Wedding Bells for Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘Why? What’s he done now?’ Doreen pulled up her pyjama trousers then took off her petticoat and brassiere without seeming to mind that all eyes were on her.

  ‘Such cheek!’ Brenda fumed. ‘He tried it on with me. I’m engaged to Les, for goodness’ sake! I love that man with all my heart.’

  ‘Sit down.’ Joyce made room on her bed.

  ‘And Donald’s not free himself.’ She flashed a meaningful look in Doreen’s direction.

  Slowly and methodically, Doreen put on her silk jacket and fastened the buttons.

  ‘What exactly did he do?’ Poppy held her breath.

  ‘He only sat on the arm of my chair and came this close!’ Brenda held up her forefinger and thumb. ‘Making remarks, breathing his whisky breath all over me.’

  ‘Where and when was this?’ Joyce invited Brenda to talk it out fully.

  ‘At Dale End, just now.’

  For the first time Doreen showed a flicker of annoyance. ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘He invited me! To talk to Hettie – only she wasn’t there, of course. Well, she was, but she left Donald to it as a test of my loyalty to Les.’

  ‘Left him to do what?’ Poppy grew more alarmed. Had Les’s brother actually laid hands on Brenda?

  Brenda ignored the anxious question. ‘His sister kept out of the way until the very last minute. I’m sure she knew that Donald would try it on with me; I could tell by the look on her face. And this happened after she allowed me to think that she’d accepted me into the family – a big miscalculation on my part, as it turns out.’

  Joyce recognized that Brenda felt especially let down by this. ‘You think Hettie deliberately left you to Donald’s tender mercies?’

  ‘Yes, it was as if she was trying to prove a point.’

  ‘And did she?’ Doreen asked sharply.

  Brenda was furious. ‘No, of course not. What do you think I am?’

  With a toss of her head, Doreen turned down her sheets.

  ‘Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. I want to know: do you actually think I would go behind Les’s back and yours too, for that matter?’

  ‘You can please yourself. I don’t care.’

  Brenda appealed to Joyce and Poppy. ‘Tell her I wouldn’t!’

  ‘What’s that old saying about protesting too much?’ With calculated carelessness, Doreen took her sponge bag from the drawer of her bedside cabinet. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m off to brush my teeth.’

  Brenda rushed to block the door. ‘Doreen, listen to me. You might not care, but I do. You need to know what Donald gets up to, the way he carries on with other women.’

  ‘Oh Brenda, pipe down. You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.’ Unable to shove Brenda out of her way, Doreen retreated and flung the bag down on her bed. ‘I’m not stupid. Donald likes to be seen out with me once in a while and he likes me for other things as well, but nothing goes deep with him. It’s all on the surface.’

  The surprise confession took them all aback.

  Doreen gave a short laugh. ‘Put your hands over your ears, Pops, you’re too young to hear this. Donald White made it plain right from the start: I’m good for one thing and one thing only.’

  Joyce spoke first. ‘And you’re happy to go along with that? Why?’

  ‘Why not? It’s a way to get on in this world. Look at the nice treats I can get my hands on, for a start.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘As many free drinks as I want, rides in a sports car with the roof down and the wind in my hair.’

  ‘You don’t mean it.’ Brenda’s anger was replaced by profound disappointment. ‘You must know that you’re worth more. We all are!’

  ‘Are we?’ Doreen sank down on to her bed. ‘I mean, let’s be honest. Isn’t that what it’s all about – the sex thing between a man and a woman? Everything else – the wedding dresses, the promises to love, honour and obey – is just a fairy tale we tell ourselves.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Joyce argued earnestly. ‘There’s so much more. At the risk of having you throw it back in my face, there’s listening and learning to know the heart of a man, to see the goodness in him that lies hidden far beneath the surface, not to mention the fears and doubts, the darkness within. That’s what a woman loves. There, I’ve made my speech!’

  ‘Yes, Joyce, bravo.’ Doreen filled the silence with slow, ironic applause. ‘I’ve yet to see goodness in any man and I’ve had plenty of experience.’

  ‘And look where it’s got you.’ Brenda didn’t hold back. ‘I’m sorry, Doreen. At one time I might have agreed you had a point but now I’m well and truly on Joyce’s side.’

  ‘Bully for you.’ Doreen took the pins out of her hair and let it fall loose around her shoulders. ‘But ta anyway, both of you, for trying to steer me on to the straight and narrow. And honestly, Pops, you should probably listen to them, not me.’

  ‘Why are you crying?’ Brenda turned her attention to the junior member of their group. ‘I’m sorry if it was hearing me shout and stamp about.’

  ‘No. It’s Neville.’ Poppy looked at all three in mute appeal then was overcome by a fit of sobbing.

  Another confused silence fell in the small, cramped room. Outside in the wood, rooks went to roost and a solitary owl hooted.

  ‘Neville?’ Doreen and Joyce chorused.

  ‘Yes. He’s burned Alfie’s money.’

  ‘Is this the same money that you told me about?’ A puzzled Joyce felt her way towards the truth.

  Poppy nodded and cried harder.

  ‘Hush. There’s no need to be so upset.’ Brenda sat down beside her.

  ‘What do you mean, he burned some money?’ In Doreen’s world, nobody in their right mind set fire to hard-earned cash. ‘Has he gone soft in the head?’

  ‘No. He was scared of another thrashing.’ Poppy explained through her tears, jumping from one fact to another. ‘It wasn’t Alfie who gave Neville the beating; it was two other men.’

  Doreen was suddenly enlightened. ‘Clive Nixon and Howard Moyes. But don’t worry, Pops; Alfie was seen catching a bus out of the village so they’ll soon be hot on his tail. We’re not likely to see any of them again in the near future.’ The lie was already so deeply embedded that she was scarcely aware that she’d made the whole thing up. I’m only telling Poppy what she wants to hear, she thought. Where’s the harm in that?

  ‘A bus to where?’ Brenda asked suspiciously, the guarded look on Doreen’s face telling her that all was not as it seemed.

  ‘To Northgate. Like I said before we were so rudely interrupted, I just broke the news to Ma Craven. She’s cut up about it, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Thank heavens. I can tell Neville he’s safe from now on.’ Poppy attempted to smile.

  ‘Only if Alfie did actually catch the bus,’ Brenda pointed out. ‘Come off it, Doreen. You’re up to something.’

  There was a stunned silence.

  ‘I know you; you made the whole thing up,’ Brenda insisted.

  Doreen felt her cheeks flame bright red. ‘Oh yes, Brenda, you’re Gypsy Rose Lee all of a sudden. Where’s your crystal ball?’

  Brenda ignored the taunt. ‘Why have you gone red? I know it’s a big fat lie. But why?’

  Out of the blue Doreen felt a sudden, strong prick of conscience. ‘Don’t all look at me like that!’

  Poppy and Joyce couldn’t help staring. As Brenda pursued her quarry, they braced themselves for more.

  ‘What do you have to gain by pulling the wool over our eyes?’

  Doreen gave in with a loud sigh. ‘All right, it’s a fib. I was in a jam. I made it up because Alfie told me to.’

  ‘You made it up?’ Poppy echoed.

  ‘He had a knife in his hand. I was sure he’d use it if I didn’t do as I was told.’

  ‘Which was what?’ Joyce intervened.

  ‘He said I had to telephone Nixon and Moyes and lie about him getting on the bus.’

  ‘A knife,’ Brenda
muttered through clenched teeth. This was where mixing with black market crooks got you.

  The cat was out of the bag and there was no putting it back in. Doreen sat down next to Poppy and took her hand. ‘Listen to this, Pops. I was trying to cheer you up, but the fact of the matter is that Alfie is small beer in comparison with the dreaded Nixon and Moyes. And now Neville’s gone and burned their profits. You can see where that might lead.’

  Poppy swallowed hard then looked to Joyce and Brenda for comfort that never came.

  ‘And you’ve told them a deliberate lie,’ Brenda reminded the culprit. She glanced at Joyce, who nodded in agreement. ‘The whole thing is a mess. And you two seem to have landed right in the thick of it.’

  Betty Gates was by far the most popular woman in the remote villages where she delivered the Royal Mail. People hung out of their bedroom windows awaiting the morning post. They ran out and threw their arms around her when she brought long-awaited letters from across the seas or from naval, army and air force bases throughout the land. Mothers, daughters, wives and sisters cried tears of relief as they tore them open and shared their contents with a patient Betty, her curly brown hair hidden under a headscarf, face ruddy and legs strong after months of cycling up hill and down dale.

  ‘Here’s a letter for you,’ she informed Brenda as she handed over Friday’s delivery.

  Brenda was up and dressed, ready for action at Peggy’s farm. Her hands trembled with anticipation as she opened the letter and her eyes went straight to the signature. ‘Your loving fiancé, Les xxx. PS: SWALK. You see, I didn’t forget.’

  At last! Brenda clutched the longed-for letter to her chest as she vanished into the common room to absorb it.

  ‘And one for you.’ Betty held up a letter for Joyce, who had just come down the stairs.

  Joyce took it and recognized Edgar’s handwriting. ‘Ta. I’ll save it for later.’ Knowing that tingling anticipation of an event was often as pleasurable as the experience itself, she slipped the letter into her pocket then went into breakfast with the broadest of smiles.

  ‘I’ll leave the rest with you,’ Betty said to Hilda, who had just emerged from the office.

  As the post woman fastened her canvas satchel and departed, Hilda began to sort through the pile – two letters for Poppy, one for Elsie, three for Kathleen. She laid them out carefully on the narrow hall table then turned to find Doreen eyeing her nervously from the bottom of the stairs. ‘What’s wrong?’ she bristled. ‘Why aren’t you at breakfast? You’re not poorly again?’

  ‘Not exactly, no.’ She wasn’t feeling too hot, it was true. ‘I didn’t get much sleep, though. I had a lot on my mind.’

  ‘Ah, Alfie!’ Sixth sense told the warden what this was about.

  The usually upbeat, confident Doreen was close to tears as she nodded. ‘I made a mistake. It turns out he didn’t get on that bus.’

  ‘You don’t say.’ Hilda’s tone showed that she wasn’t surprised.

  ‘And I didn’t telephone the police either.’

  ‘I see.’ She’d heard enough. ‘Spare me the excuses and the crocodile tears, Doreen. Remind me who you’re working with today.’

  ‘With Jean at Home Farm again.’

  ‘Very well. Eat your breakfast then get yourself off at the double. But be warned; you haven’t heard the last of this.’

  Morning routine at the hostel overrode all these ups and downs: the porridge, the toast with a scraping of butter, the clattering of dishes and cutlery, the dashing upstairs to take out hair curlers and don headscarves or hats, the checking of the weather outside, the cheery goodbyes.

  Then the working day took over. Sacks were heaved, hay was forked, curds were separated then strained, fields harrowed and seeds planted.

  ‘I’ll see you at the Institute at seven o’clock,’ Grace called to Poppy and Joyce as they split off after a shift at Winsill Edge.

  ‘Why, what’s happening?’ Poppy had assumed that her day was done and that she could spend a quiet evening reading a magazine and trying to put Neville to the back of her mind.

  Grace had dismounted from her bike and was wheeling it through her front gate. ‘They’re showing a Ministry of Information film, telling us how to improve yields, et cetera. The pressure is on ever since Jerry invaded Russia.’

  ‘Do we have to go?’

  ‘Afraid so.’ Joyce waved Grace goodbye. ‘The last thing any farmer round here wants is a bad grade from a government inspector, so we’re obliged to keep up to date with the various ways to make silage and which wood to burn to make the best ash fertilizer.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’ Poppy sighed. ‘Honestly, though, it’ll send me to sleep. I’m worn out as it is,’ she complained as they cycled on.

  Grace, meanwhile, went into the house to lay the table for tea. Looking at her watch, she saw that she had time to nip across the road into the wood at the back of the pub to forage for firewood ready for winter – you could never be too well prepared for the cold months, she knew. So she took an empty sack from the bike shed then made her way across the road into the pub yard, waving at her father still hard at work in the smithy. ‘I forgot to leave a note for Bill,’ she called. ‘If you see him, tell him I’m collecting wood. I’ll be back by six.’

  She went on across the field with a pleasant feeling that she would enjoy the cool calm of the trees. The grass here was due for scything, she noticed, and there was a stretch of wall that needed repairing. She would make sure that her father mentioned it to Lionel Foster, who owned both the field and the area of woodland which she climbed a stile to enter.

  A light breeze lifted the leaves of the birch trees straight ahead. The ground was soft underfoot. This had been a grand idea, she realized: half an hour in the dappled light, sorting through fallen branches, choosing ones that she could carry back home. She breathed in the damp, peaty smell of leaf litter and the sweet scent of a wild rose bush growing up around the trunk of a tall, straight elm. Ahead was a dense thicket of rhododendron bushes still in bloom, their dull, spear-shaped leaves rising to head height, silently inviting her in.

  There was plenty of wood here; in fact there was a pile of old logs almost hidden by low branches, so Grace stooped to fill her sack. Hearing a sudden movement, she glanced up but saw nothing. She worked on until the sack was almost full then tested its weight to see if she was able to carry it. There was another sound of a twig snapping underfoot. A badger perhaps, but then it was the wrong time of day. Too heavy for a fox or a dog. A deer, then?

  Grace parted the leaves to peer into the centre of the rhododendron thicket and came face to face with Alfie Craven.

  ‘Good Lord!’ she exclaimed. The whites of his eyes stood out in the shadows, a gash on his cheek seeped pus and blood.

  ‘Oh no you don’t!’ He caught hold of her before she could step back. She used her weight to drag him from his hiding place but she couldn’t shake him off. ‘Alfie, you look like death. Let me go. What are you doing?’

  ‘What’s it look like?’ He kept tight hold of her arm and swung her against the nearest tree trunk, where he trapped her by shoving his shoulder against her chest and bringing his face close to hers. ‘I’m saying hello to my old friend Grace Kershaw.’

  ‘Grace Mostyn now. Alfie, let go of me!’

  ‘No chance.’ Days of living like an animal had heightened his proclivity for violence. He thrust his forearm against her throat, blocking her windpipe and watching her struggle for breath. ‘Not until you answer a few questions.’

  She nodded desperately and he released the pressure.

  ‘One, have you got anything to eat with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you get me something?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Good girl. Bread, cheese, ham, whatever. Bring it here.’ As she tried to pull free, he shoved her back against the trunk and threatened to throttle her once more. ‘Two, has Doreen spread the word about me leaving Burnside?’

  She resisted the pre
ssure on her throat. ‘I don’t know. I’m not living at Fieldhead, remember. I don’t always pick up what’s going on there.’

  ‘A fat lot of good you are!’ He took out his frustration by shaking her then shoving even harder than before. Grace’s back thudded against the tree, forcing air out of her lungs.

  ‘Three, any sign of Moyes and his sidekick?’

  ‘Who?’ she pleaded, trying to hook her hands under his arm and prise herself free.

  ‘Two blokes in a Morris Oxford: one tall and thin; one small and thickset, wears glasses. You can’t miss them.’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen them.’ If only he would let go and let her breathe properly, she might be able to reason with him. As it was, she felt helpless.

  His eyes blazed with fury. ‘Listen. This is what you’re going to do. First, the grub. Bring it here and leave it hanging from this tree. I’ll pick it up when I know the coast is clear. Second, do what I asked that useless tart Doreen to do. Make up a decent story about me leaving the area. Got that?’

  Anything to get away from you, from your nasty, unshaven face, your savage eyes. She tried to gasp air into her lungs.

  ‘Third—’

  Bill crept up from behind and hooked his arm around Alfie’s throat, dragging him backwards and releasing Grace.

  She gave a choking cry and watched the two men stagger backwards, lose their balance and fall in a heap.

  Alfie landed on top. He was first on his feet, taking out his flick-knife and brandishing it in front of Bill, who crouched with arms outstretched like a wrestler in a fairground ring.

  ‘Here comes the cavalry in the nick of time!’ With the knife in his hand, Alfie assumed a mocking control. ‘The stakes are a tad higher now, eh, Grace?’

  Bill edged towards her until Alfie slashed the blade through the air and drove him back. He came between Bill and Grace, turning his head and talking over his shoulder. ‘You see the problem? Bill hasn’t got a knife. He’s the underdog.’

  ‘Stop it, Alfie. What good will this do?’

  ‘Suppose I agree to put this knife away, what then? No, don’t bother; we all know what happens next. You and your brand-new husband trot off out of this wood and find the nearest telephone. Before we know it, the coppers are crawling all over the show.’