by Jenny Holmes
He’d given her short shrift. ‘That’s between me and Grace,’ he’d snapped and Edith had retreated with her tail between her legs. This was the general way of things for women of her and Hilda’s age: they’d had their own partings and sorrows at the start of the Great War but no one took this into account any more. The young ones thought only of banging the drum and being heroes, as if the world would change for the better this time.
The wireless carried other, less encouraging news. There was every likelihood that Sevastopol would soon fall and the Red Army would collapse in the Crimea. Now the opposition party was gunning for Churchill in the House of Commons, even though he’d flown all the way to America for talks with Roosevelt, and Eisenhower had arrived in London to become commander of their forces in Europe.
‘You wait,’ Hilda asserted as the bulletin ended and she turned off the wireless. She thought that Edith seemed even more pinched and on edge than usual, and that was saying something. ‘Mr Churchill will come through all right. He’ll turn things around before you know it then we’ll all be singing his praises again.’
‘Meanwhile, we have matters closer to home.’ Until now Edith hadn’t been directly involved in events surrounding the burglary. She’d let Hilda inform the police and deal with their visit to the hostel. She had, however, informed County Office and requested extra money to cover the shortfall. ‘We’re to receive five pounds to tide us over, which is more than generous under the circumstances.’
Hilda seemed satisfied. ‘That’ll pay the gas bill and the butcher, among other things.’
‘And what are the police proposing to do?’ Edith’s pen was poised, ready to jot down notes.
‘They’ll inquire if anyone in the neighbourhood heard or saw anything unusual. The trouble was, we were out at church when it happened, all except Doreen Wells.’
Edith looked up sharply and frowned. ‘Doreen wasn’t at church? Why not?’
Hilda shifted her weight backwards and gave an uneasy reply. ‘According to her she had a headache. She was in bed when it happened.’
This was another black mark against the new girl, one that Edith wouldn’t readily forget. ‘So she didn’t see or hear anything?’
‘Not a thing.’ There were rumours, of course. The word ‘headache’ was bandied around among the other girls with raised eyebrows and a roll of the eyes. Jean had mentioned to Hilda that Doreen had looked as fit as a fiddle when she’d seen her sitting on the doorstep smoking a fag before they left. But Doreen was sticking to her story and that was that.
Edith’s frown deepened. ‘It couldn’t be … You don’t suppose—’
Hilda cut her short before she could state the unthinkable. ‘That Doreen had anything to do with the burglary? No, definitely not. I’d vouch for it in a court of law if need be.’
‘I admire your loyalty, Hilda, but I’m not convinced.’ Of all the recruits at Fieldhead, Doreen was Edith’s main worry. ‘I’ve noticed her flouting the rules here more than once. And I’ve watched her when she’s out and about. She’s too loud and brassy for my liking. Did you notice, at Bill and Grace’s reception, how she jumped up and snatched the bouquet that Una was meant to catch?’
‘So that makes her a thief, does it?’ As a way of bringing their meeting to an end, Hilda began to pour the tea that had been stewing in the pot since before the news. ‘This business has upset the girls no end. Until the culprit is found, they feel that the finger of suspicion points at each and every one of them. And they realize how easy it’s been for an intruder to get in. Some of them have started to bolt their bedroom doors.’
‘We must take care that morale doesn’t drop.’ For Edith this was even more important than catching the thief. ‘What can we do to prevent it?’
Hilda passed her a cup of tea. ‘We go on the same as always,’ she insisted. ‘We keep the girls well fed and happy and we put new locks on all the doors.’
By the end of the week, word was all around Burnside that Bill Mostyn had signed up for the Prince of Wales’s Own Regiment and was waiting for a date to report for duty. Maurice went around with an unaccustomed spring in his step while Grace kept her head down and got on with her farm work.
‘It must be hard for her,’ the women said. ‘What newly-wed is happy to wave her husband off to war?’
‘About time too,’ Joe Kellett commented to Horace Turnbull as they propped up the bar at the Blacksmith’s Arms on the Friday evening.
‘Keep your voice down or Bill’s missis will hear you,’ Horace warned.
Grace’s ears burned as the old men grumbled and she went on wiping glasses. Luckily the pub was busy so she could switch her attention to serving Roland.
‘What if she does?’ Joe commented. ‘Bill Mostyn’s job is no different from Les White’s – they both work at keeping farm machinery in good nick – and they say Les’s call-up papers landed on his mat this past week. In fact, I reckon Bill has decided to jump before he’s pushed.’
‘That’s just like you, to think the worst of the lad.’ Horace prepared to go and sit with his father by the inglenook. ‘What about Alfie Craven? I don’t see you giving him a shove in the direction of the recruitment office.’
‘Dodgy ticker,’ Joe got in before Horace moved off. ‘Or so he says. Anyway, I wouldn’t care if the useless bugger did get called up – he’s no good to man nor beast and that’s God’s honest truth.’
‘Tho’ you’re tired and weary, still journey on.’ As she rode Sloper along the twisting lanes into Burnside, Brenda couldn’t get the old Harry Lauder song out of her head. ‘Keep right on round the bend.’ The wretched words and tune played over and over like a stuck record. They promised her all the love she’d been dreaming of, there at the end of the blessed road.
The way was definitely long; she’d give old Sir Harry that much. And not just literally either. For who would have thought, after the events of the previous Friday, that her heart would have taken so many twists and turns? She rounded a bend at speed and swerved to avoid a baby rabbit stranded in the middle of the road. Crikey O’Reilly, slow down! she told herself. The surface was slippery after a short, sharp shower and she’d had all on to keep the bike upright. Ahead, the clouds were inky blue and threatening.
Tho’ you’re tired and weary. It had been quite a week for Brenda, as she did her best to stay out of Les’s way. He’d telephoned the hostel three times and on each occasion she’d persuaded someone to lie for her: I’m sorry, Brenda’s out; she’s washing her hair; she’s working late. In the end, Joyce had demanded to know what she was up to – why was she avoiding Les? What had she suddenly got against him?
‘Nothing. I’m steering clear, that’s all,’ she’d replied.
But, like the words to the song, she couldn’t get Les out of her head. Or Hettie, for that matter. All through the week, she would pause from haymaking and lean on her pitchfork, only to imagine his face or to remember their conversation and kisses before they’d been so rudely interrupted. Or else she would cut off from the chatter around the dining table and relive the disastrous way it ended: the scent of roses drifting in through the French doors, the sound of Bing Crosby spinning his syrupy web of words, Hettie’s face as stormy as the clouds that now lay on the horizon.
But tonight Brenda was determined to forget. She’d dressed casually in trousers and a white blouse, tied a red and white scarf turban-style around her head then set off to have some fun.
‘We’ll see you down at the pub,’ Kathleen had called as she, Elsie and Joyce commandeered the hostel van, ready to drive into the village.
Friday night was invariably music night at the Blacksmith’s Arms – someone would pull out the piano and start a sing-song. The room would be alive with the clink of glasses and bottles, laughter and general good cheer. Ah yes, the piano. That’s when Brenda had really started to pay attention to Les: after she’d danced with him in the pub and he’d sat down at the piano to tinkle the ivories, as Donald had put it. There, amidst the wh
irl of skirts, shirts open at the neck and smiling faces, she’d been impressed by the way Les’s fingers flew over the keys, by his straight back and broad shoulders and the exposed, soft vulnerability of the nape of his neck. Damn! Brenda thought as she slowed down at the junction leading into Burnside and saw the avenue of beech trees ahead. I’m not cured of a serious case of Les White-itis after all.
She’d reached the pub and pulled into the yard before she spotted the back end of his green MG Midget parked by the smithy. Then she saw Doreen perched on the low bonnet, talking to Donald. That’s all right then, she told herself. She could safely go ahead and join the other girls as planned.
So it took her by surprise when Les was the first person she bumped into when she got inside. She’d hardly walked through the door when he rushed towards her and took her by the arm.
‘Brenda, come for a drive with me,’ he insisted, eagerly steering her outside and quickly getting rid of Donald and Doreen.
Donald scowled and Doreen protested, but Les snatched the car keys from him and gave him a look that said he would brook no argument.
‘Please,’ Les said to Brenda as soon as they were alone. He held the passenger door open. ‘Give me a chance to explain.’
‘There’s nothing to explain.’ She sank into the leather seat with a sigh. Les started the engine and the car pulled away.
‘All right, then; let me apologize.’
‘What for?’ He drove back the way she’d come but turned at the junction on to the road that would take them along Swinsty Edge.
‘I’m sorry about Hettie for a start. She’s been used to laying down the law ever since Mother died. I’m not sure she even knows she’s doing it.’
‘Oh, I think she does.’ Brenda was convinced that Dragon-sister was in control every inch of the way.
‘Anyway, she had no right.’
‘To insult me or to drop the bombshell about your call-up?’
‘Both.’ Les gripped the steering wheel and built up speed. In the distance the storm clouds rolled clear of the horizon, allowing a patch of blue to creep through. ‘I would have told you myself if she hadn’t come home early.’
‘I wish you had.’ After all, she’d been honest with him – more open than she’d been with any man since Mack the Knife – and all the while Les had harboured a secret that he knew must change everything.
‘I wanted to find out how you felt about me first. Is that so wrong?’ He spoke hesitantly and glanced at her. ‘You might not have given two hoots about me going away; I wasn’t sure.’
‘I care,’ she admitted. The wind stole her words and carried them over the heathery hillside. All was open space and speed.
‘That’s good to know, since I have to take the train up to Scotland this coming Sunday.’ He slowed down and waited for her reaction.
‘Sunday?’ she repeated.
He nodded. ‘The recruitment office has ordered me to report to a Petty Officer Warner at the James Watt Dock in Greenock, ready to begin training on Monday morning. I’ll be issued with my kit and allocated my billet, ready for action.’
‘This Sunday,’ she said again, careful not to give anything away.
‘That’s why I had to see you and talk to you. I might not get another chance.’
Don’t say that; it frightens me, it really does. Brenda took a sharp intake of breath and grasped the door handle as the car sped around a bend.
He saw her stricken look. ‘I don’t mean “ever”. I mean “another chance before I left”. But I’ll be back on leave and driving out to Fieldhead to visit you before you know it.’
And if you and I push ahead with this love affair, I’ll be waiting, pestering the postman for letters, hanging on every word you write. Love between a man and a woman isn’t freedom. It feels more like a prison that we make for ourselves. And yet … Oh, she was too mixed up for words!
‘Say something,’ Les pleaded. He pulled off the road into a gateway leading on to the moors.
She surprised herself by starting to cry, then scrambled out of the car and tried to open the gate. When it stayed shut, she climbed over it and began to stride up the hill.
He ran after her, calling her name.
‘Trust you, Les White!’ she cried without looking back. ‘Trust you to go and join the blinking Navy!’
‘I didn’t have a choice; you know that.’
She stopped to show him her wet cheeks. ‘Look what you’ve done.’
There was nothing to say, nothing to do except put his arms around her and hold her until the crying stopped. Then he spoke softly. ‘This is the real thing, isn’t it? What’s going on here is genuine. You’ll miss me as much as I’ll miss you.’
‘Of course I will. But I’ll write letters and tell you all the nonsense that goes on in the village: who’s going out with who, who says what behind whose back.’
‘You promise? Every day?’
She turned down the corners of her mouth and shook her head. ‘I’m a busy girl. How about every other day?’
‘Done.’ He made a valiant attempt to match Brenda’s light-hearted tone. ‘SWALK, don’t forget.’
‘I won’t.’ For now they exchanged real loving kisses on the moor top.
‘I want to carry on doing this for the rest of my life.’ Les lifted her off her feet and swung her round. ‘Our lives,’ he added.
There was such life in him – in his clear grey eyes and in the play of delight around his lips. How could she resist? So she kissed him again until they had to break away and breathe.
‘Will you marry me, Brenda Appleby?’
The words tumbled out and she saw him prepare to go down on one knee. She stopped him by seizing his hands and grasping them tight.
He laid his heart at her feet instead. ‘Will you, Bren? Will you wait for me and write to me and stay true?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered with sudden, out-of-the-blue certainty. ‘I swear, hand on heart, that I will.’
Poppy resisted the lure of a Friday night at the Blacksmith’s Arms and kept a promise to deliver Joe Kellett’s note to Brigg Farm.
‘It’ll save me the cost of a stamp if you take it.’ The old miser had thrust a sealed envelope into her hand as she clocked off from a day’s hard labour.
He’d picked on her as the Land Girl most likely to agree.
So while Elsie and Kathleen had cycled back to Fieldhead to spruce themselves up, Poppy had pocketed the letter and taken a different route, thinking her own thoughts as she rode along and sheltering under an oak tree during a short, sharp shower.
I hope I don’t run into Neville. She watched the rain pelt down on to the tarmac and tried to dodge the overhead drips. If I do, I’ll let him know that he can’t stand me up and still hope for us to be friends. He definitely won’t get a second chance with me. Her determination hardened as she watched the rain. Anyhow, if all goes according to plan, I’ll take the bus into town tomorrow afternoon, be home by teatime and then have the whole of Sunday with Mum back on Albion Lane. Goodbye, Burnside; goodbye, Neville blinking Thomson, and good riddance!
A couple of large drops landed on her bare head then trickled down her neck. But at least the rain was easing off and she soon got back on her bike and rode the final half-mile to the Thomsons’ place. As she turned off the road on to the lane leading to the farmhouse, she tapped her pocket to check that the letter was still there, making up her mind to deliver it and make as quick a getaway as possible.
And it seemed she was in luck. The farmyard was deserted and the only movement came from Major, who stuck his head out of the stable door at her approach. A breeze drove stray wisps of straw across the stone flags and Poppy heard the clunk of the horse’s heavy hooves against the door and the muffled snorting of pigs from the sty behind the stable. Quickly she leaned her bike against the hayloft steps then ran up a short path to the farmhouse door. Within seconds, Joe’s note was slipped through the letter box and she was on her way back to collect her bike.
‘Ah, if it isn’t Little Miss Tell Tale!’ Alfie Craven stood at the top of the stone steps, hands on hips, staring down at her. He was in dark blue suit trousers, held up by braces. His white shirtsleeves were rolled back and there was a partly healed cut on his cheek.
As he came down the steps two at a time, Poppy darted for her bike. But Alfie was one step ahead of her. As she reached for the handlebars, he grabbed them and stood astride the front wheel, blocking her way. Major looked on from his doorway, his great head looming dangerously close to Poppy’s shoulder, his warm breath on her neck.
‘Why did you have to go and spill the beans about us to Grace?’
She tried to wrench the bike away. ‘I didn’t! Let go! Leave me alone!’
‘Yes, you did.’ He thrust his face towards her and kept firm hold of the handlebars. ‘You gave her the wrong end of the stick about our little tête-à-tête in the woods.’
Poppy pulled in vain – his grip was strong, the muscles in his arms taut. ‘I only told her the truth!’ she cried.
‘Hmm.’ Alfie let go with one hand to demonstrate that he was still more powerful than her. ‘The truth according to who? There wasn’t anyone there to back you up. It’s just your word against mine.’
There was no point arguing and Poppy felt desperate to get away. She looked wildly around the yard, judging that if she were to abandon her bike, she might be able to sprint back to the house and knock on the door for help. But what if it was as she thought and no one was in? Wouldn’t it be better to make a run for it, straight down the lane and out on to the road?
‘The same as today.’ His slow, low threat crept over her like a dense fog. ‘We’re alone again, just you and me.’
No, she wasn’t having this! He wasn’t going to touch her or breathe over her. ‘Keep your hands to yourself!’ She raised her voice and sprang away. She was quicker than him at least, easily able to outrun him, so she sprinted across the yard, up the path towards the house.
