Kathleen’s Story: Heroism, heartache and happiness in the wartime women’s forces. Duncan Barrett

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      A week later, Kathleen was on the train to Bury St Edmunds, ready to take up her first posting. She arrived at the station to find a rather luxurious-looking car waiting for her, along with a chauffeur who introduced himself as Bradley. ‘I’ve been sent to collect you,’ he explained.

      Kathleen got in, wondering what kind of farm had its own chauffeur. They headed out into the countryside for a while, before turning up the gravel drive of a grand mansion, whose once carefully manicured gardens had been given over to food production.

      A dumpy woman with rosy cheeks and white hair met Kathleen at the door. She looked awkwardly at her, as if she didn’t quite know how to address her. ‘I’m Mrs Jones, the cook,’ she said, shaking Kathleen’s hand and half-curtseying at the same time. ‘I’ll take you up to yer room.’

      ‘Thank you,’ Kathleen replied, following the other woman into the house. She admired the magnificent entrance hall and the broad, sweeping staircase carpeted in red velvet. Kathleen had imagined the land girls would all bunk together in a barn, sleeping on bundles of hay, yet it sounded as if she was to have her own bedroom, right inside the grand house itself.

      Kathleen’s room turned out to be at the very top of the building, and it was small but tastefully decorated. ‘You’ve got a lovely bathroom along here,’ Mrs Jones said, showing her into a large room with decorative tiles around the walls and the deepest bathtub she had ever seen. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to get settled,’ she told her.

      ‘Thank you,’ replied Kathleen. ‘Just one thing – where are all the other land girls?’

      ‘There ain’t none,’ the cook replied. ‘You’re the first we’ve had.’

      Kathleen couldn’t help feeling disappointed. She had imagined herself making friends in the Land Army, going to dances with the other girls in the evenings and sharing confidences late into the night. Yet here she was, entirely on her own. It didn’t help that the servants seemed unsure how to treat her, since her status was somewhat unclear. She certainly wasn’t on the same level as the aristocratic family of the house, yet she wasn’t really one of the staff either.

      That evening Kathleen’s dinner was sent up to her on a tray and she ate it alone in her room. But after she had finished, she decided to head downstairs and try to break the ice. In the basement she found the servants’ sitting room, where some of the maids were drinking tea. As she entered, they instinctively jumped to attention.

      ‘Oh, please don’t get up,’ Kathleen insisted. ‘I thought maybe I could join you for a while.’

      The 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 СКАЧАТЬ