by Jenny Holmes
Edith went down her list. She was going through the motions, filling her day with chores rather than stopping at home. Tomorrow Bill and Grace would return from their short honeymoon; she would put a vase of flowers in the front window of their rented house to welcome them back.
‘Phew,’ Doreen muttered after the strict rep had finished her inspection then driven away in her shiny Morris. ‘What’s got into her?’
Una fetched her bike, ready to say goodbye then cycle back to Home Farm. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Don’t worry – she may look like a sourpuss but she has our best interests at heart.’
‘You could have fooled me.’ Doreen looked in puzzlement at the flat hard stone that Joyce had just presented her with. ‘What’s this for?’
‘It’s a flint stone – you use it to sharpen your scythe. You have to spit on it first to get the best results.’
‘I can hardly wait. But not until after I’ve had my sandwiches.’ She dug in her heels and made a display of sitting with Poppy on the hayloft steps. ‘That’s right – we’re within our rights to have a dinner break. Beef dripping – yum-yum!’
Sandwiches and hot tea were followed by a quiet smoke. Doreen offered a cigarette to Poppy, who again refused. ‘What’s up, dearie? You’re not feeling homesick, by any chance?’
Poppy nodded and sighed. She thought of her mother at work in the burling and mending department at Kingsley’s and her father in his barber’s shop on City Road. Her two little brothers, Charlie and Ernie, had cried buckets when she’d packed her suitcase and left the house on Albion Lane.
‘I’ll be off then – cheerio!’ Una called as she walked her bike around the horse and cart, where Neville perched in the driving seat, gazing up at a squadron of Lancasters flying in formation high overhead. The sky was clear blue, with only a few wispy white clouds clinging to the high hills beyond the plain of York.
‘Good luck to ’em, wherever they’re headed,’ he muttered.
Una steadied the bike and studied the fighter planes. ‘It’s too early to set off for a night raid over Germany. Maybe they’re going on to North Africa.’
‘Or Sevastopol. I hear there’s a big push there.’
‘Perhaps.’ There was no way of knowing where the brave pilots would drop their bombs or how many of them would return. Una said goodbye to Neville and tried not to think about the war as she cycled on. She kept her mind on the happy events she would share with Angelo in her reply to his letter: ‘On the Saturday just gone Grace married Bill at last. They made a lovely couple. Brenda and I were bridesmaids. We wore dresses of lilac silk.’
Una would remind him that the war couldn’t last for ever and yes, there would come a time when they were free.
‘You’ll never believe what I heard,’ Joyce told Poppy and Doreen as they cycled home at the end of the day. They’d reached Peggy Russell’s farm on the single-track road to Fieldhead and stopped off there to deliver half a dozen eggs sent over by Roland, who was a distant cousin. Joyce had braved the fury of Peggy’s dog straining at his chain and the old widow had accepted the gift without so much as a thank-you before retreating into her gloomy cottage.
‘Roland says there was an unexploded bomb in one of Arnold White’s fields over in Attercliffe. A cow stepped on it and blew itself up along with half a dozen others.’
‘When was this?’ Doreen cycled ahead, eager to reach home first and lay claim to her allotted time in the bathroom. It would be her first bath in a week and she could hardly wait.
‘Yesterday. Apparently Les went to the field to fetch the cows in for evening milking. He saw the whole thing – he had to take cover behind a wall because there was shrapnel everywhere.’
‘Bang goes the Whites’ chances of a bumper milk yield this week.’ Doreen’s wry remark made Joyce smile. ‘It makes you think, though – it could’ve been one of us.’
‘Yes, it could.’ Was Poppy the only one to be genuinely disturbed by the news or were the others just putting on a brave face? One of the reasons why she’d joined the Land Army rather than the WAAF or the Wrens had been to put herself out of the way of enemy bombs. She’d imagined that Jerry mainly chose towns and cities as targets, without realizing the importance of sites out in the countryside such as aerodromes, reservoirs and dams. This news about the bomb set her right, however. Now she would have nightmares about slicing her spade into soft earth and hitting metal. She pictured a sickening, split-second realization before the explosion and then oblivion.
As they approached the stone pillars of the hostel gates, Poppy and Joyce drew level with Doreen. All three were surprised to see a man dressed in a suit and trilby hat at the far end of the driveway. He lounged with his back turned against the side wall of the main building, smoking a cigarette.
‘What’s he up to?’ Joyce remarked with a frown. It was unusual for men to visit Fieldhead, and anyway it was almost suppertime, when all of the girls would be indoors.
Instinctively they held back. They watched as a figure emerged from the yard at the back and quickly recognized Kathleen, still in her uniform but with her fair hair hanging loose. She spoke urgently to the stranger.
Doreen was the first to react. ‘Look out – we’re in danger of breaking up a tryst.’
The man talked back, throwing down his cigarette and taking Kathleen by the arm. He must have said something she didn’t like because she pulled free and tried to retrace her steps.
‘Uh-oh, lovers’ tiff.’ Doreen still hesitated by the gate.
The man went after Kathleen. He pulled her by the arm again. She shoved him away and this time made good her escape around the back of the building.
‘Does our hairdresser friend have a secret admirer?’ Doreen asked as the man slowly followed.
‘Plenty, I shouldn’t wonder.’ Joyce acknowledged that the fun-loving Kathleen gave Doreen a good run for her money in the glamour stakes.
‘Ooh – do we know who he is?’ Poppy too was intrigued.
‘I haven’t a clue.’ Though they’d only caught a back view, Joyce didn’t recognize the square set of the man’s shoulders or his natty dress sense – the suit had been fashionably cut and the brown shoes were highly polished. ‘I don’t think he can be local.’
‘Then we have a mystery on our hands!’ Doreen set off down the drive, followed by Poppy and Joyce. ‘But I’ll winkle it out of Kathleen at supper, just you watch.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Brenda cycled home alone. She’d stopped late at Home Farm to help Emily Kellett collect eggs. ‘You go on ahead,’ she’d told Elsie and Una. ‘I won’t be far behind.’
It had taken less than ten minutes to fill a basket with brown beauties; the eggs when she picked them from the long grass behind the milking shed were smooth, speckled and warm. Emily had given her three to keep and thanked her for her help.
‘I can’t bend down like I used to,’ she’d admitted, her grey hair escaping in thin wisps from its plaited bun. But it was something worse than stiff joints that ailed her since the death of her son, Frank, whose frozen corpse had been found on the moor in the dead of winter the previous year. She’d lost what she insisted on calling her ‘gumption’ – her spirit, her tenacity, plus whatever else it was that had kept her grinding on year after year. Now she was broken, stooped and lined, with no one to nurture and protect.
A grateful Brenda had thanked her for the eggs then cycled off. In contrast to old Emily, she gloried in youthful energy, soaking up the sight of new green leaves fluttering in the sun, of dappled shade and wayside flowers, with St Michael’s Church coming into full view as she freewheeled round the bend into the village. Spotting Les White sitting on the bench outside the smithy with his racing-green sports car parked close by, she decided on the spur of the moment to stop and have some fun.
Les nursed a pint of bitter on his knee. He needed it to calm his nerves after dealing with the clean-up operation in the cow field at home. First thing that morning, he had followed his father’s ord
ers and gone out to salvage what meat he could. After some judicious butchery there’d been enough to share out among neighbours. The messy job had taken a lot out of him, however. So here he was with the sun on his face and a drink in his hands, watching Brenda whiz along the road towards him.
‘Why so down in the mouth?’ she quizzed from a distance of twenty yards. He seemed to have withdrawn into himself since Saturday, to be less at ease than before.
He explained briefly about the landmine and its aftermath. ‘The bad news is that Donald shirked his Home Guard duties. The good news is I was able to call in at Fieldhead with extra meat rations.’
‘Oh lovely – beef and shrapnel stew!’ Brenda braked, hopped off her bike then sat down beside him. Despite the flippant remark, she felt sorry for him. ‘You had a close shave, eh?’
‘You could say that. Would you like a drink?’
‘No, ta. Ma Craven would tan my hide if they found me drunk in charge of a bicycle.’
‘One small shandy wouldn’t hurt, would it?’
‘No, really – thank you.’ She preferred to sit and chat. As she’d discovered when she’d danced with him after the wedding reception, Les’s quiet, unthreatening nature appealed to her precisely because he wasn’t her usual pushy type. He had hidden depths, she thought, and it was up to her to uncover them.
‘I had a nice time at the wedding do.’ His elbow accidentally nudged her as he raised his glass and took a foamy sip. ‘I didn’t expect to. That type of big get-together isn’t usually my style.’
‘But you like to trip the light fantastic?’
As he nodded, a small curl of fair hair flicked forward on to his forehead. ‘I’ll dance to anything that Glenn Miller or Benny Goodman play. It’s the saxophones that really get me going.’
Brenda studied the long fingers that cupped the glass. The more she observed and heard, the more certain she grew that Les was a sensitive sort. I’m not for him, she thought in a rare moment of self-doubt. I’m too loud for his liking. Then again, maybe she could learn to adapt. ‘On second thoughts, perhaps I will have that drink,’ she said.
The vegetable patch in the walled garden behind the hostel was planted in regimented rows. Lettuce and other salad crops grew to the left of the central pathway while well-established shoots of cabbages, carrots and potatoes were to the right. There were pleached apple and pear trees trained against the south-facing wall and a border of perennials intended to provide flowers for the house. It was from here that the roses and carnations for Grace’s wedding had been cut.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the latest score: Doreen nil, Kathleen one!’ In a light-hearted attempt to defuse the tension between the two girls, Joyce pretended that her trowel was a radio microphone.
Try as she might during supper, Doreen hadn’t been able to discover the identity of Kathleen’s mystery man. ‘He’s no one you know,’ or ‘Never you mind,’ had been the replies to an increasingly frustrated questioner.
Doreen had pressed the point. ‘What’s the matter? He didn’t look the sort you’d need to keep secret.’
Kathleen had ploughed on silently through her mutton stew and dumplings.
‘Ah, that’s it – she’s ashamed of him!’ Doreen had concluded, to Kathleen’s disgust.
Now she, Kathleen, Joyce, Poppy and Una were making the most of the long evening by tending the dig-for-victory veg patch. Doreen nil, Kathleen one.
‘But it’s only half-time,’ Una warned, tying up rampant runner beans with a deft touch.
‘And where did you and your beau disappear off to? That’s what I’d like to know,’ Doreen persisted as Kathleen put both hands to her ears. ‘Did you slope off into the woods for a secret rendezvous? Yes, that’s right – we’ve cracked it at last. Kathleen was annoyed because he showed himself in public but they made up in private when no one was looking.’
‘You couldn’t be more wrong if you tried.’ Kathleen’s joking resistance turned into irritation. ‘There was no secret rendezvous. The last thing I wanted was for him to turn up here at Fieldhead.’
‘But he’s not a stranger – you do know him?’
‘Did!’ Kathleen retorted. ‘I did know him a bit at one time, but not any more.’
‘Hmm.’ Doreen stood astride the rows of spring onions, hands on hips. ‘So he’s a bad penny? Come on, Kathleen, put us out of our misery and tell us his name.’
‘No, but I will say this. I knew him in Millwood and yes, I did walk out with him a few times – to the cinema and suchlike. But then I found out more about him …’
‘Don’t tell us – he was already hitched!’ Doreen guessed. ‘Not that I would blame anyone for carrying on with a married man. We all have to grab our chance of happiness in this day and age …’
‘Cover your ears,’ Joyce advised Una and Poppy with a wink. ‘Hush, Doreen – there are children present.’
Doreen steamed ahead regardless. ‘No one knows that better than me. What am I now – twenty-three? I was twenty when the war started and engaged to be married. My fiancé was at Dunkirk and never got off the beaches. He was mown down by Jerry along with thousands of others.’
Hearing Doreen’s sad but familiar tale, a look of shared pain flickered in Joyce’s eyes then was gone. ‘What was his name?’ she asked gently.
‘Bernie. Private Bernard Ward of the Green Howards Regiment, God rest his soul.’
There was a short silence, broken by the arrival of Brenda. She rode her bicycle into the yard and caught sight of the group in the walled garden. Tiddly from two shandies, she wobbled down the path towards them and yelled a greeting.
‘Hush, keep your voice down! What kept you?’ Joyce wanted to know.
‘I stopped off at the Blacksmith’s Arms – why?’
‘Because Mrs Craven’s on the warpath about you missing supper.’ Glancing towards the house, she spotted the warden at the back door. ‘Here she comes now.’
But instead of advancing, Hilda Craven stayed in the doorway with her arms folded. She watched carefully as Joyce took control of Brenda’s bike, exchanging a few words with the new arrival before walking it into the nearest stable. Once Hilda saw that all was well, she retreated purposefully down the corridor into the kitchen, where a surprise guest waited.
Alfie Craven had taken off his hat and jacket and sat astride a wooden chair in the warden’s big kitchen. He rested his forearms on her scrubbed table and glanced up at the rows of tin canisters, earthenware crocks, copper pans and Kilner jars lining the shelves. There was a large gas stove in one corner of the room and two deep sinks, with a plate rack above the draining board stacked with blue and white crockery. ‘Now then, Mum – I see you’re in your element here.’
Hilda’s normally placid face flickered with uncertainty. ‘It’s hard work cooking for twenty people twice a day, but yes, I’m nicely settled here.’
‘Do you bake your Land Girls juicy steak pies with plenty of onions and carrots? They were always my favourites.’
‘Yes, if I can get the stewing steak.’ After pacing the floor, Hilda sat down and studied her son. His face was a little broader than when she’d last seen him, his wavy brown hair more smoothly slicked back, his expression even more guarded than before. But he was neat and clean-shaven, with an air of prosperity suggested by a stiff white shirt, blue suit and a pair of gold-plated cufflinks. ‘What are you doing here, Alfie? That’s what I’d like to know.’
‘Oh, come on now. Can’t a chap drop in to see his old mum once in a while?’ He tapped the table decisively then stood up, making his chair rock then rattle back down on to the stone flags. ‘What’s the matter? Aren’t you pleased to see me?’
‘I’d have been better pleased if you’d kept in touch.’ In fact, she’d had no notion of Alfie’s whereabouts over these last few years but she’d always assumed the worst. Her eyes followed him as he reached up then opened a tin labelled ‘Biscuits’.
He took out a cheese straw and popped it into his mouth. �
��Time’s flown. I’ve been busy.’
‘Too busy to drop me a line every now and then?’
Alfie ate another biscuit. ‘I did write to you at first – a couple of nice, long letters.’
‘Well, I never received them.’
‘I sent them to the Fosters’ place, addressed to Mrs Hilda Craven, Housekeeper, Hawkshead Manor, Hawkshead.’
‘I didn’t stop there for long after you left.’
‘What happened? Did her ladyship chuck you out?’
Hilda drew herself up and kept to herself the fact that the atmosphere at the manor house had turned distinctly chilly prior to her departure. ‘No, I left of my own accord. Live-in work didn’t suit me so I moved back into the village and found part-time cleaning jobs.’
Alfie put the lid on the biscuit tin then returned it to its place on the shelf. ‘Live-in work didn’t suit you, eh? Isn’t that what you’re doing now?’
‘But Fieldhead is different. We’re part of the war effort here, all in it together.’
He nodded and sat back down, folding his arms across his broad chest and taking in the changes he saw in her. His mother had never been much to look at but now that she’d sunk well into middle age she was downright dowdy. The hand-knitted fawn cardigan and brown tweed skirt didn’t help and she could certainly do with losing a stone or two. Still, what had he been expecting? ‘I’m sorry we lost touch, Mum. I didn’t mean to. Anyway, I’m here now – that’s the main thing.’
‘It’s been a long time, Alfie.’ Seeing him brought back a flood of memories – the long, hard years of fending for him when he was a youngster, living hand to mouth after his father, Willis, had been killed in an accident on Arnold White’s farm. She remembered how the early sparks of disobedience in the child had caught light during Alfie’s last years at Burnside school and turned into a full-blown, rebellious blaze by the time he was ready to look for work at the age of fourteen. Many in the village had had their fingers burned – Maurice and Bob’s father, old Gordon Baxendale, for a start, who had offered Alfie an apprenticeship as a mechanic and had lived to regret it when Alfie had been caught systematically siphoning off petrol from customers’ cars and selling it on the sly. After that – and a couple of other similar incidents which ended up with him being sent to Borstal – Hilda had been forced to admit that her son was out of control. From then on he was often in trouble with the police and unable to hold down a job even when he reached his twenties, drinking and getting into fights and then disappearing from Burnside for weeks at a time. Gradually he’d stayed away for even longer periods and only shown up when he was skint. Eventually, at the end of her tether, she’d refused point-blank to give him any more money and, in February of 1937, he’d gone for good.
