A Christmas Wish for the Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  The horse gave Evelyn a harder shove. She pushed his head away. ‘As it happens, my Jim wasn’t anywhere near the front line. It was before the war started: an accident at work.’

  ‘You must have been very young.’

  ‘Sixteen when he was killed. Young and daft, according to my mother. You say Walter was your first fiancé. Does that mean you’ve bagged yourself a new one to fill his shoes?’

  Joyce didn’t take offence; in fact, she found Evelyn’s bluntness refreshing. ‘Yes. His name’s Edgar Kershaw. He’s a pilot in the RAF.’

  ‘Crikey O’Reilly, you don’t do things by halves!’ Evelyn shook her head as she picked up the horse’s reins then walked him slowly out of the wood. ‘You must live your life on tenterhooks.’

  ‘That’s true. It’s why I like to stay busy.’

  ‘Black Crag Farm is the right place for you, then.’

  ‘Geoff Dawson said the same thing earlier today. I don’t mind, though.’ Joyce walked quietly beside Evelyn and her horse, happy to let her new friend steer the conversation.

  ‘So you’ve met Geoff?’ Evelyn enquired. ‘What did you make of him?’

  ‘I liked him. He seems a decent sort.’

  ‘He is – very decent.’ Evelyn swished at a young larch tree with her stick.

  ‘And available, I take it?’ Joyce put in a sly dig.

  Evelyn’s face gave nothing away as she changed the subject. ‘Oaks don’t die on you until they’re a thousand years old – and they don’t make you keep secrets either,’ she added as an afterthought.

  ‘I suppose I’m meant to ask why you said that,’ Joyce remarked as they emerged from the trees and had their first close-up view of the castle.

  ‘And if I gave you an answer, then it wouldn’t be a secret.’ Evelyn’s mood had dropped suddenly. When Captain lowered his head to snatch at a nearby clump of grass, she jerked at the reins. ‘I’m sorry, Joyce, take no notice. My tongue has a habit of running away with me.’

  No more was said and Joyce’s interest in the ruins filled the gap. She took in the crumbling round tower on top of the knoll and nearby the remains of a large, medieval house with a wide arched entrance and narrow, Gothic windows. The walls were intact but the roof had partly collapsed. Mossy stones and decaying beams were strewn over the sloping ground. ‘How is it possible for anyone to live here?’ she asked.

  ‘Not in the main house, silly.’ Seemingly back on cheerful form, Evelyn kept a tight hold of Captain’s reins as she led him and Joyce around the back of the tower to reveal a sixteenth-century extension, complete with stable block and servants’ quarters. ‘Watch out, Colonel Weatherall has his beady eye on us,’ she warned as she walked Captain into the nearest stable. ‘Top right-hand window. Don’t let on that you’ve spotted him. My quarters are next door to the stables. Cliff Huby has the gamekeeper’s cottage across the yard. Wait here while I unsaddle my trusty steed then we’ll nip in for a cuppa and a nice long chat.’

  *

  My dearest Les,

  Brenda wrote from her bleak billet.

  I hope with all my heart that you’re keeping well and that my letters are getting through to you. It’s been a long time since I received one from you. Still, I do my best to keep my chin up, knowing that you will write as soon as you can. I had built up such hopes for today, picturing us together at least for a short time. Sadly, my love, it was not to be.

  I long to know how you are and to hear it from your own lips. I will only believe that you’re safe and well when I see you with my own eyes. In the meantime, I hope that they feed you properly on board ship and that you’re sleeping well in your narrow bunk bed. There, I begin to sound like a mother instead of a fiancée!

  As for my news; I have made a big change by moving out of my hostel to live at Garthside Farm, high in the dale. The new telephone number is Shawcross 636. In future you should call the operator and ask to speak to me in person, rather than relying on Donald to pass on a message. As we know, he is not the most reliable in that way.

  Listen to this, my dear; I’m living in an old railway goods wagon surrounded by hens with Nancy the noisy goat as my nearest neighbour! There, what do you think of that? I’m still in the Land Army, of course, with Joyce living close by. My farmer is called Bernard Huby; happily, not a bad sort.

  She paused to warm her mittened hands at a flickering lamp, filling her dreary room with loud sighs of regret and longing. It was impossible to write down the ins and outs of what she was feeling. The ongoing doubts and fears about her own wavering emotions must be carefully hidden away, along with her sharp pangs of loneliness. She must do her best to sound cheerful for Les’s sake.

  And so, dear Les, I’m glad to be still doing my very small bit to help the war effort. I have managed to bring Sloper up to Shawcross and intend to explore this neck of the woods tomorrow on my day off. They say there’s an interesting ruined castle nearby.

  I write this, my dear, wearing the ring you gave me on a ribbon around my neck and longing to see you again. But for now, I close this letter with not one but with many loving kisses.

  Your very own Brenda xxxxxx

  She pressed blotting paper over the wet ink, folded the paper and put it into an envelope.

  Brenda had kept her promise and made no mention of Hettie’s illness. Somehow, in spite of the thought she’d put into writing her letter, as she flung on her coat and ran down to the village to post it the gap between her and Les had never felt wider or more impossible to bridge.

  Collections: Friday, 2 p.m. Before posting the letter, Brenda read the small enamel notice on the front of the red postbox.

  ‘Drat, I thought collection was on a Saturday,’ she said out loud. It began to seem that the whole world was conspiring against her.

  An elderly woman shaking out her mat at the front door of her cottage overheard her and bustled across. ‘Sorry, love; the postman comes on a Friday, two o’clock on the dot. But why not give it to the vicar?’

  ‘Why, what has the vicar got to do with it?’ Brenda muttered ungraciously.

  The woman folded her arms. She made up for her small stature with an unusually loud voice. ‘I happen to know that he’s driving all the way to Northgate this afternoon for a meeting with the bishop. He can post your letter for you while he’s in town.’

  ‘I see.’ Unsure whether or not to entrust her precious missive to a stranger, Brenda hesitated.

  ‘Vicar won’t mind,’ the woman insisted. ‘I’m Mrs Emma Waterhouse from number four.’ She pointed towards the open door in the row of cottages. ‘I clean and cook for the vicar, Mondays and Fridays. You’re the Hubys’ new farm worker.’

  ‘Yes – Brenda Appleby. Nancy the goat made inroads into your veg patch.’

  ‘That’s right, she did. Your letter’s important, by the look of it.’

  ‘It is,’ Brenda admitted. Mrs Waterhouse was thin as a rake, dressed in a wrap-over cotton overall, with a hairnet holding her grey bun in place. She had a determined glint in her brown eyes.

  ‘Then hand it over. I’ll give it to the vicar myself. I have to see him about the New Year bring-and-buy sale. By the way, have you got any spare knitting wool?’

  Brenda shook her head.

  ‘No, come to think of it, you don’t look like the knitting type. Never mind, you still have time to embroider a couple of hankies or weave a little basket for the sale. It’s on the first Saturday in January – all the money goes towards the church tower restoration fund.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Brenda promised meekly, though neither embroidery nor basket weaving were her cup of tea either.

  Mrs Waterhouse held out a skinny hand. ‘Letter,’ she prompted. ‘Vicar’s already promised to pop one in the post for his new evacuee. An extra one won’t be any trouble.’

  There was no point in arguing; Brenda was obliged to hand over the letter. ‘How’s the boy settling in?’

  ‘Talk of the devil,’ Mrs Waterhouse said out of the corner of her mo
uth as the vicarage door opened and Alan shuffled down the path. He held a football under one arm and wore his customary mac and cap. ‘Hey-up, has the vicar sent you out to play?’ she called in her foghorn voice.

  The boy put down the ball to open and close the heavy wrought-iron gate. He picked it up again then trudged towards the green, feet dragging. ‘I’ve to get some fresh air,’ he reported joylessly from under the peak of his cap.

  ‘All on your ownio?’ Brenda quickly realized the tactlessness of her query and thought of a way to remedy things. ‘I don’t mind having a kick-about with you for a few minutes. How does that sound?’

  Alan shrugged and dropped the ball. It landed with a dull thud. When Brenda picked it up and tested it, she found that it was practically flat. ‘What we need is a bicycle pump,’ she decided, tucking the ball under her arm. ‘What’s the betting they have one at the pub?’

  Alan shrugged again and turned his head away.

  Brenda winked at Mrs Waterhouse, who was a woman on a mission as far as Brenda’s letter was concerned. She set off, quick march, towards the vicarage, while Brenda held out a hand to the reluctant boy. ‘Come on, Alan; let’s find out. And while we’re at it, how about a nice glass of lemonade and a bag of crisps?’

  That evening Brenda and Joyce escaped from their spartan lodgings and took refuge once more in the Cross Keys. They sat by the fire, warming their hands and feet, cheered by the hum of voices and the clink of glasses surrounding them. With no piano tucked away in a corner and only two types of beer on tap, the pub wasn’t up to the standard of Burnside’s Blacksmith’s Arms but it was cosy nevertheless.

  ‘You went all the way to Attercliffe for nothing?’ Joyce commiserated with Brenda over the reason for her reappearance in Shawcross sooner than expected. ‘Someone should have let you know that Les’s leave was cancelled before you went all that way.’

  ‘Yes, someone should have.’ Having written her letter, Brenda had already moved on from wanting to blame Dorothy. In her head she was weighing up the pros and cons of telling Joyce about Hettie’s illness then decided against it. ‘I wrote Les a long letter to make up for not seeing him in the flesh but I can’t help wondering why he didn’t get home this weekend as planned. The fact is, he’s probably stuck in the Med, surrounded by U-boats.’

  ‘Try not to worry too much.’ Joyce instantly regretted the platitude. Of course Brenda was worried; who wouldn’t be?

  ‘Or else he’s been torpedoed.’ Brenda’s chest tightened as she imagined the explosion: an ear-splitting boom followed by a fireball then hot metal flying through the air; a hole blasted in the ship’s hull, seawater rushing in, men who had survived the blast flung overboard without life jackets, swimming for their lives.

  Joyce put a comforting hand on Brenda’s shoulder. ‘Not having any definite news is hard,’ she acknowledged. ‘All we can do is wait and see.’

  Brenda took a deep breath. ‘What’s your secret, Joyce? How do you get through your days so calmly?’

  ‘I don’t. I’m like the proverbial duck gliding along smoothly with its feet paddling like fury under the surface.’ There wasn’t an hour when she didn’t think of Edgar at the controls of his Lancaster, flying through the darkness, hands gripping the joystick, the blackout-defying, filigree lights of Dresden spread out below. Not a moment when she could relax until he came home for good and they could live without fear.

  Yet all around them, civilian life went on as normal. Evelyn worked behind the bar with Fred Williams while Laurence sat alone on a stool with his pint. Then Bernard and Cliff Huby walked in out of the cold, followed by Geoff Dawson, who acknowledged Joyce with a wave then sauntered across, glass in hand.

  ‘How’s that cow of Laurence’s doing?’ he enquired. ‘And the ulcer on Flint’s foot? Or is it too soon to tell?’

  ‘Too soon,’ Joyce confirmed. ‘I’ll carry on with the disinfectant and the ointment and hope they do the trick.’

  Geoff gave Brenda a friendly nod then introduced himself. ‘Do you mind if I pull up a chair?’

  ‘Make yourself at home.’ Brenda made room for him and soon they were deep in conversation about the best breed of goat for milking and the growing trend of keeping rabbits in hutches for their meat.

  ‘How about it, Mr Huby?’ Brenda asked her employer who stood nearby with his son. The old man was in his work clothes, while Cliff was spruced up in checked shirt, green tie and his tweed jacket. ‘Shall we build a hutch and keep rabbits? One buck and two or three females to start with. Once they pop out a few babies, we’ll have meat for the pot without the bother of taking a gun on to the moor and waiting for them to stick their heads out of their burrows.’

  ‘But then we’d have to feed them,’ the farmer pointed out.

  ‘Not for long, though. Geoff here says the baby bunnies can be butchered at three to four months.’

  ‘Poor little blighters.’ Cliff’s contribution came with a wink. ‘There again, rearing pheasants is my job. They end up in a pie, just like the bunnies.’

  ‘Quite!’ Brenda crowed. ‘Baby pheasants, baby rabbits – what’s the difference?’

  Deciding to make a fourth at their table, Cliff positioned himself next to Brenda and pointedly ignored Joyce and Geoff. ‘I saw your bike parked outside,’ he told her. ‘You’ve polished her up nicely. Does she run smoothly for you?’

  ‘Sweet as a nut.’ Ever eager to plunge into a conversation about motorcycle maintenance, Brenda caught Joyce’s watchful eye and decided to change tack. ‘I’ve just written to my fiancé saying how nice it was to have Old Sloper back. I’ve been lost without her this week.’

  ‘Were you, now?’ As Cliff tilted his head and reassessed Brenda’s situation, there was a flicker of disappointment in his hazel eyes. ‘What did he say, this fiancé of yours?’

  Her gaze was fixed steadily on the gamekeeper’s handsome features. ‘I wasn’t able to tell Les face to face, worse luck. He’s in the Royal Navy so that’s why I had to write it in a letter. He’ll be pleased for me, I’m sure.’

  Cliff eased back in his chair to include the others. ‘How about you, Joyce? I’ll bet a week’s wages that some lucky chap has already snared you?’

  Joyce stiffened then replied quietly. ‘Yes, I’m engaged, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘You hear that, Geoffrey? Here we were, looking forward to giving a warm welcome to these two lovely new lasses and showing them all the local sights, but it looks as if we’re out of luck as usual.’

  Lasses? Local sights? Both Joyce and Brenda had to bite their tongues at the none too subtle innuendo.

  Geoff had the grace to blush as, with a wink and a rueful grin, Cliff stood up and rejoined his father. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ Geoff said.

  ‘No need to apologize.’ Brenda shook her head. ‘It happens all the time: a certain type of man expecting us to swoon and fall at their feet. Perhaps we would have done, once upon a time, but not any more. Things are different now.’

  ‘And long may it continue.’ Geoff glanced at Joyce, who nodded. ‘Maybe I should warn Cliff that he’s going about things the wrong way.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Joyce advised. ‘I doubt it would make a scrap of difference.’

  Brenda and Joyce both believed they had the young gamekeeper’s measure: good-looking and happy-go-lucky but with a vain, shallow streak reminiscent of his sister Dorothy.

  ‘I agree,’ Brenda said. ‘A leopard can’t change its spots.’

  ‘Unless he gets his comeuppance. Then he might have to alter his ways,’ Joyce added.

  ‘Blimey.’ Geoff puffed out his cheeks and rolled his eyes. ‘Why do I suddenly feel like Daniel entering the lions’ den?’

  Brenda gave a loud laugh. ‘We’re Land Girls, that’s why. You men had better watch out!’

  ‘At which point I’ll love you and leave you.’ Joyce was ready for bed after her afternoon hike. She put on her coat and said cheerio to Brenda and Geoff then to Laurence and Evelyn as she left. ‘
Ta again for the guided tour of the castle earlier,’ she told her.

  ‘Any time!’ Evelyn’s transformation from lumberjill to barmaid was spectacular. Gone were the dungarees and gumboots and in their place was a tight-fitting green dress with a black velour collar, a pearl brooch gleaming at her throat. Her glorious hair was swept up and held in place by a mother-of-pearl comb. Her lips were vivid red.

  ‘And ta for the tea,’ Joyce added, stepping out into the cold, black night. She was all set to take out her torch and begin the walk home when she noticed that Cliff had followed to offer her a lift.

  ‘I’ll behave myself,’ he promised. ‘You being engaged to be married and all.’

  ‘You’d better,’ she teased back.

  ‘Yes, miss.’ He walked her to his car and held open the door. ‘We don’t want you getting lost on the moor, do we now?’

  ‘Evelyn showed me round the castle grounds earlier today.’ Joyce made easy conversation as Cliff set off along the rough, narrow road. ‘She pointed out your billet.’

  ‘I’m sorry I missed you. I didn’t get back until teatime. Did you see the old man?’

  ‘Colonel Weatherall? No, I didn’t.’

  ‘He’d see you, though. And you can bet he gave Evelyn some stick about it afterwards.’

  ‘What for?’ Joyce steadied herself by grasping the door handle as the car swayed round a bend then jolted over potholes.

  ‘For letting a stranger set foot on his land. His bark is as bad as old man Bradley’s who you’re lumbered with. And his bite is ten times worse.’

  ‘Ta, I’ll remember that.’ Joyce decided that the gossipy streak certainly ran in the Huby family.

  Cliff swung the car round another bend, dim headlights glimmering across the bare hillside and back tyres throwing up mud. ‘On the subject of your Laurence Bradley, though, he’s forty-five if he’s a day and he doesn’t have a good word to say about anybody, especially since Lily ran off and left him to drag up their lad as best he could.’

  ‘Lily?’

  ‘His first wife; the one before the one he’s got now. What I’m trying to say is, how does a brute like Laurence manage to snag himself two wives on the trot? Mind you, he had to go out of the dale to find them both. I’m not sure where Lily was from but she wasn’t local.’