‘I hope it’s not wild nettles again,’ another piped up, then groaned.
‘The spring cabbage looked ready in the garden.’ The lass with the spectacles looked eager.
Ruby laughed, then eyed Sandra. ‘All anyone thinks about – apart from lads, that is – is food.’
Sandra, standing like a mute dummy in the background, worried the others thought her aloof.
Evelyn appeared to notice her discomfiture. ‘This’ – she nodded towards Sandra – ‘is Sandra Hudson. We travelled on the bus from Hexham together.’
All eyes turned on Sandra and she forced a smile. ‘I’m pleased to—’
The kitchen door opened at the back of the room beside the hatch and a plump, middle-aged woman appeared. She had a no-nonsense air, and not a strand of her black hair, streaked with grey, was out of place. A wraparound pinafore covered her clothes.
She looked around the group of girls. ‘Miss Roberts says the new arrivals are here.’ Her eyes rested on Sandra then Evelyn. ‘I’m Mrs Sanderson. I’ll show yous around.’
Evelyn stood and the two of them accompanied Mrs Sanderson back into the main corridor, the chatter from the lasses resuming behind them. Sandra wondered if they were talking about her.
Following Mrs Sanderson, Sandra discovered the building was formed like a letter U. To the left was the common room that extended to the kitchen and, further still, the warden’s accommodation. On the right-hand side were three large bedrooms, each with bunk beds to accommodate ten girls. Across the bottom, joining the two sides, was a corridor with communal washroom with baths and toilets.
‘These will be your bunk beds.’
Mrs Sanderson stepped inside one of the bedrooms and pointed to the bunks farthest away from the door. Sandra looked outside the window to the courtyard in the middle of the two lengths of the building, where a boardwalk led to a patch of grass and more garden planted out with rows of greenery.
‘Work will start any time between five and half six in the morning,’ Mrs Sanderson told them. ‘Farmers are apt to come and collect the number of hands they need first thing. Collect a bait tin from the hatch in the common room and a lemonade bottle filled with tea. If you’re lucky it will be reheated at the farm where you work. When you return it’s first come first served in a shared bath, but mind’ – she gave them a warning glare – ‘remember to keep to the regulation five inches of water.’ She pointed to a notice pinned to the back of the door. ‘That’s the drill for a raid but fortunately Jerry isn’t interested in cows and sheep. We are near the aerodrome, though, so there’s always the worry he’ll mistake the buildings.’ She addressed Sandra. ‘You are allocated to help Cook in the kitchen. Be there sharp at half five in the morning. Townies find it difficult to fit in without the amenities they’re used to.’ She sniffed. ‘There’s no cinema in the village or shops with the latest fashions. Only common folk that know the countryside. If a bird flies overhead, they know its name and they can forecast the weather. We know the ways of every plant and wild creature. So, don’t you go thinking we’re mere country bumpkins.’ As the woman glowered at her, Sandra squirmed, thinking, It’s like the old days back at the orphanage. ‘Furthermore,’ Mrs Sanderson went on, ‘if you’re wise, you’ll try and fit in with the villagers any spare time you’ve got. Join the WVS, start knitting or volunteer to be one of the fire watchers. And don’t go smoking in the stackyard where there’s a crop of hay.’ She was about to turn, then thought better of it. ‘If you get homesick don’t come snivelling to me.’
‘We do know,’ Evelyn’s tone was haughty, her stare imperious, ‘the Land Army motto… which is to stick it out through thick or thin.’
Mrs Sanderson went the colour of beetroot. ‘Further,’ she emphasised as if she wanted to get the last word in, ‘the hostel curfew is ten o’clock and the door will be locked. Saturdays you can have a pass till eleven. But only at my discretion. Lights out half an hour after the curfew.’ Having had the last word, she turned and her footsteps could be heard clattering down the corridor.
Evelyn, heaving her suitcase onto the bottom bunk, said, ‘Blimey it’s like being back at boarding school. If Mrs Sanderson thinks I’ve escaped from home to sit and knit, then she can think again.’
‘Do we really have a motto?’ Sandra wanted to know.
Evelyn chuckled. ‘I haven’t a clue but I think we should.’
Sandra laughed. She hauled her suitcase onto the top bunk, took off her hat and made a dent in the middle. But then she thought about reporting to the kitchen in the morning. After the relief of escaping being in service, she thought, here I am back where I started.
8
When they’d unpacked their possessions into lockable boxes beneath the bottom bunk bed, Evelyn declared, ‘That’s me off back to the common room to grab a sandwich and hear the gossip.’ She headed for the door. ‘Are you coming?’
Sandra agonised at the thought of joining in. She’d started to find herself at ease with Evelyn, like she could open up to her. But the anxiety of being in front of the group and how she might not have anything interesting to say about her past dull life threw her. She’d feel inadequate. How could she tell them about her deprived childhood, the orphanage and how she’d been a servant?
Sandra seriously questioned what she was doing here. The other lasses appeared so worldly-wise. But she knew she was tired from the journey and the wrench of leaving Olive behind was probably the reason why she felt so insecure about meeting people. What she needed was to be alone, and to get some fresh air where she could gather herself. Despite herself, she smiled as she imagined herself like a jigsaw with scattered parts. Could she piece herself together again and perhaps even one day think of this place as home and the girls her family?
‘What’s the joke?’ Evelyn asked, looking prepared to be amused.
‘Nothing. Just a thought.’
Evelyn shook her head as she opened the bedroom door. ‘I can tell you’re the interesting type. You run deep, as Mummy would say.’
That Evelyn thought she was interesting cheered her. Maybe there was more to herself than Sandra thought.
‘I think I’ll take a walk and have a look around. I’m not quite hungry yet.’ This was true, as nerves had stifled any appetite she otherwise might have felt.
‘Ta-ta, then. See you later.’
Outside, the sky had begun to clear. Sandra, walking back down the path towards the main road, saw white cotton wool clouds floating in the sky, and the sun breaking through, shafts of yellow light drenching the faraway hilltops like a sign from heaven. With a jolt she remembered her quest to find the church.
In the eerie silence, as she inhaled the smell of the earthy countryside, Sandra reflected how she’d always wanted to change, to do something different – and now she had the chance.
She turned to her right and, following the road, was surprised when she passed a herd of cows in a field. The nearest cows raised their heads and as they chewed grass their watchful eyes followed her. Sandra marvelled at their size. Apart from mongrel dogs and cats in the town and the occasional milk-delivery horse, she was unaccustomed to animals.
She came to a road and, looking to the right along it, Sandra saw a row of houses either side. The village of Leadburn, she guessed. She turned and followed the road, passing more quaint stone-built houses with long front gardens. After a while, the road opened up to reveal a picturesque village. A stream meandered through the middle, where tall trees grew from grassy banks either side. A white wooden bridge was built over the stream’s flowing waters.
Sandra’s heart rose as she saw, up ahead and over the houses’ peaked rooftops, a tall church steeple that pointed towards the blue heavens. Hurrying towards the church, the sun warm on her back, Sandra passed a long low building with notices pinned to the windows. She stopped and, peeking in, saw a long hall with a raised stage at the farthest end. Beyond the building, beside a wooden seat that looked over the village green, was a red postbox beside what
appeared to be the village store. Sandra looked in through the window at the rows of wooden shelves which were mostly bare, apart from a few stacked tins and sweetie jars which were practically empty.
Reaching the church’s wooden gate, she unhitched the latch and walked up the moss-covered path. In the arched entrance Sandra marvelled at the stonework. That moment, the heavy-looking wooden door squeaked open and a girl stepped from the doorway.
Staring at each other, they both moved the same way.
‘Oops!’ Sandra found herself smiling.
The girl looked to be about fourteen and was rake thin with black hair, an elfin face and huge eyes.
‘I am sorry.’ The girl moved aside.
She had a foreign accent but Sandra couldn’t detect what country she came from as she’d never been out of her hometown until now.
‘Am I intruding?’ she asked. ‘Is there a service on inside?’
The girl looked hesitant. ‘There is nothing happening, I just came to…’ Whatever the girl had just come to do, she didn’t disclose it. Turning her head left, then right, as if looking for someone, she gave a heavy sigh. ‘There is no one in the church.’
Sandra didn’t know if it was her imagination but the girl’s face appeared to sag in disappointment. ‘Thanks, I hoped that would be the case.’
There was a silence as if both waited for the other to speak. Then, saying goodbye, the girl took off down the path.
Sandra, opening the heavy door, went into the surprisingly light and airy atmosphere of the small and welcoming church. Inside was a dazzle of red: carpet, hassocks, seat covers; and at the end, the intricately carved pulpit and an organ raised on a plinth. The church had a holy atmosphere, as if all the prayers of worship over the centuries had soaked into its thick stone walls.
Making her way down the aisle Sandra went to sit in a pew facing the three arched, stained-glass windows at the front. In the silence, she thought of her brother, flying in a bomber up in the heavens. She imagined guns shooting from enemy territory below like she’d seen on the Pathé news, flak exploding around his aeroplane. There was a dropping sensation of dread in her stomach. She kneeled on a red kneeler and, putting her hands together, prayed, Please, God, keep Alf safe.
What else was there to say?
A door squeaked open. A movement at the front of the church caught her eye. At the top of a few stairs on one side of the pulpit was a door that Sandra hadn’t noticed before. A figure emerged. A clergyman dressed in his cassock. A shaft of sunlight shone through a stained-glass window and gave him an ethereal appearance. He looked around the church and then spotted her. Making his way down the steps, he moved to the hymn board. She watched as he changed the numbers.
This was probably the new curate the woman on the bus earlier that day had referred to. The curate, slim and tall with sandy-coloured hair and broad shoulders, had a graceful bearing. He made his way up the aisle but avoided eye contact with her.
‘Am I in the way?’ she asked when he was level with her pew. ‘D’you need to lock up or anything?’ She felt daft asking such a silly question but how was she to know?
‘I’ve disturbed you.’ His voice was soft and mesmeric, and it encouraged her to relax. ‘Please continue with your prayers.’ He cupped his hands before him and bent forward in a way that suggested he was here to help however he could.
She stood up. ‘I’m not much good at praying.’ That was an even dafter thing to say.
His smile was gentle and there was an air of shyness about him. He seemed very different from the bible-bashing clergyman breathing fire and damnation in the Kirtons’ church.
‘Pray as if talking to your best friend. Say what’s in your heart.’
It seemed simple, put like that.
‘I did, only it was short and sweet.’
Caring brown eyes met hers. ‘It’s not the quantity of prayer that counts.’
She decided she liked this curate. She blurted, ‘I promised I’d attend church every Sunday to keep me brother safe.’ The curate didn’t answer but waited as if he knew there was more. ‘His name is Alf and he’s an air gunner.’ Should she be talking about guns and killing in a church? ‘I haven’t seen him for two years. But he writes and I look forward to receiving his letters.’ She felt foolish as her throat constricted and tears welled in her eyes, but it didn’t prevent her from continuing. The curate was easy to talk to. ‘D’you think God will be angry that I’m bargaining with him?’
‘He knows a good heart.’
Another simple answer.
Her chin trembling, Sandra realised past events – being sacked, finding a home with Olive, applying for a job – had taken their toll. ‘Alf’s all the family I’ve got.’
‘Would it help if you told me about your brother?’ The curate looked a little self-conscious, as if that was uncomfortable for him to say. For an instant she saw the man behind the cloth.
Sandra sensed the natural wall of protection begin to build as talking about herself didn’t come easily. But the curate genuinely seemed to care. Tentatively, she began telling the curate everything. About her poverty-stricken childhood, Dad being an invalid, Mam working every God-given hour doing washing. She and Alfie being institutionalised and how she felt responsible, and yet couldn’t protect her little brother. As she talked a sense of wonder overcame her. ‘I’ve never thought before but that’s how I feel inside. That it’s my duty to look after Alf.’
He nodded, his quiet reserve reassuring. ‘What I think, Miss…?’
‘Sandra. Sandra Hudson,’ she prompted.
‘Miss Hudson, is that Alf is a lucky fellow to have such a loyal big sister as you.’
Her chest swelled with pride at his words.
‘You’re at the hostel?’
The sudden change of focus surprised her. ‘Yes. I’ve just arrived today.’
‘Give yourself time to settle in and just be for a while.’
Such an easy-going attitude, it made Sandra smile. The idea of letting go, without the expectation of complications that might arise, was tempting. But life could never be that simple, could it?
She changed the subject. ‘I had the impression you were looking for someone earlier.’ Then, she had a thought. ‘If it was a young girl, she’s just left.’
He looked preoccupied. ‘No matter.’
9
Frieda
Frieda was woken by the sound of aircraft flying over the house. She leapt out of bed and drew back the blackout curtains. Wave after wave of raiders blocked out the moon and it was as though a tremendous thunder rumbled overhead. She blocked her ears with her hands and, heart racing, stood rooted to the spot – but mercifully no black bombs fell from the planes.
Her window looked out over flat countryside to the far-off vicinity of the aerodrome. As bombers droned in the distance, she didn’t hear explosions but saw a crimson glow spread the sky from fires below.
Shaken, Frieda drew the curtains and crept back into bed, pulling the blanket up around her neck. Staring into the darkness, scenes played again in her mind’s eye of the night at home in Berlin when she’d listened to the horrifying events outside. She relived the acrid smells of raging fires, the screams from the street down below and crescendo of falling glass as windows broke.
At times like this in the apartment in Berlin when she couldn’t sleep, Frieda would creep into her parents’ bed and the security of Mama’s arms. But Mama was gone, as were the rest of the family, and Frieda’s mind shied away from the thought as to where they might be.
The last time she’d had these worrying thoughts, she’d decided to ask the nice curate if he knew about these camps in Germany. She’d even gone to the church the previous Sunday but as she sat in the pew, Frieda realised she couldn’t face whatever the truth was of what Jewish families were suffering in Germany. She wanted to keep up the pretence of imagining her family going about their daily lives. This helped ease her conscience and ward off the guilt and shame she felt for not l
ooking after her little brother and leaving him behind when he’d jumped ship in Holland.
The next day, after Aunty Doris had locked the door to the post office, the pair of them sat at the table eating tea. Bleary-eyed having been kept awake by last night’s raid, she seemed to be watching Frieda like a hawk while she ate.
Frieda toyed with the slice of bread in her hand, wondering how she could get rid of it.
‘You need to eat. It’s not right that a young lass like you should be lolling about the house listening to the wireless every night, then be in bed before nine. That’s what old people do.’ A look of remorse crossed Aunty Doris’s expression. She shook her head in exasperation. ‘I’m sorry, pet, for being so sharp, but it’s because I’m worried about you.’
Frieda accepted that her aunt’s annoyance was born out of frustration and that she was responsible. She felt ashamed that there was nothing she could do as, these days, the thought of food obsessed her – not what she ate but how to avoid eating in front of others.
Frieda did worry about what she was doing to herself. She tried to think what to eat to give her body the sustenance and energy she so desperately needed without putting weight on. Her body was exhausted to the point that even doing the most mundane activities was taxing. Since she’d left school, she’d begun working at the Nichols’ farm, but she found milking the cows such an effort.
Tea today was bread and the dripping from yesterday’s Sunday joint – made especially to titillate her appetite.
Aunty Doris, apparently unable to sit still, stood and took her empty plate over to the sink.
Desperate to rid herself of the food in her hand, Frieda squished the soft bread with its crisp crust and dropped it on the floor. Taking a white handkerchief out of her slacks pocket, she bent over and covered the bread. She was just about to pop the handkerchief package in her pocket when the eerie silence in the room made her look up.
The Outcast Girls: A completely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 historical novel Page 8
