June 1939
Sarah hacked ferociously at the stump of ivy, then dug the fork under it again, trying to loosen the roots, but it would not shift.
‘Damn you,’ she told it, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.
‘Having problems?’ a voice called. She looked up, shading her eyes against the sun to see a man in uniform striding across the lawn. It was Ivor.
‘Good morning, nice to see you back.’ She had heard he was home on leave. ‘It’s a battle to the death here, but one I’m determined to win!’ She gave the stump a kick.
‘Let me try.’ He took the fork out of her hand and she watched him sink it into the soil, far deeper than she’d been able, and brace himself against the roots. The ivy gave creaks of protest but did not budge.
‘Wait a minute.’ Expression grim, he flung his jacket over a chair, rolled up his sleeves and returned to the job. He dug out the network of smaller roots, and this time, when he plunged the fork in under the stump, it broke away suddenly with a series of snaps and groans. ‘That’s settled him.’ He mopped his brow, his eyes bright with triumph.
‘Thanks,’ she said, seizing the stump and dragging it free. ‘Alas, poor Yorick.’ She held it aloft in imitation of a skull, before tossing it into the wheelbarrow. When Ivor laughed, she thought, Mummy’s wrong about me, I’m not in the least stand-offish.
After a cool spring, the first week of June had been sunny and warm, not comfortable for this kind of exertion, but following a difficult conversation with her mother that morning, Sarah had needed to take out her frustration on something and the recalcitrant ivy, a gnarled great-grandfather of creepers, whose leaves encompassed the whole rear wall of the house, had seemed a suitable adversary.
She’d first broken the news to Mrs Bailey about applying for gardening college back in April, and the reaction had been exactly as she’d feared; that she was needed here in Norfolk with her mother and sister and it was extremely selfish for her to think about doing anything else.
Diane’s reaction depressed her even more. Her sister looked so pitiful that it twisted Sarah’s heart. Still, though, Sarah wouldn’t change her mind. She wrote back to the college, expressing interest in a place, and a fortnight later was invited to Kent for interview.
She had liked the principal very much. Miss Agatha Trot was a trim, handsome woman in her prime, who had travelled widely in her younger days, hunting for new plants in South and Central America, which had given her a ready host of stories to tell. When a letter offering a definite place arrived a day or two later, Sarah’s first instinct was to accept immediately and enclose a cheque for the deposit. But doubts quickly began to set in. If there were to be a war. Those were the words that entered any conversation now about the future. It was difficult for anyone to make plans. In the end she had sent a holding letter in reply.
This morning’s argument had followed the arrival of another letter from the college administrator enquiring whether Miss Bailey intended to take up her place, and if so, would she please supply the deposit as requested.
‘You’ll be wasting your money,’ Mrs Bailey snapped, ‘but I suppose you must do what you choose. You usually do.’ This was particularly unfair; Sarah felt stung.
There had followed a moment’s silence, during which Mrs Bailey read a note that had arrived from Margo Richards. ‘Apparently Ivor is returning today for a visit,’ she said, over her spectacles. ‘I expect he’ll call. You know, Sarah, he does seem very interested in you. I can’t think why, you’re always so stand-offish with him.’
‘I am not!’ She was particularly surprised as she found it easy to be friendly to him. She felt sorry for Ivor because of the weight of his father’s expectations on him and he was good company, always interested in what she was doing. In turn, she found his views on politics thoughtful and well-informed. However, her mother’s pointed comment confirmed something that she’d privately been beginning to wonder herself. He hadn’t been home very much at all recently, but when he had he’d made a point of coming to Flint Cottage almost immediately.
On this occasion it was telling that he hadn’t even taken the time to change out of his service dress.
‘You shouldn’t be doing this heavy work,’ he said, reclaiming his jacket and hooking it over his shoulder. ‘Mind you, the garden’s looking splendid. Do you have any help? I’m sure we could send Hartmann down.’
‘Jim Holt who does the vicar’s garden comes in once a week. I wouldn’t bother Mr Hartmann. He has enough to do.’
Did she imagine the satisfaction with which Ivor nodded? Because of her mother’s remark she found herself watching him with new eyes, and wondering about her own reaction to him. She was aware of his glowing demeanour, the brightness of his gaze.
‘How is Aldershot?’
‘Chaotic. We’re training the new recruits we’ve been sent. Pretty raw, most of them.’
‘One of Mrs Allman’s nephews in Ipswich has signed up. Her sister’s very concerned.’
’Tell her not to be. There’s no sign of anything happening at the moment.’
‘No, but it’s hard not to fear that something might.’
Ivor’s tone had been light, but the way he avoided her eye betrayed his underlying fear. Sarah, who made a point of reading a daily paper and listening to the news, knew about the increase in defence spending and the plans for a Women’s Land Army to improve food yields. Slowly but surely the country was creaking into war mode. And yet ordinary life was going on as usual. Mrs Allman said that her sister had told her about a German hockey team that had visited and played in Ipswich recently, and what did Mrs Bailey think of that? A week ago, at Whitsun, Sarah and Diane, taking the train to Norwich, had found the station platform packed with excited families heading for the coast. A bank holiday was a bank holiday, after all, and why shouldn’t the children have donkey rides and ice cream?
A knocking sound. She and Ivor looked up to see Diane, struggling to open the conservatory door, which was swollen by damp and always caught. Ivor marched over and tugged it open and Diane emerged in her dainty, fawnlike manner, her blue eyes huge and anxious. ‘How lovely to see you, Ivor,’ she said gravely and held out her hand. He shook it carefully and asked how she was keeping.
‘Very well, thank you,’ she replied, but her eyes darted to Sarah now, reproachful.
‘You’ve heard my sister’s news, I expect,’ she asked him, a sharpness in her voice.
‘No, what news is this?’ He turned enquiringly to Sarah.
‘Oh really,’ Sarah murmured. Diane should have left it to her to explain in her own time.
‘She’s leaving us,’ Diane said, her chin jutting.
‘I’m not going anywhere quite yet, Ivor. It’s simply that I might be going away to study.’ She explained about Radley. ‘I want to do something with my life, be useful and, as you know, I love growing things.’
‘I see. Has Hartmann put you up to this?’
‘No, of course not. Why would he?’
‘Simply what my father said. That he’d seen you together.’ Ivor’s eyes glittered.
‘Well, it wasn’t anything to do with Mr Hartmann. It was my own idea.’
‘I don’t think she should go, Ivor, do you?’ Diane said. ‘Oh, I wish you wouldn’t, Sarah. I would be so lonely.’
‘Diane,’ Sarah warned. ‘Don’t embarrass poor Ivor. And you wouldn’t be lonely. You have plenty of friends. Jennifer Bulldock’s always inviting you to things.’
She couldn’t rid herself of a sense that everyone was lining up against her: her mother, Diane, Paul Hartmann and now Ivor, too, for he was regarding her with lips pressed together. I may not go if there’s a war. She’d have said that to Ivor, but not with Diane there. She and her mother had an unspoken agreement not to speak about politics in front of Diane, knowing how she hated it.
She worried about Radley all that day, then come evening she wrote the letter accepting the place and enclosing a cheque. Only after she had dropped the envelope into the box outside the post office did she feel a sense of peace. The decision had been made.