Wedding Bells for Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘You look as if you’re in the pink,’ he told her, holding her in a gentlemanly way – not too close but not stiffly. ‘I guess Land Army life must suit you.’

  ‘It suits me better now that summer’s here,’ she agreed. ‘No more frostbite and chilblains, thank heavens.’

  ‘We’re all glad of that,’ he agreed. ‘Even though we’re used to a few months of sub-zero temperatures back home.’ Polite and warm at the same time, Aldridge let Brenda know that he was glad to dance with her and establish that there were no hard feelings after the John Mackenzie episode. ‘What’s your favourite summertime activity?’

  ‘Do you mean work or play time?’

  ‘Either.’

  ‘All right, so what I love most of all about living out here is the chance to set off on Old Sloper on a sunny Sunday morning.’

  ‘Old Sloper?’

  ‘My motor bike. I’m up with the lark and set off up the dale then over the top to Attercliffe. Often I don’t see another soul. There’s just me and hills and blue sky – oh, and sheep!’

  ‘Sheep,’ he echoed. ‘I didn’t have you down as a genuine country girl.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she admitted. ‘I worked in a butcher’s shop in Northgate before I joined up. I could tell you the difference between shoulder of lamb and pork loin at the drop of a hat, but if you’d asked me how to pick out a Herdwick sheep or a Gloucester Old Spot, I couldn’t have told you for all the tea in China.’

  What a waste. Aldridge imagined Brenda behind a butcher’s shop counter and quickly decided she had too much spirit and originality for such humdrum work. He suspected that it was the same way with a lot of the Land Army girls and saw that the outbreak of hostilities had in a strange way liberated many of them. ‘And what will you do after the war ends?’ he asked. ‘Will you go back to …?’

  ‘Northgate.’ Brenda shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m not saying yes, I’m not saying no. We’ll have to wait and see.’

  He nodded as the slow, sedate waltz came to an end. ‘I guess that’s true for everyone. At this point in time none of us can plan very far ahead.’

  ‘That’s right – we can’t.’

  They smiled and separated. Les upped the tempo for one of his big band favourites while Poppy extricated herself from gangly, over-eager Neville, only to be swooped upon by Maurice. Meanwhile, Joyce acknowledged that it was time for Edgar to go back behind the bar to help his father. Furthermore, it was clear that Donald had no intention of loosening his hold on voluptuous Doreen, dressed to kill in a purple halter-necked dress.

  No one could plan the future; tomorrow the Allies might re-take Burma or else Rommel’s offensive to the west of Tobruk might succeed. Who could tell?

  ‘Come on, Kathleen – let’s dance.’ Brenda seized her Fieldhead room-mate by the wrist. ‘I’ll be the man. Elsie – you dance with Joyce. Don’t be shy. This is no time to play the wallflower – life’s far too short for that!’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Light summer rain began to fall as Grace and Bill arrived at their honeymoon destination. They’d driven for an hour along Swinsty Edge, through the hamlet of Hawkshead then over the high moor to Attercliffe, basking in welcome silence after the hubbub of the wedding reception and the raucous send-off engineered by Jack, Bob and Maurice. Some time earlier, at Grace’s request, Bill had stopped the car in a lay-by to untie the rattling tins from the bumper to allow them to drive on in peace.

  ‘Better?’ he’d asked as they’d set off again.

  ‘Much,’ she’d said with a sigh. Even on her wedding day she was loath to draw attention.

  So they pulled up outside River View without ceremony – a smartly dressed young couple who had booked into the small bed-and-breakfast retreat for two nights. The Victorian house stood next to St Luke’s Church, with its square Norman tower, overlooking the village green to the front and a fast-flowing river to the back. There was one shop on the triangular green and a pub called the King’s Arms next to a narrow bridge, plus a cluster of stone houses and a weather-worn market cross.

  Bill stepped out of the car into the warm drizzle, taking off his jacket and holding it over Grace’s head as they walked up the short path. They entered the house, trying their best not to look like newly-weds, wanting no fuss from the hotel owner – a sharp-eyed, stout woman with a broad face and a mannish haircut.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Mostyn?’ she enquired peremptorily. Just married. She registered their status at first glance, even before she spotted stray flakes of pink and white confetti in Grace’s fair hair.

  ‘That’s us,’ Bill replied, slipping his jacket back on.

  Grace’s heart skipped a beat as she tried not to blush at the sound of her new name.

  ‘Welcome to River View. I’m Mrs Marion Binns. Breakfast is between eight o’clock and half nine. I can do you an evening meal, but it’ll be extra.’

  ‘That’ll be fine with us, thank you.’ Bill retreated from the tiny reception hall to fetch the suitcases, leaving Grace to face the landlady’s continued scrutiny.

  ‘Will you be wanting a Sunday paper?’ Mrs Binns enquired with the worldly air of someone who knew that reading a newspaper did not come high on the list of newly-weds’ priorities.

  ‘No, thank you.’ Grace looked down at the brown and green striped carpet then up at some narrow stairs leading to the bedrooms. She glanced nervously at the formidable Marion.

  ‘Tomorrow is Sunday. The village shop will be closed but I think you’ll find you have everything you need in your room.’

  ‘Yes – thank you.’

  Shy and proper. Lovely looking. Doesn’t have a clue what she’s let herself in for. ‘There’s a good walk from here up to Lingfield and back. That’s the one most visitors start off with. You can’t go wrong – just follow the river all the way.’

  ‘I know it,’ Grace said quietly. She suffered badly from the directness of the woman’s gaze. ‘I’ve hiked here many times with my rambling group.’ Come back, Bill. Don’t let her stare at me a moment longer.

  He carried the suitcases down the hall, hair, face and shoulders wet from the rain, saying that the drizzle had turned to a proper downpour. ‘Let’s hope it clears up before tomorrow, eh?’

  Mrs Binns came out from behind her desk. ‘I wouldn’t bank on that, if I was you.’ The stairs creaked as she led the way up two flights and along a narrow landing. ‘June can be a tricky month, weather-wise.’

  Grace walked ahead of Bill and had first glance of the room they would share. It had sloping ceilings and rosebud-print wallpaper, with heavy net curtains at a small arched window. There was a navy-blue rug on the floor and the iron bedstead left just enough room for a mahogany wardrobe and wash stand complete with porcelain ewer and basin. Even before she entered, she heard raindrops on the roof and a wind sighing through the oak trees overhanging the churchyard.

  The landlady stood to one side to let Grace and Bill pass. ‘Breakfast doesn’t include bacon,’ she advised. ‘My food coupons don’t run to that this week. But there’ll be two eggs each, fresh from the farm up the hill. Would you like them poached or boiled?’

  ‘Poached, please.’

  ‘Boiled.’ They answered together then heaved a sigh of relief as the door closed and Marion Binns’ heavy tread retreated.

  ‘Blimey, I wouldn’t fancy going ten rounds with her.’ Bill rolled his eyes and set the suitcases down on the floor. He found the room small and cramped, something of a let-down. ‘It’s not up to much, is it?’ he said as he followed Grace’s disappointed gaze.

  ‘No, but I wasn’t expecting the Ritz.’ They’d agreed in the early stages of planning their wedding that the honeymoon would be low key. That way, most of their savings could be used as a deposit on a house, which they could move into straight after they were married. Things hadn’t gone as they’d hoped, however. Though they’d scoured the adverts in the local newspaper, a suitable house in Burnside had not come up for sale in the months between January and June and they
’d had to settle on a temporary move into a rented terraced house next to Bob Baxendale, who doubled up as church warden and caretaker at the Institute. It wasn’t ideal, but both Bill and Grace had agreed to make the best of a bad job.

  ‘I’d bet a week’s wages that Mrs Binns hasn’t spent a penny on this place in the last thirty years.’ Still disgruntled, Bill took off his jacket and hung it in the wardrobe.

  A strong smell of mothballs wafted towards Grace as she sat on the edge of the bed. She wrinkled her nose then chuckled.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘Your face.’

  ‘What’s wrong with my face?’ He hitched his braces off his shoulders and sat down beside her.

  ‘Nothing. It made me laugh, that’s all.’ Here we are, a married couple on our wedding day, complaining about decor.

  Bill had the grace to smile and take her hand. ‘Perhaps we should’ve forked out a bit more money and gone to a nice hotel in York, or spent a week at the seaside. That’s what I’m thinking.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘I couldn’t have got the whole week off. They need me back at work on Tuesday.’

  ‘I could have swung it with Mother if we’d wanted.’ However, he already knew that Grace wouldn’t have wanted special treatment and he quickly let the subject drop. ‘Everyone had a good time today, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yes, Joyce says it all went swimmingly.’

  ‘So far so good, then?’

  Bill’s tentative remark made her study his face more closely. She knew his features so well – classically straight and symmetrical, with a slight cleft in his chin, the firm line of his mouth, lips not too full, and the deep set of his brown eyes. Yet today there was something different – a flicker of uncertainty that mirrored hers perhaps.

  ‘Your face,’ she said again, this time in a whisper. She touched his cheek with her fingertips.

  He clasped his hand over hers and pressed her fingers against his skin. ‘Are you happy?’

  Grace nodded. They’d come to the part of the day that couldn’t be planned.

  ‘I give you my promise to make you happy every day from now on. I never want you to be sad.’

  ‘“For better, for worse,”’ she reminded him as he kissed her palm. Her heart fluttered at the touch of his lips.

  Strange how effortlessly she enslaved him without even knowing she was doing it. All she had to do was to speak soft and low, to look earnestly into his eyes and let the corners of her mouth curve into a gentle, hopeful smile. He kissed her wrist then drew her to him.

  ‘We will be happy,’ she promised. In spite of everything – the war, his father’s recent death and mother’s grief, her own self-effacing nature and the difficulty Bill sometimes had in showing his true feelings.

  She felt small and perfect in his arms. He picked a piece of confetti out of her soft hair. Then he kissed her lips and felt the length of her body relax into him.

  This part, the unplanned part, was happening. There were faded rosebuds on the walls, the sloping ceiling pressed down, the bed shifted as it took their weight.

  He lay with her and felt her tremble. He touched her neck, her shoulder, her breast.

  The years of knowing him melted away. She was in the moment and it was strange and unfamiliar, like stepping from a height into mid-air, trusting that she would not crash to earth. She touched the hollow at the base of his throat then ran her fingers over his smooth skin, along his collarbone towards the bunched muscles in his shoulder.

  Her skin was impossibly soft and white. Her grey eyes trusted him. Now everything changed. Nothing was the same or ever would be again. Breath came short, kisses were hard. She held him tight and knew with diamond-bright certainty that she loved him more than anything on this earth.

  ‘I wonder who’ll be next to waltz down the aisle?’ Brenda tossed the question into the air at breakfast time next morning. She faced Una and Joyce across the long trestle table in the large dining room at Fieldhead. To her left sat Kathleen and Jean, to her right Elsie and newcomer Poppy.

  ‘Not me!’ Kathleen, Elsie and Poppy chorused their answer. An early morning sun cast bright, slanted strips of light through the long Georgian windows. There were other signs of faded splendour in the room, including an Adam fireplace at one end and ornately carved plaster cornices. The floor was solid oak but the official-issue tables and tubular-steel chairs were utilitarian. Kathleen and Elsie declared there wasn’t a man left in Burnside that they would touch with a bargepole.

  ‘Not since Thomas Lund was called up, anyway.’ Kathleen recalled the handsome clerk with the cheeky grin who was currently sweltering out in the North African desert. ‘I had a soft spot for him, I don’t mind admitting.’

  ‘And Jack Hudson has to answer to Lord Mountbatten, worse luck,’ Elsie added. Late in the night, she and Jack had gravitated towards each other then danced into the wee small hours until Cliff Kershaw had chucked out the last of the revellers and shut up shop. ‘His ship sails for Gibraltar next week.’

  ‘Poor Elsie!’ Brenda hadn’t been the only one to notice the strong mutual attraction between the pair: Jack proud and dapper in his royal-blue uniform; Elsie transformed from lithe, practical Land Girl into glorious, gamine femininity in a daringly short emerald-green dress with a sweetheart neckline and a string of cultured pearls. ‘That’s a pity,’ she commented. ‘If there wasn’t a war on, I could see you and Jack making a go of things. What about you, Poppy – is there a young man pining for you at home?’

  Poppy’s pale face turned bright red as she pretended not to hear. She went on spreading a thin layer of butter on to the heel of a loaf that Una had handed her.

  ‘Try some of this home-made plum jam.’ Una pushed her ration Poppy’s way. ‘Go on – you need feeding up.’

  It was true; it looked as if a breath of wind would blow Poppy over. At eighteen, her figure was slender to the point of boyishness, with a tiny bosom and waist, slim hips and straight thighs. Her baby-blonde hair was hidden beneath a checked blue and white scarf tied turban-style around her head.

  ‘Don’t worry; you’ll soon fill out with the grub Ma Craven dishes up.’ Brenda did her best to make the new girl feel at home. ‘Won’t she, girls?’ Less willowy than Poppy, she had a wiry strength and her face and arms sported a healthy tan. ‘Before you know it, you’ll be chucking hay on to the wagon with the best of us.’

  ‘You will.’ Una remembered how it felt to be the rookie recruit. Her own arrival at Fieldhead in the autumn of the previous year had been attended by a dozen question marks – will the other girls like me? Will they make fun of me? How will I tell one end of a cow from the other? Like Poppy, she’d come into the Land Army straight from working in a woollen mill, with no knowledge of the countryside and a head full of doubts about whether she would survive the tough Land Army regime. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll look after you,’ she promised.

  ‘Ta.’ Poppy’s voice was high and breathy. ‘But I’m stronger than I look. I worked in the canteen at Kingsley’s for two years without missing a day.’

  ‘Good for you.’ From across the table Joyce gave her a reassuring wink before offering to clear away people’s plates. She’d been quieter than usual at breakfast, reliving the walk she’d taken with Edgar after they’d slipped away from the party. They’d crossed the field behind the pub and entered the copse hand in hand. Hardly a word had been spoken as they’d woven their way between the silvery trunks of the birch trees and glimpsed the clouds drifting across the face of the moon.

  ‘It looks like rain,’ Edgar had murmured, keeping her hand fast in his. Tall and thin, with his head tilted towards her, he’d stared intently into her eyes.

  ‘We could definitely do with it,’ she’d replied. ‘Let’s hope we don’t have a repeat of last year’s heatwave.’ She’d felt linked to him at a deeper level than their words conveyed. She’d wanted him to go on holding her hand for a long, long time.

  But today Edgar was packing his bag to rejoin his squadro
n. This good, gentle, sincere man would follow orders and fly out from his base on the north-east coast. He would drop bombs on civilian targets in Essen, Bremen and Berlin.

  ‘Are you all right, Joyce?’ Brenda stood to help her carry the dishes into the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, ta.’ Once before, in a different life lived on a farm near Stratford-upon-Avon, Joyce had opened her heart to a man. She’d been engaged but her fiancé, Walter Johnson, had been killed in action. Soon after, in an effort to dull the pain, she’d applied to join the Women’s Land Army, who had snapped her up and sent her to Yorkshire. Ideal Land Girl material, was what Central Office had told Edith Mostyn prior to her arrival. Joyce Cutler was born and bred on a lowland sheep farm. She’s strong and sturdy as they come. ‘I’m champion,’ she told Brenda as they stacked the dirty plates beside the deep stone sink. ‘What are you planning to do with your day off?’

  Brenda considered her reply. ‘I fancy putting Sloper through her paces. Do you want to come along?’

  Joyce smiled. ‘No, but ta for the offer. I have to wash my smalls and mend my socks.’

  ‘Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like much fun.’

  ‘I’m certain. A quiet day after yesterday’s wedding jamboree will do me good.’

  So Brenda donned her second-hand, army-surplus-stores jacket with its pilot’s fleece collar and belts and buckles, then sailed off up the dale while Joyce settled down to domestic chores. Back in the dining room, Una stayed to chat with Poppy and a few others while Doreen Wells made a late, bleary-eyed entrance.

  ‘Blimey, Doreen, you look like death warmed up.’ Jean Fox spoke bluntly as usual. From the beginning she’d seen little to admire in Doreen’s swanky, attention-seeking manner. They were polar opposites. Where Jean was thin and apathetic, Doreen was curvy and animated. Jean was a born pessimist and complainer, Doreen always looked on the bright side. In Civvy Street men had seldom noticed the mousy bank clerk, whereas Doreen’s dark, sultry good looks drew admiring stares wherever she went.