maids looked at her a little uncertainly, but one of them, a pretty ginger-haired girl a few years younger than Kathleen, gestured her towards a chair. ‘Course you can,’ she said. ‘I’m Minnie. How d’you do.’
Kathleen introduced herself and sat down opposite Minnie. ‘Do you play cards?’ the girl asked her.
Kathleen nodded.
‘How about Beat your Neighbour out of Doors?’
‘I’ve never heard of that one!’ Kathleen laughed.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll teach you,’ Minnie said, doling out the cards to Kathleen and the other girls. Soon they were all engrossed in the game, their former awkwardness forgotten.
Kathleen liked Minnie, and she soon discovered that the two of them had a lot in common. Minnie’s father had been stationed with the Army in India, just like Kathleen’s dad, and she had spent her early years living abroad.
As they played, Kathleen couldn’t help noticing that one of the other kitchen maids’ hands were badly disfigured, the fingers stuck together and the thumbs missing. ‘My mum fell off her bike when she were pregnant with me,’ the girl said, seeing her staring.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Kathleen replied. ‘How awful.’
The girl shrugged. ‘Stopped me bein’ called up, though, so that’s somethin’.’
Mrs Jones wandered in from the kitchen. ‘You lot better let Miss Skin ’ere get to bed,’ she told the other girls. ‘She’s got to be up at ’alf five to help Mr Shaw, you know.’
Kathleen was shocked – that was even earlier than in her old job as a nanny. But there was no time to protest, as Mrs Jones gave her a candle to take up with her.
‘Oh, this arrived in the post for you,’ the cook added, handing her a parcel. ‘I reckon it must be your uniform.’
The next morning Kathleen was awoken by a knock on her door, and one of the maids came in with a cup of tea for her. It was still dark outside as she struggled into her new uniform – a fawn shirt, green V-neck pullover, brown corduroy breeches and long socks up to her knees. It was hardly a glamorous combination, but worst of all were the shoes – brown leather so hard that it felt like she was putting her feet into clods of iron.
Down in the kitchens Kathleen found Mrs Jones, who showed her the way to the gardens. Dawn was just beginning to break, and as Kathleen stepped outside she spotted a tiny old man with a bald head motioning to her to follow him. She guessed that the gnome-like figure must be Mr Shaw, the gardener.
The old man led Kathleen into an orchard of apple trees, where every spare inch of ground had been planted with vegetables. ‘Shu’ geh,’ he called back over his shoulder.
Kathleen looked at him blankly.
‘Shu’ geh,’ he repeated, more emphatically.
‘I’m sorry, what does that mean exactly?’ Kathleen asked, confused.
The little man walked slowly back over to the gate and pulled it shut behind her. ‘Shu’ geh,’ he repeated for a third time, clearly exasperated.
Mr Shaw hailed from Yorkshire and made no concessions to Southern ears like Kathleen’s. But as he showed her around the gardens, she realised he was a kind soul really. He had a daughter her age in the ATS, he told her, and he and his wife worried about her terribly.
Mr Shaw explained that thanks to the war he now grew everything from potatoes and turnips to broccoli, cabbages, kale, sprouts, carrots and mangold wurzels, all of which were sold at market in town. There were also apple, pear and plum trees, as well as bushes of gooseberries, raspberries and redcurrants. ‘Now, you jus’ do what ye can,’ he told Kathleen, handing her a spade and looking at her skinny frame uncertainly. ‘I don’t expect too much of ye.’
At Mr Shaw’s instruction, Kathleen set to work digging and planting, determined to prove to him that she was more than capable of the job she had been sent to do. But after an hour or so her brow was dripping with sweat and she felt ravenous.
She was relieved when, at eight o’clock, they stopped for a breakfast of porridge. ‘When do we finish for the day?’ she asked Mr Shaw.
‘Why, when t’sun goes down!’ the old man said, with a chuckle.
Soon they were back at work again, digging and hoeing away until at last Mrs Jones rang the bell for lunch. Kathleen took her meal on her own, while Mr Shaw headed back to the gardener’s cottage to eat with his wife.
By mid-afternoon Kathleen was utterly exhausted, but as Mr Shaw had promised there was no stopping until dusk fell. The vegetables had to be got ready for market on Monday, he told her, and with only a tiny old man and a skinny young girl to get it all done, it was going to be quite a task.
By the time Kathleen went up to her room that evening she was barely able to stand from the physical exertions of the day, and she woke the following morning feeling as if every muscle in her body had been pulled. It hurt just to walk down the stairs, but there was nothing for it except to head out to the gardens and start digging all over again.
The days at the grand estate passed excruciatingly slowly, and for Kathleen, who loved to talk and laugh, it was a lonely time. She was often left on her own for hours while Mr Shaw worked elsewhere in the grounds. Much of the time her only company was an old Suffolk horse called Patsy who, like the gardener, had seen better days.
One evening, Kathleen had just returned to her room to change out of her muddy clothes when there was a knock on her door. ‘Come in,’ she called, sitting down on the side of her bed.
Minnie came tumbling in excitedly. ‘You’ve been asked to go to dinner,’ she announced.
‘Where?’ Kathleen asked her, confused.
‘Here, with the family,’ the girl explained, grinning. ‘They want you to join them in the drawing room first – for sherry!’
‘Oh, right!’ Kathleen exclaimed. She hastily put on her only decent-looking dress and followed Minnie downstairs into the grand drawing room.
There, the lady of the house, Mrs Ashbourne, and her youngest daughter were waiting to receive her. The mother was a tall and elegant woman and her daughter was pretty, although Kathleen thought she looked rather tired.
‘So, you’re our new land girl,’ Mrs Ashbourne said, eyeing Kathleen with interest. ‘How delightful. And how is old Shaw treating you – not too roughly I hope?’
‘Not at all,’ Kathleen answered. ‘He’s been very kind.’
‘I’m so glad,’ the lady continued. ‘My daughter Jane here works as a nurse in the local hospital, you know. It’s terribly hard work, but the young must do their bit for the war, I suppose.’
Jane looked up and gave Kathleen a feeble smile.
Looking around the room, Kathleen saw that it was hung with a number of old oil paintings depicting the family’s ancestors. Mrs Ashbourne was delighted to talk her through them all, introducing each long-departed family member one by one. From what Kathleen could gather, the Ashbournes, along with most of the other wealthy families in the area, were Quakers. They had all made their money in manufacturing, and by now they had intermarried pretty thoroughly.
At dinner, however, it was Kathleen’s family that was the object of conversation. The Ashbournes had never had anyone like her sit at their table before, and they were fascinated by every detail of her life when she was growing up. Story-telling was Kathleen’s forte, and she warmed to the task, entertaining them with tales of her parents’ romantic meeting in Cape Town and the struggles they had faced coming back to England, where they had survived on the rabbits they caught and skinned for dinner. The whole family hung on to her every word – in fact, the only difficulty she faced was trying not to giggle when the servants she had been playing cards with the night before winked as they served her potatoes.
After