Inside the card were the words,
The happiest of birthdays to dear Frieda. Did you think I would ever forget?!
Much love,
Aunty Doris
Frieda opened the box. Inside, lying on a rather worn red velvet inlay, was a small silver pin leaf brooch.
‘It’s second hand.’ Aunty Doris’s voice came from the doorway and made Frieda jump. ‘But I got it at a bargain price.’
In her hands Aunty Doris held a round cake with candles burning brightly on the top. She began singing ‘Happy Birthday’ heartily.
When she’d finished, she held out the cake for Frieda to blow out the candles.
But Frieda hesitated.
Aunty Doris’s expression changed from enthusiastic to serious. ‘I know, love. It’s difficult but think on, your mama wouldn’t want to forget today.’
Too emotional to speak, Frieda nodded. With an intake of breath, she exhaled and blew out the candles.
Aunty Doris set the cake on the table. ‘I made it yesterday when you were out at work. I worried you would smell it when you came in and opened all the windows. It’s made from real eggs, I saved them for the occasion.’
Frieda swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Thank you. I love the brooch and the cake looks… scrumptious.’
But could she eat any? Frieda thought of the heartache Aunty Doris too endured. She was sad and lonely for the husband she’d lost and all Frieda wanted was to make her happy.
‘How about you try just a tiny piece…?’
Seeing hope and expectancy in her aunty’s eyes, how could Frieda not oblige?
Aunty Doris cut the thinnest slice that broke into crumbs on the plate. When Frieda put a few crumbs in her mouth she was rewarded with her aunt’s broadest smile.
‘I just know this is the beginning of you getting better, Frieda.’
The good thing, now that Frieda was eating more, was that she had more energy and didn’t fear staying off work and missing seeing Antonio. But to her dismay the ministry in Hexham had recently assigned him to a farm way out in the sticks.
He had told her the day before he left, ‘The farmer’s horseman, he take sick and I help as it is haymaking time. In morning I leave camp and move into the farm.’
Frieda knew from villagers’ gossip in the post office that prisoners of war were sometimes fed and slept on far-out farms. They weren’t supposed to mingle and were restricted to a five-mile radius from their workplace.
The move, however, far from being restrictive to them seeing each other, proved beneficial as they were still able to meet up.
It started one night as Frieda walked home from the Nichols’ farm, when Antonio, riding a bicycle, had pulled up alongside her in the road.
Frieda couldn’t believe her eyes. Her heart thumped.
‘Hello, lovely Frieda. The farmer, he take pity on me as I am lonely. He say I can borrow this.’ He nodded at the bicycle. ‘He say to go to pictures but I meet with you instead.’
So, Frieda took to riding her bicycle to meet with Antonio halfway between the village and the farm when work permitted. In the obscurity of golden cornfields that ran up the sloping hillside, and beneath the big blue Northumberland sky, they carried out their courtship. They had only exchanged a few passionate kisses before but in the seclusion of the fields Antonio’s hands increasingly wandered beneath Frieda’s clothes to private places. Though uncomfortable, she was afraid to refuse him as Antonio might take this as a signal she was still a child.
The last time, as they lay on the grassy path between two fields and Antonio’s hands had slid beneath her knickers, she’d panicked and brushed his hand away. Antonio had groaned as he sat up, a hurt look crossing his tanned and handsome face. ‘You no understand. Ti amo.’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘It means…’ He touched his heart with his hand and then placed it over hers.
Mama had left a book about such things on Frieda’s bed when she was nine. ‘These matters are private,’ Mama had told her one night at lights-out time. Frieda, in bed, had devoured both the words and illustrations in the book. ‘Meine kleine, keep yourself for the special one you will meet and marry someday.’
‘How will I know when I’ve met the special one?’
‘You just will.’
‘Like you and Papa?’
‘Yes. Do not worry now. You have a lot of growing up to do before these things happen.’
In Frieda’s mind, she had now met that special one. A pleasurable thrill surged through her groin whenever she thought of Antonio. But Mama’s words reverberated in her mind since the discussion in the bedroom. Antonio wanting them to make love when they weren’t officially engaged, let alone married, dismayed Frieda. She was concerned, though, that Antonio might take her refusal as a sign she didn’t love him. Alarm shook the foundations of her young heart.
‘I love you so much,’ she blurted to reassure Antonio.
As they sat on the grassy path with only the caw of black crows soaring overhead, a glimmer of expectancy was in Antonio’s eyes. His kiss this time held an urgency Frieda hadn’t experienced before and it hurt her lips, but, in a wanton state, she didn’t care. The kiss lingering, Antonio fondled her breast and with his free hand he lifted her skirt to her thighs and stroked the soft skin between her legs.
He was the special one, so where was the harm? Frieda eased back onto the pleasant-smelling grass and an ache of pleasure lingered in her private parts. She closed her eyes in expectation of what would come next. Then she froze.
‘No!’ she cried. She struggled to sit up.
It wasn’t fear of reprisal that stopped her surrendering to Antonio but the disappointment she would surely see in Mama’s eyes when she discovered Frieda was no longer the innocent child she’d put on the train that fateful March day, years ago. For Mama would know, and if she didn’t then Frieda would tell her because there were never secrets between them.
Antonio stood, and, mounting his bicycle, rode away.
Today, Antonio was back at the Nichols’ farm. Frieda saw him as she made her way into the byre. Glimpsing his stocky, muscled figure and tousled black curls, her young heart soared.
Since the last time they’d met in the cornfields, her thoughts had swung from heady heights of love when she convinced herself true love could withstand a falling out, to the stomach-churning dismay of doubt that she’d deeply offended Antonio.
Striding towards the tack room, Antonio stared blankly at Frieda. The despair clutching her throat threatened to suffocate her.
Putting pride aside, she wanted to run to him and beg him to listen while she explained and tried to make things better between them. This, though, was neither the time nor place and she’d have to wait until dinner break to catch him alone.
A busy morning followed with never-ending tasks, then Mr Nichol appeared in the yard as she and Sandra were washing their hands in readiness for dinner. He told them in his clipped way, ‘You two can help the womenfolk after dinner with the pig.’ He nodded and walked away.
Trotty the pig had been killed yesterday and had been hanging from a hook in the ceiling of the Nichols’ pantry since.
‘What do we have to do?’ Frieda asked Sandra.
‘Beats me.’
At the thought that blood might be involved, Frieda felt her face blanch.
Sandra noticed and spoke up. ‘You’re tough. You’ll win through whatever’s involved.’
Frieda wished that were true of her love for Antonio.
‘I’m off to sit in the sunshine and have dinner,’ Sandra told her. ‘Are you coming? I’ve brought a piece of chocolate for you. It was a gift.’
The fact that her friend had chocolate, a precious commodity these days, didn’t register with Frieda. All she wanted was to be with Antonio.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Are you meeting Antonio?’ Sandra looked at her keenly.
‘I need to talk to him.’
An anxious look clouded Sandra’s face.<
br />
‘I busy,’ Antonio told Frieda as she walked into the stables that held a horsey smell of sweat, manure and hay. He put the bucket he carried down. ‘In morning, I see you at breakfast time.’ She heard finality in his voice.
The temptation to plead overcame Frieda. She bit her lip. Pride wouldn’t allow her. Crushed, she left him to his work.
Making her way back to the yard, she told her doubting mind, He’s busy, that’s all. He still wants to see me.
A ray of hope ignited within her.
Sandra, coming out of the byre, bait tin and lemonade bottle in her hand, gave a little wave. ‘Change your mind?’ Her expression was hopeful.
‘Antonio is busy.’
‘Come and join me for dinner, then we’ll go to the farmhouse and help with the pig.’
Just about to reply, out of the corner of her eye, Frieda saw someone cycling up the farmhouse path.
She turned and saw Bobby Teasdale from the village. He was fifteen now and had left school to deliver telegrams, earning the poor lad the nickname the Angel of Death. Sandra saw him too and both stood transfixed as they watched him turn into the yard and head towards them. Time stood still. Then a black crow soared overhead and Frieda shuddered. To her it seemed a bad omen as the last time she’d seen one was when she and Antonio had fallen out.
Bobby approached Sandra and her face turned ashen. But he didn’t acknowledge either girl as he passed and cycled up to the farmhouse. He dismounted and knocked on the open porch door.
Frieda saw Mrs Nichol peer out of the front window. She disappeared, then re-emerged from the kitchen into the porch doorway, wiping her hands on her white pinafore.
Frieda couldn’t hear what Bobby said, but Mrs Nichol couldn’t take her eyes off the telegram he handed her. Face expressionless, she went back indoors.
Bobby, cycling past the two girls again, kept his eyes glued on the roadway ahead.
A terrible howl was heard from the kitchen area and, like a trapped animal, it went on and on. Frieda unable to bear it any longer, covered her ears with her hands.
When, finally, she was brave enough to listen she heard hysterical screams.
‘Bastards! You took my baby. You took my baby.’
Frieda had never heard either of the Nichols swear before.
Sandra, galvanised into action, told her, ‘Go and fetch Mr Nichol. I’ll see to his wife.’
Tears blurring her eyes, Frieda ran full pelt over the uneven ground to the cornfield.
Later they lay on their backs, knees bent, feet planted on the grass, under the shade of a tree.
‘It too unbearable to think about,’ Sandra told Frieda. ‘Their only son. All their dreams for the farm… gone.’
Frieda shook her head in sorrow. ‘Mr Nichol couldn’t take it in when I told him a telegram had arrived at the farmhouse. It was awful. His first words were “Has Mother opened it yet?” When I told him I thought so, I didn’t know a person of his age could run that fast.’
‘I’ve never seen a grown man cry before.’ Sandra shook her head in sorrow. ‘I sensed they wanted to be alone and so I left them. I hope I did the right thing.’
‘I don’t think they’d have even noticed. There’s nothing anyone can do. Anyway, I saw the neighbours arriving to help with that dratted pig… they’ll know what’s best. I expect when she hears, Aunty Doris will close the post office. She knows how to help in this kind of situation.’ She left it unsaid that her aunt had experienced tragedy when her husband died.
They lay in silence for a while.
‘I thought at first the telegram was for me,’ Sandra said in a small voice. ‘I feel guilty that I’m glad it wasn’t.’
‘Anyone would think the same. It’s natural. I know your brother is a source of constant worry for you.’
Frieda spoke wisdom beyond her years and a yearning to protect her washed over Sandra. They both knew that Frieda’s family and Sandra’s brother mightn’t survive the war and they might be left alone in the world.
‘The thing most hard to bear,’ Frieda said as though she read Sandra’s mind, ‘is knowing you might never see your loved ones again.’
They looked at one another and tears brimmed in their eyes.
‘Hallington Hall…’ the bus driver called.
Sandra, making her way down the aisle, alighted from the bus and called to the middle-aged lady driver, ‘Thank you.’
Sandra peered through the stone pillars and saw a hive of activity on the expansive and verdant lawn. A sweeping drive led to a large country house with extensive gardens and outhouses and walled garden. Wooden recliners spread out on the lawn this sunny summer day, where soldiers in uniform lounged, presumably in all stages of recovery. Nurses in blue uniform and starched white caps mingled between patients, and relatives visiting loved ones watched on.
Sandra ventured in and, as folk stared, she felt like an interloper. Further down the lawn a soldier stood up from a basket chair and waved. Sandra recognised the sturdily built figure as Brad.
When they’d parted after their outing at the cinema, Brad had told her, ‘It sure would be nice if you came to visit on Sunday. They say the cast comes off over the weekend. Who knows what state the leg will be in.’ His eyes grew both warm and intense. ‘Sandra, it would be good to see you.’
Sandra liked that about him. Brad stated what he wanted and there was no mistaking his intentions. Unlike her, who worried she’d offend people and often found herself going places or doing things she’d rather not do.
When she asked Jessie for time off milking that Sunday afternoon, the forewoman had told her yes without hesitation. ‘You never ask for time off, not like some who are always requesting time to go home at the weekend.’
Sandra didn’t confess to Jessie that the hostel was her home.
If Sandra were truthful, it felt good to escape the sadness of the Nichols’ farm for a while. Mr Nichol turned up to run the farm each morning but his emotions were all over the place, and he struggled to stay strong. It was achingly sorrowful to watch, and Sandra felt helpless as there was nothing she could do to help. He had good company in the collie who appeared to know his master’s distress and would never leave his side.
Making her way along the lawn to meet with Brad, like a schoolgirl on her first date, Sandra felt butterflies in her stomach.
‘Hi, Sandra.’
She squirmed under his gaze and as he bent forward and kissed her cheek she reddened. She looked around, but, too engrossed in their own conversations and affairs, no one was watching. Soldiers reclined back against loungers, some with bandages, or arms in slings; other poor souls had limbs missing, while others, ashen-faced, stared ahead as relatives tried in vain to bring them out of themselves.
Brad sat down again and, lighting a cigarette, he gestured to the basket chair next to his.
As Sandra sat, he told her, ‘These lads have had it rough but they don’t complain.’
‘I would have brought you something’ – she’d noticed the brown paper containing, no doubt, sweeties and goodies the other visitors had brought – ‘but the village shop shelves were bare of anything that—’
‘Sandra, it’s enough you’ve brought yourself.’ His eyes met hers and his genuine look melted her heart.
They spent a companionable afternoon in the sun talking and getting to know each other better, Brad leaning forward, intent on her every word. Sandra didn’t feel able to be open about her past as she felt embarrassed about her lowly background with someone as worldly as Brad.
Brad had no such reservation. He talked about his life in Florida which seemed a far cry from the experiences Sandra had known.
‘Pop owned a drugstore in Jacksonville and we lived in a little house with a white picket fence. It’s the only home I’ve ever known. The drugstore was open seven days a week and Mom helped serve drinks behind the counter.’
‘Drinks? What kind?’
‘Cherry coke is the favourite.’
‘Is it
true it’s terribly hot in Florida?’
‘You kidding me? The only way to keep cool is to be neck deep in water. Which was what me and the boys did in the Atlantic Ocean, in summer when school was out. I tell ya, we practically lived at the beach. Miles of golden sand as far as the eye could see and whopping great waves to dive in and little sandpiper birds that strutted about and we liked to chase – but never caught.’
‘It sounds idyllic.’
Brad smiled as he reminisced. ‘It was.’
‘Does your dad still run the drugstore?’
A shadow passed over his face. ‘Pop had a heart attack in his early fifties. He’d always wanted me to follow in his shoes and, being an only child, I wanted to please him. Going to pharmacy school seemed the right thing to do. When Pop took ill and it was obvious he wasn’t coming back, it seemed natural that I took over the drugstore.’
‘He must be proud.’
‘Then the war in Europe started and seeing all the Army and Navy recruitment posters in the windows, I wanted to be in the action. Pop had ingrained duty in me and being loyal to customers.’
‘They must have loved him.’
‘They sure did. The feeling was mutual; Pop treated them like family.’ Brad rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Thing was, I was torn. Pop instilled in me that duty comes first – but he meant to our customers. Everything changed after the Japanese attacked the naval base in Pearl Harbor. I reckoned that I owed my duty to my country. So, I got someone to take over the drugstore and enlisted and, after a long stint training in the army air force… here I am in England.’ He gave a corner of the eye, roguish look. ‘And boy, am I glad.’
Feeling awkward at the implication of his words, Sandra changed the subject. She looked down at his leg. ‘How is it now you’ve had the plaster cast removed?’
‘It sure looks puny and wasted.’
Sandra gave him a sidelong glance. Surely nothing about Brad’s stocky figure could look puny.
Later, as Brad leant on a stick, slowly making his way over to the house, he thought about Sandra’s visit. He reckoned there was a good fifteen years between them, and though she appeared naïve for her age there was some inner perceptive quality that attracted him. Though he’d sworn after his heart had been broken that, from now on, he’d love and leave women, instinctively Brad knew that wouldn’t be true of Sandra.
The Outcast Girls: A completely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 historical novel Page 23
