A Christmas Wish for the Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  The announcement astonished Joyce, who had been convinced that Alan would still be in solitary confinement after his ill-judged bid for freedom.

  The vicar evidently had a point to prove. ‘He can fetch and carry for you, can’t you, Alan? After all, he’s learned his lesson.’

  The last phrase made Joyce wince but she determined that it was best to gloss over the clergyman’s zeal for corporal punishment. ‘Well, that’s grand,’ she said with a forced smile as she gave the boy her end of the paper chain.

  Alan’s hand shook as he took it and his face had the haunted look that Joyce recognized: eyes wide and dark, brow furrowed, mouth slightly open. He stood stock still in the middle of the hall, awaiting his next order.

  ‘Alan can stay for an hour,’ Walter Rigg announced with a tap of his wrist watch. ‘I’ll come and collect him at eight on the dot.’

  Joyce assured him there was no need; she would bring the boy back to the vicarage herself.

  ‘Very well; I’m much obliged.’ He beamed up at Evelyn and said a pleasant goodbye to Dorothy and Cliff, crossing paths with Geoff on his way out of the building.

  ‘Good evening, all. I can’t stop.’ Geoff had dropped by with more dance records. He had on a casual dark grey jerkin that fastened with a zip and a dark red cravat with a paisley pattern. His wayward lick of hair was combed and smoothed down with Brylcreem. ‘Have a listen to these, Dorothy. There’s a Victor Silvester and a Glenn Miller in amongst that lot.’

  Dorothy sorted through the records with a broad smile until a sudden thought struck her. ‘There’s one thing I haven’t taken into account,’ she admitted. ‘Who’s going to stand by on Saturday night, ready to change the records when they finish?’

  ‘Me; I’m your man,’ Geoff assured her. ‘It’ll save the embarrassment of asking some poor soul to dance if you put me in charge of the music.’

  ‘Your dancing can’t be that bad, surely?’ Joyce pictured Geoff cutting a fine figure on the dance floor. After all, he was tall and trim and went about his daily business with an understated grace.

  ‘Two left feet,’ he assured her. ‘Ask Evelyn – she has the bruises to prove it.’

  Evelyn descended her stepladder, one wary eye on Cliff who was still busy with the electrical plug. ‘It’s true. For a man who likes his music, Geoff’s sense of rhythm goes AWOL when it comes to the Circassian Circle and Strip the Willow.’

  He blushed then laughed. ‘My brain refuses to tell my feet what to do. Evelyn and Dorothy found it out to their cost at the Whitsuntide barn dance, which was the last do we put on here.’

  Dorothy smiled coquettishly as she took the pile of records to the gramophone and selected the top one. ‘Hurry up with the plug, Cliff.’

  He’d removed the back and inserted a new fuse. Now he was searching on the floor for a dropped screw. ‘What’s the hurry? Just put the bloody things down and come back when I’m finished.’

  ‘I’ll be off, then.’ Geoff made a point of smiling at Alan, who still hadn’t moved from the spot. ‘Do we know what Father Christmas is bringing us this year?’

  Alan frowned and shook his head.

  ‘What would you like him to bring?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That can’t be true, surely? What about a toy train or an Airfix kit? A sailing boat, perhaps?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he whispered again. ‘Father Christmas is like fairies: he isn’t real.’

  ‘Who says so?’ Evelyn asked as she disentangled a second length of paper chain.

  ‘Mr Rigg.’

  ‘He does, does he?’

  ‘Yes. He says only God is real, and angels. Angels stand guard when you go to Heaven. They know when you’ve told a lie and then they won’t let you in.’

  Evelyn puffed out her cheeks then let out a light, popping breath. ‘That’s me done for,’ she said with a wink.

  ‘And ninety-nine per cent of the rest of us.’ This time Geoff really did make his exit. ‘Take care not to overdo it,’ he warned Dorothy on his way out.

  ‘Not much chance of that.’ Cliff’s dark mood continued to cast a shadow over proceedings. He went on ignoring Evelyn and finding fault with Dorothy until at last he’d mended the plug, tested the gramophone to make sure that it worked then carried his black cloud away with him to the Cross Keys and a pint of Fred Williams’ best bitter.

  Before long it was time for Joyce to take Alan back to the vicarage. ‘Thank you, you’ve been a big help,’ she told him as she knocked at the door.

  After an hour of happy activity, the short walk home had seen him retreat into his shell. By the time Walter Rigg answered the door, the boy’s shoulders were hunched and his face pale with anxiety. ‘I hope to see you both at the dance on Saturday,’ Joyce said to ease the moment. ‘There’ll be sandwiches and cake. Everyone’s welcome.’

  The vicar’s earlier show of bonhomie had vanished without trace. He simply glared at Joyce while Alan stepped into the hallway with the look of a boy approaching the gallows, then the vicar silently closed the door. By the time she got back to the hall, Cliff had already taken Dorothy home and Evelyn was about to set off on her bike for Acklam.

  ‘Will you be all right cycling that rough road by yourself?’ Joyce asked as Evelyn put on her beret and scarf.

  ‘Yes, ta; I’ve done it dozens of times before.’

  ‘Couldn’t Cliff have given you a lift?’

  Evelyn fiddled with the faulty dynamo light fixed to the front of her bike. ‘He’s not talking to me,’ she confessed in a croaky voice.

  ‘I did notice that.’ Joyce took up her own bike and flicked on the dynamo switch ready for action. ‘That’s not fair, though; it wasn’t you who gave away the secret.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But Dorothy never gets the blame for anything.’

  ‘I’ve noticed that too.’ Seeing that Evelyn hadn’t managed to mend the light, Joyce offered to walk part of the way with her. ‘What exactly is the matter with Dorothy that makes everyone mollycoddle her?’

  Evelyn wheeled her bike across the green with Joyce beside her. The moon was bright so their eyes soon adjusted and they had little trouble seeing the way ahead. ‘The doctors say she has a weak heart, like her mother. It means she mustn’t over-exert herself on any account.’

  ‘So it runs in the family.’ Joyce considered this new nugget of information. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Of course, Dorothy milks the situation like billy-o. You’ve seen how her father runs around after her.’

  ‘Yes, but I understand that better now.’

  ‘And Cliff, too; except when he’s in a bad mood.’ As they walked their bikes over the packhorse bridge leading out of the village towards Black Crag Farm and the Acklam estate beyond, Evelyn edged the conversation in the direction of her recent quarrel with her fiancé. ‘Even then, he lets her off lightly. I’m the one who takes the brunt.’

  ‘I’m surprised you let him get away with that.’ From the beginning Joyce had viewed Evelyn as the confident, independent type, always ready to stand up for herself. Now she was seeing a different side that was more hesitant and unsure.

  ‘The trouble is, I can see his point of view,’ she said with a sigh. ‘If Colonel Weatherall gets wind of our engagement then bang goes Cliff’s job.’

  ‘Still.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll blow over,’ Evelyn said without conviction.

  ‘Fingers crossed.’ They slowed down as they approached the fork in the road where they must part ways.

  ‘It’s not the first time it’s happened,’ Evelyn admitted. ‘As a rule we go along happily guarding our precious secret then we have a tiff over nothing and Cliff goes cold on me. It can be over the smallest thing; if I’m running five minutes late, for instance. I say sorry but he storms off anyway. Then I get the silent treatment until suddenly he’s all right again.’

  Though surprised that Evelyn was willing to put up with this, Joyce was wise enough to recognize that she didn’t know all the
ins and outs. Nothing was ever as simple as it seemed. ‘Perhaps when he finds a new job …’ she began quietly.

  ‘Yes, you’re right.’ Setting off along the lane to the castle, Evelyn adopted a more determined air. ‘That will solve all our problems: a new job, no more secrets and plain sailing from there on in.’

  The next morning, after Joyce had finished her milking duties then checked a new dressing on Flint’s paw, she set out for her first day as a lumberjill, eager to learn what tasks Evelyn had in mind. It was a dank, dark day and she cycled under heavy grey clouds through a swirling mist that hid familiar landmarks until Acklam Castle loomed up, seemingly out of nowhere. It stood on its knoll overlooking the river, gloomier than ever; a desolate place at the best of times. On this bleak Tuesday in mid-December it sent a shiver down Joyce’s spine.

  She leaned her bicycle against the padlocked gate, uncertain what to do next. Should she holler to announce her arrival? Or should she climb the gate and risk an encounter with the mad old estate owner?

  Her dilemma was resolved by the appearance of Cliff Huby, dressed for the weather in a waxed jacket, waterproof gaiters and flat cap. He carried a shotgun under his arm and still didn’t seem to be in the best of moods.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he called as he strode towards Joyce, sounding as if giving assistance was the last thing he had in mind.

  ‘I’ve come to do forestry work,’ Joyce explained. ‘Didn’t Evelyn tell you?’

  ‘No; nobody saw fit to mention it. Lucky for you I spotted you before the old man did.’ He braced his free arm against the top bar of the gate, making no move to unlock the padlock and let her in.

  She looked straight at him, noting the belligerent light in his hazel eyes and the defiant set of his jaw. ‘Will you let Evelyn know I’m here?’

  ‘No need!’ a voice called and Evelyn herself strode out of the wood bordering the castle grounds. She wore dungarees under her overcoat and her hair was hidden beneath her green Timber Corps beret.

  Cliff turned on his heel and walked swiftly back to the castle.

  ‘Things are no better, then?’ Joyce asked as Evelyn unlocked the padlock to let her in.

  Evelyn shook her head. ‘No; I expect it’ll take a couple more days. Anyway, follow me. Let me show you our job for today.’

  Joyce fell in behind Evelyn, who took her up a track a few hundred yards into the wood. As they walked quick march between stark, bare trees, Joyce noticed uprooted beeches and oaks that had toppled to the soft, leaf-strewn ground. Their black roots clawed at the air and their rotting trunks were covered in vivid green moss and lichen; the only patches of colour in this greyest of days. Unruly saplings grew in amongst mature specimens and everywhere there were brambles and thick bracken barring easy access to the inner depths of the wood.

  ‘You see what a mess we’re in?’ Evelyn gestured to left and right before coming to a halt in a small clearing where there were tools – axes, spades and saws – stacked in a wheelbarrow.

  ‘Yes, but somehow I like it.’ The peacefulness of their surroundings was almost tangible. It fell like a cloak of silence around Joyce’s head and shoulders. Even the smell of damp decay seemed fitting for the time of year.

  ‘Tell me that at the end of a long, hard day of snedding.’ Evelyn handed her a billhook from the barrow and explained, ‘That’s where we take away the lower branches of these young ash trees over here. We’ve to get them ready for cropping in early spring.’

  Joyce looked down at the heavy, curved-steel blade. The handle was six inches long and fitted snugly into the palm of her hand. ‘Where do we stack the waste?’

  ‘Here in the middle of the clearing until the weather improves. As soon as we get a decent day, I’ll be able to drive the tractor and trailer out to fetch it.’

  ‘Then do what with it?’

  ‘We leave it to dry out in one of the old stables then chop it up so the Colonel can use it for kindling.’ Evelyn took up her own billhook to demonstrate how the job should be done. ‘Strip the side branch back as close to the trunk as possible. Stand to one side, like so, while you’re doing it; we don’t want you slicing your own leg off. And wear gloves, otherwise you’ll end up with blisters.’

  Having watched carefully, Joyce got to work. The sharp billhook blade took off the slender limbs with one clean stroke and she let them fall to the ground with a light swish. Once she had an armful, she gathered them and carried them to the stack that Evelyn had already begun. She had more questions, mostly about felling and cross-cutting, to which Evelyn gave brief answers.

  ‘Anyway, no more time for jaw-jaw,’ she chided, taking up her billhook once more. ‘Besides working on the ash, there are brambles to hack through so we can cut a pathway to a young fir I’ve had my eye on.’

  ‘For the Christmas tree for the church hall?’ Joyce had almost forgotten this part of the plan but the notion put a fresh spring in her step as Evelyn forced her way through a tangle of blackberry bushes and blackthorns to show her the tree.

  ‘It’s over here by the stream. This is about the right size, don’t you think?’

  ‘Perfect,’ Joyce agreed. The tree was six feet tall, with well-spaced, evenly balanced branches. ‘But hold on a second; how will we get it down to Shawcross?’

  Evelyn knotted her brow. ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Normally I’d ask Cliff if we could borrow his car and the estate trailer.’

  ‘But right now you don’t want to run the risk of getting your head bitten off. And we have to do it sooner rather than later.’ After a few moments of consideration, Joyce came up with an alternative. ‘Why don’t we use the wheelbarrow? We can balance the tree sideways across it and tie it down so it doesn’t fall off. Then we’ll wheel it across country as far as Black Crag Farm and all the way down to the village if necessary.’

  ‘Yes, but when? Today’s Tuesday. We promised Dorothy we’d deliver it to the church hall by the end of this afternoon.’

  ‘Dorothy will have to wait until tomorrow,’ Joyce decided. ‘I’ll rope Brenda in. Between the three of us we should be able to pull it off.’

  The idea of the gung-ho trio carting a Christmas tree across the wild hillsides was a challenge that both Evelyn and Joyce relished. So Joyce hurried to fetch an axe and within fifteen minutes the fir tree had been neatly felled and carried back to the clearing. After this, there were two or three hours of daylight left and more snedding to be done. But first Evelyn delved into a canvas satchel stored in the wheelbarrow and produced a flask of tea and a parcel of beef-dripping sandwiches. They had just opened up the greaseproof paper and sat down on a fallen tree trunk when shotgun pellets ripped through the clearing.

  ‘Duck, Joyce; duck!’ Evelyn spat out her first bite of sandwich and dragged her friend flat on the ground. ‘Don’t budge!’

  There was more firing then feet tramping through the wood towards them, followed by a cry of triumph as a game bird fell dead beside them. Then the shooting stopped and a black spaniel raced into view, ignoring Joyce and Evelyn and seizing the pheasant by the neck.

  From ground level Joyce eyed the dog and the dead bird. She saw Colonel Weatherall enter the clearing with Cliff, who was the first to spot Evelyn and Joyce lying face down in a litter of dried leaves and mud.

  He shouted into his boss’s ear. ‘Hold your fire!’

  Reluctantly the doddery landowner lowered his gun while Cliff stooped to take the limp pheasant from the dog. Blood dripped from its head on to his boots as he strode with it towards the women.

  Joyce sprang to her feet, a protest on her lips. ‘What the bloody hell do you two think you’re doing? You could have killed someone!’

  ‘You try stopping the trigger-happy blighter.’ Cliff tilted his head in the direction of the old man. ‘The colonel reckons he can do what he likes when he likes on his own land.’

  Evelyn was slower to get up and when she did, she pressed a hand against the base of her spine and groaned.

  Meanwhile, the la
ndowner had stomped off towards the castle with his dog.

  ‘What’s up?’ Cliff demanded. ‘The old bastard didn’t shoot you, did he?’

  ‘No. It’s a bad crick, that’s all.’ She made light of it and tried to dust herself down. ‘Ouch!’ she muttered twice while Joyce picked up the scattered sandwiches then put the top on the flask of tea.

  Cliff observed Evelyn closely. ‘You can’t go on working in that state,’ he decided. His tone was brisk but he was clearly concerned about her and he put out an arm to support her. ‘Let me walk you back to the house.’

  ‘No, I’ll be all right. It’ll soon wear off.’ Despite being in pain, she managed a quick smile.

  ‘Cliff’s right,’ Joyce agreed. ‘You ought to go home and rest.’

  ‘And let the old devil see Cliff and me together?’ Evelyn shook her head fiercely.

  ‘Then I’ll walk you back,’ Joyce insisted. ‘Once I’ve seen you safely home, I’ll come back and finish off our afternoon’s work. How does that sound?’

  Cliff backed Joyce up. ‘Go on, Evelyn; do as Joyce says. I’ll keep Weatherall out of your hair. He need never know that you’ve taken the afternoon off.’

  It was agreed: Evelyn should go home with Joyce and rest. The two women walked slowly through the wood while Cliff ran on ahead.

  ‘At least we’re back on speaking terms.’ Evelyn’s face was pale, her movements stiff, as she leaned on Joyce’s arm and they made slow progress towards the house.

  ‘I should hope so.’ Joyce remembered Cliff’s face when he’d appeared on the scene. There’d been a second or two of genuine fear that Evelyn had been shot and then relief.

  ‘Oh, Joyce!’ Evelyn groaned as, with each step, pain shot through her back and down her legs. ‘The sooner Cliff and I are free of this place, the better.’

  For Brenda, the parting with Les on the previous Saturday had been the hardest yet. There had been tears on all sides: from Arnold, who had lost his only daughter, and from Donald as they’d stood looking out over Hettie’s garden.