Farmerettes

by Gisela Sherman

  As they drove home later that evening, Jean thought about the day. She knew Aunt Morag sometimes invited servicemen from the Mount Hope training base for a good home-cooked dinner. Up to now she’d always considered it an act of kindness, her contribution to the war effort. But the ladies had smiled all evening, Aunt Morag had beamed at the compliments to her cooking, and the children joyfully played ball and wrestled with the pilots, for one afternoon not missing their daddy so much. Even taciturn Uncle Douglas and her father had conversed with the pilots about planes, then tractors.

  Hugh with his blatant charm and Dick with his awkward sincerity had called themselves lucky as they thanked Aunt Morag for the hospitality, but Jean could see the family had enjoyed themselves even more than they had—a pleasant break from the usual routine.

  She had refused Hugh’s offer to stroll along the creek after dinner. She’d heard about his type—a wolf in alluring sheep’s clothing.

  Jean knew she had to stop thinking about him. The moon drifted high in an inky sky as they drove past the turnoff to Crazy Nelly’s farm. Jean couldn’t see the house, but she realized what she had to do. Go back to the source. Check Nelly’s place. Why were the letters in her house? She hadn’t always lived there alone; had she even known they were there? How was she connected to Polly, or did the letters belong to someone else?

  As long as Jean could remember, it had been Crazy Nelly’s farm—a woman who kept a light glowing in the front parlor window every night, who stared intensely at young children until their parents pulled them away, who sat in the back pew at every wedding, a picture of doom in a dark dress and veil. She chased away everyone who entered her property, wasn’t very pleasant to Jean’s mother or to church people checking if she needed help. Rumors said she kept a packed suitcase by the front door. Was she waiting for James? Jean could not imagine the bitter old woman as the girl in those love letters. And as for a baby, there was no way to hide a pregnancy in this close-knit rural community.

  Tomorrow she would search Nelly’s house. After all, it belonged to her family now. But the raspberries were ripening, the sour cherries would soon need picking, and the weeds had overtaken the kitchen gardens. The cycle of farmwork had been interrupted for one brief lovely day. Tomorrow it would roll on, getting ever more intense until the autumn harvest and celebration. There would be days of canning and preserving before they could rest up to begin again next spring. It was a good way to live. So why did she feel restless?

  Wednesday, July 14, 1943

  Binxie

  Binxie marched down the road, sore in every way. Her shoulders ached, and her face stung where a branch had smacked her right on the sunburn she got yesterday hoeing tomato plants at the Grants’ farm. But she was mainly sore—no, furious—at her treatment in the Scrantons’ orchard. How dare he and his boorish sons order her around like that!

  The last straw was when that little snip Matthew rudely refused to let her stop to use the outhouse. “You have no right to order me or anyone else around. And your vulgar profanity doesn’t impress me,” she’d said in a low, cold tone that carried across several rows of trees. “If you don’t know the proper words, ask your grade-school teacher to teach you some in September.”

  Which was why she was walking the three miles back to Highberry Farm at two o’clock. Before he could fire her, she told him to stuff his cherries into his hat and stormed off. The stunned shock on Matthew’s face satisfied her immensely.

  She cut across a field and through a peach orchard, branches beginning to hang heavy with green fruit growing larger every day. The long walk through the peaceful countryside calmed her down before she reached the field where Jean hoed vegetables.

  “Are you all right?” Jean looked up from her work.

  Binxie shrugged. “I am now.”

  Jean leaned on her hoe. “Scranton at his best?”

  Binxie nodded.

  “Want to tell me?”

  Binxie shook her head. “I’m still too annoyed.” Then she grinned. “I’m sure you’ll hear about it from everyone else, though. And I’m glad I said it.”

  “There’s lemonade in the thermos under the elm tree.”

  Binxie took a drink and marched to the shed, grabbed another hoe, and joined Jean in the field. “I need to get rid of some angry energy. Pretend these cabbages are Matthew’s head.”

  “Just don’t chop them off yet.”

  Binxie hacked the ground, weeds flying, clods of earth crushed small under her weapon. Gradually she slowed down to an efficient, steady pace and the two girls worked in companionable silence.

  At four o’clock, Jean suggested a break. They sat under the elm tree, sharing lemonade and a muffin.

  Binxie noticed Jean watching her. “Did I commit a terrible sin leaving the Scrantons’?”

  Jean chuckled. “No. Someone had to stand up to their bullying.”

  “It was Matthew.”

  “He’s worse because he’s our age.”

  “How did Mrs. Scranton take it? Or is she the same?”

  “No choice. Before Mary passed away four years back, she was cheerful and funny when he wasn’t around, but meek when he was. I think her books, her rose garden, and her boys were the main joys in her life.”

  “Those boys?”

  “They were always loud and wild, but sweet with her, especially Dan. Actually, Mr. Scranton wasn’t as crabby either. After she died, they all fell apart. Fought with each other a lot, let her roses wither. Dan started going to Agnes Fraser’s, but the others just got…” Jean stopped. She blushed and busied herself with the thermos.

  Without looking at Jean, Binxie said, “Every place has strange people. My neighbor yells if we step on her lawn, and one of my uncles collects raccoon tails. We keep a few secrets about my great-grandmother too.”

  Jean eyed Binxie a moment. “You respect people’s privacy.”

  Binxie nodded. “I expect them to respect mine too.”

  “But you’re curious about the letters.”

  “Of course.”

  “No one else needs to know yet.”

  “You should be the one to tell them, Jean. When you’re ready.”

  “Where’s the logical place to start?”

  “Peggy went to the library, didn’t get more than a list of Pollys and some maps.”

  “I’d go to the source. Nelly’s house.”

  “Me too.” Binxie waited, hoping.

  “You just saved me hours of work…we could go there now.”

  “Let’s go.” Binxie grabbed both hoes and propped them in the shed. Minutes later, they crossed the fields to Nelly’s neglected house.

  “Someone’s been here,” Jean said as they stepped onto the veranda. It stretched across the front of the house and wrapped around the corner to the kitchen door. Near the railing stood a chipped wicker chair—cobwebs, dried insects, and dust its only occupants.

  “Your uncle, and all of us were here,” said Binxie.

  “No. Look at this window. It’s wiped clean. Dusty footprints in and out the door, some furniture moved.” Jean frowned. “I hope nothing’s damaged.”

  “Isn’t the house locked?”

  Jean raised an eyebrow. “No one in the country locks their doors.”

  “What would they be looking for?”

  Jean shrugged. “There are lots of rumors about Crazy Nelly. One is that she stashed a fortune here somewhere.”

  “That story floats around every dotty old person. They said that about my great-grandmother too. Turned out, her treasure was a box full of hair—one lock from each of her children and grandchildren.”

  Jean opened the front door and they stepped into a narrow hall. The house smelled like moldy wood and loneliness.

  “Well, one of the rumors is true,” said Jean, pointing to a cracked brown leather suitcase in a corner.
r />   Binxie looked puzzled.

  “They say she kept a packed bag by the door, waiting for her true love to come for her.”

  “James?”

  “He wrote to Polly.”

  “Maybe he couldn’t spell.”

  Jean rolled her eyes at Binxie, then leaned over to open the suitcase. The rusty clasp was impossible to open, so she got a knife from the kitchen and pried it open.

  Both girls gazed at the contents. Two silk dresses, a nightgown, expensive underclothing now yellow with age, toiletries long dried up.

  “A honeymoon bag,” said Binxie sadly. “She waited forever.”

  “I hope she’s with him now,” said Jean.

  The girls examined the parlor. Dark furniture, some covered with sheets, crammed the room.

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Some trace of James and Polly.”

  “Her sister?”

  “No sister. Three brothers who doted on her.”

  “So James was her brother.”

  “You think he took his letters back from Polly somehow, even though she never answered him, and then didn’t even open her letter addressed to him? Plus her brother’s name was Turner, not Earnshaw.”

  “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. We still don’t know why they were hidden in the wall. Someone in the family didn’t approve?”

  “She lived alone since I was twelve. Plenty of time to bring them out of hiding.”

  Binxie pointed to a thick black book on the shelf. “May I?”

  Jean nodded and stepped closer as Binxie lay the Turner family Bible on a spindle-legged table. She flipped to the family tree and the girls skimmed through three pages of names, beginning with the marriage of Henry Turner and Elizabeth Reiman, in Pennsylvania in 1768, eight years before they fled to Canada. The last name entered was Eleanor Anne Turner.

  “I guess that’s why she visited Philadelphia sometimes. Apparently she had a cousin there,” said Jean.

  “No mention of a baby,” said Binxie.

  “At least not recorded,” said Jean. She skimmed some pages, then shook the book upside down. Nothing fell out. She returned it to its place and scanned the other books on the shelf. Finally she said, “We don’t have time to search every volume.”

  They passed through the dining room into the kitchen. Binxie noted the old-fashioned icebox and the pump at the sink instead of taps. They peered into cupboards, but quickly decided they were more likely to find private things upstairs.

  A wide upper hall opened up to four bedrooms. Three were obviously long unused—the furniture was layered with dust. The girls opened all the armoire doors and drawers—empty.

  The last room, the largest, had to be Nelly’s. A heavily curtained bay window overlooked the front lawn, and the bed was covered with a faded floral quilt. Piles of books were stacked on the nightstand and an overstuffed chair.

  “Mum told me they found fourteen library books after she died. All overdue.”

  “She died in here?” Binxie felt cold.

  “Mum found her outside by the chicken coop. She came by every week to check on her, sometimes leave a pie or casserole. Nelly always finished the food, but never asked her in.”

  Binxie examined the night table. “Finding a diary would be handy about now.”

  Jean laughed. “Only in books. We’ll have to work harder than that.”

  “Corporal James Earnshaw. Does that mean he was in the air force or army?”

  “The Great War. There was no Canadian air force yet,” said Jean.

  “Oh, right. It began in 1918. I wonder how that crazy pilot is doing.”

  “Very well.”

  “What?” Binxie looked surprised. She opened a drawer full of underclothes but felt too uncomfortable to search it.

  “He was at my aunt’s for dinner on Sunday, the life of the party. A cast on his arm, so unable to ship out to England with his crew.”

  Binxie frowned. “The arm will heal. He’ll go by summer’s end.”

  Jean checked under the bed. “Nothing so far.”

  Binxie stared at the underwear drawer and sighed. The other rooms were almost bare. Any clue had to be here in Nelly’s own bedroom. Gingerly she pushed some cotton and lace things aside. Nothing.

  “Here’s something,” called Jean, her voice pitched high with excitement. She held up a slim leather-bound book. “It was under her pillow. A poetry book. Oh my gosh, look.”

  Binxie crossed the room and checked the page Jean pointed to. There, in the same handwriting she had seen in the letters, was the inscription: To Polly, October 1917. I love thee with the breath and smiles of all my life. James.

  The two girls stood in awed silence.

  Binxie sighed. “Nelly treasured this all these years. Could Nelly and Polly both be short forms for Eleanor?”

  Jean shrugged. She flipped through some of the pages, then exclaimed, “They were married?”

  Again, Binxie looked at the book. Written in a neat flowery hand was a list—Mrs. James Earnshaw, Eleanor Anne Earnshaw, Nelly Earnshaw, Mr. and Mrs. James Earnshaw.

  “That’s impossible,” said Jean. “No one ever called her anything but Miss Turner or Crazy Nelly. I would have heard about a husband.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  Binxie smiled. “She was daydreaming. The girls at school do it every time they meet a terrific fellow.” She had never bothered to write out names before, but then she realized with a start that she had already mentally tried the sound of Binxie Clifford.

  “But they must have loved each other. His inscription, and she kept the book under her pillow. It’s a clue,” said Jean.

  “We should take it with us.”

  Jean hesitated, then nodded. “It’s Rob’s house now, so we can borrow it.”

  “Everything in this house belongs to him?”

  “Yes. Nelly’s will specified her jewels to her cousin in Philadelphia, the livestock to my mother, and all her money to ‘Baby James, who should have been mine.’ But no one ever found either money or that baby.”

  Both girls looked at each other, their eyes wide. “Polly’s baby?” they blurted at the same time.

  “We have to find that child,” Jean said.

  Binxie nodded. “If there is one.”

  “Maybe it’s in Philadelphia?”

  Binxie shrugged. “With her cousin. It doesn’t make sense.”

  The girls headed back downstairs.

  “No basement?” asked Binxie.

  “A crawl space. You don’t want to go there.”

  “And this little room off the kitchen?”

  “For the hired girls.”

  “Let’s look.”

  The room contained one boxy wooden dresser, a small cot, plain cotton curtains aged to a dingy gray color. There were no pictures like in the other rooms, nothing personal or pretty.

  “The maids usually stayed a year or two, then got married or found a better position, and moved on,” said Jean as she quickly checked the dresser.

  “It’s after five o’clock. The others will be home for supper soon,” said Binxie.

  Clutching the poetry book, Jean followed her outside. “Looks like Nelly and James were our star-crossed lovers, but something awful must have happened. No wonder she became Crazy Nelly.”

  “The name still bothers me,” said Binxie. “Maybe it was his pet name for her.”

  Jean shrugged. “Love is strange. But the baby. Maybe she didn’t send that letter because James was killed.”

  “No. He wrote letters after her unsent one. Perhaps the baby died.”

  Jean shook her head. “Nelly’s will mentioned ‘Baby James, who should have been mine.’ Could she actually have had one that they made her give up for adoption?”

  “Gave him to someone in Phi
ladelphia? Or sent him to an orphanage?” said Binxie. “Maybe the poor mite’s had a terrible life without parents. We have to find him.”

  “And they say I read too many novels,” said Jean.

  As they reached Highberry, a wagon full of farmerettes rolled up beside them. Binxie said good-bye to Jean and watched her cross the yard toward her house. Then they each stopped and stared. Two men stood knocking at Jean’s front door. Even from this distance, Binxie could see the uniforms. Were the McDonnells getting bad news?

  Helene

  “Reach higher! You won’t fall.”

  Helene felt like a mouse waiting for the hawk to swoop down and grab her in its talons. Except she was high up in a cherry tree and the “hawk” stood below. The raptor in this case was Mr. Scranton, hard eyes glinting up at her.

  “Stretch higher, farther” was his refrain to all the girls. “You’re missing the good cherries.”

  Sure, thought Helene. Better we risk falling than waste precious time getting off the ladder to move it to a safer position.

  Earlier he had stood glaring at them to make sure they picked the fruit properly. Twist, pull, then place, don’t drop, the cherries into the baskets hanging from straps around their necks. Now, almost satisfied, he wanted them to speed up.

  Even worse than Mr. Scranton’s gruff orders and rude vocabulary, were his sons. Matthew and Luke, strong, blond, and sturdy, might look better than their dad, but they were just as nasty. When she showed her filled basket to Matthew, he wouldn’t punch her card because the cherries were piled too high. “We’ll never make a profit this way. Take some out,” he barked. Luke liked to grab the baskets roughly from her hand.

  It should have been lovely out here, dappled sunlight between green foliage, a soft breeze cooling her face. But she was scratched from branches smacking her in the face, scraping along her arms. The baskets now weighed heavy on her neck, and she had a splinter in her hand thanks to hurrying up the wooden ladders. Ever since the sour cherries had started ripening, the girls drew straws each evening and the losers worked at the Scrantons’.

  Helene was glad no one could stop Peggy from chatting for long. She was busy planning their talent show, only three days away. Peggy had spent the last two weeks finding out who could play the piano, sing, or dance. Amid much laughter, she’d trained four girls to play a pennywhistle. Nancy and Ruth begged to sing a duet. Helene was impressed how beautifully Grace dramatized Shakespeare’s sonnets. All the girls looked forward to the show with great excitement.