Wedding Bells for Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  The lorry was through the gates and the barrier had been lowered. Brenda and Una saw the truck’s back end disappearing between two rows of low Nissen huts. Tall pine trees beyond the camp cast long, dark shadows. Una squeezed her eyes shut and prayed. ‘Please let Angelo be here. Please!’ At the entrance to the camp, Brenda braked hard. The rear end of the bike swung round and she had to steady it by putting both feet on the ground, giving Una the chance to jump off and sprint towards the barrier.

  A British Tommy in full battledress came to meet the excited arrival, rifle at the ready. ‘Slow down, miss. Where do you think you’re going?’

  Una was all for rushing on without replying until he blocked the way with his gun.

  ‘I said, hold your horses. You can’t come in here without stating your business.’

  ‘We’re from the Land Army.’ Brenda had parked the bike and now strode up behind Una.

  ‘I can see that.’ The soldier eyed their uniforms. He wasn’t much older than Una, with eyes that were too close together and red, sticking-out ears. ‘Isn’t it a bit late for you two to be gadding about?’

  Still Una ignored him and strained to see what was happening. From a distance of a hundred yards she saw a steady trickle of men in grey uniforms descend from the back of the lorry under orders from two other Tommies. The soldiers marshalled the POWs on to the grass verge at the side of the drive where they stretched stiff limbs and gazed around.

  ‘Una’s looking for a friend,’ Brenda told the guard at the gate.

  ‘She is, is she?’

  ‘Yes. You wouldn’t stand in the way of young love, would you?’ She thought that if they came clean he might relent. ‘She hasn’t seen Angelo for months – not since Christmas, in fact. That’s an awfully long time.’

  The appeal fell on deaf ears. ‘Stand back, miss,’ the soldier insisted. This time he thrust his rifle against Una’s chest and forced her to take two steps backwards. ‘You need written permission to come in here.’

  Seeing that persuasion wouldn’t work after all, Brenda seized Una’s arm and dragged her away from the barrier. ‘What did you see? Is Angelo there?’

  Una gave a desperate sigh. ‘I honestly don’t know. I think I saw Lorenzo, though.’

  Angelo’s friend Lorenzo had stood head and shoulders taller than most of the others, recognizable because of his height, his upright bearing and his thick dark hair. His back had been turned and Una had seen the large white circle on his jacket denoting his status as a prisoner.

  Brenda glanced up and down the lane then at the sentry still regarding them suspiciously. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ she hissed. ‘Do you remember the public footpath running down the side of the camp? No one can stop us from taking a stroll along there if we want to.’

  So she and Una changed tack and slipped out of sight down a rutted lane used in centuries past by drovers taking cattle and sheep to market. Hawthorn hedges rose to either side and formed a green canopy overhead, obscuring the view of the camp to their right, but they heard Italian voices speaking low and the tramp of boots as the prisoners set off at a slow march towards the huts.

  ‘Oh! Oh!’ Una left the track and jumped over a ditch on to a steep bank, only for her ankle to be caught in a tangle of brambles. As she stooped to free herself, sharp thorns dug into her skin.

  Still wearing her leather motor-cycling gauntlets, Brenda was able to pull back the vicious tentacles. Then she gave Una a shove from behind so she could reach the stone wall and peer over it into the grounds of the camp.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded, one eye on Una, the other on the activity of the sentry who had appeared at the end of the lane.

  ‘They’re being marched to their billets.’ Una described the scene as six prisoners peeled off from the group. From her vantage point she confirmed that Lorenzo was among them. ‘I can’t see Angelo, though.’

  ‘Have they all left the lorry?’ Brenda asked.

  ‘Yes. The driver’s backing it into a parking bay.’ Despair sharper than any bramble dug deep and made her heart bleed. ‘Oh, Brenda, he’s not here!’

  From the lane below Brenda offered a shred of hope. ‘Perhaps more will arrive tomorrow.’

  Una heard an engine cut out then the slam of a door and the sound of feet jumping down from the cab then running to catch up with the group. She climbed on to the top of the wall for a better view. ‘Wait – I’m trying to see who the driver is.’

  ‘Well?’ Brenda asked again.

  Her heart leaped when she saw him, jacket flying open, white scarf flapping. ‘Angelo!’

  He stopped dead in his tracks then turned, saw her and stood still as a statue. His gaze locked with hers.

  ‘It’s me – Una!’ She balanced on the wall top, arms spread wide. Two guards ran up behind him. They seized Angelo, he resisted and they dragged him roughly back.

  The sentry from the gate had entered the green lane and begun to bark orders. ‘Get down from there. You, on the ground – make your friend climb back down!’

  Una saw Angelo mouth her name and try to raise one hand in greeting before the guards shoved him into the nearest hut. She felt Brenda grab hold of her ankle and tug at her, pulling her off the wall. She landed awkwardly in the brambles as the sentry arrived.

  ‘Crikey O’Reilly!’ he muttered, gesturing first at Brenda and then at Una lying flat on her back in a tangle of thorns. He grinned then lowered his rifle to the ground. ‘If this is what young love is all about, give me a pint of bitter and a pork pie any day.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was Les’s job to drive one of the family’s giant threshing machines out of the neighbouring dale, along Swinsty Edge from Attercliffe to Brigg Farm. Grace, Joyce and Brenda stood waiting for it in the yard with Roland and Neville. The older man glanced at his watch and muttered impatiently while Neville chatted with the girls.

  ‘I was hoping Poppy would be on the list to work here today, but it looks as if I’ll have to put up with you three instead.’ He blew his nose noisily then thrust his handkerchief into the pocket of his overalls.

  ‘We’ll tell Pops that you missed her,’ Brenda promised.

  ‘She’s coming to the beetle drive with me on Saturday. At least, I hope she is.’

  Joyce smiled at the gawky lad’s optimism. ‘Does Una know?’ she teased.

  ‘Una’s happy with her foreign chap,’ he conceded. ‘But I reckon I’ve got the pick of the rest of the bunch in Poppy.’

  His naive enthusiasm made the three experienced Land Army hands laugh out loud. ‘Nev must be the only one around here who’s glad that there’s a war on,’ Brenda declared. ‘It means there’s slim pickings for us girls when it comes to eligible bachelors. He clearly takes his chances while the going’s good!’

  ‘Where’s the bugger got to?’ Roland muttered, ignoring the jokes and scanning the lanes for a sighting of the machine.

  The hiring out of large machinery was the way that Arnold White had made most of his money. Early in the nineteen twenties, shortly after he’d inherited Dale End from his father, he’d bought a steam engine from a family of funfair owners in Scarborough – a major investment – and then purchased a threshing machine to separate wheat from chaff. He’d been correct in supposing that the old days of threshing by hand were well and truly over, even on remote Dales farms, and that local farmers would queue up to hire the labour-saving device. Soon he’d invested in a second engine and then a third, and now it was a common sight to encounter one of his machines chugging up and down lanes throughout the summer and well into autumn, its driver high in the cab with a lad below, employed to stoke the furnace that heated the boiler and produced the steam. The only disadvantage was the length of time it took to get the cumbersome equipment from A to B, due to the narrowness of the lanes and the old-fashioned horses and carts encountered on the way. This was the reason that Les was delayed this Thursday morning – he’d been held up by Joe Kellett’s hay wagon blocking the road. Thanks largely to Alfie’s inexp
erience with cart horses, the wagon had ended up in a ditch, spilling most of its hay load in the process. There’d been a swearing match and much heaving and shoving of both horse and cart before Les and his young stoker lad were able to fire up the engine to carry on to Brigg Farm.

  Brenda and the others were in no hurry for the threshing machine to arrive. They stood in Aertex blouses and breeches, teasing Neville and taking in the views.

  ‘Nev, I hear you played Cupid for Una again yesterday.’ Brenda cornered him against the stone steps leading up to the hayloft above Major’s stable, reminding him of the many messages that he’d carried between Una and Angelo during the December blossoming of their romance.

  ‘What if I did?’

  ‘Well, it was big hearted of you, considering your past history with her. So, if you like, I’ll put in a good word for you with your new inamorata.’

  ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

  Brenda nudged him with her elbow before he vaulted up on to the steps and she followed him. ‘You daft thing – I mean Pops, of course. I can drop a word in her shell-like: get her to say yes to Saturday.’

  ‘All right – you can if you like.’

  They entered the loft to a strong, sweet smell of recently gathered hay.

  ‘What’s that other whiff?’ Brenda wondered as Neville shoved two wooden crates into a corner then covered them with hay. ‘It’s oranges, isn’t it?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue,’ he prevaricated. ‘Alfie dropped them off first thing this morning. He said they were his personal belongings. I said I’d store them for him, no questions asked.’

  Brenda frowned. There were definitely oranges in the crates, she decided – a commodity that was in short supply since Jerry had tightened his stranglehold on goods coming in from Europe and the Middle East. ‘I expect he offered you a couple of bob for the privilege?’

  ‘One and six.’

  ‘And is this the first time he’s asked you?’

  Neville shook his head then pointed to more boxes perched on an overhead beam. ‘The smaller stuff’s up there. Don’t ask me what’s inside – I haven’t bothered to look. And don’t mention it to Dad either.’

  Now I know where Alfie plans to keep the contraband chocolate and stockings, Brenda thought. It came as no surprise to learn about his shady dealings, and she wondered if this was what lay behind his sudden reappearance in Burnside. ‘I wouldn’t get too pally with Alfie if I were you,’ she warned. ‘He’s involved with some dubious people, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Neville shrugged.

  ‘I mean it, Nev. There are some nasty types in places like Millwood and Northgate, and if Alfie’s crossed them, he’ll pay for it sooner or later.’

  Again he brushed her concerns aside by tutting and giving the boxes a careless kick. ‘It’s only oranges!’

  ‘And cocoa and chocolate and heaven knows what else – anything on ration that Alfie thinks he can double his money on.’

  A stubborn Neville piled more hay on top of the boxes and no conclusion was reached before they were interrupted by Joyce calling up from the bottom of the steps. ‘Yoo-hoo, the thresher’s arrived! And guess who’s driven it all the way from Attercliffe – Les White himself, that’s who!’

  ‘You didn’t have much to say for yourself when you-know-who arrived,’ Grace observed as she and Brenda took up position at the threshing machine and Les went into the house for a cup of tea. Grace had stationed herself at the chute where the separated grains of wheat poured out of the churning drum. Brenda was a few feet away at a second chute, nursing her sore hand but still ready to collect straw, while Joyce stood at the back end of the machine, prepared to deal with the prickly chaff. All three expected to be itching all over and coughing up dust at the end of the day.

  For once Brenda made excuses. ‘I’m busy. I don’t have time for niceties,’ she said without bothering to raise her voice above the hiss and chug of the machine.

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘I said I’m busy. Anyway, I’ll see Les in the pub tomorrow night. I can talk to him then.’

  As grain slid down the chute, Grace collected it in a hessian sack. ‘I see.’

  ‘What do you see?’ Brenda gathered the first armful of straw then tossed it on to the back of a nearby cart.

  ‘That you’re not too struck on Les after all.’

  ‘Who says I’m not?’

  There was a pause as Grace hauled the first full sack clear. ‘No one. It’s as plain as the nose on my face.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong for once.’ Brenda dug in her heels. ‘Les is a nice chap.’ Nice – that word again. It slipped out without her thinking.

  ‘And keen on you, too.’ Grace had noticed how he looked at Brenda with puppy-dog earnestness. ‘Maybe too keen?’

  The rhythm of the machine took over and, though they had to raise their voices to be heard, Brenda was at last prepared to share confidences. ‘I do like Les – he’s good company. And he’s deep and brings out the best in me if I give him half a chance.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘He makes me less giddy, for a start. We chat about what I did before I came here, when I worked in Maynard’s, what I hope to do after the war and suchlike.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But you’re right in a way – Les wants to move things on much too fast. He asks to see me every day of the week and to spend time at Dale End with his dad and the Dragon – lah-lah-lah!’ Brenda seized a hayfork then jumped up on to the cart to shift the straw to the far side. ‘I’d prefer to take things more slowly.’

  ‘It’s a sign of the times,’ Grace pointed out. ‘Everyone is in a rush because of the war; men especially, but girls too.’

  ‘Like you and Bill?’

  ‘Hardly!’ Grace laughed. ‘I’ve known Bill since I was in ankle socks. But seriously, Brenda, do you want my opinion?’

  Frowning and nodding, and with the warm sun on her back, Brenda leaned on her fork to listen.

  ‘I think the business with Mac last Christmas set you back more than any of us realized. It was a terrible thing – a girl’s worst nightmare – and it put you off men in a big way. That’s why you’re so slow to take Les seriously; in case he turns out to be like Mac, which he’s not, of course.’

  Brenda closed her eyes, as if shutting out the memory of what had happened in the changing room at the Institute six months earlier – the Canadian pilot bursting in while she was undressed, the humiliating leer on his face, his hands all over her as he forced her on to the floor. She took a deep breath then nodded. ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘What – that Les is different? Without a shadow of a doubt. I’ve known him nearly as long as I’ve known Bill and he’s a thoroughly decent sort.’

  Brenda shook herself back into the moment then jumped down from the cart in time to gather another armful of straw. ‘He comes highly recommended, then?’

  ‘He does,’ Grace agreed with a reassuring smile. ‘I’d definitely give the poor chap a chance if I were you.’

  It wasn’t until the end of the day that Brenda finally decided to take Grace’s well-meaning advice. She approached Les as he stood watching his lad shovel coal into the furnace to get up a head of steam, ready to leave the farm.

  ‘I hope you pay Tiny Tim there a decent wage,’ she commented, inclining her head towards the sweating, mop-haired boy. His face was black with soot and he was stripped to the waist and skinny as a rabbit, muscles straining at every shovelful.

  ‘He gets bed and board at Dale End.’ Les’s reply was unusually terse. ‘Plus a few bob pocket money.’

  ‘Blimey, a few bob, eh? What’s his name?’

  ‘Johnny Wade.’

  ‘And where did you find him?’

  ‘We didn’t find him. His family lives in Attercliffe. His dad joined the army and his mum has too many mouths to feed so he came to us straight from school.’

  They watched for a while in silence, each thinking their own thoughts
– Brenda disconcerted by Les’s closed expression and he disheartened after a whole day of trying and failing to attract her attention.

  ‘Rather him than me,’ she murmured against the background sound of Johnny’s shovel crunching into the heap of coal and the increasing roar of the engine’s furnace. ‘I thought collecting chaff into sacks was bad enough.’

  Over the far side of the farmyard, Joyce and Grace picked straw out of each other’s hair. Both looked worn out as they tried to cough dust from their throats and lungs. Neville lounged on the hayloft steps while his fidgety, wiry father went into the house to find the money to pay Les.

  ‘All set?’ Les asked as Johnny slammed the furnace door. He climbed up to the driving seat and checked the dials without glancing down at Brenda. That’s it – she’s not interested in me, he decided.

  That’s torn it, she thought ruefully. I’ve kept him dangling for too long and put him off good and proper.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw her looking up at him, her face covered in dust, with straw in her hair. He felt his heart soften with a tenderness that he was determined not to show. If she doesn’t make a move, I won’t either. It’s up to her now.

  He pulled an overhead chain to let off a hiss of steam, ready to set the machine in motion until he saw Roland come out of the house waving the pound notes. So he waited for his payment.

  ‘About that drink tomorrow night.’ Brenda blurted out the words much louder than intended, attracting the attention of everyone in the yard. ‘Shall we try somewhere different for a change?’

  Unsure that he’d heard right, he leaned out of the cab. ‘What’s that?’ Ignoring their audience, she stepped nimbly on to the metal plate and softly touched his elbow. ‘I said, shall we make a change from the Blacksmith’s Arms? How about the Red Lion over your way? I can ride across on Sloper.’

  ‘If you like,’ he replied, his heart soaring now.

  ‘But would you like?’ She couldn’t tell from his expression whether or not this had been the right move.

  ‘Yes,’ he said after a pause. ‘Come to Dale End at seven o’clock. We’ll set off from there.’