Wedding Bells for Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  Doreen lowered herself gingerly into Brenda’s empty seat. Her beautiful, heart-shaped face was pale, her dark blue eyes shadowed and her long, black hair pulled back severely into a low bun. She was still in pyjamas and barefoot, as if she had just crept out of bed.

  ‘Tea?’ Kathleen offered to pour her a cup from the big brown teapot.

  Doreen nodded then winced. ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Headache?’ Jean whipped out the question with a tilt of the head which suggested that it served her right. ‘Mrs Craven doles out the aspirins around here. But don’t expect any sympathy for a hangover.’

  Doreen’s eyes flickered shut and she bit her bottom lip. ‘I might have overdone it a teeny bit,’ she admitted in a croaky voice. ‘But it was fun while it lasted.’

  Una grinned at Kathleen and Elsie. They’d all seen Doreen cavorting with the Canadians and Donald White. There’d been deep-throated laughter and frequent glimpses of stocking-tops as she twirled and kicked up her legs in a seductive can-can, throwing herself into a dance with a French Canadian airman from Quebec. They’d watched Jim Aldridge step in to restrain his pilot while Brenda sat on the sidelines for once, watching Les White play the piano. Then, after the Canadians had made an early exit, Doreen had thrown herself at Les’s brother and stuck to him like glue. At the end of the night, opinion among the Land Girls had been divided. Some were won over by her devil-may-care activities while others cringed with embarrassment at the uninhibited display. One thing was certain: no one at Fieldhead remained neutral about Doreen Wells.

  ‘You’re paying for it now, though.’ Jean voiced her sour disapproval.

  Doreen sipped at her tea but refused bread and jam. ‘Ugh!’ she groaned, the corners of her lips turned down in exaggerated disgust. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It’s five minutes to nine. You’re out of luck; Mrs Craven took the porridge pot off the stove half an hour ago.’ Jean delighted in mentioning food to an obviously queasy Doreen, who stood up abruptly then scraped back her chair.

  ‘I need fresh air,’ she gulped, resisting all offers of help before rushing from the room.

  ‘Who’s sorry now?’ was Jean’s parting shot.

  Kathleen had had enough of Jean’s meanness. ‘Not Doreen,’ she shot back. ‘She only made the biggest conquest of the night. Why should she be sorry about that?’

  ‘You mean Donald White?’ Elsie was quick on the uptake. ‘Yes, I did notice that.’

  ‘He couldn’t take his eyes off her,’ Una agreed, abandoning Jean along with Kathleen and Elsie, who had made plans to hike up to Winsill Edge together that morning. She followed them into the large, tiled entrance hall. ‘Good luck to Doreen, I say.’

  Kathleen sat on the bottom step of the wide staircase to lace up her brogues. ‘Yes, and in answer to Brenda’s question, those two will be the next to “waltz” down the aisle, you mark my words.’

  Elsie sat next to her and followed suit. ‘You mean Doreen and Donald? But they hardly know each other.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Eyes can meet across a crowded room …’

  ‘And, flash! The magic happens.’ Elsie laughed then glanced up at Una, hovering nearby. ‘Someone here knows that better than anyone, eh, Una?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘“Calling all women!”’ Brenda’s voice rang out over the small turnip field at Home Farm. She wielded her hoe like a spear and marched Una and Elsie out of the farmyard on to the exposed ridge overlooking Burnside village. ‘Come along, girls – we’re here to answer Lady Denman’s rallying cry!’

  Una and Elsie shouldered their hoes and followed her in true Land Girl fashion.

  Joe and Emily Kellett’s farm was more run-down than ever. Thistles and chickweed had sprung up between the stone slabs in the yard and nettles flourished in the hedgerows. Every worker’s heart sank to see her name on the rota and the words ‘Home Farm’ written in Edith Mostyn’s neat hand in the column next to it, for they knew that the old farmer was a hard taskmaster and that these days his frail wife scarcely ventured out of the house to moderate his ill temper and unreasonable demands.

  Still, Brenda, Una and Elsie had a job to do this Monday morning and they would do it to the best of their ability.

  ‘Once we’ve cleared all the weeds we can take a breather.’ Elsie vaulted over the gate into the field and immediately got stuck in. She envisaged unpacking her fish-paste sandwiches in the shade of a hayrick then pouring herself a cup of good, strong tea from her thermos flask. ‘After that we’ll go back to the house and find out what the old so-and-so’s got lined up for us this afternoon.’

  Una too got straight to work with her hoe, digging up the weeds and heaping them at the edge of the field. ‘There’s a cool breeze today, thank goodness.’ After a few minutes she paused to take off her jumper and roll up her sleeves. When she set to again and stooped to pick up a bundle of uprooted weeds, she gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Ouch!’ Examining the palm of her hand, she saw the first red blotches and raised skin of a nettle sting.

  ‘No wonder they call us the Cinderella Service,’ Elsie remarked glumly. ‘The powers that be don’t even shell out enough money to buy us gloves.’

  Brenda leaned on her hoe and looked down into the valley, across fields of sprouting turnips and yellowing wheat. ‘They don’t mention that when they recruit you. Or the fact that you’ll be working knee-deep in cow muck half of the time.’

  That was how their morning had begun – cleaning out the milking parlour after Joe had finished milking. The filthy work with spade, brush and hose was one of the worst around, not made any better by the old man keeping his beady eye on them until he was finally satisfied.

  ‘And all for thirty-eight shillings a week.’ Elsie found a dock leaf growing in a nearby ditch and handed it to Una. ‘Here – this will help take the sting out of it.’

  Una crushed the leaf to release the sap then dabbed her hand. Meanwhile, Elsie and Brenda worked their way along the first row of turnip shoots. She soon joined them, then all three kept their heads down and their hoes turning the soil until the sun had risen high in the sky. They didn’t pause or look up from the back-breaking work until they heard Joe call from the gate.

  ‘Missy!’ he yelled, his gnarled hands clasped over the top bar. He was dressed in his all-year-round tattered overcoat, tied around the waist with string, hatless and with his thick white hair uncombed. ‘I want you.’

  Brenda frowned and looked at Elsie and Una. ‘Which “Missy” would that be?’ she called back.

  ‘The little dark one. Come here.’

  Elsie immediately split from the trio and started up the hill.

  ‘Not you – you!’ Joe stabbed his finger towards Una. ‘I need you to cycle over to Brigg Farm with two buckets of pig swill.’

  ‘Charming!’ Brenda muttered to Elsie as Una put down her hoe. ‘What’s the betting we’ll still be expected to finish this job by dinner time, even though there’s only two of us?’

  Despite a twinge of guilt about abandoning them, Una welcomed the break. She left the field then fetched her bike from behind the dairy, letting Joe hitch two zinc buckets full to the brim with potato peelings, old cabbage leaves and sour milk curds over her handlebars.

  ‘You’ll have to manage without lids,’ he instructed. ‘Try not to spill any.’

  It would be a fine balancing act, she realized. The contents of the buckets slopped around as she wobbled off along the rough farm track on to the road. Once on the smooth surface, she was able to freewheel down the steep hill and over a hump-backed bridge, then cycle on through the village before taking a left turn towards Brigg Farm. The buckets tilted and a little of the rotting mixture spilled on to the ground. Una sighed and cycled on, intending to ignore Maurice’s approaching van and tooting horn.

  The bespectacled car mechanic braked and leaned out of his window. ‘Where are you off to this fine day?’

  She was starting to gag on the foul smell. ‘Sorry, Maurice, I can’t stop –
the sooner I deliver these buckets of pig swill to Roland Thomson, the better.’

  ‘I’d offer to help.’ He turned up his nose and shrugged. ‘Only …’

  ‘I know – it’s an awful stink.’

  ‘Rather you than me,’ he said. These Land Girls deserve every penny they get paid, he thought as he drove on. Some of them don’t look sturdy enough to cook a chap a decent dinner, let alone plough a field or dig a ditch.

  Poppy’s first morning at Brigg Farm was not going well. She’d been given the task of harvesting hay with a scythe, despite never having handled such a thing before. It had seemed simple when Joyce had stood in the field behind the barn and demonstrated to her and Doreen the action of swooping the scythe in a downwards curve and Poppy had listened to the satisfying swish of the blade through the tall grass. But when it came to her turn, she couldn’t seem to keep the scythe at the right angle and there’d been no swish and fall. The grass had stayed defiantly upright.

  ‘Not like that – like this.’ Joyce showed her a second time. ‘Look, Doreen’s getting the hang of it. Try to copy her.’

  Poppy felt frustration form a lump in her throat. She raised the scythe above her shoulder and brought it down – there was a second failure, then a third, and a fourth.

  ‘I know; it’s not as easy as it looks.’ Joyce adjusted Poppy’s stance while Neville strolled out of the farmyard to perch on the gate and enjoy the show.

  ‘We’ll be here till midnight at this rate,’ he’d crowed.

  Poppy felt six inches high. Why could Doreen get the hang of it and not her? The glory of the glamorous shop girl wielding a scythe was something to behold. Her glossy dark hair partly hidden by a red paisley scarf and her white Aertex shirt revealing her smooth, strong arms, she raised the blade above her head and with a svelte twist of her torso brought it down at just the right angle. Swathes of long grass fell at her feet and she moved on – raise, twist and swing, again and again.

  Neville, however, seemed to have eyes for none but Poppy. ‘Crikey O’Reilly, would you look at that!’ he chortled, a flap of ginger hair flopping down over one eye. ‘Stand well back, Joyce – she’ll have your leg off if you’re not careful.’

  Poppy grunted then went on failing with the scythe until at last Joyce relented. ‘Doreen and I can manage here. Why don’t you ask Neville if there’s a job in the stable that you can help him with?’

  Out of the frying pan into the fire. Poppy didn’t relish the prospect of Neville telling her what to do but she followed him anyway.

  ‘I enjoyed that – you gave me more laughs than Buster Keaton and the Keystone Cops put together.’ He grinned as he entered the tack room next to Major’s stable. The grey shire horse flicked a bored ear towards them then returned to his hay net.

  I’ve had enough, Poppy thought. ‘I didn’t notice you offering to lend a hand.’ In a rare gesture of disgruntlement, she pulled off her scarf and tucked it firmly into the pocket of her dungarees.

  ‘Why should I? Dad dishes out the orders. My job is to look after the horse and cart, plus Lady M over there, the rest of the pigs and the chickens.’

  Poppy glanced across the yard to the three red hens and one black one pecking seeds from between cracks. She liked the look of them, but not of the enormous sow thrusting her snout through the gaps in her wooden sty. ‘Why do you call her Lady M?’

  ‘It stands for Lady Macbeth. She rolled on her first litter and killed every one of them stone dead.’ Neville took a few seconds to enjoy Poppy’s dismay. At sixteen, his main source of entertainment lay in teasing and flirting with the newest Land Girl recruits and since Una had made it plain at the wedding reception on Saturday night that she was still spoken for, he’d begun to seriously consider transferring his attention to Poppy. ‘Lady M will be for the chop herself before too long. But take my word for it, you won’t want to be anywhere near when that happens.’

  Preferring not to pursue the topic, Poppy staggered backwards under the weight of an enormous leather horse collar that Neville had taken off its hook and foisted upon her. He then unbolted the stable door and led Major into the yard before tethering him to an iron ring attached to the stone wall. ‘Hang on to that collar while I fetch you a box,’ he instructed. Poppy felt her legs start to tremble. This was a huge, heavy piece of tack for a gigantic horse – his head was unbelievably large, bony and whiskery. One eye was brown and the other a greyish-blue. The pale one stared at her holding the collar, as if to warn her, Don’t come near me with that.

  She sagged and shook as Neville placed a wooden crate next to the horse. ‘Step up here and pop that over his head while I fetch his reins and bridle,’ he ordered with a casual jerk of his head.

  ‘Rightio!’ Poppy took a deep breath and stepped up. Major eyed her balefully and stamped his hairy hoof. She lifted the collar high over his head, expecting him to pull away. To her surprise the cart horse was good as gold, standing motionless as she lowered it. She brushed the palms of her hands together and stepped down from the crate.

  ‘Blow me down!’ Neville exclaimed when he returned with the horse’s bridle slung over his shoulder. ‘I’d have put money on you not being able to manage that.’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw a figure on a bicycle pedal up the lane. Recognizing Una, he thrust the bridle at Poppy. ‘See if you can work out how to put this on,’ he ordered, almost falling over himself in his hurry to greet his old favourite.

  ‘Hello, Neville.’ Una smiled as she got off her bike.

  ‘Here, let me take those.’ He sprang to help, unloading the buckets from the handlebars and carrying one in each hand to the pigsty, where he promptly tipped the contents into the trough.

  ‘Hello, Poppy.’ Una saw the new girl struggling with the horse’s bridle and obligingly showed her how to put it on. ‘This is the brow band and this part loops behind his ears. These are the blinkers. Stand still, Major – there’s a good boy. First you have to slide the bit between his teeth.’ She accomplished the task then reassured Poppy. ‘It seems tricky at first but you’ll soon get the hang of it. And by the way, if Neville teases you, ignore him.’

  Neville put down the buckets then sauntered over. ‘Are you two girls talking about me, by any chance?’

  ‘Why – are your ears burning?’ Una winked at Poppy. ‘I was telling her you were a decent sort deep down. You looked after me when I first arrived at Fieldhead and you’ll do the same for her.’

  ‘If she behaves herself, I will.’ Neville reckoned that Poppy was only a year or two older than him and definitely his type of girl. He decided then and there to take her under his wing. ‘I’ll show you how to hitch Major to the hay wagon for a start.’

  Despite the farm lad’s brazen manner, this time Poppy was glad of the offer. While she listened and watched attentively, Una climbed the stone steps into the hayloft above Major’s stable and found a quiet corner to sit and reread her latest letter from Angelo.

  It had been delivered to the hostel on Friday and she’d read it three times that evening before storing it with the others in the wooden box that her beloved beau had carved for her soon after they’d met. She’d kept the box hidden under her pillow throughout the Saturday, the day of Grace’s wedding. On Sunday she’d read the letter twice more and this morning she’d tucked it into the top pocket of her dungarees so that she could read it again during her dinner break. Now she took it out of its envelope and started to read.

  ‘Dear Una.’ Instantly she imagined Angelo’s deep voice with its heavy Italian accent. ‘I am well and I hope you are the same. I miss you every day. My heart hurts when I think of you.’ She sighed and, though the words blurred through sudden hot tears, she remembered the next bit verbatim. ‘I promise I will not forget you. You must think of me and never forget our times together.’ Una closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet smell of newly mown hay. Times together when they’d kissed and held each other. The time they had made love in the cold winter stable behind the hostel – her very first ten
der time. She always wore Angelo’s gold cross around her neck, warm against her skin.

  ‘Mio amore, do not forget your Angelo. I am with Lorenzo on a new ship. They teach me to weld metal. It is good work but I like better digging a field by your side. How are you? Is the sun hot in Yorkshire? Who digs beside you now?’

  Nestled in her bed of hay, she smiled a little at this hint of jealousy on Angelo’s part and promised herself that she would put him out of his misery by writing back that very evening. Her letter would wing its way to the shipyard in Greenock and he would be left in no doubt that she still loved him with all her heart.

  She brushed away the tears then read on. ‘My words in English cannot say how I feel. How long must we wait, mio amore? When will we be free?’

  ‘Una – are you there?’ Edith Mostyn’s clipped, penetrating voice called from the farmyard.

  Una jumped up and dusted herself down. She hadn’t heard the approach of a car or the short conversation between the local rep and the other girls. ‘Yes, Mrs Mostyn!’

  ‘Come down here, please.’

  She hastily tucked Angelo’s letter into her pocket then descended the steps to find the supervisor addressing Poppy, Doreen and Joyce.

  ‘If you have any complaints about your conditions of work, now is the time to voice them.’ Edith was dressed in smart fawn slacks and a crisp white blouse. Her fountain pen was poised above a clipboard. ‘For example, are you obliged to work longer than your stated hours?’

  ‘No, Mrs Mostyn.’ Una joined the group and added her voice to the chorus.

  Edith duly noted their answers. ‘Is the work expected of you unreasonable in any way?’

  Joyce eyed Una, who thrust her shoulders back and jutted out her chin. ‘No, Mrs Mostyn.’

  ‘Poppy and Doreen, do you consider that you have received sufficient training?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Mostyn!’

  What training would that be? Doreen silently wondered. She’d been whisked out of her department store on the last Friday in May and on the following Sunday she’d arrived at Fieldhead, where she’d been issued with her Land Army uniform and her regulation boneshaker bicycle. On the following day she’d been thrown straight into the mayhem of plucking chickens at Horace Turnbull’s hen farm, where the taciturn farmer’s toothless old dad had demonstrated the basics then left her to it. Still, she saw by the look on Joyce’s face that it wouldn’t do to complain.