A Christmas Wish for the Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘Come down when you’re ready,’ he’d told her.

  She realized there was still plenty for her to learn about the farm routine before it grew dark, though dusk would come early on a day like today; in fact, it was truer to say that it had never really got light. So Joyce descended the stairs to find the farmer in the kitchen, boots back on and waiting impatiently for her to reappear.

  He took her outside into the drizzling rain and pointed out where he kept the two dogs in the kennel by the gate. ‘Not chained,’ he noted. ‘Strangers don’t pass by as a rule. Dogs are free to roam.’

  ‘Do they have names?’

  ‘Grey one’s Flint. Black and white one’s Patch. Over there’s the earth closet.’ He pointed to a small, ramshackle shed with a tin roof.

  Joyce could have guessed this without being told. Even with the door closed, the place reeked – of sour, wet earth mixed with human waste. There was a water tap across the yard, a zinc barrel to collect rain water from the roof, an old stone mounting block for when horses had been the mode of transport.

  ‘Winter feed is in the first barn, tools, machinery and so on in the one nearest the house. Does the Land Army issue you with gumboots?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Oilskins?’

  ‘No, just an overcoat.’

  ‘You’ll find Gordon’s oilskin hanging in the porch.’

  ‘Gordon is your son?’

  Laurence narrowed his eyes and nodded before moving on to show her the barn containing winter feed. ‘Turnips for sheep are in that far corner. Silage for cows in the corrugated-iron container.’

  ‘You keep cows?’

  ‘Three Friesians for milking; that’ll be your job from now on. And half a dozen chickens. No pigs.’

  As Laurence explained and Joyce listened, the two dogs came sniffing. They were sleek creatures, lean to the point of being undernourished, but friendly enough when she bent to stroke them. Flint, the grey one, was the bolder of the two; Patch more suspicious of the newcomer.

  ‘Leave off,’ Laurence chastised her. ‘They’re working dogs, not pets.’

  She frowned at the reprimand and wondered whether he would apply the same standards to her – giving her minimum feed and expecting maximum work – preparing herself in advance. ‘There’s no light in my room,’ she reminded him as he concluded the guided tour and walked back towards the house. ‘Is there a candle or a paraffin lamp I could have?’

  ‘Well, Alma?’ Laurence Bradley strode ahead and flung the question at a figure standing at the sink with her back towards them. ‘Do we have a spare candle?’

  The woman nodded without turning round.

  Joyce stood in the doorway trying to work this out. The presence of a female explained certain things, such as how the housework got done at Black Crag Farm, but raised more questions than it answered. The back view suggested she was young, perhaps no more than twenty years old. She wore a grey cable-knit sweater over a blue pleated skirt that came down to her calves. Her fair hair hung loose around her shoulders.

  ‘She’ll bring you one up,’ Laurence told Joyce.

  Was this his daughter? Joyce hadn’t heard anything about a daughter, though. And was it simple, straightforward shyness that kept the young woman’s back turned, or something more complicated?

  ‘Alma.’ His voice hardened a little. ‘This is Joyce Cutler, the Land Girl I told you about.’

  There was another nod as Alma put teacups into the washing-up bowl.

  ‘Come and say hello,’ Laurence insisted.

  Slowly and deliberately the girl dried her hands on the calico apron that protected her skirt.

  The strange delay made Joyce feel more uncomfortable. She looked from Alma to Laurence then back again. Why was she so reluctant to turn around? What exactly was going on?

  ‘Alma,’ he repeated in the same harsh tone.

  The girl turned at last, hands clasped and head hanging so that her hair partly hid her face.

  The awkward pause went on for a long time. Joyce cleared her throat then stepped forward. ‘I hope I’m not putting you to any trouble – the candle, I mean.’

  The girl raised her head and one hand flew up to her cheek.

  ‘Alma!’ A softer warning emerged through a long, exasperated sigh.

  Reluctantly she lowered the hand and met Joyce’s gaze.

  Joyce held out her hand. ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance.’

  The girl nodded. She bit her lip and glanced at Laurence.

  Joyce caught sight of disfiguring marks on the side of her cheek and neck. They were old, pale scars that had healed unevenly, probably the result of bad burns, extending from her neck, over her jawline and up to her right ear. Only just managing to conceal her surprise, she kept her outstretched hand steady. Alma took it and shook it lightly before fleeing from the room.

  ‘Alma is my wife,’ Laurence explained at last. ‘Just ask her; she’ll fetch you anything you need.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The indistinct figure at the door of Garthside Farm didn’t venture out into the rain as Brenda and Bernard Huby crossed the yard. The woman waited, her outline blurred by heavy mist, arms folded, leaning casually against the door jamb.

  ‘This is my Dorothy.’ Bernard made a quick introduction. ‘Dorothy, this is our Land Girl.’

  ‘Brenda Appleby,’ she said eagerly.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Dorothy shifted to one side to let Brenda and her father into the kitchen.

  ‘Likewise.’ So far, so good. Brenda’s first impressions of her new situation were mostly favourable. Admittedly, the farmhouse kitchen was poky and rather shabby, but this put her at her ease because it meant she wouldn’t have to bother too much about treading mud into the house or letting her wet coat drip on the floor. Dorothy was something of a surprise – round and plump with a rosy face and soft, wavy brown hair – not the delicate-looking girl Brenda had been expecting. She’d looked the newcomer in the eye and smiled enthusiastically.

  ‘Put the kettle on, there’s a good lass,’ Bernard said to his daughter as he took off his cap and oilskin cape to reveal oversized corduroy trousers held up by a thick leather belt and a grey sweater with holes in the elbows, worn over a collarless white shirt. ‘Brenda’s had a long trek to get here. She’ll be ready for a cuppa.’

  ‘That’s right, I am.’ Brenda watched Dorothy fill the kettle then place it on top of an Aga cooker that heated the whole kitchen. Where the father was sharp-featured and skinny, the daughter was rounded and dimpled, fashionably dressed in a rose-pink twin set and pearls, with a grey, fitted skirt that showed off shapely legs. She’d made the most of her thick brown hair by sweeping some of it high on to the top of her head, leaving the back section to curl down on to her shoulders.

  Definitely not what I expected, Brenda thought again.

  Bernard pulled back a chair then shifted a pile of newspapers to let her sit down. ‘Here, take the weight off your feet. There’ll be plenty of time later to show you around.’

  ‘Dad, the goat got out again,’ Dorothy mentioned as she prepared the tea. ‘It made a beeline for the village.’

  He gave a resigned shake of his head. ‘Did you go after it?’

  ‘Dressed like this?’ She twirled to face him. ‘I should cocoa!’

  ‘So where is it now?’

  ‘Don’t worry; it’s safe. Emma Waterhouse has got it locked in her coal shed. She telephoned from the vicarage to say she caught it munching its way through her Brussels sprouts – made a right mess of the whole veg patch, apparently.’

  If Bernard was irritated, he didn’t show it. ‘I’d better go down and fetch it,’ he said as he took his oilskin from the back of the door and headed out again.

  ‘Blinking goat,’ Dorothy commented. Tea slopped from the cups into their saucers as she carried them to the table. ‘Still, that means we can sit down and have a nice long chat. So, Brenda, here was me thinking you’d be a strapping, outdoors sort of girl and, lo and behol
d, you’re not like that at all.’

  Brenda grinned. ‘There may not be much meat on these bones but I can dig a ditch and muck out a stable along with the best of them.’ She held up her work-roughened hands to prove her point.

  ‘Rather you than me.’ Dorothy stirred two spoons of sugar into her tea. ‘I know; I shouldn’t. What with rationing and all. What do you like to do in your spare time, by the way?’

  ‘I read.’

  ‘Magazines?’ Dorothy’s hazel eyes lit up. ‘Ooh, did you bring some with you?’

  Brenda shook her head. ‘I read books mostly. Detective novels and romances; Agatha Christie, Daphne du Maurier. I enjoy going to the flicks, listening to music and dancing as well. How about you?’

  ‘Dancing if I get half a chance. Dad’s nickname for me when I was little was Twinkletoes. I’m better at the foxtrot than digging ditches, I don’t mind admitting.’

  Giving Dorothy free rein to enthuse about American dance bands, Brenda found herself gazing around the cluttered kitchen and wondering where this chatty, well-groomed girl fitted in to the harsh world of hill farming. Did she ever lift a finger to help her hard-pressed father, for instance?

  As if she read this last thought, Dorothy flew off in a fresh direction. ‘Of course, there’s a limit to what I can do, dancing-wise. I don’t have enough energy to go out every weekend. Sometimes it’s too much for me.’

  ‘You’re a long way from civilization,’ Brenda agreed.

  Dorothy ran blithely on. ‘Oh, it’s not that. I can get myself into town easily enough, provided Cliff gives me a lift. Cliff’s my brother. He’s the gamekeeper on the Acklam Castle estate. And I have somewhere to stay in Northgate. But I’m not very strong – never have been. They say it’s because I insisted on putting in an early appearance: born six weeks before my time. It was the death of my poor mother, as it turned out. Afterwards, I was a sickly baby, not expected to live.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear it.’

  ‘But live I did!’ The cheery exclamation brought Dorothy’s tale of woe to a sudden conclusion and she reached across to pat Brenda’s hand. ‘That’s enough about me. Now, tell me all about you and yours!’

  As dusk fell on the first day at Joyce’s new billet, Laurence Bradley threw her in at the deep end.

  ‘Cows need milking,’ he told her as he set off up the fell on foot, accompanied by his two dogs. ‘In the shed behind the house; you’ll find everything you need.’

  Determined to prove herself, Joyce undertook her first task without asking unnecessary questions and quickly found the three black-and-white Friesian cows feeding in their wooden stalls inside the old-fashioned cowshed. They barely raised their heads as, by the light of one dim electric bulb, she found pails, metal churns and a milking stool amongst other paraphernalia such as yard brushes, pitchforks and rakes.

  The muggy atmosphere and the sound of contented chewing helped calm Joyce’s nerves. ‘Easy does it,’ she murmured to the cow in the first stall. She went in and set down her stool and bucket. Then, leaning her shoulder and head against the cow’s bulging flank, she reached for the udder and squeezed. ‘Stand still, there’s a good girl. Nice and easy does it.’

  The cow stood patiently while the milk flowed. It was only when her udder ran dry that Joyce thought to ask herself where she should take the full pail. Was there a dairy room next door, perhaps? She lifted the bucket and carried it out of the straw-lined stall towards a connecting door, laid her hand on the latch and was surprised when it seemed to open of its own accord.

  Alma stood in her long skirt and calico apron, offering to take the bucket.

  ‘Right you are.’ Joyce recovered and handed it over. ‘I was hoping this door led to the dairy.’

  A glance over Alma’s shoulder revealed a small, clean room with a concrete floor and scrubbed stone tables. There was machinery for bottling the milk and for scalding churns and pails – seemingly the only up-to-date concessions to an age-old routine.

  Alma turned away. She carried the bucket to the table, obviously expecting Joyce to go straight back to the second cow, which she did. It wasn’t long before all three were milked and mucked out – still without a word from Laurence’s young wife.

  Joyce grew more and more puzzled. Yes, she could see that Alma had suffered a bad accident in the past and the resulting scars would cast a shadow over anyone’s life. She understood her self-consciousness and her reluctance to meet the eye of a stranger. But there was a good deal of anger in these silences; Joyce judged this by the set of Alma’s mouth and the quick way she turned her head – an impatient toss that propelled her about her resentful business.

  How old might she be? Joyce wondered after she delivered the last pail into the dairy and stood watching Alma scour out an empty churn. Twenty-five at the most. More likely twenty-two. A good twenty years younger than her husband, at any rate. When did they marry? And why? What happened to Laurence’s first wife, the mother of the absent Gordon?

  Alma came to the end of her bottling and scouring.

  ‘That didn’t take long,’ Joyce said as pleasantly as she could. ‘What happens now? Do we drive the milk into Shawcross to be picked up?’

  The reply came in the shape of tightly pressed lips and a quick shake of the head.

  Maybe she can’t speak because of the accident. Is that it?

  Alma could hear well enough, though; she picked up the sound of footsteps crossing the yard before Joyce did and hurried to the door of the dairy.

  Laurence hove into view. ‘Have you finished?’ he asked Alma, who nodded. He turned his attention to Joyce. ‘I want us to bring a ewe down off the crag,’ he informed her. ‘There’s just time before it gets dark.’

  She followed obediently, almost running to keep up. The rain hammered down hard again as they left the dogs in their kennel then bent their heads against the wind and climbed rapidly, soon reaching the outcrop that gave the farm its name. Close to, it was a forbidding sight; some fifty feet high with a sheer face and deep fissures running from top to bottom. Rain gusted against the cliff and spattered in puddles at its base. From there, fast-running trickles formed a stream that made its way down the steep hillside. There was a bleating cry for help from above so Joyce looked up to make out a single sheep tightly wedged between two rocks.

  ‘Do we have to climb up there?’ she asked in alarm. If so, there was a high risk of one of them losing their footing on the slippery rock and crashing down.

  Laurence shook his head. ‘I know an easier way round the back. Follow me.’

  So they crossed the stream, then skirted the crag to find a sloping route across which they could scramble. From there, they looked down on the ewe and worked out their descent. Meanwhile, what was left of the daylight faded until they could scarcely see where to put their feet.

  ‘Five minutes should do it,’ Laurence reckoned.

  He went first, picking his way in the gloom and sending showers of loose stones down the cliff. When he reached the sheep he turned to wait for Joyce.

  ‘Now what?’ she asked when she arrived.

  ‘You see this loose boulder? Wait for me to shift it a few inches to one side then grab her front legs and heave as hard as you can.’ He squatted and rested his shoulder against the rock that trapped the back end of the ewe. He grunted as he pushed.

  Joyce squeezed on to the ledge beside him. She had to kneel to reach the sheep, afraid that if she leaned too far forward she would lose her balance and go toppling down.

  Laurence pushed with all his might.

  Joyce managed to hook her arms under the sheep’s front legs and take her weight. The stench of wet fleece and excrement caught in her throat but with one almighty tug the ewe was free.

  Laurence exhaled loudly as he eased the boulder down. The freed sheep kicked out with her back legs. She twisted in Joyce’s grasp and broke away, bounding up the slope without a backward glance and obviously none the worse for wear.

  Standing close to Joyce
on the narrow ledge, Laurence watched his sheep run. ‘Daft sod,’ was all he said as they made their way back down to the farm.

  ‘Just listen to that racket!’ Dorothy’s complaint about their goat’s deafening bray brought her conversation with Brenda to an end. ‘Lord knows why we keep the blinking thing, except that we get a pound or two of cheese from it on the sly. Keep that under your hat, by the way.’

  The clattering of hooves across the yard drew Brenda towards the door. ‘Maybe I should go out and lend a hand?’

  ‘Don’t bother; Dad can manage.’

  Dorothy’s lack of concern put Brenda in a tricky position; on the one hand she felt it was her role to help Bernard with the runaway goat, on the other it didn’t seem tactful to override Dorothy.

  ‘I mean it,’ she insisted in a light, firm voice. ‘Honestly, if I had a shilling for every time Dad has had to fetch the silly thing back, I’d be rich.’

  So Brenda hovered at the threshold, listening to the shed door bang shut after Bernard had led the Houdini goat inside, followed by the kerfuffle of chickens clucking and flapping.

  ‘He’s not the only one who gets lumbered,’ Dorothy went on. ‘Evelyn has done her fair share of bringing Nancy home after she’s wandered off.’

  ‘Nancy?’

  ‘The goat. Black as night, British Alpine; eats us out of house and home. Evelyn’s been a big help, though. She’s a Land Girl like you. Or at least she cuts down trees.’

  ‘A lumberjill with the Women’s Timber Corps? We met her in the village.’ Brenda got a word in edgeways before Dorothy cantered gaily on.

  ‘Of course I’m not much use – that goes without saying. Not like Evelyn. She steps in here whenever she can, depending on whether or not she’s needed at the castle. She’ll feed the hens and turn her hand to anything really. But then Dad decided it wasn’t fair on her, working here after doing a full day for old man Weatherall. We’d be better off with full-time help. That’s when he applied to the Land Army county office – and lo and behold!’ She whisked the tea towel towards Brenda, like a magician producing a rabbit out of a top hat.