The Outcast Girls: A completely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 historical novel

by Shirley Dickson

  ‘I know enough to say that it wasn’t love, Frieda. If it was, Antonio would have patience and would have respected your wishes.’

  Sandra knew she was on a moral high horse, but she was so enraged for Frieda’s sake, she couldn’t help herself.

  ‘I’m not strong like you. I was so happy. I wanted to get well for Antonio’s sake.’

  Sandra thought of Mr Carlton and quoted him. ‘You do have strength. It takes a lot of willpower to stop eating, and even more to begin again and get well, as you have. You can get over this, I promise you. One day you’ll meet someone special and it will be meant to be and you will put this behind you.’

  Frieda, open-mouthed in astonishment, replied, ‘That’s what Mama would say. She told me there was someone out there special for me.’

  ‘Your mama was right. But Frieda, I suspect you won’t get over Antonio overnight.’

  Frieda, big-eyed, nodded as though Sandra’s words were now gospel truths.

  ‘I still love him, but I also feel humiliated.’

  27

  The time dragged and there was still no news from the Red Cross about Alf. Sandra’s nerves were on edge. She had at least got a letter thanking her for her correspondence. The letter stated the department responsible for Prisoners of War had been informed of her enquiry, but she’d heard nothing since.

  The news on the wireless dominated everyone’s lives these days.

  ‘The allies are gaining ground,’ Enid announced one supper time, her voice high pitched with excitement.

  ‘Surely, the end of the war can’t be too far away.’ Ruby, who sat next to Sandra, gave a heavy sigh.

  Enid piped up, ‘In her last letter, Mum said the feeling at home is that people aren’t too hopeful and are convinced Hitler will have a crack at us before he goes under. She says people are depressed at the thought of another winter of blackouts, rationing and all the other upsets and tragedies war brings.’

  Sandra glanced at Ruby, but the lass didn’t flinch and appeared to be coping with the conversation well. At weekends Ruby stayed at her boyfriend’s home. She and the family – including Roy’s sister – now got along and they had seen Ruby through the first months of heartache after her parents were killed. Ruby had reported that her future plan, after the war, was to live in with Roy’s family until they got hitched.

  Sandra was over the moon for her.

  The summer days were spent mostly working at the Nichols’ farm milking cows and harvesting the fruits of the Land Girls’ labour. The days were long and Sandra often worked as late as ten o’clock in the dusk – and bed was the only thing she was interested in when the work was done.

  The atmosphere on the farm was sombre as Mr Nichol, grey-faced and a shadow of himself, immersed himself in his work. He looked, though, like a man with a guilty conscience. Sandra wondered if his wife held him responsible for the death of their son. She sincerely hoped not. These days Sandra never clapped eyes on Mrs Nichol as, at mealtimes, she locked herself away in the bedroom. Goodness only knew what state the poor woman was in, but the local doctor was often seen calling on her.

  ‘Mother isn’t up to seeing folk yet,’ was Mr Nichol’s clipped explanation.

  Antonio returned to the farm unchanged and still his extrovert self. Unaware that he’d been rumbled, he couldn’t understand why Frieda was so aloof.

  ‘He keeps asking me to meet with him,’ Frieda told Sandra, her face troubled.

  The pair ate dinner together in the field behind the shed. Frieda’s meal was two cream crackers with a smidgeon of butter, a tomato, followed by a fallen apple from the tree in the farmhouse garden. Her cheeks were pink, her dark hair had a lustrous sheen; the lass looked healthier than Sandra had ever seen.

  ‘Do you want to?’ Sandra tried to take a leaf out of the curate’s book, letting Frieda make her own decisions, while she kept her opinions to herself.

  Frieda pulled a tortured expression. ‘If I am honest, yes. But you help keep me strong. I know I’ll be hurt further if I allow my feelings to get the better of me. Antonio deceived me and I know he is a…’ She raised her eyebrows as she searched for the word.

  ‘A two-timing cad?’ Sandra helped out. She wanted to both laugh and yell ‘Hurrah for you!’ and she would have done if the moment hadn’t been so serious.

  Instead, she nodded encouragingly.

  Sandra continued to meet with Brad on Sundays after work and a visit to the church and it never ceased to amaze her how her heart rate quickened at the thought of seeing him. However much she was worried about Alf, or exhausted from work, being with Brad restored her strength. Her mood, from the moment she clapped eyes on him, instantly became brighter.

  ‘Hey, Sandra. How are you doing?’

  She cycled up close to where he was waiting in the road on his bike – they’d begun cycling together, which was helping his leg become strong again.

  He brushed her forearm. ‘Still pedalling that black monster.’

  Her arm tingled at this touch. ‘No hills today, remember. Not everyone has the luxury of gears.’

  ‘I’ve looked at the map and planned a route. We’re off up the shire.’

  The little dark shadows under his eyes now gone, Brad looked tanned and carefree, and though he still had fine lines etched at the corners of his eyes and grey in his hair, he looked younger than when she’d met him at the dance.

  The day was clammy and hot, with a blanket indigo sky. As she cycled behind Brad, Sandra noticed a haversack on his back. They cycled along narrow roads, the sun dazzling her eyes. Passing workers in the fields, they rode up a steep hill where Sandra viewed the breathtaking collage of colourful fields for miles around.

  Brad stopped to look at his map. ‘See that building…?’ Sandra shaded her eyes and looked up to the brow of the hill where there was a church with white painted windows. ‘According to this map, there should be a track on the right just before you reach the summit.’

  ‘So much for no hills,’ Sandra grumbled. Then squinting, she pointed. ‘There it is.’

  Brad folded the map and mounted his bike. All Sandra could think of as she followed him along the narrow track was, Who on earth built, let alone attended, a church in this isolated countryside? Then she remembered there had been lead mines in the area and, according to the elder villagers, the area had crawled with workers.

  Cycling on, under the blissful cool of the overhanging trees, they came to a glade where a flowing stream torrented over high rocks and filled the deep and inviting pool below.

  ‘It’s what I imagine a fairy glen to look like.’ Sandra’s eager tone echoed her delight.

  Lush grass surrounded the pool and the pounding from the waterfall intensified the magical feel.

  ‘How about we take a dip?’ Brad laid his bicycle on the grass.

  Sandra did the same then moved closer to him, noticing beads of sweat on his brow. The masculine sweaty smell of him aroused her. Flustered, she let out a laugh. ‘I don’t even own a bathing costume.’

  Her thoughts turned to the one she’d once worn when she went to the beach at South Shields on her afternoon off when she worked for the Kirtons. It was woollen, and when it got wet it hung down to her knees. Not very romantic.

  Brad rummaged in his haversack. He brought out two towels. ‘I noticed on the map the track ends abruptly. In England that usually means there’s a little stream.’

  He handed her a towel. ‘Slip your things off.’ He gave a cheeky grin. ‘I won’t look.’

  Sandra was appalled. Then she looked around, at the wonderful setting, the sound of the waterfall, and felt the heat of her body, her clothes clinging to her skin. The man standing before her had a soppy grin on his face. How often in life did an opportunity like this present itself?

  ‘Promise you won’t look?’

  ‘I promise.’

  Brad turned his back towards her. Sandra undressed to her knickers – no way was she removing them – her clothes slipping to the ground. She sto
od by the water far away from the waterfall and dared herself to go in. She sat on the edge and plunged into the pool. The icy water reaching above her groin, Sandra gasped in surprise at the cold.

  ‘Ready or not, I’m coming in. Close your eyes.’

  In a flash Sandra dipped down and immersed her shoulders in the icy depths. After the initial shock, she found she quickly acclimatised to the silky waters.

  There was a terrific splash and then a stillness of water, then Brad’s head emerged in front of her. His hair pasted to his head, droplets of water running down his face, Brad’s eyes locked with hers. He moved towards her and ran his tongue over his lower lip. Sandra couldn’t help herself. She bent forward and kissed him on his full lips.

  Their naked bodies entwined, she knew before she got lost in the kiss that she’d fallen in love with Brad Carter.

  28

  Nothing that Monday morning could dampen Sandra’s spirits. Not the nights getting dark quicker, nor the fact the weather had turned muggy and wet. After the day spent with Brad yesterday, Sandra was still in a euphoric daze.

  Cycling along the road to the farm in the awakening light, her mind drifted to the kiss in the pool and a quiver of pleasure that had rushed through her. Afterwards, Sandra had swamped herself in the towel as she wasn’t confident enough to show Brad her naked body. Her skin tingling and refreshed, she had looked over to where he was drying himself with his back towards her – and Sandra’s eyes had been drawn like a magnet to his tight and firm naked buttocks.

  Brad had turned and his prolonged gaze held a questioning look. One nod was all it took and, swiftly, he moved towards her, seizing Sandra in his arms. Their bodies pressing together, his skin cool and soft against hers, she realised without shame that the towel had dropped to the ground. Brad’s kiss was long and sensually slow. He teased her bottom lip with his teeth. A pleasing sense of warmth flooded through her. Shocked, Sandra realised her throbbing body wanted more.

  As they stood like that, a scene had played in her mind’s eye. Frieda telling how Antonio had wanted intercourse but she knew she wasn’t ready.

  Abruptly, Sandra had pulled away from Brad. ‘I’m sorry I can’t do—’

  ‘No… no, I don’t want you—’

  ‘I’m not ready to—’

  ‘I understand. Sandra, I’m not being fair.’

  Neither was she. Was she really comparing Brad with Antonio? Suddenly, and without quite understanding why, she thought of the curate. Surprised, Sandra wondered why she was concerned about Mr Carlton. She had this sense that if she went the whole way with Brad, somehow she’d be letting him down. Just as Frieda had felt when she thought of her mama’s reaction.

  She had brushed the thought aside. All Sandra knew was she ached for Brad.

  As she’d dressed for work that morning, the thought occurred to her that if she and Brad made a go of things, it would mean she’d have to move to Florida. That was expected of girls who married American servicemen. How exciting – a new start in a foreign country. A small frown corrugated Sandra’s brow as she pondered the matter. She would regret leaving the life she’d built here, the friends she’d made. But she’d be with Brad. That was all that mattered, wasn’t it?

  Cycling the last few yards to work though the drizzle, a pink hue adorning the grey sky, Sandra acknowledged that she could understand Frieda’s predicament. For the thought had crossed her mind that Brad, an undoubtedly experienced man, would have no more to do with Sandra now he’d found out how immature she was in matters of sex.

  What was she thinking? Brad was too worthy a man to have such dishonourable thoughts. His final words as he’d left her at the bottom of the hostel path proved the fact; he was trustworthy and wasn’t just after one thing.

  ‘Here’s looking at you, kid. I’ve had a smashing time. Same time same place next week.’

  He wanted to see her again.

  But as she left her bicycle in the yard and made her way up to the byre, she frowned again.

  Why had Brad said yesterday, ‘I’m not being fair’?

  For the rest of the day Sandra didn’t have time to think. A harvesting gang of Land Girls sent by Jessie had arrived in the yard.

  ‘I think it’s lovely people rallying to help,’ Sandra told Mr Jeffries in the byre.

  Mr Jeffries had rounded up local farmers to give Mr Nichol a hand. The farmers’ wives had arrived carrying food provisions for the day.

  The old man removed his pipe from his mouth. ‘Aye, it’s the neighbourly thing to do when folk have troubles.’

  The people of Leadburn went up a hundredfold in Sandra’s estimation.

  When Mr Nichol appeared in the byre, he looked shrunken. With red-rimmed eyes and gaunt face, he gave the impression he hadn’t had a wink of sleep. He adopted an attitude of being in charge but Sandra could tell, by the way he kept giving a deep swallow, that at any minute his emotions would get the better of him.

  ‘When you’re done milking give a hand in the field,’ he told her in a gruff voice.

  Sandra supposed the best thing for the poor soul was to immerse himself in work. She didn’t dare explore what Mr Nichol was going through – it was too unbearable even to contemplate.

  She didn’t get to speak to Frieda during milking time to find out how she was, and afterward the lass was off on the milk round with Mr Nichol. But Sandra had done her habitual daily inspection and felt reassured that, though still bony, Frieda hadn’t lost any weight and her skin still had its recent healthy sheen.

  After milking, Sandra spent time with the harvesting gang, which included Evelyn. Her job was to help cut out an area at the entrance of the field with a scythe.

  ‘Why are we doing this?’ Sandra enquired of Evelyn.

  ‘I should think it’s obvious,’ Evelyn replied with her usual candour. ‘It’s so that the reaper and binder can get in.’

  A feeling of being a ‘daft townie’ washed over Sandra, but then she thought of all the skills she’d acquired recently and felt proud.

  The damp morning changed into brilliant sunshine and it was a case of making hay while the sun shone.

  After a satisfying dinner of corn beef hash served up by the village women, Evelyn appeared with – surprisingly – a box camera. ‘Gather round, everyone, and smile please.’

  Six of the Land Girls, carrying bound corn sheaves, four at the back and two kneeling in front, posed for the camera.

  ‘Say cheese,’ someone called.

  ‘Cheese,’ they all said in unison, followed by a great guffaw.

  Evelyn clicked the camera. ‘When you’re old and grey,’ Evelyn told them as she put the camera in its case and hung the strap over a shoulder, ‘your grandchildren won’t believe you were once young and worked on a farm.’

  Sandra sobered. If we survive this war, she thought.

  Her thoughts turned to Alf. She wondered what he’d do after the war. She couldn’t bore folk by incessantly talking about him and so Sandra liked to delve into her mind and have these little imaginings. It helped her feel she was keeping him close, and lessened the pain of worrying how he was faring when she didn’t hear from him.

  Before she could wander into an ideal future, a whistle pierced the air from the vicinity of the farmhouse.

  She saw the village women carrying trays across the field.

  Evelyn looked at her watch. ‘Half five. They’re late bringing the sandwiches.’

  ‘Blimey, the time’s raced.’ Sandra couldn’t believe the afternoon had gone so fast.

  ‘My back’s breaking with all the stooping.’ Evelyn headed for the field entrance. ‘I’m ready for a sit down.’

  Sandra followed and sat with the rest of the workers on the grass between the farmhouse and the cornfield. The women set the trays on the ground and Sandra eyed the tempting pot of tea and plates of doorstep Spam sandwiches and scones.

  A farm labourer with a grimy and sweaty brow turned towards Sandra as though he was about to speak. Something caught his
eye as he gazed over her shoulder.

  ‘Is that the post office lassie?’

  Sandra, her back to the farmhouse, turned.

  Frieda was hurrying across the path from the farm and she came to where the company was sprawled on the grass.

  She held something in her hand.

  A telegram. A cold shiver ran through Sandra’s body.

  The chattering stopped and only the distant sound of a dog barking could be heard. Frieda passed the workers one by one and the relief was plain to see on their faces.

  She stopped in front of Sandra. ‘I wanted to bring you this myself.’ Her voice breathless, she held out the telegram.

  Sandra stared at the yellow envelope Frieda handed to her. A feeling of foreboding crept over her and she had the uncanny sensation that she was moving in slow motion.

  Everyone was staring at her. Sandra didn’t want to open the telegram here and have Frieda read it out loud. And she was too impatient to stumble over the telegram’s words herself.

  There was only one place Sandra would feel secure, one person who she could rely on to read the telegram dispassionately but still be there for support if needs be. She brushed aside thoughts of how awkward she’d felt since she’d talked to him about Brad. This was too important to let personal matters get in the way.

  The sound of the knocker as it banged on the door echoed along the passageway.

  Staring at the telegram in her hand, which she held as if it were a grenade ready to explode, Sandra felt sick.

  Mistakes do happen, she told herself. But she realised she was only trying to make things better. Like she did with Frieda. How many times had she told her to look on the positive side, to believe that her family in Germany would survive? Sandra knew now how empty and trite the words were.

  Suddenly, she wanted to shout her anger at the gods, scream at them for allowing her precious brother to be in danger.

  A hand touched her shoulder and Sandra nearly passed out with fright.