As the bus started up, she revealed, ‘I have something else to confess… I couldn’t see the sign because I can’t read.’
‘Oh, how dreadful for you. However do you manage?’
Sandra told her about Olive helping her in the past and Mr Carlton teaching her to read.
Frieda’s smile heightened her cheeks and, in contrast to her usual gaunt appearance, she looked young and pretty.
‘He is a good and kind man. Mr Carlton knows about my problems too.’
Sandra imagined the curate’s opaque, intent brown eyes as he listened to Frieda. ‘Your secrets are safe with him.’
They sat for a long while, content to stare out of the window where the suburban scene changed to that of rolling countryside where sheep and black-and-white cows grazed. The bus meandered through villages and small towns with honey-coloured stone houses gracing the roadside.
Suddenly Sandra felt brave; she reckoned this was the time to broach the subject she’d purposely avoided. She spoke in a hushed tone. ‘Frieda, why is it you eat so little? Are you ill?’
Frieda flushed and her eyes brimmed with tears. Her lips firmly pressed together, she turned again to stare at the view.
As the bus left a busy little town called Prudhoe, the view outside the window changed. Looking out over the valley to distant countryside, Sandra found the scene breathtaking.
Frieda, sitting in the window seat, turned to face Sandra. ‘I can’t help the way I am.’ She spoke in a small voice and Sandra had to strain to hear.
For an instant Sandra wished she hadn’t brought the subject up, especially now when Frieda had been through so much in the last few days.
The lass turned and faced Sandra, eyes pleading for understanding. She swallowed hard. ‘It’s difficult for me to talk about. At first, when everything seemed out of control, I decided I could do something about my figure. I wanted to be thinner. I had always been teased at school.’
By the look of her friend’s clenched jaw, Sandra knew she’d suffered more than teasing but she decided not to interrupt.
‘Then… it got complicated. I couldn’t eat.’
She was getting somewhere, Sandra realised and a surge of anticipation washed over her. ‘Why couldn’t you?’
The conversation stopped as the bus drew up to the kerb at a bus stop in the quaint village of Corbridge. Sandra watched as passengers stepped down from the platform onto the pavement and continued with their daily lives.
The bus started up again and as it travelled over the seven-arched bridge over the River Tyne, Frieda’s voice spoke up. ‘I don’t expect you to understand, Sandra, because I don’t either. Normal eating is impossible for me. I fib rather than say I haven’t eaten and hide food too. I am amazed that I’m telling you these things. I haven’t even told Aunty Doris.’
Sandra was concerned for Frieda and gratified that she had opened up to her. ‘Can you explain what happens?’
Frieda pondered. ‘A force in my mind I can’t control won’t let me because I have this morbid fear I might get big again. I’m scared if people knew, they would think I am… what is the word?’
There were so many horrible words to describe illness of the mind, Sandra didn’t want to choose. The bond she had now formed made Sandra want to gain her friend’s trust. To be completely truthful was the only way. ‘Minds are peculiar things. Have you seen a doctor?’
‘Yes. Aunty Doris took me to see Doctor Shepherd. He was no help. I don’t think he has come across a case like this before.’
‘Frieda, you know you can’t go on like this. You’ll become very ill. Is there nothing you think you can eat? What d’you consider safe?’
‘Food that doesn’t put on any weight. Plain porridge and vegetables like cabbage and carrots. Other food too… eggs… fruit, but it is so difficult with rationing. I don’t like to trouble Aunty Doris…’ Her face crumpled. ‘I do so want to get better. I… have another secret. And Mama isn’t here to tell.’ Her voice had become barely a whisper and Sandra had to concentrate hard to hear.
‘Your secret is safe with me.’
‘I don’t… you know… bleed any more.’
‘You mean your monthlies have stopped?’ This was an uncomfortable subject for Sandra. Discussions about how a baby was conceived and born were taboo at the orphanage. To this day Sandra was naïve on the subject.
Frieda, acutely embarrassed, flushed from her neck to her cheeks. They were a pair, thought Sandra.
Frieda went on, ‘Nothing has happened for two months. My teacher at school once discussed… meine tage with me at school. I know that if you don’t have one you can’t have a baby. I’m scared, Sandra.’ Her voice cracked and her face looked bleak. ‘What if I have damaged myself? What will happen when I get married?’
Sandra’s heart ached for Frieda. What a state she was in. Hopeless at such a topic, she racked her brain for how to help.
‘I know I’m older than you but I’m ignorant about such things. I’d advise you to tell your aunty. She’s a good sort and like Olive she’ll want what’s best for you.’
‘I know that. I just couldn’t bring myself to tell Aunty Doris. Now, though, after speaking with you and your friend, talking about it doesn’t seem so difficult any more.’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ Sandra ventured. Frieda’s wide, innocent eyes looked hopefully expectant. ‘One thing we could try would be to try different foods from the ones you feel safe eating. Small bits at first, then experiment with more.’
Frieda’s expression was unsure, but Sandra took her silence as a good sign; at least she hadn’t said no. It was a start.
19
As she stepped from the bus in Hexham, the events of last night sat heavily on Sandra’s mind. The outing was supposed to lift Frieda but because of the bombings, Sandra feared the opposite was true. She wanted the trip to finish on a high note and she had a brainwave.
‘D’you fancy a shopping spree in Hexham?’
Frieda hesitated.
‘I’ve saved two coupons to buy a pair of sandals,’ Sandra went on. ‘I’ve never owned a pair before, there was never any need. I’m hoping in the summer months I’ll find an occasion to wear them.’
Frieda appeared unsure.
‘Go on! You’ll be a big help reading the labels and prices.’
Sandra didn’t add that because of her illiteracy, she’d never had the nerve to go shopping in town before.
‘All right, then,’ Frieda replied with a smile.
They made their way into the picturesque town’s cobbled main street and then entered Robbs department store. The next half hour was spent pleasurably browsing the store’s wares, before Sandra tried on sandals in the shoe department.
She couldn’t make her mind up. ‘I like both the brown and the white pairs,’ she said.
‘If it helps madam to decide,’ the shop assistant replied – her face set in a noncommittal mask –‘I would suggest considering which is most comfortable.’
‘They both feel like I’m wearing slippers.’
The assistant, sniffing, pursed her lips.
‘The white ones with the ankle strap look summery,’ Frieda commented.
Sandra nodded. ‘The white ones it is, thank you,’ she told the assistant.
Outside, a rather relaxed Frieda told Sandra with a mischievous grin, ‘I think madam was testing the assistant’s patience.’
‘Madam thinks so too.’
With a hoot of laughter, Sandra linked arms with Frieda, guiding them to the marketplace where they browsed the stalls. Then, after sharing a pot of tea in a rather select lounge at the Beaumont hotel, they made their way back to the bus station.
Sandra, glancing at their reflection in a shop window, gave a satisfied sigh. For Frieda finally wore a somewhat carefree expression. But more, there was the sense that the afternoon’s adventure had helped bond their friendship.
Later, as she walked up the path to the hostel, Sandra mulled over the conversation with Fri
eda on the bus. She tried to think of foods her friend might eat.
The thing about the diet during this war – mainly potatoes, bread, suet puddings and suchlike – though it helped fill you up, unfortunately, it wasn’t the best for the figure. For all Sandra’s work on the farm, she found the waistband of the slacks she wore was tighter than before.
Opening the door to the common room, a wall of voices met her. The Land Girls in dress uniform, ready for the evening meal – some lounging on couches, others at the table, impatient for the meal – talked animatedly to one another. Cigarette smoke fogged the air.
Sandra didn’t feel like an imposter any more and felt that she belonged. She could approach a group of women without feeling awkward. She moved to the lasses sitting on the wooden seats by the stove. No warm glow came from the stove and Sandra wasn’t surprised as the evening was mild and fuel had to be conserved whenever possible.
‘Hi, Sandra.’ Enid gave a little wave.
‘It was a lone bomber.’ Enid’s eyes were wide as she continued with her conversation to the others. ‘The villagers reckon it had been damaged and the pilot jettisoned his bombs to help him get home.’ She checked her nails, as she was apt to do on numerous occasions, to see if any were broken. ‘Mercifully, no one was hurt.’
‘It’s left a huge crater,’ a lass listening in at the table called over. ‘One of the villagers told me this morning when I delivered the milk.’
She looked directly at Sandra as if to say, Yes, I had to do your job.
Sandra asked Enid, ‘When did this happen?’
‘Late last night.’
Sandra thought of the terror the townspeople of South Shields had gone through the previous evening. She felt glad to be back in the relative safety of the countryside. Then immediately felt guilty for having such thoughts. She wondered if this was the cause of Frieda’s illness; the guilt of turning her back on her homeland was making her punish herself. Tired after the events of the past days, Sandra decided that the main thing was to help the lass to get better.
She checked her wristwatch. Quarter to six, enough time to unpack and change for supper. She moved towards the door, hearing snatches of conversation on the way. Enid was saying, ‘…did anyone hear what the newscaster said on the wireless last night? That women are getting muscles with all the work they do. I hope I don’t. It’s bad enough having rosy cheeks that no amount of powder will hide. Wait till my Dan comes home from abroad and sees me now…’
Sandra, opening the common room door, almost collided with someone.
‘Oops! Sor—’
Frieda stood there, breathing heavily – a yellow envelope in her hand.
Sandra’s mouth went dry. ‘For me?’
Frieda nodded. ‘Aunty Doris met me at the door. I ran all the way to give it to you.’
Sandra took the envelope from Frieda and stared at it in shock. ‘Not here…’
They went outside the front door into the soft evening air.
A wild impulse to throw the envelope into the dustbin overcame Sandra. But that was a coward’s way of doing things. She ripped the envelope open then handed the telegram over to Frieda.
The light of understanding dawned in her friend’s eyes. She took the telegram and began reading.
We regret to inform you that your brother Alfred Hudson has been reported missing in action. If further details or information are received—
Sandra’s legs threatened to buckle and she couldn’t listen any more. She reached for the hostel wall to steady herself. Fury overcame her. ‘I hate the bloody Germans for starting this war,’ she cursed, shaking her fist at the sky.
Frieda handed her a handkerchief. ‘I think it is best I leave you alone.’ Shoulders drooping, she made towards the path, a forlorn figure.
Sandra, numb and without emotion, let her go.
An image of Alf when he was a kid came into her mind’s eye. His clothes unkempt, little Alf had a broad grin on his face, two square upper front teeth, a tuft of hair that wouldn’t comb down, and shining, eager eyes.
Fear for her brother clutched around her chest and Sandra couldn’t breathe. She gasped in some air. Missing. Did that mean there was hope?
She needed to talk to someone.
The curate was the first person she thought of.
Mr Carlton answered the door, his expression concerned.
‘I know it’s late but I wonder if I can possibly talk with you. There’s no one else.’
If he did have misgivings, the curate didn’t show them. ‘Of course, come in.’ He led the way to the front room. ‘Mr Fairweather is upstairs in bed nursing a cold. We can be private in here.’
He gestured towards the couch and Sandra sat down, then immediately wished she hadn’t because she felt strung up inside. Mr Carlton stood facing her, hands cupped before him in that posture of patience Sandra found calming.
‘It’s Alf. I’ve had a telegram. It’s says he’s missing. His plane didn’t arrive back from a mission.’ Her voice had gone squeaky; she couldn’t hold the tears back any longer. She dissolved into great shoulder-wracking sobs which came from deep within her stomach and hurt. Finally, taking gulping gasps and sniffing hard, she turned her face up towards the curate who stood still as a statue. Sandra was glad that it was he who witnessed her distress, and she was struck by the peacefulness he exuded.
He handed her a white handkerchief. ‘The telegram says missing.’ His tone was reassuring. ‘There is hope yet. Your brother may have bailed out or the pilot could have landed because the plane was hit and damaged.’
A new thought came to Sandra. ‘Alf might be taken prisoner.’
But she didn’t want her brother a prisoner someplace in Germany. She wanted him safe here where he could visit like he’d promised. Then the voice of sanity took over. Far better a prisoner than the alternative. Powerless to do anything about her brother’s state, her ribcage tightened and Sandra thought she was going to faint.
‘He might be.’ The curate gave an encouraging smile. ‘I’ll pray for Alf’s safekeeping. You can join me, if you wish.’
If she wished. Sandra would have run around Hexham marketplace naked if she thought it would keep her brother safe.
She told the curate about how she’d missed going to church to pray for Alf one Sunday. ‘I was working at Dobsons’ farm and got mixed up with the days. Maybe this is my punishment.’
He spared her the sermon she expected. ‘Don’t make Alf’s captivity your fault, Miss Hudson. The nation is at war. Whatever’s happened to Alf isn’t your fault.’ He didn’t pursue the matter. ‘Who read the letter to you?’
‘Frieda. I’d confessed beforehand that I couldn’t read.’ Sandra remembered the rant about Germans. She pulled a regretful face. ‘I was shocked and not very pleasant. I vented my anger at the Germans. Poor lass, she’s had a rough time of it recently and didn’t need me adding to it.’ Sandra was too fraught and exhausted to explain about the recent visit, but the curate seemed to understand and didn’t press.
‘She’s a sensible girl.’ His voice soothed Sandra’s frayed nerves. ‘Frieda will understand your anger wasn’t meant towards her.’
She knew he was right.
She stood up. ‘Thank you.’
‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘You made me feel better.’
As their eyes met, she saw uncertainty in his, as though he didn’t know what to say or do. Glimpsing his vulnerable side, the inner man, Sandra felt drawn towards him.
He cleared his throat and seemed to recover his poise. ‘Miss Hudson, your brother is reported missing. Have faith. Hold onto that.’
As she left the vicarage and walked home, golden rays of sunshine broke through grey and dark clouds.
A sign for the future? Sandra’s broken heart hoped so.
One thing was for sure, she’d visit the church every Sunday and pray for Alf’s safe return.
Matthew Carlton watched Miss Hudson as she walked down the vicarage driv
e. Closing the door, he wandered into the hall, picturing her distraught face as she told him about her brother. Like an open book, she couldn’t hide a single emotion.
Matthew had strived to heed his calling; his job was to be of help to the troubled in their time of need and not to get emotionally involved. This wasn’t the case where Miss Hudson was concerned. Feelings of gladness and that the world was a happier place overpowered him whenever she was close, ever since that wonderful moment when he first saw her in Leadburn church. The attraction ran deep in his soul and was against everything that he’d mapped out for his life. The plan was to finish three years of training and then, when he became a vicar with his own parish, he could think of settling down and having a family.
When he was in Sandra’s company – he dared to call her by her first name in his head – Matthew was unsure how to behave. The trouble was he didn’t feel like Matthew Carlton, the curate, but an ordinary self-conscious man in the presence of a pretty woman for whom he had feelings.
Matthew walked into the front room and, distractedly picking up the parish magazine from an occasional table, he reclined on the settee to read. But thoughts of Sandra’s tear-stained face came into his mind’s eye and he couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t bear to see her cry. Matthew ran his fingers through his hair. There was something different about her; a mixture of vulnerability and determination shone in her eyes. The set of her jaw was resolute; she let nothing stand in her way to accomplish what she wanted. She’d swallowed her pride and asked for help to achieve her ambition of learning to read, and he was glad to be of service.
Over time, he knew, despite self-denial, he’d grown fond of Miss Hudson. The only time he’d felt this strongly about something was when he’d entered the ministry and done his first curacy as a military chaplain. Matthew’s eyes glazed as he remembered the scenes he’d witnessed: men in despair, suffering colossal injury; the stark fears of those that lay dying. The faces of those brave men still invaded his dreams.
The Outcast Girls: A completely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 historical novel Page 18
