A Christmas Wish for the Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  The firelight cast flickering shadows over Hettie’s face, making it difficult for Brenda to judge how ill she might be. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’ve felt better, I admit.’

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  Hettie gave a dismissive sniff. ‘Dr Hood isn’t saying. He’s ordered some tests.’

  ‘But what are the symptoms?’ Brenda wasn’t surprised that Hettie was unforthcoming. She was the indomitable sort who viewed illness as a weakness that must be resisted without fuss. ‘Do you have a temperature?’

  ‘Not really. I can’t keep any food down. That’s the problem.’

  A closer inspection told Brenda that Hettie had lost weight, which she could ill afford to do. Always tall and angular, there were now hollows in her cheeks and her wrists and ankles were thin and bony. ‘That sounds nasty,’ she commiserated. ‘My mother developed a bad case of indigestion when she was my age. It turned out to be a hiatus hernia.’

  Hettie acknowledged the information with a faint nod. ‘Christmas will be here before we know it.’

  ‘It will.’

  ‘I’m knitting Les and Donald a jumper each. Father will have to make do with pipe tobacco this year. Rationing makes the festive season difficult, don’t you think?’

  ‘It does.’ Brenda frowned at the small talk. This wasn’t like Hettie at all. Normally she would be firing questions, quick as a machine gun – had Brenda heard from Les? What did Brenda think of Mr Churchill’s speech last Sunday? Had she heard about the Land Girl recently employed at a farm near Hawkshead who had arrived with a bad reputation? It turned out that the girl was indeed a bit fast so the farmer wouldn’t keep her. This sort of thing was often intended as a side swipe at Brenda. Today, however, Hettie was more subdued and talking inconsequentially about knitting.

  ‘Let’s not forget that Les has three days’ leave coming up.’ Brenda steered the talk in a new direction. ‘Next weekend, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Has he?’ Hettie raised her eyebrows.

  Brenda patted the letter in the pocket of her slacks. ‘He says so here, fingers crossed. Of course, this was written a few weeks ago and things can change at the last minute.’

  ‘Yes, who knows what may happen?’ Hettie pulled the shawl more tightly around her shoulders. ‘Would you put some more coal on the fire, Brenda?’

  The door opened as Brenda crouched low to tend to the fire and Donald White sauntered into the room. ‘Look what the wind blew in!’ he declared, hands in pockets, openly admiring his brother’s fiancée’s back view.

  The sound of his voice, ebullient and mocking, stayed Brenda’s hand and she felt her face glow. Drat, she thought, just who I didn’t want to bump into!

  She and Donald had never seen eye to eye and the better she’d got to know him, the more blinkered and arrogant she found him. Donald White was the centre of his own little world, unable to understand that not all girls swooned under his handsome gaze, despite his thick dark hair, wide straight mouth and the pale grey eyes that he’d apparently inherited from his Irish mother. He had an easy, flattering gift of the gab that almost always got him what he wanted. Not with Brenda, however.

  ‘Hello, Donald.’ She straightened up and turned to face him, taking in his open-necked white shirt and yellow silk cravat, teamed with wide navy blue trousers. ‘I called in to see how Hettie was.’

  ‘I was in the bath when you arrived. Now I’m in my best bib and tucker, ready to nip down to the local for a swift half before I drive my brand-new Rover into town. Do you fancy joining me?’

  She met his taunting gaze. ‘No, thanks. I’ll stay here with Hettie.’

  ‘Please yourself.’ His shrug made it clear that it was her loss and that at the same time he wouldn’t readily take no for an answer. Ignoring Hettie, he moved in on Brenda, so close that she could smell the Brylcreem in his hair. ‘Are you sure I can’t persuade you?’

  ‘Quite sure, ta.’ She bristled and took a step back. It was one thing to borrow Les’s MG sports car whenever it suited you, but I’m his fiancée – I’m not some flighty good-time girl for you to pick up and throw away again.

  Donald grunted then winked at Hettie. ‘It was worth a try, eh?’ he said as he backed out of the room.

  ‘Ignore him,’ Hettie said sternly, her drawn face poker-straight.

  ‘I do,’ Brenda assured her. ‘Believe me, I do.’

  ‘There’s nothing like riding Old Sloper over the moors in the dead of night to set you thinking.’ Brenda stared into the embers of the dying bonfire, aware that only she and Joyce remained outside. All the other girls had gone inside to fill their hot-water bottles and take to their beds.

  ‘Don’t you love the smell of a wood fire?’ Joyce’s face was flushed from tending the fire and her eyes smarted from the smoke. ‘So, Miss Appleby, you say you’ve been thinking?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t sound so surprised.’ The ride back from Attercliffe had given Brenda the space and time to let a new idea crystallize but she’d waited for the others to disperse before she shared it with Joyce. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m planning to follow in your footsteps.’

  Joyce picked up a rake to heap soil over the remains of the bonfire. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I want to leave Fieldhead and try somewhere new; that’s how.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  It was too dark to see Joyce’s expression. ‘You don’t sound surprised.’

  ‘I’m not. You’ve never been one to let the grass grow under your feet. But why now? Has something happened?’

  ‘Besides you deserting us?’ Brenda did her best to keep the mood light as she unzipped her jacket and took off her gauntlets. Then she let her guard drop. ‘If you really want to know, it’s partly because I want to find a way of steering clear of Donald.’

  ‘He still won’t leave you alone, eh?’ Joyce turned towards the house and slid her arm through Brenda’s.

  Brenda sighed. ‘This is Donald White we’re talking about.’

  ‘What’s he done now?’

  ‘The usual. Every time I cross his path he tries it on with me – would I care for a spin in his new Rover? Would I like to go out for a drink with him? You know the routine.’

  Joyce stopped outside the back door and squeezed Brenda’s hand. ‘I wouldn’t let him drive me away if I were you.’

  ‘But you’re not me.’ Lovely, even-tempered Joyce – her very name was a byword for steady and reliable; whereas she, Brenda, had acquired a reputation as a flirt and a tease, thanks to an incident she would rather forget with a Canadian pilot named John Mackenzie. ‘People don’t respect me the way they do you. They only have to see me exchange a single word with Donald to jump to the wrong conclusion. Sooner or later Les is bound to pick up on the nasty rumours.’

  ‘Which is most likely what Donald intends.’ Joyce would still be sorry if this were the only reason for Brenda to move away. ‘It’s a pity that his dragon sister can’t keep him in line.’

  ‘Hettie’s poorly. She’s having to take a back seat for a while.’ Brenda led the way into the house. ‘In any case, Joyce, I was sailing along on Old Sloper under a starry sky, feeling the world was my oyster, and that’s when it flashed into my mind – what’s to stop me from moving on like you?’

  ‘That’s more like it.’ More like the free-spirited, daring girl that Joyce admired. They walked into the kitchen together and she warmed up a pan of milk to make two mugs of cocoa.

  ‘Now all I have to do is pin down Ma Craven and Mrs Mostyn and pray that one of them doesn’t have a heart attack when I give them the news.’

  ‘The Ministry of Food wants farmers to grow more flax next year.’ Edith Mostyn was sitting with Hilda Craven in the warden’s office. She’d driven out to Fieldhead early on Saturday afternoon after a nice lunch at Bill and Grace’s house before leaving the happy couple to themselves, as she put it.

  Bill was home on a brief leave, fussing over Grace and avoiding all talk of the war and
life in the Royal Armoured Corps.

  ‘You look well, son,’ she’d told him on the doorstep of the young married couple’s terraced home, preparing to say goodbye. His sportsman’s physique was enhanced by the epaulettes of his uniform and he’d recently grown a neat moustache. ‘The army must suit you.’

  ‘I am well,’ he’d assured her. ‘And all the better for knowing that you take good care of Grace while I’m away.’

  ‘Your wife is well on the road to bearing you a healthy, happy baby, touch wood. It’s you we both worry about.’

  Bill had smiled stiffly. ‘We all have to do our bit.’

  ‘I know we do.’ Edith had turned up the collar of her fur coat and put on her plum-coloured leather gloves. ‘But not in the Far East, touch wood.’ Burma, the Philippines, Papua – they would be the very worst postings as far as Edith was concerned. And yet she knew that many in her son’s regiment, ‘The Old and the Bold’, were already slugging it out there against the Japanese.

  Bill had shrugged then muttered an answer: ‘We go where we’re needed.’

  In an unusual show of motherly love, she’d embraced him.

  ‘Careful; you’ll choke the life out of me,’ he’d joked.

  Her son, the person she loved best in the world. They’d said their goodbyes and now here she was sitting opposite Hilda, discussing which fields in the area might be set aside for flax growing and which Ministry of Information film they would next put on in the Village Institute. Eventually the talk came around to the real reason behind Edith’s visit.

  ‘We’re losing one of our best workers in Joyce Cutler,’ Hilda pointed out as Edith took some neatly folded sheets of foolscap paper from her handbag. She laid her broad hands palms down on her leather-topped desk, the black telephone to one side and a folder containing the following week’s work rota close by. ‘She’ll be a hard gap to fill.’

  ‘Yes, but what can I do? Joyce put in a request to be moved, which is within her rights.’ The local rep’s trim, upright figure and clipped voice was in marked contrast to the more homely, relaxed air given off by the hostel warden. Yet the two middle-aged widows had known each other all their lives and rubbed along well enough.

  ‘I’m only saying – that’s all.’

  Edith slid the paperwork across the desk. ‘This needs your signature to vouch for Joyce being suitable for a transfer. You can add a remark if you wish.’

  A capable, cheery girl. Hilda wrote carefully in the space provided then pushed the papers back with a sigh.

  ‘Is Joyce back yet?’ Edith looked at her watch. Saturday was a half-day for the girls, leaving them with a free afternoon to do their washing and ironing.

  A glance out of the office window told Hilda that the Land Girl in question was at that moment cycling up the drive with Una, Elsie, Kathleen and Brenda. All were smiling, with hats and scarves firmly in place, their cheeks ruddy from the cold ride home.

  Edith decided to intercept Joyce before she disappeared round the side of the building so she hurried across the hallway and down the front steps, flapping the transfer papers at Joyce as she cycled by.

  ‘Hey-up; that must be the information about your new billet,’ Kathleen remarked before riding on.

  Una and Elsie followed her but Brenda hung back with Joyce, who leaned her bike against the wall then went to talk to Mrs Mostyn.

  ‘I’m sending you to Black Crag Farm at Shawcross,’ Edith informed Joyce. ‘A sheep farm. The farmer there is Laurence Bradley. His son was called up during the summer. As a result he finds he’ll need extra help with feeding as winter sets in.’

  With Brenda looking over her shoulder, Joyce read the papers that the rep had handed to her. ‘Whereabouts is Shawcross?’ she asked.

  ‘Out beyond Kelsey Crag, in the dale north of here. It’s only a tiny village – a hamlet with a dozen or so houses. There won’t be many creature comforts, I can guarantee that.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ Joyce reread the name and address – Laurence Bradley of Black Crag Farm, Shawcross. Once again the move felt very real.

  ‘You’re to start there on Monday.’ Keeping the regret that she felt out of her voice, Edith avoided looking at Joyce and stuck to practicalities. ‘You can catch a bus from Burnside at nine o’clock in the morning. It’ll get you to Shawcross by half past ten.’

  ‘Then I’d better start packing,’ Joyce said with a smile, standing aside to let Brenda speak.

  Brenda cleared her throat. ‘I was wondering, Mrs Mostyn … is there another vacancy out in that neck of the woods?’ Why waste time beating about the bush?

  Edith gave her a startled look and for once let an unguarded remark drop from her lips. ‘Oh no; not you too!’

  ‘Yes, me too.’ Brenda’s heart began to race but she stood her ground. ‘I’m sorry if it’s a bit sudden, but it feels right for me and I’m sure it won’t be hard to fill my shoes. After all, if I can learn to wring chickens’ necks and drive a horse and cart, anyone can!’

  Edith paused to draw breath. Despite her surprise, she quickly realized that there was little she could do to change Brenda’s mind. Besides, if Edith was honest, she’d always found the unpredictable, fun-loving former shop girl a bit of a handful. ‘As a matter of fact …’ she began.

  ‘See!’ Brenda nudged Joyce with her elbow. ‘I knew I wouldn’t be missed.’

  The rep pulled another batch of papers out of her bag. ‘I did consider an alternative to Black Crag Farm when I was looking for a new billet for Joyce. Both cases are rather urgent.’

  Excitement rose in Brenda, like a flurry of butterflies rising from her stomach into her throat. ‘Tell me more.’

  Edith read from the top sheet. ‘Bernard Huby at Garthside Farm. Mr Huby has a daughter, Dorothy, but the girl is delicate. Mr Huby himself is not as young as he used to be.’

  ‘Perfect!’ Brenda’s eyes gleamed. ‘Where do I sign?’

  ‘Once again, I’m afraid there will be very little by way of home comforts,’ Edith warned. ‘Garthside and Black Crag Farm are two of the most remote in the area.’

  ‘Why not take some time to think it over?’ Joyce suggested, with no hope whatsoever that Brenda would follow her advice.

  ‘No need!’ Brenda declared as she took the papers and signed her name with a flourish. ‘Mr Bernard Huby of Garthside Farm, here I come!’

  CHAPTER THREE

  The nine o’clock bus from Burnside was one of only two a week that went out as far as Shawcross village. It was half full when Brenda and Joyce caught it outside the Blacksmith’s Arms, having said their fond farewells to Kathleen, Elsie, Una and the others over breakfast.

  ‘Write to me as often as you can,’ Una had pleaded before she set off for Brigg Farm, muffled in a thick woollen scarf, with canvas gaiters tightly buckled around her legs to guard against the rats that would no doubt scuttle from Roland Thomson’s field clamps as she spent the day lifting potatoes.

  ‘We faithfully promise to keep in touch.’ Joyce’s assurance had come with a Girl Guide salute.

  ‘At least one letter a week,’ Brenda had promised, standing in the hostel hallway with her suitcase at her feet. ‘And if Angelo doesn’t write to you by the middle of the week, tell him he’ll have Joyce and me hammering on his door!’

  Una had reddened as she’d produced an envelope from her coat pocket. ‘It came in this morning’s post.’

  ‘Hurrah!’ Joyce had hugged her. ‘I knew Angelo wouldn’t let you down.’

  ‘Unlike someone else I could mention.’ Brenda’s grumble was about the thin trickle of letters she had received from Les recently. ‘It’ll be even worse from now on: the postman only visits Shawcross one day a week – a Saturday, by all accounts.’

  ‘Rather you than me.’ Kathleen had hurried Una away to start their day. ‘You two must be round the bend!’ she’d called over her shoulder.

  Now, as Brenda and Joyce boarded the bus on a chilly, rain-soaked Monday morning, they feared that Kathleen might have been
right. The inside of the rickety old charabanc was misted up, the driver an elderly woman in a man’s overcoat, her hair plaited and laid flat over the crown of her head. There was a damp, fusty smell from the worn cloth seats and dirty puddles on the floor where passengers had shaken out their umbrellas.

  ‘Nice day for ducks!’ Brenda trilled as she made her way down the aisle.

  There was no response from a thin-lipped young woman sitting on the back seat or from the two old men smelling of damp tweed, smoking their pipes and hawking up phlegm as the girls hoisted their suitcases on to the overhead rack. Other passengers kept their heads buried in newspapers or else wiped condensation from the windows and stared out at the grey hills as the bus set off once more.

  Inhibited by the gloomy silence that had greeted her cheery remark, Brenda settled next to Joyce for a long, dreary journey. For a while they exchanged whispered remarks, wondering what lay ahead.

  Eventually, after half an hour of jolting over potholes and grinding to a halt to offload passengers, Brenda cut through the low rumble of the bus’s engine and spoke in her normal, lively way. ‘Kathleen told me a yarn about a Land Girl who was billeted on a farm in the Lake District – back of beyond, and so on. No running water, no electricity. But the worst thing was this poor girl was expected to share a bed with the farmer’s mother!’

  ‘Trust Kathleen to come up with a tale like that to put us off,’ Joyce murmured. Her attention had been caught by a solitary schoolboy sitting near the front of the bus, his navy blue school mac neatly belted, a gas mask slung diagonally across his chest. The boy stared at the condensation trickling down the window, making no effort to clear it away.

  ‘She mentioned another situation where the farmer was eighty if he was a day, living all on his ownio. The girl arrived to find a heap of bloated sheep’s carcasses piled up in the yard and only the old man’s pet parrot for company.’