Wedding Bells for Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘News about what?’ Kathleen came into the garden carrying a tray of mugs. ‘Are we talking about Jack Hudson, by any chance?’ She put down the tray to a volley of surprised, anxious glances. ‘Ah, we weren’t, were we?’

  Jean, Elsie, Joyce, Una and Doreen gathered round, their faces flushed with the effort of weeding, sleeves rolled up and shirts open at the neck. ‘Why, what’s happened now?’ Jean asked edgily.

  There was no avoiding it; Kathleen must break the bad news, so she stirred half-spoonfuls of sugar into the mugs and went on falteringly. ‘Jack’s ship was hit off the coast of Malta at midday on Monday. Apparently a low-level torpedo bomber did for them. The ship was carrying aviation fuel. It blew up and sank in seconds.’

  ‘What about survivors?’ Elsie’s voice was shaky.

  ‘A few, they think. A mine sweeper found five of them on an upturned lifeboat and took them to Sliema Creek.’

  ‘What about Jack?’ Joyce asked.

  ‘He’s listed as missing.’ Kathleen’s voice grew quieter still. ‘His mum and dad received the telegram this morning.’

  ‘Do Grace and Bill know?’ Elsie thought of Jack’s best man’s speech at the wedding, so full of life and affection. She remembered how they’d danced into the wee small hours, teetering on the edge of full-blown romance. A mere week and a half had elapsed since then.

  Kathleen nodded. ‘Mrs Mostyn was at the Hudsons’ house when the telegram arrived. She says that neighbours are rallying round. There’s a younger brother still at school and an older sister in the ATS.’

  While Joyce shook her head in hopeless resignation, Doreen, Una and Kathleen returned to their gardening work, each reflecting on how trivial the bickering over blackberries and sugar rations seemed now. Elsie stood stock still and stared down at the concentric rings swirling gently on the surface of the untouched mugs of tea, holding in her mind a crystal-clear image of Chief Petty Officer Jack Hudson – here one minute and gone the next. Young, proud, handsome and doomed.

  After just over two weeks in the Land Army, Poppy decided she’d had enough. Life as a Land Girl was not for her.

  So she cycled into Burnside straight after work on Wednesday, intending to knock on Mrs Mostyn’s door and tell her she was leaving.

  They can’t stop me, she told herself stubbornly. This isn’t the WAAF or the WRNS. We can’t be forced to stay on.

  So she stood on the doorstep, raised the knocker and rapped it down, waiting for what felt like a long time before Edith opened the door.

  ‘Poppy,’ Edith said in a flat voice. Her face was pale, her brow furrowed. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Mostyn, I can’t go on!’ Poppy blurted out her decision then bit her lip to stop herself from crying.

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t go on?’ Fresh from Muriel and Harold Hudson’s house, where she’d spent most of the day, Edith was at first irritated by the girl’s tearful declaration. Didn’t Poppy know that there was a war on and they all had to keep a stiff upper lip, for goodness’ sake?

  Poppy quaked under the severe gaze. ‘I want to resign. I’m not cut out for farm work after all. I’d like to go back home to my family. I’m sure I can get my old job back in Kingsley’s canteen.’

  ‘Come in, Poppy.’ Edith’s weary voice reflected the shock of the day’s events. But she invited the recalcitrant recruit to take off her coat and hat then sat her down in the lounge while she made her a cup of tea. She stayed in the kitchen while the kettle boiled, wondering how best to proceed.

  Meanwhile, Poppy took in her surroundings. The rep’s home was spotless. Every surface gleamed, from the round, glass-topped coffee table to the polished parquet floor and the red and green geometric designs in the stained-glass bow windows. Pale grey figurines of dancing girls adorned the low chimney piece and a gold clock in the shape of a sunburst told her that it was already dinner time at the hostel.

  ‘Now,’ Edith said as she brought in the tea tray, ‘tell me what the matter is, there’s a good girl.’

  The news about Jack hit Bill hard. He’d heard it from his mother, who had telephoned his workshop on Winsill Edge straight after she’d come away from the Hudsons’ house. It was late afternoon on a grey, blustery summer’s day. ‘Harold and Muriel are taking it hard,’ she’d told him. ‘Muriel’s clinging on to the fact that Jack is listed as missing in action, not killed. No one can blame her for clutching at straws, I suppose.’

  Bill had pressed his lips together and let his mother talk on.

  ‘Apparently the convoy carried on for Malta without stopping to search for survivors. Would you credit it: two of the six merchantmen reached their destination so it came up on the news as a success for the Allies!’

  ‘Who picked up the survivors?’ Bill had tried to picture a course of events whereby Jack had been rescued by an enemy vessel and taken off to a prisoner-of-war camp somewhere in Italy or Greece. If that were the case then it was definitely too soon for the Allied authorities to have been informed. Then he sighed at his own version of clutching at straws. The ship had blown up with a cargo of aviation spirit – chances of survival were slim at best.

  ‘I don’t know, Bill.’ The telephone receiver had felt heavy in Edith’s hand. ‘Will you tell Grace?’

  ‘Straight away,’ he’d promised. He’d driven home slowly and coincided with Grace’s arrival at the house.

  She’d looked at his face as he got out of the car and known that it was bad news.

  It was as if sharp talons had clutched at her throat. ‘Is it Edgar?’ she’d gasped in the fierce grip of sudden panic.

  ‘No – Jack.’

  They’d gone inside the house. Grace had held his hand and listened quietly as he sat in the front room with his head bowed until there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come with me.’ Edith had said all she could to persuade Poppy to stay on. She’d appealed to the girl’s common sense and asked her to carry on until the end of the month at least, for wastage of labour was a serious consideration at County Office and the local rep was invariably made to feel responsible. She’d acknowledged that Land Girls were not tied to military law and that most joined voluntarily. But, as things stood, if Poppy were to go ahead with her decision to leave the Land Army, Edith pointed out that the Ministry of Labour might soon transfer her to some other branch of national service, not of her own choosing.

  All to no avail. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t stand the work,’ a miserable Poppy had declared. ‘It’s the cows and the pigs – the muck. I’m not used to it.’

  Edith had softened a little. The poor girl probably did well enough in city streets and woollen mills, but the countryside was proving altogether too much for her. ‘Do you miss your mother?’ she’d asked kindly.

  There’d been tears and wet handkerchiefs, and more cups of tea, until Edith led her up the street to Grace and Bill’s house.

  Grace answered the door and took one look at a red-eyed Poppy, swamped by her dungarees, fair hair hidden beneath a checked headscarf, looking all of twelve years old as she hung back behind a worried Edith. ‘Oh dear,’ she murmured as she invited them in then led the way into the kitchen. ‘Have you had any dinner, Poppy? Would you like me to make you a quick ham sandwich?’

  ‘Poppy’s thinking of leaving us,’ Edith reported calmly as Grace sat the girl down on a stool near the sink. ‘I thought perhaps you could talk her out of it.’

  Grace nodded. ‘I’ll give it a go. You’ll find Bill in the front room,’ she said quietly.

  Edith slipped away to be with her grieving son.

  ‘What’s the matter? Is it Fieldhead?’ Grace asked Poppy without any lead-in. ‘Don’t you like sharing a room with Joyce and Doreen?’

  ‘The hostel’s fine.’ Poppy’s lip started to quiver. ‘Joyce kindly showed me the ropes when I first arrived and Doreen cheers me up when I’m down in the dumps. It’s not that.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘It’s the cows – they’re so big and clu
msy; they scare the living daylights out of me.’

  ‘I know what you mean, but you’ll get used to them before too long.’ Grace was certain there was more. ‘And what else?’

  ‘Pigs as well. I don’t like their beady little eyes.’

  ‘Poor pigs!’ Grace smiled then paused to reflect. ‘Come on, Poppy; what’s this really about?’

  ‘If I tell you, you won’t let on?’ Grace’s calm, kindly manner drew Poppy out. ‘And you won’t think I’m silly?’

  ‘I promise.’

  Poppy went on haltingly. ‘It was last Sunday, after tea. I was taking a stroll through the wood at the back of the hostel. He jumped out from behind a tree and said boo.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Mrs Craven’s son, Alfie. At first I tried to laugh it off and walk away, but he followed me.’

  ‘And?’ Grace guessed the gist of what was to come, but wasn’t prepared for the full extent of it.

  ‘I told him to go away but he wouldn’t listen. He caught hold of me and pinned me against a tree trunk. He tried to kiss me and …’ Poppy shuddered at the memory. ‘Well, let’s just say there was a tussle and the buttons of my blouse came undone. His hand went down my front.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ Grace drew up another stool to sit beside her. ‘This isn’t silly; it’s serious. What else did Alfie do?’

  Poppy’s pupils dilated and her body shook. ‘He put his other hand up my skirt. I couldn’t stop him – he was too strong. But then we both heard voices coming towards us and that made him stop. Then he put his hand over my mouth and warned me not to breathe a word.’

  Grace stared silently back at her.

  ‘I bit his finger!’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Then I kicked his shins and ran away.’

  ‘Good again. And then afterwards – did you tell anyone?’

  ‘No, I was too frightened. And anyway, Mrs Craven is in charge of the hostel. I can’t go telling tales about her son. Besides, I’m bound to bump into him again sooner or later so I’d rather not be in his bad books.’

  ‘But what he did was wrong and we mustn’t let it happen again.’ Grace acknowledged the problem then tried to come up with a solution. ‘I’ve known Alfie a long time. I can have a word with him if you like.’

  Poppy nodded eagerly. ‘Will you?’

  ‘Of course I will. I’ll warn him to steer clear. And you must make sure that you’re never alone with him in future. Always stick with one of us if we have to work beside him at Home Farm.’

  Reassured, Poppy nodded then took a deep breath. ‘Ta, Grace. You’re a pal.’

  ‘And I can tell my mother-in-law that you’ll stay on?’

  Another nod indicated Poppy’s new resolve and she stood up, ready to leave. ‘I mean it. I can’t thank you enough.’

  Grace put an arm around her shoulder then led her to the door. ‘You’re very welcome. How will you get back to Fieldhead?’

  ‘On my bike. I left it in the pub yard.’ Eager to make amends for being late, Poppy ran down the path and across the road to fetch her bike. She was already astride the saddle and about to set off when Neville rode his own bike into the yard.

  ‘Ah, just the girl!’ he called over a screech of brakes.

  ‘Sorry – no time for a chat!’ Poppy yelled back. To date, she’d regarded Neville as hovering somewhere between a mild nuisance and a source of entertainment – either way, she wasn’t prepared to linger.

  He stopped in front of her and blocked her way. ‘No, but you can save me a ride all the way out to Fieldhead.’

  ‘I can?’

  ‘Yes. Will you take a message for me? Tell Una that the Italians are on their way at last.’ He delivered the news with a wink then went on to elaborate. ‘Dad heard it from the cook at Beckwith Camp. They crammed thirty prisoners into a single lorry and set off from Scotland first thing this morning. They’ll be here in a couple of hours. He asked Dad to sell him a few stones of spuds and a side of bacon on the sly, no questions asked.’

  So it really is happening, Poppy realized as she edged past. ‘All right – I’ll tell her.’

  Neville was slow to get out of her way. He cleared his throat then mumbled an awkward question: ‘I was wondering – will you come to the beetle drive with me on Saturday night?’

  Poppy widened her eyes in surprise and wondered if this was an invitation worth considering. Yes, Neville was a young whippersnapper, but during these days of conscription a girl’s choices were sadly limited.

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘At the Institute at seven o’clock.’

  ‘I’ll see.’ Having delivered her tantalizing reply, she cycled off and left Neville blushing to the roots of his hair.

  A beetle drive? Poppy thought as she left the village and set off along the narrow road to Fieldhead. What’s that when it’s at home?

  ‘Brenda, have you got Sloper back from Maurice yet?’ Una burst into the room that she shared with Kathleen and Brenda, flinging down the towel and facecloth she’d been holding while she queued up outside the bathroom. Her dark auburn hair had broken loose from the comb holding it in place and now tumbled across her face.

  Brenda, already in pyjamas, sat on her bed, flicking through a magazine. She glanced up nonchalantly. ‘Yes, I picked her up yesterday, as good as new. Why?’

  ‘I’ll explain later! Get dressed again. Now, this minute. We have to go!’ Una snatched the magazine then pulled Brenda on to her feet.

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘To the camp. Brenda, please!’

  ‘Aha!’ Brenda cottoned on quickly. ‘So, the wanderer returns.’

  ‘Yes. Poppy swears the prisoners will be here soon. If we set off now, we can get to Beckwith by the time they arrive.’ Una flung off her nightdress then fumbled to put on her shirt and breeches. Her heart beat fast and furious, fit to burst out of her chest.

  Brenda saw that she would brook no argument so she too put on her uniform.

  ‘It doesn’t grow dark until after ten so we should arrive there in the daylight.’ Una was first out of the door and running along the landing ahead of Brenda. ‘Oh, heavens – I can hardly believe it!’

  Joyce and Elsie stood chatting at the bottom of the stairs. As Una and Brenda rushed past, they stepped quickly to one side.

  ‘What’s the rush?’ Elsie called after them.

  ‘I’ll give you two guesses,’ Joyce said with a conspiratorial wink.

  Brenda and Una ran on into the yard, ignoring Kathleen and Doreen, who were enjoying a last cigarette of the day. Brenda wheeled Sloper out of a stable and started the engine. Una hopped on to the pillion seat and they were off with a roar, leaving behind a thin trail of blue smoke.

  ‘Someone’s happy,’ Doreen commented, absent-mindedly flicking ash from her cigarette.

  ‘Angelo must be back,’ Kathleen guessed. ‘Let’s keep our fingers crossed for Una’s sake that he meant what he said when he was here before.’

  ‘Ah.’ The worldly Doreen immediately understood. ‘Was it love or lust on the handsome gigolo’s part? That’s the question!’

  Brenda knew better than to enter into conversation with Una as they sped along Swinsty Edge towards Penny Lane. The poor girl had enough trouble catching her breath and Brenda could feel her hands shaking as she clasped her arms around her waist. It couldn’t be a pleasant feeling to be so swept off your feet by an intoxicating mixture of hope and fear or to be faced by events over which you had so little control. Brenda had only an inkling of what this must be like.

  Take her situation with Les, for instance. Yes, he was pleasant enough and there were sides to his character that she found fascinating. In fact, Brenda had met him two nights on the trot – the first on Monday, when they’d sat and had a quiet drink at the Blacksmith’s Arms, and then again last night, when they’d gone for a spin in his car. They’d kissed and cuddled as before. There was no reason for it not to continue, but when Les had pressed her to go out with him again
tonight, she’d suddenly got cold feet. She couldn’t say why, except that she felt a strong flutter of apprehension in her chest.

  ‘I’ll give it a miss if you don’t mind,’ she’d told him as he’d dropped her off at the hostel. ‘A girl has to wash her hair once in a while.’

  His face had fallen for a moment then he’d masked his disappointment and turned his car in the drive. ‘Cheerio then. Perhaps we can meet up again at the weekend?’

  ‘That’d be nice,’ she’d said cheerfully. ‘I’ll be at the pub on Friday night with some of the girls. I’ll see you then.’

  They’d waved and he’d driven off without looking back.

  ‘Nice’. That just about covered Brenda’s blossoming romance with Les. Passion didn’t really come into it – not for her, at least. In fact, when she thought seriously about it, it seldom did. Yes, she was able to have a good time when she walked out with a good-looking chap and she enjoyed the kisses and the flattery, but something – she couldn’t work out what – always held her back. It was like this with Les – blowing hot and cold, hot and cold. She knew he didn’t deserve it and she would try her best not to string him along if her heart wasn’t in it. But give it another week or two and then we’ll see, she told herself, with the wind in her hair and Una deep in the excited throes of true love clinging on behind.

  ‘Hold on to your hat,’ Brenda said as they reached the long, straight lane leading to Beckwith Camp and she picked up yet more speed. A deep red sky to the west coloured the clouds purple, and slender, silvery leaves on the old willow trees lining one side of the road fluttered in a light breeze.

  ‘There’s a lorry turning in through the gates. It seems we’ve got here just in time.’

  Shielded behind Brenda, Una could just see the canvas-topped truck in the distance as the motor bike drew level with the old isolation hospital – a gloomy Victorian building that now housed officers and crew of the Royal Canadian Air Force. Two armed sentries at the gate watched with interest as they rode past.

  ‘Hurry up!’ Una urged. There was still half a mile between them and Beckwith.

  ‘I can’t make her go any faster.’ Brenda had already opened the throttle to its maximum.