The Last Garden in England(9)

With all my affection,

Colin



The train shuddered to a stop in Royal Leamington Spa Station, and up and down the line people began to pour out onto the platform. Beth clung to the handrail, doing her best to balance the canvas bag slung over her shoulder and avoid tipping over as she stepped down. When her practical, low-heeled shoes hit the cement, she exhaled.

At last.

The train ride from London had taken twice as long as it should’ve, inconsistent service being a hallmark of wartime travel. And that wasn’t even counting the early-morning leg of her journey up from the agricultural college where she’d done her training. But now, she was almost to Temple Fosse Farm, which would be her home for the foreseeable future.

Rebalancing her bag, she started to make her way down the platform, looking out for Mr. Penworthy. She had no idea what he looked like or if he would be able to single her out from all the other travelers. She should have changed into her uniform in the Marylebone Station loo like her land girl’s manual recommended, except she’d known that this train ride would be the last time she’d wear her own clothes in… well, she didn’t know how long.

Her life was about to become all soil and crops and weather and harvest. She’d heard during her training that the isolation of rural life could be difficult for city girls like her, but she’d spent her childhood on a farm. She was sure it would be like returning home. Besides, in some counties, the land girls arranged dances in neighboring villages and towns on the occasional evening. She hoped Warwickshire would be so well organized.

The crowd on the platform began to thin as people made their way to the station lobby. The wind lifted her brushed-out blond pin curls, and she was patting them back into place when she spotted an older man standing by the waiting room door, woolen flat cap clasped between his hands and olive-green waxed jacket hanging loose from his shoulders. She let her hand fall to the strap of her bag and, swallowing down a bubble of fear, walked straight up to him.

“Mr. Penworthy?” she asked, her voice shaking a little despite her false confidence.

He looked over as a man might examine a cow for sale at market. “You’re the land girl then?”

She nodded. “My name is Elizabeth Pedley.”

“That’s a long name for such a little thing,” he observed.

“My parents called me Beth, and I might be little but I’m strong.”

His mouth twitched. “Is that so? The last girl they sent us wasn’t much to write home about.”

“What happened to her?” she asked.

“Still working the farm. We can’t afford to be too picky. It was Mrs. Penworthy’s idea to get a second girl up.” He passed a hand over his head and stuck his cap on. “It’s best to agree with Mrs. Penworthy when she gets an idea into her head. Come on now. It’ll be dark soon.”

He reached out to take Beth’s bag, but she held on to it, resolute.

He grunted. “Suit yourself.”

Beth followed the farmer down the train station’s steps and out to a horse and cart that was tied up on the gate. “Have you ever ridden in a cart?”

“Not in a long time,” she answered honestly. “My parents owned a farm.”

“They don’t have it anymore?”

“They died.” A beat stretched between them as it so often did when she talked about being an orphan. “I lived with my aunt in town until I turned eighteen and joined the Women’s Land Army.”

“Fuel is kept for farmwork now, so a cart it is,” said Mr. Penworthy.

She nodded, grateful he didn’t offer her any platitudes about being so sorry for her loss.

When Mr. Penworthy let down the gate for her, Beth hauled up her bag into the back of the cart.

“Will you be wanting to ride in the back or up front?” he asked.

“Up front, please.”

“Suit yourself,” he said again.

She climbed up and settled herself in. Mr. Penworthy did the same, and then took up the reins. With a click of his tongue, the horse set off.

If Beth had thought they would talk on this journey to the farm, she was mistaken. The road was rutted, and the February air had a wicked bite to it. She spent half the time trying to stop her teeth from chattering and the rest of it with her hand clamped on her cap to keep it from falling off. By the time Mr. Penworthy turned off the road at a sign with “Temple Fosse Farm” painted on it, her fingers felt as though they were about to fall off.

As soon as the horse and cart slowed, the side door of the farmhouse burst open. “Len Penworthy, what are you doing letting that girl ride all the way from the train station in only that thin coat?” demanded a tall woman with a canvas apron tied around her. “She’ll catch her death.”

“That will be Mrs. Penworthy,” murmured Mr. Penworthy.

Beth’s eyes cut to him, but she was surprised to see no annoyance or weariness in his expression, only affection.

“Now, you must be Miss Pedley,” said Mrs. Penworthy, who bustled up to her.

“Please call me Beth,” she said.

“Beth it is, then.”

The older woman steered her by the shoulders straight into the kitchen. A huge black iron stove emanated warmth from one corner, and an array of vegetables midchop rested on the table. The scent of stew, something rich, wafted up to her, and Beth nearly whimpered. It had been so long since she’d had a good homemade meal.