by Jenny Holmes
‘But I worry about our boys meanwhile.’ Edith put down her cup and saucer then folded her hands in her lap. She took in the old-fashioned mahogany sideboard and worn upholstery of the easy chairs they sat in – dilapidated furniture that came with the rented house. ‘Thomas Lund’s mother hasn’t had any word of him for weeks. And there are bound to be U-boats and enemy aircraft lying in wait for Jack’s convoy when it gets closer to Gibraltar.’
Silence followed as Grace tried to envisage Edgar’s role in the conflict to come. How many more missions would her brother have to fly? How many dogfights over the Med against the Luftwaffe and the Regia Aeronautica? A sombre mood built in the room until Bill came up with a diversion.
‘They say the Italian prisoners are coming back to Beckwith Camp.’
‘That’s right,’ Edith confirmed. ‘I must remember to have a quiet word with Una Sharpe, to remind her that her first duty is to the Land Army, however strongly she may feel about a certain prisoner.’
‘Angelo Bachetti,’ Grace reminded her. ‘I’m sure Una knows how to behave if Angelo is one of the ones who returns. She doesn’t know for certain that he will be.’
Edith’s frown didn’t ease. ‘She’s a good girl, I agree. But feelings are heightened during times like these. And some of the girls at the hostel weren’t keen on her liaison with an enemy prisoner in the first place – Jean Fox for a start, along with Ivy McNamara and Dorothy Cook, who both asked to be transferred soon after Christmas because of it.’
‘And good riddance.’ Grace had witnessed Ivy’s and Dorothy’s spiteful actions towards Una and recalled the label of ‘collaborator’ that they’d tried to pin on her. ‘Everyone at Fieldhead except Jean was glad to see the back of those two.’
Edith tapped one hand against the other. ‘Still, it’s vital to uphold morale. And while we’re on the subject, I have some concerns about how Poppy and Doreen are settling in. They’re like chalk and cheese; one wouldn’t say boo to a goose, while the other—’
‘Would scare off a whole gaggle of the blighters.’ Bill drew the awkward conversation to a close with a flippant remark. He got up and pulled one curtain across to shade his mother’s eyes from the sun. ‘Doreen has got bags of confidence. I can see her as a star of the silver screen or hoofing it on a West End stage once the war is over. And good for her is what I say.’
Alone in her room, Joyce took out the letter she’d received two days earlier, on Friday the twelfth. It was from Edgar.
‘Dear Joyce, I’m writing to you on the spur of the moment – I hope you don’t mind. The way I look at it, a chap in my situation has nothing to lose.’
She’d been handed the letter by post mistress and church organist Esther Liddell, who was also a mainstay of Burnside Women’s Institute. Esther had hurried out on to the main street and intercepted Joyce as she arrived outside Grace’s new house after work. ‘Here you are – this came too late to go out with the second post, so I thought I’d hand it to you in person.’
Joyce hadn’t recognized the writing so had slipped the unopened envelope into her pocket and not thought much about it until later that evening, sitting alone in the room she shared with Doreen and Poppy.
‘The fact is, I spend a lot of my time thinking about you,’ the letter continued. ‘I remember the things you say and the way you look, but mostly it’s the sound of your voice that stays with me. I hear it when I should be concentrating on maps of Europe, radar images and all the top-secret stuff we’re involved in day after day. But at the back of my head I can always hear you.’
Joyce hadn’t taken much in at first. She’d had to read the signature at the bottom of the page to find out who was writing this: ‘Edgar’, written in a neat, forward-sloping hand. An image of him had flashed before her eyes, dressed in his RAF uniform, sitting alone on the front pew at St Michael’s and wearing the white carnation that she’d pinned on to his lapel. He’d glanced at her as she’d sat down next to him, his eyes filling with tears when Esther had played the ‘Wedding March’. She’d smiled at him then made room for his father.
After the ceremony and the speeches, she and Edgar had danced together then walked in the moonlit woods. Nothing had been said.
‘You won’t be expecting to read this. And I never thought I’d write it. But as things go, I might not get another chance. So I’ll come straight out with it. I love you, Joyce Cutler. There!’
She’d sat on her bed with her head spinning. ‘I love you, Joyce Cutler. There!’
Love! Love barged its way into her life without warning or invitation, knocking down her defences, battering at her heart.
‘I’ve said it without any way of knowing if you feel the same way. The chances are you might not. But I love everything about you – the way your hands rested in your lap in between playing tunes on the piano for the Christmas show last December, how you took care of me when I was at my lowest ebb, your calmness in the eye of the storm.’
The picture in Joyce’s mind’s eye flew back to Edgar collapsed dead drunk on the floor of his father’s beer cellar, then on to him wandering the frozen moor, seeking oblivion after the torments of war.
‘Ought I to put this in an envelope and send it in the post? I doubt it. But like I said, what do I have to lose?’
The writing in royal-blue ink grew cramped and sloped towards the bottom of the page. At Edgar’s own admission it had been written and sent on the spur of the moment. Had drink played a part? Was he to be believed? Joyce’s hand had been shaking as she came again to the signature.
‘I speak this from the heart. I hope that my confession is not a burden to you and that you will see fit to write back to me – a short note to say that you received my letter and a word or two that tells me you’re not offended. That’s all for now. With love from Edgar.’
A single kiss, a small smudge on the last two letters of his name. Trying to control the thumping of her heart, she’d put the letter away and determined not to speak of it until she’d worked out her response. Now, late on Sunday afternoon, she took it out and read it again.
Una had heard nothing from Angelo since Neville’s shock announcement on the Wednesday. But it was true: the Italians were leaving Scotland and returning to Penny Lane. Everyone in the village was talking about it – how the prisoners would be back working at the farms alongside the Land Girls, how they would help them with the harvest and charm the birds from the trees.
She’d written her beloved a hasty letter, ignoring any fear that he might not be included in the group of returnees and expressing her joy, telling him it was beyond her wildest dreams to see him again so soon. ‘I’d settled in my mind that we would have to wait until the war ended before we could be together, but now this! Oh, Angelo, I can hardly wait!’ She’d signed her note and pressed her lips against it, then folded the paper and put it in an envelope. It had gone off in the post first thing on Thursday.
She’d been holding her breath ever since. Did anyone know exactly when the prisoners would arrive? Would they come by train or by road? Was there a list of returnees with Angelo’s name on it? No one in the village or on the farms knew the answers. So she went on in a daze of anticipation, going through the motions of collecting eggs, milking cows and cleaning out pig pens, but thinking only of Angelo and how soon he would hold her in his arms.
Now it was almost evening and there was still no word.
‘Ta very much for the lift, Maurice.’ Hoping not to be seen, Doreen slid quickly out of the motor mechanic’s van as he drew up in the hostel yard late on Sunday afternoon.
‘Any time,’ he replied as she shut the door.
Never again! Doreen thought. The old vehicle stank of engine oil, and Brenda’s broken motor bike had rattled around in the back, all the way home from Dale End Farm. On top of which, Maurice’s conversation hadn’t been up to much – all about football, as if she, Doreen Wells, could possibly be the slightest bit interested in who the Burnside Wanderers beat in the last match of the seas
on.
She entered the hostel by the back entrance and bumped into Kathleen helping herself to hot chocolate in Mrs Craven’s kitchen.
‘Wasn’t that Maurice’s van?’ Kathleen enquired with one eyebrow raised. ‘Not quite the style to which you’re accustomed, eh?’
‘Don’t ask.’ Doreen hurried on, along a dark corridor into the front hall, where she ran into Poppy.
‘Hello! Have you seen Brenda?’ Poppy asked.
‘Why should I?’
‘I don’t know. I just thought … It’s nothing. I wanted to ask her advice about something.’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, yes, I have.’ Doreen relented and steered Poppy into the common room where she seized the opportunity to blow her own trumpet. ‘Brenda and I spent the afternoon with the White boys over in Attercliffe. She left before me so I thought she’d have been home by now.’
‘The White boys?’
Doreen preened in the mirror above the fireplace, touching up her lipstick and patting her hair into place. ‘Donald and Leslie. I’ll give you one guess who I was with: the good-looking one, of course. Not that Leslie is bad looking, just not on a par with his brother.’
With Doreen in full flow, Poppy became aware of a flurry of activity on the stairs and soon Kathleen and Elsie burst into the room, quickly followed by Alfie Craven in his Sunday-best suit and trilby hat.
‘Alfie’s turned up trumps,’ Elsie explained while Kathleen looked on disparagingly. ‘Look – he’s brought cocoa powder for a start.’
‘Where did this come from?’ Doreen demanded as she took the drum from Elsie and examined the label.
‘Never you mind.’ In his rapid retreat from town, Alfie had crammed a suitcase full of contraband goods and had made an arrangement for more to follow. Now he leaned back against the door jamb with his hands in his jacket pockets, hat tilted at a rakish angle.
‘And these.’ Elsie showed Doreen and Poppy two bars of milk chocolate. ‘There’s enough to go round all the girls – one square each with four left over.’
‘But best of all, these!’ Alfie pulled a slim packet from his pocket. ‘One pair of nylon stockings. Stand back, everyone – these are like hen’s teeth. Even I have trouble getting hold of them.’
Kathleen continued to frown at the dubious offerings. ‘But where did you get them?’
‘Let’s just say I ran into somebody who knows somebody and leave it at that.’ Alfie was in his element, teasing and flirting but with a hard, calculating edge. He wafted the packet of nylons under Kathleen’s nose. ‘What would a girl do to get her hands on a pair of these, I wonder?’
Kathleen couldn’t disguise her disdain. ‘If you’re asking what this girl would do – not much, as it happens.’
He blocked her way as she tried to slip past. ‘What, not even a kiss for old time’s sake?’
Quick as a flash, Doreen moved in to snatch the stockings and brush her lips against Alfie’s cheek. ‘There, I’ve paid the asking price and ta very much!’
Alfie raised his hand to wipe a lipstick smear from his cheek. He ducked his head to one side then grinned at Doreen as if recognizing that he’d met his match. ‘Fair enough. I look forward to seeing you wearing them.’
‘You’ll be lucky!’ she trilled as she swanned out into the hallway and knocked loudly on the warden’s door. ‘Mrs Craven, it’s time to put the kettle on – your prodigal son has arrived on the doorstep for a tea-time visit.’
Brenda had found that Les’s kiss was unexpectedly pleasant – soft but long lasting and ending in several more touches of his lips against her cheek and neck. She’d been in no hurry for him to restart the car engine and drive on. Heavy rain had begun to fall and the rapid pock-pock sound of raindrops on the canvas roof had soothed her.
‘That was nice,’ she said with a contented sigh as they both rested back in their seats and stared out at the blurred landscape. There were a couple of stunted hawthorn trees nearby then a stretch of windswept moor land, dipping down towards Hawkshead and Burnside beyond. ‘We could do it again if you like.’
‘You mean the kiss?’
‘Yes, the kiss. And this drive home, the foxtrotting on Saturday night and the drink outside the Smith’s Arms – everything.’
‘You’re sure?’
She nodded and there was more kissing until the windows steamed up and they pulled apart. Then, as if the physical closeness had opened up a previously locked door, he held her hand and began to talk.
‘I’m not very good at this lark,’ he began with typical modesty. ‘Donald is the one with the gift of the gab as far as girls are concerned. But I do know a good thing when I see it, and that’s what you are, Brenda Appleby – a Very Good Thing, with capital letters.’
‘Go on – I’m all ears.’
‘You’re different from anyone else I’ve known, for a start – more independent than some of the other Land Girls. You’re better looking as well.’
‘Hmm. Stop right there before I get too big-headed.’
‘I mean it. You’re modern in the way you do your hair, the way you dress; very forward-looking.’
‘For someone who doesn’t have the gift of the gab you’re doing all right.’ Wrong! she thought. Don’t be too flippant and put him off. Let him talk.
He grinned self-consciously. ‘It’s not just that, though. You have this peculiar effect on me. I can be feeling down in the dumps about something bad that’s happened – the bomb in the cows’ field, for a start – but one look at you brings a smile to my face. You don’t even have to know I’m there for it to happen; I can be standing in a corner of a room just watching you. And now suddenly here I am, here we both are, sitting together and holding hands, me rabbiting on and you listening and looking at me with those big brown eyes.’ Deep, deep brown, with honey-coloured flecks, heavily fringed with dark eyelashes, always with a sparkle suggesting that the world is full of fun if only you grab the chance.
‘You don’t know me very well.’ And likewise, I haven’t had time to get to know you. Brenda decided to put in a word of warning in case Les got too carried away. ‘I had a life before the Land Army, you know. And it was different back in Northgate – there were more girls like me. I didn’t stick out so much.’
‘I don’t believe that for a minute. I’ve spent plenty of time in towns and cities, going around with girls like Doreen. You’re nothing like her or any of the others.’
‘Doreen’s not so bad when you get to know her.’ Instinctively she stood up for her fellow farm worker.
‘I’m not saying she is. Anyway, that’s not the point.’ In for a penny … ‘The point is me and you, Brenda.’
Her eyes widened as she thought this through. ‘What do you mean? Is there a “me and you”?’
‘Yes, at least I hope there is. I want there to be.’ He’d come this far – banishing deep-seated reticence as they sat in the car, sheltered from the wind and rain. After all, Brenda was worth taking a risk for. ‘Will you be my girl? Will you walk out with me?’
She laughed and said yes and they kissed again until the rain eased and she said he’d better drive her home before things went too far.
They sat in easy silence until they reached Fieldhead, to be greeted by a bright rainbow arching over the copse behind the house and by rooks rising from the elms as Les drove his MG up the drive. Poppy, Joyce and Jean watched agog from the window on the first-floor landing then the door opened and stout Mrs Craven emerged on to the step to say goodbye to Alfie.
‘Goodbye,’ Brenda whispered to Les, leaning over to kiss his cheek before she swung out her legs then slid from the low seat on to the gravel drive. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow after work. Meet me at seven at the Blacksmith’s Arms.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Endless June days stretched towards the longest of the year and while there was daylight there was an opportunity for the girls to carry on working outdoors.
‘As if it’s not bad enough making hay all day long, they make us
slave away out here after dinner,’ Doreen complained as she straightened up to ease her aching back. She worked on the Wednesday evening alongside Joyce, Elsie, Una and Jean, hoeing the vegetable garden behind the hostel.
‘I warned you when you first arrived that it was slave labour.’ Jean agreed that they didn’t deserve this hardship after a demanding day in the fields and cowsheds. ‘But you haven’t seen anything yet. Just you wait until the days draw in and there’s a nip in the air. That’s when Mrs Craven sends us out blackberrying. Last year I fell headlong into a wet ditch and came home covered in mud. That was no fun, I can tell you.’
Joyce was having none of it. ‘Yes, but afterwards who stood first in line for Ma Craven’s blackberry and apple crumble?’
‘Not me,’ Jean protested. ‘I’m not keen on puddings.’
Joyce laughed. ‘Don’t believe a word she says,’ she whispered to Doreen, who had downed tools and was standing under a cherry tree enjoying a quiet smoke. ‘You wouldn’t think it to look at her, but with Jean it’s a case of why make do with one spoonful of sugar in your tea when you can slip in three on the quiet?’
‘Girls, girls!’ Sensing a serious argument on the horizon, Elsie coaxed them into a better mood. ‘Let’s look on the bright side. Those cherries will soon be ripe and the tomatoes in the greenhouse are almost ready for picking. Think what a difference that’ll make to meal times.’
Una walked over to examine the tree. Sure enough, the bright crimson fruit hanging from the branches made her mouth water and swiftly turned her thoughts to summer vistas opening out before her – scenes of grapes growing on the vine on Italian hillsides, peaches, oranges, lemons and silvery olive leaves rustling in a sunny breeze.
Joyce noticed the familiar faraway look. ‘Any news?’ she called across the lettuce and spring onion patch.
‘Not yet.’ There was still no official word about the returning POWs, only various rumours about them being back in a day, a week or a month. Meanwhile, Una scarcely ate or slept.
