The Land Girls at Christmas

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘That’s not fair. Say what you have to say.’

  Jean sighed. ‘Very well. Kathleen made me promise to keep this under my hat but since you insist – Frank Kellett is the reason she won’t walk home alone at night.’ She held up her hand to stop Una from interrupting, colour rising in her pale cheeks as she rushed to share Kathleen’s secret. ‘She’s scared stiff of him after what happened outside the Blacksmith’s Arms and I don’t blame her – him lurking behind the forge like that and jumping out at her when she went to fetch her bike. It was pitch dark. Frank started to drag her into the field behind the pub. She bit his hand – that’s how she got away, but Lord knows what he’d have done given the chance.’

  ‘All right, stop now,’ Una pleaded to no avail.

  ‘Kathleen wasn’t the first and she won’t be the last. So from now on, you’ll know to keep out of Frank’s way and not take any more presents from him.’

  Una took a deep breath and tried to collect her thoughts. ‘But Emily swears he’s harmless.’

  ‘Harmless, my backside!’ Jean looked at Una as if she was still wet behind the ears. ‘She’s bound to stick up for him, isn’t she? She’s his mother.’

  Unsurprised by what she’d heard, Una decided she would definitely be on her guard from now on.

  Still Jean wasn’t finished. ‘Mind you, I suppose you should be flattered.’

  Yet again the sly remark irritated Una. Though she only came up to Jean’s shoulder, she kept her foot jammed against the door. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Jean pulled hard on the door handle until Una was forced to remove her foot. ‘Frank only goes after the pretty ones,’ she declared then slammed the door in her face.

  Brenda made the most of her afternoon off. First she rode her motor bike into the village and found Maurice Baxendale’s workshop, slipping a note under his door to ask him if he would be good enough to take a look at her oil leak the following Monday. Then she dropped in at the pub for a chat with Grace. She found her tucked away in a kitchen overlooking a neat vegetable patch, paintbrush and a set of watercolours to hand.

  ‘I didn’t realize you were an artist on the side.’ Brenda unzipped her jacket and looked over Grace’s shoulder at a lifelike study of a sprig of holly complete with bright red berries.

  ‘I’m not.’ Grace rinsed her brush in a jar of water then laid it down. ‘It keeps me out of mischief, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t be so modest – this is very good.’ Brenda took up the small picture and studied it. ‘Will you frame it when it’s finished?’

  ‘Either that or I’ll make it into a Christmas card. There’s only just over a month to go, you know.’

  ‘Talking of which – we Land Girls ought to do something to celebrate, don’t you think?’

  Grace nodded and led Brenda into the family kitchen where she set the kettle on the hob. ‘Last year we put on a song and dance show for the prisoners of war at Beckwith Camp. We held it at the Institute, two days before Christmas. It went down jolly well, actually.’

  ‘I’ll bet it did.’ Brenda pictured the rows of prisoners lapping up the sight of twirling skirts and neat ankles.

  ‘We finished off with our Land Army song – “Back to the land, we must all lend a hand …” You know the one.’

  ‘“To the farms and the fields we must go …”’ Brenda swung her arms and marched on the spot. ‘Who are these prisoners when they’re at home?’

  ‘Italians. They’re not a bad lot. We got a bunch of new ones in March, straight off an armed raider that went down off the Maldives. I suppose we could put on a repeat performance for them.’

  Brenda swiftly changed her stance, then, hand on chest, broke into operatic song. ‘“O sole mio …” Definitely, we should!’ she declared. ‘But we’d better get a move on. Christmas will be here before we know it.’

  ‘Then let’s mention it to Joyce. Last time she played the piano for us – she’s very good. And Elsie did a tap dance.’

  ‘What did you do?’ Brenda asked, taking a cup of tea and warming her back against the iron range.

  ‘A group of us sang old music hall songs then I recited a Stanley Holloway poem about a boy’s visit to the zoo. You know the one – in the end Albert gets eaten by the lion.’

  ‘How did that go down?’

  ‘Not very well,’ Grace admitted with a blush. ‘The audience didn’t see the funny side.’

  Brenda laughed out loud. ‘That settles it. Let me talk to Joyce and see if we can come up with something more up to the minute. But before that, I’ve set my mind on paying Edith Mostyn a visit. I dropped by partly to ask if you know where she lives.’

  Grace seemed taken aback but quickly adjusted her expression. ‘She’s in the house next to the chapel, set back from the road with a monkey puzzle tree in front. Why do you want to call in on her?’

  ‘I’m on the war path, that’s why. I want her to change the rota. Honestly, Grace, I’ve been sent to dig ditches for the Kelletts three days on the trot and that’s slave labour – it’s not fair. They have to send someone else and give me a break.’

  ‘I see. Try not to charge at it like a bull in a china shop, though. You know what Edith is like.’

  ‘I’ll put it to her nicely, don’t worry.’ Brenda had placed her teacup in the sink and was already on her way. ‘The house with the monkey puzzle tree – ta very much.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Grace called after her. ‘Let me know how you get on.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Brenda discovered that Edith’s desire to keep up appearances extended to her newly built house and orderly garden. The peculiar spiky tree stood to attention at the gate and what had once been lawn had been dug up for victory and transformed into soldierly rows of leeks and Brussels sprouts. The lion’s head knocker on the green front door was polished and the downstairs windows to each side were spotlessly clean.

  ‘Yes?’ Edith enquired as she opened the door. ‘Oh hello, Brenda – what can I do for you?’

  A tall, grey-haired, sickly-looking man hovered in the background. He carried a rolled-up newspaper under one arm, was thin as a rake and dressed in a russet-coloured cardigan, white shirt and yellow cravat.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ Brenda began, ‘but it’s about next week’s rota.’

  ‘What about it?’ Edith stepped outside and closed the door behind her. Her navy-blue twin set was nicely complemented by a string of pearls with a matching brooch.

  ‘I was wondering – have you got a copy I could see?’ Brenda felt the contrast between them. Her Land Army hat was pulled over her forehead at a rakish angle, her jacket hung open and her cheeks were flushed after her fireside chat with Grace.

  Edith nodded slowly. ‘I do, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Have you had a chance to look at it yourself?’

  A shake of the head was accompanied by an irritated frown.

  This was like getting blood out of a stone. ‘I’d like to know – am I being sent back to Home Farm? Because, if I am, I want to put in a request to go somewhere different.’ No-frills Brenda forgot Grace’s good advice and forged ahead. ‘It’s slave labour out there. Mr Kellett takes advantage and gets us to do the worst possible jobs in all weathers. It’s only fair that some of the other girls take their turn.’

  ‘In principle, yes; I agree.’ Edith took her responsibility as the local WLA representative seriously and so she conceded the point. ‘However, it’s a little late in the day to be changing next week’s rota.’

  ‘Couldn’t you make a telephone call to Head Office?’

  ‘Not until Monday, I’m afraid. But come in, Brenda, and let me check to see where you’re being sent.’ She opened the door onto a well-presented hallway decorated in an expensive, modern style. On the wall above the fireplace there was a gold clock in the shape of a sunburst; there was a metal umbrella stand to one side and a yellow-and-green striped rug covered a parquet floor. Edith asked Brenda to wait while she went to fetch the rota. M
eanwhile, her husband made a point of introducing himself.

  ‘Vincent Mostyn,’ he said in a gruff voice. He took in Brenda’s windswept appearance and the non-regulation angle of her felt hat.

  She shook his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Mostyn.’

  He regarded her warily and pushed the conversation towards the war effort in order to gauge her response. ‘I see in today’s paper that Stalin is claiming that the Soviets are on the verge of victory. He says their scorched-earth policy is working a treat.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. That’s good news.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on it, though. In my opinion, Hitler’s not going to give in that easily.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Though Vincent Mostyn was frail, he exerted his authority through a deep voice and a military manner, enhanced by a neatly clipped moustache and upright bearing. Brenda snatched her hat from her head and held it in front of her, feeling like a schoolchild called before the headmaster.

  ‘Here it is.’ Edith came back brandishing a sheet of paper. ‘And I’m afraid to say that your name is down for Home Farm on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of next week, along with Grace Kershaw and Una Sharpe.’

  ‘I knew it.’ Brenda bit her bottom lip and tried to work out her next move. ‘Joe Kellett made us dig ditches in the driving rain this morning. It’s a wonder we didn’t catch our deaths.’ She decided to put the responsibility squarely on Edith’s shoulders. ‘We’re relying on you, Mrs Mostyn. As our rep, it’s up to you to take my complaint further if you see fit.’

  Vincent stepped in before his wife could answer. ‘There are no easy jobs on farms,’ he pointed out. ‘Digging ditches is no worse than thinning turnips or mucking out stables.’

  Brenda disagreed. ‘A lot of the girls are given indoor jobs,’ she pointed out, so intent on making her case that she didn’t hear the front door open or see Bill Mostyn come in and put his sports hold-all down on the polished floor. ‘Elsie Walker and Jean Fox have just spent a few days on the trot collecting eggs in Horace Turnbull’s hen huts at Winsill Edge. It’s only fair that Grace, Una and I should have a break from digging ditches and take our turn at that.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Bill broke in. ‘Is there a mutiny among the ranks?’

  His unexpected arrival further energized Brenda, but before she could continue his mother showered him with anxious questions.

  ‘Bill, what are you doing home so early? Why aren’t you playing football? Have you hurt yourself?’

  ‘The Thornley pitch was waterlogged when we got there so the match was called off,’ he replied with a casual shrug, all the time looking at Brenda. ‘I saw your Sloper at the gate. Is it still leaking oil?’

  She nodded. ‘I left a note at Baxendale’s. I’ll get it seen to on Monday after work.’

  ‘And are you making headway with my mother?’ He gave a genial smile, sidled towards Edith and put his arm around her waist. ‘Be a sport and alter the rota, Mum. Brenda and her pals deserve a break.’

  Edith pulled away. ‘It’s all very well you trying to get around me, Bill, but you know I can’t do that off my own bat.’

  ‘For good reason,’ Vincent pointed out. ‘If your mother did it for one person, word would get round and there’d be no end of girls knocking at our door.’

  Bill shook his head and sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Brenda. It looks as if you’ll have to go through official channels.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ The way he looked at her with a half-smile unsettled her. ‘It was worth a try.’

  ‘Why don’t I take a quick look at that oil leak while you’re here?’ Bill opened the door and waited for her to follow. ‘If it’s something that I can fix here and now, then at least your time won’t have been entirely wasted.’

  She answered with unconcealed surprise. ‘Ta very much. That’s very nice of you.’ It was as if she was speaking to a different person to the man she’d approached in the pub. Instead of a stiff rebuff and a blank expression, he was obliging and relaxed. The effect was heightened by his weekend attire of sports jacket and open-necked shirt and as he crouched beside her bike to discover the source of the leak, she stood back and admired the view.

  Cinema-buff Brenda knew that there were many different types of handsome men, from the suave, smooth charm of a Clark Gable to the aristocratic elegance of Leslie Howard, from the smouldering, romantic allure of Robert Donat to the sensitive, self-effacing attraction of James Stewart. She’d studied them all on the silver screen and to her mind it was James Stewart that Bill Mostyn most resembled. He spoke quietly and unassumingly and what she’d mistaken at first as a lack of expression and energy now came across as genuine shyness. He had the tall, loose-limbed build of her favourite film star and the same, unselfconscious habit of quietly concentrating on the task in hand.

  ‘I think I’ve spotted the problem.’ He pointed to a drip of oil under the petrol tank. ‘Hang on a minute while I fetch a spanner.’

  She waited beneath the monkey puzzle tree, trying to ignore the flutter in her stomach while Bill fetched his bag of tools.

  ‘If I tighten this nut it should do the trick.’ No sooner said than he fixed the fault with a deft twist of the spanner. ‘There; it shouldn’t give you any more trouble,’ he said as he stood back from the bike. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get you out of more visits to the Kelletts’ farm, though.’

  She gave a small tut and a smile. ‘Never mind – we’ll live.’ The fluttering couldn’t be ignored. Something about Bill Mostyn drew her in – his deep, quiet voice, perhaps, or the suggestion of amusement in his brown eyes.

  ‘I agree that the other girls should be made to pull their weight. I’ll have another go at Mother for you when I go back in.’ The tools in his bag clinked as he stooped to pick it up. ‘Anyway, no need to worry about your leak, so that’s one good thing.’

  ‘I feel a bit of a fool for not mending it myself.’ Brenda admitted a weakness in order to keep Bill talking a while longer. ‘I love riding the darned thing but I’m not so hot at tinkering with engines, et cetera.’

  ‘You can’t be expected to know everything.’ His smile broadened. He liked the look of this dark, slim girl who blushed easily and came straight out with what she was thinking. She made a change to the sometimes dour, stolid types who were billeted at Fieldhead.

  ‘In any case, let me buy you a drink,’ she offered. Her insides were playing havoc with her; her heart raced and her stomach churned as she waited for his reply.

  Bill shifted his weight from one foot to the other, gave her a keen look then suddenly turned away. ‘No. There’s no need for that,’ he said shortly as he swung through the gate and set off up the path.

  She breathed out. Good Lord, what happened there? Taken aback by the swift change of mood, she sat astride her bike and kick-started it. The engine growled as she steered away from the kerb. I was only talking about a harmless little drink, she said to herself as she roared off up the main street. What could possibly be wrong with that?

  Painting with watercolours was the hobby Grace loved the most. An accomplished embroiderer and an avid reader, she still found most contentment in watching the paint flow over a wet surface – cobalt blue for the sky on a rare sunny day, cadmium yellow mixed with umber for cornfields in August, vermilion for holly berries as Christmas approached. Time was precious, though; she had to snatch spare minutes for her painting between farm work and serving behind the bar. That was why she was up early on Sunday morning, before her father was awake, sitting near the kitchen window where the light was best, dipping her brush into water and making a quick study of a robin redbreast perched on top of a spade out in the garden, chest puffed out and head cocked to one side.

  The silence in the house was broken by the sound of uneven footsteps on the stairs and soon Edgar appeared in a collarless shirt, his braces dangling from his waist and his trousers creased as if he’d slept in them. He hadn’t shaved or combed his fair hair and he was looking the worse for wear in other wa
ys, with red-rimmed eyes and a grey pallor to his skin.

  ‘You’re up nice and early,’ she remarked. It wouldn’t do to comment on the details of her brother’s appearance, she decided.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ He went to the sink and filled a glass with water but put it aside before drinking it. Instead, he stared blankly out of the window.

  ‘You’re in my light,’ Grace pointed out after a long silence.

  He grunted and stepped aside, only to flop down in their father’s rocking chair to one side of the polished black range.

  She went on painting the robin. ‘How’s your leg this morning?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Did the doctors say how long it would be before you were back to normal?’

  ‘In what way?’ he shot back.

  ‘Your leg,’ she insisted. His hypersensitivity upset her but she did her best to soothe him. ‘I didn’t mean anything else.’

  ‘They didn’t say,’ he grunted. In fact, the fracture had healed well. He knew he would always walk with a limp but it didn’t bother him. After all, he’d got off lightly compared … ‘What you really want to know is how much extra leave they gave me and why.’

  Grace put down her brush. ‘Only if you want to tell me,’ she said quietly. So far Edgar had said nothing about being shot down during a mission over France and she understood why. Some things that happened in war were too terrible to describe.

  He sat by the empty grate, head hanging. When he spoke it was without conviction. ‘I’ll be ready for action within the week, don’t you worry.’

  ‘That’s good,’ she murmured then changed the subject. ‘Did you notice that we’ve got a new recruit? Una Sharpe. She’s so small and slim she had to have her uniform altered – really tiny. And Brenda Appleby had to teach her how to ride a bike. But you should see Una get stuck in, Edgar. She’s a little dynamo when she gets cracking.’

  ‘Good for her,’ he said, again without meaning it.

  ‘She was working at Home Farm with me and Brenda. You might have spotted her here in the bar on Friday – her auburn hair is what makes her stand out. And she’s pretty, too.’