by Jenny Holmes
‘I don’t want to have to dig them out of snowdrifts if I can help it,’ he grumbled as Flint and Patch got to work. The dogs crouched low to the ground, watching the sheep and waiting for instructions. ‘I had enough of that last year, when Gordon was still here to lend a hand. We lost two ewes up here and three by the crag.’
‘Let’s hope we can do better this year.’ Joyce was optimistic that her repairs to the walls would pay off. She cast a critical eye on Flint as he responded to Laurence’s whistle by darting forward to drive the sheep around the side of the waterfall. ‘He still has his limp,’ she noted with a frown.
Laurence brushed aside her concern. ‘As long as he can do his job.’
‘Even so.’ Despite the dismissal, Joyce decided to take another look at the dog’s foot later that evening. ‘If the ulcers haven’t cleared up, maybe we should give Geoff a call.’
‘Yes, so long as you’re willing to dig into your own pocket.’ Laurence’s whistle brought the knot of bedraggled sheep down the slope towards them.
Joyce bit her tongue and ran to open a gate that would allow the dogs to work the sheep in the direction of the farmhouse. There was a mile to cover and limited daylight in which to achieve their goal.
‘And while we’re at it, I’ve a bone to pick with you.’
What bone? Set on edge by his hostile tone, she let the dogs harry the ewes through the gate then closed it briskly. Flint’s limp definitely couldn’t be ignored, whatever Laurence said.
‘The money, I mean.’ In between whistles, he threw disjointed remarks in Joyce’s direction, his face hidden by the peak of his cap, small muscles in his cheek twitching as he talked. ‘If you go and work part time on the Acklam estate, I’ll be obliged to cut your wages.’
‘You’ve read the note from Mrs Mostyn?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll still deduct sixteen shillings for board and lodging and I’ll only pay you for the hours you work. Understood?’
‘Yes. Does that mean you agree?’
‘Does it make any difference what I think?’
Another whistle pierced the air and a thick flurry of snowflakes swept down the hillside. Joyce was chilled to the bone and heartily sick of Laurence’s churlish ways. I’m not surprised Alma refuses to share a bed with him, she thought. Luckily, she was wise enough to keep this to herself.
‘There’s less for me to do here now that the walls are mended,’ she pointed out. ‘I’ll keep to my milking routine and lend Alma a hand in the dairy. Then I’ll walk over to Acklam and put in four or five hours with Evelyn.’
‘How many days a week?’
‘Two or three? Whichever you prefer.’
He grunted then concentrated on getting the sheep through the next gate.
‘About Flint’s foot,’ Joyce said once her gate-closing duty was done. ‘I am willing to fork out for the vet.’
‘Fair enough. It’s your own money you’re wasting,’ he muttered, watching two ewes veer off to the left and whistling to the dogs to fetch them back. Flint lagged behind Patch then took the weight off his foot by lying on the snowy ground.
‘So it’s settled.’ She meant both the visit to the vet and the part-time work at Acklam. Her frustration didn’t ease until they got the sheep into the lambing field and she and Laurence arrived back in the farmyard where she rubbed snow off the dogs’ backs with a piece of sacking. It was caked on their bellies and legs. Flint whimpered when she wiped the affected paw. ‘I’ll get it seen to tomorrow,’ she promised as she led him to his kennel.
When she went into the house and took off her hat and coat, the bad atmosphere continued. Alma peeled potatoes at the sink and ignored Joyce as Laurence rattled coal from the scuttle on to the fire. It grated against the metal and fell with dull thuds on to the glowing embers, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
‘Who left this dampener open?’ Laurence demanded, seizing the poker and knocking the baffle sideways. ‘Was it you, Alma?’
Joyce saw her stiffen and stop peeling.
‘Do you think we have money to burn? Coal burns twice as fast this way. How many times do I have to tell you?’
Joyce watched Alma turn with the knife, seemingly fighting an urge to use it as a weapon or to rip and slash and destroy the perfect order she’d imposed – to fling crockery on to the floor, smash glasses and scatter burning coals. Instead, she slowly and deliberately put down the knife and raised her apron over her head. She folded it and placed it neatly over the back of the nearest chair. Then she took her coat and scarf from the hook. She opened the door and put on her gumboots. Outside the snowstorm continued.
Joyce stared at Laurence, who hadn’t said a word. ‘Aren’t you going to stop her?’ she demanded. ‘The snow’s set to get worse later on.’
Refusing to meet her eye, he thrust the empty coal scuttle at her. ‘Fill this up,’ he snapped before striding to the sink and lifting out the bowl of half-peeled potatoes. Water slopped on to the floor as he set about washing his hands.
To fetch coal Joyce had to put on her own coat and go outside to the shed next to the WC. Meanwhile, Alma had set off across the yard.
Joyce ran after her. ‘Where are you going in this weather?’
Alma pulled the woollen scarf over her chin so that only her eyes were showing. Delicate white flakes settled on her bare head. ‘Anywhere.’
‘But where exactly?’
‘I don’t care.’
Joyce made a spur-of-the-moment decision and put down the coal scuttle. ‘I’m coming with you,’ she told Alma. ‘We’ll walk together. Wherever you’re going, I’m coming too.’
‘When you think about it, she had nowhere to go.’ Joyce leaned on her broom as she came to the end of telling Brenda about her previous night’s wintry expedition with Alma. The two Land Girls had got together in the church meeting room, armed with brushes, mops and dusters to make the small hall ready for the Christmas dance due to take place in a week’s time. ‘It was dark and snowing like billy-o. So we walked as far as Mary’s Fall then had to turn round and retrace our steps as best we could. By the time we got back to the farm, the snow was six inches deep.’
‘What did his lordship say?’ Brenda made no effort to conceal her low opinion of Laurence Bradley.
‘Not a word. He didn’t even look up from his newspaper.’
Brenda climbed on a chair to use a soft brush to sweep cobwebs from the picture rail and cornice, doubting that they’d get rid of the musty smell that pervaded the hall. She heard Evelyn and Dorothy talking and laughing in a small side room where refreshments were prepared for the local cricket and football teams. In a week’s time it would be used to serve sandwiches and tea to the dancers at the Christmas hop. ‘And you say it was over an argument about coal?’
‘It was and it wasn’t,’ Joyce replied. ‘Really, the coal was just an excuse for Mr Bradley to find fault. And I know for a fact that Alma is unhappy with her lot.’ Reminding herself that it was best to say no more on this score, she went on to describe Mary’s Fall in deep snow. ‘There was ice on the pond and icicles as thick as your wrist hanging from ledges. Everywhere was pure white.’
‘You can’t beat a good snow scene,’ Brenda agreed. ‘Until it all gets trampled on and spoiled.’ The laughter next door grew louder so she jumped down from the chair and flung open the door to find Dorothy and Evelyn studying pictures in a magazine. ‘Aren’t you two supposed to be counting cups and saucers, and so on?’
Dorothy whipped the magazine out of sight. ‘We are!’ she claimed, while Evelyn opened a cupboard door and began the task.
With an exaggerated school-ma’am frown, Brenda returned to her cobwebs. ‘I’ve had a phone call from Una, by the way,’ she told Joyce.
‘Saying what?’
‘Saying that they can only fit six in the van. They’ll have to draw straws.’
Joyce went on sweeping. ‘But Ma Craven has issued late passes?’
‘Yes, provided the weather is decent. Did I tell yo
u that I finally managed to have a word with the vicar?’
‘No. Was it about Alan?’
Threads from a cobweb drifted across Brenda’s cheek and she brushed them away. ‘Yes. Mr Rigg agreed to let him change bedrooms but I could tell he wasn’t best pleased.’ She recalled the sour-lemon look on the clergyman’s face as he’d listened to her reasoning behind the boy’s request and the homily he’d delivered to Alan about guardian angels being forces for good, not evil. ‘I only hope he doesn’t take it out on the boy with that ruler of his when there’s no one looking.’
‘For doing what?’
Brenda shrugged. ‘For having the nerve to complain.’
‘But he didn’t. He daren’t.’
‘We know that. But Mr Rigg doesn’t seem to. Put up and shut up is his philosophy. And he made it clear that Alan mustn’t expect to trot off and visit his sister whenever he feels like it. That’s how he put it. Oh, and he’s decided that it’s not worth him starting school in Thwaite until the new term starts in January, so Alan’s stuck in the vicarage, day in, day out.’
Brenda and Joyce worked on to the background sounds of crockery and cutlery being checked until Dorothy decided that it was high time they all stopped for a cup of tea.
‘You know what they say about all work and no play,’ she said with a wink as she ordered everyone to congregate in a corner of the hall.
‘Yes, counting saucers is slave labour.’ Brenda’s dry remark brought about a fresh peal of laughter as they arranged chairs so that they could put their feet on the radiator pipe running at floor level around the room. They sat back, cups in hand and gazed up at the high rafters festooned with yet more cobwebs – four young women dressed in slacks and dungarees, with sleeves rolled up and headscarves worn like turbans.
‘We’ll need the ladder to hang the paper chains,’ Joyce observed. ‘And does anyone know where we’ll get a decent Christmas tree at short notice?’
Evelyn pointed theatrically at her own chest. ‘Look no further!’
‘Of course, silly me.’ Joyce realized that Evelyn must have dozens of fir trees growing in amongst the oaks and chestnuts on the Acklam estate.
‘You can help me choose one on your first day; when is it to be?’
‘Tuesday.’ Joyce took a sip of strong, sweet tea. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘Anything to escape from Farmer Misery Guts, eh?’
Brenda’s comment was swiftly followed by a ‘Miaow!’ from Dorothy.
‘What do you mean? I’m not jealous.’
Dorothy raised an eyebrow.
‘All right, then; just a tiny bit.’ Brenda had to admit she fancied having a go with chainsaw and axe.
‘So Joyce and I have the tree situation in hand,’ Evelyn went on. ‘And we’ll bring holly and mistletoe. Dorothy, can you organize the decorations? You’ll be a dab hand at that.’
‘Tinsel, baubles, a fairy on the top,’ Dorothy promised eagerly. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll see to it.’
‘Gramophone and dance records?’ Evelyn ticked tasks off on her fingers. ‘When are they due to arrive?’
‘That’ll be Geoff’s job.’ Dorothy told them that she’d reminded him twice already. ‘I promised I’d go to New Hall and help him choose the records.’
‘That’s more of a threat than a promise, if you ask me.’ Brenda made sure to return the teasing taunts. ‘I’m only kidding,’ she said before Dorothy could retaliate, then she stood up to collect the empty cups. She took them into the annexe and was about to rinse them when she noticed the magazine that Evelyn and Dorothy had been looking at. It lay on the window sill, open at a page displaying the latest style of wedding dress: a silky, frothy confection photographed on a sleek fashion model posing with a bouquet of pink carnations. Brenda picked it up and leafed through pages of more brides and bridesmaids standing in church porches and beside wedding cars. She didn’t notice that Evelyn had crept up on her until the magazine was snatched from her grasp.
‘This isn’t mine.’ Evelyn’s hasty explanation came with an embarrassed frown.
‘I didn’t think it was,’ Brenda said carefully.
‘It belongs to Dorothy.’
‘Yes. She loves her magazines.’
Brenda’s bland responses roused Evelyn’s suspicions and she grew more defensive still. Her cheeks flared red as she spoke. ‘We were wondering how many clothing coupons it takes to make a wedding dress; idle curiosity, that’s all.’
‘Dozens,’ Brenda guessed.
Evelyn stared angrily at her. ‘What has Dorothy said?’
‘Nothing, I swear.’
The colour vanished from Evelyn’s face as quickly as it had appeared, leaving her cheeks white and her grey-green eyes flashing. ‘I don’t believe you.’ Instead of waiting for a response, she rolled up the magazine like a baton and rushed into the hall. ‘Dorothy Huby, you’re a blithering idiot!’ Her voice echoed round the empty room.
‘Steady on.’ Joyce put down the broom that she’d just picked up and stepped between Evelyn and Dorothy, who had retreated into a corner.
Beside herself, Evelyn flung the magazine on to the floor where it fell open again at the wedding pages. ‘You promised hand on heart that you wouldn’t say a word!’
‘I didn’t, I swear.’ Tears sprang into Dorothy’s eyes and her face crumpled into an expression that was half defiant, half helpless.
‘You’re a rotten liar,’ Evelyn fumed, ignoring Joyce and turning to Brenda who had followed her into the hall. ‘She told you about me and Cliff, didn’t she?’
Brenda nodded without saying anything.
‘Dorothy, I could wring your neck!’
‘Evelyn, calm down.’ As always, Joyce tried to smooth things over. ‘You’re upsetting her.’
‘It slipped out; I didn’t mean to.’ Dorothy changed her story between sobs.
It made no difference to Evelyn, who was carried on a wave of emotion that crashed over Dorothy’s bent head. ‘And now the whole of Shawcross will find out. Cliff will blow a gasket. Colonel Weatherall will sack us both.’
‘Wait a minute.’ It was Brenda’s turn to intervene. ‘Are you saying that the reason behind all this secrecy is because your jobs are at stake?’
‘Yes!’ The admission robbed Evelyn of all her strength and she was forced to sit on the nearest chair and hold her head in her hands. ‘Yes, yes. It’s against the old man’s rules. Cliff and I are not allowed to spoon. That’s the word he uses. We’re to stick to our own quarters: me in the stable block, Cliff in his cottage.’
‘But you fell for each other regardless and now you’re engaged?’ Brenda sat beside her until she gathered her thoughts.
‘Is that true?’ Joyce’s whispered question was directed at Dorothy who nodded miserably.
Evelyn took a deep breath and sat up straight. ‘It’s not me I’m worried about. If and when the old man kicks me out, I can easily be sent on to a new billet and carry on doing my tree felling and cross-cutting work and what have you. But it’s different for Cliff. Gamekeeping jobs are few and far between. He might have to go all the way up to Scotland to find a new one.’ The last sentence trailed away and she lowered her head into her hands once more.
‘Yes, I can see that might be a problem,’ Brenda acknowledged.
‘The point is, it’s best for Cliff to stay in Shawcross. Apart from anything else, it takes some of the weight off his dad’s shoulders.’
‘She means me,’ Dorothy groaned. ‘I’m the weight; I have to be looked after and driven everywhere.’
Evelyn didn’t argue or offer any further explanation. She simply raised her head again and looked from Brenda to Joyce in silent appeal.
They spoke over each other, eager to reassure.
‘No one needs to know.’
‘Don’t worry, we won’t say a word.’
With two jobs on the line, there was no doubt in their minds that they would keep Evelyn’s secret.
‘Are you sure?’ Evelyn whispered.
‘Oh, I love Cliff more than anything.’ Evelyn spoke with new energy that brought a shine to her features and seemed to light up the neglected hall. ‘And he loves me. We’re to be married just as soon as he manages to find a new job in Yorkshire; somewhere nice and close to home.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Evelyn’s confession had brought the girls together and they worked on with a will. They swept and dusted, mopped and scrubbed until every surface in the church hall shone and they were sure that the Rixley RAF boys and the Fieldhead Land Girls would find no fault with their preparations. It was two o’clock by the time they’d finished and Dorothy had sloped off somewhere, leaving Brenda, Joyce and Evelyn to finish washing the windows inside and out.
Joyce was up a stepladder, wiping the window above the main entrance with a soft chamois leather when Emma hurried up the path.
‘You haven’t clapped eyes on Alan, by any chance?’ she boomed in her foghorn voice.
Joyce came down the ladder. ‘No. Why?’
‘He’s given the vicar the slip, that’s why.’ The old woman didn’t seem unduly worried; in fact, she folded her arms and took a step back to critique the finish on Joyce’s newly washed windows. ‘I’d give that one more going-over with the chamois if I were you,’ she commented.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t seen Alan, but let’s check with the others.’ Joyce led the way into the hall.
‘The vicar’s on the warpath.’ Emma barged in front of Joyce to make her announcement. ‘His latest lad has gone AWOL. Has anybody seen him?’
‘Not since I arrived here first thing this morning.’ Evelyn was pacing out the length of the hall to estimate how many yards of paper-chain decoration they would need to make. ‘I spotted him standing on the bridge by New Hall.’
