by Jenny Holmes
‘Honestly, Grace, I couldn’t care less.’ He stood up abruptly and went out to the porch to put on his boots. ‘I’m only interested in keeping out of Father’s way and minding my own business.’
‘Why? What’s he said?’ Overcoming her own hurt feelings, she joined him in the porch. ‘Has he been having a go at you?’
‘What do you think?’ The old man had been on at him since the moment he walked through the door – fetch this, carry that, pull yourself together. ‘He’s downright ashamed of me – anyone can see that.’
‘No, he’s worried about you, that’s all.’
‘He’s got a funny way of showing it.’
Well aware of the increasingly bad atmosphere between Edgar and their father, Grace sought for a way forward. ‘I’ll ask him to stop nagging you. He might listen to me.’
‘And pigs might fly.’ Edgar let his resentment show. As far as he was concerned, the old man was an overbearing bully. Not that his customers saw that side of him when he was behind the bar, where he was cheerful and easy-going enough to serve drinks well after closing time and to turn a blind eye to strict measures. An extra tot or two of rum would be repaid by a rabbit, skinned and ready for the pot, or else half a dozen eggs and a quarter of tea delivered anonymously to the back doorstep.
‘I’ll try, anyway.’ Over the last few days, Grace had found herself growing desperate to ease Edgar’s suffering. There was obviously something terrible on his mind that made him shut her out so completely. At this moment, he seemed to hate her, along with their father and the whole world.
‘I’m not a child. You don’t have to look after me.’ He took his RAF greatcoat from the peg and stormed off, making the robin fly away.
The gulf yawned between them – a silence as thick and solid as the stone walls of this house where they’d grown up together. Frustration brought tears to Grace’s eyes. He hasn’t taken any interest in home news since he got back – none whatsoever. Grace gave a regretful sigh. Lots had happened since Edgar had been away. She had so much to tell him – so many hopes and fears. And one big secret that she hadn’t yet shared with a single soul.’
‘Guess who drew the short straw.’ It was seven o’clock on Monday morning and Joyce was setting off by bike from Fieldhead with Una, Brenda, Elsie and Jean. She led the way along the frosty lane, laughing as she lodged her complaint. ‘Me and Jean – that’s who. We’ve been sent in your place to Home Farm, worse luck.’
Una felt a twinge of guilt but kept quiet while Jean moaned away behind her.
‘If Joe Kellett thinks I’m going to dig ditches, he’s got another think coming. It’s bad enough keeping his cows fed and watered now that he’s brought them inside. The stink is enough to put you off your food for a week.’
Brenda was silent too as she contemplated something of a pyrrhic victory. It seemed that Bill Mostyn had kept his promise and succeeded in persuading Edith to alter the rota. But she, Grace and Una found they’d been sent to bag potatoes at a farm she didn’t know. The wind was keen and the weather forecast predicted that the cold spell was set to continue, so they were being sent from one form of outdoor drudgery to another. Still, a change was as good as a rest.
Joyce let Jean’s complaints wash over her. ‘Not to worry; your job will be to look after the bonfire. I’ve brought a kettle in my saddlebag to make us gypsy tea for our elevenses. I’ll get Frank to do the digging with me. It’s about time he pulled his weight.’
‘If anyone can get him to do a decent day’s work, you can.’ Brenda reached the crossroads leading to Burnside and pulled in at the side of the road.
‘You leave Frank Kellett to me,’ Joyce said with a wink.
‘Oh and by the way, if you run into Grace, tell her we’ve gone on ahead. We’ll see her at Brigg Farm,’ Brenda told Joyce and Jean.
‘No need – here she is now.’ Joyce saw Grace cycling up the road. ‘Come on, Jean, the sooner we get this dratted ditch dug, the better.’
Brenda intervened quickly. ‘Before you go – I haven’t had a chance to ask you if you’ll play the piano for us at the Christmas show.’
‘What’s that you say? I didn’t even know we were doing another show,’ Jean muttered.
‘We’re not, unless Joyce agrees to tinkle the ivories for us,’ Brenda went blithely on. ‘What do you say, maestro?’
‘Count me in,’ Joyce agreed. ‘Make a list of the tunes you want me to play and I’ll practise them on the piano at the hostel.’
‘We haven’t decided on the songs yet.’ Brenda realized there was a lot of preparation to be done in a short time. ‘We want them to be bright and breezy, though. Nothing too highbrow. What did you do for last year’s show, Jean?’
Jean was still in a huff. ‘I served tea and biscuits during the interval. You wouldn’t get me up on stage in a month of Sundays.’
‘What about you, Una? Do you fancy doing a charleston for us?’
Una shook her head. ‘I don’t know if I’ll be here over Christmas. I might want to apply for leave and spend it with Tom at Wellington Street.’
‘Oh no, don’t do that!’ Brenda brooked no argument. ‘Your duty is to stay here and serve King and country.’
Yes, by prancing about on a stage. Una didn’t voice her doubts. ‘Maybe. But charleston’s old hat these days.’
‘But you will do something? It’s for the Italian POWs – a captive audience, you might say.’
Una said she would think about it as Grace joined them and Jean and Joyce carried on towards the village. Grace greeted them cheerily and their mood stayed buoyant despite the prospect of unearthing potatoes from their winter clamps and putting them into one-hundredweight sacks.
‘What did you do at the weekend?’ Grace asked Una as they pedalled slowly uphill. ‘Did you have a good rest?’
‘I slept in until nine o’clock yesterday morning then I cycled into the village to post a letter to my brother.’
‘You should have dropped in at the pub,’ Grace told her. ‘I was doing nothing all morning.’
In fact, she’d been worrying about Edgar, trying in vain to talk to her father about the state he was in. Her father had brushed aside her concerns. ‘That lad needs to get back in harness double quick,’ he’d retorted. ‘He can’t sit here twiddling his thumbs.’
‘Next time I will,’ Una promised. Grace gave off a warmth that was irresistible. If Una had had an older sister, she would have wished her to be exactly like her, she realized.
‘Over there – that’s our farm for today.’ Grace’s heart sank as she saw that a thin layer of snow covered the high ground surrounding Brigg Farm, but it rose again when she realized that they weren’t the only ones who had been sent to work for Roland Thomson. There was a large green lorry parked outside the farmhouse, currently disgorging a dozen or so men in grey uniforms under the watchful eye of two soldiers bearing rifles. The uniforms were marked by large red circles sewn onto the back.
‘It seems we’ve got some help,’ she pointed out to Una and Brenda. ‘They’ve brought the Italians in from Beckwith Camp.’
It was the first time either of the new girls had encountered prisoners of war and both felt nervous as they left the lane and cycled up the rutted, frozen track. By the time they arrived at the farm, the Italians had been shepherded over the snowy ridge, out of sight.
‘Leave your bikes in the barn and be quick about it.’ Roland Thomson didn’t bother with greetings. Like most of the farmers, he was still sceptical of how much use the Land Army girls could be and he had a small man’s belligerence in his dealings with the world. ‘You three can work on the clamp furthest away from the house. Grace, I take it you know what you’re doing? You can show the other two.’
So they followed instructions and made their way over the hilltop to find the prisoners already at work lifting the top layers of straw from five separate clamps set against the sheltered side of the hill. Each clamp was between twenty-five and thirty feet long and about three feet
high, made up of nine-inch layers of straw, then potatoes, then straw again. The two Tommies leaned against a gnarled tree trunk smoking and keeping watch, occasionally shouting an order at one of the Italians.
‘The straw is to keep out the frost,’ Grace explained to Una and Brenda, keeping her mind on the job in hand. ‘If the frost gets to the potatoes they go rotten and have to be thrown away.’
The four Italians working at the nearest clamp stopped work and watched the girls walk by. They smiled and called hello in English then lapsed into rapid Italian. The second group picked up on the arrival of female reinforcements and also stopped work, as did the third.
One of the Tommies grinned at the girls. ‘Hello, ladies. You’ve got plenty of admirers today, eh?’
‘Yes, and don’t we look the bees’ knees?’ Brenda pulled a face as she glanced down at her muddy breeches and wellingtons. There seemed to be no need to keep a close watch on the prisoners since their two guards had turned their backs on them and decided to walk with her, Una and Grace to the last clamp in the row.
‘Do they speak much English, or is it just “hello”?’ Una wanted to know. She felt dozens of eyes following them and was still not sure how to react. One of the Italians had stepped forward to speak to them as they passed – he had the darkest hair she’d ever seen, so dark it was almost black, and he was clean shaven with a wide, friendly smile.
‘My name is Angelo,’ he told them in a lilting voice. ‘I am pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise.’ Brenda was the first to respond by shaking his hand. ‘I’m Brenda Appleby and this is Una Sharpe and Grace Kershaw.’
After this there was much eager hand shaking and smiling and very little potato lifting for five or ten minutes until one of the Tommies broke up the party and the girls were encouraged to continue on their way.
‘Don’t worry; this lot won’t bother you,’ the soldier who said his name was Jack told them. ‘They’re all right, on the whole. Friendly but lazy just about sums them up.’
‘But there are only two of you.’ Brenda was intrigued. ‘Don’t they ever try to run away?’
‘Where would they run to?’ Jack gestured towards the frozen slopes stretching into the far distance. ‘And I’ve got this, remember.’ He tapped the butt of his rifle.
Albert, the second guard, nodded his agreement. ‘Anyway, life’s not too bad for them. They can get hold of better coffee and cigarettes than we can, for a start. Plus, they’re fed and watered so they might as well sit it out here and let their Jerry pals do all the hard work.’
Listening in, Una felt she was learning a lot, and not just about bagging potatoes.
‘Una,’ Angelo called to her as she began to lift the first layer of straw. ‘I have gloves – you want?’
‘No, ta,’ she called back shyly.
Brenda, however, quickly saw the advantage of protecting her hands and she accepted the same offer from Angelo’s taller, even better-looking friend.
‘I am Lorenzo,’ the other man said in a deep voice as he handed over his gloves. He smiled less than Angelo but he was polite and attentive, warning her about a hidden dip in the ground and the dangers of slipping on the snowy surface. ‘Later I make fire and we bake potatoes, drink coffee – OK?’
‘Make a fire where? What with?’ The day was turning out surprisingly well and Brenda was in no hurry to get back to her own clamp.
‘Here. With wood from hedge. You like potatoes?’
She gave a raucous laugh. ‘Lorenzo, I love them!’
‘This is true?’
‘No!’ She laughed again and her smile lit up her whole face. ‘We’ve brought sandwiches. But coffee – yes, please.’
‘Then we will meet at noon,’ he promised as she walked away.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Italians sang as they worked – sad, lilting songs from operas that were unfamiliar to Una, Brenda and Grace – in voices that soared as high as the rooks circling overhead. They picked potatoes from the clamps and dropped them into hessian sacks, ignoring their frost-pinched fingers and stopping from time to time to add hedge clippings to the bonfire that they’d started on the brow of the hill. By mid-morning the sacks were full and Angelo ran to fetch Roland’s son with his horse-drawn cart.
Una recognized the cart’s driver and the grey shire horse she’d seen in the pub yard on the day she’d arrived. The carroty-red hair was unmistakeable, along with the big-toothed, cheeky grin. Major plodded towards them, breathing clouds of steam into the cold air.
‘Whoa!’ the boy cried as they reached the first clamp. He watched as the prisoners hoisted the full sacks onto the cart then gave a click of his tongue for the horse to move on. When he reached the final clamp he jumped down from the cart. ‘Now then, how are you three getting on with the enemy?’ he asked the girls with a wink and a glance over his shoulder. ‘Not too friendly, I hope.’
‘Fat chance,’ Brenda replied. ‘We’ve done nothing but pick blooming potatoes since we got here. What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Neville Thomson. You can call me Nev.’
‘Well, Nev, are you going to give us a hand loading these sacks?’ Dwarfed by the carthorse, Brenda took care to stand well clear of his enormous hooves.
Angelo appeared out of nowhere. ‘This I do,’ he said, picking up the nearest sack and slinging it onto the cart. Soon Lorenzo and two other prisoners had joined in the task and within minutes the sacks were loaded without Neville or the girls lifting a finger.
‘Ta, that’s good of you,’ Grace told the prisoners with genuine gratitude. She didn’t think her aching back would have taken the weight of the heavy sacks.
Lorenzo gave a formal bow then took hold of Major’s harness while Neville climbed back onto the cart. He helped him steer it in a wide circle to face the way they’d come, led the horse a few steps along the ridge then let go.
‘Giddy up.’ Neville clicked his tongue and shook the reins and, with a creak of straining leather, Major pulled away.
‘What was that last song you were singing?’ Una asked Angelo as the cart rattled over the frozen ground.
‘From Tosca,’ he replied with a warm smile. ‘The song of the shepherd boy; “Io de’ sospiri”.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘It means: “I give you sighs”.’ He stayed after the others had returned to their clamps.
Una got the gist of what he was saying and smiled back. ‘I didn’t understand the words but I liked the sound of it. Will you sing some more?’
Angelo nodded. ‘You drink coffee?’
‘We will, won’t we?’ Una appealed to Brenda and Grace, already hard at work.
Grace lifted the next layer of straw while Brenda opened the necks of the empty sacks. Grace followed Brenda in agreeing to join the Italians around the bonfire and Angelo went away happy.
‘My, my,’ Brenda commented on Una’s flushed cheeks. ‘That’s made your day.’
Una ignored her and held a sack open while Brenda threw potatoes into it. ‘Angelo invited all three of us, not just me.’ One of the potatoes missed the sack and she stooped to pick it up to hide her blushes.
‘Take no notice,’ Grace said. ‘I learned early on that Brenda likes to tease.’
They worked on, getting into the rhythm of lifting and picking, soothed by the repetitive regularity of the work and by the sound of mellifluous voices raised to sing again. As they filled each sack to the brim they saw the clear results of their labour. Then, when at noon the sun broke briefly through the clouds and slanting rays fell across the snowy hillside, they felt warmth on their faces and satisfaction in their hearts.
They were almost sorry when the private they knew as Albert left his post by the solitary tree and came to tell them it was dinner time. ‘There’s coffee on the go,’ he promised them, gesturing towards the circle of prisoners already gathered round the bonfire. ‘And baked potatoes, if you want them.’
‘No, ta.’ Brenda stood up straight to eas
e her back. ‘To be honest with you, I’d be quite happy if I never saw another potato ever again.’
‘Please yourself.’ Albert shrugged and led the way to the fire. ‘I’m only the messenger.’
‘Drat – I’ve left my sandwiches in my saddlebag,’ Brenda remembered, cutting off across the hillside towards the farm buildings to fetch them. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ she warned Una and Grace as Angelo, Lorenzo and the other prisoners welcomed them into the group.
Lorenzo handed them enamelled tin mugs full of steaming black coffee. ‘Drink,’ he encouraged.
Grace stood by the crackling heat of the fire, sipping slowly. The coffee was good and strong and she felt revived.
‘You like?’ Angelo asked Una, holding up a blue paper bag. When she nodded he tilted the bag carefully and poured a trickle of sugar into her drink, offering to stir it with a stick.
His concentration amused her – the way he knitted his smooth brows only made him more handsome, she thought. ‘Enough,’ she said and he looked at her with those smiling, dark-brown eyes. He’d managed to add style to his grey prisoner’s jacket by turning up the collar and winding a white scarf around his neck. His olive skin and black hair made a strong contrast. The small fact that his nails were bitten back and his fingers stained by nicotine didn’t bother her. In her eyes, he was perfect.
‘I show you something,’ he told her confidentially as if there was no one else around. He drew a small wooden whistle from his top pocket and handed it to her. ‘I make for my sister’s son in Pisa where I live.’
The whistle was skilfully made. It had a pattern of leaves and flowers carved into it. ‘Pisa,’ she repeated. ‘You’re a long way from home.’
‘Yes.’ Angelo took the child’s instrument and placed it back in his pocket. ‘I come here from far away when ship sink. Many dead. I live.’
‘You were lucky,’ Una said quietly. It struck her that this was the first time she’d spoken to anyone on the enemy side and that it was the same as talking to Albert – apart from the language, of course. They were both just young men, called up to do their bit. ‘I have three brothers – two in the Merchant Navy, one in the army.’
