Calm down, Matthew told himself, as his jumbled thoughts raced. Take one step at a time.
What was his first step? As for his feelings for Sandra; what were they?
Matthew’s heart melted when she gave that sweet little frown of concentration when she got stuck on a word while reading Gone with the Wind. The book was not to his taste but for her sake he’d persevere because he would do anything to make her happy.
His mother’s words played in his mind; what she had advised him and his brother when they were both still young men setting out in the world. ‘When true love comes, grab it with both hands. Don’t listen to anyone, especially your parents. Look at your father and me. Everyone was against us marrying so young… yet here we are twenty years later.’
His mind was made up on the matter. He didn’t know how Sandra felt about him but to approach her when he hadn’t been given permission would be downright foolish. Especially when the bishop, for a number of reasons, might disapprove.
The first thing Matthew would do in the morning would be to make an appointment to see the bishop.
He felt better already.
23
August 1943
Sandra
Sandra could contain her anxiety about the lack of correspondence from her brother no longer. At her last meeting with the curate, she’d confided that she must do something or she’d go insane with worry.
‘I would think that if you contact the Red Cross they might be of help,’ was his useful suggestion. ‘I know they run a department for prisoners of war.’
Sandra duly attended the next Red Cross meeting in the village hall and asked a kind lady there where to send her enquiry letter about Alf.
Later, she dictated the letter to the curate.
All Sandra could do now was wait.
Today, like every other day, Alf was the first thing Sandra thought about when she woke up.
After breakfast, she left the hostel and made her way to the farm where the Clydesdale horses were ready in working gear for ploughing. The weather was unseasonably wet for August, and unsettled Sandra, who wore her yellow waterproof as protection against the occasional showers of rain.
The Ministry of Agriculture’s directive was that more pastureland was needed to grow corn and so Mr Nichol had appointed Sandra to help plough one of his fields over the road from the farmhouse. Mr Jeffries had been assigned to show her how to plough.
‘First thing yi’ have to learn is to speak to the horses. Tell them left and right.’
Sandra had inwardly laughed but it was true; the Clydesdales seemed to know what she was saying and obeyed accordingly.
This morning, the two Clydesdales pulling the plough, Sandra guided the wheels in a straight line following the furrow, the blade turning the pastureland. Concentrating on the job, she was distracted when an aeroplane began to drone in the distance. As the plane drew closer, Sandra recognised that it had only one engine. Shading her eyes, she looked towards the sky and was relieved to see a Spitfire. The wings of the plane, as it roared overhead, waggled and Sandra couldn’t help but raise an arm and wave in recognition. As the Spitfire sped away, she watched until it had disappeared over the rim of a hill.
That night, as she wearily plodded in the rain back to the hostel, body aching, blisters on the heels of her hands, dungarees wet and clinging to her knees, Sandra looked forward to a bath and the relative comfort of her bunk bed.
She had missed the evening meal and found a plate of congealed macaroni cheese waiting in the kitchen oven. Starved, she sat at a table and devoured the plate of food, listening to the chatter going on all around in the common room. Some of the girls looked over, giving her a welcoming nod or smile.
These days, fully at ease now with the others, Sandra joined in with conversations and had a laugh – she even surprised herself sometimes by expressing an opinion.
‘Apparently, the Yanks call them rubbers…’ Enid held court on the couch and the wide-eyed lasses listening savoured every word.
‘That’s true,’ Trudy, a lass with silvery blonde hair Sandra had befriended, piped up. ‘I come from Worcestershire and we have an American unit there. I heard tell of an American who asked in the local pub where he could get a rubber. He was sent to the nearest stationer’s shop.’
There were hoots of laughter.
‘You’re having us on.’
‘No, I swear.’
Sandra was puzzled. She had no idea what they were talking about.
Enid laughed. ‘You can be assured our boys have a French letter in case of an emergency.’
‘And you would know?’ the blonde girl asked with a smirk.
Enid threw a cushion at her.
It was after she’d washed her plate and cutlery in the kitchen sink that Sandra, on her way to the bedroom, worried. Why would a soldier carry a French letter around with him? And in what kind of emergency would he need it? And what if he couldn’t read French?
She found Evelyn in the bedroom, lying on her bed staring into space, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. Evelyn was one of the most emotionally strong girls here, or so Sandra had thought.
‘Whatever’s wrong?’
Evelyn swung her legs off the side of the bunk bed and sat up. She brought a handkerchief from her jodhpurs pocket and blew her nose noisily into it. ‘It’s just the news got to me.’ A pained look crossed her face. ‘The local newspaper reported a cargo ship was torpedoed and sunk with a loss of the crew. When I think of those poor boys in their watery grave and the suffering of their families back home’ – her voice had gone weak and high pitched – ‘I imagined how I’d feel if it was Gordon and I couldn’t bear it for them.’
Sandra went over to the bed and, sitting beside her friend, she automatically put an arm around her.
‘You’re tired, that’s all. You’ve been slogging away in the fields all week.’ Sandra knew the lass went out of her way to prove herself. Not that any of the other girls or farmers doubted Evelyn’s abilities. ‘You can’t worry about everyone’s heartache. You’re down, that’s all, because you haven’t heard from Gordon in a while.’
Evelyn sniffed. ‘You’re right, I do feel bushed. The trouble is when I fall into bed my mind won’t stop thinking and I can’t get to sleep.’ A rare look of bashfulness overcame her as she met Sandra’s gaze. ‘The thing is, I’m in love with Gordon and can’t bear the thought of anything happening to him.’
Sandra gave a sympathetic nod.
Evelyn brushed away her tears with her hand. ‘How selfish am I when you’ve got your own troubles about your brother to contend with.’
They lapsed into silence for a while.
Sandra asked, ‘Why do some servicemen carry a French letter?’
A smile twitched at Evelyn’s lips and her eyes crinkled. ‘Don’t tell me you think it’s an actual letter?’
‘Isn’t it?’
Evelyn explained.
‘Oh!’ Sandra felt the heat of a blush. ‘I feel daft.’
‘Don’t be. How were you to know if you’d never heard the expression before?’
‘But at my age!’
‘I think it’s lovely you’re innocent about… such matters.’ A twinkle of fun came into her eye. ‘You’ll know when the time comes not to expect a letter.’
The scene played in Sandra’s mind’s eye, and as she met Evelyn’s playful stare, they both burst out laughing. They laughed and laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks.
‘It’s Saturday tomorrow,’ Evelyn said, wiping her face as they calmed down.
‘So?’
‘The dance will be on in the village hall. Let’s go. It’s time we had some fun.’
‘I can’t dance.’
‘We can easily fix that.’
Tiredness forgotten, Sandra found herself waltzing around the bedroom, tripping over Evelyn’s feet.
‘Now, how about I show you the jitterbug?’
Try as she might, Sandra couldn’t master the lively dance.
‘Stop worrying,’ Evelyn said, as Sandra smoothed the skirt of her borrowed dress for the umpteenth time while approaching the village dance. Sandra wouldn’t have had time to go to the shops in Hexham even if she had had the eleven coupons necessary to buy a frock. The borrowed dress was blue with exaggerated shoulders and flared skirt. Sandra was taller than her friend, and the frock’s hem came only to her kneecaps – hence the constant desire to keep smoothing the skirt down. The finishing touch was the white sandals with a strap at the ankle that she’d found in Robbs department store.
As she entered the village hall, a wave of heat and noise greeted Sandra. The room was full of servicemen and women who were in uniform, while the local lasses wore frocks. Couples swirled around the room, dancing to music provided by a band on stage that consisted of three elderly men playing, respectively, a fiddle, an accordion and drums. Tables and chairs were scattered around the wooden floor and a window at the far end was open as it wasn’t yet blackout time.
‘Here they are, the sodbusters.’
Sandra turned to see where the female voice came from. She saw soldiers sitting with ATS (Auxiliary Territorial Service) girls at a nearby round table which had a jam jar filled with flowers on top. She looked into the cheeky face of the girl who had spoken and wondered how the lass knew they were from the hostel. Probably their rosy cheeks and suntanned faces, which no amount of powder could hide, gave the two Land Girls away.
‘You’d notice if we weren’t here to put food on the table,’ Evelyn quipped.
The ATS lass didn’t turn a hair but the man beside her looked somewhat uncomfortable and abashed. As their eyes met, Sandra raised an eyebrow. There was something familiar about him. He wore an American air force uniform. Sandra took in his strong jaw, watchful eyes, salt-and-pepper hair.
His bright blue eyes lit up as he saw Sandra and his broad smile showed a row of brilliant white teeth.
Sandra gasped in both pleasure and surprise. It was the airman who had crashed in the fighter plane. She couldn’t help but be pleased to see him.
Before Sandra had time to react to the airman’s smile, Evelyn pulled her by the arm and threaded them through the dancing couples. At the far side of the room they stopped at a table where Ruby and two other girls from the hostel were sitting.
Their friends moved round to make space for them. Above the din of the music, Evelyn yelled to the others, telling them what the ATS girl had said.
‘Cheeky beggar,’ Enid snorted. ‘They think they’re above us. It makes me livid when I think of the hours we work and in all weather, and what thanks do we get?’
‘None. Just disgruntled farmers,’ Ruby put in.
‘I don’t know, though.’ Another lass Sandra didn’t know well joined the conversation. ‘Farmers are surprised at the manual work we do. They know they can’t do without us.’
‘That’s true,’ Enid agreed. ‘You never know, one day we might get a medal for our service to farmers.’
There were hoots of laughter around the table.
‘You lot are terrible.’ Ruby put on a mock face of disapproval.
Sandra was glad the lass was having a nice evening, her grief forgotten for a time.
The band had stopped playing. The man who played fiddle spoke up. ‘How about the “Palais Glide”?’
A cheer went up in the hall. Sandra looked around the eager, jovial faces. For a few hours they could forget the austerity, the danger of war. Who knew what tomorrow might bring? She shivered.
‘Ooo!’ Enid stood up. ‘Let’s have a dance.’
As one, they all stood up from the table and joined the rest of the crowd in separate lines on the dance floor. Trudy, sitting next to Sandra, took her by the hand.
‘Don’t think you’re going to shy out of this one,’ she said.
She pulled Sandra onto the dance floor. Sandra didn’t have a clue what to do but Trudy, insistent, linked arms with her. When the motley band started up Sandra copied the other dancers as they started heel to toe in time with each other. Face flushed and lips aching from grinning, Sandra didn’t want the dance to end.
‘That was great fun,’ she told Trudy when the music stopped.
‘Now take your partners for a waltz,’ the man with the fiddle announced.
A step too far for Sandra, she escaped before Trudy could catch her. But she needn’t have worried as a local farmer asked Trudy to dance. Sandra made for the table, sitting down and preparing to watch as the others partnered up.
She looked over to where the American had been sitting at his table, but he was gone. Then she saw his figure, walking with the aid of crutches on the outskirts of the room, moving towards her. He only wore one shoe as his left foot – and presumably leg – was in a plaster cast. Anticipation coursed through her and Sandra momentarily felt weak. The airman stopped at her table and he towered over her.
‘Ma’am, have you been rescuing any more airmen recently?’ His lazy, wide grin was infectious.
Flummoxed how to reply, she grinned stupidly up at him.
‘D’you mind if I sit, Miss Hudson?’
‘Call me Sandra. Please, sit down.’
‘Brad Carter.’ He held out a hand. ‘I knew it was you the minute you entered the room.’
He had a mature look – Sandra guessed he was somewhere in his early forties – and with his warm and sparkling blue eyes and angular face, she found him attractive.
The touch of his hand, as she shook it, sent little electric shocks throughout her skin.
He swivelled round on one leg and sat, leaning the crutches against the table. She caught sight of his left hand and checked to see if he was wearing a wedding ring.
Why had she done that? She’d never thought to do it with anyone before.
She couldn’t help being nosey and found herself wondering about him. A man of his age and as good-looking must have a history. Though Sandra was too polite to enquire.
There were all kinds of questions she wanted to ask, but she settled for, ‘How come you’re here at the dance tonight, Brad?’
‘To find you.’
That flummoxed her.
‘As I said in my letter, I wanted to thank you in person. You did get my letter?’ His voice had a Southern drawl she’d heard about and found rather appealing.
‘Yes.’
‘After I was discharged from the hospital in Newcastle, I was sent to Hallington Hall. The old boy who owns the place has turned his home into a hospital for wounded servicemen. I asked around about the hostel at Leadburn and decided I’d look you up.’
‘I didn’t know Americans had a unit up here?’
He nodded. ‘It’s all under wraps as everything is these days. What I can say is, I was sent as an instructor to train fighter pilots low-flying techniques. You’re probably aware of them.’
Sandra thought of Mr Nichol’s assumption and nodded. She had the good sense not to ask what kind of mission they were training for. She wondered if it was the invasion of Europe that everyone talked about. She knew Brad wouldn’t say even if she asked.
‘Were you stationed down south before?’
‘Cambridgeshire.’ He pulled a wry face, deftly changing the subject. ‘Boy, it’s so good to meet you at last.’
‘How did you know I would be here?’
‘I didn’t. My buddy over there’ – he nodded to the table he’d vacated where an American in uniform, holding a glass in one hand, waved with the other – ‘knew there was a dance on in this here village and he thought I could do with a change and some fun. We were dropped off in a jeep.’
Sandra marvelled that both the RAF and these Americans alike didn’t seem to have trouble finding petrol, even though it was rationed and used only for essential needs and essential war work. Not folk gadding about the country to dances and such like.
‘Imagine the surprise I got when you showed up. I remembered your face. I would have known you anywhere.’
Sandra changed the subject. ‘I was so
pleased to hear you were recovering. I…’ His gorgeous blue eyes, watching her, left her lost for words.
‘Yes, for a while back then I wondered if I’d ever be mobile again.’
‘Was it that bad?’
‘Bad enough.’ He pulled a rueful face. ‘Broken leg, arm. Concussion and chest injuries. But hey, I survived. By the way, Mom and Pop send you big thanks and blessings for help saving their only son.’
Embarrassed, she nodded.
‘Thing is, Mom’s shook up. She’s kinda superstitious by nature and thinks bad luck comes in threes; I guess she’s waiting for the second one.’ He chuckled. ‘It sure is hard being an only child.’
To have a parent worry over you was a dream Sandra could only imagine, but you only know your own experience.
The music started up and they watched on as folk began to swirl around the room with their partners.
‘Y’all have a great fun time at these dances.’ He hummed along to the music for a while. Then he turned towards her. ‘Hey, Sandra, how about you and me going to the cinema? I hear there’s one in Hexham.’
‘Together?’ she replied, then felt foolish.
He gave an audacious grin. ‘Yep. How about Sunday?’
‘That’s tomorrow.’
‘All the better.’
She really wanted to. ‘I… don’t think that would be manageable.’ She cringed. Why was she speaking such rot? ‘The pictures probably won’t be open then… some families don’t even allow their children out to play in respect of the day of rest.’
‘We could think of something else to do.’
She thought of Ruby’s parents. Gone in the blink of an eye. ‘How about we make it Monday? I’ll ask Mr Nichol if I can finish early. I never ask a favour so with luck he’ll agree.’
‘What time?’
‘Can you manage a bus?’
‘If it’s to see you I can.’
The Outcast Girls: A completely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 historical novel Page 21