Wedding Bells for Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘Then how did you get those two shiners?’ Neville’s left eye was swollen almost shut, the right one not much better. And the skin on his cheek and forehead was scraped red raw. He moved stiffly, as if every joint hurt.

  ‘Ran into a lamp post, didn’t I?’

  ‘Pull the other one.’ She made as if to put a kindly hand on his arm but he winced and drew back.

  ‘Bang into it, head first,’ he insisted as he skirted around her. ‘Wasn’t looking where I was going.’

  Grace refrained from asking more questions and followed him into the smithy.

  ‘Hello, Mr Kershaw. Dad says have you got time to fettle a new shoe for Major – front left. He lost it in the mud after it rained.’

  Cliff glanced at the lad’s black eyes then offered a quick solution. ‘Have you tried raw steak on them?’

  ‘Where would I get that when it’s at home?’

  Grace took his point. These days, even in a farming community, every ounce of beef that the ration books allowed went straight into meat pies and stews, with no scraps left over. That was why the unexpected extras from Dale End had come as such a boon to every cook and housewife in the valley.

  ‘Go and see what’s in the larder,’ Cliff instructed Grace, who went off into the house and returned with what was left of the week’s ration of stewing steak. ‘Slap a couple of pieces of that on your eyes – it’ll take the swelling down.’

  So Neville sat in a corner nursing his injuries while Grace waited for her father to pull the scythe out of the furnace, cool it in a bucket of cold water then sharpen it at the grindstone. Afterwards she fetched Major in for a spot of re-shoeing.

  ‘Feeling any better?’ she asked Neville before she set off for Home Farm.

  He looked sorry for himself but didn’t answer.

  ‘Stop clucking over him; he’ll be right as rain in a day or two.’ Cliff sent her on her way.

  ‘Now, lad, what did you tell your dad – was it the wall or a lamp post?’ he asked Neville with a conspiratorial wink. ‘Nay, I’ll keep my nose out. As long as this horse of yours stands still and does as it’s told, we’ll have you out of here in two jiffies.’

  Even up to her calves in mud, standing in a wet ditch, Una couldn’t have looked lovelier. This was Angelo’s opinion as he and Lorenzo worked alongside her for the second day running, slashing at brambles with his knife then heaving them out of the ditch to be carted away by Brenda. He was amazed by her energy and cheerful determination, wondering how a girl so small and slight could wield a spade so willingly. But here she was beside him, with her shirtsleeves rolled up and a leather belt fastened tight around her waist to hold up her breeches, digging for all she was worth.

  ‘Stop looking at me.’ She blushed and went on digging. ‘You’re putting me off.’

  ‘I like to look.’ He tried to slide his arm around her waist but she dodged sideways.

  ‘Joe will catch us if we’re not careful.’

  The sour-faced farmer stood at the gate with eyes peeled.

  ‘Una’s right,’ Brenda chipped in. ‘A girl can’t even stop to take off her pullover without the old so-and-so giving her a dirty look. What’s the betting he won’t let us stop to eat our sandwiches until we’ve dug the entire length of this field?’

  Lorenzo caught the gist of her muttered comment and took it upon himself to organize the dinner break by striding up the hill to where the old man stood. He spoke and gesticulated for a while before whistling through his fingers and beckoning for Angelo, Una and Brenda to join them. The sound of his whistle brought three other prisoners up from a neighbouring field, and by the time Grace arrived with Joe’s mended scythe their slave driver had retreated inside the house and they had settled down in a corner of the farmyard with a kettle boiling on a metal tripod over a fire of twigs and a coffee pot containing rich-smelling grounds at the ready.

  There was a contented silence as they ate their sandwiches, broken only by Brenda’s compliment about the coffee then the distant drone of three aeroplanes, which they more or less ignored until they were directly overhead.

  Una was the first to glance up and spot the unmistakable swastika markings on the wings. ‘Blimey, they’re Jerries!’ she cried in sudden panic. ‘Get down, everyone!’

  ‘Junkers,’ Grace confirmed as the planes swooped low. She led the scramble for cover.

  The small group split in different directions – Grace and Brenda towards the relative safety of the house, Lorenzo into the nearest ditch, leaving Angelo and Una to kick dirt over the fire then run towards the empty milking parlour.

  They were just in time. From inside the parlour they heard the rapid rat-a-tat of machine-gun fire and bullets ricocheting from the corrugated iron roof over their heads. Angelo wrapped a protective arm around Una’s shoulder to shield her from the filth and debris that dropped from the rafters.

  ‘Why are they flying over at this time of day?’ Una crouched low and waited for the firing to stop. ‘They usually wait until night-time.’

  He held her tight and gritted his teeth at this grim reminder of war. Often he could forget that Una and he were on opposite sides but this brought it home with a vengeance.

  ‘I’ll bet they’ve been split up from the rest of their squadron and they’re taking aim at anything they come across.’ Home Farm stood on an exposed ridge, making it an easy target, especially with the smoke from the fire to draw the pilots’ attention.

  Another rattle of bullets strafed the roof and more rubbish showered down. Angelo put his hand to his mouth and coughed long and hard. By the time he’d stopped, the planes had passed over, leaving the farm in silence.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Una whispered. The wheezy cough came from deep in his chest.

  He cleared his throat and nodded but was then caught up in another spasm. He spat on to the floor as he made his way to the door. ‘It is safe,’ he reported. ‘Come, Una; they are gone.’

  Sure enough, she found that Lorenzo had already climbed out of the ditch while Brenda and Grace stood in the porch with Joe and Emily. They congregated in the farmyard, cursing the enemy or keeping silent according to which side they were on, but all thanking their lucky stars that no bombs had been dropped.

  ‘That’s a bad cough you’ve got,’ Brenda commented to Angelo as Joe ordered them back to work. ‘Are you still feeling poorly?’

  He shook his head but had to pause and lean on the gate as they entered the field.

  ‘Are you sure? Una mentioned that you’d been to the doctor. You do look a bit peaky to me.’

  ‘She means thin and pale,’ Una explained as Brenda went back to digging. Small alarm bells sounded in her head – perhaps they’d been ringing for a while but now she found she couldn’t ignore them. ‘I’ve been thinking the same thing myself.’

  ‘No.’ He denied it point-blank. ‘It is bad air inside cow house.’

  But he was quiet for the rest of the day and didn’t attempt to dig, only to slash through the thorns and nettles then bundle them up and carry them to a new bonfire that had been started at the bottom of the field. Una noticed that Lorenzo kept a careful eye on him throughout the afternoon. When it was time to pack up at the end of the day, Lorenzo seemed to remonstrate and try to usher Angelo straight into the Land Rover without saying goodbye. But Angelo argued back and came to separate Una from Brenda and Grace. He pulled her into the shade of a hawthorn hedge and held her tight. ‘Arrivederci, my Una. Soon I will see you?’

  ‘Of course you will. Do you know where you’ll be working tomorrow?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It’s my half day. Let’s try to meet up later in the afternoon. I can come to the camp, like last time.’

  ‘Good. I wait in trees.’

  ‘I’ll find you there.’ A rising fear pecked at her insides and her smile of parting was less wholehearted than usual. Still she went along with acting as if all was well as she waved him off.

  ‘He is, you know – looking a bit peaky.�
�� Brenda wouldn’t let it drop, despite a warning glance from Grace.

  Una frowned then nodded. She kicked with the toe of her wellington boot at some chickweed growing up through the flagstones. Everything here was so neglected, it got you down. And Emily Kellett wasn’t much more than a skeleton, a silent presence in the doorway as Joe stamped around bullying people. And by the way, where was Alfie? Typical of him to make himself scarce instead of lending a hand with the heavy work that had gone on today.

  ‘Come on, cheer up.’ Brenda was the first to fetch her bike. ‘Angelo has probably got a bad cold, that’s all. He’ll be better in a day or two.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Una mounted her bike and started to pedal.

  Grace soon followed suit and the three women rode off along the lane.

  ‘Look at Brenda – raring to go,’ she said to Una to lighten the mood. ‘My guess is that she’s arranged to meet Les tonight.’

  With the prospect of only a half day’s work ahead of them, many of the Land Girls at Fieldhead set their minds on enjoying a good night out. It meant that there was a long queue for the bathroom on the landing that Poppy shared with eleven others and ablutions were restricted to a quick all-over sponge-down in cold water followed by a sprinkling with talc and a rapid brushing of teeth. Make-up was applied back in the bedroom. Hair was brushed and crimped, dresses chosen in a flurry of non-stop activity.

  ‘How do I look?’ Poppy twirled in a flared, peach-coloured cotton skirt and short-sleeved white blouse.

  Doreen and Joyce scrutinized the effect.

  ‘Pretty as a picture.’ Sitting cross-legged on her bed in her work clothes, Joyce gave her seal of approval.

  ‘That skirt needs a belt.’ Doreen fished one out of her drawer and watched Poppy put it on. ‘Good Lord, it’s fastened on the tightest hole. Your waist must be tiny!’ She spoke with a hint of pique then decided what she might lack around the waist in comparison with Poppy she made up for in the bust department. ‘Which shoes will you wear?’

  ‘These.’ Poppy held up some well-worn white sandals. ‘They’re all I’ve got.’

  ‘They’ll have to do, I suppose.’ Doreen herself was done up to the nines in her green satin sheath dress with boned bodice and off-the-shoulder straps. She’d saved up to buy it two summers ago, soon after she’d got her job in the department store and long before clothes rationing had come in.

  Joyce glanced up again from her magazine. ‘You must be going somewhere special – I see you’re wearing your nylons.’

  ‘Yes, and a new suspender belt.’ She showed them a glimpse of her stocking tops, held in place by pristine elastic suspenders. ‘I’ve got a lacy brassiere too.’ She winked as she gave them a quick view of this as well.

  Guessing at a black market source for Doreen’s finery, Joyce hid her disapproval. ‘Alfie’s in for a treat.’

  ‘Who mentioned anything about Alfie?’ Doreen retorted.

  ‘No one. I only thought …’

  ‘Yes, they’re presents from him. He likes to give me nice things but it doesn’t mean he owns me.’

  ‘Does he know that?’ Joyce had begun to grow weary of the way Doreen constantly claimed centre stage. She wasn’t jealous – it was more that Doreen never tired of putting herself first on every occasion. So she uncrossed her legs and drifted out of the room.

  ‘Ooh-er!’ Doreen hogged the dressing-table mirror while Poppy put her hair into a ponytail as best she could in a small hand mirror propped against the wall, excited at the prospect of Neville arriving in a taxi no less, ready to take them into town.

  Soon, though, Joyce reappeared with a message for Poppy, passed on by Mrs Craven who had intercepted her in the main hallway. ‘I’m sorry, Pops, Neville has telephoned to say he can’t come after all.’

  Poppy’s face fell a mile while Doreen breezed out of the room. ‘That’s taken the wind out of her sails,’ she remarked as she departed.

  ‘Did he say why not?’ Poppy asked with a heavy heart. Disappointment quickly turned to irritation – didn’t Neville realize she’d been doing him a big favour by agreeing to go out with him? Who the heck did he think he was?

  Joyce shook her head. ‘Just that he can’t make it and he’s very sorry. Never mind, we two can have a cosy night in instead. We’ll go downstairs to the kitchen and make cocoa, have a nice chat.’

  Just then Brenda popped her head around the door. She was dressed in petticoat and skirt. ‘Can anyone lend me a safety pin?’

  Joyce took a sewing kit out of her bedside-table drawer. ‘How big?’

  ‘The smallest you have, please. It’s for this petticoat strap – it’s come adrift.’ She took the pin and fixed the strap in place. ‘What the eye doesn’t see …’ she said with a grin before dashing off.

  ‘Let’s hope Les appreciates the effort Brenda makes for him,’ Joyce said with a wry laugh. ‘She’s probably held together with half a dozen of those things. And she’s bound to be an hour late at least. She’ll turn up on Sloper, windswept as can be and, knowing him, he’ll still think she’s a fairy-tale princess.’

  Poppy sighed and sat heavily on her bed. Why couldn’t she be lucky enough to meet someone like Les who adored her and would never let her down?

  Joyce saw that she was almost in tears. ‘Would you rather go out to the pub?’ she asked gently. ‘I can throw on some decent clothes then we’ll cycle into Burnside if you like.’

  After some cajoling, Poppy agreed. Forget about Neville, she told herself, while Joyce quickly slipped into a cream linen dress and wrapped a gold and blue silk scarf around her neck. He’s too young for me anyway.

  By the time they set off on their bikes, Poppy was feeling better. It was a fine evening and they soon caught up with other girls heading in the same direction, all chatting and laughing as they cycled along the lanes. They made fun of some of the farmers they had to work for: so-and-so is a right skinflint and have you seen the way so-and-so’s wife carries on behind his back, and on like this until they came to the village and sighted three Canadian Air Force men parking their Land Rover on the street before heading towards the pub.

  ‘See – things are already looking up,’ Joyce whispered to a more cheerful Poppy, pleased to see that a cool breeze, the sun and exercise had worked wonders as ever.

  ‘We can stay in tonight if you’d rather.’ Les greeted Brenda with a kiss on the cheek. Despite his open-necked shirt, worn with slacks and a yellow cravat, he seemed on edge. ‘The others have gone out so we’ve got the whole place to ourselves.’

  As Joyce had predicted, Brenda had arrived late at Dale End and Les had stood fretting at the front sitting-room window. What if she’d changed her mind and gone out with the girls instead? Or suppose she’d had an accident on one of the narrow lanes? As soon as he’d heard the sound of her motor bike approaching the final bend, he’d rushed straight to the front door.

  ‘Stay in and do what?’ she asked, taking off the man’s flat cap she’d put on to protect her hair. She’d worn it at a jaunty angle, knowing that it and her heavy leather jacket were at odds with her pleated apple-green dress beneath. She shoved the cap into her pocket and looked past Les across the empty hallway. Several doors stood ajar but there was silence except for the ticking of a grandfather clock against the wall to her left.

  ‘We could play some records,’ he suggested.

  ‘Your favourite Glenn Miller?’

  ‘Yes, or whatever you want. Come in and I’ll show you what we’ve got.’

  She followed him into the faded sitting room overlooking the garden. For the first time she noticed a gramophone in a polished wooden cabinet in one corner of the room and in a side compartment a neat stack of records in their paper sleeves. Throwing her jacket over the back of the nearest sofa, she knelt down to make her choice.

  ‘Drink?’ Les opened the door to a corner cupboard to reveal a wide choice of whisky, port, gin and brandy.

  ‘I’ll have gin with a splash of tonic for a change.’ She pu
lled out ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ by the Andrews Sisters and handed it to him.

  ‘Let’s listen to this; I hear it’s a hit with the Yanks.’

  He abandoned the drinks cupboard to place the record on the turntable then gently lower the needle. After a crackle of static, the noise of bugles burst forth, quickly followed by foot-tapping saxophones that established a swing rhythm. Then three female voices harmonized in praise of the Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B.

  ‘Well, Bren, what do you think?’ He watched a slow smile spread over her face.

  She nodded. ‘I like it. It’s livelier than Glenn Miller. Anybody could dance to this, even with two left feet.’

  While he went back to the drinks, she took in more details of the room. True, the sofas were shabby and the panelling needed a lick of paint, but the brand-new gramophone must have cost a pretty penny and the rug covering the oak floorboards was the genuine, hand-made Persian article. Looking out of the French doors across a large garden laid out in carefully planned tiers, with pergolas and a circular fish pond complete with fountain as a centrepiece, she reckoned that the flower beds would have kept at least two men busy before the war had siphoned them off into one or other of the armed forces.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ Les said as he handed her the drink and gazed directly into her eyes.

  ‘I said I would, didn’t I?’ To deflect his attention, she turned to the question of horticulture. ‘Who keeps your garden in such good nick?’

  ‘These days it’s mostly Hettie. I mow the lawns and dig the vegetable patch when she asks me to.’

  ‘Back home in Northgate we had a pocket-handkerchief garden – no grass, just flagstones and a little strip of marigolds and petunias.’ She felt no shame in highlighting how different their upbringings had been. ‘It was row after row of terraced houses that I saw from my back window, rising up the hill behind us, mill chimneys belching out smoke, a railway track running right past our door. I loved to hear the chug-chug of the trains sending me to sleep every night.’

  He raised his forefinger to her lips and pressed them softly then took her glass from her hand.