A Girl Can Dream

by Anne Bennett

  That first morning, though, Will only gave them the well-behaved cows, and both girls thoroughly enjoyed the experience. They were surprised, however, when Will told them that much of the milk would have to be thrown away.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘The lane is impassable,’ Will said. ‘So I can’t get the churns to the top of it, even if the main road is clear enough to allow the milk lorries through.’

  ‘It seems awful just to throw it away.’

  ‘I agree,’ Will said. ‘I hate waste, but Enid will take the cream to make butter and she might make soft cheese too. Those are useful things for you to learn to do.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Meg said enthusiastically. ‘I would love to learn those skills.’

  ‘Now’s your chance,’ said Will. ‘Just now, though, these cows have got to be delivered back to their soggy field and the byre mucked out and cleaned, so let’s set to and get on with it because there will be no breakfast till all that’s done.’

  Meg and Joy needed no further bidding as they were both hungry.

  Will was impressed by his land girls and so was Stephen. His parents had sung the praises of both girls when they had gone to bed the previous day. ‘They look as if a puff of wind would blow them over,’ Will had said to his son. ‘I didn’t think they’d be much use; I even said that to them and they assured me they were stronger than they looked. And, by gum, they’ve proved me wrong for they’ve worked their socks off, and without complaining once.’

  ‘One looks very young. Young even to have left home,’ Stephen remarked.

  ‘That’s one called Meg,’ Enid said. ‘And I agree with you. She does look young, but she must be old enough or they wouldn’t have let her come.’

  ‘Mmm, I suppose,’ Stephen said. ‘She’s very pretty.’

  ‘Now, Stephen.’

  ‘I’m only saying, Dad,’ Stephen protested. ‘Young men are supposed to notice pretty young women. I mean, I’m not dead from the neck up and I have got eyes in my head.’

  ‘Well, you put your energies into getting better and don’t turn the heads of those girls away from their work,’ Will warned.

  ‘Huh, fat chance of that,’ Stephen said. ‘As soon as I am in any way improved they will ship me back to camp faster than the speed of light to work with the physio. They’ve told me this already, so your girls are safe.’

  However, despite Stephen’s words, his eyes were drawn to Meg as soon as she came into the kitchen after milking. Meg found she was amazingly hungry and she tucked with relish into a large bowl of porridge with sugar and lots of creamy milk, and then attacked the delicious home-baked bread Enid offered.

  ‘This is just mouth-watering,’ Joy declared, taking a big bite of a slice that she had spread liberally with butter.

  ‘Oh, we don’t do bad for food in the country,’ Enid told her. ‘And there is nothing, I don’t think, to beat homemade bread. Try some blackcurrant jam with it.’

  ‘It seems almost a shame to put jam on top of such nice butter,’ Joy said.

  ‘I agree,’ Meg said. ‘But I bet the jam is nothing like the stuff we buy in the shops. Is that homemade too?’

  Enid nodded. ‘I make jam every autumn,’ she said, and watched the girls eat with some satisfaction. Enid was born to be a homemaker and had wanted a family of children, but she had only had Stephen and never a sign of any more. She had fretted about this in the early years and, being a Catholic, she had been driven to ask the priest about it. She got little sympathy as the priest told her sharply that she had to be satisfied with what the Good Lord sent. ‘Who are you,’ he demanded, ‘to question Almighty God?’

  Well, Enid never considered herself anything special, but if God knew everything, as the priests said, then He would be well aware that, though she loved her son with all her heart and soul, she yearned for a daughter, and to that end for the next five years she had prayed earnestly, had Masses said and offered up a novena and though she had not discussed it much with Will, he sensed her inner sadness and guessed the reason for it.

  Enid felt very alone in her quest for another child. Her sister, Lily Daley, who lived in Penkridge, was ten years older than Enid, and the one she looked up to, and usually she would discuss everything with her elder sister, for she usually valued her advice and opinion.

  However, this time she could say nothing, for Lily had once had five fine healthy children, and one by one she had lost them all to diphtheria. She’d been on her own, for her husband, Arthur, had been conscripted into the army in 1914, and she’d had her youngest son three months later. By the autumn of 1916 the children had all died, but her husband was fighting a deadly war and could not come home.

  Lily had become hollow-eyed and bowed down with grief, and for a time lived at the farm with Enid and Will, who had married in 1915. Enid, despite feeling anguished and sorrowful herself, often held her sister in her arms when abject misery threatened to overwhelm her.

  Even worse was to come. A month after the last child’s funeral, Lily received a telegram telling her of the death of her husband. It was too much, and Lily fell to the floor in a faint. Once she regained consciousness, she still lay in a coma-like state for a further fortnight as she remembered the husband who had walked away so proudly, convinced they would have the Hun on the run by the first Christmas of the war.

  However, as time passed she recovered enough to return to Penkridge and, knowing that she had to provide for herself, she offered to run the grocery store, which was owned by an uncle of Arthur’s. She still lived in the three-bedroomed house she had moved into on her marriage and would not think of moving to something smaller and more suitable for she said all her memories, good and bad, were bound up in that house.

  Enid watched the courage of her sister as she rejoiced in the birth of Stephen in 1919, a year after that Great War ground to a halt, though she saw the ravaged look in her sister’s eyes when she took the child in her arms and knew that she would give everything she owned for that child to be hers. How then could she tell her sister about her longing for a daughter, when she had a son growing tall, strong and handsome beside her?

  But now Enid had two land girls living with her, due to the inclement weather, and she felt strangely drawn to them, although she knew so little about them. After breakfast she watched them slosh across the yard after Will and she wondered what would make two girls like them up sticks and come from – she imagined – comfortable homes to some of the more crude cottages, for there were a great many more primitive than Oakhurst Farm.

  Will had taken them out to clear the ditches to help the water run away, and she knew they would come in drenched and dirty and cold, like as not, and she’d have to get a nice spot of lunch together.

  In fact Meg was having the time of her life. It was so different from anything she had done before and she could see the relevance of what she was doing. It gave her little time for thinking and remembering. She soon realised it was impossible for anyone doing this type of work not to get to filthy-dirty and very wet, and once you took that on board you were fine. Anyway, she thought it a small price to pay for seeing the water level going down, even a little, and she was quite surprised when Will called a halt, then led them back down the oozing muddy waters of the lane to the farmhouse, where they removed their mud-encrusted boots and washed in the scullery as quickly as possible, for delicious smells were coming from the kitchen.

  ‘Now,’ Enid said to the two girls as she led the way to the dairy after lunch. ‘Making butter is easy enough, just a bit hard on the arms.’ She showed them the wooden churn and then she handed Meg a wooden stick with wooden flaps sticking out from the sides at the bottom.

  ‘This is called the paddle,’ Enid said. ‘Put it through the hole in the top of the lid of the drum, fasten that on securely, and churn the butter by hauling the paddle up and down.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Meg said. ‘Doesn’t seem that difficult.’

  ‘Tell that to your arms and shoulders in a wee while,�
�� Enid said, and she turned her attention to Joy, who had been watching Enid intently as she explained things.

  ‘Now, Joy,’ Enid said, leading her over to a bench where there were a collection of smaller barrels. ‘I have put vinegar in the milk to make it sour. Now we must strain it through muslin to separate the curds.’ They lifted the heavy bucket together as Enid spoke, and poured it into another container to which Enid had already fastened the muslin. ‘Do you remember the nursery rhyme about Miss Muffet sitting on a tuffet eating her curds and whey?’ Enid asked as the liquid started to seep through the muslin. Both girls nodded and Enid went on, ‘Well, on this farm we eat the curds, or soft cheese, and it is fair lovely spread on slices of homemade bread, and the whey is mixed in with the pig feed. Nothing goes to waste.’

  ‘What shall we do now?’ Joy said. ‘All the liquid is drained off.’

  ‘Bless you,’ Enid said. ‘Aren’t you that come from big cities impatient? That will drip all night and tomorrow will be done except for the salt to be added.’

  So saying, she tied a knot in the muslin and fastened it to a beam above the container. ‘There, that’s done,’ she said with satisfaction.

  ‘You know,’ said Meg, leaning on the paddle for a breather, ‘when we lived in Birmingham I never thought much about how some foods are made. Did you, Joy?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Joy said. ‘Butter and cheese and stuff were just things we bought in the shop. It sort of matters more here – and I suppose it’s the same on any farm.’

  ‘Yes,’ Enid said. ‘It would be similar anywhere, I would say. But we are lucky in many ways, because rabbits can always be killed for the pot and I can wring the neck of a bird that’s not laying any more.’

  ‘Ugh, don’t.’

  ‘No good being sentimental about animals if you live on a farm, young Meg,’ Enid said with a slight chuckle. ‘Rabbits are a menace and need to be culled, because the expression “breed like rabbits” is only too true. And any hen laying well will be kept because the eggs are very important, but if they stop laying, they are just a drain on the food supplies, which are hard enough to get. And we all get a piece of pig when one is killed locally, like we share ours in turn.’

  ‘It’s amazing,’ Meg said. ‘But you will have to be patient with me because I suppose the idea of killing animals wasn’t in the forefront of my mind when I joined the Land Army.’

  ‘What was in the forefront of your mind?’ Enid said. ‘What made two girls like you come to a place that was so different from anything you have done before?’

  ‘I suppose that’s part of the attraction,’ Meg said. ‘You know what they say about a change being as good as a rest?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t have said you two have had much rest so far,’ Enid said. ‘And you are stronger than you look, all right, because you have been paddling that churn like a good’un.’

  ‘Oh, that’s because it’s not much different from the maiding tub and I had plenty of practice at that.’

  ‘Maiding tub?’ Enid queried. ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

  So while Joy took a turn at the churning, Meg explained, and that led to her telling Enid about her mother’s death and her rearing her brothers and sisters, as she had promised her mother she would.

  ‘What a great pity for your mother to have all those fine children and to die just like that. What a great girl you were to take all that on.’

  ‘And she did a great job too,’ Joy put in, and added, ‘Did you want more children?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Enid said. ‘I wanted a big family. I fretted about it at first and even asked the advice of the priest. Not that he was any good, for all he said was that I had to be satisfied with what then good Lord sent and I hadn’t to question Almighty God.’

  ‘Are you a Catholic, Enid?’ Meg asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Enid said. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Because I’m a Catholic too and that is just the kind of thing the priests say,’ Meg told her. ‘And I bet it didn’t help at all.’

  ‘You’re right, it didn’t,’ Enid agreed.

  ‘What about Will?’ Joy asked as she took a rest from the churning. ‘Did he want more children?’

  ‘He never said in so many words,’ Enid said. ‘I suppose he thought there wasn’t any point in talking about something that he couldn’t fix.’

  ‘Yeah, men don’t talk about things, though, do they?’ Joy said. ‘Not emotional things, anyway. I’ve noticed that.’

  Enid shrugged. ‘It’s the way they are. Normally it didn’t matter, because I have a sister living in Penkridge called Lily. She is older than me and I would usually discuss everything with her, but I couldn’t tell her of my longing for more children.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Enid didn’t answer straight away, but what she did say was, ‘Afterwards, when I was coming to terms with the fact that I wasn’t going to have any more children, I began to wonder whether it was more painful to have no children at all, or to have them and love them and care for them and have them all taken away.’

  Meg gave a gasp as she thought of little Ruth and she thought that was painful all right.

  Enid noticed the distress flood over her face as she said, ‘That’s what happened to Lily, see,’ and she told the story of her sister. Meg wept for she thought that although Ruth hadn’t died she was still lost to her and her brothers and other sisters. ‘I know you’ve tasted tragedy too,’ Enid said to Meg. ‘The loss of your mother must have been grievous.’

  The tears flowed freely down Meg’s face as she said, ‘It was terrible, truly terrible. Mom knew she was dying. I didn’t want to hear, hoped she was wrong. She died giving birth to Ruth and then Ruth very nearly didn’t make it. She was in Special Care for ages.’ Meg gave a shudder that went all through her body as she said, ‘I try not to think of that time too much.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry for asking you questions and forcing you to remember things that are maybe best forgotten.’

  ‘No, don’t be sorry,’ Meg said. ‘Maybe it would be better to remember her more often, because memories are all I have and I need to keep them alive for my own sake, and in case the children ask about her.’

  Enid watched her eyes while she spoke and realised the depth of love Meg had for her siblings. She wondered what had caused her to take this job, which would mean being separated from them. Birmingham surely had other types of jobs she could have done that would have enabled her to live at home a little longer?

  However, when she broached this, Meg said firmly, ‘My help wasn’t needed at home anymore because my father married again.’

  She tried to keep any resentment and distaste out of her voice and she told of her father meeting Doris and their haste to marry, as her father thought he would be called up. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘I am only sixteen, and if Daddy was conscripted and not married, the Welfare people could say I wasn’t old enough to look after my brother and sisters completely on my own.’

  Enid nodded, for just the word ‘Welfare’ struck fear into people’s hearts.

  ‘Anyway,’ Meg finished, ‘Daddy did marry her so the children have a new mother now.’ She had tried to speak lightly but her voice had betrayed her. Enid looked at her keenly and saw the desolate look cross her face before she recovered herself and gave Enid a wan smile. Enid knew Meg hadn’t told her everything; she had the sudden urge to draw her into her arms for she looked in bad need of comfort.

  Stephen knew that too. Bored by his own company he had hobbled to the dairy to see what they were about, and the sight of Meg so sad affected him greatly. He sat awkwardly on one of the barrels, reached for her hand and drew her down onto the neighbouring barrel.

  He continued to hold her hand as he said gently, ‘What is it that is upsetting you so much? You don’t need to tell me – any of us – if you don’t want to, but I think you must tell someone because something is tearing you apart inside.’

  Meg nodded and her troubled eyes raked over each of t
hem in turn. Suddenly it was too much for her to hold inside any more. Even Joy had never been told the whole story.

  Meg began to tell them everything since the dreadful time her mother died, all the tribulations they had gone though, reliving it all again so much that her eyes were two pools of heartache. She spoke honestly about her father’s drinking, which had initially plunged them into poverty and debt, and his animosity towards Ruth, whom he thought had caused his wife’s death.

  Enid’s eyes darkened in sympathy. She had heard of such things before, but not that often, and usually the man came round in the end. She thought of her longing for a daughter; this man had four and yet they were enough for him because Meg was talking about the arrival of Doris making their lives even harder.

  ‘The children now have a stepmother,’ Meg went on, ‘yet the reality is they have no mother at all because Doris hasn’t got a maternal bone in her body. I bet she couldn’t believe her luck when she heard about evacuation.’

  ‘This area seems to be safer than many other places and so is earmarked for evacuees,’ Enid said. ‘Even the priest told his parishioners that if they had the room it was their Christian duty to take in a child or two, especially if those children were Catholics. I did think of it and if it hadn’t been for all the lads leaving and us needing to apply for land girls I would have gone for it. So I suppose your brothers and sisters are to be evacuated?’

  ‘Yes,’ Meg said. ‘Not Terry, though. He’s already left home. As soon as he was finished with school at fourteen he went to work in a mate’s shop and he lives above the premises.’

  ‘Not your youngest sister either,’ Enid said. ‘I was told it was school-age children only.’

  Meg gave a strangled sob and tears squeezed from her eyes and trickled down her cheeks, and Stephen’s felt his whole stomach lurch at the anticipation of more bad news. She shook her head mutely as Stephen dropped her hand and instead put his arm around her. She hesitated for a moment, aware that what she had to say exposed her father in the worst light possible and she felt shamed by what he had done, but it had to be told. So pressed, against Stephen’s shoulder and in a voice little above a whisper she said, ‘My father put Ruth in an orphanage.’