by Jenny Holmes
Brenda took a deep breath, smiled and jumped down to the ground. Roland paid Les. The engine hissed and hooted then trundled out along the track. Across the yard, Grace and Joyce smiled at Brenda and nodded.
Angelo was back! He ate, slept and breathed not five miles from Fieldhead. So near and yet so far.
Una had been sent to Home Farm with Poppy and Doreen but the day of milking and weeding had passed in a blur so that she hadn’t paid much attention when Doreen had stepped in between Poppy and Alfie to keep him at bay.
‘Steady on,’ Doreen had warned when he’d cornered Poppy by the milk churns at the entrance to the dairy. She’d challenged him as she would a playground bully. ‘Why not pick on someone your own size?’
‘Like who?’ he’d sneered back, sleeves rolled up and shirt collar unbuttoned. ‘Anyway, she doesn’t mind me courting her, do you, Poppy?’
‘Yes, she does. Tell him, Pops; he’s not to manhandle you.’
Since the incident in the woods behind Fieldhead, Poppy had loathed Alfie’s very existence. She couldn’t stand the sharp smell of his sweat or the shadow of beard on his unshaven chin, the wiry hair sprouting on his forearms like a dark animal pelt. ‘Stay away from me,’ she’d told him plainly, shored up by Grace’s advice and by Doreen’s mocking presence.
‘You heard the girl,’ Doreen had insisted. ‘Keep your paws to yourself, or else.’
He’d laughed and immediately switched the focus of his attention. ‘How are you getting on with those nylon stockings I gave you? Are they a snug fit?’
‘I don’t know – I haven’t worn them yet.’ Hands on hips, Doreen had batted her lashes. ‘I happen to be saving them for a special occasion.’
Meanwhile, Poppy had slipped away to rejoin Una in the milking shed, where the two girls had hosed down the stalls and kept out of harm’s way. Now, though, the working day was over and Una was impatient to cycle over to Brigg Farm to find her old go-between.
‘I’ve written a note to Angelo,’ she explained to Poppy and Doreen as they left the Kelletts’ place together. ‘I want to ask Neville to deliver it the way he used to. I pay him sixpence and he sneaks it into the camp for me.’
‘My dearest Angelo,’ she’d written in a blaze of joy. Then no, she’d crossed that out and started again. ‘My darling, precious Angelo. How can we arrange to meet? When will they let you start farm work? Do you know yet where they will send you? Now that you are here, I can’t wait. Shall I find a way to visit Beckwith? Tomorrow is Friday and then Saturday is my half day. I’ll change the rota so that I can be sent to work at Horace Turnbull’s hen farm on the Saturday morning. Perhaps I can arrange to bring eggs for the canteen later in the day and you can be there waiting for me. I hope you think this is a good plan?’ She’d run out of space on one side of the unlined writing paper that she kept in her bedside cabinet so had turned it over and tried to control her excited scrawl. ‘I long to see you, my Angelo! I will ask Neville to please wait while you write your reply. Until the day after tomorrow, my darling, when I will see you at last!’
She’d signed the letter with a chain of kisses, folded it then put it into the breast pocket of her shirt, where it had stayed all day long.
As they freewheeled down the hill into Burnside, Doreen noticed Una’s flushed cheeks. She chose not to comment until Una took the fork in the road leading to Brigg Farm and she and Poppy carried on through the village. ‘Why didn’t Una give the note to Joyce or Brenda to hand on to Neville What’s-’is-name?’ she wondered, cycling easily towards the pub and the church. ‘Wouldn’t that have been quicker?’
‘Yes, but Una has to make sure he’ll deliver it properly,’ Poppy reasoned. ‘She needs to see him with her own eyes and explain that it’s urgent.’
‘Ah!’ Doreen glanced at her and winked. ‘Out of the mouths of babes …’
‘I’m right, though.’ Poppy had read enough stories in women’s magazines to know how such things worked. She forged ahead of Doreen along the main street to where Grace, Joyce and Brenda stood with their bikes outside the row of terraced houses next to the Institute.
‘Wait for me!’ Brenda called. She said goodbye to the others and joined Poppy and Doreen for the ride back to Fieldhead.
‘You’ll stop for tea?’ Grace asked Joyce, who evidently had something on her mind.
Joyce nodded. She leaned her bike against the iron railings then followed Grace into the house. ‘I hope I’m not getting in your way.’
‘You’re never in my way,’ Grace assured her. ‘In any case, Bill is staying late in the workshop tonight so there’s no danger of us being interrupted.’
She led the way into a small back kitchen where she put the kettle on a gas hob to boil. The hob was the single innovation in an otherwise old-fashioned set-up of cast-iron range, stone sink and open pine dresser set out with Edith’s gift of delicate Japanese china. When the tea was made, she brought it to the table and sat down opposite Joyce. ‘Now, what’s up?’ she asked softly.
Joyce sighed and stared down at her work-roughened hands. ‘Perhaps I ought not to bother you. You’ve enough on your plate as it is, what with this recent news about Jack.’
‘You’re not bothering me.’ Grace always had time for Joyce. ‘Come on – spit it out.’
Slowly Joyce drew a piece of paper from her shirt pocket. ‘I’ve had this letter from Edgar.’
‘You don’t say.’ Grace’s eyes widened in surprise but she kept her voice steady. Then she sat, cupping her tea with both hands, waiting.
‘Yes. It arrived last Friday. I haven’t answered it yet.’ I love you, Joyce Cutler. There! The words played like a record turning inside her head, black disc gleaming, bright silver needle following the concentric grooves. She could hear Edgar’s voice saying them in a tone of wonderment, over and over.
‘He’s well?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s all right, then.’
‘Would you like to read it?’
Grace shook her head. ‘Why not tell me what it says?’
‘On second thoughts, I’m not sure that I ought. I’ve been sitting on it for nearly a week.’ Joyce made as if to stand up then changed her mind. ‘I do want your opinion, though.’
‘Then tell me.’
‘The fact of the matter is that Edgar tells me he loves me.’ There – it’s out in the open at last! The words are spoken, but don’t look at me like that, as if it’s impossible. ‘I know – it came as a shock to me too.’
‘It’s not a shock,’ Grace argued. ‘At least, not in a bad way. It’s a surprise, yes.’
‘At first I didn’t know whether or not to take it seriously. I wondered if it was a passing whim and he would regret sending it.’
‘Edgar doesn’t do things on a whim.’ Grace reached out her hand. Joyce, who was usually so sure and down to earth, had become somehow small and vulnerable. ‘Believe me.’
‘So he’s sincere?’ All week she’d questioned this and not found an answer. It was why she’d finally come to Grace.
‘Perfectly. I guarantee it.’ And now that Grace thought back, she was no longer surprised. She remembered the looks that passed between them at the wedding, and, further back, Joyce’s quiet strength when Edgar had been at his lowest ebb, the way she’d shown him with her kindness that a decent life could be lived in spite of loss and loneliness.
‘He wants me to reply. I don’t know what to say.’
‘Write to him. You’ve kept him waiting long enough.’
‘I know that. But how can I be sure what to write? I hardly know him.’
‘Sometimes,’ Grace said after a pause, ‘these things take a long time to grow, which is how it happened between me and Bill. But at other times they take place in an instant.’ Love at first sight.
‘And I’m afraid,’ Joyce continued without acknowledging Grace’s point. ‘I was engaged once before – very quick, as you say. I still have the ring.’
‘Walter.’ In saying the name of
Joyce’s dead fiancé, Grace opened the door to her friend’s pent-up emotions. She watched her head sink into her hands and heard her cry.
‘I lost him. What if it were to happen again?’
‘I understand. I do. But the real question is: do you … can you love Edgar?’
Joyce looked up and nodded through her tears. ‘I think I could.’
‘Then write,’ Grace insisted. ‘Put him out of his misery and tell him how you feel.’
CHAPTER TEN
It was Hettie, not Les, who opened the door to a disconcerted Brenda. ‘Yes?’ She blocked the way and made it clear from her stern expression that the visitor was unexpected.
‘Is Les in?’ Brenda felt the flames of the dragon-sister lick her cheeks but she stood her ground. ‘I’m supposed to meet him here to go for a drink in the Red Lion.’
Hettie took in every detail of Brenda’s appearance, from the stylish, cross-over blouse and linen slacks to her lively, small features that were free from make-up and her windswept dark hair. ‘Did you come across on that motor bike of yours?’
‘I did. And I almost took another spill, thanks to a silly sheep and two lambs wandering across my path. I came round a bend and had to brake pretty sharpish to avoid them.’
Still Hettie didn’t budge, but stood with the door half closed. Dressed formally as usual in grey twinset and pearls, with a dark blue skirt, she gave no sign that she was about to relent. From a room leading off from the hallway, her father’s voice barked out a question.
‘Who’s that at the door?’
‘It’s Les’s little Land Army friend,’ she reported without turning her head.
Footsteps clicked across the tiled hall then Donald came into view. He wrenched the door from his sister’s grasp and grinned at Brenda. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t our dispatch rider, undaunted and unbowed! What are you hanging around out there for?’
‘She says she’s come to see Les,’ Hettie reported stiffly. ‘Did he mention it to you?’
‘I should cocoa!’ A mocking laugh indicated that Donald didn’t expect Les to share confidences. ‘But come in, come in!’ He drew Brenda over the doorstep. ‘Your hand is still bandaged, I see. And how’s your gammy knee?’
‘Not too bad, ta.’ Brenda smiled brightly at stony-faced Hettie, entertained by the notion that Les’s sister could give the famous Joan Crawford a run for her money. It was the steely, staring eyes that did it, and the firm jawline. Beautiful but dangerous.
The same might be said of Donald, except that there was a more masculine cast to his forehead and mouth. But still there was no doubt that he could have shone in the Hollywood firmament if he’d wanted to. Odd that two such exceptional-looking people could be found here, in this backwater. And it was puzzling that shy, self-effacing Les should belong to the same fierce brood.
He came down the stairs two at a time, apologizing and whisking her into a sitting room at the back of the house. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you knock. I was upstairs getting ready. I didn’t realize the time.’
Brenda pulled a face. ‘I was afraid I was going to get gobbled up.’
‘By the Dragon?’ Les grinned. ‘Sorry, I should’ve given her advance warning.’
‘Will you please stop saying sorry?’ Glancing around the room, Brenda saw that it was by no means pristine. The pale grey wooden panelling was scuffed in places and the floral covers on the two sofas were faded and frayed. And the rest of the furniture was out of date: heavy oak stuff belonging to the Victorian era. If she hadn’t known better, she would have said that the once-wealthy Whites had fallen on hard times.
‘Sorry,’ Les said again then they both laughed. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ He led her out through some French doors on to a stone-flagged patio edged with yellow rose bushes in full bloom. ‘We can cut across the garden and walk into the village.’
Brenda linked arms with him. ‘Is Donald on his way somewhere?’ she asked when she heard a car engine start up on the front drive.
Les nodded. ‘He’s probably heading for Burnside – in my jalopy, by the sound of things.’
‘Didn’t he think to ask?’ The engine roared and tyres crunched over gravel.
‘Donald doesn’t ask; he just takes.’ Les shook his head. ‘Anyway, he knows I’d have said no.’
‘And you don’t mind him taking a liberty?’ She was still curious that the two brothers should be such opposites – not just physically but in their temperaments too.
‘I used to, but not any more. Donald goes his own way and I’ve learned to go mine. And I’ll bet you anything he’s not going to have half such a good time with Doreen or whoever takes his fancy tonight as I am with you.’
They’d reached a garden gate that led on to a quiet lane with a square church tower ahead, visible above the hedges to either side of the road. An evening sun cast long shadows ahead of them – two figures walking arm in arm with the sun’s rays warm on their backs.
‘Thanks for suggesting this,’ he said as they approached the village green. ‘Here was me supposing you’d gone off me and now, abracadabra, here we are.’
‘Don’t thank me – thank Grace. She’s the one who knocked some sense into my thick head.’ Something about the warm, unfamiliar surroundings, the unseen river gurgling over rocks and the soft, golden light loosened Brenda’s tongue. ‘She said I should try letting my guard down once in a while.’
‘Your guard?’ He stopped her then sat her down on a bench by a bus stop. ‘How do you mean?’
‘This.’ She gestured towards her chest with both hands. ‘This shield I put up between me and the world. Oh, stop me – I’m talking rubbish.’
‘No, I want to hear. And I know what you mean – we all need to protect ourselves. Take Hettie – she might look fierce but deep down she’s soft as putty.’
Brenda nodded dubiously. ‘She did a good job of cleaning me up last Sunday, I’ll give her that. And she lent me a pair of her slacks that I forgot to bring back, darn it.’
‘Next time,’ he murmured. ‘So what happens when you let your guard down? Ought I to be worried?’
She smiled then was suddenly serious. ‘I’m just not very good at getting close to people.’
‘You’re close to me now, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, but I don’t always trust my own judgement.’ Looking straight at him, she attempted another smile. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to suggest … sorry.’
‘Hang on – who’s doing the apologizing now?’
‘Me.’ The look he gave back was deep and intense. His hand rested on her shoulder; she felt the warmth of it through her thin blouse.
‘Brenda, I’ve said this before – I’ve seen something special in you. You don’t mind me talking like this?’
She shook her head.
‘And what I see I like. I picture us doing things together – listening to music, going to dances, chatting the way we are now. I want to spend as much time as I can with you.’
‘That’s nice,’ she whispered. At that moment the word fell far short of what she felt. ‘I mean it – it’s marvellous.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, but there’s no rush, is there? Now that we know where we each stand, we can take things steadily.’
‘Rightio.’ Disappointment flickered across his face.
‘We’re both young. I’m twenty-one. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-two.’
‘You see – we have plenty of time.’ Was this the right way to move things forward, slowly but surely? She wasn’t sure.
He nodded. ‘I won’t rush you,’ he promised. Even though he was head over heels and couldn’t stop thinking about Brenda for a single minute, though he could even picture the ring he would buy her and her lovely face glowing with happiness as he walked her down the aisle. It was too early to say any of this out loud but it was what was in Les’s heart. After all, he was lost to love, dwelling on foreign shores of rising, rushing, breaking emotions that he’d never experienced be
fore.
For now, he placed his fingers on her soft cheek and felt her hand close over them and press them closer. He kissed her softly for a long time. The world turned and evening shadows lengthened.
Just because Grace was married, her father didn’t excuse her from her regular duties as stand-in barmaid at the Blacksmith’s Arms. He sent her a message on the Saturday morning, saying that he needed her straight after she’d finished work at Horace Turnbull’s because he would be busy in the forge. Lionel Foster was sending two of his hunters from Hawkshead for shoeing and when the Fosters wanted something doing you had to jump to straight away.
Grace had filled in behind the bar since she was fifteen so she managed to pull pints and wash glasses almost without thinking. The afternoon atmosphere was relaxed. Bob and Maurice propped up the bar as usual while a couple of old-timers sat snug in a corner, enjoying the sunshine that streamed in through a nearby window. There was a background chink of glasses and hum of conversation, and in the gaps between serving, Grace pondered on the unresolved situation between Joyce and Edgar. She knew very few details, only that Joyce had at last replied to Edgar’s letter, but in a careful, controlled way that was bound to have disappointed him.
‘I didn’t want to get his hopes up by saying too much about how I felt,’ Joyce had explained, almost in passing. ‘So I stuck mostly to what’s going on in Burnside – Brenda’s little spill on her motor bike, Alfie working for the Kelletts, the Italians coming back to Beckwith – that kind of thing. As I say, I didn’t want to lead him on.’
‘But you wrote back,’ Grace had pointed out. ‘He’ll be pleased about that.’ Joyce was Joyce: careful and considered. And the love letter from Edgar had been totally out of character so perhaps Joyce had been right to steer them towards calmer waters. Still, Grace had to admit that she’d hoped for more. Not wedding bells, exactly, but at least more than the exchange of village tittle-tattle.
‘Two pints of John Smith’s, please.’
A new order drew her out of her reverie. She nodded and smiled at two smart strangers at the bar – both in their forties, dressed in navy-blue suits, wearing trilby hats and collars and ties. One had a thin, grey moustache, while the other sported heavy-rimmed glasses. She glanced over their shoulders and saw a black Morris parked in a position that blocked the entrance to the smithy. At the same time she noticed the arrival in the yard of the Fosters’ Land Rover towing a spotless maroon horsebox. Her father came out in his leather apron, his bald head shining in the sun. He gesticulated his disapproval of the thoughtless idiot who had parked in the way.
