by Jenny Holmes
Brenda shot him a look of surprise. ‘My, my, Donald; I didn’t have you down as the caring type.’
He smiled as he revved the engine for the steep climb ahead. ‘Never judge a book by its cover, Miss Appleby. That’s Rule Number One in life, don’t you know?’
CHAPTER TEN
On the Thursday morning following Edgar’s twenty-four-hour leave, a letter arrived for Joyce by special delivery in the shape of Edith Mostyn, who had driven to Shawcross to check on both Joyce and Brenda.
‘Edgar posted it on Monday to Grace’s address, asking for it to be forwarded to you as soon as possible.’
Joyce’s hand shook as she took the letter and slid it into her coat pocket. That was Edgar for you: thinking ahead and knowing how poor the postal service was out here. ‘Thank you, Mrs Mostyn; it’s good of you to bring it.’
‘It’s no bother, since I was coming anyway.’ Edith was glad to have caught Joyce before the Land Girl set off to repair more gaps in the walls beyond Mary’s Fall. She took in details of Laurence Bradley’s tidy farmyard, including the well-stocked feed store, the two dogs watching warily from their kennel by the gate and the neat row of boots lined up in the house porch. ‘Is all well?’ she asked Joyce, notebook in hand. ‘You have no complaints?’
‘None,’ Joyce confirmed.
‘The meals are nourishing? Your quarters are adequate?’
‘Perfectly, thank you.’
‘And the hours Mr Bradley expects you to work – they’re within the rules?’
‘Yes, Mr Bradley is very fair in that respect.’
‘What work does he ask you to do?’
‘It varies. I milk the cows first thing then do the dairy work with Mrs Bradley. After that, it could be taking feed out to the sheep or penning them to deal with any foot-rot and to check the condition of the pregnant ewes. Some of the walls on the fell side are in a poor state, so mending them takes up a fair amount of my time.’
‘Very good.’ Edith made rapid notes on all Joyce said then broached a subject that had been on her mind in the run-up to her visit. ‘Now this may interest you: I’ve received a request from my colleague in the Yorkshire branch of the Women’s Timber Corps. They’re looking for a part-time assistant for their worker on the Acklam estate, for tree felling and coppicing duties. Apparently there’s too much work for one girl to manage. How would you feel about that?’
‘That would be perfectly fine with me.’ Joyce said a quick yes to working alongside Evelyn. Apart from anything else, it would add variety to her routine. ‘Provided Mr Bradley can spare me.’
‘Naturally.’ Edith glanced round the deserted yard. ‘Where is he now?’
‘Out in his tractor, taking beet to the ewes.’
‘I’ll leave him a note then inform you of his answer. You’d still be billeted here at Black Crag Farm, of course.’ Edith tucked her notebook into her handbag then asked to see Joyce’s living and sleeping quarters, which took her into the kitchen and up the stairs to the rickety flight leading to the loft. ‘Up here?’ she queried uncertainly.
Joyce nodded and led the way. There’d been no sign of Alma in the kitchen, which must mean that she’d retreated into her bedroom.
After a quick look around, Edith recorded Joyce’s accommodation arrangements as primitive but satisfactory. ‘Plenty of head room,’ she noted. ‘And sufficient daylight. Is there a bathroom and a WC in the house?’
‘No. We use an earth closet outside. I have an all-over wash here in my room, in water warmed in the kitchen copper.’
‘Electric lighting?’ Edith saw only candlesticks – one at Joyce’s bedside and one on an improvised dressing table made out of an old washstand with a mottled mirror propped against the wall.
‘Not in the attic; only downstairs on the ground floor and out in the dairy,’ Joyce reported.
‘A paraffin lamp at least?’
‘No, just candles.’
‘Hmm. I should mention that to Mr Bradley …’
Mindful of Alma’s strong aversion, Joyce stepped in quickly. ‘There’s no need. I’m fine as I am, thanks.’
Edith frowned before making a mental note to record Joyce as a particularly good type of girl who had adapted well to her reduced circumstances. Then she led the way downstairs and they shook hands in the porch before Edith drove on to Garthside to see Brenda.
*
Dear Joyce,
Edgar’s letter began with a low-key endearment. No darlings or dearests. Joyce held her breath as she began to read.
I’m back in my billet and spending my last night here before being transferred. Mike is snoring away in the bunk below while I burn the midnight oil.
There are things I want to tell you that I didn’t have the time or the courage to say while we were together. They come from the bottom of my heart and must be kept between us two and never shared with a living soul.
Joyce laid the letter flat on the washstand, glancing in the mirror at her own dim reflection and telling herself to be strong. Whatever Edgar had to say must be faced honestly; there could be no shying away.
When I fly my plane over enemy lines I am not a brave man. I believe few of us are. There; it’s out in the open. We’re simply obeying orders without any thought of the consequences. That’s the opposite of bravery when you stop to think. We kill the enemy because we’re told to, and to save our own skins.
I wish I could swear, hand on heart, that I’m driven on by a conviction that our cause is the right one, that Hitler must be stopped. I believe it, of course. But at what cost? That’s the question keeping me awake at night.
And here’s the crux of the matter: every single one of us has lost a pal who we loved and respected – men who we knew better than our own family sometimes. Gone in a flash, in a hail of bullets. My pal Billy was among the best. You know that I tried to reach him in his cockpit as our plane went down but it was no use. I’ll spare you the details. You also know that our plane found a soft landing in amongst trees. We hung suspended in their branches, flames all around. I scrambled clear and left Billy behind. The plain fact is: I ran away.
Joyce paused, her heart too full to carry on reading. She understood that Edgar would bear this burden for the rest of his life. She also knew that he might lock it away and never talk of it again, so she steeled herself to read on.
And what was I left with after that, besides the physical scars? I scraped through with your help but with the certain knowledge that war brings out the worst in us as well as the best. Kill or be killed.
It’s not much of a motto to live by when it comes down to it; not one that I would want to pass on to my … to our children if we’re lucky enough to have them, something I wish for with all my heart. My hope, my heartfelt wish, is that they grow up in a better world than the one we have now and that they follow in your footsteps, not mine, so that they are able to give to others and will always be kind, not fearful.
She turned the letter over and stroked her fingertips over the last few closely written paragraphs.
What luck that I found you, Joyce, or rather you found me. More than luck; we were led by God’s grace or the Buddha’s, or Mohammed’s – whatever guiding spirit we choose to put our faith in. God is good enough for me.
My dearest Joyce, I’ve reached the end of what I wanted to share with you and find there’s a peace of mind that comes with getting this off my chest. I needed to be honest with you while I have the chance. I hope that you won’t think less of me and trust that my feelings for you come through some of the nonsense I’ve been spouting. To me, nothing else matters.
Joyce touched his name, ‘Edgar’, sighed and closed her eyes, then rested a while in the deep, clear pool of his love.
When Joyce came down from the attic, she met Alma emerging from the bedroom at the back of the house. Through the open door she caught sight of a single bed with a jade-green eiderdown and three or four dresses hanging from a rack in an alcove. There were tapestry pictures of roses and
lilies on the wall above the bed.
With a look of defiance Alma closed the door and went downstairs.
Joyce paused on the landing to think back over the morning routine in Black Crag Farm, registering that it was the sound of Laurence emerging from his room that woke her: the click of a door, his footsteps treading along the floorboards. He slept in the front bedroom, she realized with a slight shock. Alma’s room, it turned out, was at the rear.
The realization helped Joyce make sense of the snatched phrases she’d heard from the argument just prior to Edgar’s unexpected visit. ‘Not what I hoped for’, ‘I’ve done all you asked’, ‘Not all’. Laurence’s stern voice had been set against Alma’s light, girlish one, as she stood up to him in a surprisingly resolute way.
They sleep in separate rooms, Joyce decided. Laurence doesn’t want to. It’s Alma’s idea.
What kind of a marriage was one without lovemaking and all the closeness that went with it? Instead of settling on an answer to the question, Joyce cleared her throat, knotted her headscarf more firmly under her chin and went downstairs.
‘You saw,’ Alma said defiantly as soon as Joyce set foot in the kitchen. Instead of carrying out her usual chores, she sat at the table and looked out of the window with an unfocused stare. ‘Don’t pretend you didn’t.’
‘Saw what?’ Joyce buttoned her coat as if to go straight outside, making it plain that Laurence and Alma’s sleeping arrangements were none of her concern.
‘My room. It came as a surprise.’
Joyce shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.’
‘I thought you might have put two and two together before now.’ Alma skimmed over Joyce’s apology, sounding distant but determined. ‘This is not a marriage in the normal way of things. I don’t mind you knowing.’
‘Oh dear.’ Unable to walk away, Joyce sat at the table. ‘You don’t have to explain, unless you want to.’
‘I do.’ Alma redirected her gaze at Joyce. ‘I’d like you to understand.’
Joyce took a deep breath. She had a sense of trespassing and was acutely aware of how furious Laurence would be if he found out about this conversation.
‘There’s nothing normal about it.’ Alma made a slight, hopeless gesture towards her damaged neck and cheek. ‘How could there be?’
‘Your face is not so bad—’ Joyce began but Alma cut her off.
‘You wouldn’t say so if it had happened to you. I was in hospital for three months after the fire. I’ve had four operations since. It’s the first thing that people notice about me, what they always, without fail, talk about behind my back.’
‘I’m sorry.’
The anger that was always close to the surface, pitiful fruit of her grief and disfigurement, broke through. ‘For goodness’ sake, Joyce, why are you always saying sorry? You’re not doing anything wrong. And anyway, I don’t want you to feel sorry for me; I only want you to know the truth. It was pity that drove Laurence to ask me to marry him in the first place – that and the fact that he was in need of a housekeeper.’
Joyce’s grimace made it plain that this was a conversation she would rather not have. She stood up suddenly, scraping back her chair. ‘I ought to get on …’
Alma caught her by the wrist and held it in a firm grip. ‘It’s true. He felt sorry for me. Does that surprise you?’
Joyce nodded. Mixed in with the fury that still flared in Alma’s eyes, she thought she detected sadness and fear too.
‘He caught me off guard. I remembered Laurence from the time when I lived in Shawcross with my family. I was only a child but I was aware of his reputation even then. He was a man that people were afraid to cross. Early this year, we met again in Northgate, through my aunt, who was friends with his first wife, Lily. I hadn’t seen him in years. Aunty Muriel bumped into him by accident and I happened to be with her, shopping for blackout blinds. It was obvious from the way she acted that she blamed Laurence for what had happened to Lily. His first wife drank herself to death; did I mention that? And it was the simple fact that Aunty Muriel bore a grudge against Laurence that swayed me in his favour when he first showed an interest in me. Make of that what you will.’
‘I really must go.’ Joyce wrenched her wrist free. ‘I’m sorry, Alma.’
‘Sorry again!’ Alma mocked. Then she reined in her irritation and was contrite. ‘It’s me; I’m the one who should apologize. I spend far too much time brooding over how I came to end up here. I have no one to talk to, you see.’
‘You’re unhappy. Anyone can see that.’ And who wouldn’t be, after such tragedy?
‘Yes, but now I’ve put you in an awkward position. I didn’t mean to.’
‘It’ll go no further.’ Joyce’s promise brought the conversation to an end and she made good her escape. But as she went out into the porch to put on her boots, she glanced back.
Alma still sat at the table, twisting a corner of the tea towel that lay on her lap, the corners of her mouth turned down and her gaze directed straight ahead. Her stiff posture was intended to fight off any remnant of sympathy that Joyce might feel. Don’t pity me, she seemed to say. I made my choice and now I must live with it.
It’s true, Joyce thought, as with a heavy heart she picked up her haversack and went out on to the fell.
‘What do you think of this?’ Dorothy held aloft a note that had been dropped off by Cliff earlier in the day. ‘The RAF has accepted my invitation to our Christmas hop.’
Brenda paused, duster in hand, her fingers blackened by silver polish that she’d applied to the set of dull tankards and some sporting trophies that Bernard displayed on his kitchen mantelpiece. She’d covered the table with newspaper then set out the tarnished items and started polishing, observed by Dorothy who sat in her fireside chair. ‘How long is it since you cleaned these?’
‘Brenda, never mind the dratted tankards; listen to me.’ Dorothy wafted the paper to and fro. ‘I wrote to the base outside Rixley, hardly daring to hope that they’d say yes. But look: they snatched my hand off!’
‘Good for you.’
‘You could try to sound more pleased. They’re sending over an RAF truck with a dozen trainee pilots. It means we’ll have our pick of dance partners.’
‘I mean it: well done.’
‘And I’ve had another brainwave.’ Dorothy’s excitement drew her to her feet and to the table where she demanded that Brenda put down her duster. ‘Why not invite your friends from your old hostel to the dance?’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, why not?’
Brenda pointed out the pitfalls. ‘First off, I’m not sure how they’d get here. Second, what if the weather’s too bad for anyone to travel? They’ve forecast more snow for next week.’
Dorothy would hear none of it. ‘Pooh, what a killjoy! A few measly inches of snow won’t stop those Land Girls, not if they know there’s a dozen strapping RAF boys waiting for them. And doesn’t the hostel have a truck that the girls could use?’
‘There’s a van.’ Slowly Brenda came round to the idea. It would be a good chance to catch up with Una, Elsie, Kathleen and the other girls in the run-up to Christmas, so why not? ‘I suppose I could ask. Ma Craven would have to agree to doling out late passes, though.’
‘Do it now!’ Dorothy pointed gleefully to the telephone on the window sill.
‘Hold your horses; let me wash my hands first.’ Brenda went to the sink and ran the tap while Dorothy prattled on.
‘This is turning out to be even more fun than I thought. We can decorate a tree, make paper chains and blow up balloons to brighten up the hall. We’ll need plenty of holly and mistletoe, of course. I’d better talk to Geoff again about his selection of gramophone records; we’ll need some slow Viennese waltzes as well as modern ballroom. I just hope he doesn’t mind.’
‘About what?’ Failing to find a towel, Brenda dried her hands on the bib of her dungarees.
‘About the Rixley contingent. They’re bound to be stiff comp
etition for our local boys.’
‘Geoff doesn’t strike me as the sort to be put out by that.’
‘No, but Cliff will be in a bad mood over it. In fact, I doubt that he’d have played messenger boy if he’d realized.’
‘You know your brother better than me.’ Brenda paid little attention to Dorothy’s rapid prattle.
‘Not that he has any reason to complain,’ she rattled on. ‘Evelyn will be there, in any case.’
Brenda’s hand hovered over the telephone. ‘Evelyn and Cliff …?’
‘Oops!’ Dorothy put her hand to her mouth and her face turned bright red. ‘There; that’s torn it.’
Hiding her surprise, Brenda lifted the receiver to dial the operator.
‘I was sworn to secrecy. Not a word to anyone; do you promise?’
Of course, it was obvious when Brenda thought about it. Evelyn and Cliff worked on the Acklam estate together. Both were young, single and fancy-free. What was there to stop a romance developing? ‘But why do they want to keep it a secret?’
‘Don’t ask me!’ Dorothy’s dismay evaporated and her tongue ran on. ‘If it was me, I’d be so thrilled that I‘d shout it from the rooftops. I’d be talking to the vicar about the service, booking the church hall, sending out invitations, planning my wedding day down to the last detail.’
‘It’s that serious?’
‘Oh yes; Cupid’s arrow has well and truly hit its mark. There’s an engagement ring and everything.’ She put a forefinger to her lips. ‘But hush, not a word. I promised Evelyn. As for Cliff, he doesn’t even know that I know.’
‘My lips are sealed,’ Brenda promised as the operator asked which number she required and she turned her back on Dorothy. After all, people were entitled to keep their private lives to themselves. It was up to Evelyn and Cliff to announce their engagement as and when they chose.
Friday arrived in a snow flurry, but that didn’t prevent Laurence from ordering Joyce and the dogs to go with him to Mary’s Fall. The aim was to round up half a dozen sheep in the far field and bring them down past the crag to the lambing field on lower ground where they would stay through the rest of December and into January.
