by Ruby Jackson
The girls laughed and then decided that Fiona had been too unkind. ‘It’s not his fault,’ said Jane. ‘That’s what marriage does to you.’
‘It’s what dealing with you lot does to me,’ the farmer said over his shoulder.
‘Well, pigs might fly – he’s got a sense of humour.’
A few days later, Grace was delighted to receive a letter from Sally. She opened it with increasing excitement and the very act reminded her that she had not yet found the courage to write to Jack. She had to write to him, as a friend. But first, she had to read this very welcome letter. What wonderful thing could have happened to her lately? A part, even tiny, in a West End play? A part in a film? How exciting that would be? Sally Brewer from Dartford up there on the big screen. Grace would insist that all the land girls come with her to see the film. The single sheet of paper fell from her hands. Daisy, oh, dear, dear Daisy. She closed her eyes to shut out the sight but it would not go.
‘What’s happened, Grace? One minute you’re over the moon finding out about your family and the next you look like you’ve lost everyone you ever loved.’
Jane, Eva and Sheila gathered round her.
‘You are unhappy, Grace?’ asked Eva.
Grace sniffed hard. ‘Sorry, girls, it’s not me. A friend, a very, very special friend, her chap’s just been shot down. He’s … he was a Spitfire pilot.’
‘Oh, this is much sad. He is boy who teach her to fly.’
‘Yes, he did, and now he’s dead and all I can do is kill rats.’
‘We could ask the Flemings to let you go to see her,’ suggested Sheila.
Grace blew her nose hard and swallowed. ‘No. The WAAF won’t even let her go; they’re not engaged or anything, not official, and she has work to do. So do we, so let’s get on with it.’
Even the prospect of finding happy things in her box of photographs and letters could not comfort Grace that night. This was the reality of war. People were dying every day and those who loved them wept for them but carried on. And those who loved those who wept wrote letters giving what little comfort they could.
Grace wrote a short note to Daisy. What could she say about Adair even though she remembered Daisy’s excitement as she talked about seeing a real aeroplane in the old stables at Old Manor Farm? In the end, all she said was that she was sorry and that she sent Daisy her love. She hoped that would comfort Daisy a little.
While she had her notepaper out of the drawer, she answered Jack’s letter. She told him that she had received one letter from him in which he mentioned their last meeting and his hopes of taking her to meet his father.
I would like to walk under lilac trees, Jack, something so very peaceful and English about that. Sometimes I think the world will be at war for ever but if it ends and we meet again, that will be nice.
Your friend, Grace
Not, ‘love Grace’, for she no longer knew whether or not she loved Jack or even if she loved Sam. Of course she loved Sam – she had loved him since she was a little girl – but perhaps her feelings were only those of a girl for a big brother. Would she have felt those overpowering feelings that had swamped her will, her judgement, if she had been with Sam on that night and in that car? Her mind was confused. Too much was happening. Should she have told Jack that she had been given a picture of her mother? She would certainly have told Sam if she had been writing to him. For a fraction of a second, she felt like taking her letter to Jack and tearing it into little pieces.
Another good thing about being on a farm. If there was a stamp on the letter, the postman was perfectly happy to take it to the post office. From there it was a matter of chance.
FOURTEEN
Late Autumn 1941
‘We are going to have a white Christmas.’ Grace was sitting in a window-seat, looking out over Whitefields home farm.
‘And this is surprise you, Grace?’ Eva looked out, made a disparaging noise and went back to sit on her bed where she was working in an English exercise book. ‘I will write English are with surprise to see snow. It always is snow in Poland for Christmas.’
‘The English are surprised to see snow,’ said Katia very slowly. ‘In Poland, there is always snow for Christmas. Write that, Eva.’ She turned to Grace and laughed. ‘And she can add, and before and after Christmas, too.’
Grace, Katia and Eva had been at Whitefields since the end of the harvest at Newriggs. One day, they had been working on one farm and, the next, they were told by Mrs Drummond-Hay that they were being sent south to Whitefields.
Grace had challenged Mrs Fleming. ‘Why, Mrs Fleming? What did any of us do wrong? I know I asked for an atlas but Katia and Eva – they have done nothing.’
‘We’re being sent some men for the winter, POWs, I think, and maybe some conscientious objectors. We want two barns redoing as dormitories, so next summer we can have some city children for working holidays. Men are needed for the heavy work and we can manage the farm with four land girls till the turn of the year. And who knows, Grace, maybe her ladyship thinks she can keep a better eye on you in England? Eva and Katia: possibly she just wants them to have more experience of travelling and language but I didn’t ask Mrs Drummond-Hay to spell it out.’
Grace thought about it and was sorry for the Flemings. They had worked their farm for three generations and then the war had come and the Agricultural Committee in some far away city seemed to have taken over, telling them what to plant and how much, and which animals to keep. Perhaps when the war was over – and surely it had to end soon – the farmers might feel in charge again, keeping changes that they agreed were for the better, bringing back some treasured ways. She remembered a very poignant moment when Mr Fleming had been shown the new machine that was going to make ploughing and harrowing so much easier and efficient for him. He had looked across his field. ‘A good horse and a good ploughman together, prettiest sight in the world, don’t you agree?’
Not yet twenty-one years old, Grace, who agreed with him, had thought that the day of the great horses was over but had said nothing.
Grace, Katia and Eva had arrived at Whitefields Court in late September, a few days before the new land girls. Soon, they were all settled in. Meeting all her old friends again had been a joy for Grace, and even Mrs Love had seemed pleased to see her back. She had proudly and happily told Grace that she had heard from her son who had been promoted to leading seaman.
‘Next thing you hear, your Tom will be a petty officer,’ said Grace, her heart skipping a beat as she remembered young Phil Petrie.
Mrs Love, overcome that Grace had remembered her son’s name, astonished both of them by hugging Grace warmly.
Surprisingly, just the day after they arrived, Lady Alice had offered Grace a way of legally earning a little more money. She had also suggested that Grace could open the opportunity to Katia and Eva. The money-making scheme was to do with rosehips, the fat orangey-red seed container that formed on wild rose bushes as the fragile flowers withered.
‘We haven’t the delicious imported fruits we got used to before this ghastly war,’ explained Lady Alice, ‘but here on this farm and, in fact, all over this beautiful island of ours, we have rosehips. The briar rose delights us in the summer with its delicate beauty and then, in autumn, look, rosehips, every single one a great source of vitamin C. I know it’s asking a lot, Grace, as you land girls work so hard all day, but if you can manage to gather rosehips in your free time, I’ll give you two pence per pound for your pocket. Mrs Love makes delicious syrup and we can sell that, too. Does that appeal? Do feel able to say if you prefer to read a book or go to the pictures.’
‘Two pence for every pound sounds great, Lady Alice. We can start saving for Christmas.’
‘All the local children will be picking like mad; they’re not supposed to come on to the estate, but don’t chase them off, and, besides, there are places you can reach that they can’t. Ask Esau where the best ones are. Might be fun for Eva and Katia. Gathering rosehips is so English, I think, a
nd they might enjoy themselves.’ She stopped in thought. ‘Probably wild roses in Poland, too, Grace, but even so, the girls might relax and have fun, and there is a little spending money to be earned.’
‘I’ll certainly ask them, Lady Alice. And if they were used to gathering rosehips in Poland, they might feel quite at home.’
Grace found Katia in their shared room when she went upstairs to wash before their evening meal.
‘You mean that if we are pick the roses hips after our working is finished, we will earn money extra?’
‘Yes, Katia. Lady Alice wants some rosehips to sell to the companies who produce syrup. They’re full of vitamin C, which is terribly important since we can’t get our usual sources: oranges and fruits like that. I’m going to do it; don’t you think it would be nice?’
‘We are spend all our time out the doors. In free time, Eva and me is enjoy reading and rest.’
‘Me, too, Katia, but we’re not paid all that much and I thought a little extra would come in handy. There are lots of them growing all over the estate; I think we could make a little money quite quickly.’
‘Is good to have little money and I think Eva will say yes, too, but are all girls doing this? We are with gratitude to be safe in this land and do not want …’ She stopped as she tried to translate, from Polish, the words in her head.
‘Special treatment, something like that? I don’t know, Katia, if everyone has been asked, but I think they will be. Lady Alice is allowing the village children to gather rosehips for their schools and I feel that she thought it might be something that we would enjoy doing. I certainly would.’
‘Good, we will pick after the work. Thank you.’
‘It’s Lady Alice’s idea, Katia; it’s business. I’m almost sure anyone who’s not too tired to do extra work will be able to join us.’
And so it proved. In pleasant late summer or early autumn evenings, the land girls, carrying old gardening baskets that Mrs Love found in one of her spacious cupboards, went off to the areas suggested by the men who knew every inch of the estate, and returned as twilight deepened into darkness, their baskets full. Each basket was put down on a bench, where Lady Alice had left labels with each land girl’s name. Mrs Love weighed the rosehips and kept a running total of poundage.
Katia and Eva seemed to enjoy the evenings even more than the others. It was, in a way, merely a continuation of their everyday work, but they were relaxed and shouts of laughter, Eva’s delightful voice and the voices of the others rose and fell until, baskets full and very tired, the girls returned to the house where Mrs Love had a late supper ready for them.
Shortly after her return to Whitefields, Grace visited Harry at work in Hazel’s garden and, almost immediately, wondered if Lady Alice was correct and the lovely old man would fully recover from his head injury. His memory was impaired. He had little recollection of the incident in which he had been injured but he remembered Jack and Grace, something that touched her very much. It seemed that, if he had not looked after poultry before, he had discovered a talent for looking after hens and so Lady Alice had increased Hazel’s flock and Harry looked after them devotedly.
‘Hear from young Jack, lass?’ he asked every day, and, every day, Grace said, ‘No, Harry, but he won’t know I’m back here yet.’ There had been no reply to her earlier letter. Had he written?
Just stop thinking about him, Grace.
While she was settling in and getting to know the new girls, Grace had put the unread letters at the very back of a drawer out of temptation. She had kept the photographs in their envelope in the pocket of her dungarees and she looked at them whenever she had a spare minute. When Grace had taken those of Megan with various people out of the envelope for the first time, her impulse had been to throw them into the waste basket. She needed no reminders of her half-sister. But then she had a further thought. She would, she decided, examine each one carefully and if she recognised the people in them as being people she had seen with Megan, she would throw them away. It was unlikely that Megan’s friends would ask questions about her much younger half-sister.
‘What happened to Megan’s mother? Poor Megan, did her mother die young, too?’ No older woman had ever visited while Grace and Megan had lived together, and no parents or other relatives were ever mentioned. Grace sighed. It was the first time she had ever felt any sympathy for Megan and she decided that she was growing up, becoming more mature and capable.
Late one evening, when the others were asleep, Grace took out the letters and held them and their secrets tightly for a moment. And then, methodically, she looked at the postmark on each envelope and began to put them in chronological order. Better and more sensible to read them in order, if there was any sequence, for the writing was not always the same. She warned herself against getting her hopes up. It was possible that none of the letters referred to her or her parents at all. Immediately, doubt jumped in. But if they are not important, why were they kept? Oh, please don’t let them be sad little love letters – unless of course, they’re my parents’ letters.
She was far too stimulated to sleep and so, perfectly aware that she would regret it in the morning, she selected the earliest of the letters and read it.
Dear Gert,
Seems he took the London train last Saturday fortnight. Fred and Jim saw him as they was crossing the High Street. Looked a right spiv, shiniest black and white shoes you ever seen, slicked back hair and a jaunty hat like the men in the pictures wear. Fred ran after him hoping to get back the ten bob he loaned John but he’d already got on the London train. The ticket seller wouldn’t tell Fred where John was going so he could be anywhere between Glasgow and London.
I wouldn’t cry over him, Gert, love, as we all thinks as you and Megs are better off without him. Fred wants that ten shillings back and says he’ll go to the berries to put a few bob by for the winter. Your favourite bad penny does the berries some weekends and bad pennies, as our Fred is fond of saying, always turn up.
Give Megs a big kiss from us.
Aunty Fran
Grace folded the sheet of paper, feeling as if her hands were dirty after reading it. It was such a personal letter. Was the man, the bad penny who owed someone ten shillings, her father, John Paterson? If so, he was the man Gert and Megs would be better off without. Megs had to be Megan, her sister, and so Gert was Megan’s mother, and John Paterson was her husband and Megan’s father. Grace looked at the envelope. The envelope was of inferior quality and the postmark was blurred but she thought she could make out the word ‘Stirling’ and a date: ‘2.6.14’. That was seven years before her own birth but, more importantly, the year of the beginning of the Great War.
She had had enough of prying and probing. She shoved the letter back into the box, turned off her lamp and snuggled down to sleep.
The morning brought order and routine. Grace was delighted to follow her schedule, milking, cleaning out the milking parlour or, at least, supervising three of the newly qualified land girls, keeping warm as the winter was already making its presence felt.
One morning in early December, Lady Alice stopped her as she was returning to the kitchen.
‘You girls have a wireless? Heard the news?’
When they had free time and were not too tired to stay awake, the girls tended to listen to music or to comedy programmes, and there had been no time for reading newspapers. She did not answer quickly enough for the concerned Lady Alice.
‘Good God, girl, yes or no doesn’t need major thought. The Japanese air force has practically destroyed the American navy at their base, Pearl Harbor, which is in the Hawaiian Islands.’
‘The entire navy?’
‘And too many of the sailors, Grace. What a damn merry Christmas, but one good thing is, it has brought the Yanks into the war. They have been helping us in many ways but now we’ll get their forces, too, thank God. Tell the girls.’
Do I want to? Grace asked herself as she continued into the house. Such appalling destruction of shi
ps and men could hardly cheer Katia and Eva. As it happened, the news of the bombing and the British disaster that followed it had been deemed so important that a Forces Favourites programme had been interrupted.
The girls were huddled around a small wireless on the kitchen table and, for once, Mrs Love was not complaining about where they put their elbows. ‘Sit down, Grace, and I’ll serve. There’s been terrible news. Two of our biggest and best ships, the Prince of Wales and Repulse have been sunk by the Japanese, not long after they destroyed all the American ships somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.’
‘The ships in Hawaiian Islands, in Pacific Ocean,’ said Katia, with tears in her eyes. ‘In Krakow, in our country, we have seen me and Eva, a film of Hawaii. Is much lovely.’ The shock of the news had affected Katia’s always improving English.
Grace hugged her. ‘Have some breakfast, Katia, girls. Come on, not eating before a long, hard day of physical labour won’t improve things. It might make it worse, if we can’t do our bit, the way all those poor sailors did theirs.’
All the land girls who were still seated at the table did try to finish breakfast but, all in all, it was a very bad day.
Lady Alice waited for Grace after milking a few mornings later. ‘Good morning, Grace. What do you say to a few days Christmas leave? Last year wasn’t much fun and, if you left here a day or two early, you could see your solicitors.’
Grace was very hungry but somehow her appetite disappeared at the word ‘solicitors’. ‘My solicitors?’
‘Don’t repeat everything I say, Grace. Thomas, Crawford, Shortcross and Thomas, your solicitors. They have found your five hundred pounds and you’ll be glad to hear it’s been very cleverly increasing and multiplying. Mind you, they’ll sting you for searching for it but you’ll still be ahead. Say you leave here the twentieth; it’s a Saturday, ghastly day to travel but every day is these days, and at least one or two of your chums might not be working. Train back Boxing Day? Almost a week, best we can do.’
