The Land Girls at Christmas

by Jenny Holmes

  He drew her close and rested his cheek against her head until the burning question tumbled from her lips.

  ‘Is it true, Angelo – are they going to close the camp?’

  Albert’s voice rose above the rest, issuing orders to prisoners and girls alike. ‘Watch that wet paint. Move that ladder out of the way.’

  ‘I think yes,’ Angelo whispered into the soft shininess of her hair.

  Her head was against his chest and she felt the solid beating of his heart. ‘You think or you know?’

  ‘I know. Yes, we go.’

  There was a judge with a black cap, delivering his death sentence, announcing the end. Una gasped and clung tightly to Angelo.

  The kitchen door opened and Joyce burst in. ‘Albert said I’d find you here,’ she began.

  Una and Angelo broke apart. Their small world had been invaded and they stared at Joyce with mistrust.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that – I’ve had an idea. I saw the lorry parked outside. We have one empty lorry here and one Christmas tree stuck in the stable at Fieldhead.’

  Una was slow to see where this was leading. To her it only seemed as if Joyce had robbed her and Angelo of some precious moments together.

  ‘I mentioned it to Albert and Kathleen and they’re both happy to spare us for half an hour. Albert needs thirty minutes for his prisoners to clear up and neither you nor I has anything to rehearse until we get to The Skaters’ Waltz at the start of the second half.’

  ‘And what do you want us to do?’ Una asked, holding tight to Angelo’s hand.

  ‘We three have been given permission to drive back to the hostel to pick up the tree.’ Joyce flung the lorry’s ignition key across the table and Angelo caught it. ‘It’s too good a chance to miss. Come on, you two – full speed ahead.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Angelo was already in the cab and Una sitting next to him when Grace called for Joyce from the pub yard.

  Joyce picked up an unusual stridency in her voice. ‘Hang on a tick,’ she told the others before running across the road to see what Grace wanted.

  ‘Be quick,’ Una urged. She smiled at Angelo sitting proudly behind the wheel, the collar of his grey jacket turned up and the white scarf setting off his olive complexion. Smitten, she thought as she drank in the sight of him. Smitten, bowled over, swept off my feet – they were exactly the right words to describe how she felt.

  ‘What is it?’ Joyce asked Grace, who seemed to be on the verge of tears. She stood in the cold without her coat, in only the sweater and slacks she’d been wearing the day before. ‘Kathleen’s wondering where you’ve got to.’

  ‘It’s Edgar. His bed hadn’t been slept in when I got back.’

  ‘Not again!’ Joyce had hoped and prayed that, once he’d started to talk about what had happened to him, Edgar would begin to emerge from his deep, dark pit of silence and suffering. ‘He hasn’t wandered off onto the moor again, has he?’

  Grace shook her head. ‘I didn’t know where he’d gone. I searched high and low as soon as I got back – his coat was on the hook so I knew he couldn’t have gone far. Dad was still in bed, having a lie-in. He said he hadn’t seen Edgar since teatime yesterday.’

  ‘I bet he was in the forge.’ Joyce remembered the last talk she’d had with him, sitting in the darkness next to the warm embers of the furnace.

  ‘You’re right – he was.’ Grace’s lip trembled. ‘I found him on the floor, dead drunk.’

  ‘Not again,’ Joyce murmured for a second time. She felt a thud of disappointment, which she tried her best to disguise. ‘Never mind – he’s bound to slip off the wagon every now and then. It’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘He won’t let me near him – I’ve tried three times. He’s hanging onto a bottle of whisky and I can’t get it off him.’

  Joyce thought quickly. ‘Let me have a go. I’ll tell Angelo and Una to go ahead without me. You pop into the hall and keep Kathleen happy. Give me half an hour to sort Edgar out.’

  She ran back to the lorry and explained her change of plan. ‘That gives you two love birds thirty minutes to yourselves.’ She slapped the bonnet to send them on their way then beckoned Grace. ‘Keep your chin up,’ she told her. ‘Let me see what I can do.’

  Grace hesitated, looking over her shoulder at the entrance to the smithy.

  ‘Go!’ Joyce insisted, giving her a small shove in the direction of the Institute. Then she went to try the handle on the wide arched doorway. It didn’t turn so she went around the side and found the back door standing open. ‘Edgar?’ she called as she went inside.

  There was no reply so she ventured further in, past rakes, hoes and spades stacked against the wall awaiting repair. She glanced up at the dark rafters, inhaling the smell of smoke and dust then across at the hefty anvil next to the cold, empty furnace. ‘Edgar?’

  He heard his name through a haze of alcohol. He lay face down by the double doors, oblivious to the icy draught blowing through the gaps, his fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle. He had no notion of where he was or of how long he’d been lying there, and only a faint awareness that his body was stiff with cold. Light filtered in under the door so it must be daytime. There was his name again, but to hell with that – he was too weary even to turn his head.

  ‘There you are,’ Joyce said, stooping over him. He wasn’t wearing a jacket so she took off her coat and covered him. ‘It’s me – Joyce. You’ll catch your death at this rate.’

  The words drifted over him. He felt the weight of her coat on his back. He hung onto the bottle.

  It was pitiful to see him sprawled in the dust. She was moved almost beyond words. ‘Sit up,’ she whispered as she rolled him gently onto his back.

  His limbs were being moved and rearranged; hands touched his face. He opened his eyes.

  ‘Sit up,’ she said again, leaning over him and succeeding in raising him. She resettled the coat around his shoulders then rested back on her haunches and waited.

  There was someone moving him and speaking to him – a woman. He saw the gleam of the anvil, the maw of the empty furnace. He lifted the bottle to his lips but let it fall without taking a drink.

  ‘That’s right – after a while it doesn’t deaden the pain. The bottle is empty but the hurt is still there.’

  He tried to focus on her face. She was young, her skin was smooth and her voice was soft.

  ‘The same thing happened to my father,’ she told him. ‘When Dad realized he was losing the family farm, he drank himself silly every single night. It didn’t help – he lost it all anyway. But at least he’s stopped drinking now.’

  Soft and lilting, like a tune inside his head. He closed his eyes again and drifted.

  Joyce sat beside him on the stone floor. ‘I have to admit I was tempted myself, after Walter went missing in action. I don’t mention him much but that doesn’t mean I’ll ever forget him. I did think for a while about following in Dad’s footsteps and reaching for the bottle. I didn’t know at the time what stopped me.’

  The tune stopped. He turned his head and looked at her again. ‘Joyce?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me. How do you feel?’

  ‘Bad.’ Tremors ran through him, his mind had cracked and fallen apart into a thousand pieces but the face that kept on coming up through the scattered fragments was Billy’s.

  She put her hand over the hand that held the bottle. ‘I realized recently that the reason I didn’t take up drinking had nothing to do with the pull-yourself-together stuff that teetotallers like to bang on about. I was deaf to all of that. No – the reason was fear, pure and simple. I was scared of losing my last little bit of self-control.’

  Without knowing it, he released his hold on the bottle. Talk. Let me hear the tune. Stay with me.

  She took the whisky away then sighed as she looked at his unfocused gaze. ‘You’re not listening to a word I say.’

  ‘I am,’ he said through cracked lips. ‘You were frightened.’

&nbs
p; ‘Tempted and scared in equal measure. So what did I do? I ran away – from the farm, from Dad, from Stratford, from having lost Walter. I volunteered for the Land Army and came here. And it was the best thing I ever did.’ Suddenly, out of the blue, Joyce started to cry. ‘The best thing I ever did’ turned to helpless sobbing. Months of managing her feelings evaporated – a year of hiding her grief turned into tears as she sat in the forge with Edgar.

  Angelo drove along the snow-covered roads with Una by his side. They sat high in the cab with clear views of the fells to either side of the deep white valley, its frozen streams, its patchwork of walls and stunted trees.

  ‘I am king!’ he declared as they rode between stone walls, following the road out to Fieldhead.

  ‘King of the world!’ Una basked in the freedom of this drive. They were together and might be driving into their uninterrupted, rosy future for all Peggy Russell’s noisy dog or the crows in the bare elms at the back of the hostel knew.

  They arrived at the deserted manor house and pulled into the yard at the back. Una led Angelo to the outhouse where the Christmas tree was stored. Snow had drifted two feet deep against the stable door. ‘It’s jammed shut,’ she said with a frown.

  Angelo laughed and without hesitating he vaulted over it. He stood inside and offered his hand to help pull her after him.

  ‘I can do it by myself,’ she insisted. She saw the tree leaning against the far wall and him waiting for her to come a cropper, laughing at her as she swung one leg over the door only to find herself stuck astride it, feet dangling a foot from the ground. ‘Oh dear – my legs are too short!’

  So he helped her over anyway and they tumbled together against the prickly tree then fell onto the bed of old straw lining the stable floor. They were still laughing when they picked themselves up. Then they weren’t laughing, they were kissing and clinging together with nothing in the world except themselves and the love and longing they felt.

  Angelo’s arms were around her waist, hers were around his neck. She tilted her head back to kiss his lips, feeling her whole body melt against him – his wide shoulders and broad chest, their hips pressing together, him holding her and wanting her. Every inch of her was soft and yielding as she swooned in his arms.

  His lips touched her neck and then her throat and she was possessed by strong desire – an uncharted thing that she didn’t want to control because it was new and thrilling and she longed to give herself to the moment, not to think or draw back, only to go on kissing Angelo and loving him.

  He unbuttoned her coat and slipped his hand inside her sweater to feel the warmth of her body through the soft, smooth material of her blouse. He felt her tremble and leaned away from her. ‘Yes?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes.’ She loosened the back of his shirt to feel his skin – the way his spine curved in the small of his back, his heat, his hard, solid muscle. They’d crossed an unknown threshold and were driven on, kissing and touching, kissing again.

  ‘Yes?’ Angelo paused a second time as his hand cupped her breast.

  She held his hand there and sighed. There was wonder and amazement beyond anything she could have imagined.

  He laid her on the bed of straw. She was small and delicate, white skin glimmering in the dim light, eyes wide open with desire. She was fragile, even though her body arched towards him. He loved her and would be gentle.

  Joyce and Grace agreed between them that they would keep a careful eye on Edgar.

  ‘One of us can pop over the road every fifteen minutes or so,’ Joyce suggested after she cornered Grace in the hall porch while Albert allowed the Italians to take their time removing their ladders and clearing away their paint and brushes. She described how she’d walked Edgar from the forge into the kitchen and sat him down beside the fire. Standing at the table, Cliff had watched her settle him in the chair without comment then carried on mending the soles of his boots with a hammer and some tacks. ‘Your father’s there too.’

  Grace breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you. But are you all right? You look as if you’ve been crying.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’ Joyce had once more locked the door on her grief and was ready for action. ‘I was sad to see Edgar in such a state, that’s all.’

  ‘Thank you again.’ Grace squeezed her hand then turned to a snippet of gossip. ‘Guess what – Brenda’s having a barney with Kathleen over where “We’ll Meet Again” should come in the programme. She’s threatened to walk out if Kathleen doesn’t stop ordering everyone around. It’s turning into a proper fisticuffs.’

  ‘Poor Una – I wouldn’t fancy sharing a room with those two if they’re still at loggerheads when we get back to the hostel.’

  ‘Me neither. Where is Una, by the way?’

  ‘Gone with Angelo to fetch the Christmas tree. I wangled permission for them to drive the lorry out to Fieldhead.’

  ‘Just the two of them?’

  ‘Yes. They should be back any time.’ Joyce looked at her watch. ‘In fact, they’re taking a bit longer than they should have. Albert will be wondering where they’ve got to.’ Just then there was the sound of an engine drawing up outside. ‘Talk of the devil,’ she added as she strode back into the hall. ‘Relax, Albert. Relax, everyone. The wanderers have returned.’

  ‘“We’ll Meet Again” stays where it is, right at the end of the second half.’ Kathleen announced her triumph over Brenda with a clap of her slim hands. The prisoners had cleared the hall and loaded everything into the lorry with a team of willing Land Girl helpers to lend a hand.

  ‘Let me and Grace fold those dust sheets for you,’ Elsie had offered. ‘Stand back and watch the experts – we’ve had a lifetime’s practice with bed sheets.’

  Lorenzo and a jolly-looking pal had pretended to approve their sheet-folding technique while in reality they admired the girls’ shapely hips and lithe movements, all done up as they were in their best dresses and high heels, ready to go onstage.

  Some others had accepted help to clean their brushes at the sink. ‘Not like that,’ Jean had criticized as she shoved a tall, thin prisoner out of the way. ‘If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly.’ There’d been much splashing and drenching and even Jean had cracked a smile.

  So by the time Una had stolen a last kiss from Angelo and rejoined her group, the Christmas tree had been carried in, goodbyes had been said and the prisoners were on the move.

  Joyce sat down at the piano and lifted the lid. She smiled as always as she discussed tempos with Elsie then agreed with Kathleen to play an extra chorus for the Vera Lynn song that was to round everything off. But the talk with Edgar had drained her and she had to make a conscious effort to sit up straight and strike the first chords for the introduction to the Judy Garland song.

  ‘Quiet, everyone!’ Kathleen called them to order. It was one o’clock and time was short.

  While Joyce played and Brenda sang, Grace and Una busied themselves by finding a suitable container for the Christmas tree. They looked in the kitchen and came across a brass jam pot that wasn’t big enough and a bread-making bowl that was cracked across its base. They were about to give up when Una thought of the empty beer barrels stacked in Grace’s cellar.

  ‘That’s a good idea.’ Grace realized she could kill two birds with one stone so they nipped across the road and while Una went into the cellar to select an empty barrel, she went into the kitchen to check on Edgar. She opened the door to see her father hammering rhythmically at his last tack and her brother sitting quietly by the fire.

  ‘You can take that coat off him now.’ Cliff gestured towards Joyce’s Land Army coat still slung around Edgar’s shoulders. ‘Give it back to the lass who talked some sense into him. She’ll need it for her walk home.’

  ‘You mean Joyce.’ Grace removed the coat without a fuss. ‘Ta, Edgar. No, you stay where you are. No need to move.’

  The flicker of a smile crossed his features. Joyce was the one with the beautiful voice who’d talked then cried. Tha
t was a real memory, not something he’d imagined.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ Grace told Cliff and Edgar as she went to help Una with the barrel.

  ‘Just right!’ was the response when they carried it into the hall and stood the tree in it. It was the right size and shape. Now all they had to do was find a way to make it stand upright.

  ‘We can anchor it between a couple of bricks then add some sand,’ Dorothy suggested. ‘There’s a pile of sandbags outside Maurice Baxendale’s workshop. He won’t mind lending us a few.’

  ‘Can we have some hush over there?’ Kathleen was putting the finishing touches to Brenda’s song. ‘When you sing “Why, oh why can’t I?” you have to clasp your hands under your chin and look upwards as if you’re pleading – like this.’

  Sitting at the piano close to the stage, Joyce had a good view of the main door, so she was the first to see Edith Mostyn come in with two women who at first she couldn’t put a name to. They were both tall and expensively dressed in cashmere jumpers and tweed skirts, with identical upright postures and a sense of the Lady Bountiful about them as they followed Edith into the centre of the hall. Ah yes – the older of the two was Alice Foster from Hawkshead Manor and the younger must be her daughter Shirley.

  Brenda stopped singing and Joyce stopped playing. Kathleen swallowed back her irritation.

  Edith put down the cardboard box she’d been carrying then apologized for the interruption. ‘I’m sorry to put you off your stride, girls. We’ve brought the decorations for the hall. Mrs Foster has been kind enough to donate them to the Institute.’

  Grace emerged from behind the tree. She’d been expecting Shirley to come home for Christmas but hadn’t anticipated how she would feel when she saw her. Shirley Foster had walked in as if she owned the place, as in a way she did since one of her ancestors had paid for the bricks and mortar. Her lilac sweater picked up the heathery tints in her kick-pleated tweed skirt. Her pale-blonde hair was immaculately waved.