Later that night, as Sandra lay in bed staring out into the darkness, her last thought before she dropped off to sleep was for poor Ruby – her boyfriend would never get to meet her parents now.
On Monday morning at the farm, Sandra got a surprise. Approaching the byre, she saw Frieda talking, all dewy-eyed, to a foreign-looking lad who had large red circles on his clothes indicating he was an Italian prisoner. The lad looked in his early twenties.
‘Sandra, this is Antonio.’ Frieda’s lips parted and her expression when she looked at him was one of adoration.
An alarm went off in Sandra’s head. ‘Pleased to meet yi’.’
Antonio, burly with dark curly hair, wore an open-necked shirt, brown trousers and stout boots, which must have annoyed the villagers as, with the shortages, sturdy boots were in short supply.
‘Hello, they ask me at the camp if I am ready for work and I say no. I am still sick but they send me still.’ He shrugged.
An uncomfortable silence followed.
For something to say, Sandra told Antonio, ‘You speak English well.’
‘I learn myself when I first came. The book is called The English in Three Months. I take longer.’
Sandra was impressed. It gave her hope to be able to learn to read in a short time.
‘I go now.’ He sauntered away but not before giving Frieda a lingering look.
‘Antonio seems nice.’ Sandra tested the waters.
‘He is.’ Frieda pressed her lips together as if she felt uneasy about discussing Antonio.
That was the end of that particular conversation.
Still feeling gloomy after Ruby’s disconcerting news yesterday, Sandra spent the morning in reflective silence as she milked the cows.
At dinner time, she searched for Frieda because this was the day, Sandra had decided, that she’d put her plan into action. She intended to invite her friend for a day out at the seaside and to meet Olive.
Though Sandra looked everywhere, Frieda wasn’t to be seen.
‘That Italian lad is bone idle,’ Mr Nichol told his wife as she doled out soup at the dinner table.
Only Mr Jeffries and Sandra joined them today. The three Land Girls from the hostel helping in the fields had chosen to eat their sandwiches outside as it was a sunny day.
‘I find Antonio charming,’ Mrs Nichol told her husband.
‘I don’t know why you defend him.’ Mr Nichol clicked his tongue. ‘I’ve to keep an eye on the lad and I haven’t the time.’
Sandra, eating a slice of homemade bread spread thinly with butter made at the farm, knew by now that if Mr Nichol said something was black his wife would insist it was white.
Mr Nichol took another slurp of his soup. ‘And I don’t like the way Frieda hangs around the Italian prisoner. I’ve just caught them in the tack room together.’
No wonder Sandra hadn’t been able to find her. She would never have thought to look there.
Mrs Nichols looked appalled. ‘What did you do about it?’
‘To be fair the girl was helping. She was cleaning Rosie’s saddle.’
‘Hmm!’
‘The one good thing I’ll say about the lad…’ Mr Nichol gave a positive nod. ‘He’s willing to work on the farm. It’s said the other prisoners consider co-operators traitors.’
‘Or maybe they’re afraid of retribution when they get back home,’ Mr Jeffries put in.
‘I’ve had enough talk about war and prisoners.’ Mrs Nichol, slamming the pan on the range top, disappeared into the pantry, not before she’d straightened the photo of her son on the dresser.
Mr Nichol raised his eyebrows at Sandra. ‘Mother is sensitive about war talk.’ He glanced towards the photo.
Spattered with muck from cleaning the pig houses earlier, Sandra approached Frieda, who was washing her hands at the cold water tap in the yard.
A wobble of apprehension overcame Sandra. What was she doing? It was none of her business. Why would Frieda want to spend time with her?
Deep down Sandra knew why. Frieda had no family to speak of and appeared lonely for a friend. But how to broach the subject?
Frieda smiled and made to move away.
Sandra blurted. ‘I’m glad it’s nearly knocking-off time. I’m famished for me supper.’ Sandra could have bitten off her tongue. Of all the stupid things to say.
Frieda turned, her elfin face curious. ‘What food do you eat at the hostel?’
The best thing was to be natural, Sandra decided. ‘Mostly stews but my favourite is cheese dreams.’
‘What are they?’
‘Leftover cheese that’s made into a sandwich and fried in lard.’
‘I do not think I’d like that.’ Frieda shook her head.
‘It’s delish and my favourite.’
‘Delish?’
‘Delicious.’
‘Ahh!’
‘You speak English well too.’ Sandra remembered the conversation with Antonio.
‘I now think of English as my mother tongue. I think my pronunciation sometimes is not good and people don’t understand.’
Hurrah! Sandra thought. A way in. ‘Where I come from – which is South Shields – folk speak broad Geordie. Nobody outside the area understands anything they say.’
Frieda, listening intently, nodded.
‘I’m hoping to go soon. I’m allowed time off at weekends but with milking still to do, I’ve never bothered.’ With no family to visit there was no point, Sandra added in her head. She acted surprised. ‘I’ve had a thought. Why don’t you come with us? The town’s by the sea and it’ll be lovely to share a day out with yi’. Only if you want to, of course. No need to rush. Think about it first. Talk it over with your Aunty Doris.’ Enough, she told herself. Don’t make it sound like you’re trying to convince her.
Frieda looked startled. ‘The coast is a very long way…’
Frieda opened the door with the latchkey.
‘Hello, I’m home.’
There was no welcoming yoo hoo from Aunty Doris.
Climbing the stairs, Frieda felt dragged down by weariness. She entered the kitchen and saw the note on the kitchen table beneath the pepper pot.
There’s a salvage drive at the village hall tonight. I’m helping out. Your tea’s under the tea towel. I know you like hard-boiled eggs so I saved you mine. The bread’s freshly baked this morning. I surprised myself by having the time. See you about nine. Love Aunty Doris
Frieda moved to the sink and looked under the tea towel covering a plate on the wooden drainer. She considered the boiled egg, two thick slices of bread smothered with butter – no doubt obtained from the farm – and a little glass pot that contained jam.
The egg she could eat because it didn’t put on weight. It was permissible to leave the jam. Spying the paper folded on the table, she tore a page out of the middle and wrapped the slices of bread in it. Frieda would dispose of the package in the bin later.
The deceit of duping Aunty Doris and getting rid of precious food rendered Frieda guilt-ridden and she loathed herself.
As she sat at the table eating the hard-boiled egg, she stared out of the kitchen window, to where distant, undulating hills were in shadow from the sun. It was such a lovely night, she wondered what Antonio was doing. He’d described the camp the first time she went to see him in the tack room in her dinner hour. He told her how he lived in a round Nissen hut and that there were no restrictions on how many times he could write letters home. Frieda could tell this pleased Antonio. She liked the fact that family was important to him.
‘But my family not see the letters for the month.’ He’d upturned his hands and shrugged. ‘I get the cigarettes allowed once a week and I spend my five pennies’ pay at the… how you say the name of the shop that moves?’
Frieda was baffled then she realised. ‘Mobile shop.’ She laughed and couldn’t remember when she last felt so carefree.
She loved being with Antonio. She knew by the intense way he looked at her that the feeling
was mutual. He was charming and different and she longed for the sight of him. When she’d first started at the Nichols’ and felt like the new girl at school, it was Antonio who’d befriended her, bringing her dried fruit and sometimes an apple every day from the prison camp rations.
Frieda soon got over her shyness and reserve. Antonio was handsome in a rugged sort of way and, with his mischievous grin and twinkle in his eye, he was fun to be with. Though he did have a serious side too, when he talked of matters of war or the large family he loved so much back home in Sardinia.
When Frieda was with Antonio, she felt light-hearted, something she hadn’t known in a long while. It wouldn’t do to let others at the farm know how she felt, as he was a prisoner and a lot older than her. So, she told no one, not even her good friend Sandra.
Now, as she stared out of the window, she thought about whether Antonio would prefer her figure to be curvier. Her stomach tensed at the thought.
Antonio had told her, ‘I like to be with you. You are bella. But you are too…’ He sucked his cheeks in. He’d looked silly and Frieda had laughed. But she worried that maybe he really did think she was too skinny.
Why did Frieda have this strict code of conduct, the need to be perfect in every way, to be thin, to be the best student, the perfect older sister, even? Was it a German trait or something her parents had instilled in her or something that she was born with?
Her thoughts turned again to Antonio, his happy, uncomplicated expression. She was determined to change if only for his sake.
The first step was to forget rules. Frieda immediately felt alarmed, but she pushed on telling herself she was doing this for Antonio. She would act impulsively. When was the last time Frieda had been out of the village? The first step towards her new way of life, she decided, was to consider the outing to South Shields with Sandra.
But only consider.
Although Doris knew that she and the curate were the only two people in the post office, she looked left and right to check before she spoke.
‘The bread was scrunched up in newspaper in the bin. I don’t know what to do, Mr Carlton, Frieda’s disappearing before my very eyes. When she’s not working, her life revolves around sleeping.’ At his questioning expression, Doris confessed, ‘I feel bad spying on her, rummaging through the bin. It was after I saw the page missing out of the Courant. I had to know if the lassie was still starving herself. I’m always on guard where Frieda’s eating is concerned. I can’t help myself.’
Mr Carlton looked as troubled as Doris felt.
At first, when he had entered the post office on an errand, they’d discussed village news. How well baby Joseph’s christening had gone. That Mrs Connor couldn’t get about and needed villagers’ help as her daughter and family lived down south.
All the while Doris was tormented inside until finally she’d explained her worries about Frieda, in the hope that the curate might be able to help her resolve the problem.
She continued, ‘Then last night, when I got home after the salvage meeting, Frieda took my breath away by saying she’s thinking of going to South Shields, of all places, with a friend from work.’
‘I know who you mean.’ The curate’s answer surprised Doris. ‘She’s a Land Girl from the hostel. Take my word for it, Miss Hudson is thoroughly reliable. I think they’ve become good friends. She’ll only have Frieda’s best interests at heart.’
‘The lassie’s never set foot out of the village for an age. So, if this new friend is willing to take her on an outing she’s got my blessing. I’m hoping the change will do Frieda good and she’ll find her appetite.’ Her voice wobbly, unaccustomed tears prickled Doris’s eyes. ‘My only worry is the bombing. Most folk are trying to get out of coastal areas.’
The curate nodded, sympathetically. ‘I understand.’
But Doris believed in the philosophy, live your life to the full, especially after the sudden death of Jack, her darling husband. She told the curate and he gave a non-committal nod.
‘Thing is, Mr Carlton, I don’t know how Bob Nichol will react when Frieda asks for time off, especially if her friend works at the farm too. Bob’s got a lot on now that the Ministry has commandeered his land for more food production.’ Doris shook her head in a helpless fashion, then she looked expectantly at him.
‘What are you asking, Mrs Leadbeater?’
‘Bob will listen to you. Though he doesn’t go, he’s got respect for the church.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you.’
15
As she made her way to work the next morning, Sandra saw Frieda waiting at the farmhouse gate.
‘I’d like to join you when you visit your hometown. If I still can,’ she told Sandra, without preamble.
‘Of course. But why the change of heart?’
Frieda looked startled, as if she didn’t want to answer.
‘Never mind, I’m just pleased you’ve decided to come. I can’t wait to show you the sights. We’ve got a fair, and the walk along the coast road up to Marsden Bay is spectacular with the sea views.’
Frieda nodded enthusiastically.
Then Sandra’s hopes were dashed as she realised. ‘Oh, but Mr Nichol won’t be pleased if we both want time off together. He’ll have to arrange for replacements.’
‘I thought the same and when I told Aunty Doris, she said, “You won’t get anything if you don’t ask.” So, I did and guess what?’
It was the first time Sandra had seen Frieda’s face so animated, and it pulled at her heartstrings. She so badly wanted this scheme to work and for her friend to have a good time. For her to meet Olive, who, perhaps, might talk some sense into her.
‘Come on. Don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘Mr Nichol agreed to both of us having time off. He’s going to ask your forewoman for replacements for a couple of days. It’s all arranged for the twenty-third and twenty-fourth of this month.’
‘Two days!’ Sandra couldn’t believe their luck. She had been worrying it was a lot to do in a day.
‘Yes. Mr Nichol said it was to his advantage for us to be fit. Neither of us have had a day off in an age.’
‘Wonders never cease.’ Sandra was both thrilled and dumbfounded.
The next Monday when Sandra arrived at the vicarage for her reading lesson, the curate, as soon as he opened the door, asked her, ‘Have you had further news about your visit to the coast.’
Sandra told him the news, adding, ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.’
The curate’s broad grin made him look quite boyish.
Sandra knew then that there’d been a conspiracy at work.
‘I’m thinking we could stay the night. Then Frieda can have the whole seaside experience.’
‘Good idea. Your friend said in her letter there’d always be a bed for you. We’ll write immediately.’
So, they composed a letter between them, with Mr Fairweather looking on, a faintly bemused expression on his face.
The curate thought it necessary they tell Olive a little about Frieda’s background to save misunderstandings or embarrassment. Sandra wholeheartedly agreed. Olive was wise and would pick up on the nature of things.
‘Thank you,’ she told the curate when they’d finished. ‘For everything.’
Sandra didn’t know how but she knew with certainty that the curate had had a hand in persuading Mr Nichol. That was the village way, to look out for each other and give a helping hand if needs be. She was pleased to be part of such a tight-knit community. The villagers treated her decently, but like most small communities where everyone minded each other’s business, it could be difficult if you were a private person or had a secret to keep. Fortunately, neither applied to Sandra.
Don’t tempt fate, a little voice in her head said.
Mr Curtis at the store had told her, ‘Lassie, you have to be born and bred here before you fit in.’
Nevertheless, Sandra felt she belonged.
The next day, Jess
ie caught up with her as Sandra made her way to breakfast.
‘The War Ag’s been in touch and sent word that the Land Girl at the Dobsons’ farm in the shire has bunked off home.’ Jessie’s expression showed disgust. Giving up, like being a shirker, was not the Land Girls’ code of behaviour. ‘You’ve been assigned to take her place until a replacement has been found.’
The only good news about this information was that Sandra wasn’t being reassigned permanently. Sandra enjoyed working at the Nichols’ farm, where she saw all different aspects of farming life. If she was in a gang, she’d go around the different fields mostly doing the same job. Besides, she’d grown used to, and liked, the people at the farm. Apart from her brother, they were the closest thing Sandra had to family.
‘Why am I being sent?’
Jessie heaved a who knows shrug. ‘I just carry out orders.’
‘Who will replace me?’ It seemed an odd situation, but as Jessie implied, who could understand the powers that be?
‘One of the women from the gang who works in the top field, apparently.’
‘Can they spare her?’
Another shrug. ‘Ours is not to reason why. Can you ride a bike yet?’ Jessie changed the subject.
‘Not proficiently. I practise as much as I can but the front wheel still wobbles.’
‘Take the bus, then, to the Dobsons’ farm. I’ll give directions. Mind, if there’s any bother at this farm, get in touch. There’ve been cases where farmers or their sons have been randy buggers.’
Sandra, taken aback, felt a stab of worry in her stomach.
Despite her reluctance, she asked, ‘When do I go?’
‘Straight after breakfast.’
Three quarters of an hour later, Sandra, standing at the roadside, saw the Hexham single- decker bus appear from around the bend in the road. She stuck out a hand.
Climbing aboard, the conductress, Elsie Turnbull – a married lady from the village whose husband was serving abroad – greeted her.
The Outcast Girls: A completely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 historical novel Page 14
