A Christmas Wish for the Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘And Alma?’

  ‘From Shawcross originally, before she went to live with an aunt in Northgate. You know the story?’

  ‘Yes.’ A screech of brakes and the sound of dogs barking told Joyce that they’d arrived at Black Crag Farm. She stayed in her seat while Cliff made an expert three-point turn in the yard. ‘Geoff mentioned the fire,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Poor kid. She lost everyone: mum, dad, a sister and a brother. The coppers put it down to a paraffin or an oil lamp knocked over in a downstairs room while the family was in bed. They reckoned it was an accident.’

  ‘But you’re not convinced?’ A sense of unease crept over Joyce as she listened to Flint and Patch’s din and made out a dim light through the kitchen window, meaning that she would probably have to face Alma when she went inside.

  ‘Who knocked the lamp over if everyone was asleep? That’s the question that never got answered.’ After manoeuvring the car to face the gate, Cliff got out to open Joyce’s door. ‘Never say I’m not a gentleman,’ he quipped.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ She got out of the car to renewed barks and whines. ‘Thanks very much.’

  He raised his eyebrows and smiled broadly. ‘Now you owe me a favour, Miss Cutler.’

  ‘Goodnight, Cliff.’ Joyce gathered her dignity and was halfway across the yard when he called her back.

  ‘You forgot something.’ He wound down the window and passed her handbag to her.

  She took it with a quick, flustered thank-you, certain that his eyes were still on her and that he was laughing at her as she opened the door and went inside.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For the whole evening Alma had had the house to herself.

  She’d moved easily from room to room, knowing that no one was watching her, taking her time to run a finger over surfaces to check that they were dust free, fetching the dustpan and brush to sweep under the dresser in the kitchen then going upstairs, sweeping each riser as she went. In the two bedrooms she took up the rugs and shook them out of the landing window, lips pressed tightly together for fear of breathing in the dirt. Tomorrow was Sunday; if the weather allowed, she would spend the day washing curtains and cleaning windows.

  She paused on the landing and glanced at the steps leading to the attic. Hopefully the Land Girl had high standards as far as keeping her room tidy was concerned. Curiosity almost overcame Alma and she had a foot on the bottom step when she heard the dogs bark and a car drive into the yard. She ran along the landing and down the stairs, expecting to see Laurence but instead finding Joyce in the kitchen.

  ‘It’s freezing out there,’ Joyce said as she hung up her coat. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if we got snow tonight.’

  Alma busied herself at the sink.

  ‘What happens if it does?’ Remembering that Laurence was still at the Cross Keys, Joyce made the most of the opportunity to draw Alma out. ‘Do we bring the pregnant ewes into the field barns or do we leave them out in the snow?’

  A shrug was all the answer she got.

  ‘Swaledales are a hardy breed, I suppose. I don’t envy them, though; up there by the crag with a wind whistling in from the west.’

  Alma took a tea towel from the rail and methodically wiped dishes. Her expression was blank.

  ‘Let me put them away for you.’ Joyce carried a stack of plates to the dresser. ‘Do I arrange them any old way, or do you have a system?’

  Alma put down the towel to show Joyce which order she preferred. As usual, she kept her face turned away.

  She’s young, Joyce thought, not for the first time. Her figure was almost that of a child, her fair hair soft and falling in wisps across her face. The high-necked jumper and long pleated skirt disguised rather than emphasized her slenderness. Young and angry.

  ‘I see,’ she murmured as she watched Alma arrange the plates. ‘I’ll try to remember that’s the way you like them. By the way, I spotted a spare paraffin lamp in one of the outhouses. Would you mind if I gave it a clean and took it up to the attic? That way I wouldn’t have to ask you for new candles.’

  Alma’s fingers fumbled over the last plate then she froze, still gripping it with both hands. Her face turned pale.

  ‘Here, give me that.’ Joyce quickly put the plate away before leading Alma to a chair. ‘Are you feeling dizzy? Come and sit down. Take a few deep breaths.’

  Alma tilted her head back with a look of out-and-out panic. Her breathing was broken by dry catches in her throat, her cheeks were deathly white.

  ‘Do you keep spirits in the house?’ Joyce ran to the cupboard beneath the dresser. ‘In here? Brandy or whisky; something of that sort to revive you?’

  Making an attempt to stand, Alma collapsed forward against the table so that Joyce had to give up her search and run to steady her.

  ‘Sit,’ she pleaded. ‘Let’s forget about the whisky, just concentrate on taking deep breaths. There, that’s better.’

  Gradually Alma was able to draw oxygen into her lungs and her colour returned. The look of fear subsided.

  ‘How are you feeling now? Better?’

  ‘Yes.’ Alma’s first word came out as a faint whisper. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, there’s nothing to be sorry about.’ Joyce drew up another chair and waited. Alma had broken her silence at last.

  ‘The lamp,’ she whispered with a shake of her head.

  ‘You don’t want it in the house?’

  ‘No. Please.’

  Joyce remembered with a shudder what Cliff had told her about the start of the house fire that had robbed Alma of her family and left her permanently scarred. ‘I should have realized. I’m sorry.’

  It felt impossible to put into words what it had been like to live under a pall of grief and shame, where for years silence had been the only refuge. Alma shook her head again. ‘The smell,’ she tried to explain. ‘The smoke.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘No whisky. Laurence doesn’t allow it.’

  ‘Not even for medicinal purposes?’ Joyce tried to ease the conversation forward, half expecting Alma to cut it short as soon as she felt strong enough to stand.

  ‘Not a drop. He says it’s what ruined Lily.’

  Joyce decided to let this lie. ‘Shall I make us a pot of tea instead?’

  ‘No thank you. Laurence will be back any minute.’

  ‘Water, then?’ Without waiting for a reply she went back to the cupboard for a glass. Though Alma was talking at long last, her sentences were stilted and she kept a hand to her neck to partly cover her scars. ‘Everything has its place, I see.’ Cups and saucers on a top shelf, glasses on the shelf beneath. ‘I wish I was half as tidy as you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Alma accepted the glass. ‘I keep things the way he likes them. It’s easier that way.’

  Joyce sat down again. ‘I’m glad we’re having this chat,’ she admitted. ‘I’d started to think we never would.’

  ‘I’m sorry …’

  ‘Don’t be! I appreciate how hard it must be, having to put up with a lodger. We all like our own space and here I am, barging into your new home, leaving my mucky boots in your porch, letting my coat drip on to your nice clean floor.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’

  ‘You’re ten times better than Gordon.’ Alma’s speech gathered pace. ‘He left his things anywhere he liked: dirty shirts, socks, you name it. I was sick and tired of tidying up after him.’

  Joyce glanced at her in surprise and saw that her cheeks had grown flushed, resentment replacing fear in her eyes.

  ‘It would’ve been a waste of breath me complaining to his father, though. As far as Laurence is concerned, Gordon can’t put a foot wrong.’

  ‘Two against one?’

  ‘Yes and Gordon opposed the marriage. He and Aunty Muriel both refused to come to the wedding …’ Alma’s voice trailed off and she ran her finger around the rim of her glass.

  ‘Was that the aunt you
lived with?’

  ‘Yes. She didn’t approve of Laurence when he began to show an interest in me. She said you had to wonder why he did, given the way I am.’

  Joyce drew a sharp breath. ‘That wasn’t very nice of her.’

  ‘No, but it was true. No boys of my own age ever came calling.’

  Before Joyce had time to respond, the dogs barked a warning that another car was approaching.

  ‘Laurence!’ With this single word, a startled Alma swept the glass from the table and took it to the sink. She’d washed and dried it, put it back in its cupboard and disappeared upstairs before the Land-Rover had turned into the yard.

  Joyce was alone in the kitchen when Laurence came in.

  ‘You left the pub early,’ he commented as he kicked off his boots.

  ‘Yes, I was tired.’

  ‘But you’re still up, I see.’

  Excuses popped into her head – jobs to do, a letter to write – but Joyce preferred the truth. ‘Alma and I broke the ice,’ she said calmly as she headed for the stairs. ‘We had a good, long talk.’

  Brenda found that a light covering of overnight snow had transformed the landscape as she set out on Sloper for Acklam Castle. It lent the hills a pure, smooth beauty that made her heart soar. Distant ridges sparkled against a light blue sky, while to either side of the lane the mossy tops of the stone walls were coated with a thin white layer like sugar-frosting on a cake.

  Riding Sloper was tricky in these conditions so she paid attention to the road ahead, meeting the challenge by changing down the gears as she approached a bend, feeling the back wheel slide a little as it kicked up loose snow. She went steadily on and before she knew it she had crested the highest hill and was looking down on the Acklam estate, complete with woodland and ruined castle.

  It was only then that it occurred to Brenda that she should perhaps have checked with Evelyn that she would be happy to receive a visit this early on a Sunday morning. What if she’s having a lie-in? she wondered. Still, having come this far, Brenda decided to go on. She eased slowly down the hill and entered the silent woods, an enchanted world of frost-spangled branches that met overhead and formed a fairy-tale tunnel. Eventually she reached the grey ruins set back from the lane on a rocky promontory overlooking the river.

  Brenda killed the engine at the gate and sat astride her bike, taking in the ivy-clad walls and narrow, arched windows. There was no sign of life.

  The total stillness of her surroundings forced a rethink; perhaps it would be best to turn back after all. There were plenty of other sights to see on a sunny Sunday: the waterfall behind Black Crag that Joyce had told her about, for a start. Yes; it was best not to disturb Evelyn. Brenda dismounted to turn the bike around in the narrow lane and was about to hop back on when a loud shout accompanied by the sound of gunshot startled her.

  An old man stepped wide of the ruins, shotgun raised. He kept it aimed at Brenda as he descended the snowy slope; dressed in plus fours and a tweed jacket, with a deerstalker hat pulled well down over his skull-like face.

  ‘You there!’ he bellowed. ‘You’re on private property.’

  Instinctively Brenda leaned her bike against the wall and raised her hands in surrender. Caught between making a run for it and staying put, she watched warily.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ Weatherall shouted at the top of his voice.

  ‘My name’s Brenda Appleby. I’m Evelyn’s friend.’ Good Lord, what did this stooping, ancient relic of a bygone age think he was up to, taking a potshot at a perfectly innocent visitor? His hands trembled and his aim was unsteady, alerting Brenda to the possibility that the gun might go off again without him even intending it.

  ‘Can’t hear you!’ he yelled, tottering towards her. ‘You’ve no right to be here, whoever you are.’ He reached the five-bar gate with the gun still raised, feet wide apart, eyes narrowed, and a thin, dark slash of toothless mouth scowling at her.

  Brenda kept her hands in the air and stared down the barrel of the gun. Despite the ridiculousness of the situation, she knew that she could be in real danger. ‘Colonel Weatherall,’ she began in a conciliatory tone, ‘I’m here to see Evelyn Newbold, your forestry girl.’

  ’Save your breath; he’s deaf as a post.’ Cliff Huby ran nimbly down the hill to save her. As the old man kept on pointing his gun, the gamekeeper came up from behind, clearly amused by his employer’s erratic behaviour. ‘It’s all right, sir,’ he yelled in the old man’s ear. ‘I know who this is!’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I know her!’ Placing an insistent hand on the barrel of the gun, Cliff tilted it towards the ground. ‘There, that’s better.’

  ‘Tell her to bugger off!’ Spittle dropped from Weatherall’s mouth and he jutted out his under-lip. ‘No trespassers. Go on; tell her!’

  Cliff took the old man’s arm and gave Brenda an apologetic shrug as he turned him back the way they’d come. ‘Bad luck; you were spotted,’ he said over his shoulder.

  ‘He scared the living daylights out of me.’ Slowly she lowered her hands.

  ‘Have you sent her packing?’ Weatherall let the gun dangle from his gnarled hand. He went on grumbling viciously as he allowed Cliff to guide him back towards the castle.

  ‘Yes, sir; she won’t bother you any more,’ he bellowed at close quarters. Then he turned and spoke quietly to Brenda. ‘I’ll let Evelyn know you called.’

  ‘Ta.’ Gathering her wits, she grabbed Sloper’s handlebars and slung her leg over the saddle.

  ‘Next time you’d better give us advance warning,’ Cliff advised. ‘I’ll lock away his gun and keep him occupied while you two girls have a natter.’

  A new week started and December crept in with unexpected meekness after the brief weekend freeze. Joyce grew used to the routine of rising early for milking, glad of a more friendly welcome from Alma when she returned to the kitchen for a breakfast of porridge followed by toast and jam. The meal was usually cut short by Laurence who would stand up from the table and set Joyce a series of back-breaking, blister-producing tasks that would keep her busy until late in the afternoon. For three days in a row she hiked across country with hammers and chisels jangling in her haversack. Her job was to mend sections of broken wall in the lambing field adjoining Mary’s Fall, taking with her a primus stove, small kettle, tin mug and a screw of brown paper containing tea leaves. At midday she would down tools and fill the kettle at the waterfall, set it to boil and take out her fish paste sandwiches. On the third day she took Patch with her for company. Otherwise she spent the time alone.

  Brenda’s week was less solitary and her routine kept her closer to home. For a start there was Nancy the goat to milk and the Rhode Island Red hens to feed with what Bernard called a croudie mix of water and meal – a task that she took over from Dorothy who had been poorly with a cold all week. Then, on the Friday she set about building a rabbit hutch, cobbling it together from old planks and topping it with a roof of corrugated iron.

  ‘Whose idea was that?’ Dorothy asked as Brenda covered the front of the hutch with chicken wire. She watched from the doorstep, swaddled in a heavy coat, scarf and woollen hat.

  ‘Your dad’s. We talked him round in the pub last weekend, remember? Oh, you weren’t in on it – it was me talking to Geoff Dawson and your brother. I think your father liked the idea of having rabbit stew whenever he felt like it.’ Brenda was pleased that she hadn’t borne a grudge against Dorothy for failing to pass on Donald’s message about Les’s cancelled leave. After all, they had to rub along together for the foreseeable future.

  Dorothy turned up her nose. ‘I don’t like the taste of rabbit.’

  ‘No, but beggars can’t be choosers these days.’ Brenda wished that Dorothy would mind her own business. The hutch was taking shape nicely and once it was finished, she had half a dozen other things to get on with, including scrubbing out the hen hut then digging up an area of heather and scrubland behind the farm buildings. She looked forward to making a bon
fire of the uprooted shrubs and feeling its warm glow ease her aching joints.

  Dorothy showed no sign of shifting. ‘I hear you have my brother to thank for not getting your brains blown out last Sunday.’

  Brenda stood back to admire her effort. At this rate the blinking rabbits would have a better billet than her, with an open area to run in and a watertight hutch lined with straw and shredded newspaper for sleeping on. ‘Is that what Cliff said, that he saved my bacon?’

  ‘Yes. Old Weatherall is a liability with his shotgun – mad as a hatter and stone deaf with it.’

  ‘Ta, I’ll remember that next time he tries to shoot me.’

  ‘I don’t like rabbit stew and I’m not fussed about mutton either.’ Dorothy’s thoughts were running off at a tangent again. ‘Pork’s my favourite, but it’s hard to come by. Oh, by the way, a letter arrived in this morning’s post.’

  ‘For me?’ Brenda dropped her hammer with a sudden clang. ‘Where?’

  ‘On the window sill in the kitchen.’ Dorothy hurried inside to fetch it and returned bearing it aloft. ‘Sealed with a loving kiss!’ she exclaimed. ‘Here, on the back of the envelope: three whole kisses for Miss Brenda Appleby, care of Dale End Farm, Attercliffe, Yorkshire. They’ve sent it on here.’

  Sunday came round again in a flash. In the Cross Keys on the Saturday night, there had been much talk about events leading up to Christmas. Joyce had said yes to a request from the vicar for volunteer carol singers, but no to Emma Waterhouse for a contribution for the New Year bring-and-buy sale. Then Dorothy had come up with the bright idea that they all get together in the church hall on the Saturday evening before Christmas.

  ‘What the devil for?’ Cliff had demanded, well into his third pint.

  ‘For a dance, of course.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit late? I’m guessing Glenn Miller and his band are already booked.’