Wedding Bells for Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘Ta,’ Poppy breathed, already so tired she was scarcely able to think. Her wrists ached from hand-milking twelve cows – an activity that she found distasteful – and she’d taken a few kicks on the shins and swipes of cows’ tails in the process. To have had to put up with more of Alfie’s taunting would have been the final straw.

  Grace took the weight of the first churn then together they rolled it to the door. ‘One of these days Joe will see fit to invest in some up-to-date machinery and take the backache out of all of this.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I mean ta for saving me from Alfie.’

  ‘You’re very welcome.’ Poor little chick. She’ll have to learn the ropes quickly and grow a thicker skin if she’s to stay the course. Grace saw fit to add a piece of advice. ‘You’re right to steer clear of Alfie Craven. Bill and I were talking about him earlier, trying to remember the details surrounding his final disappearance. It had to do with the Fosters’ daughter, Shirley.’

  The names meant nothing to Poppy.

  ‘They’re a well-to-do family in Hawkshead. Mrs Craven worked for them as their housekeeper. Alfie had already gone to the bad and was rattling around the village at that time, finding lodgings wherever he could. Somehow he wormed his way into Shirley Foster’s affections. She was much younger than him – seventeen at the most.’ Grace thought it best to leave the rest to Poppy’s imagination.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Through the door Poppy glimpsed Alfie chain-smoking and watching Bill as he worked on Joe’s tractor. Bill refused Alfie’s offer of a cigarette. There was obviously no love lost between the two men. She nodded at Grace and took the warning to heart. ‘Ta very much. I’ll do my best to keep out of his way.’

  Sunday remained Brenda’s favourite day of the week and she made sure that everyone knew it. While the majority of Land Girls at the hostel stayed indoors to perform domestic tasks, she would be out and about on her beloved motor bike, which she cleaned and tended with as much devotion as other women shower on their first-born babies. This very morning she’d lifted out the dipstick to check the oil level, taken out the spark plugs and cleaned them one by one, then unscrewed the petrol tank and peered inside to ensure there was enough fuel to carry her wherever she wanted to go. Then she’d taken a rag to polish Sloper’s steel exhaust pipe, wheel rims and handlebars. Finally satisfied, she had wolfed down a sandwich for an early lunch then quickly donned jacket, headscarf and goggles, and set off up the dale.

  Nothing else gave her anywhere near the same sense of freedom as riding a motor bike. She loved to lean forward into the buffeting wind, to hear the roar of the engine as she opened the throttle and see the tarmac surface of the road speed by in a blur under her front wheel. The more remote her destination the better, so on this fine morning she rode along Swinsty Edge and through Hawkshead – a tiny hamlet of half a dozen houses, with the Fosters’ grand hall hidden down a long driveway behind a copse of mature beeches – on over the moor top then down into Attercliffe, with a silver river twisting its way through the new dale. Here there were broader sweeps of green pasture rising up steep hillsides, dotted with sheep and black-and-white cows and intersected by the usual intricate patchwork of stone walls.

  Freedom! Fresh air filled Brenda’s lungs and her heart was eased of all its cares as the steep, single-track road curved down into the valley.

  There was a sharp bend ahead and high walls to either side. She braked and leaned into the bend. Out of nowhere a low, green, two-seater sports car with its top down hurtled towards her.

  There was a flash of gleaming metal, a squeal of brakes. Brenda mounted the grass verge and rode Sloper headlong into a ditch, where she came to a sudden, undignified halt. Donald White turned off his engine then leaped from the MG and ran to see if she was hurt.

  Groggily Brenda extricated herself from her bike. A smell of petrol filled the air and she saw at a glance that Sloper’s front fork had buckled under the impact. ‘Damn!’ she said over and over as Donald helped her to her feet.

  ‘Brenda, are you all right?’ A female voice asked the question and a woman peered over Donald’s shoulder.

  As the world came back into focus, Brenda recognized Doreen, sportily dressed in cream linen slacks, checked shirt and a red neckerchief that matched her scarlet lipstick. Her dark hair was piled high on her head and held in place by shiny silver combs. Donald looked equally casual in an open-necked shirt and dark blue trousers.

  ‘Yes, no thanks to you two!’ Brenda perched her goggles on top of her head and shook herself free of Donald’s helping hand. ‘You must have been doing forty at the very least.’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ Doreen protested. ‘I wasn’t the one behind the wheel.’

  ‘Steady on – it was thirty at the most.’ Now that he saw that Brenda wasn’t seriously hurt – only a cut to the back of her left hand and a bad graze on her knee where her trouser leg had torn – he was quick to defend himself. ‘It was a blind bend; neither of us was to blame. Anyway, at least the ditch gave you a soft landing.’

  ‘But look at the state of my bike,’ she groaned. Still suffering from shock, she struggled to pull Sloper clear of the ditch and had to let Donald help her. When they got the bike back on to the road, it was clear that it couldn’t be ridden.

  ‘Yes, that thing’s not going anywhere for the time being,’ Donald agreed. Then, wanting to persuade Brenda that there were no hard feelings, he suggested the best course of action. ‘Listen, we’re only a couple of hundred yards from home. Why not leave your bike here and walk with Doreen down to the house? Hettie’s there. She can give you a cup of tea and clean up those cuts while I turn the car around, drive home and make a telephone call for you.’

  Brenda glanced down in surprise at her bleeding hand. Shock must have shielded her from the pain, but the cut looked quite deep, so she nodded and agreed to the plan. ‘Who will you call?’

  Donald vaulted into the car without opening the door. ‘I’ll try Maurice to see if he can drive his van out here to collect your bike. If he’s not in, I’ll try Bill.’

  Offering no resistance, Brenda let Doreen lead her down the winding hill. ‘You were the last person I expected to see in this neck of the woods,’ she muttered. ‘Anyway, I was under the impression that was Les’s MG.’

  Doreen was unabashed. ‘It is; Donald borrowed it so he could take me for a spin.’

  Ahead of them, the entrance to Dale End Farm came into view. The Whites’ house lay at the end of a short driveway with formal gardens to either side and was bigger and more impressive than the run-of-the-mill stone cottages typical of the area. There was Queen Anne styling to the three gables that faced the road. The stone window surrounds were ornately carved and a pair of stone lions flanked the broad steps leading to a porticoed doorway.

  ‘When did he ask you out?’ Brenda and Doreen stood aside to let Donald overtake them on the drive.

  ‘Last Saturday, after Grace’s wedding.’ Doreen took it as read that a well-off landowner’s son would be bound to show an interest in her.

  ‘Blimey, you kept that quiet.’

  ‘Luckily he’s got the looks as well as the wherewithal, so I jumped at the chance.’

  Brenda’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘You don’t mince your words, do you?’

  The smile became a low laugh. ‘Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same. You’d snap Donald’s hand off if he asked you out. Come on, Brenda; you can’t tell me you wouldn’t!’ Straightening her face in time for them to join him in the entrance porch, Doreen let Brenda go in first.

  As they entered the spacious hallway, Hettie came down the stairs. Within a matter of seconds, Donald’s older sister had assessed the situation and taken control. ‘Come with me into the sitting room,’ she told Brenda as she stepped between her and Doreen, a move that instantly left the Rita Hayworth look-alike out of the picture. ‘No, on second thoughts, come up to the bathroom where we can clean up those cuts and grazes without making too much mess.’

/>   Brenda followed obediently while Doreen went with Donald into a study room leading straight off from the hallway.

  ‘How did this happen?’ Hettie asked once she’d opened a first-aid cupboard on the bathroom wall and handed Brenda a wad of cotton wool to soak up the blood. She was the taller of the two by a couple of inches, dressed in a pale green dress with a primrose-yellow silk scarf tied around her neck. The outfit went some way towards softening her spare frame and stern features.

  ‘I ended up in a ditch, thanks to Donald.’ Brenda winced as the Dragon dabbed her hand with a pad of lint soaked in Dettol. ‘If I hadn’t taken quick action and swerved off the road, it would have been far worse.’

  ‘Take off your trousers then lift up your leg.’

  Again Brenda did as she was told. ‘Ouch, that stings!’ she muttered as Hettie applied the pad to her graze. Averting her gaze, she caught sight of her reflection in a round mirror above the sink. Her goggles were askew, her hair looked like a bird’s nest and there was a streak of black oil from Sloper’s engine on her right cheek.

  ‘Now that I’ve got all the grit out, I can cover it with a clean bandage.’ Hettie did this with expert ease then held up Brenda’s torn and mud-covered trousers between thumb and forefinger. ‘Would you like to borrow a spare pair of slacks from me? They’d probably fit you around the waist and you could roll up the bottoms if they’re too long.’

  Brenda meekly accepted the offer then sat on the edge of the bath while Hettie went off to fetch the slacks. She heard quick footsteps along the landing but wasn’t prepared for the door to open and for Les’s face to suddenly appear.

  ‘Oh, I say!’ Brenda made a grab for the nearest towel to cover her knickers and bare legs.

  Les gasped and backed out, leaving the door swinging open. ‘Sorry. I didn’t … I mean, oh blimey!’

  Brenda put her hand to her mouth to stifle the laughter that had bubbled up at the sight of Les’s shocked face. ‘It’s all right, I’m decent now,’ she called out as she wrapped the towel around her waist.

  ‘I had no idea you were here,’ he called back. ‘What are the bandages for? Are you all right?’

  There wasn’t time to answer because Hettie bustled back with the slacks. ‘I warned you not to lend Donald your car,’ she grumbled as she pushed past. ‘I knew he would only use it to show off to that floozy and I was right. Try these,’ she said in an aside to Brenda, who made sure her new bandage was secure before she slid on the proffered trousers. ‘He’d hardly got out of the driveway, probably wasn’t even looking at the road with Miss Fancy Pants sitting beside him.’

  ‘I’ll bloody kill the beggar!’ No sooner had Hettie put him in the picture than Les stormed off downstairs.

  Brenda grinned awkwardly. ‘I expect it’s his precious MG he’s worried about.’

  Hettie shook her head as she put away the sticking plaster, scissors and bandages. ‘No, he’s not bothered about his car. It’s you.’

  ‘Why, what’s Les said?’ Brenda quickly got over her surprise and she resumed a careless manner.

  ‘Nothing. I just saw the way he danced with you at Grace’s wedding.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Then we’d better go down and show him I’m none the worse for wear.’ She led the way out of the bathroom and along the landing.

  By the time they got downstairs there was a full-scale row going on between the brothers, with Doreen standing quietly in the background.

  ‘I’ve telephoned for Maurice to come, haven’t I?’ Donald yelled. ‘What more do you expect me to do?’

  ‘Not drive like an idiot in the first place.’ Les hadn’t heard Brenda and Hettie’s footsteps on the stairs. ‘You could have killed her!’

  ‘But I didn’t.’

  ‘You bloody could have, though.’

  ‘Keep your hair on. Anyone would think I did it on purpose.’ Donald took out a cigarette then offered one to Doreen and glanced up the stairs at Brenda. ‘Come down and tell my brother it was an accident, pure and simple; stop him getting into even more of a stew,’ he told her. ‘By the way, Maurice is on his way.’

  Brenda blinked back the irritation she felt. Donald White hadn’t covered himself in glory during the morning’s events and she recollected other small details that she’d heard about him – that he’d avoided conscription on more than one occasion and that he fancied himself as a ladies’ man. And she wasn’t keen on the sly smile he shared with Doreen as he offered her a light, as if the whole thing was a joke between them. ‘Ta for that. But this is going to put me out of action for a good long while,’ she forecast. ‘It’s not a five-minute job to straighten out Sloper’s front fork and patch up the petrol tank. It’ll be even longer if Maurice has to send off for spare parts for the suspension.’

  ‘Brenda doesn’t like having her wings clipped,’ Doreen commented wryly. ‘I don’t suppose either of you has got a spare motor bike tucked away in one of your nice big barns?’

  Hettie looked daggers at her. ‘We might look as if we’re made of money, but—’

  ‘That’s right, we’re not.’ A new voice joined the argument. It belonged to Arnold White, entering the house with a shotgun under his arm and two black cocker spaniels at his heels. He’d been out shooting rabbits and was in no mood to entertain visitors. ‘I don’t know what’s going on here, but Hettie will put me in the picture. Donald, Les, I expect to see you at dinner, six o’clock sharp.’

  It was a clear signal for Doreen and Brenda to leave, but the question was: how were they to get home?

  ‘I’ll give you a lift.’ Les jumped in with a solution for Brenda, while Hettie told Doreen in no uncertain terms that she must wait in the kitchen for Maurice to arrive.

  The blatant snub stung Doreen into defiance. ‘No, I have a better idea. I realize the MG is only a two-seater, but Brenda won’t mind sitting on my knee, will you, Bren?’

  ‘No, that won’t do. You should do as Hettie says and stay here,’ Les said quickly and firmly before offering Brenda an arm to lean on. ‘Can you walk all right? I’ll put the top up on the drive back if you’d prefer.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I prefer it down for now.’

  They were out of the front door and in the car before Doreen could object. Les held Brenda’s door open then closed it carefully. Within seconds he had the engine turning and they were easing down the gravel drive.

  ‘Phew, the Dragon certainly has it in for Doreen.’ Brenda was determined to keep the tone light above the whine of the engine as they climbed the one-in-four gradient. She glanced ahead to the rugged limestone outcrops on the brow of the hill.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘She was practically breathing fire back there when she told her to wait in the kitchen. And you heard her earlier: she called Doreen Miss Fancy Pants.’

  ‘That’s true, she did.’ Les laughed. ‘Doreen’s not serious enough for Hettie; she’d rather Donald and I went out with girls who spend time in a library and who know how to keep an eye on the difference between income and expenditure. Dad’s the same way.’

  ‘But it’s not up to them.’

  ‘True. That’s why I’m here now.’ The car reached the top of the incline and a new vista opened up before them. Limestone gave way to darker millstone grit, trees were more scattered and mile after mile of low-lying heather took over from bright green pastures. Overhead, clouds gathered, threatening showers. ‘I’ll park in this lay-by and put the roof up in case it rains,’ Les decided as he pulled off the road.

  Brenda watched him unbuckle leather straps and undo press studs then raise the black canvas roof. Suddenly she was wrapped inside a small, dark space, aware of the painful cut on her hand and the graze beneath the bandage on her knee. Les’s face was serious as he got back into the car.

  ‘Hettie lent me these slacks,’ she said apropos of nothing.

  He twisted in his seat and leaned towards her. There was a question in his grey eyes.

  ‘Ta for running me home,’ she sa
id in a low, soft voice.

  ‘You don’t mind me doing this?’ He leaned closer so that his features blurred and she felt the warmth of his breath on her lips.

  With a small shake of her head, she let his lips touch hers then sank into the kiss.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Edith Mostyn sat in Grace and Bill’s sunny front room drinking tea from the delicate Noritake cups that she’d given them as a wedding present. There was a plate of salmon paste and cucumber sandwiches on the occasional table spread with a lace-edged cloth – signs that Grace had made a special effort on her new mother-in-law’s behalf.

  ‘I read in the Sunday paper that the Allies are busy building up our defences in the Med.’ Bill assumed that war talk was safe territory with his mother and he wanted her to feel at ease. ‘We’re sending convoys to Gibraltar and Alexandria, ready for “the big one”.’

  Instead of relaxing, Edith looked worried. ‘Ought we to be talking so openly about Mr Churchill’s plans?’

  ‘Why not? Jack did when I was chatting to him at the reception.’

  ‘And if it’s in the papers, it can’t be a secret,’ Grace added. The change in the balance of power between herself and Edith took her by surprise. Where once she would have smiled shyly and deferred as she sat on the red leather settee in Edith’s lounge, she now felt it was her place to play the hostess and express opinions. ‘I overheard Jack saying that they’re getting men and machines ashore as fast as ever they can. Only last month, his parent ship unloaded LCMs in Norway. Last week his Royal Navy freighter was anchored off Gourock, awaiting fresh orders.’

  Edith looked puzzled. ‘What are LCMs when they’re at home?’

  ‘Flat-bottomed landing craft.’ Bill took over from Grace as he watched her top up his mother’s cup. ‘Jack was lucky to get time off to be my best man. I wouldn’t be surprised if his ship is headed for the Straits of Gibraltar as we speak. It’s going to be all right, Mum – you’ll see. Mr Churchill will soon persuade President Roosevelt to send us even more planes and troops and then Herr Hitler will be on a hiding to nothing.’