Ronnie’s heart gave a flip. It must be about the Land Army. And Maman was trying to take control as usual. Ronnie set her jaw. She was almost seventeen – perfectly old enough to open her own letters. She’d wanted to be indoors before the noon post came for this very reason but Rusty had begged her to take him for a walk, the way he’d looked at her with his warm, brown, beseeching eyes.
Please don’t come downstairs before I’ve read it on my own, Maman.
‘Come on, Rusty. I’ll allow you to read it with me.’
Rusty followed her into the front room, his claws making a clicking sound on the hall lino.
Ronnie grabbed the long envelope tucked behind one of a pair of silver candlesticks, a remnant of the old life they’d had before Dad had lost a lot of money and gone into debt. Probably one of the reasons why he’d died so suddenly at only sixty, she thought grimly. He’d always tried to keep up with Maman’s demands and standards. Ronnie’s heart squeezed at the thought of her dearest dad and the stress it must have given him when he realised what he’d brought upon the family.
All this was racing through her head as she ripped open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet. She glanced at the heading. She was right. It was from the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries; the Land Army came under their umbrella. Heart beating in her ears she read:
Dear Miss Linfoot,
We thank you for your application form to join the Land Army but regret—
Ronnie broke off reading. Regret? Surely … Biting her lip and willing herself to go on, she continued:
… but regret we must on this occasion turn down your application. Our minimum age is seventeen and a half, and you are not yet seventeen. This is because the work is often heavy, having been carried out by the men before war was declared. However, we are encouraged by your enthusiasm and hope that in a year’s time you will apply again, whereupon we would expect you to be successful.
Thank you for your interest.
Yours sincerely,
Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries
Ronnie was disgusted to see that the person who’d written the letter hadn’t even had the courtesy to sign it.
‘You are reading your letter without me,’ Maman said, sweeping into the room in her usual style of a Thirties’ actress. ‘Did you not hear me?’ For once, she didn’t ask Ronnie to remove ‘that dog’.
Ronnie shoved the letter back into the envelope, her eyes stinging with anger. The war would be over by the time she reapplied.
‘Yes, I heard you – but, Maman, it’s addressed to me. I should be allowed to open my own post.’
‘Who is it from?’
‘No one important.’
‘Let me look.’ Simone stretched her hand out.
Ronnie was on the brink of refusing to give it to her. But what difference did it make? She hadn’t been offered an interview and she’d already told her mother she wasn’t going back to school. She wasn’t brainy like Raine, or musical like Suzy, and didn’t see the need for two more years of mathematics and history and French and all the other subjects she wasn’t good at. But she always got top marks in biology and natural history. She knew she had a way with animals and was happiest when outdoors. The Land Army would have given her all those things. Now her hopes were in pieces.
Sulkily, she handed over the envelope.
Simone pursed her lips as she read the letter. Then she looked up. Ronnie noticed a gleam in her mother’s eyes.
‘Chérie, I do not like that you go behind my back to write to these people. We have already discussed this. Winter will come soon and I will not have my daughter digging up turnips. What would people say? They will think we are in poverty. What would your father say if he was here? He would be angry that I allow such a thing. So I am very happy they will not take you. This will be the end of the conversation, even when you are of the right age. You will find a worthwhile job or I will send you back to school.’
Simone had torn the letter into pieces and thrown them on the unlit fire.
Still bristling with Maman’s unfair dismissal of the Land Army earlier that day, Ronnie was brought back to Pathé News with the newsreader’s latest clip.
‘Yes, women and girls are working in the munitions factories … Here they are, cheerfully changing into boiler suits and rubber shoes, wearing gloves and masks as protection against poison and dangerous fumes from the explosive material … Here’s one of the girls filling the exploder and finishing the shells. If it wasn’t for the fair sex performing what was once considered men’s work, there wouldn’t be enough ammunition to send to our boys in the fields. We couldn’t carry on the fight. That’s how important this work is.’
I’d hate it. Ronnie pulled a face in the darkness. Having to repeat the same movements hour after hour, day after day, cooped up in a room with constant clanging and clattering above the chatter of the girls. It was a wonder they weren’t all deafened with the row. Besides, it was obviously dangerous to be amongst all those poisonous fumes, mask or no mask. But I do admire them, she thought. They’re getting on with it – and doing their bit for the war effort. And that’s what I need to get cracking with.
‘… and women and girls are even working on the canals, some of them as young as seventeen, taking critical supplies from London to
