Sandra, like the rest of the Land Girls, would prove them wrong.
‘Let’s go,’ she told Frieda.
Later, on her way back to the hostel, the late sun was setting, making the vast scene of countryside look like some glorious painting. The wind softly ruffled Sandra’s hair and she was filled with a sense of wellbeing. She whistled a tune like she’d heard Mr Jeffries do when he took the cows back to the field.
Before leaving the farm, Sandra had looked for Frieda. She wanted to thank the lass for all the help on her first day, but she wasn’t to be found.
Sandra wondered about Frieda’s life in Germany. Why was her family not here with her? Sandra remembered that earlier in the war Mr Kirton had mentioned something about Jewish children being evacuated from Germany. Maybe this was the reason Frieda was here. Poor lass, no wonder she didn’t want to talk about her home life. Sandra made a mental note never to press her.
Later, back at the hostel, after being the third one in the same bath water, which barely covered Sandra’s buttocks, she found Evelyn sprawled on the bottom bunk in their bedroom. Already changed from her work clothes into her dress uniform ready for supper, she was reading a copy of The Land Girl magazine.
The room was empty, apart from Ruby who was busy collecting toiletries to go into the bath.
‘How was your first day?’ Evelyn wanted to know.
‘Not so bad.’
Before Sandra could go into details, Evelyn pulled an expression of disgust.
‘So much for posters of carefree, smiling Land Girls carrying fluffy lambs. My first job of the day was hoeing rows of turnip seedlings until my back ached. The farm labourers were there and I refused to let it show. That was mild compared to what came next.’
‘Why? What did you have to do?’
‘I think the menfolk might have set me up, but who knows.’ Evelyn made a face. ‘I helped castrate a pig.’
‘What?’
‘You know, cut off his male thingies.’
Sandra was horrified, but laughed at the description. ‘Goodness. I don’t know if I want to hear the details.’
‘Suffice to say it involved me holding a can of Jeyes Fluid and the man doing the deed with a sharp knife, then blood everywhere and pigs squealing.’
‘Ugh! Enough.’
‘I never winced. Though, I did go rather jittery and thought I was going to faint. It was the expectation in the pig man’s eyes as he looked at me that kept me strong.’
Sandra was truly impressed at Evelyn’s nerve, and told her so. Being frightened of cows and horses paled into insignificance.
Evelyn laid the magazine down on the bed. ‘Daddy reckoned I won’t last long here.’ A stubborn look crossed her face. ‘I’m determined to prove him wrong and that I’m as good as any man.’
A sudden surge of empathy for Evelyn washed over her. Even if she did come from a comfortable background, Evelyn had problems to contend with. Sandra decided she wasn’t keen on Evelyn’s father. By escaping to become a Land Girl, Evelyn was showing her dad she had grit. Good for her.
Evelyn picked up the magazine. ‘By the way, did you see you’ve got a letter?’
Letters were left on an occasional table in the corridor and Sandra usually checked when she went by.
Sandra rushed to the corridor. Only one letter lay on the table; picking it up, Sandra recognised Alf’s handwriting. Back in the bedroom, she placed the letter surreptitiously, while Evelyn was reading, in the lockable wooden box beneath her bed. Although she liked Evelyn and considered her a friend, Sandra felt too shy to tell her about her illiteracy.
But all through the evening meal of rabbit stew, and later, as she only half-listened to the group of lasses who sat around the stove, rage simmered inside Sandra. Here she was with a precious letter from Alf and she couldn’t read the damn thing. Unlike Evelyn, who came from a family with the means to send their children to a private school and university. She was ignorant, but through no fault of her own. Oblivious now to the chatter all around, Sandra admitted to herself her stupidity, that she hadn’t known there was such a thing as universities until Evelyn told her.
She saw Evelyn watching her over a few girls’ heads, with a concerned expression. ‘Are you all right?’ she mouthed.
Sandra nodded, abashed. The lass could no more help her heritage than Sandra, and they were both products of their past. Sandra sighed in disgust; she’d had enough of this self-pitying attitude. She should take a leaf out of Evelyn’s book and let nothing stand in the way of achieving what she wanted.
A memory emerged from the distant past – what Dad had said when he put the necklace with the stainless-steel identity disc around her and Alf’s necks. ‘You’re master of your own destiny, always remember that.’
At the time she hadn’t fully understood what he meant.
With sadness she realised she’d never really known her father, his thoughts on matters, whether he was angry at serving in the war that left him unable to provide for his young family. Sandra remembered that Dad always had his nose in a book. She could never ask why he hadn’t taught her to read. She realised her parents were a mystery to her. What had their family life been like? How was their childhood spent? All their experience was gone, buried with them in the grave, and Sandra had no one to ask.
Her attention gradually tuned in to the voices around her. One of the lasses was relating her day.
‘…Wait till you’ve cut thistles with a G-bow stick… It was no joke, I’m telling you. Afterwards, Damson the horse was frightened to go through gates and nearly tipped the cart. What a palaver. The clever dick farm labourer said this was Damson’s way and if I didn’t want to be thrown on my backside, I’d have to lead the damn horse through the gate myself.’
Laughter followed and the room was filled with a happy atmosphere of camaraderie. Sandra liked this crowd of lasses, she decided. Though whacked from a heavy working day, they still had time for each other and were always ready for a laugh. It felt like they were all part of the same… family.
A warm sensation spread through Sandra’s chest.
She was fed up with taking a back seat in life. In future, she’d involve herself more with what went on here. Even more importantly, she resolved, she would educate herself and learn how to read and write. After the war was done Sandra could, perhaps, become a teacher – she’d ensure that every child she taught would become literate so that they would be prepared for the future.
Sandra gave Evelyn a friendly smile. She wondered who she could ask to teach her to read and write, to enable her for the future.
An idea formed in Sandra’s mind.
‘It’s not fair,’ Sandra heard Ruby say as the lass entered the bedroom, ‘I’m being penalised because I’m not going home this weekend.’
‘Why aren’t you, by the way?’ Evelyn asked as she followed Ruby in.
It was six o’clock on the last Friday night in April and Sandra, lying on the top bunk, was waiting for supper time. The two Land Girls, just out of the bath, had skimpy towels wrapped around them.
Ruby went on, ‘’Cos Mam and Dad are in Yorkshire looking after Grandma; the poor soul’s ill. I’d have to do all me own cooking so I decided to stay here where we have it done for us. I was goin’ to go to Hexham to buy a dress I’d seen in Robbs department store window. I’d even saved the seven coupons. Now I’ll have to wait till next week.’
‘I’m not happy about working tomorrow, either,’ Evelyn’s piqued voice said.
The weekend was supposed to be time off but for those who didn’t go home to their families that rarely happened. Cows didn’t know it was the weekend and still needed milking so Sandra, who never went away, didn’t get time off.
She asked, ‘Why, what’s happened?’
Evelyn’s head appeared as she stood on the lower bunk. ‘Jessie collared Ruby and me as we came in from work. She’d heard Ruby wasn’t going home this weekend—’
‘And knowing I can drive,’ Ruby interrupted from the area o
f her bunk bed, ‘I was told to take the van and attend a machinery maintenance course at Berkeley Hall.’
Evelyn groaned. ‘I tried to escape but I was told to go with Ruby.’
‘The course must be necessary,’ Sandra intervened, ‘because with the shortage of petrol the hostel van is only used on important occasions.’
Evelyn pulled a disgusted face. ‘What is important was my appointment to meet up with a certain sergeant tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Ooo! Who is this sergeant?’ Ruby, getting dressed, wanted to know.
‘He’s in charge of the prisoners at the local camp. I met him at the village hall dance last Saturday. You should’ve come. There were heaps of people, lots of army and RAF.’
Sandra had heard that units from the Welsh and Lancashire Regiments were based at nearby Matfen and in Leadburn. Servicemen were billeted in homes and farms in the area. The Leadburn villagers were accommodating and helped out when they could, opening up their homes and offering tea and warm water for the soldiers to wash and shave. To thank the villagers, servicemen were generous with spare rations from the NAAFI, who were set up in a large tent on the village green.
‘The sergeant isn’t special. But he’s a hoot and jolly to be with.’ Evelyn stepped down from the bunk. ‘But my heart belongs to another.’
Sandra sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bunk. ‘And who might that be?’
‘My boyfriend, Gordon, who’s overseas. So, you see…’ She gave a squinty-eyed grin. ‘Daddy is right. My life is mapped out.’
‘You’ve never mentioned this Gordon before.’
‘Gordon lives local to me. He’s a plumber by trade. I met him at the Theatre Royal. He sat next to me. Daddy wouldn’t approve if he knew.’
Before Sandra could answer, Ruby interrupted, ‘My Roy’s special. He’s a local from the village. He hasn’t been called up because he’s an apprentice at the coal mine. I met him the first week I was here at the local pub. I knew Roy was a gentleman when he stood up to give us his seat… His sister’s none too keen on me, though. She never speaks, just glares. Same as his mam. They think I’m gonna spirit Roy off back home to Sunderland… which of course I am.’
While Ruby prattled on about her love life, Sandra’s mind wandered. She was determined this Sunday to pluck up the courage to meet with the curate. She planned to ask him to help on her journey towards literacy and the thought filled her with nervous excitement.
12
Frieda
It was Sunday morning and Frieda surveyed the bedroom from beneath the thick woollen blanket. She slipped from the covers and opened the dense blackout curtains. The sun, rising from the dark tips of the faraway hills, shed radiant crimson light through the sash windowpane.
Frieda was always cold, and even on the warmest of days the sun’s rays didn’t warm her. Nothing did. Except when she had thoughts of Antonio and then a cosy glow spread through her. She imagined him now, in the tack room, sleeves rolled up, the muscles in his upper arms flexing while he worked.
‘Your being so cold is because you’ve got no meat on your bones,’ Aunty Doris had told her.
Collapsing back on the bed, Frieda shivered and pulled the blanket up to her neck. Lying in a dazed stupor, her gaze wandered the room, the only movement she felt capable of. She took in the aged walnut wardrobe and chest of drawers, the floral-patterned wallpaper and the threadbare carpet. She found the familiar surroundings of her room comforting, for they gave a feeling of permanency; the sense that between these four walls everything stayed the same, while the world outside was frighteningly unpredictable.
‘Frieda, you know I’m here if you need to talk to someone. It might help,’ Aunty Doris had repeatedly told her when she first came to Britain.
Frieda didn’t need help. She knew what her problem was and telling anyone wouldn’t put it right. She was homesick and pined for her family; she wanted life back to how it was before the troubles began in Germany.
But Frieda felt bad about the worry she was causing Aunty Doris.
‘You’re like the daughter I never had,’ her aunt had once confided when she’d had more than one glass of sherry at Christmas.
Frieda did love Aunty Doris but in a different way to Mama. She belonged to Mama.
Usually, Frieda was obedient. So obedient that when the boat pulled away from the quayside taking her away from Mama to a foreign land, she didn’t think to follow Kurt as he ran down the gangway and disappeared.
‘Little girls must do as they are told,’ Mama had told Frieda ever since she was little. For she had been wilful and Mama had despaired. ‘That stubbornness of yours will get you into trouble, meine kleine.’
Not any more. Frieda couldn’t summon the energy to be wilful. Besides, her willpower now concentrated on forbidding her to put on weight. This was the only way she could describe what went on in her head.
The obstinacy she had no control over stopped her eating and was bigger than any warning from Mama, or need to please Aunty Doris, or even the fear of what would become of her if she carried on starving herself. At all costs she must stay thin.
She calculated what day it was. Sunday, the day she could leave work after milking was done. Frieda checked her wristwatch. Half past six. She was late.
Hauling herself out of bed, she took off her winceyette pyjamas and, pulling on a pair of grey slacks, noted with satisfaction the sizeable sag of material at her waistline. Shivering, she pulled on an Aran sweater, which Aunty Doris had knitted reusing the wool from a man’s jersey she’d discovered in the local second-hand shop. For in these frugal times even clothes were rationed and Aunty Doris was an earnest supporter of the Make Do and Mend policy.
Frieda, brushing her hair, called through to Aunty Doris who was still in bed, ‘Aunty, I’m off to work. I’m late.’
‘What about breakfast?’
‘I haven’t time.’
‘Frieda, it’s nice you’re raring to go to work but having a slice of bread won’t make any difference to the time you get there.’
These past weeks Frieda had looked forward to going to work at the farm even if it did sap her energy. The reason was her new friendship with Sandra. Though Sandra was older, she had a certain naivety that made her seem the same age and Frieda felt she’d met a kindred soul. There was also a reticence about Sandra when she was with others that Frieda understood. It was as though Sandra too felt she didn’t belong and wasn’t good enough. It was different when they worked together; they were comfortable in each other’s company and could be their true selves, cocooned in the byre.
In the kitchen, Frieda turned on the tap and washed her face with a sliver of soap. The house didn’t have a bathroom and the toilet was an earthen closet down the back garden. A bucket under the sink behind a curtain was used for emergencies at night.
Just as she was about to leave for work, Frieda saw a jar of homemade blackberry jam on the table. She remembered her plan to find out what foods didn’t fatten but still nourished the body. Tired before she started the day, she knew she couldn’t go on like this. She needed sustenance to give her the energy to carry out a morning’s work. All there was at hand was jam. She had to eat properly at some point if she was to avoid getting weaker. Why not start now?
Taking a loaf out of the bin on top of the bench, she cut a slice off with a bread knife, then sliced it in half, then quarters. Buttering a quarter, she spread black jam thinly on top.
Staring at the bread in her hand, the obstinate voice in her head spoke. Bread is fattening and Aunty Doris puts heaps of sugar in the jam. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Frieda couldn’t do it, not even to save her life.
That afternoon, the congregation long gone, hymn numbers removed, and red hassocks replaced on footwells, Frieda sat in the front row pew hoping for Mr Carlton to appear.
In the peace she asked to be healed. But the voice in her head nagged that if she were healed and ate properly, she would become fat again. In despair
that she couldn’t get the obsessive thoughts out of her mind, she closed her eyes and tried to think of something pleasant. Mama’s face swam behind her closed pink eyelids. Why had the family never followed her as Mama had promised? Why did they never get in touch? Frieda had written her forwarding address on all the letters she sent.
Maybe, she told herself, the family had been stopped by the authorities from leaving Germany. They might have moved out of the area for some reason and never received her letters. There could be a number of reasons why they hadn’t contacted her. Frieda’s mind snapped shut at the unthinkable – the terrifying thought she could never bring herself to explore.
Not knowing what had happened to her family was hard to bear. Then the thought occurred to her that knowing might be even more heart-breaking.
Sitting in the stillness of the church, Frieda felt her eyelids droop. She jerked awake. She was always tired, not from starvation but because of the recurring, frightening dreams that made her too afraid to sleep.
Her thoughts turned to the curate, who she could trust, not just because he was clergy but because of the sincerity she saw in his caring brown eyes. Frieda had confidence in such a man. She would tell him everything… maybe not quite everything. She might lose his respect if she told him about her reaction when her brother jumped ship, and the cowardly thoughts that had prevented her from following him.
The door by the pulpit squeaked open and the curate walked down the stairs and came to sit beside her.
Maybe, she thought, if she told Mr Carlton the whole story, beginning with the night of the riots when she heard terrible screams, smelt acrid smoke and all the windows were shattered, she would be released from the nightmares that plagued her.
They sat in silence for a while.
Then, like water dripping from a dam, the words leaked out.
Patiently, as though he was a statue, Mr Carlton listened. When she had finished, he gave a gentle smile. ‘You’re very brave to withstand what you’ve been through.’
The Outcast Girls: A completely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 historical novel Page 11