Farmerettes

  “Look.” Binxie pointed to the top right corner of the letter. “February 1918. The Great War.”

  Jean flipped through more. “April 1918, August 1918, March 1919. They were written the last year of the war and after. There must be over twenty letters here.”

  “She kept them all this time, wrapped in lace. How romantic.” Binxie was surprised at how much this touched her.

  “Why were they hidden in a chimney in the attic?” asked Jean. “Wouldn’t they be treasured in a drawer or someplace special?”

  “Where they could be read every day,” finished Isabel. “I keep Billy’s mail in a silk pouch under my pillow.”

  “We save Rob’s in a basket next to the family Bible in the parlor.”

  Uncle Ian came back outside, carrying his toolbox. “That should hold it until Rob returns. Now I’d best get home to supper.” Lou climbed from the ladder, carried it to a rickety shed, and headed for the truck.

  “Thanks for your help today,” said Jean.

  Ian nodded, and they drove off.

  Binxie looked at the letters in Jean’s hand. “Did he sign any with his last name?”

  Jean shook her head. “None. And ‘James’ is even more common than ‘Polly.’” She leafed through the letters again until she found an envelope. Unopened. The writing on it was feminine. To Cpl. James Earnshaw. She scrunched her forehead in thought. “Earnshaw? I’ve never heard that name. Maybe Nanny knows.”

  Jean held the unopened letter in one hand. The others hovered uncertainly above it. “It’s not addressed to me.”

  “It was written twenty-four years ago. And it’s the only way we might identify the owners,” Binxie reasoned. She felt like she was in the middle of a Nancy Drew novel.

  Jean carefully tore open the envelope. “My Dear James,” she read aloud.

  As always, I pray you are safe and well. Before you read on, please think of our love, for I have surprising news. I hope you will consider it to be good news.

  We are going to have a baby. It will be born in late October, close to your birthday. Maybe it will be a boy who is just as handsome, funny, and brave as his papa. Whatever it is, I already cherish it with all my heart, just as I love you. Please come home safely, my darling.

  Forever yours,

  Polly.

  All three girls stood silent.

  Binxie voiced their thoughts. “This letter was never sent. Does that mean he never knew?”

  “How awful,” said Isabel. “Maybe she wrote a second one.”

  Binxie doubted that, and more explanations flitted through her mind. Maybe James had been killed first. Perhaps the baby died—or the mother. “What was the date on that one?”

  “April 1918. She must have been two or three months along by then,” said Isabel.

  Jean gently folded the note back into the envelope, placed all the letters back into their lace-and-tin cocoon, and tucked it under her arm. “These were important to someone. I’ll take them home. Find out who we should return them to.” She looked around. “Everything else looks all right here. Let’s go.”

  On the way back, Binxie wanted to talk about those letters but Jean stayed quiet. Keeping country affairs private from the city girls? By the time they reached Highberry Farm, the supper bell was ringing, so Jean wished the girls good evening. Binxie shrugged at Isabel. They’d have to wait for the answers.

  Saturday, July 10, 1943

  Peggy

  Peggy and nine farmerettes returned from lunch at the rectory with Reverend Ralston and his wife. She couldn’t put off her laundry any longer. Her overalls were filthy and her sheets needed washing too. Someone had slipped chicken feet into several beds last night, including hers. Once she found out who, she’d smear peanut butter or something silly into their shoes. She stripped her bed and thought how much she liked her cozy little area.

  Each girl had decorated her own cubby. Helene’s orange crate bedside table was jammed with books, topped always with a jar of wildflowers. Photos of her family hung on her wall, while elegant framed Monet prints graced Binxie’s. Isabel rearranged her fluffy pink paradise weekly. Farther along the walls hung movie posters, horse pictures, country sketches. There were embroidered pillow covers, rag rugs, all the personal touches the girls added to the place they called home for the summer.

  After hanging her wet things on the line, Peggy headed for the recreation room, hoping to start a card game. Most of the girls were busy writing letters. She thought of the letters Binxie and the others found last Sunday. Now, a week later, Jean still hadn’t mentioned them. Why not? Those notes wrapped lovingly in lace were the most romantic, mysterious things this side of a movie screen.

  I have adored you since that morning I first saw you walking into Linton’s Drug Store, and I will love you after the last star falls from the heavens.

  Would anyone ever love her that much?

  And the unsent letter. Had the couple ended in tragedy? Or were they enjoying a happily ever after? It was twenty-four years ago. They could still be living nearby. Who were they? What happened to the baby? It would be an adult now.

  Peggy had wondered about this mystery as she worked all week. The Tragedy of Polly and James. She had even composed a love song for them. She had the music. All it needed was the story, an ending.

  She was tired of waiting. “Okay, Helene, you don’t need to write a novel. Finish up. I need to do something.”

  “You could try washing your shirts instead of borrowing mine.”

  “Already done.” She grinned.

  Helene rolled her eyes. A minute later, she put down her pen, slid two bills into the envelope, and sealed it. Peggy knew that left her with barely any money for the following week, but it made Helene feel right about her stay at the farm.

  Peggy glanced at Helene’s other letters. “You only wrote to three soldiers?”

  Helene lowered her eyes. “My last letter to Theo was returned.”

  Peggy thought of the boy she’d had a crush on and felt sick. Suddenly the recreation room seemed too small. She called out, “Who wants to walk to town?”

  “Thank you, no. I need to rest before I start dinner,” said Isabel.

  A few minutes later, Peggy, Helene, and a group of girls walked down the country lane toward town. It was hard to stay gloomy. The sun beamed brightly above, and its offspring, thousands of golden dandelions, dotted the fields around them. Along the roadside grew a rainbow of wildflowers—orange daylilies, yellow buttercups, blue chicory, dainty white Queen Anne’s Lace. The lace reminded Peggy of the letters again, just as they were passing near the dilapidated farm where they had been found. Had Polly lived there? She sensed a tragedy, the pain of it swelling in her heart.

  A plane roared overhead, and the girls looked up. “Another training mission,” said Kate. “I wonder what happened to that cute pilot?”

  “What was his accent? Australian? How exotic,” said Helene.

  “I liked his dashing moustache,” said Irene.

  Peggy gazed over the fields. “Is his base far away? How can we manage a visit? There must be more where he came from.”

  The girls laughed. On this sunny, free day, they laughed at everything.

  When they reached town, the girls split up with the promise to meet by the bench in the town square in two hours.

  The library was the converted stable behind a white frame house on the corner. Helene asked, “Anyone want to come with me?”

  Lucy and Patsy nodded. Peggy thought she might find some information about the letters there, so she followed the three girls to the building at the corner.

  Helene

  Helene opened the door to the familiar smell of books. She loved this room, the shelves of stories, and felt close to home, to heaven. The massive library in Hamilton, with its tall curved staircases, marble floors, and high ceilings, was m
ore splendid, but this humble space held the same Brontë and Austen novels, Agatha Christie mysteries, and the Whiteoaks sagas as the spectacular building at home.

  Helene searched the two aisles, hoping to discover something she hadn’t read yet. Lucy and Patsy quickly picked a mystery each—the modern new pocketbooks—signed them out, and with a wave at Helene, headed outside.

  Helene took her time choosing three promising novels, and carried them to a corner with two faded chintz chairs facing a fireplace, not necessary on this hot day, except for its cozy appearance. One chair was occupied by someone engrossed in a newspaper. She sat in the other one, and opened a book. “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.” From the first line, she was hooked.

  Deep into page twenty-four of the story, she heard a faint “Hello.” But Maxim de Winter had just invited the heroine to have lunch with him, so she kept reading.

  At the end of the scene, she looked up. The man across from her lowered and folded his papers and she realized it was Dan Scranton. “Oh,” she said. “Hello. I didn’t realize it was you.”

  He smiled. In spite of the heat, he again wore a long-sleeved white shirt, and dark trousers.

  “Good book?”

  “Sometimes you know from the first line.”

  He nodded. “Of Human Bondage hooked me on page one.”

  “I haven’t read that yet. How about that opening telegram: ‘Better drowned than duffers if not duffers won’t drown.’”

  He smiled. “Swallows and Amazons. I loved those stories…always wished I had a special island too.”

  She regarded him thoughtfully. “And you know your poetry too.”

  “You mean, how come a farmer is versed in literature?”

  Helene blushed. “No. I’ve never met any man who quotes poetry.”

  “Blame my mother. She loved it. Made up tunes to some and sang them to us.”

  “You’re lucky,” she said.

  Dan answered, “My dad called it nonsense.” He paused, then grinned at her. “But it gets you through some tough times.”

  Was he referring to the war? Or other times? She couldn’t ask. She nodded and thought about how often she had escaped into books from her own life—nights when she was too worried to sleep, days when she hid from one of Papa’s rampages.

  Dan stood, picked up his two books from the table beside him, and returned his newspaper to the rack. “Do you feel like some ice cream? Linton’s Drug Store has several new flavors.”

  Helene tried not to look as happy as she felt. “All right. As long as my friends can find me. They’re in Jackman’s General Store.”

  “You’d have to try really hard to lose someone in this town.”

  They signed out their books, waved good-bye to Peggy, and headed for the drug store. This is my first date, sort of, thought Helene. And with a handsome, clever older fellow. Farm life just keeps getting better and better.

  Peggy

  Peggy entered the library behind Helene and watched her walk to the bookshelves as if she were heading for a banquet. She surveyed the room—four windows full of red geraniums, two aisles of bookshelves, a wooden table, the checkout desk, and a cozy corner with a fireplace and two stuffed chairs. Someone had worked hard to turn a stable into this pleasant place.

  A man sat in one of the chairs, a newspaper opened in front of him. It reminded her of her dad, and she felt a pang of homesickness.

  At least her dad wasn’t away fighting. Mum had made sure of that. “Please don’t go over there and kill my family,” she’d begged.

  “I want to defend my country. Our country. I’m Canadian. You’re Canadian now,” he’d protested.

  “I am, and I want the Allies to win this war.” Her mother looked teary-eyed. “But please, I can’t stand the thought of my sisters and their families getting killed by you.”

  “My cousins in Coventry were bombed, lost their homes.”

  That news had upset Peggy terribly. She worried about them every time the news announced another attack on England.

  “Thank God they lived,” her mother had said. “But can’t you find another way to help?”

  And so their battle continued. Peggy hated it. She agreed with them both. Canada had to win this war. Her English cousins had to stay safe. But one person dead in her German family was already too much. Especially Michael.

  Finally her father had volunteered for noncombatant duties. They weren’t eager to send someone his age overseas anyway. Peace reigned in their home again, but tension remained. Before the war, Peggy hadn’t known a happier couple than her parents.

  She gazed at the bookshelves. Where could she start her research? Newspapers? No. She was looking for an event that happened nearly a quarter century ago. No one saved papers that long. It might be faster to ask the librarian, a woman with white curls framing a pleasant face, shelving books. Peggy was pleased to recognize Miss Willing, one of the choir ladies who had danced at the growers’ party. She held a book, squinted at the numbers on its spine, and searched for its rightful spot, a job that seemed more tedious than picking berries.

  “Excuse me, Miss,” Peggy whispered.

  “Hello, Peggy!” The librarian reached out her arm so enthusiastically Peggy thought she might skip-de-doo with her right here in the library. Instead, she shook hands and asked, “How can I help you?”

  “Um. I want to find someone who lived here about twenty-five years ago. Polly. I don’t know her last name.”

  Miss Willing held her finger to her cheek. “Let me see. Old Polly Baxter is long gone. Polly McBride was the smartest girl in my grade. Now she’s quite batty and can’t remember her own name.”

  Peggy shook her head. “She wouldn’t be older than fifty.”

  Miss Willing brightened. “Polly Belding. Our hostess at the growers’ party.”

  Peggy shrugged. That Polly didn’t look tragic. She seemed happily married to Tom Belding.

  The librarian paused. “Well, there was Polly Henson, who moved to Toronto to be with her daughter.”

  This was going nowhere. Peggy took a chance. “Is there a Polly Earnshaw?” She held her breath until Miss Willing shook her head. “No. Nothing even close to that.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Miss Willing regarded her, but refrained from asking the questions in her eyes. “I’ve lived here sixty-three years and never heard of an Earnshaw family in these parts. There was Polly Neal. She moved west twenty-some years ago.”

  The timeline fit. Peggy hid her eagerness. “Can you tell me more about her?”

  Miss Willing scrunched her nose. “She was an angry young thing. Nobody missed her when she left.”

  Peggy was disappointed. The Polly she pictured from the letters was a sweet-natured girl, more like Mrs. Belding. “That’s all?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And you haven’t heard of a James Earnshaw?”

  Miss Willing shook her head, and picked up another book to shelve.

  “Well, thanks for your help,” said Peggy. At least she had some Pollys to check out.

  She glanced at Helene, now chatting and smiling with the man in the other chair. Peggy looked more closely. Hmmm, I saw them together at the growers’ party. Do I sense a romance in the air?

  They stood up and walked her way. Helene’s eyes sparkled as she introduced Peggy to Dan Scranton. “We’re heading to Linton’s for ice cream.”

  “Would you like to join us?” Dan gallantly offered.

  Peggy knew enough to refuse and watched them leave. They were deep in conversation about some book. Of course. That would be Helene’s type.

  Peggy turned back to the shelves. There must be some local maps showing who owned which farm—perhaps some Earnshaws, or the previous owner of Nelly’s farm. Otherwise, she’d have to wait for Jean to cooperate, and that might
take forever.

  Sunday, July 11, 1943

  Binxie

  Binxie felt restless. What would she do today?

  Yesterday had been dull. She had politely refused Peggy’s offer to join the expedition to town. How could they be excited about going to that little village? What could they possibly want in some dusty, outdated country stores?

  Once the group of girls had disappeared down the road, chatting and laughing, she had taken her flight manuals, a blanket, and a thermos of lemonade to a shady corner of a field. Too many notes and diagrams later, she drifted off to sleep.

  Last night, most of them had hitchhiked out to Romeo’s again. The city girls were at their sparkling best there. The country girls glared at them, but were learning to compete, and the outnumbered fellows were in their glory.

  Binxie ate breakfast quickly. Wanting to avoid the crowd in the bathroom, she’d dressed for church earlier. Too impatient to stand waiting, she walked to the pasture where Tessie and her calf grazed. She felt a special bond with little Tinxie, and tore up a handful of grass to feed her. If only Jean were around. Walking, or riding the horses, was a habit they had developed on the evenings they weren’t exhausted. They didn’t talk much, just enjoyed each other’s company and the stillness that dusk brings. Jean would sometimes quiz Binxie on life in Toronto, and Binxie found she enjoyed hearing about farming. She wondered about the letters, but Jean never mentioned them. Although happy to explain about milking, raising livestock, and the cycle of growing fruit and vegetables, she kept the privacy of the farm folk. Even though it irritated Binxie, she respected that.

  Four horses headed her way, remembering the treats she always brought. She patted their soft muzzles and handed them pieces of apple. She looked at Cairo longingly. “I wish we could gallop together across these fields together.”

  As if summoned by Binxie’s wish, Jean appeared, wearing her dark blue church dress and hat. She joined Binxie at the fence and they stood side by side, enjoying the day.

  “Can you go riding after church?” asked Binxie.