost a command, Ness thought.
‘I can.’ A soldier in officer’s uniform turned slowly, his eyes raking Rowley from head to toe. ‘What exactly do you want to know?’
‘Well – why you’re here, for one thing. This is private property!’
‘You own the manor?’
‘No. My father owns Glebe Farm and we rent the manor land.’ His face grew redder.
‘Then our interest is only in the house, not the land.’ The officer turned away, speaking to a sergeant. ‘Having any trouble with the keys?’
‘No, sir. Got in without any bother.’
‘Then let’s see what’s what. Where’s the MO?’
‘Inside, sir.’
‘Right, then.’ He turned to Rowley. ‘Good day to you,’ he said firmly, dismissively.
‘Well! What do you make of that, Ness Nightingale? Arrogant sod! Who does he think he is?’
‘Who? From where I was standin’, I’m almost sure he’s a major. And he did say he was only interested in the manor. Don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about.’
‘But we have! We can do without a load of swaddies next door, making their noise, lifting everything that isn’t nailed down. The manor’s been empty for years. They’re going to get a shock when they take a look inside!’
‘Well, it’s nuthin’ to do with me. I’m away back to the field, though I think you’d better tell your father what’s happened.’
The Army, Ness frowned, resuming her rhythmic forking, lifting, turning, interested in the empty manor house. So what might they want it for? What did anybody want with a tucked-away, empty-for-years old house? Rowley had demanded to know, but all he had learned was to be curtly told they had no interest in the fields around. It had upset the young farmer, Ness grinned. Rowley Wintersgill wasn’t used to being spoken to like that.
But soldiers in Nun Ainsty! What would Lorna make of it, or Mrs Ellery? Come to think of it, how would the village take to a turmoil in their midst, because with soldiers usually came drill sergeants and trucks and lorries and noise. Guns, too!
Oh, my word! She could hardly wait for five o’clock to come.
‘Soldiers!’ Lorna gasped. ‘Oh, my goodness!’
‘That’s exactly what Mrs Wintersgill said. “Oh, my goodness. What on earth is going on?” But Rowley was told they weren’t interested in the fields. Very curt, that major. Mind, Rowley jumped in with both feet.