Your husband,

Aubrey

PS There’s every chance that I shall be home for Christmas because the 10th Sherwood Foresters will not have completed training until the New Year and so we won’t be posted until after then. Invite my parents and yours too, of course.

There were things that Vivian accepted about her new life and things she couldn’t help but resent.

It had soon become apparent that the village felt the lack of twenty-five men. Her lady’s maid only came to her one day a week now; the housemaid managed two. The rest of the time the girls helped their fathers with farm work, taking the place of their brothers. Initially this was another vile shock for Vivian, but she knew she had to muddle through. They all did. Soon she began to realise that rather than a horrible inconvenience, the lack of maid was actually quite liberating. It did mean she was required to do rather more for herself – she had to pick out her own clothes, draw her bath, take washing to the kitchen (although things weren’t yet so bad that she had to do her own washing!) – but frankly, what else would she be doing? There were no shops, theatres or balls; there were no friends to talk and giggle with. At least these small chores passed the time.

To this same end she requested another meeting with the land manager, Mr Pickering. As a thirty-four-year-old married man with four children, he luckily had not been lost to the army. Of course he’d wanted to volunteer, but he’d been persuaded by his wife and father-in-law to stay put, at least for now. On his return visit, Vivian concentrated very closely. He told her that there were no men to be recruited from neighbouring villages or even the town to help on the farm. Everyone was in the same boat. Labour was terribly scarce.

‘The village women have rolled up their sleeves,’ he declared with a cheerful beam.

‘No doubt they are glad to be picking up the wages of their husbands and brothers.’

‘That, and they are proud to be doing their bit.’

The phrase was beginning to irritate Vivian. One of the delights she had anticipated in being married and independent of her mother was that she would be able to buy any number of wonderful items of clothes. However, since the war broke out, she’d been doomed to serviceable dark brown and navy. The most she could hope for was a selection of becoming cream Viyella blouses paired with plain, neat skirts. Before she had married, her wardrobe had at least boasted a splash of colour. She hadn’t been allowed turquoise or ruby; mostly she’d worn white (oh, the irony), but the ribbons had been little slivers of delight that weaved their way in and out of her consciousness, in and out of her very core. She’d dearly hoped for more, but the war had put a stop to that.

Not buying pretty clothes was a way of doing one’s bit. Where would she wear pretty clothes to anyway? Stuck up here on a farm. The most exciting thing she did was take the car in to Stafford once a week. There was a tea shop there she loved to visit. The china was floral, the tablecloths were embroidered, and whilst it was a far cry from anything she’d frequented in London, the little waitress was sensitive to the fact that she visited on her own and always found her a copy of The Lady to hide behind. Oh, how she loved to read the comforting tips about handsome coats being a good investment (‘especially if it lasts a second winter for smart wear’). The place seemed to exist without men and was impervious to their war, and she was glad of it.