‘Morning, Mrs Turnbull.’
‘Morning. Where you off to?’
‘The Dobsons’ farm up Rookdale way.’
‘That’s a bit far to travel, isn’t it?’
The bus pulled away from the grass verge and Sandra found a vacant seat and looked out of the window.
When Mrs Turnbull came to take the fare, she told Sandra, ‘Time you saved on bus fares and learnt to ride a bike properly. I’ve seen you wobbling along the road.’
Sandra couldn’t help but grin; nothing escaped the eagle-eyed Mrs Turnbull.
The bus station in Hexham was situated in the main street and it occurred to Sandra, as she got off the bus, that she should visit this picturesque town more often. She asked a passing gentleman where the bus stand for Rookdale was. Giving her a puzzled frown, he pointed to a stand.
When the bus bound for Rookdale arrived, Sandra boarded and sat again by the window.
The conductress (known as a ‘clippy’ to the villagers) came to take her fare, and Sandra politely asked, ‘Could you tell me when we reach the Dobsons’ farm, please.’
The clippy nodded.
With menfolk away fighting for their country, there was a shortage of bus conductors and women were relied upon to take their place. Looking out of the window to the town’s narrow, bustling streets, Sandra found herself thinking how life had changed for women. No longer tied to the home, they were sent out to the workforce. The worry was, Sandra knew, that when the menfolk returned triumphant from war and wanted employment, would this state of affairs last for women? And if it did would it be a good or bad thing?
Sandra grinned at the idea that, with all this reading and these fresh ideas, she was becoming a thinker.
The bus had left the town by now and as hedgerows passed, aglow with white hawthorn, trees reborn in vibrant green splendour, Sandra thought how therapeutic it was to live in the country.
The bus trundled along the narrow and twisty road, and the scene outside the window changed to soaring countryside. In the distance the moors, with rugged elevations, where once lead mining was a lucrative industry, had farmsteads nestling in the hollows.
After a time, the clippy called, ‘Who’s for the Dobsons’ farm?’
Stepping off the bus, Sandra stood in what she could only describe as the middle of nowhere with only two farms in view. One of them, accessed by a track a hundred yards or so away, was positioned way up the far hillside where Jessie said it would be. The other, nestled out of the wind, was at the bottom of the hill, far away in the distance.
Sandra watched as the little bus, wending its way up the road, disappeared over the hill and a sense of isolation crept over her.
She was being silly, she told herself. It was a new adventure. But peering again at the building way up the hillside, her stomach seemed to plummet. She pulled back her shoulders and made for the track.
The farm, when Sandra eventually came to a plateau where it stood, was depressing. It stood a lonely sight, surrounded by open grassland. Slates were missing from its roof, one of the upper windows was boarded up, and all the paint had peeled off the windows.
A long, low barn stood at the rear of the building while at the front was a drystone wall where bracken grew through the gaps. Hens strutted in the foreground while somewhere beyond the farmhouse she heard the squeal of a pig. Sandra shivered as she recalled Evelyn’s sickening tale.
Approaching the farmhouse gate, Sandra saw a face appear at one of the downstairs windows. The front door opened. A man wearing blue dungarees, grey shirt, and a red neck scarf, appeared at the door. A black-and-white dog pushed past him and bounded up to her, barking a greeting. The man gave an ear-piercing whistle and the dog stopped in its tracks and, tail drooping, ran back to its master and sat alert by his side.
The man squinted in the sun. ‘Have you come from yon hostel? The last one run away. Young ’uns.’ He clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘No backbone.’
A woman appeared. Thin, with high, sun-bronzed cheekbones and lines etching her skin, she had slate grey hair and all-knowing eyes. She wiped her hands on the coarse apron she wore.
‘Take no notice of him. The lassie was scared stiff and I for one don’t blame her. Living here in the wilds of the countryside, in a mould-ridden house with only us from company. And her a townie.’
Sandra shuddered. Matters were getting worse by the minute.
The woman turned to, presumably, her husband, ‘You’ve been up here far too long on your own.’ She cuffed his shoulder. She turned her attention back to Sandra. ‘I’m Sadie, and this is my older brother, Joe, but he’ll want you to call him Mr Dobson.’
Sandra remembered her manners. ‘Pleased to meet you both. I’m Sandra Hudson. I don’t mind if you call me Sandra.’
‘What kind of farm work are you used to?’ Mr Dobson’s gruff voice asked her.
‘I’ve mostly just milked cows so far.’
‘We’ve only got two,’ Sadie told her.
‘I do general work about the farm too.’
Sadie looked at her brother. ‘I suppose she’ll do for now.’
Mr Dobson heaved an exasperated sigh and went into the house.
Sandra wondered why the two of them seemed so dissatisfied with her. Maybe it was life in general they were disappointed at and there was no pleasing them.
Sadie ushered Sandra into the house, jabbering as she went along. Sandra supposed the woman was lonely with only her uncommunicative brother to keep her company.
‘Good job lambing’s over. Probably why the other lass ran away. She couldn’t take the long hours and toil. Working dawn till sunset sometimes. One of the farm labourers comes to stay and there’s always folk from Rookdale happy to help if needs be.’ Sadie heaved a heartfelt sigh. ‘It’s a busy time and no mistaking.’
‘Are there many sheep?’
‘A small flock but it’s enough to keep Joe going. He’s getting on and labour is hard to come by with all the young menfolk gone.’
Sandra was shown around the house and then taken to see the animals: pigs, a goat, geese. Lastly, she was shown an earth closet toilet with two wooden seats. Sandra smothered a smile as she had visions of the two Dobsons sitting on the ‘throne’ side by side. The farm was primitive and remote. The wind whistled continuously around the farmhouse and Sandra’s mood plummeted further. Sandra wasn’t cut out to live this isolated, she realised. For all that, she couldn’t deny the magnificent view from this high vantage point.
In the kitchen, where a kettle sang on the hob and the dog slept curled up in front of the range, Sadie told her, ‘Catch me living here if me old man was still alive.’ Her eyes went pink and watery. ‘He was a labourer and we lived in a tied cottage. When he passed on, I was shown the door.’ She sniffed, stood tall and looked around. ‘But it’s a decent life. We have milk from the cows and I make me own butter and cheese and Jerry leaves us alone, apart from flying over. Sometimes I feel like waving.’
Sandra smiled politely at the attempt at a joke.
Sadie continued, ‘I’ve got a wind-up gramophone that I listen to every night when it’s dark and I can’t see to read.’ She looked squarely at Sandra, a hint of hope in her eye. ‘I was thinking, by the time you get back to the hostel at night it’ll practically be time to get back. You could stay here in the bedroom upstairs for the time you’re here, if you like?’ Sadie’s tone sounded as though she was trying to convince her.
‘I’m… the forewoman expects me back at the hostel,’ Sandra stammered, feeling cornered. Though she felt sorry for the woman, there was no way she wanted to stay. ‘The nights are lighter now and travelling is no problem. Thank you for the kind offer.’
The next day Sadie showed her the ropes. From that time on Sandra’s working day felt never-ending.
By the third day Sandra struggled to get out of the bunk bed at the hostel. She seriously wondered if she should take up Sadie’s offer and stay at the Dobsons’ farm. What stopped her was the thought th
at if she did, she’d be kept there for the duration.
One night, as she travelled back to the hostel on the bus, Sandra had a dreadful thought.
‘Excuse me,’ she said to the fresh-faced but startled youth who sat next to her, ‘what day is it?’
He looked uncertainly at her. ‘Monday.’
She blurted, ‘That means yesterday was Sunday. I’ve missed going to church.’
The youth’s expression suggested he’d decided that a mad person was sitting next to him. He stood, stretched his arms over his head, then moved to another seat.
Fear grabbed Sandra by the throat. She’d made a promise to God and hadn’t kept it. As apprehension for Alf’s safety washed over her, Sandra’s limbs became shaky.
She longed to speak with the curate. He would know what to do. But by the time she arrived back at the hostel it would be too late to call on him.
That night in the silence of the common room, as Sandra ate the shrivelled meal Cook had left in the range’s oven, she prayed.
I’m sorry I didn’t keep me promise. Please keep Alf safe.
16
The next morning, after a sleepless night, Sandra caught the two busses and turned up at the farm, tired and miserable. Determined to have the grit to plough through the day, she told herself to buck up. Some had it far worse – but the thought didn’t help.
Her body active, Sandra’s mind, with nothing to occupy it, worried throughout the morning about Alf.
At dinner time she decided to forgo Sadie’s soup and sit outside and eat the cheese sandwiches Cook had made at the hostel. Land Girls got an extra allowance of eggs, butter and cheese as they did manual work and needed energy. The hostel always made sure the women got their fair share.
Mr Dobson was away; he’d taken the battered van with the bonnet tied down with string to the cattle market in Hexham earlier that morning.
‘The only time he sets foot off the place,’ Sadie had grumbled.
Sadie didn’t look too pleased when Sandra explained her intention for dinner. But Sandra wanted to be alone as thoughts of her brother had put her in a melancholy mood.
‘Before you start’ – Sadie’s tone was piqued – ‘take this pail of swill to the pigs.’
Carrying the swill bucket, Sandra made her way up the field behind the farmhouse and headed for the tumbledown shed that housed the pigs. The shed was small with an opening at the side where the pigs could trot out and dig up the earth with their shovel-like snouts. It had rained torrents during the night and the hole the pigs had dug had filled with water. Sandra smiled as she saw one of the pigs wallowing in it.
Then she froze. The drone of aeroplanes sounded in the distance. The hair on Sandra’s neck prickled. She stood an exposed figure in the open countryside, she realised. From her vantage point she had a perfect view of the four aeroplanes that flew along the valley, seemingly at eye level. Sandra shaded her eyes with a hand. They’re ours, she thought in relief. They flew in tight formation and were fighters as they only had one engine.
Watching them as they flew past, for a heart-stopping moment Sandra would swear two fighters’ wing tips appeared to touch. One soared away, the other one, Sandra saw in horror, looked to be going out of control. With a feeling of helplessness, she saw the fighter plummet, screaming on its way, to the grassy land below.
The spectacle was over in seconds. There was a sense of unreality about the incident and Sandra stood paralysed on the spot.
The rest of the planes thundered away but not before she saw the white five-pointed stars of the American insignia on the side of their fuselage.
She stared stupidly at the heap of aeroplane on the ground. She thought of Alf. Someone’s loved one was in that plane. Galvanised into action, she dropped the swill bucket and, heart thumping in her chest, ran pell-mell down the hill’s uneven ground in the direction of the wreckage.
Gasping for breath, she reached the aeroplane. Sandra’s mind was calm and still as she made sense of the scene before her. The plane was on its belly with wreckage strewn all around on the ground. The far side wing was missing, the fuselage snapped in half, the tail broken off a few feet behind.
Sandra could see the pilot’s head in the cockpit. There was no sign of movement. The nearside wing low enough to reach, she clambered up. She peered into the cockpit at the ashen-faced pilot wearing his leather flight helmet. Anger rose within Sandra. She was too late; the pilot was dead. She hammered on the cockpit.
No movement. She tried again. The pilot’s head twitched. She banged again. This time he turned sideways and his eyes opened and met hers.
‘Open the cockpit.’ She gestured frantically with her hands to show him.
His arm moved. Slowly, he reached up and, unlatching the cockpit, opened the canopy.
She stared at him as blood ran from a nasty gash in the middle of his forehead beneath his helmet.
‘Can you move?’
His startling blue eyes looked dazed. ‘Can’t,’ he breathed. ‘Legs won’t move.’
He is conscious and aware.
Sandra thought of what the Red Cross person had said about accidents when he came to the hostel to give a talk. Assess the situation. Are you or the casualty in any danger?
The risk of fire occurred to her.
There was no way Sandra’s slight frame could heave the man out of the cockpit. Even if she could, she’d never get him down the wing. She tried to think if there was anything she could do. Surely all she’d learnt from the Red Cross was useless in this situation, except get help. She was torn. She didn’t want to leave him.
Keep the casualty talking, they’re probably in shock.
The pilot’s eyes closed again, but Sandra was relieved to see the rise and fall of his chest.
‘I’m Sandra,’ she told him.
His eyes blinked open. ‘Sandra…’ His voice was barely audible.
‘Hudson.’
He mumbled her surname.
‘You’ve been in a plane crash.’ She checked the fuselage but there was no evidence of fire. She must go for help. What if something happened while she was away? Sandra didn’t know if a fire could start long after an aeroplane had crashed. What should she do for the best?
‘I remember,’ he told her. ‘Wing touched beneath mine… I’d no chance…’ He began to cough and winced.
Alarmed, Sandra’s thoughts turned to chest injury.
‘Don’t think about it now. Conserve your energy.’
A movement caught Sandra’s eye. A black vehicle moved along the track from the distant farm. She watched it turn into the main road and continue. A truck. Her heart lifted as saw it turn into the track and head in their direction.
‘You’re in luck, airman,’ she told him. ‘Help’s coming.’
Again, he’d closed his eyes. Again, she checked he was breathing.
As the truck got closer, she could see two heads over the dashboard – both male.
Her breathing came easier. Airmen can survive a crash, her anxious mind told her, thinking of Alf.
‘You never did tell me the details about the crash,’ Evelyn said to Sandra as they sat on deckchairs outside their bedroom in the sun, though the tall silver birch cast a shadow over them at this time of day.
Neither did Sandra want to. She was permanently back at the Nichols’ farm now and having finished work for the day she was at the hostel, waiting her turn for a bath.
It had been five days since the crash and Sandra was still in a peculiar state of mind. All she wanted was to sit and stare at the four walls. Her mind was blank and she couldn’t concentrate.
She turned to Evelyn. ‘I told you all there was. I waited with the pilot till help arrived.’
Evelyn gave her an odd look. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘It’s just you seem preoccupied lately.’
Before Sandra could reply, Ruby burst into the room. She was wearing a floral dressing gown and a towel was wrapped around he
r head.
‘Your turn for the bathroom. Be sharpish or somebody else will nip in.’
Everyone had been worried about Ruby since that night she was told of the tragedy. While on the surface she seemed to be managing, Sandra and Evelyn knew differently.
She confided to them one night when they were alone in the bedroom, ‘I don’t know who to turn to. Mam was me best friend. Roy is sympathetic but he thinks I should be getting on with me life. But I’m still not fit for anything and cry at the smallest thing. Roy’s mam says I can stay at their place for a while but I’m not sure. What do you two think?’
Sandra didn’t know and was nervous of saying the wrong thing.
Evelyn, however, had no inhibitions. ‘If you don’t know you should stay here and keep busy. You don’t want to be hanging around your boyfriend’s house with no purpose. Wait till you’re positive you know what you want.’
So that’s what Ruby was doing.
Sandra realised that Evelyn’s advice was sound and she decided to follow suit. She’d keep busy and hope this strange state of affairs she was experiencing would soon pass.
Ruby, drying her hair with the towel, said, ‘By the way, did you know there’s a letter on the table for you?’
Sandra observed Ruby’s strained face and reproached herself. Here was Ruby struggling with tragedy, while Sandra couldn’t handle a plane crash in which no one was killed. Ashamed of herself, she vowed to buck up.
‘No I didn’t notice, thanks.’
It was Ruby’s turn to look oddly at her. Letters were generally the highlight of the day.
Making her way to the front corridor, anxiety burned in her stomach. She still feared the outcome of forgetting to go to church that Sunday and hoped the letter was from Alf so she’d know for definite he was safe. She approached the post table and her eyes swept the envelopes. Sandra saw four kisses on the seal of one of them. Olive. Sandra was disappointed the letter wasn’t from her brother, but she longed to hear what Olive had to say. The problem was today was only Wednesday.
The Outcast Girls: A completely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 historical novel Page 15
