The Land Girls at Christmas

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘They are safe?’

  ‘So far,’ she replied, fingers crossed.

  A prisoner came up to her and held out a baked potato. She took it and he moved on to Grace.

  ‘Thank you.’ Grace took one for politeness’s sake. Flames from the bonfire flickered across her face until Lorenzo came and stood between her and the fire. ‘I have seen you before,’ he reminded her. ‘Last year at Christmas. You read a poem about a boy and a lion.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ She was embarrassed by the memory. ‘You’ve been at Beckwith Camp all this time?’

  ‘Just over a year,’ he said solemnly. His voice was less heavily accented than Angelo’s and his air more sophisticated. ‘Rome is not my home now.’

  ‘Oh, but really it is. You’ll go back there after the war, I’m sure.’

  ‘I hope.’ Lorenzo was a head taller than her and completely self-assured. Most women fell for him at first glance. He had them swooning at his feet the moment he turned on his charm. Not this one, though – a fair-haired English rose with serious, clear grey eyes.

  ‘We’ve decided to put on another show at the Institute this Christmas.’ Grace filled the awkward gap. ‘It’s not official yet but you’re welcome to come and see it.’

  He nodded and stared thoughtfully at her.

  ‘No more poems,’ she promised. ‘This time it’ll be just singing and dancing.’

  Another nod, followed by a long pause, followed by a question that took Grace by surprise. ‘Eunice is your friend?’

  ‘Yes, that is …’

  ‘She is my friend too. But I have not seen her for a few weeks. She wasn’t at Home Farm or at Winsill Edge.’

  ‘The hen farm – yes.’ Grace stalled for time. She remembered seeing Eunice Mason having a long conversation with Lorenzo after the show last year. They’d made a striking couple – he handsome but vain and rather louche, she blonde and vivacious for once and obviously under his spell.

  ‘Where does she work now?’ Lorenzo asked. ‘Has she gone away from Fieldhead?’

  Grace sighed and shook her head. There was no avoiding it; she had to tell him the truth. ‘I’m sorry, Eunice has passed away.’

  ‘She’s dead?’ Lorenzo’s face changed suddenly. He took a sharp intake of breath then closed his eyes, crossed himself and uttered a rapid prayer. ‘This is true?’ he asked Grace.

  ‘I’m afraid it is.’ She judged that the gruesome details of Eunice’s suicide were too private to share. ‘It happened last month.’

  Again a sharp breath before he stepped away. He had no more questions but his distress was clear.

  ‘What’s wrong with Lorenzo?’ Brenda asked as she rejoined the group, a half-eaten sandwich in her hand.

  ‘I told him about Eunice. He took it badly,’ Grace reported.

  They looked at each other, perhaps thinking along the same lines but saying nothing as Lorenzo walked away from the fire, up onto the ridge.

  Work continued all afternoon. Neville came and went with his horse and cart. The two soldiers smoked and chatted while Una, Grace and Brenda bagged potatoes alongside the prisoners of war. The job was shared but their thoughts were their own.

  Brenda spent a long time mulling over her latest conversation with Bill Mostyn – how surprised she’d been when he’d taken her side in the tussle over the rota, how relaxed he’d seemed as he’d volunteered to take a look at her bike. She’d seen a new, nicer side to him than she’d expected. She’d always found him attractive, though, ever since she’d first come across him in the Blacksmith’s Arms soon after she’d arrived at Fieldhead.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she’d asked Grace, pointing to where Bill stood and joked with a gang of pals. ‘The man in the thick of things, in the tweed sports jacket.’

  Grace had told her his name and a bit about him.

  ‘He’s been working in the family firm since he left school,’ she’d reported. ‘He’s an only child, so Edith smothers him rather and his father puts too much responsibility onto his shoulders.’

  ‘Which are broad enough to bear the weight, I should think.’ Brenda’s first impression had been favourable – Bill was strong and tall, with a casual ease in his movements, not at all a namby-pamby mother’s boy. She would have asked more about him if Grace hadn’t had to rush off to serve new customers.

  Which brought her to the moment on Saturday afternoon when he’d stood up from mending the bike and a look had been exchanged. A thrill like a small electric shock had run through her and she’d seized the moment to offer to buy him a drink. She’d been sure he would say yes.

  ‘There’s no need,’ he’d said, shutting down the look and spoiling the moment.

  His abruptness had puzzled her and the hurt had lingered.

  ‘You’re quiet.’ Grace interrupted Brenda’s train of thought. The sky was beginning to darken and the two Tommies were rounding up prisoners ready to march them back to the lorry parked in the farmyard. In the far distance they heard the low rumble of plane engines, gradually growing louder.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, right as rain,’ Brenda assured her. Remembering the borrowed gloves, she ran after Lorenzo to hand them back.

  When she returned to Una and Grace they were looking up at the sky, watching an arrow-shaped formation of planes appear on the horizon. The Lancasters – twelve in all – flew low and level along the line of the valley, propellers churning.

  ‘Heading for Germany,’ Grace surmised. She saw light snowflakes drift down and felt them melt on her cheeks.

  Una, Brenda and Grace followed the progress of the bombers for a long time, until they rose higher and disappeared behind a bank of clouds.

  ‘That was the type of plane Edgar was in when he was shot down.’ Grace’s quiet voice claimed their attention. ‘He was in the gun turret at the back. Somehow he came out of it alive.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ Una and Brenda murmured. The day had ended on a sad note that no one could shift as they collected their bikes from Roland Thomson’s barn and cycled home in silence.

  Three days later, Jean was the first to comment on how eagerly Brenda and Una set off for work each morning.

  ‘You see that, Elsie? Last week they were moaning and groaning about digging ditches. Now wild horses wouldn’t stop them from getting out to Brigg Farm. What’s the attraction out there, I wonder?’ Of course, word had got around about the prisoners of war and Jean had seized on it and gnawed away at it every chance she got.

  Elsie stood with her at an upstairs window, hearing laughter as the duo crossed the yard. She’d come to Fieldhead straight from a stable yard on the Wolds where she’d worked as a groom. She had a reputation for having an old head on her young shoulders, for letting nothing bother her or send her into a spin – in fact, she was the ideal Land Army girl. ‘Come off it, Jean. We know perfectly well what the attraction is. And I don’t blame them.’

  ‘You say that.’ Jean’s look was narrow and spiteful. ‘But some people don’t have the common sense that you do – mentioning no names. Their heads can be turned as easily as anything.’

  Elsie smiled to herself. ‘Don’t be such an old misery. Anyway, you’re jealous; there’s no chance of you having your head turned by Horace Turnbull and his toothless old dad.’ A day at Winsill Edge beckoned, collecting eggs, feeding the hens with a grain mixture, cleaning out the huts and laying fresh straw.

  Meanwhile, Brenda and Una met up with Grace and were well on their way to work for their last day of bagging potatoes. They were overtaken at the bottom of Brigg Hill by the familiar green lorry carrying the Italians to work. The men leaned out of the back, waving and cheering, their faces wreathed in smiles.

  ‘I don’t care what anyone says, I’m going to miss our Italian friends after we’ve finished at Brigg Farm,’ Brenda confessed. ‘But we’ll see them again at the Christmas show.’ She and Grace had done a lot of organizing during the last few days to make sure that it took place. They’d asked for volunteers a
nd discussed ideas for songs, dances and costumes then got together with Joyce at the piano for a first rehearsal. ‘A shambles,’ had been the general verdict. The piano was out of tune, Elsie’s tap dance needed a lot of work and Una’s attempt to find a song from a recent musical had ended in failure. But it was a start, Grace had insisted, determined not to let the prisoners down and settling on Friday evening for the next proper rehearsal.

  They pedalled hard up the hill in the wake of the lorry. After only a week of farm work, Una felt fitter, stronger and less clueless – more on a par with the other girls. Though she was still bothered by homesickness, especially first thing in the morning, she now plunged into each fresh challenge with gusto.

  ‘We’ll see Angelo again, won’t we?’ She made no bones about picking out the prisoner who had made the strongest impression on her. ‘I don’t mean in the audience for the Christmas show – I mean at farms round and about.’

  ‘Cue violins!’ Brenda called over her shoulder to Grace. ‘Una is in love!’

  ‘I know what you’re going to say – “Take no notice!”’ Una pre-empted Grace’s advice, but her heart fluttered all the same.

  ‘Watch where you’re going,’ Grace warned Brenda. ‘Pothole ahead!’

  The last layer of straw was lifted and the last potato safely bagged. The bonfire on the hill was allowed to die.

  ‘Ciao,’ the prisoners said to Brenda, Una and Grace as they waited in single file to climb into the lorry.

  ‘Ciao,’ they said back to each in turn. ‘Good luck. We hope we’ll see you again.’

  Lorenzo took Grace to one side. ‘I am sad about Eunice,’ he told her. ‘I wish to know how she died.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t be right,’ she began.

  ‘It was not an illness?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘An accident?’

  ‘No.’

  He understood what this must mean and looked stricken all over again.

  Lorenzo loved her, Grace thought. Lorenzo was in love with Eunice Mason. The truth stunned her into silence. Who would have thought that this suave, over-confident ladies’ man would have given his heart to a Land Girl?

  He backed off and pushed his way to the front of the queue, then he climbed up into the lorry and sat down out of sight.

  ‘Ciao.’ It was Angelo’s turn to say goodbye to Una. He took her hand and pressed it, thought about leaning in to kiss her cheek then resisted.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she whispered back. When she looked down at her palm she saw a small piece of paper with words written in capital letters. She closed her fingers over the note then quickly slid it into the pocket of her overcoat.

  The prisoners were safely counted in so Albert and Jack raised the back ramp. They bolted it in place then took their seats in the front cab. Una could see Angelo leaning out to wave along with a dozen others.

  She waved back. The unread note seemed to burn a hole in the cloth.

  ‘Ciao, ciao!’ Brenda called.

  Grace looked in vain for a last sight of Lorenzo.

  The lorry drove away and the girls went to fetch their bikes. Roland and Neville shook them by the hand.

  ‘You put your backs into your work,’ Roland acknowledged grudgingly, while Neville seemed to single out Una and wink at her. ‘You three can come back and help with the grain threshing if you like.’

  ‘No ta!’ Brenda was the first to move off. ‘Sugar beet, turnips – anything but that!’

  Angelo’s note was written on a sheet of toilet paper. Una’s first reaction when she took it out of her pocket in the privacy of her bedroom was to screw it up in disgust and throw it away. But she thought again – this must have been the only paper he could get his hands on without the two guards noticing. Besides, it showed how determined he’d been to write her a message. So she laid the note on her bed, smoothed the creases and read what he had written.

  DEAR OONA

  YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL. MY HEART ACHES. COME TO CAMP AT NIGHT. MEET ME IN TREES. GIVE NOTE TO NEV. I LONG FOR YOU. SAY YES.

  That was all. The writing was neat and clear and its contents sent her head spinning. When eventually she took her thoughts in hand, she made herself concentrate on the facts. Angelo must mean Beckwith Camp and there must be a copse behind it, as there was here at Fieldhead. He’d spelt her name wrong. And what had Neville Thomson got to do with it?

  There was no time to work out the answers to these questions or how she was feeling because Kathleen burst into the room and flung herself down on her bed.

  ‘That’s the limit!’ she exclaimed. ‘If I’m sent to catch rats one more time, I’m going to do what Brenda did and put in a complaint.’

  ‘Where did you have to go?’ Una’s hand was over Angelo’s note. Her head was in a whirl.

  ‘To Peggy Russell’s sheep farm then out to the Kelletts’ place. Don’t they know there’s a whole pest control section to deal with vermin? We’re farm workers – we shouldn’t have to do it.’ Kathleen sat up to untie the two pieces of sacking that she’d wrapped around her legs to stop the rats from scurrying up her dungarees. ‘I wish I’d worn my breeches. Honestly, Una, I’m sick of it.’

  Kathleen was the most unlikely rat-catcher. The pretty hairdresser belonged to the world of tea dances and ballrooms, not cowsheds and hen huts. ‘You’re right – you should complain,’ Una agreed.

  ‘I was by myself for the whole day, coping with Emily Kellett and that son of hers breathing down my neck all over again. According to her, I couldn’t do anything right. I said she should keep all food out of harm’s way – hang it from the ceiling beams, if necessary. Otherwise, she’d keep on being overrun.’

  ‘Especially at this time of year.’ When would Kathleen run out of breath? Una was dying to reread Angelo’s message.

  Rid of her improvised gaiters, Kathleen kicked off her shoes then took off her jumper and dungarees and picked up her towel. ‘I’m going to see if the bathroom’s free. I need to scrub myself from head to toe.’

  Una waited for the door to close behind her disgruntled room-mate then lifted her hand to reveal the crumpled note. The words ‘AT NIGHT’ jumped out as she read it again then she moved on to wonder once more about Neville’s role. She remembered the wink that the farmer’s son had given her on parting. Perhaps Angelo had already arranged for him to be their go-between.

  She was so deep in thought that she didn’t react quickly enough to Brenda’s sudden entrance into the room.

  ‘What’s this?’ Brenda tried to seize the paper but Una snatched it away. ‘Don’t tell me; it’s a billet-doux!’ She guessed everything in an instant from the deep blush on Una’s face. ‘It is, isn’t it?’ she said more gently as she sat down on the bed. ‘It’s from Angelo. He says he wants you to meet him.’

  Una nodded. ‘What should I do?’

  Brenda noticed that her hands were trembling. ‘You’re in a quandary, I can see that. So the first question is: do you like him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A lot,’ Una confessed. Her heart had melted the moment he showed her the carved whistle, and again as she’d listened to the rolling ‘o’s, ‘l’s and ‘r’s of his deep voice. ‘I know it sounds daft.’

  ‘You like him a lot,’ Brenda echoed as she took up the note. ‘And it’s obvious from this that he likes you. So you’re asking yourself, how do you go on from here?’

  ‘I don’t even know if I should send him an answer. What would people think if they found out?’

  ‘Because he’s a POW, you mean?’ Though there was less than a year between them, Brenda was by far the worldlier of the two. It was her nature to be breezy and outgoing and she’d always been the ringleader in seeking out any fun there was to be had, from riding her Sloper to unselfconsciously going up to boys at the local dance hall and asking them to dance. Now she smiled and patted Una’s hand. ‘You’re not the first girl to fraternize with the enemy, you know. And you won’t be the last.’ />
  ‘But is it right?’ Una’s sigh filled the room. Outside, the night had already drawn in and the only sounds were the echoing sighs of the wind blowing through the elms.

  Brenda raised her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. ‘Who knows what’s right and what’s wrong these days? Everything has been turned on its head. We were watching those Lancasters fly out earlier and I found myself wondering, How many of those brave boys will fly back again? Then I had to stop myself from imagining where they will drop their bombs. Will it be over Berlin, or closer to home in northern France? And who will be on the receiving end?’

  ‘Hush.’ Una didn’t want to follow this line of thinking any further.

  ‘You see?’ Brenda said quietly. ‘It’s all topsy-turvy. Why shouldn’t you meet up with an Italian POW if he’s kind and handsome?’

  ‘He says it has to be at night. I’d have to ride my bike in the dark.’

  ‘Unless I drove you there on Old Sloper.’

  Brenda’s impetuousness was infectious and Una nodded eagerly. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Why not?’ It was decided in a flash. ‘You write a reply to Angelo arranging a time to meet. Give the note to Neville then light the blue touch paper and stand well back.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next day was set to be the second rehearsal for the Christmas show until Joyce lifted the dusty lid of the piano in what had once been the school’s music room and declared that she wouldn’t play an instrument that was so completely out of tune.

  ‘I can’t play on that old thing again,’ she told Brenda and Jean at Friday breakfast time. She used the top of the long trestle table to mime running her fingers up and down musical scales. ‘Plinkety-plonk, plinkety-plonk.’

  ‘Tell everyone – the rehearsal’s off.’ Jean sounded relieved as she passed the word around. However, she reckoned without Brenda’s commitment to the cause.

  ‘Wait, I have an idea.’ She stood up to make an announcement. ‘Listen, everyone. What do you say to shifting tonight’s rehearsal to the Blacksmith’s Arms? I’m sure they’ve got a piano tucked away somewhere.’