Farmerettes

  Philadelphia! Peggy almost jumped out of her seat. “When did she go there?”

  Irma and Mrs. Grant looked at each other, their eyes squinted in calculations.

  “She wasn’t here when the Great War ended. Must have been around then,” said Irma.

  “She was back here for the Christmas service. Wore a fancy blue dress and a new hairstyle,” said Mrs. Grant.

  Irma continued, “She got crankier and crazier every year—stopped going to church, wouldn’t take help from anyone except Mrs. McDonnell and Reverend Ralston.”

  “That’s sad,” said Binxie. “Who was the hired girl?”

  Mrs. Grant shrugged. “Her family had so many over the years. Girls from away, or sometimes the orphanage. They’d stay a year or two, then move on to better jobs in the city. A couple of them married local boys. Oh, who were they, Irma?”

  “I think there was a Hetty, an Annie, a Mary or two, that saucy little Vaunie. Oh, and Jane Freeman, lives in Beamsville now. Can’t remember any more. My mind’s still sharp but my memory’s faded some.”

  Peggy was disappointed. She’d so hoped to hear Polly.

  “Why are you interested?” asked Mrs. Grant.

  “Oh, we love local history,” said Binxie. “We’ve heard some Nelly stories and we wondered how true they were.”

  “Well, some have gotten out of hand, but you can believe a lot of them. I know the one about the tablecloths is true. I was in Jackman’s one January when she stood there, insisting on a round one, the exact same size as last year’s. It had to be dark. She kicked up a real fuss to get what she wanted. Whoever heard of buying a new tablecloth every year?”

  “If you like our history,” interrupted Mrs. Grant, “you should learn about the Smiths, the Beldings, and the Puddicombes. Now, they’re interesting. So’s the story of how our town was named for Winona, the Indian Princess. She jumped over the falls rather than marry a suitor she didn’t love.”

  For the next half hour the women told stories of local history in minute detail. When Helene finally came over to say it was time to go, the girls smiled with relief and thanked the two old women.

  “That was fun,” said Irma. “Next time we see you, we’ll tell you more.”

  You’re sweet, thought Peggy, but next time I see you, I’ll hide. She was frustrated. Somewhere in all those tales was a clue. They just had to figure out what it was.

  “I’m sure one of the hired girls was Polly,” said Peggy as they headed out of town.

  “But a hired girl wouldn’t have left her love letters in her old employer’s home,” said Binxie. “That Philadelphia visit. It still looks like those letters, that poor baby, were Nelly’s.”

  “How could they be? You read the letters, saw the love poems—Polly sounded sweet.”

  The girls debated until they ran out of theories. Then they moved on to other topics, enjoying the sunshine and each other’s company. Life was good on a farm in Canada.

  Tuesday, August 10, 1943

  Helene

  Helene smiled at Mrs. Fraser. “Thank you again,” she said. “Those fruits and vegetables will mean everything to my family. I don’t know how to ever repay you.”

  “Nonsense. It’s a plentiful harvest this year—more than I need. I’m driving into Hamilton tomorrow anyway.”

  Helene said good-bye and climbed into Dan’s truck. As they drove away, she waved at the proud silver-haired woman standing in her yard. She turned to Dan and said, “She’s wonderful.”

  “That’s Mrs. Fraser. Mind bright as a diamond, tongue sharp as steel, and a heart of gold.”

  “A jewel. You really care for her.”

  “She’s looked out for me ever since I fell through the ice on her pond when I was nine. After my mom died, she became my second family, even wrote to me overseas. I’d rather be with her than at home.”

  Helene thought how much she enjoyed spending time with Willy and Peter, of her mother’s quiet love and support. She couldn’t imagine not wanting to be with family, and her heart ached for Dan.

  He continued, “My mother was gentle, kind. She taught us to read and sing and appreciate nature. When she died, the light left our house. Dad got grumpier; eventually both Paul and I enlisted.”

  “Paul?”

  “My other brother. He’s fighting in Africa. There are four of us.”

  “You’re all as gruff at home as in the fields?”

  Dan tried to smile but his lips pinched into a line. “Dad’s lonely, unhappy. My brothers are decent fellows. They went overboard teasing you when they knew I was soft on you.”

  Helene couldn’t help smiling inside. His words took the pain out of the water incident in the orchard. “Both our fathers have disappointed us,” she said wistfully.

  “At least yours left,” Dan said. His low tone couldn’t mask the bitterness. “Mine stayed, criticizing every little mistake, beating me for big ones, until I grew too tall. Since Mom died, I’m not comfortable at the farm, but where do I go? Who’ll hire a limping man whose right arm is close to useless?”

  “What about something else?”

  “Leave the farm? It’s in my blood.” He thought a moment. “Actually, it’s the land I love. I plan to own some one day. But I don’t want to farm full time. I’m saving for university. When I heard you talk to Mrs. Fraser about teaching young people, I realized I’d like that too—if I had the education, the money.” Dan stepped on the brake as a rabbit hopped across the road. He shook his head as if he had just woken up. “I’m sorry. That was a pathetic display of self-pity.”

  Helene stayed quiet. She’d never heard him so discouraged.

  “I’ll take you home, Helene. I’m not pleasant company today.”

  “Why today?” she asked gently.

  He hesitated. “August tenth. Four years since my mother passed away.”

  His melancholy left no space in the truck for words, so she held his hand. After a silent mile, she suggested, “Do you want to visit her?”

  “Will you come with me?”

  She nodded.

  Soon Dan turned down a narrow gravel road. On the left stood orchards full of goldenrod and ripening peach trees. On the right a low stone wall enclosed a “stone orchard” lined with graves. He parked the truck by the side of the road. Without a word, Helene slid from the seat, picked some wildflowers, and joined Dan through the wooden gates. He took her hand as they walked along the rows. They stopped at a small granite stone marked simply Mary Patience Scranton, beloved wife and mother. February 8, 1895–August 10, 1939. Underneath that, Alfred Scranton’s name was already engraved, ready to join his wife.

  Dan knelt to lay the flowers on his mother’s grave, then stood upright, head bowed, deep in memories.

  Helene looked at his mother’s name again. Something about the “M” and the “P” so close together made her think of Peggy or Margarete, as the other girls had discovered recently. Margarete to Peggy—M to P. Weren’t girls named Mary sometimes called Polly? So far all their Pollys had come to a dead end. Should they be looking for a Mary?

  The thought almost overwhelmed her. The search had widened—perhaps too far—Mary was a common name. But maybe now they’d find the girl who owned those long-lost letters.

  Thursday, August 12, 1943

  Binxie

  “Happy birthday!”

  Binxie woke up to Helene’s cheery greeting. Then Peggy and Isabel chimed in. Bright beams of sunlight streamed through the windows. It was going to be a glorious day.

  She grinned at her friends. “I’m eighteen! I can sign up!”

  “Not today,” said Peggy. “We have plans for you.”

  “You’re not leaving!” gasped Isabel.

  “Not yet,” Binxie reassured her. “But come September, I’m off to the skies.”

  “You can’t even fly yet,” s
aid Isabel.

  Binxie frowned. It was high time to organize all that, but this summer was so busy. “Once I get back to Toronto, I’ll sign up for lessons,” she vowed. “By spring I’ll be in England.”

  Helene shuddered. “I pray the war’s over before that.”

  “Then I’ll work for Kathryn and Alastair’s air transport company.”

  “You’ve mapped out your life already,” said Isabel wistfully.

  “We should control our lives, Isabel. I’ll live my own goals, not my parents’ plan for me to attend college to marry well, so I can spend my days chairing committees and social events.”

  Peggy laughed. “A rich husband sounds okay to me. Now get up. I know we celebrated your birthday on August 1st with the rest of the farmerettes, but today we’ll have our own celebration. Isabel made your favorite breakfast—pancakes with blueberries. See you downstairs in twenty minutes.”

  It was the beginning of a perfect day. The sun shone kindly on them as they picked peaches at the Beldings’ orchards. The girls were especially jolly, and on the way home, Mr. Belding stopped to buy ice cream for all.

  Back at the dorm, Binxie opened her presents. Her parents sent clothes, toiletries, and a camera with several rolls of film. Binxie read Kathryn’s birthday card, wishing she were here to say the words in person. Her gift was a white woolen scarf. A racy flying scarf—it gets blooming cold up there, Kathryn had written. I knit it myself, as you’ll quickly see by the uneven rows. Binxie wrapped it around her neck. Knowing how much Kathryn disliked domestic activities, she understood this was a labor of love.

  She took her camera outside and snapped her friends posing and clowning for her. She’d send Kathryn those pictures and some of the farm, Cairo, Tinxie, and, of course, Johnny.

  Somehow Isabel had persuaded Cookie to prepare Binxie’s favorite meal tonight—roast beef with browned potatoes, baby peas, and a delicious trifle for dessert.

  Right after dinner, she showered, put on the new blue dress from her mother, styled her hair for tonight’s date with Johnny, and went downstairs to wait.

  Jean knocked at the screen door, carrying a magazine. “Happy birthday, Binxie. This is just a small gift. There’s a story about Amelia Earhart in it.”

  Binxie swallowed hard. “Thank you. That was really thoughtful.” She hadn’t seen much of Jean lately—between work, and Hugh and Johnny’s visits, it was awkward to find the time. “Can we walk tomorrow? I miss our excursions.”

  Jean nodded. “I’d like that.”

  Johnny drove up. Jean waved at him cheerfully, and headed for the barn.

  “Happy birthday.” Johnny kissed her. “I wangled a car for tonight. We can go dancing in Stoney Creek. There’s a great place by the lake.”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  And it was. They laughed as they stepped and swung to the jazzy music, and held each other tight for the slow songs. At the first notes of “Stardust,” Johnny led her out to the terrace, where they danced under stars shimmering in a sable sky. Johnny gazed at her, his brown eyes tender, and he leaned in and kissed her. She pressed closer, felt her breasts crush against the heat of his body, her hips move with his. Later, they walked along the beach arm in arm, the bright moon reflected in the velvet water beside them. She was intensely aware of Johnny’s arm around her, his deep voice humming the “Stardust” melody.

  One more dance and it was time to head home. Along the lane to Highberry Farm, Johnny stopped the car and took her in his arms. His lips touched hers, gently at first then more urgently, and Binxie answered with a passion she didn’t know she possessed. A minute later she pulled back.

  Johnny smiled, stroked her hair, and asked, “Did you enjoy your day?”

  “It was perfect,” she answered and kissed him again.

  Finally they said goodnight, and she went inside still feeling his lips, his arms, his body. As she slipped into bed, Binxie wondered how it would feel to lie next to him. Finally she reached for her flying scarf, hugged it to her heart, and thought about her lovely day. It was the best birthday of her life.

  Saturday, August 14, 1943

  Jean

  Jean carried a bushel basket of early tomatoes from the family garden, thinking of the delicious sauce her mother would make with them.

  “Need some help?” Johnny came up behind her and took the basket.

  “Thanks. I didn’t see you coming.”

  “You were concentrating on the tomatoes. I had some time off and thought I’d see if Binxie’s around.”

  “She walked to town after lunch but she should be back soon.”

  “May I wait? It’s been awhile since I’ve talked with you,” he said, carrying the basket into the kitchen, where Isabel and Nanny were pulling cinnamon rolls from the oven.

  “Hmmm, they smell terrific,” said Johnny, smiling at the two women.

  Nanny flushed with pleasure. “You may try one when they cool.”

  Jean poured two glasses of milk, gingerly pushed four hot cinnamon rolls onto a plate, and led the way to the porch.

  When they sat, Johnny bit into a roll and rolled his eyes in mock ecstasy. “No one beats Nanny’s cinnamon rolls.”

  “Isabel made these.”

  “She learned well. How’s she doing?”

  Jean shook her head. “Sad, brave, but something else too. She’s holding something back.”

  “And Rob?”

  “He writes he’s fine, that everything is fine, but that’s likely all he can say. I wish I really knew.”

  “He’ll be home soon. We just sent the Germans and Italians running across the Messina Strait to Italy. Rome is on the verge of defeat. It’s the beginning of the end.”

  “Oh, I hope so,” answered Jean. “Prime Minister Mackenzie King is meeting with Winston Churchill and President Roosevelt in Quebec City this week. The faster they figure out how to win this war, bring Rob and our boys home, the better.”

  “You’re smart to get Rob’s house ready for him.”

  “His house ready?”

  “Crazy Nelly’s place.”

  “Uncle Ian repaired the chimney after the storm. We haven’t done anything since.”

  “Oh? I saw a bike parked there last week, and the door wide open yesterday. Figured you were fixing the place up.”

  Jean looked puzzled. “It’s odd, I noticed someone was there a few weeks ago. Why? And who?”

  “Someone searching for the rumored treasure?” Johnny laughed.

  “They better not.” But it made Jean wonder. No one really believed Nelly had a fortune hidden, but maybe someone was searching for a different treasure—old love letters. Could James or Polly have returned? “We’ll keep an eye on the place. What’s new with you?”

  “I bought my first two calves yesterday. Aberdeen Angus.”

  “Good start. They’re supposed to have excellent meat.”

  Isabel stepped out onto the porch, said good-bye to Jean, scowled at Johnny, then walked across the barnyard.

  “Have I offended her?” Johnny asked.

  Jean shrugged. “She’s grieving.”

  When Johnny talked about his plans for his cows, Jean didn’t mention that Hugh had hundreds of Black Angus on his ranch. Instead, she told him Dad had finally received the part for the tractor. Now the horses could have a break. She finished her cinnamon roll, and turned her face to the sun. How comfortable it felt to chat here on the porch with Johnny.

  Before either one could say more, a high-pitched scream of terror rose from the barnyard.

  Isabel

  Isabel took off her apron, brushed white flour from her skirt, and smiled at Nanny. “Thanks again for your help with the cinnamon rolls. I’ll bake more in the kitchen tomorrow, and the girls will love them.”

  Billy would have loved them too, she thought. But then she wondered, Wh
y am I still learning to cook like this? Billy’s gone.

  The answer swooped upon her. Because I love doing this. I like sliding a perfect pie from the oven. Watching everyone enjoy my food makes me happy.

  Nanny interrupted her thoughts. “I was named best baker at the county fall fair for ten years.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Isabel agreed.

  Nanny looked pleased. “It’s good to have someone appreciate my work. Someone worthy of learning my skills and secrets.”

  “Mother, we appreciate it,” said Mrs. McDonnell, entering the kitchen. “I have neither the time nor the talent to bake like you do, so I’m grateful.” She dropped some muddy new potatoes on the counter, washed her hands, and picked up a hot roll to nibble. “Mmm, perfect.”

  “They’ll taste better after the war, when we get decent flour again,” grumbled Nanny.

  “Hello, Isabel,” said Mrs. McDonnell. “These are delicious.”

  “Thank you. I’ll know so much when I get home.” Isabel sighed.

  Mrs. McDonnell nodded kindly and washed the potatoes at the sink.

  “Would you like a hand with those?” Isabel wanted to keep busy.

  “Everything’s almost ready, thank you,” said Mrs. McDonnell. “Go enjoy your time off.”

  With a last wipe of the counter, Isabel said good-bye and left. The day was bright, but Isabel felt dark. No dinner duty today, no letters to read, none to write. Most of the girls were in town, or had gone to play baseball at a neighboring farm. This evening they’d go to Romeo’s.

  They had invited her but she wasn’t going. “I can’t dance when Billy lies buried in Italy,” she’d replied.

  “I don’t want you to spend the evening alone,” Peggy had said.

  “I’ll be fine.” Isabel touched her friend’s arm. “I’ll finish knitting some socks and get to bed early. Breakfast shift at the crack of dawn tomorrow.” Isabel sighed. Being the brave widow of a man who betrayed her was exhausting and dull.

  Now Isabel blinked in the sunlight, then crossed the porch, where Johnny and Jean sat munching her rolls and discussing cows.