Wedding Bells for Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  About the Book

  Summer, 1942.

  Britain is still in the depths of war. The Women’s Land Army is the only thing standing between the country and starvation. Patriotism, duty and friendship sustain the Land Girls through these hard times, but even in times of war love always finds a way.

  Land Girls Grace, Brenda and Una may have become accustomed to the hard task of manning Britain’s farms, but life in wartime comes with a host of problems both old and new. There’s a wedding to be planned and prepared for, but wedded bliss is far from guaranteed. With lovers parted, anxious women have no idea whether they’ll see their men again. And the single girls want nothing more than to find love among the men who’ve stayed behind …

  With the uncertainty of the time plaguing everyone’s minds – can love stand the test of war?

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Cast of Characters

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  About the Author

  Also by Jenny Holmes

  Copyright

  WEDDING BELLS FOR LAND GIRLS

  Jenny Holmes

  For all the Land Girls and Lumber Jills of World War Two. May they live on in our memories.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  LAND GIRLS

  Brenda Appleby – worked at Maynard’s butchers before she became a Land Girl

  Hilda Craven – warden at Fieldhead House hostel

  Joyce Cutler – farmer’s daughter from Warwickshire

  Jean Fox – worked as a bank clerk before joining the Land Army

  Poppy Gledhill – the youngest recruit and ex-mill worker

  Kathleen Hirst – former hairdresser from Millwood

  Grace Mostyn – daughter of Burnside’s pub landlord and blacksmith, married to Bill

  Una Sharpe – former worker at Kingsley’s Mill in Millwood

  Elsie Walker – former groom from the Wolds

  Doreen Wells – until recently, worked in a department store

  BURNSIDE VILLAGERS

  Maurice Baxendale – owner of a car repair garage

  Bob Baxendale – Maurice’s brother and caretaker at the Institute

  Lionel Foster – owner of Hawkshead Manor

  Alice Foster – his wife

  Shirley Foster – their daughter

  Jack Hudson – Bill Mostyn’s best man, serving in the Royal Navy

  Cliff Kershaw – landlord of the Blacksmith’s Arms

  Edgar Kershaw – his son, an RAF gunner recently shot down over France

  Esther Liddell – village post mistress and church organist

  Edith Mostyn – Land Girls representative, widow of Vince

  Bill Mostyn – her son, owns and runs the family tractor repair company

  BURNSIDE FARMERS

  Joe Kellett – farmer at Home Farm

  Emily Kellett – his wife

  Henry Rowson – shepherd

  Peggy Russell – widow

  Roland Thomson – farmer at Brigg Farm

  Neville Thomson – his son

  Horace Turnbull – farmer at Winsill Edge

  Arnold White – owner of Dale End Farm, Attercliffe

  Hettie White – Arnold’s daughter

  Donald White – Arnold’s elder son

  Les White – Arnold’s younger son

  ITALIAN PRISONERS OF WAR

  Angelo Bachetti

  Lorenzo Marino

  TOMMIES

  Private Cyril Atkinson

  CANADIAN AIR FORCE

  Squadron Leader Jim Aldridge

  Flight Lieutenant John Mackenzie

  OUTSIDERS

  Alfie Craven – Hilda’s son

  Howard Moyes – associate of Alfie Craven

  Clive Nixon – associate of Alfie Craven

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘Hop up on to the pillion seat,’ Brenda Appleby told Una Sharpe. She kick-started Old Sloper and felt the thrum of its engine beneath her.

  Una climbed on board. She and Brenda wore identical lilac dresses with frilled necklines and flared, knee-length skirts. ‘Thank goodness it’s stopped raining.’

  ‘Yes, what would Grace say if her bridesmaids turned up at the church looking like drowned rats?’ Brenda eased the motor bike out of the stable yard on to the driveway of Fieldhead Hostel just in time to spot their friend and fellow Land Girl, Joyce Cutler, carrying bridal bouquets through the front door.

  ‘Hello, Joyce. Who’s getting spliced?’ she called with a lively smile and an exaggerated wink.

  ‘Not me, worse luck.’ Joyce placed the two sprays of white carnations in the back of a green van then glanced at her watch. ‘Shouldn’t you two visions of loveliness be down at Burnside helping the bride to get ready instead of wasting time talking to me?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Sloper will get us there in two shakes.’ Brenda was confident of the bike’s ability to transport them to the village on time. She and Una would sail along the winding lanes, ignoring barking dogs and avoiding puddles left by overnight rain. They would arrive with cheeks aglow and hair whipped back by the wind, and there would still be plenty of time to help Grace into her wedding dress then tidy themselves up before all three made their grand entrance into St Michael’s Church.

  ‘Have you remembered your bridesmaids’ shoes?’ Joyce noted that Brenda and Una wore sturdy brown lace-ups.

  ‘Here, in the panniers with our headdresses and gloves.’ Una patted the canvas satchels strapped to the pillion seat. ‘Don’t worry, Joyce; we’ll make ourselves presentable as soon as we get there.’

  Joyce smiled as she imagined the unusual spectacle of Grace Kershaw’s two attendants kitted out in their silk dresses riding down the narrow main street and into the yard of the Blacksmith’s Arms. Typical Brenda to buck the trend. ‘Just don’t crash the darned thing,’ she called after them.

  ‘Hold tight, Una,’ Brenda warned.

  Una gave Joyce a wave then followed instructions. ‘Ta-ta, we’ll see you in church!’

  And off they sped. Brenda crouched forward over the handlebars, boyish in spite of the frilled dress, with her short, dark hair and tanned skin. Una was smaller and had a daintier look – dark auburn hair catching the sunlight, slim arms wrapped around Brenda’s waist in anticipation of the twists and turns in the bumpy road.

  Joyce stood beside the van until the bike disappeared from view. She glanced down at her dark green jersey and corduroy breeches, half regretting the group’s decision to attend Grace’s wedding in full Land Army uniform. Yes, it would be satisfying to form a guard of honour up to the church door and the girls would be happy to show their pride in serving King and Country in wheat field and hay barn, henhouse and milking parlour. And yet … Joyce brushed a stray piece of straw from her sleeve and straightened her tie. And yet it would have been nice to have dressed up in her best frock and fashioned her long, thick brown hair into a French pleat; nicer sti
ll to show off her shapely legs in her one remaining pair of nylon stockings and her high-heeled shoes.

  Brenda and Una soon left the hostel behind. It was ten in the morning and the sun was already warm on their faces. There was blue sky overhead and green fields to either side, rising steeply towards rocky horizons. The slopes were criss-crossed by low stone walls and dotted with grazing sheep. Nearer to the road stood tidy, well-kept barns housing hay, tractors and other farm machinery, next to solid houses with narrow windows and doors, where the inevitable dog strained at its long chain as the motor bike cruised by.

  ‘What’s the betting that Grace is a bundle of nerves?’ Brenda called over her shoulder as she slowed down for the junction that took them into Burnside. ‘We’ll have all on to calm her down.’

  ‘I’ve got butterflies myself, so goodness knows how she feels.’ Una took a deep breath to calm herself as they rode under ancient copper beeches that formed an avenue into the village. They came to the first row of houses with a post office at the end of the terrace, next to the Village Institute and opposite the pub and blacksmith’s, which was where the bride lived with her father, Cliff Kershaw.

  Easing off the throttle, Brenda steered the bike into the pub yard then came to a halt. Though it was a Saturday morning in early June 1942, there was no hustle and bustle. Instead, a sense of still, silent anticipation filled the air, as if the village held its breath before the day’s big event: the marriage of Mr Bill Mostyn, owner of Mostyn Tractor Repair Company, and Miss Grace Kershaw, publican’s daughter and Yorkshire Land Girl.

  Una slid off the bike, then delved into one of the panniers for two pairs of white, open-toed shoes. Brenda, meanwhile, drew out cotton lace gloves and floral headbands. Armed with these accessories, they crossed the yard and entered the building via the open door of the blacksmith’s forge.

  ‘Hello!’ Grace’s brother, Edgar, intercepted them on their way into the house. He was dressed in RAF uniform, with no sign on his handsome face of the troubles that had plagued him six months earlier. ‘Don’t tell me you two came here on that.’ He jerked his thumb towards Sloper.

  Brenda breezed past him into the kitchen. ‘Of course we did. And I’ll feel badly let down if you haven’t parked your Spitfire on the back field.’

  ‘Hello, Edgar.’ Una squeezed by with a shy smile.

  ‘No Spitfire, I’m afraid. Anyway, I fly Lancasters.’ Privately he thought that letting high-spirited Brenda anywhere near the controls of a fighter plane would be a big mistake. ‘They’ve given me forty-eight hours furlough but I had to promise to leave the old girl in her hangar.’

  ‘Never mind, we’re glad you’re here.’ Una smoothed the panels of her gored skirt then took off her brogues. Sliding her feet into a pair of court shoes, she discovered that they were far too big.

  ‘Here, silly – those are mine.’ Brenda snatched them from her then realized a shocking omission. ‘Oh, dearie me, we forgot to bring a hairbrush!’

  ‘Calamity.’ Edgar smiled wryly as he drew a comb out of his top pocket. ‘You can borrow this if you like.’

  ‘No, ta – it’ll be covered in Brylcreem. We’ll borrow Grace’s brush. Oh, and we forgot lipstick as well!’ Brenda wailed.

  ‘Can’t lend you any of that, I’m afraid.’ Edgar’s mouth twitched as he put the comb back in his pocket. ‘Shall I let Grace know you’re here?’

  He was about to mount the narrow stairs to his sister’s room when he spotted a green van pull up in the yard and saw Joyce Cutler open the driver’s door. She went straight round to the back and lifted out two baskets of flowers. ‘On second thoughts, you two go on up while I help Joyce with those.’

  He left the house in a flash, leaving Brenda to raise a conspiratorial eyebrow. ‘See that, Una? The moment Edgar claps eyes on Joyce we don’t see him for dust.’

  ‘Aah!’ Una went to the small window. ‘They’re both blushing. Joyce has dropped one of the buttonholes … Edgar’s stooping to pick it up. She’s turned red as a beetroot …’

  ‘Here, let the dog see the rabbit.’ Brenda pushed Una to one side in time to see Edgar replace the carnation in the basket. A look passed between the blushing pair – Brenda would have called it a look of unspoken longing, except this was down-to-earth, steady-as-you-go Joyce and buttoned-up, war-damaged Edgar Kershaw they were talking about.

  ‘Ta,’ Joyce said. ‘I’ve got more flowers in the van: two arrangements for the church, plus three bouquets for the bride and bridesmaids.’

  ‘Let me help you with them.’ Edgar leaned in and lifted out a large spray of pink roses in a silver vase. He handed it to Joyce then pulled out a second, identical arrangement. Together they crossed the road.

  ‘So how is life treating you?’ Joyce struggled to keep her voice steady. The last she’d heard, Grace hadn’t been certain that Edgar would manage to get leave, so it had taken Joyce aback to see him stride out of the pub, large as life. Not that she’d expected to be told. After all, he was his own man and she was an independent woman – without ties or responsibilities. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘Fit as a fiddle now that my leg’s finally stopped giving me gip,’ he assured her.

  Neither mentioned the dark time in the autumn of the previous year when his plane had been shot down over France and he’d lost his co-pilot and best pal in a ball of flame – a period that had seen him stricken with inexplicable guilt and struggling to find a good reason to go on living.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ Joyce entered the church before him. ‘And I’m glad you made it back home for Grace’s big day.’

  He nodded briskly. ‘The raids on Cologne are over for now but they’ll need me back pronto for a new push – I can’t say where.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Joyce heard enough details about the war on the wireless news to know that the RAF was engaged in constant heavy raids all over Germany. ‘Were you involved in the campaign to hang on to Malta?’

  Another nod was accompanied by a faint flicker of the eyelids.

  ‘Sorry – I shouldn’t ask.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. Malta’s in safe hands for the time being. The Allies on the ground are bringing Jerry down like tame pigeons.’

  War talk sat oddly with the rich calm of the church interior. Multicoloured shafts of light streamed in through the stained-glass windows and the mellow scent of pine resin mixed with beeswax rose from the pews and the ornately carved pulpit. Joyce and Edgar carried the roses down the central aisle and placed them by the altar. In a niche behind the choir stalls, Esther Liddell, the grey-haired organist and village post mistress, kept her back turned as she rearranged sheets of music in preparation for the service.

  ‘Not long to go now.’ Joyce tweaked the flower arrangement that Edgar had set down. ‘Do you know how Grace is coping with her wedding jitters?’

  He shook his head. Joyce was the one person in the village whom he’d genuinely looked forward to seeing during his brief leave, but now that they were together, he felt tongue tied. She still had that quality of quiet calm about her that he remembered from December – a restfulness that had soothed his bruised spirit. And he loved her rich voice emerging from soft, full lips; her fair, smooth complexion; the mannish uniform that only served to emphasize her feminine curves. Steady on, he told himself. Now is not the time or the place.

  ‘This is the biggest day of a girl’s life.’ Satisfied with the roses, Joyce accompanied Edgar back down the aisle. When she reached the church porch, she picked a buttonhole from the basket she’d left there. ‘Would you like me to pin this on for you?’

  He nodded and watched her slim fingers attach the carnation to his lapel. ‘It’s good to see you, Joyce,’ he said quietly. Then, as she finished with the flowers, he took a step back and turned with a dip of his head and a military click of his heels before heading through the gate and across the road without looking round.

  Inside the pub, Una hovered at the bottom of the stairs while Brenda went up and tapped on Grace’s door
.

  ‘It’s only us,’ Brenda called softly.

  There was no reply.

  ‘Grace, are you there?’ She knocked a second time.

  Feeling a small stab of alarm, Una followed Brenda up the stairs.

  ‘Yes. Come in.’ Grace’s answer came at last – subdued and hesitant.

  Brenda pushed the door open and saw the bride sitting at her dressing table. Her wedding dress was only partly zipped and she was shaking from head to foot. ‘Look at you!’ she exclaimed. ‘Less than an hour to go and you haven’t put on a scrap of make-up.’

  ‘I’d only make a mess of it if I tried.’ Grace turned on her stool to show Brenda and Una her trembling hands. Her wavy blonde hair was swept up to reveal her long, graceful neck. The demure, calf-length dress had a high neckline and long, narrow sleeves edged with lace.

  ‘Never mind; that’s what Una and I are here for – to get you ready for your big day.’ Recognizing what needed to be done, Brenda zipped Grace up then turned her towards the mirror. ‘See how beautiful you look,’ she murmured, her hands resting softly on Grace’s shoulders as she studied her reflection.

  ‘Yes, who needs lipstick and rouge with a face like yours?’ Una saw the bride’s shoes nestled in tissue paper in a cardboard box on the narrow bed and brought them to her. She crouched down to help her slide her feet into them. ‘You always look the bee’s knees, even when we’re out in a field, up to our ankles in mud, digging up turnips.’

  Grace gave a wan smile. ‘You’re only saying that.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Brenda insisted. ‘You’re a da Vinci painting come to life.’ There was no one like Grace for serene, classical beauty. ‘You’re the envy of every girl at Fieldhead if you did but know it.’

  ‘But am I doing the right thing by marrying Bill?’ Grace blurted out the question that had been on her lips since she rose at dawn after a sleepless night. She caught Brenda and Una’s startled expressions in the mirror. ‘I know – I’ve left it a bit late in the day to change my mind, haven’t I?’