The Land Girls at Christmas

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘I know.’ He was shame faced at having been caught out, stumbling over his words.

  Anger pushed her on. ‘Besides, I’m in an awkward position as far as being honest with my friends goes. You can see that, can’t you?’

  ‘You said you didn’t mind.’ He panicked as he felt her all at once slipping away, shutting him out and disappearing from his future.

  ‘I didn’t, not at first. It was exciting for a while, living like Romeo and Juliet. Except this is England, Bill. It’s Yorkshire, not Verona, and it’s real life.’

  ‘I know that.’ Damn it, now he sounded sullen without meaning to.

  She pushed him away then took a step back. ‘You see, when it comes to it, I find that secrets don’t suit me.’

  ‘Wait. What are you saying? Are you breaking off our engagement?’

  She sighed then nodded. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured as she crossed the street and left him standing in the gateway. Noise from the pub drifted out through the open door. She spotted Neville in the yard, deep in conversation with Una, and then Frank sitting by himself on the stile at the back of the forge. Kathleen came out arm in arm with Jack Hudson. The door closed behind them, sounds faded. Grace thought of the sparkling ruby and emerald ring that Bill had given her, tucked away in her dressing-table drawer. I’ll have to give it back, she thought with the deepest of sighs. It will be as if we were never engaged.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Dear Tom, Una wrote. Sitting cross-legged on her bed, she leaned over to switch off the latest wireless report about Allied losses in the Med. This was her chance to snatch a few minutes of peace and quiet after the hurly-burly of supper time in the hostel dining room. She felt sorry for not having written to her brother for so long and was determined to make amends.

  How time flies. I’ve been at Fieldhead for just over a month and already it feels like a lifetime. Mind you, it means that I’m a dab hand with a pitchfork and hedge clippers now. Earlier this week we were out on the fell rounding up sheep and before that I was digging up beet for a farmer called Roland Thomson. Yes, that’s right; your little sister doesn’t go to the flicks and look at fashion magazines any more. No, I pull my weight by milking cows and mucking out stables. I haven’t plucked a chicken yet, but I’ve had a go at most other things.

  She paused for a while and wondered whether or not she should mention the Italian prisoners and her tender feelings for Angelo. It was best to be careful on that front, she decided.

  She began a new paragraph.

  The girls and I are putting on a Christmas show. We’ll be singing and dancing for the lads in the Canadian Royal Air Force stationed nearby. Some POWs from Beckwith Camp have been invited too. It turns out that the two girls I share a room with are leading lights in amateur theatricals. Brenda, who I’ve mentioned before, is performing a musical number from The Wizard of Oz. Kathleen is knocking us all into shape for The Skaters’ Waltz. She’s worse than any sergeant major for dishing out the orders. (Ha-ha.)

  Una was running out of space so her writing grew more cramped.

  And now, Tom, how are you getting along by yourself on Wellington Street? Have you any news about Douglas, Ernest and Geoff? Write to me soon, please, and be sure to send me a Christmas card in good time so as not to miss the last Christmas post. From your loving sister, Una.

  Putting a row of kisses under her name, she folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into an envelope then sighed without knowing why.

  ‘What’s this?’ Brenda wanted to know as she breezed into the room, followed by Kathleen. Both were dressed in pyjamas and dressing-gowns with toothbrushes in hand. ‘Why so sad? Wait, let me guess. You haven’t heard from Angelo for at least twenty-four hours so you’ve written him a lovelorn note telling him how much you miss him and how you long to see him again.’

  ‘Oh, very funny.’ Una licked then sealed the envelope. She wrote her brother’s name and address on the front then held it up to show Brenda.

  Kathleen took off her dressing-gown and got into bed, talking to Brenda as if Una wasn’t in the room. ‘Someone we know would love to hear what a little bird told me as we were leaving the pub earlier.’

  ‘Which little bird was this? Could it be Jack Hudson, by any chance?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, no. I was talking to Bob Baxendale before Jack offered to give me a lift home. Bob happened to mention that a group of prisoners has been press ganged into giving the hall at the Institute a quick lick of paint in time for our Christmas show.’

  Una pricked up her ears for more.

  ‘It could certainly do with it,’ Brenda commented. ‘It doesn’t look as if it’s been done for donkey’s years.’

  ‘Starting tomorrow morning.’ Kathleen gave Una a significant look. ‘They’ve promised to be packed up and gone by one o’clock so that we can go ahead with our rehearsal. Of course, there’s nothing to stop any of us from turning up early to practise our dance steps.’

  Grateful for the tip-off, Una decided it was time to turn the tables on Kathleen. ‘So Jack Hudson thought it was worthwhile to use up half his week’s petrol ration on you, did he?’

  ‘Yes, Kathleen.’ Brenda joined in the fun. ‘You could have let Una and me hop in the back of the car with you to save us the walk.’

  ‘What for? You had your Old Sloper.’

  ‘It would have been warmer in Jack’s Baby Austin, though.’

  Kathleen shook her head. ‘Stop it, you two. There’s nothing going on between Jack and me. And all joking apart, I only went with Jack to keep out of Frank Kellett’s way.’

  ‘Ah yes, I did see him hanging around outside the pub.’ Brenda frowned at the memory. ‘He’s definitely an odd-bod.’

  ‘Then I don’t blame you for accepting the lift,’ Una agreed.

  ‘I get the shivers every time I see him.’ Once started on the subject of Frank, Kathleen couldn’t stop. ‘He used to follow me everywhere when I first came here. He’d stand in my way and refuse to budge. And he’d watch me all day long if I had to work at Home Farm.’

  ‘See, Una; you’re not the only one,’ Brenda remarked.

  ‘You’d have hoped he’d have learned his lesson by now.’ Sitting up in bed, Kathleen leaned forward and hugged her knees. ‘Listen, girls, I’d rather you didn’t spread this around, but after Frank laid in wait for me outside the pub and, you know …’

  ‘After he attacked you and you managed to fight him off.’ Brenda supplied the next part of her sentence.

  ‘Yes. Well, after that, I had half a mind to report Frank to the police so I went to see Mrs Mostyn to ask her advice and she said not to take it any further. She would talk to Frank’s mother and make sure it didn’t happen again.’

  ‘That’s not right.’ Una was adamant. ‘Under the law, a woman has the right to come and go as she pleases without running that kind of risk.’

  ‘But this was Frank,’ Kathleen tried to explain. ‘Mrs Mostyn told me that everyone in the village knows he’s a bit simple so they make allowances.’

  ‘It’s still not right,’ Brenda agreed. ‘And whatever Emily Kellett said to Frank, it didn’t work because now he’s pestering Una.’

  Kathleen rested her head on her knees. ‘First me, then Eunice, now you,’ she said to Una in a pained voice.

  Una gasped and looked at Brenda who slipped out of bed to put her arm around Kathleen’s shoulder. ‘Are you sure about Eunice?’ she asked quietly.

  Kathleen answered without raising her head. ‘Yes – she told me about it the day after he made his move. It was the end of July, during the heatwave. She’d been hay making at Home Farm. I only found out because I caught her crying in one of the outhouses and it all came pouring out.’

  ‘But she didn’t want anyone else to know?’ Una saw how it must have been.

  ‘No. She wouldn’t let me tell a soul. And I didn’t hear the full story, I know that now.’

  Like Una, Brenda was quick to put two and two together. ‘Are you saying that Frank for
ced himself on her? That he was responsible?’

  When Kathleen looked up there were tears trickling down her face. ‘He must have been, mustn’t he?’

  ‘You mean Lorenzo wasn’t the father?’

  ‘No. Eunice liked him but she would never have … not willingly. She was brought up not to …’

  ‘Oh, the poor thing.’ Brenda sat down on the edge of Kathleen’s bed and stared hopelessly at the floor.

  Una felt her skin crawl. ‘We should warn people about Frank. We should tell Mrs Mostyn.’

  ‘Tell her what?’ Kathleen took a hankie from under her pillow and blew her nose. ‘We don’t have any proof that what I’ve said is true.’

  ‘So we just go on as normal? Poor Eunice is dead but nothing happens?’ Una was reluctant to accept that life could be so unfair.

  ‘Hush.’ It was Brenda who saw that there was little point in going on because Kathleen was on the verge of bursting into tears again. ‘Let’s keep this under our hats for now. We’ll get some sleep and think about it again tomorrow.’

  A big bucket of whitewash blocked the entrance to the hall. Lorenzo was giving it a good stir when Una arrived and he greeted her with a conspiratorial smile. ‘Buon giorno, Una.’

  She nodded expectantly.

  ‘It’s a happy day for you – Angelo is here.’

  ‘In the hall?’

  Lorenzo nodded. ‘But wait. I will bring him.’

  He picked up the heavy bucket and carried it inside. A few seconds later, Angelo appeared, smiling broadly. Without saying a word, he led her around the back of the building then embraced her.

  ‘I hope with my heart, and now you are here,’ he began.

  ‘Look at your face.’ She used her thumb to wipe away small specks of white paint then she kissed his cheek.

  He delved into his pocket. ‘This is for you. I make.’

  She took a small wooden box from him and read the interlinked initials on the lid: ‘A’ and ‘U’. The carving into the beech wood was delicate. On the underside there was a butterfly, and on the sides a pattern of leaves. She clasped the box to her chest then kissed him again. ‘This is lovely.’

  They were standing out of the wind in a bicycle shed at the back of the Institute, looking out over the football pitch to farmland beyond. Four crows rose from a sycamore tree and sailed on air currents, followed by a clumsier grey wood pigeon and its mate. In the distance, a dog barked.

  Una turned the box over and over. She imagined the hours of work that had gone into it. ‘I mean it. This is the best present I’ve ever had.’

  ‘I am happy you like.’ He had to say with a gift what he wished he could say in words – that though the war had taken him from his sun-filled home and revealed to him the brutality that lurked in men’s hearts, though it had imprisoned him in this grey, cold country and locked him into endless winter, still there was love.

  He kissed her and held her. She was small like a bird. She made his heart soar.

  ‘A word of warning,’ Elsie said to Una after the prisoners had left and the Land Girls gathered for their rehearsal. Though Una had barely had time to catch her breath since Angelo had been driven away with his fellow prisoners, Elsie took her to one side and spoke seriously. ‘Jean and a couple of the others got here early. I overheard them saying that they spied you round the back of the building with your Italian friend.’

  A flicker of alarm passed across Una’s features. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘They weren’t best pleased.’ Elsie didn’t sugar the pill. ‘Ivy’s brother was on HMS Fearless when the Italian fleet crippled her, that’s why. Dorothy backs up whatever Ivy says. And Jean’s just Jean.’

  ‘Did they call me nasty names?’

  ‘The word “collaborator” was mentioned.’ Elsie gave Una’s arm a friendly pat. ‘Between you and me, I don’t have any time for that sort of name-calling. I think we’re all in the same boat – English, French, Italians, even Jerry. We’re all doing our best to get through this mess in one piece.’

  Una glanced at Jean sitting on the edge of the stage with Ivy on one side and Dorothy on the other. They made a formidable trio – Jean with her permanent frown and the equally dour-looking Ivy and Dorothy in their dungarees and stout brogues – and she felt her heart begin to beat faster as they glowered back at her. ‘What if they send me to Coventry? What then?’

  ‘Try not to take it to heart.’ Elsie did her best to reassure her. ‘Those three will soon find someone else to be catty about. And if they don’t, look on the bright side. Being ignored by Jean and her moaning-Minnie pals isn’t the worst thing that could happen.’

  Una wanted to follow Elsie’s friendly advice but, as the afternoon progressed, it was hard to shake off a feeling of mounting apprehension. Ivy, for instance, made a point of standing in her way when she tried to take her position onstage for the waltz number and sneered unpleasantly when Una knocked down one of the flimsy side flats. Dorothy too made clear her antagonism by complaining to Kathleen that Una had bumped into her and sent her flying. They were small things in themselves but Una felt intimidated and couldn’t brush them to one side.

  ‘Are they ganging up on you?’ Elsie asked her during a break in the rehearsal.

  She was overheard by Joyce, who managed to glean from Elsie something of what was going on. ‘Take no notice.’ Joyce’s advice mirrored Elsie’s as she drew them both to the piano for a quick run-through of their duet. ‘They’re jealous, that’s all.’ She struck up the melody with extra gusto to take Una’s mind off Jean, Ivy and Dorothy gossiping in a corner.

  ‘Mind that wet paint.’ Across the room, Brenda saw that Kathleen was about to lean against a section of wall that had been redecorated. She was carrying two cups of tea from the kitchen, one for her and one for Grace, who looked tired and hadn’t seemed herself all afternoon. ‘Here, take this,’ she said when she spotted her sitting on a bench next to the piano.

  Grace took the cup with a formal thank-you.

  ‘There’s no sugar, I’m afraid. Anyway, you’re sweet enough.’ There was still no smile so Brenda fell silent.

  ‘Have you posted your Christmas cards yet?’ Grace made a half-hearted attempt to fill the awkward gap.

  ‘It’s nice and warm in here today,’ Brenda said at the same time.

  Grace took a sip of tea. Brenda tapped her fingers against the side of her cup.

  ‘I must remember to buy stamps from the post office next time I’m in town.’

  ‘It’s a good job Bill managed to mend the boiler otherwise we’d be freezing.’

  Grace blinked hard but said nothing.

  ‘He’s a handy chap to have around when something needs fixing. He’s a bit touchy, though.’ Brenda had been genuinely puzzled by the episode with the key yesterday evening and now she was eager to clear the air with Grace. ‘You’ve known him a lot longer than I have. Don’t you agree that it’s sometimes hard to work him out?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’d rather not—’ Grace blushed bright red and stopped mid sentence.

  Brenda frowned. ‘Look, I didn’t mean …’

  ‘I know you didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, but … Oh yes, I see.’ What an idiot she’d been not to pick it up before now. Grace and Bill had grown up in Burnside together and sensitive young Grace had most likely suffered the painful pangs of unrequited love over him. A shy, beautiful girl is bound to fall for the best-looking boy in the dale – it was obvious when she thought about it. There again, surely Grace would have got over it by now.

  Grace stood up from the bench. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go. I’m not feeling well.’

  Brenda took the half-empty cup from her trembling hand. ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be fine, ta.’ The colour that had mounted to her cheeks had faded and left her skin as pale as porcelain. ‘Will you tell Kathleen that I had to leave early, please?’

  Brenda accompanied her to the door. ‘I will, don’t worry. Shall I pop in and see how yo
u are after we’ve finished here?’

  ‘No, don’t do that. But thank you anyway.’ Cold fresh air sent a shudder through her. ‘I’m due at the Kelletts’ place with you and Una tomorrow morning. I’ll see you both there.’

  ‘Eight o’clock sharp,’ Brenda promised, standing at the door and questioning her own judgement as Grace hurried away.

  ‘Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, di-di-diddle-dum.’ Joyce hummed the tune to Walt Disney’s Seven Dwarfs song as she and Jean searched for pine cones under the trees close to Beckwith Camp. It was Monday morning and they were delivering Horace Turnbull’s eggs to both the POW camp and the Canadian barracks. ‘It’s off to work we go!’ Jean’s company was hard going at the best of times but this last hour or so had been worse than usual.

  ‘It’s not on,’ Jean had grumbled on the cycle ride across the frost-covered moor. ‘Una ought to know better.’

  Joyce had known what she was referring to but had pretended to ignore her. She’d blocked that line of conversation and talked instead about the weekend rehearsals, chilblains, chapped lips and how far she’d got with knitting a jacket for her sister Patricia’s baby – anything to stop Jean’s moaning.

  Jean, however, was not to be thrown off track. ‘I’ve read that in France women like her have their hair shaved off,’ she’d snipped. ‘They deserve it too for collaborating with the Nazis.’

  There was no arguing with her so Joyce had chosen the hunt for pine cones as a last effort to wander off and escape her company, filling her empty egg basket with dry, undamaged ones that could be painted silver and used as decorations for the Christmas tree.

  The plan had not worked. ‘I would never do anything like that, would you?’ Jean stood and watched from the edge of the wood. She cast suspicious glances at the roofs of the nearby Nissen huts. ‘I don’t care how handsome and charming they are with their “ciaos” and their “bella, bellas”, I wouldn’t go near them with a barge pole.’

  Joyce sighed, put down her basket and walked towards the other woman. When she spoke it was with slow, heavy emphasis. ‘For heaven’s sake, Jean, will you please shut up?’