‘It’s good you found each other and had happy years together.’
‘What a lovely thing to say, I’d never thought of it like that before. I am fortunate in that we were so very happy if only for a short time. Some people never find the right person, do they?’
Frieda was so glad her aunt had found the right one. She hoped someday the same would happen to her. Mama had told her there was someone for everyone out there.
‘Has Frieda got siblings?’ The curate’s voice again.
Frieda’s ears pricked.
‘A brother. He jumped ship just before it left Holland. I try to keep her mind off the past but I wonder if I’m being fair. Maybe we should talk about it more. But like me, she bottles things up.’ A big sigh. ‘Ever since I heard the foreign secretary condemn what’s happening to Jews in the camps, I’ve feared for her family’s safety.’
‘God help them. I shall pray for them all.’
She had survived. Guilt and self-loathing washed over Frieda.
Frieda stared unseeing at the ceiling. Never had she faced the fear of what might have happened to her family before. All through these past four years when she hadn’t had any communication from them – no replies to all the letters she’d sent – she made up explanations. The apartment had been bombed and the family had moved and Mama didn’t know where to write to her. They didn’t have the money to travel to Britain and were in hiding. Even if they were in a camp some of what was being said might only be rumours. People survived in… Gefängnis… she searched her mind for the correct word in English… jail, why not in camps?
That moment a strange thing happened. The smell of Papa’s bread flooded the bedroom – a long-forgotten aroma but one that was as real as the air Frieda breathed. Transported back to the family’s oval dining table at home, she imagined Mama, Papa, Grandma and Kurt all sitting around eating, chatting, happy to be in each other’s company.
A rush of adrenalin made her dizzy. Was this an omen?
Frieda slid from the bed and looked at herself in the standard mirror. She thought about how everything in her life was out of control and had been since the day she’d left Mama in Berlin. She turned sideways and gazed at her tummy, which made her look as if she was having a baby. The tops of her legs, so disgustingly fat, rubbed together when she walked.
She could do something about this, Frieda told the reflection in the mirror. She banished the distressing thoughts she couldn’t cope with back to the recesses of her mind. Aunty Doris insisted she was exaggerating but Frieda could see for herself the evidence in the mirror. This was something she could take control of.
From now on Frieda would stop eating until she was willowy thin.
7
South Shields. April 1943
Sandra
That first night at the Goodwins’, sitting in the shelter as bombs rained down on the town, Sandra had made up her mind to buck up and follow her dream to change her life. The following night she’d gone to the pictures to watch Land Girls at work on the screen. Sandra was elated as she watched girls like her laughing in the sunshine as they worked together in the fields, while boisterous, uplifting music played in the background.
The next day she’d sought out the Women’s Land Army Headquarters and enrolled.
She’d passed the medical, when the doctor had asked if she could do manual work. Thinking of all the coals she’d shovelled from the coalhouse and then hauling heavy bucketfuls up and down the Kirtons’ stairs, she vigorously nodded and agreed that she could.
She was then requested to attend an interview where a panel of mature-looking ladies fired questions at her: present occupation, experience of country life, if she had a bicycle, her figure size. Afterwards, Sandra, certain she hadn’t impressed, was convinced she’d failed the interview.
When the form had arrived at the Goodwins’ house asking her for two references, Sandra, initially ecstatic at passing the interview, had been at a loss at first to think who to ask. But of course, one could be Olive. For the other, she asked a respected WVS lady at the clothes depot where she’d worked, who was only too pleased to give Sandra a reference.
Then one morning, a week later, an official-looking letter plopped through the Goodwins’ letterbox. She spent the morning on tenterhooks in her room, frustrated beyond measure that she couldn’t read the writing on the envelope while waiting for Olive to arrive home from work.
As soon as she heard Olive’s key in the lock, Sandra hurried to the top of the stairs. She waved the letter in the air. ‘I can’t wait to hear if this is from the War Agricultural Committee and if I’ve got the job.’
‘All right, lass.’ Olive held the bannister rail and lumbered up to the top stair. ‘Wait till I get me breath back and we’ll see.’
Before she took her outdoor coat off, Olive sank down in a dining chair in the kitchen and put on her spectacles. She tore open the envelope Sandra handed her and scanned the sheet of paper. Beaming, she looked up. ‘It is. It’s from the War Ag Committee. The top of the letter reads in bold letters, Remember your ration book and Identity Card. Beneath is your Women’s Land Army number.’
A burst of excitement exploded in Sandra as Olive continued.
It has been arranged for you to start work in the district of Leadburn arriving on Sunday, 11th of April for The War Agricultural Executive Committee. Living accommodation will be provided at Leadburn Hostel. Your nearest bus stop and travelling instructions are overleaf. Your starting wage will be seventeen shillings per fifty hours (overtime extra) with board and lodging. Ten pence deducted for Health and Pensions, one and a halfpenny for Unemployment Insurance contributions. Uniform will be sent to your home address.
On receipt of this notification write without delay to The Warden W.L.A. Miss E. Roberts, Leadburn Hostel, Northumberland.
Olive looked up and handed over the letter. ‘A space has been left for your address on the enclosed card to return. Congratulations, Sandra!’
Sandra’s heart soared with joy. She’d done it. Then negativity set in. What if she fouled up? She didn’t have a clue about either the countryside or animals. What if she didn’t make friends with the other lasses? At the orphanage everyone kept to themselves except for her good friend Dorothy Makepeace and her younger sister, Esther. The day Sandra left the orphanage she’d promised to write to them. She’d managed once with Molly’s help. But Molly didn’t have the time to help correspond with both Alf and the orphan sisters and so, regrettably, Sandra hadn’t been in touch again. But she often thought about the sisters and hoped that life was treating them well. Apart from Molly and Olive she’d never had cause to make friends since then.
That night, Sandra shared her fears over a cup of Horlicks with Olive. They sat in flannelette nightgowns in front of the fire’s dying embers.
‘You’re beaten before you start.’ Olive shook her head sorrowfully. ‘That’s what life’s done to yi’. The thing you don’t realise is that you’re strong-willed, a fighter, and that’s what will see you through. Many a one would have settled for goin’ back into service. Not you, you want to improve yourself. Good on yi’, lass.’
With a lump in her throat, Sandra told Olive, ‘I’m going to miss you so much. I consider you as close as family.’
A week later, as the bus rattled along, Sandra gazed at the scene outside the window. Sheep grazed in the field, farmhouses nestled in the distant hillside, and her thoughts turned to her hometown that held a special place in her heart. After all, that was where her happy memories of her parents and Alf were.
Mam had had dreams for her children. At night, when she tucked her children in bed, their legs wrapped around each other for warmth, Mam sang lullabies and songs, and always ended with the favourite, ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’. Then Mam would tell them, ‘When you’re grown you can do anything you want if you set your mind to it.’ Alf’s usual reply was, ‘I want to be a train driver.’
Mam would’ve been so proud of her son, at what he’d achie
ved, Sandra thought. Her heartstrings pulled in sorrow at the thought that Mam hadn’t lived to see Alf grow up.
As the countryside flashed by, Sandra made a pledge to the Almighty, I promise I’ll visit church every Sunday if you keep Alf safe.
The one time Sandra had gone along to the church the Kirtons attended every Sunday, she had been put off by the vicar ranting from the pulpit about sin. For a week after, she’d been riddled with guilt that she couldn’t shake off. So, Sandra felt reserved about going back to church regularly; she couldn’t abide a whole service but she would at least stop by once in a while to say a prayer for Alf’s sake. She only hoped the village would have a church so she could keep her promise and pray for Alf’s safekeeping.
The enormity of what she was doing made her heart palpitate. This was madness. What good would she be on a farm, when she didn’t know the first thing about animals? As anxiety rose, blind panic followed and the urge to ring the bell and leap from the bus overcame her. She took deep calming breaths and thought of Alf, what he’d done with his life. He must have experienced the same anxieties.
Alf’s letters were to be forwarded by Olive to Sandra’s new address. If she couldn’t find anyone to read them, then Sandra would keep the letters safe until she next visited South Shields. Goodness only knew how long that would be.
Olive had seen her onto the train to Newcastle, where another train ride followed to Hexham, a pretty market town with narrow streets and attractive stone buildings. At Hexham bus station she had asked a bus driver if his bus went to Leadburn village. He nodded and Sandra boarded and sat on the first vacant seat by the window. The bus trundled along twisty roads and Sandra took in the vast landscape of trees, fields and rolling hills that stretched to the horizon.
An elderly woman sitting next to her turned towards her. ‘I see you’re a Land Girl.’ She spoke with a cultured voice and was dressed in a two-piece tweed costume and green felt hat.
Sandra, after being in the employment of Mrs Kirton, was suspicious of folk who spoke with posh voices; and the lady was stating the obvious, as Sandra was in uniform: gabardine breeches that finished at the knee, thick long stockings, greatcoat, cream shirt, brown jersey and brimmed hat.
Sandra nodded. ‘Yes, I’m… new.’
‘You should be proud. You’ll be doing the nation a great service by providing food. Where are you from, dear?’
Sandra warmed to the lady. ‘South Shields.’
‘Such a way… I know some Land Girls live locally while others are billeted.’
‘I’m at Leadburn Hostel.’
‘I know it well. I live in the village.’
They lapsed into silence while Sandra gazed out to the now misty countryside where she could just about make out stone-built walls meandering up the hillside.
‘I hope you qualify for free transport,’ the woman continued.
‘Not that I’ve heard of.’
‘Shameful. Though I have heard the WLA is the Cinderella of the services.’
The bus began to slow and the woman collected her black umbrella as she readied to go.
‘Who’s for Leadburn?’ the conductress shouted.
‘Our stop, dear.’
Sandra peered out of the window, where nothing was to be seen but more fields and a bus shelter with a wooden seat.
The lady stood up and told Sandra, ‘I’ve been a traitor to Leadburn church this morning, even though I wanted to meet the new curate. I’ve just been to the abbey with a dear friend who lives in Hexham. A historical treat, my dear, you must go.’ She gave a friendly smile and then, holding onto seat backs, made her way down the aisle.
So, there was a church, Sandra thought, delighted. Her superstitious mind had worried that if she didn’t keep her word and anything happened to Alf – God forbid – his misfortune would be all her fault. Sandra made the decision to visit the church that very day to be on the safe side.
Carrying her small brown suitcase and wellington boots in a sack, she smiled at the conductress then alighted from the bus.
A girl stepped off behind her. ‘Hiya… I had hoped to sit beside you but the old dear beat me to it.’
‘Sorry I didn’t notice you.’
‘I’m Evelyn… I’m new.’
‘So am I. Sandra Hudson.’ Sandra, feeling inadequate, blushed.
Two girls wearing the WLA uniforms cycled by as rain started pattering on the ground. Disorientated, Sandra went in the direction of the two cyclists as they rounded a corner and disappeared up an earthen path, Evelyn following. Sandra checked her wristwatch. One o’clock. It was over three and a half hours since she’d left the security of Olive’s home and Sandra felt a million miles away from her friend.
‘Where did you train?’ Evelyn asked. ‘I was sent to Newton Rigg farm school in Cumbria. I had a jolly time.’
‘I haven’t done any training,’ Sandra admitted, suddenly alarmed by the fact.
‘Strange.’ Evelyn looked puzzled.
Sandra noticed the fashionable dent in Evelyn’s uniform hat and felt silly as hers stuck up in a great mound.
‘Should I have?’ she asked.
Before Evelyn could answer, a woman wearing an overcoat around her shoulders appeared from the earthen pathway ahead and hurried towards them.
Thin, with grey hair, she looked flustered. ‘Welcome to Leadburn. I’m the hostel’s resident warden, Miss Roberts.’ She turned and headed back up the path, telling them as they walked, ‘Mrs Sanderson, my assistant, who lives in the village, usually does the welcoming honours but she’s arranging help for Cook as the girl whose job it is hasn’t arrived back after a weekend spent at home.’
As the lady bustled ahead of them, Evelyn pulled a long face and whispered, ‘I hope that isn’t a bad omen for what the place is like.’
‘Jessie, the forewoman, who has been with us for a long while,’ Miss Roberts prattled as she led the way, ‘allocates Land Girls to farms each morning and gives out wages. Then, of course, there’s Mrs Sanderson’s husband, who helps with the maintenance of the hostel and gardens.’
They followed her around a corner where a large piece of land was surrounded by tall trees. To the right was a long, low red brick building with a row of white-painted windows at intervals along the walls. In front of the building was an allotment garden with a fenced-off area where scrawny hens scratted in the soil. Miss Roberts approached the building’s porch and pushed open the door.
‘Follow the rules and you’ll get on fine,’ she called as she stepped inside.
The door closed behind her.
Left outside in the rain, Evelyn muttered, ‘Nice to meet you, too.’ She raised her eyebrows at Sandra. ‘I hope the others aren’t as impolite.’
Taken aback, Sandra thought Miss Roberts had been quite civil, seeing as she’d ventured out in the rain to greet the new arrivals. But maybe being in service had left Sandra with a different point of view.
She looked sideways at Evelyn. Willowy tall, with crinkly eyes when she smiled, Evelyn had an air of assurance that Sandra could only envy. The lass didn’t seem fazed at the prospect of meeting new folk or worried about what to expect next. Maybe, one day, Sandra could aspire to such self-assurance.
The rain was easing now. She looked around her. Apart from the hens, not a thing moved nor was a sound to be heard. Sandra was in a different world to the one she was used to, where traffic blared and streets of terraced houses, with tall chimneys belching grimy smoke, marched into the distance. Unnerved, Sandra followed Evelyn as she opened the door and entered the building.
Inside, a corridor ran along the back of the building while a door to the left had a notice pinned on it. A hubbub of voices and music came from inside.
Evelyn read the notice: ‘Remove muddy boots.’ She obligingly added, ‘I assume we’re supposed to go in here.’
As Evelyn opened the door, the noise got louder. The large common room had a peaked ceiling with wooden beams, on which a couple of small suitcases were pre
cariously poised. A row of tables and chairs lined one side of the room, a piano nearby, while comfortable but shabby-looking couches and a table tennis table took up the space on the other. Halfway down the room a group of girls huddled together on chairs in front of a tiled fireplace where a coal stove burned merrily.
Evelyn dumped her case and sack on the floor and headed towards the fireplace. Making her way through the group, she sat on a vacant chair. ‘Blimey, this is more like it,’ she told the lass next to her. ‘It’s so very damp and cold outside.’ She smiled around at the lasses. ‘I’m Evelyn Chalmers, by the way.’
Sandra cringed. She worried if the others would be offended by Evelyn’s forward ways.
To her amazement, the girl next to Evelyn smiled back. ‘I’m Ruby, where are you from?’
‘Gosforth. I’m here to escape the parents, who insist they plan my future. Mummy wanted me to stay and help with the WVS which she started in the area. No thank you! I want some adventure.’
The group of lasses laughed. Sandra, who wished she wasn’t so awkward in company, hung back as one by one they introduced themselves.
After the introductions, Evelyn said, ‘I’m surprised – I thought there’d be more of you here.’
‘There are,’ Ruby said. ‘There are twenty-seven of us now counting you two. Some have gone home for the weekend and aren’t back yet. We’ – she looked around the small group – ‘unfortunately didn’t get the weekend off and had to work.’
Evelyn removed her heavy greatcoat. ‘Is there anything to eat? I’m starved. I’ve had nothing since breakfast.’
‘Dinner was at twelve, but it was only sandwiches. There’s some left for latecomers on the hatch over there,’ a lass with round-rimmed metal spectacles told her, pointing to the far end of the room. ‘It’s Sunday, so tonight’s meal is cold mutton as it gets cooked the day before. There’ll be taties—’
The Outcast Girls: A completely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 historical novel Page 7
