Land Girls by Angela Huth Page A

night, they said on the radio this morning. Poor devils.’
    ‘We’re lucky here. Hardly aware of it.’
    ‘Only danger is those German buggers dropping off their bombs on the way home. That happened not twenty miles from here just before you came. Flattened half a village, killed two.’
    Ag’s burning face was beginning to cool. The sweat on her back was drying. Mr Lawrence drew deeply on his cigarette. The smoke smelt pungent, good. A churring and a flapping of wings behind them broke the silence. A speckled bird flew into the sky, swerving towards the copse.
    ‘Bugger me if it’s not a mistlethrush, a storm cock. Haven’t seen one for a week or so,’ said Mr Lawrence. He gave a small smile. ‘I used to know the Latin name.’
    Ag paused. Then she said: ‘ Turdus viscivorus, isn’t it?’
    ‘That’s right. That’s it! Stone the crows – are you a scholar?’
    Ag laughed. ‘Far from it. But my father used to teach me about birds.’
    ‘Know some of its other names?’
    ‘I know shrite, and skite.’
    ‘How about gawthrush?’
    ‘Gawthrush, yes. And garthrush?’
    ‘Then there’s the more common jercock: Ratty talks of jercocks.’
    ‘How about syecock?’
    ‘I’d forgotten syecock.’ Mr Lawrence stubbed out his cigarette. ‘So you know your birds,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s good. That’s quite unusual, these days.’ He smiled. ‘Here’s a bit of rum information for you: did you know there’s a saying that a mistletoe berry won’t germinate till it’s passed through the body of a mistlethrush?’
    ‘I’ve heard of that, yes. I think the idea came from the Roman writer Pliny.’
    The expression on Mr Lawrence’s face made Ag bite her lip.
    ‘Did it, now? There’s university education for you.’ He stood up brusquely, took up his bill-hook. Ag feared she had offended him in some way. Perhaps the airing of such arcane knowledge sounded boastful. ‘Joe got into Cambridge, you know,’ Mr Lawrence said, back to her, surveying the hedge again. ‘Rotten luck he wasn’t able to go.’
    Two hours later Ag had cleared several yards of ditch, and had made a large pile of undergrowth for burning. Her back ached horribly. Despite thick socks, her feet were cold in her Wellingtons from standing in the stream, and a blister seared her heel. Reluctant to say she had had enough for one morning, she remembered a promise to Mrs Lawrence.
    ‘I said I’d bring in the eggs before lunch. Would it be all right—?’
    ‘Off you go,’ shouted Mr Lawrence, no pause in his slashing at a root. ‘Thanks for the help. You’ve done pretty well.’
    Ag hobbled back down the lane, coarse wool chafing her blister. She was hot, sweating, tired, hungry. The thought of a whole afternoon’s hedging was daunting, though perhaps lunch would recharge her. Hedging and ditching were hard work, she thought, but she had enjoyed it. She had enjoyed her bird conversation with Mr Lawrence: funny man – sudden spurts of talk, then back to long, concentrated silences.
    As soon as Ag reached the barn she sat on a pile of straw and began to pull at her boot. As she struggled, she wondered if there was any valid excuse for sending a postcard to Desmond. She knew instinctively, from the few brief conversations they had had, he would enjoy hearing about her life as a land girl. But what excuse would she have to write to him in the first place? He might not even remember her – despite her explanation about her odd name. He might have no recollection of their occasional meetings, which he believed were by chance. To write would perhaps embarrass, confuse, or, worse, warn him off an unwanted affection on Ag’s part. So the answer to the question she asked herself was no : she should not write to him. Wait till it was time for a Christmas card.
    Depressed by the solution she had known for days she would come to, Ag looked up to see Joe watching her.
    ‘Can I help?’ he asked. ‘Looks as if you’re having a bit of