A Christmas Wish for the Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘I was hoping that she was strong enough to beat it,’ he’d admitted to Les. ‘Until yesterday, when I finally telephoned you. That’s when I knew.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ Les had said when he and Brenda had walked together, away from the house, across the fields and up the hill overlooking Attercliffe. The wind had been bitter. ‘I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘Hettie made us all promise not to tell you.’ Brenda had let her hand rest in his, treasuring every precious moment that they had to themselves. ‘She said you had enough on your plate.’

  ‘That’s typical of her,’ he’d said under his breath. ‘It’s strange; when I was growing up, I thought all women were like Hettie: strong and stern, not to be trifled with. My dragon-sister.’

  ‘And now you know we’re not.’

  ‘No. But what I’d give to hear her roar, just one more time.’

  They’d walked up on to the ridge and looked down on Dale End.

  ‘Is this where we’ll live after we’re married?’ Brenda had expected him to say yes. After all, there was Arnold to think about and the family business of renting out farm machinery.

  His answer had surprised her. ‘I’d rather not. If all goes to plan, Donald can carry on running things here. We’ll find a house of our own – not too far away. Somewhere to call our own.’

  She had felt a surge of hope. She and Les would marry and live together, perhaps in a terraced cottage like Grace and Bill. There would be a dog and some children – if all went to plan, as Les had put it. ‘I’d like to carry on working,’ she’d said as they’d walked on.

  ‘What at?’

  ‘I’m not sure. At something where I can use the knowledge I’ve picked up from my Land Army work. I’m young and strong and I enjoy being outdoors.’

  Les had listened and nodded. He’d said it was right that Brenda should go out to work. He wouldn’t dream of clipping her wings.

  They’d sheltered for a while under a rocky overhang, dreaming of their future.

  ‘How much do you think about me when I’m not here?’ he’d asked when it grew close to the time for him to leave.

  ‘Every hour of every day.’ She’d insisted it wasn’t true what people said about absence making the heart grow fonder. Now that she could actually see Les and touch him, her heart almost burst with love. There simply wasn’t room inside her for this much pent-up emotion. She ached with it and wanted to weep it all out, to be hugged and held.

  ‘Likewise,’ he’d murmured. He’d kept from her how, three weeks earlier, his ship had gone down off Gibraltar, how he’d leaped from the upturned hull into the water, how the sea was alight with blazing oil from the sinking ship and he’d had to dive down and swim underwater until his lungs had run out of air and he’d surfaced a hundred yards away. He’d been one of only three sailors to make it ashore. What was the point of sharing with Brenda how narrow his escape had been?

  They’d walked hand in hand down to the farm and theirs had been a sad, sad kiss of farewell and longing. Les hadn’t been able to promise that he would make it back for Hettie’s funeral and Brenda had vowed in return that nothing would stop her from taking his place in the cortège.

  They had shared one last, long kiss before Donald had driven Les to the railway station in Rixley, the car disappearing over the brow of the hill. And then there was only silence inside the big house.

  On Sunday Brenda had spent the rest of the day alone, walking the hills above Shawcross and the evening hunkered down inside her goods wagon. On the Monday she’d worked with Bernard digging out a channel for rainwater to run more freely out of the field where they would bring in the sheep for lambing and won praises from him for putting her back into the heavy work. In her billet that night she’d written the first instalment of a long letter to Les that she intended to post on the coming Friday. Perhaps by then she would have received firm news from Dale End about Hettie’s funeral. Now, late on the Tuesday afternoon, after more ditch digging, she fed the chickens and Nancy the goat then set off once more to investigate the traps that she’d set for the rabbits.

  This time she was in luck. She found three captives cowering in the first trap and two in the second, but the business of transferring the rabbits into the sack that she carried with her was trickier than expected. One of the three gave her a sharp nip with its teeth as she reached in and when she jerked her hand away, two of them – the biter and another – made good their escape. She put the third more docile one in the sack and pacified it with a handful of dried oats. At the second trap, she donned gloves before reaching inside and this time successfully added two wide-eyed prisoners to the sack. She returned hotfoot to Garthside to install the three rabbits in their luxurious new quarters.

  The light had almost faded when Dorothy came out of the house with a message. ‘Dad ran into your Land Army pal out by Black Crag,’ she reported.

  Brenda took satisfaction in watching the rabbits hop along the run she’d built for them. ‘So?’ she prompted.

  ‘Joyce asked him to tell you that they’ll be bringing the tree over from Acklam tomorrow morning, all being well – if they can take time off from snedding, that is. It depends on old man Weatherall being kept in the dark.’

  Brenda was slow to tune into Dorothy’s garbled message. ‘Tree?’ she repeated.

  Dorothy sighed. ‘The Christmas tree, silly. Evelyn has let me down, worse luck. She was supposed to bring it to the church hall today but now it has to be tomorrow. At this rate I’ll have all on to get it decorated in time. You will go and help them, won’t you, Brenda? You’re the only one I can rely on to get things done around here. Don’t worry, I’ll tell Dad to give you time off to go over to Acklam. He never says no if I ask him nicely.’

  ‘That’s fine by me.’ Brenda welcomed the chance to catch up with Joyce. She stared ruefully at her calloused palms. ‘It beats digging ditches, at any rate.’

  ‘And tomorrow night you can help me hang the glass baubles and tinsel on the tree.’ Dorothy offered this to Brenda as a reward. ‘We can play a few records while we’re at it. I’ll let you choose your favourite; how about that?’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  An image of a carved plaque in the village church, memorial to a long-dead Weatherall, stuck in Brenda’s mind the following afternoon as she hiked across country towards Acklam. It was odd that she couldn’t dislodge the vision of worn lettering engraved in stone, given how little she’d had to do with the current landowner since she’d arrived in Shawcross and how much she disliked the whole business of country squires lording it over the little people who farmed their land and rented their cottages.

  Families like that are stuck in the past, she thought as she entered the wood leading to the castle, leaving behind bright sunlight and buttoning up her coat against the cold. Like flies in aspic. It’s not right for them to carry on ordering everyone around in this day and age: do this, do that or I’ll aim a gun at your head? It’s flipping medieval, if you ask me.

  No one did ask Brenda as she tramped on through the dark, deserted wood, catching glimpses of blue sky through the branches and avoiding drifts left over from the snowfall of a few days earlier. Snow lingered a long time in these shaded spots and remained on the high ridges as a reminder that winter could tighten its grip at any moment.

  ‘Ah, here you are!’ Evelyn called from the castle yard, as, still lost in thought, Brenda emerged from the wood and approached the gate.

  Almost recovered from the trapped nerve in her back, with only the odd twinge to remind her to take things easy, Evelyn stood with Joyce, wheelbarrow at the ready. At the sound of her raised voice, her dark bay cob stuck his head over his stable door and gave it a hopeful kick.

  ‘Not today, Captain,’ Evelyn said with an apologetic shake of her head. She went to fetch a length of rope from the tack room next door, careful to stay out of sight of Weatherall’s first-floor bedroom window in the dilapidated, ivy-covered manor house.

  Meanwhile, Joyce gr
eeted Brenda with a warm smile. ‘Hello, stranger. It’s good to see you out and about again.’

  Brenda was warm from the exertion of hiking across country. She took off her coat and flung it across the empty wheelbarrow. ‘I’m sorry, Joyce – I’ve been a bit of a hermit. But that brisk walk has done me no end of good.’

  Joyce outlined the task ahead. ‘I hope you’re ready to wheel this tree all the way to Shawcross. Apparently there are no volunteers to lend a hand with transport.’

  Brenda spat into the palms of her hands and rubbed them together. ‘Ready and willing,’ she said with a wink and something of her usual eagerness.

  Evelyn dropped the coil of rope on top of Brenda’s discarded coat. ‘Many hands make light work, eh, Brenda?’

  ‘So they say. So where is this precious tree?’

  ‘Not too far away.’ Evelyn made sure they had everything they needed before tapping the haversack strapped to Joyce’s back. ‘There’s a flask of tea in there and some rich tea biscuits.’

  ‘Thanks to Alma.’ Joyce too was looking forward to the expedition. ‘When I explained what we were up to, she filled the flask of her own accord and made sure we had three cups to drink out of. It was all done behind Mr Bradley’s back, of course.’

  ‘The old misery guts,’ Evelyn added. ‘It would serve him right if Alma upped sticks and went back to live in her aunty’s house.’

  The comment caught Brenda’s interest. ‘Why, what have you heard?’

  Evelyn dipped eagerly into the gossip that surrounded Alma and Laurence’s unlikely marriage. ‘That Bradley keeps her cooped up in the house and won’t let her out. According to Emma Waterhouse, who, as we all know, is the fount of all knowledge in these parts, he dishes out the orders and Alma doesn’t dare answer back. Otherwise why doesn’t she come to village events?’

  Brenda turned to Joyce for confirmation.

  ‘It might look that way from the outside, but I’m not so sure.’ Joyce was the first to take up the wheelbarrow and set it in motion, putting an end to the small flurry of speculation.

  They were almost at the gate when Cliff rushed out of the main house and called Evelyn’s name.

  ‘Oh, drat, the old man’s spotted us,’ she said through gritted teeth without turning round.

  ‘Evelyn!’ Cliff shouted a second time, striding towards them. ‘Are you deaf?’

  ‘What is it, Cliff?’ Making up her mind that Joyce and Brenda should go ahead without her if necessary, Evelyn drew a deep breath and waited for the axe to fall.

  ‘Don’t worry; it’s not what you think.’ His expression softened as he surveyed their three disappointed faces. ‘His lordship didn’t have his spyglass out. As a matter of fact, he’s taken to his bed.’

  ‘Is he poorly?’ Evelyn wouldn’t be surprised by this; the colonel was shakier on his feet each time she saw him and his memory was getting worse and worse.

  Cliff nodded cheerfully. ‘Bingo! He says it’s a bad cold, that’s all. He doesn’t want the doctor. I offered to fetch one but he said no.’

  ‘No, because he’d have to shell out for a visit, that’s why.’ Evelyn’s dislike of her miserly boss kept sympathy at bay and she was eager to set off on her Christmas mission. She opened the gate to let Brenda and Joyce through.

  As Evelyn was about to follow them, Cliff stepped ahead of her and spoke in a low murmur. ‘Wait a sec; don’t you want to hear my own thoughts on the matter?’

  Whenever Cliff gave Evelyn what she called ‘that look’, she felt her willpower crumble. It was never what he said but the mesmerizing way he had of looking into her eyes as if they were the only two people in the world, as if a camera and bright lights were trained on them and a spellbinding drama was being played out in which he was the handsome hero and she was cast as the innocent heroine captivated by his charms. And, idiot that she was, she fell for the cinematic cliché every time.

  ‘Do you or don’t you?’ His mouth curved upwards in a smile meant only for her.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said as curtly as she could, aware that Brenda and Joyce stood close by.

  Cliff kept his voice down, deliberately excluding the two Land Girls from the conversation. ‘If you ask me, it’s more than a bad cold. I don’t like the sound of the rattle in the old man’s chest. He needs to see a doctor right away.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Evelyn’s heart rate quickened, partly because Cliff stood so close and partly because the old man’s well-being seemed really to be at risk.

  ‘Yes. It could turn to pneumonia if it’s not seen to. He’s eighty-five years old, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Then go over his head and fetch the doctor,’ she advised quickly. ‘We can’t risk him taking a turn for the worse.’

  ‘Right you are.’ Cliff nodded then lowered his gaze. The spell was broken.

  ‘What was that about?’ Brenda asked as she, Evelyn and Joyce set off for the clearing to collect the fir tree.

  ‘Cliff’s worried in case the old man shuffles off this mortal coil,’ Evelyn informed them with incongruous cheerfulness. ‘There’s no telephone here so he’ll have to drive down to Shawcross to call for Dr Brownlee to come to the house with his bag of tricks.’

  ‘And what about you; would it bother you if it turns out to be serious?’ Brenda couldn’t work out Evelyn’s attitude. On the surface she seemed not to care whether or not the old man got better; on the other hand there was a definite air of anxiety about her.

  ‘In a way, yes.’ Evelyn overtook Joyce and Brenda, hurrying to the spot where their fir tree stood propped against the broad trunk of an ancient oak. ‘If Colonel Weatherall needs to be carted off to hospital, it might bring the relatives flapping around the place like a bunch of crows.’

  ‘That dry old stick has a family?’ Brenda didn’t hide her surprise.

  ‘One widowed sister who has a son and a daughter, but no wife or offspring of his own.’

  ‘Blimey.’ Brenda was lost for words.

  ‘Once the relatives start sticking their noses in, signing bits of paper on Weatherall’s behalf, there’s no telling what might happen,’ Evelyn concluded. ‘Before you know it, they could have the old man locked up in a loony bin and throw away the key. Then where would Cliff and I be?’

  ‘Yes, blimey,’ Joyce agreed with Brenda.

  There was nothing else to say. But now they understood why Cliff and Evelyn had talked so earnestly by the gate and why a doctor ought to be called, for there was a lot more at stake than a simple bad cold keeping the old man in bed.

  Progress with the wheelbarrow was slow through Acklam wood but once Brenda, Joyce and Evelyn reached open countryside with their pretty little fir tree, they found they got on more quickly.

  ‘Steep dip ahead!’ Brenda warned from the front as Evelyn pushed the wheelbarrow and Joyce brought up the rear. ‘Steer to your left, mind this bump, now full steam ahead!’

  With the tree firmly tied down and with Brenda as her guide, Evelyn avoided a boulder then trundled on at high speed across rough heathland. ‘Sir Malcolm Campbell, watch out – we’re hot on the heels of your world record!’

  Joyce closed her eyes and held her breath. At this rate they’d never deliver the tree to the church hall in one piece.

  Brenda gave a shriek of laughter as the barrow tilted to one side and then the other. Then, in an act of derring-do, Evelyn let go and allowed it to roll down the hill without her, only springing forward and grabbing hold again when it threatened to crash into another large rock. She was quickly pushed aside by Joyce who took control and steered it towards the landmark of Black Crag, standing out on the horizon against a backdrop of heavy grey clouds that had sailed across the wintry sun. ‘Let’s hope we get to Shawcross before it starts to snow,’ she remarked, one wary eye on the bank of clouds.

  The threat of a storm didn’t prevent them from stopping for their picnic tea, however. Brenda chose a spot that was sheltered from the strong west wind, shooing away half a dozen sheep marked with Black Crag blu
e dye. She dusted a sprinkling of snow from a flat rock that would serve as an ideal seat. Then Joyce took off her haversack and pulled out Alma’s flask, her fingers numb with cold, she poured the tea.

  ‘No sugar, I’m afraid,’ she said as she handed the first cup to Evelyn.

  ‘We’re sweet enough without,’ Brenda and Evelyn said in unison.

  Evelyn sipped her tea, watching Joyce pour out the last drops from the flask. ‘Have you left enough for yourself?’

  ‘Yes, plenty.’ Joyce raised her cup to her lips and felt the warm liquid trickle down her throat. ‘By Jove, that tastes good.’

  They sat in contented silence, basking in the wild beauty of their surroundings, until a rapid movement on the slope below attracted their attention. Gradually they were able to make out the dark shape of a sheepdog heading their way.

  ‘Goodness gracious!’ Recognizing Flint, Joyce strode a few yards down the hill to meet him. ‘Hello, boy; what are you doing here?’

  The dog ran up to her, wagging his tail and pushing his nose against her hand.

  ‘Yes, I’m happy to see you too. That paw of yours must be feeling better.’

  ‘He must have smelt the biscuits.’ Evelyn took the carefully wrapped rich teas out of the haversack and offered them to Brenda and Joyce.

  They took two each. Joyce gave a morsel to Flint then there was silence again except for the crunch of biscuits and the rush of wind in their ears.

  ‘Ah, the simple things in life!’ Brenda said as she picked the last crumbs from the front of her jersey, dabbing at them with her moist fingertips then lifting them to her lips.

  Joyce took a good look around at the dramatic slab of fissured rock that formed Black Crag and the steep hillside rolling away towards Mary’s Fall then on again into the valley below; a mixture of grey limestone, brown heather and white hollows where snow still lingered. ‘It feels as if we’re on top of the world.’

  Evelyn too felt her recent worries drift away. She sat on the rock, shoulder to shoulder with Brenda and Joyce, with Flint resting at their feet, drinking in the scenery. ‘Shall we just stay here?’ she asked dreamily.