‘I’ll meet you on the half six Hallington-to-Hexham bus.’
‘That’s handy to know there’s a local bus to Hexham.’
‘Just stick your hand out and it’ll stop.’
‘Y’all have such cute ways… and narrow roads.’
Sandra found herself wanting to imitate his drawling twang when she spoke. Then, the thought occurred to her that she might not be able to get away from work in time. ‘What if I can’t make it?’
He brought from his pocket a pack of cigarettes and offered her one.
‘Thank you, but I don’t smoke.’
Putting a cigarette between his lips, he lit it with a lighter. Exhaling, his warm gaze studied her through the smoke. ‘Sandra, you’re not going to get rid of me that easily.’ His eyes as he squinted looked sincere. ‘I’ll catch the bus every night until you do.’
24
On Monday morning, Jessie collared Sandra as she got ready to leave the hostel for work.
‘Hudson, the war ministry’s been in touch. The gang at the Robsons’ farm have finished in the fields. Some of the women are being sent to the Nichols’ farm. So, you can get back to the job of milking.’
Sandra didn’t like the idea of being replaced but the thought of finishing work in time to meet Brad appealed.
All that day Sandra felt nervous and excited. The sky looked bluer, the leaves on the trees greener, the countryside surrounding the farm – its array of patchwork fields and hive of activity with workers – wondrous to behold. She even had a passing word of greeting for the hefty bull in its stall of whom normally she was terrified.
Later, back at the hostel, after a rushed meal of yesterday’s cold mutton, fried taties and cabbage from the hostel garden, Sandra scraped back her chair from the table and stood up.
Evelyn, sitting beside her and still eating her meal, looked up. ‘Why the rush?’
‘I’m off out.’
‘Who with? Not that dreamy man you were talking to at the village dance?’
‘Actually, yes.’
Evelyn pulled a mock disgusted face. ‘You’re a sly one, Sandra Hudson. Pretending to be the innocent when you attract the best-looking fellow in the room. An American at that.’
Sandra, by now used to girlish banter, grinned. ‘You’re only jealous.’
A shadow passed over Evelyn’s face and Sandra knew she was thinking of her sweetheart. Sandra was in a hurry, but she couldn’t leave her friend like this. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking… Still no word from Gordon?’
‘No. It’s happened before. I go forever without a letter and then a bunch of them arrive from him all at once.’ She shrugged as if to convince herself. ‘He is at sea, after all.’
Sandra could tell Evelyn was trying to be brave.
‘The American at the dance was the one in the crash I told you about. He’s convalescing nearby.’
‘He came to find you?’
‘We both just happened to be at the dance.’
Evelyn gave her a questioning look. ‘Go on, then, toddle along. But Sandra, judging by the way the man looked at you I’d say he’s gone on you.’
With Evelyn’s words ringing in her ears, Sandra ran to change and then made her way to the bus stop at the bottom of the hostel path. Waiting for the bus, the idea that Brad would be peering out of the window for the sight of her gave her goose bumps.
When the bus came into sight and rattled towards her, Sandra put out a hand.
What if Brad had changed his mind? And what was she doing agreeing to see him after only meeting him once? Because she was attracted to him, she knew.
Brad was the first person she saw as she boarded the bus. He was sitting on the front seat by the window, crutches between his legs.
Sandra’s stomach seemed to somersault.
The clippy was Elsie Turnbull from the village.
‘Good evening, Mrs Turnbull.’ Sandra, feeling awkward, reverted to being formal. ‘What time is the last bus to Hallington?’
Mrs Turnbull looked at her as though she’d lost her senses. ‘The usual time of half past nine these lighter nights. Though, the boss is seeing how it goes passenger-wise.’
Sandra nodded and, conscious of other passengers staring, took the seat beside Brad.
He looked incredibly handsome in his khaki uniform and military-style peaked hat. His bulky figure appeared to dwarf the seat.
He gave an approving whistle. ‘Hi, Sandra. Boy, am I glad you made it.’
Elsie Turnbull approached, ticket machine at the ready, and with an intrigued expression.
Devilment took hold of Sandra. She turned to Brad and said in an unnaturally loud voice, ‘It’s so nice of you to ask me out.’ She gave a surreptitious grin. Sandra Hudson, these days, you’re getting above yourself. But it was worth it to see the satisfaction at getting first-hand gossip on Mrs Turnbull’s face.
Sandra paid her fare and, when the clippy moved up the aisle and out earshot, Brad leant towards her. ‘I take it she’s the local gossip?’
Embarrassed at being caught out, Sandra replied, ‘Something of the sort.’
She realised Brad had seen it all before and nothing would escape him.
They chatted as the little bus wove its way along the country roads, past clipped, dense hedges. When the bus pulled into the market town of Hexham, Brad asked, ‘D’you know what film’s showing? Did you look in the local paper?’
‘No, I never thought.’
It was at that moment that Sandra remembered she was supposed to be at her reading lesson with the curate. She should have got in touch to tell him she wasn’t coming. She hadn’t seen him yesterday when she visited the church, then it simply slipped her mind.
Because your thoughts were full of Brad, she admonished herself.
Why did she have this sense she was being disloyal to the curate? Because you have feelings for him, the voice in her head told her. But Sandra knew the feelings weren’t reciprocated. Mr Carlton had shown no regret the time he’d told her that she was proficient in reading, effectively telling her they wouldn’t be meeting up for lessons any more. But would the curate allow his feelings to be revealed? What was she thinking? Mr Carlton was a man of the cloth and married to the church. Hadn’t he once told her his life was mapped out?
But Sandra felt bad about her thoughtlessness. Mr Carlton deserved better.
Matthew heard the church clock strike the quarter hour: quarter past seven. Sandra was never usually this late. He hoped she wasn’t ill. Working in the rainy weather in the fields, she might have caught a cold. Disappointed at the thought he wasn’t going to see her tonight, Matthew picked up Gone with the Wind from the table.
He hadn’t seen Sandra yesterday because he was tied up all day until after evensong. Last Monday, she’d informed him that she was working in the fields till late. So perhaps that was the reason she hadn’t turned up this week for her lesson.
But it wasn’t like her not to tell him.
He fingered the piece of paper in his pocket with the pointers for the speech he’d noted down earlier. He’d been anxious all day and the words he wanted to say kept vanishing from his mind. How could a little speech make him so jittery when he could deliver a whole sermon with a sea of faces staring up at him?
Because so much depended on Sandra’s answer, he knew.
Even the meeting with the bishop hadn’t been so nerve-wracking. After a discussion with Mr Fairweather, who’d given his blessing, Matthew had managed to have an audience with the bishop the previous Friday and he’d made his request.
After many probing questions, the bishop gave his consent for Matthew to officially court Miss Hudson. Though he stipulated the couple had to court discreetly until the engagement was announced, as gossip about a curate was reprehensible. Matthew omitted to say that at this point the young lady in question had no idea of what his intentions were. As he made his way home after the meeting, Matthew admitted to himself that he was overjoyed that the first hurdle had been accom
plished.
Over the next two days since his meeting with the bishop, Matthew’s emotions had swung from joy that finally he was going to voice his love to her, to despair at the thought of Sandra declining his offer. The next step was up to Sandra and Matthew had no idea how she felt about him.
Now, as the church clock struck the half hour, Matthew realised that Sandra definitely wasn’t coming and that all his preparation and nerves that day had been in vain. He took the book over to the sideboard.
There was always next week, a voice in his head reassured him.
They stood in front of the cinema reading the billboard – Sandra pretending to read as she’d rather die than face the shame of Brad knowing she was illiterate, even though her reading was improving.
‘Casablanca,’ Brad, leaning forward on his crutches as he scoured the billboard, helpfully declared. ‘Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart. It’s a good cast.’
He looked in exasperation at the long queue that snaked down Market Street. ‘D’you think we should wait?’ His eyes darted back to the billboard. ‘It looks somewhat mawkish to me.’ He checked his watch. ‘We’ve missed the B film, but Casablanca starts shortly.’
‘Go on. Give the young lass a treat.’ A rather plump, mature-looking lady wearing a wool coat – which looked as though it was made out of a blanket, often the case in these days of shortages – stood at the front of the queue and winked at Sandra.
The woman shuffled back a little. ‘Here, soldier, go in front of me. It’s the least a body can do to say thank you. And with that gammy leg of yours, standin’ for long periods will be purgatory.’ She addressed the queue behind her, ‘Nobody minds, do they?’
The folk behind, unsure about the bossy woman, nodded their consent.
‘I think the decision’s been made for us by this kind lady here,’ Brad said to Sandra. With a friendly twinkle in his eyes, he turned towards the older woman. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’
The woman’s features softened and Sandra would swear she became coy as she gave Brad an adoring smile. ‘Any time, young man.’
Sandra realised this was probably the reaction Brad got from all women.
At that moment the cinema doors swung open and a horde of people swarmed through the doorway as they left the cinema.
‘Champion,’ the older woman told Brad. ‘That lot must’ve seen the feature film. More seats for us.’
The couple went in, Brad bought tickets at the kiosk and they took their seats. The houselights went down, the curtains swished open and the news began.
Brad fidgeted and put something in her hand. By the beam of the overhead projection light, she saw a wrapped oblong bar.
‘Is it chocolate?’
‘Yes.’
Sandra had heard that Americans had access not only to gum and chocolate but stockings too.
On the big screen a review of the year so far was delivered by the urgent voice of the newscaster. Sandra broke a square off the chocolate and put it in her mouth. Silky and creamy, it was delicious. She relaxed and pretended she came to the movies and ate chocolate all the time – but still she savoured every bite.
Then the word JANUARY blared from the screen in big letters and she was thrust back into reality again. A grave-looking President Roosevelt was delivering a speech. The newscaster continued to report that the first step to this desirable end was the President’s meeting with Prime Minister Winston Churchill at Casablanca to discuss plans for the year; terms for the enemy were to be unconditional surrender.
A thrill of elation ran through Sandra. They were already talking about the end of the war. The thought was amazing. She’d forgotten what real life was like without always thinking about food. To be able to eat a banana again, or hear an aeroplane without a tight knot of tension in the stomach, was something she couldn’t imagine. The fact that the two influential men had met in Casablanca made Sandra experience a déjà vu moment. It seemed that in some universal scheme, she was meant to be sitting here alongside Brad. He must have felt the same way too as, stubbing his cigarette out in the metal ashtray on the seat in front, his warm hand slid into hers.
The feeling of coincidence intensified as the film started. A film of intrigue, danger and love. A forbidden love because the heroine, Ilsa, was married.
Wrapped up in the plot, Sandra didn’t want the film to end.
The story finally came to its conclusion with Rick telling Ilsa, his eyes glistening with love, that they both knew that she belonged with her husband and that she must leave with him. Sandra couldn’t bear the heartache but she knew it was the honourable thing Ilsa must do. A lump grew in Sandra’s throat and as she sniffed, Brad fidgeted and brought a handkerchief from his pocket. On the screen, as sentimental music played in the background, Rick’s final words to Ilsa were, ‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’
Sandra gave a huge sniff to stop tears rolling.
As the couple emerged from the cinema into the cool night air, tears spilled from Sandra’s eyes down her cheeks and she brushed them away with a hand. To her embarrassment and shame Sandra couldn’t stop. Her tears weren’t just for the couple on the screen but for all that had happened – and not just to her – over the past months. Suddenly it seemed a tap had been turned on and couldn’t be stopped. She cried because she had been a hair’s breadth away from being raped, because of the horror of being thrown out of the Kirtons’ and having nowhere to live, then Frieda’s plight, the ever-increasing fear for her family left in Germany. Most of all the tears fell because she hadn’t heard from Alf and feared for his safety.
It was still light, and Brad led the way, albeit slowly on his crutches, away from the picture goers swarming out of the cinema entrance, past the magnificent towering abbey to the grassy grounds beyond. Finding a wooden bench, he eased himself down and patted the place beside him.
‘Sandra, don’t cry, it’s only make-believe.’
‘S-sorry. I don’t usually… It just reminded—’
‘Hey! It’s okay. Whatever it is, you must have needed to let it all come out.’
The fact that Brad understood and sympathised made a fresh bout of tears start. He put an arm around her shoulders and held her tight. ‘I’m listening, if you want to tell me.’
A picture of the curate saying something similar came to Sandra’s mind and she was reluctant to tell her woes again, especially to a relative stranger, even if Brad was kind and understanding. The pang of disappointment returned as it always did whenever she thought of Mr Carlton. She wrenched her mind away. What was she doing? This feeling sorry for herself must stop. She sat up straight and wiped her eyes on the handkerchief. Brad, she knew, had been through much worse than her.
‘I’m over it now. The picture triggered something and—’
‘I understand. This war gets us all down at times. I’m only happy to be here to lend a handkerchief.’ His cheeky grin was infectious.
Sandra surprised herself by thinking she was glad he was single and fancy-free. Were her feelings for Brad replacing those she had for the curate? Confused, Sandra brushed the perplexing thoughts aside and tried to just enjoy the moment.
They sat in intimate silence for a while and, as she surveyed the scene in the still and quiet evening, the buildings had a surreal quality. It was as though Sandra was part of a painting. She shook herself to make sure she was real.
Such fanciful thinking – it was time she was back at the hostel and in bed.
She noticed weariness etched in Brad’s features. It had been a long and tiring day for him too. She asked, ‘Are you all right? You look rather done in.’
‘The nurse at Hallington wasn’t keen on me having this outing. But I can be very persuasive when needs be. I must admit, though, it’s taken more out of me than I expected.’ He gave a tired grin. ‘It’s worth it, though. Apart from the visit to the dance this the only time I’ve been out of hospital since the crash.’
Sandra looked at the abbey clock. Five past nine. She stood up. ‘We b
est get going if we’re going to catch the bus.’
‘Can I see you again?’ he wanted to know.
‘Yes.’
Sandra would like nothing more.
25
Frieda
‘Bye, Aunty Doris.’ Frieda called.
‘Mind you eat that sandwich. It’s cheese and tomato, the bread very thinly spread with butter from Mrs Nichol’s pantry.’
‘I will.’
‘Don’t go overexerting yourself, I don’t want you losing the weight you’ve gained.’
There was no way Frieda would eat the sandwich now, the paranoid voice in her head said, not if she looked fatter. Then she remembered Antonio’s approving gaze at her slightly fuller figure, especially her bustline.
Frieda, now fifteen, worried about Antonio finding out her age. If he did, he would consider her a kid and stop seeing her.
When it had been her birthday, Frieda didn’t want to mark the occasion. For special occasions such as birthdays and Christmas reminded her of joyful times she had celebrated with family, and her young heart ached at the memories. Frieda feared she would never see her beloved family again and she was swamped with despair.
Aunty Doris thought differently about celebrations.
On her fifteenth birthday, when Frieda returned from work and walked into the post office, Aunty Doris looked up from the accounts book on the counter and gave a distracted glance.
‘Hello, love, hope you’ve had a good day.’ She bent her head and continued with the accounts.
Frieda was surprised her aunt had forgotten her birthday. Just as well, she told herself, she would rather have it that way. Climbing the stairs, her traitorous mind began recounting birthdays in bygone years back home.
As she opened the kitchen-living room door, Frieda gave a sharp intake of breath. Paper chains hung diagonally across the room from the ceiling and ‘Happy Birthday’ posters drawn in different coloured crayons were dotted around the walls. On the table, set for two, was a small box with a colourful card propped against it.
The Outcast Girls: A completely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 historical novel Page 22
