A Christmas Wish for the Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  Exhausted by Dorothy’s babble, Brenda made her excuses. ‘I’m a bit tired, to tell you the truth. If you don’t mind, I’d like to see my room.’

  ‘Right you are.’ Instead of showing Brenda upstairs as expected, Dorothy flung the towel over the back of the chair and went to call her father. ‘Dad, Brenda wants to see where she’ll be staying.’

  ‘Rightio.’ Bernard clomped in muddy boots across the yard to the kitchen door. ‘It’s not much,’ he warned. ‘No electric out there and only a paraffin stove for warmth, but at least it doesn’t let the rain in. Put your coat on; bring your things.’

  Brenda gathered that her billet wasn’t in the main house; even so, she wasn’t prepared for what she found when she followed Bernard around the side of the house and he flung open the door to a decommissioned railway goods wagon, miles from the nearest line, minus its wheels and raised eighteen inches above ground on piles of bricks.

  ‘I said it was a bit rough and ready,’ he reminded her. ‘But Dorothy thought you’d be better off with a room of your own, rather than having to share with her.’

  Brenda climbed two wooden steps into the wagon to see a simple, narrow bed next to a pine washstand, with a paraffin stove near the door. The stove reeked and there was a worn rug on the floor but no windows to let in daylight.

  ‘It’s where we put the lads who came spud-picking every winter until the war put a stop to it,’ he explained.

  Good Lord above; I’m to live in a railway wagon! Words failed Brenda and her heart sank as she stood, suitcase in hand. Nancy the goat brayed and kicked from inside her barn, sheep bleated high on the hill and rain fell furiously as if Noah’s flood was come at last.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Oh Joyce, what have we let ourselves in for?’ Brenda’s wailing cry when she and Joyce met at the Cross Keys next evening was heartfelt. ‘Come back, Ma Craven and Mrs Mostyn! Come back, Fieldhead – all is forgiven!’

  Ensconced in a quiet corner of the plainly furnished Snug, within a few feet of a blazing coal fire, Joyce sipped her glass of shandy. ‘As bad as that, is it?’

  ‘Worse. I’m living in an old goods wagon with a goat for a neighbour. The blasted cockerel woke me up at half five and my first job of the day was to go out and shoot a rabbit then skin it for tonight’s supper. It was downhill from there. I mean it: what have we done?’

  ‘We’ve branched out, that’s what.’ Joyce was glad she’d made an effort to tidy herself up and put on her decent, caramel-coloured woollen dress and a pair of brown court shoes before she’d come out to meet Brenda. It made her feel better in herself and hopefully made a good impression on her neighbours gathered around the bar where Evelyn served drinks.

  ‘Branched out into what?’ Brenda too had dressed to impress in a pair of high-waisted black slacks and a white rayon blouse with a wide collar and a frill down the front. The smart outfits had done the trick, to judge by the number of heads that had turned as the two new girls entered the pub.

  ‘Who knows?’ Joyce sympathized with Brenda’s gripes. ‘But if Garthside turns out not to be up to spec, you could always apply to Mrs Mostyn for another transfer.’

  ‘Or I could stick it out.’ The idea of giving in so soon went against the grain. ‘Mr Huby is a decent sort and I’m sure I can make the place more homely with a few cushions and an ornament or two.’ Tapping her fingers determinedly against the table, Brenda saw Dorothy enter the smoky bar with a tall, casually dressed man wearing a tweed jacket and pale green open-necked shirt. The clean-cut, dark-haired companion guided her to a seat in the corner then went to the bar.

  ‘Likewise,’ Joyce agreed. ‘A few pictures and ornaments will work wonders.’ She kept to herself any doubts about Laurence Bradley’s uncompromising manner and her predicament with his silent, resentful young wife. Instead, she told Brenda about the letter she’d begun to write to Edgar. ‘I tried to describe my little attic room to him – my nest in the rafters, as I call it. He likes to hear about everyday things.’

  ‘I’ll bet he hangs on every word.’ Brenda acknowledged Edgar Kershaw’s unswerving devotion to Joyce. She was sure it carried him through nightly air raids over Germany and sustained him in the thick of ack-ack fire and Messerschmitt attacks. She also recognized how terribly hard it was for Joyce to stay calm whilst knowing the danger he faced. ‘I wish I could say the same about Les.’

  ‘Come off it; Les is head over heels.’

  ‘So you say.’ Brenda wasn’t so sure.

  ‘He is. He went against his family to get engaged to you. He gave you his mother’s precious engagement ring.’

  Brenda stared wistfully at the diamond ring presently adorning the third finger of her left hand. ‘Then why doesn’t he write?’ It had been more than three weeks since she’d received a letter.

  ‘Perhaps he can’t; we’ve no idea what top-secret missions the Navy sends him on, or if he’s free to write and receive letters from loved ones back home. Does he even know that Hettie is poorly, for instance?’

  Brenda shook her head. ‘But he’ll find out when and if he comes home on leave this weekend. And hopefully I’ll see him on Saturday, if I can get Mr Huby to give me the morning off.’

  ‘Get Mr Huby to do what?’ Dorothy had spotted Brenda and floated across with her young man in tow. She barged in on the tail end of the conversation between Brenda and Joyce.

  Brenda blushed and quickly made the introductions. ‘I’m hoping to get back to Burnside on Saturday,’ she explained evasively. ‘There are a few things I’d like to pick up.’

  ‘Including her trusty motor bike,’ Joyce added.

  ‘You don’t say?’ Dorothy’s good-looking friend pricked up his ears. ‘What type of bike is it?’

  ‘It’s a Sloper; nothing fancy but it gets me around.’ Brenda would have been happy to embark on a discussion about engine sizes and top speeds but Dorothy was having none of it.

  ‘But have you thought how you’ll get down there?’ she interrupted, one eyebrow cocked in the direction of her mechanically minded companion. ‘There’s no bus on Saturday. And it’s too far for Shanks’s pony.’

  ‘I don’t mind dropping you off,’ the young man volunteered, hands in jacket pockets and looking with interest from Brenda to Joyce then back again. ‘I have to drive Dot into town anyway.’

  For a second the offer took Brenda aback. She glanced at Dorothy to check that she had no objection.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Dorothy instantly interpreted the puzzled look then giggled. ‘You don’t think …?’ She pointed at the volunteer driver then poked herself in the chest. ‘Him and me? Oh dear, no!’

  He took his hands out of his pockets and stepped forward. ‘Come on, Dot; do the honours.’

  ‘Brenda, Joyce, meet my brother Cliff. He often gives me a lift into Northgate at the weekend. It wouldn’t be putting him out at all.’

  The ice was broken and soon it was all arranged – Cliff Huby would call at Garthside on Saturday morning. Dorothy and Brenda had better be ready – Cliff knew what Dorothy was like, always faffing about and having to go back for things. They were both sure that their dad wouldn’t mind if Brenda stayed away overnight and rode her bike back to Garthside on Sunday. That would give Brenda plenty of time to catch up with old friends.

  ‘I’ll see you at eight o’clock sharp,’ Cliff said before he strolled away.

  Dorothy sat down at Joyce and Brenda’s table. ‘That was a stroke of luck, eh?’

  Brenda nodded in agreement. ‘It means I can write to Les later tonight and make a proper arrangement to see him.’

  Dorothy caught sight of a portly man in a dog collar and quickly lost interest in Brenda’s arrangements. ‘What’s that God-botherer doing in here?’ she asked in a peevish voice.

  ‘He’s handing out leaflets, by the look of it.’ Joyce too was interested in the arrival of the vicar. After offering to buy Dorothy and Brenda a drink, she went to the bar and listened in.

  ‘I’d be obliged if you’d
pin one of these on your noticeboard.’ The clergyman slid a leaflet across the bar top and Evelyn took it. ‘It gives a list of times for my Christmas services. I’m letting people know well in advance this year.’

  ‘I can certainly ask Fred,’ Evelyn replied in a rather offhand way before turning to Joyce. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Three shandies, please.’

  ‘I’m sure Fred will have no objection.’ The stout vicar took up a lot of space at the crowded bar. His smile was broad, his face plump and shiny. ‘The landlord here is most obliging when it comes to church notices.’

  Evelyn raised her eyebrows at Joyce who squeezed forward to collect her drinks. ‘How’s the new lad, Mr Rigg?’ she asked as she slid the drinks across the bar.

  ‘He’s settling in a treat, thank you, Evelyn. Unfortunately his mother forgot to pack a spare pair of pyjamas but he has everything else he needs.’

  ‘That’s good. It’s a pity he’s the only evacuee in the village, though. He could have done with a pal to keep him company.’

  Walter Rigg’s smile didn’t waver. ‘Nothing is perfect during these difficult days but we must all count our blessings. Alan is ten times safer here than he was in Millwood; that’s why his mother sent him and his sister to live in the country.’

  ‘A sister, you say?’

  ‘Five years older than Alan, apparently. She’s gone to live with a family in Attercliffe. I would have had them both at the vicarage, except that it might not have seemed – shall we say – proper for a single gentleman to take in a girl of her age.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Evelyn turned away to serve another customer.

  Joyce frowned to herself. It wasn’t what the vicar said so much as his self-satisfied, holier-than-thou air that bothered her. She took her drinks and returned to her table where she found Dorothy alone and twiddling her thumbs. ‘Where’s Brenda got to?’ she asked.

  ‘Cliff came back and collared her. He took her outside to show her his pride and joy. His jalopy,’ she explained. ‘Lord knows why he thinks Brenda would be interested.’

  ‘You don’t know Brenda. Anything mechanical is bound to grab her attention.’ Needing a break from the smoky atmosphere, Joyce nipped outside to tell Brenda that her drink was waiting. She heard Cliff’s voice drift across the unlit green then spotted a small figure sitting alone on the worn steps surrounding the village cross. ‘Alan?’ she said as she walked towards him.

  The boy jumped up and backed away.

  ‘It’s all right, you haven’t done anything wrong. Do you remember me from our bus ride? My name’s Joyce. I was wondering why you were sitting outside in the cold.’

  ‘Waiting for the vicar.’ Wrapped up as before in mackintosh, school cap and long socks, with his bare, bony knees on view, his pale face looked pinched and miserable. ‘He’s delivering leaflets.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen him. But couldn’t you have stayed in the vicarage where it’s nice and warm?’

  ‘I didn’t want to be there by myself.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I just didn’t.’

  ‘Does Mr Rigg know that you’re waiting here?’

  Alan shook his head.

  ‘What is it about the house?’ Joyce’s heart went out to the lonely boy.

  Struggling to hold back tears, he tried to explain. ‘I can see the graveyard from my bedroom.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s it.’

  ‘There’s a white angel on one of the graves.’

  ‘The angel won’t harm you, Alan. It’s carved out of stone.’

  ‘I saw it move – last night in the dark.’

  Joyce resisted the impulse to smile. ‘I don’t think so. I think you must have imagined that. But couldn’t you ask Mr Rigg to put you in a different room? It’s a big house – I’m sure there are plenty to choose from.’

  ‘I daren’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He might tell me off.’ The weight of the world rested on the boy’s shoulders and he gave way to tears.

  Joyce offered him her hankie. ‘I could put in a word for you. Would you like that?’

  ‘No.’ He was adamant through his sniffles. ‘I’ll just keep the curtains closed so I don’t have to look out of the window.’

  ‘All right. But listen to me, you’ll catch your death of cold if you stay out here much longer. Why not come and sit with me in the porch outside the pub? Let me buy you a bag of crisps. I’ll keep you company for a little while.’

  The crisps did it. Slowly Alan nodded and they walked together across the wet grass, bumping into Brenda and Cliff as they finished admiring his Morris Minor.

  ‘It’s what they call chummy,’ Cliff was explaining. ‘In other words, a tight squeeze for four people. There’s only a three-speed gearbox. It cost me thirty-two pounds ten shillings second hand – I had to save my pennies for a whole year to scrape that together. Mind you, it’s coming up to thirteen years old so I might have to start saving all over again.’

  Brenda was interested in every detail, particularly the cost of keeping the car on the road. ‘Most working men can’t afford to,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Living in at the castle helps because there’s no rent for me to find. But I don’t get paid any overtime, no matter how many extra hours I put in. Old Weatherall is a tight-fisted bugger – excuse my French.’

  ‘What about getting the engine serviced?’

  ‘I do that myself. I learned how to fettle a tractor engine off my dad. It’s not such a big jump from that to looking after a car. There’s still tyres to buy, though. And petrol and oil.’

  Joyce saw that Cliff and Brenda had instantly hit it off. The usual alarm bell rang inside her head; Brenda tended to sail through life with a kind of breezy innocence that could and sometimes did give the wrong impression.

  Cliff held the door open for Brenda while Joyce settled Alan on a bench inside the porch. ‘I won’t be long,’ she told him before following Brenda inside. She quickly linked arms with her and whisked her away from Cliff towards their table. ‘Madam, your shandy awaits,’ she told her. ‘Drink up while I go and buy Alan a bag of crisps.’

  Two shandies later, with the boy still safely ensconced in the porch, both Joyce and Brenda had started to let their hair down. They sat back in their chairs and their faces were wreathed in smiles as Dorothy came up with racy questions about their lives as Land Girls.

  ‘How is it, living in a girls-only set-up?’ she wanted to know. ‘I’ll bet you there are cat fights every now and then.’

  ‘Sometimes, if a lipstick goes missing, or a pair of socks,’ Joyce admitted.

  ‘Most of the rows are over who’s used all the hot water,’ Brenda added. ‘Then all hell is let loose.’

  ‘Miaow!’ Dorothy said with an eager grin as she turned to include Evelyn who was winding down after her stint at the bar. ‘Come and sit with us,’ she ordered. ‘Now, Brenda, what about men? Are they allowed into the hostels?’

  ‘Not officially. But there’s such a thing as a fire escape, if you know what I’m getting at. Or else you can ask for a late pass and have a high old time at dances put on by the RAF boys. That’s what me and my pals used to do when I was doing my training at a new hostel outside Rixley.’

  Dorothy’s eyes widened in her round, rosy face. ‘So it’s not all tractor driving and ditch digging?’

  ‘Far from it.’ Brenda shook her head. ‘This past year I managed to get engaged in amongst the muck and the drudgery. How about you, Evelyn? Did you snag a good-looking soldier or sailor before you joined the Timber Corps?’

  Evelyn gave a stiff smile. ‘Do me a favour! I’m only just turned twenty. Why would I want to tie myself down at my age?’

  Joyce sensed some unease behind the bravado. ‘So how did you end up here?’ she asked.

  Evelyn adjusted the green silk scarf that she wore round her neck. It set off her copper-coloured hair and made a striking contrast to the grey tailored jacket that she wore over dark slacks. ‘The same
as you, I suppose. I wanted to learn new things so I enrolled on a forestry course. I expected them to send me to Scotland after I got my certificate in July, but instead they kept me closer to home. I’ve been based at the Acklam Castle estate for four months now.’

  ‘Isn’t that where your brother works?’ Brenda asked Dorothy, who nodded between sips of shandy.

  Evelyn barely paused. ‘Acklam suits me down to the ground. Weatherall’s last forestry man was called up into the Merchant Navy earlier in the year, which means that I manage the woodland without anyone breathing down my neck.’

  ‘It’s a wonder how you girls do it,’ Dorothy said with a self-deprecating sigh. She smoothed out the wrinkles in her pale blue skirt then tweaked the collar of her white satin blouse. ‘I’d never have believed a woman could have the strength to cut down trees – or drive tractors, for that matter. Then there’s the scything in summer and ploughing in winter. It’s a blooming miracle, if you ask me.’

  Evelyn shrugged. ‘Just because we’ve never been allowed to do it before now doesn’t mean we weren’t always capable.’

  ‘The test will be whether or not we’re allowed to keep on doing it when the men come back after the war.’ Brenda hit the nail on the head as usual. ‘What do you think, Joyce? Will girls be treated as equal now that we’ve proved we can do anything a man can do?’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Joyce held back from predicting the future. ‘If there’s any fairness in the world, we will.’

  ‘We’ll have to get out the old Ouija board and see if we can find out.’ Brenda turned the conversation in a more light-hearted direction.

  ‘Ooh, yes please!’ Dorothy gave a delighted squeal at the prospect.

  ‘Or, better still, go on a day trip to Blackpool and ask Gypsy Rose Lee,’ Evelyn suggested.

  Joyce took a deep swallow of her shandy then quizzed Evelyn. ‘This Weatherall chap that you mentioned; tell me more.’ As ever, she was keen to learn all she could about her new surroundings.

  ‘What is there to say? If you can call a man a fossil, that just about sums up Colonel Weatherall. Crusty, dusty, dried up, ancient …’