A Christmas Wish for the Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘That’s most kind, most thoughtful.’ Walter scanned the contents. ‘Oh, it says here that I’m very cheerful, eh? That’s nice to know.’ The smile faded as he reached the end. ‘Lonely? Yes, I suppose it must be. But never mind, Alan; we all have our crosses to bear.’

  The door closed with a firm click and Joyce felt uncomfortable as she returned to the Land-Rover. ‘Now then, Flint, I hope Mr Rigg doesn’t blame Alan over the loneliness remark,’ she said to the dog by her side. ‘After all, that wouldn’t be fair, would it?’

  ‘You can drop me outside the Blacksmith’s Arms,’ Brenda told Cliff Huby from the back seat of his Morris Minor as he drove her and Dorothy into Burnside that Saturday morning. ‘Mr Kershaw gave me permission to leave Old Sloper in a shed behind the forge. He said I could pick her up any time. Yes, just here is champion. Ta very much!’

  Everything had gone to plan: Cliff had arrived at Garthside Farm at the appointed time. Dorothy had been almost ready. Cliff had chatted with his father while Brenda had helped Dorothy to choose between two dresses that she might wear for a night out at the flicks. The crimson one with wide shoulder pads or the slim-fitting navy blue one with the kick-pleat at the back? Crimson or navy blue? Dorothy had made Brenda decide. Then, on the journey down the dale, she’d chatted non-stop, galloping off at tangents that included the hardships imposed by clothes rationing, the relief of Malta (‘At last!’), Mr Churchill’s fat cigar (‘Smelly and disgusting!’) and the unflattering uniforms that Land Girls were forced to wear.

  ‘I don’t know how you put up with those dungaree thingummies,’ she’d commiserated with Brenda from the front seat. ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead in them.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Cliff had chipped in with a quick glance over his shoulder. ‘I reckon Brenda might be able to pull them off.’

  Dorothy had picked up her brother’s sly innuendo and embarrassed Brenda. ‘“Pull them off!” Oh, I say!’

  Cliff had jokily protested his innocence and Brenda had let it go.

  ‘Right here,’ she said again as he pulled up in the pub yard. ‘Champion, thanks.’

  Making an ungainly exit from the cramped vehicle, she said cheerio then waved Cliff and Dorothy on their way. Then, before she had time to gather her wits, Una ran across the road.

  ‘Brenda!’ Una flung her arms around her. ‘I saw you from Grace’s house. Who was that in the car with you? What are you doing here? Have you come back to the hostel? Please say you have.’

  ‘Steady on.’ Brenda freed herself and saw Grace standing in her doorway, hands clasped high over her stomach in expectant-mother pose.

  Brenda let Una drag her by the hand to say hello. ‘I’m here on a flying visit,’ she explained. ‘Oh, but it is good to see you both. Una, how’s Fieldhead?’

  ‘Quiet without you, that’s for sure.’

  ‘And Grace, are you looking after yourself properly?’

  ‘Yes, under the orders of you-know-who.’

  ‘Your fire-eating mother-in-law,’ Brenda said, quick as a flash.

  ‘Yes,’ Grace sighed. ‘“You must eat, you must rest, don’t listen to the News; it will only upset you.”’

  ‘She’s right about that,’ Una pointed out as the happily reunited trio went inside. ‘The last I heard, the French navy has had to scuttle its own fleet to keep it out of German hands.’

  ‘Una!’ Brenda pretended to put her hands around her neck to throttle her.

  Grace laughed. ‘I may be expecting a baby but I haven’t gone soft in the head. I’m glued to the wireless regardless. How long are you here for, Brenda? Do you have time for a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, I can’t stop. I only came to pick up Old Sloper. But quickly, before I go I want to hear the latest about Angelo and Bill.’

  ‘Bill’s regiment is being sent to Burma.’ Grace’s stoical expression disguised her inner turmoil. ‘We’ve been expecting it.’

  ‘I’ve had a long letter from Angelo.’ Una beamed. ‘He likes being at the seaside but he misses me.’

  ‘Quite right too!’

  ‘And what about Les?’ Grace asked Brenda.

  She frowned and looked down at her feet. ‘I still haven’t heard from him. But I do know that he’s expected home this weekend.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ Una cried.

  Grace immediately whisked Brenda towards the door. ‘Whatever are you hanging around here for?’

  They shooed her out of the house then hurried her across the road. ‘Go!’ they ordered. ‘Get on your bike and ride like the wind!’

  Brenda rode the familiar road from Burnside along Swinsty Edge, past Hawkshead then over the grouse moor towards Attercliffe. Speed and the open road thrilled her as much as ever, so that by the time she slowed down for the hairpin bends on her final descent towards Dale End, her spirits were higher than they’d been for a long time.

  This is just the job, she thought. Blue skies, a touch of hoar frost on the hedgerows, not another soul in sight; what could be better?

  The road twisted and narrowed as at last the Whites’ grand farmhouse came into view. She braked and felt her heart beat faster. ‘Les!’ she murmured as she turned into the driveway leading to the house. It was four months since she’d seen her fiancé and almost as many weeks since she’d received a letter. Now the silence would be broken. He would be waiting at a window. He would hear the bike then rush out of the door and wrap his arms around her. She would sink her head against his shoulder and lose herself in his embrace.

  Oddly, though, there was no face at any of the windows. The only sign of life was Arnold White’s two springer spaniels racing through the open door and circling Brenda’s bike as she set it on its stand. They jumped up at her and harried her as she took off her goggles and gauntlets then approached the steps.

  ‘Hello?’ she called through the door. The hall was empty, the door into the sitting room closed. ‘Is anyone there?’

  Arnold came out of his study and called his dogs. There was a whiff of tobacco smoke and a closed look on his face that told Brenda that she wasn’t expected or indeed welcome.

  She stood on the step, enduring an awkward silence and waiting for Les’s father to invite her in. Arnold cleared his throat. He was upright as ever; shoulders back, jaw clenched, immaculate in tweeds with a neatly knotted tie, gleaming gold cufflinks and watch chain. ‘Hmm,’ he said, before gesturing towards the sitting room then retreating with his dogs into his book-lined room.

  Brenda swallowed her disappointment and tapped on the sitting-room door. It was opened by a girl with a thin, serious face. Her brown hair hung in two long plaits tied with tartan ribbons and she wore a hand-knitted fawn jumper under a plain grey pinafore skirt. Her air was shy and apprehensive.

  ‘Hello.’ Brenda spoke quietly. Events were not unfolding the way she’d anticipated.

  ‘Is that you, Brenda?’ From inside the room Hettie sounded irritated.

  Brenda stepped past the girl. ‘Yes, here I am, tra-la!’

  A fire blazed in the Adam fireplace, making the room uncomfortably hot. Hettie sat on the sofa with her paisley shawl around her shoulders, her dark hair combed straight back from her handsome face.

  ‘That will do for now, Judith,’ she told the girl, who backed out of the room then closed the door. ‘Now, Brenda, put your things down over there, out of the way. What do make of our new resident?’

  Brenda sat in a chair near the French windows, the coolest spot in the room. She looked around for signs of Les’s presence: records taken out of their paper sleeves, ready to be played on the gramophone, or else one of his jackets slung across the back of a chair. ‘She seems shy,’ she said in answer to Hettie’s brusque question. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘She’s an evacuee. Judith Evans, aged thirteen and three-quarters. The three-quarters are important, apparently. Dad decided on the spur of the moment we should take in a child from Millwood. I know, I know; spontaneous acts of generosity aren’t his style. But it’s the war. We a
ll have to …’

  ‘Do our bit.’ Brenda finished the sentence. Hettie seemed weary and had obviously not yet got over her recent illness. ‘I have an idea that Joyce and I sat on the bus out to Shawcross with Judith’s brother, Alan. He seems a nice little lad – shy like his sister.’

  ‘Judith has good manners, thank goodness.’ Hettie frowned then addressed the elephant in the room. ‘I suppose you were expecting to see Les?’

  Brenda felt her stomach muscles tighten. This was not going to be good news, she realized.

  ‘But as you can see, he’s not here. Unfortunately his leave was cancelled at the last minute. Didn’t Donald telephone you?’

  The knot in Brenda’s stomach tightened. ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Oh dear. I specifically asked him to call, to save you an unnecessary journey. We all feel let down, of course.’

  Brenda bit her lip. ‘I suppose it can’t be helped.’ There was to be no Les, no embrace, no outpouring of the complicated emotions pent up inside her. How on earth was she to go on hoping and wishing, dreaming and loving her fiancé without hearing his voice or feeling his lips on hers?

  As Brenda tried to bring her emotions under control, Hettie picked up a small bell from the low table in front of her. Its tinkling sound brought Judith back into the room. ‘Could you ask Donald to join us, please?’ Hettie asked in a prim, precise voice.

  Judith disappeared and Brenda endured another tricky silence before Donald put in an appearance. ‘Heigh-ho,’ he said when he saw a stony-faced Brenda. ‘I take it my telephone message didn’t reach you?’

  ‘That’s right, it didn’t.’

  ‘But I did make the call on Thursday morning,’ he insisted as he leaned on the back of Hettie’s sofa and gave the distinct impression of not altogether regretting his brother’s absence. ‘As a matter of fact, Brenda, I went to a good deal of trouble on your behalf. First off, I spoke to the warden at Fieldhead who gave me the telephone number for … now, what was it? Oh yes, the number for Garthside Farm in Shawcross.’

  Brenda did her best not to feel irritated by Donald’s teasing manner and to look him steadily in the eye.

  ‘Actually, I was surprised they had a telephone line out there. I called the exchange and the operator put me through to a person answering to the name of Miss Dorothy Huby.’

  ‘You told Dorothy that Les’s leave was cancelled?’ A flash of anger ran through Brenda.

  ‘Uh-oh, and she didn’t pass on the message? That was very naughty of her. Not that we’re not glad to see you – isn’t that right, Hettie?’ Giving his sister a peck on the cheek, he strolled over to lean his elbow on the back of Brenda’s chair. His face came to within six inches of hers. ‘And now that you’re here, what can I get you to drink? Is it too early for your favourite tipple? Dubonnet, isn’t it?’

  Brenda gave him a withering look. ‘No ta, Donald. I won’t stop long – I can see that Hettie’s tired.’

  He turned to look out of the window while Hettie shifted position and rearranged her shawl.

  ‘Why don’t you tell Brenda your news, Hettie?’ His voice was quiet, his air suddenly distracted. ‘She’s bound to find out sooner or later.’

  His sister’s frown deepened and she clutched at the neck of her shawl. ‘Very well, if Brenda promises not to make a fuss.’

  ‘Of course.’ Brenda nodded then waited anxiously.

  ‘It’s the real reason behind Father offering to take in Judith,’ Hettie confessed. ‘He made it clear that he wanted a girl who was old enough to do some of the housework and run around after me, knowing that I wasn’t going to get better.’

  ‘Not straight away, at any rate.’ Donald continued to stare at the rooks perched in the treetops in the copse beyond the barns.

  ‘Not ever,’ Hettie contradicted firmly. ‘I’m afraid the doctor has given me some bad news, Brenda. I have a tumour.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Here.’ She placed her hand over her stomach. ‘Apparently I’ve left it far too late for the hospital doctors to take it away.’

  ‘Are they sure?’ Brenda’s heart fluttered and she had to resist the urge to fly across the room to comfort Hettie; an action that she had the sense to know would be met with a rebuff.

  ‘Quite certain. But please don’t mention it to Les when you write. He has enough to cope with.’

  Brenda nodded slowly.

  ‘You give me your word?’

  ‘I promise.’ She stood up, turned to the window and saw five or six rooks rise from the trees and fly high into the cloudless sky. Donald kept his back to her. Hettie sighed and adjusted her shawl.

  ‘I’m so very sorry,’ Brenda murmured, crossing the room and briefly resting a hand on the sick woman’s shoulder. ‘I’ll leave you in peace but is there anything you need from me before I go?’

  Hettie flinched at her touch. ‘Nothing else, thank you. Only that you keep your promise.’

  The pathos of Hettie’s request pierced Brenda’s heart. It didn’t add up. Why would a sister not want to tell her brother that she had only a short time to live? Surely Les would want the chance to say goodbye, but Hettie had demanded a vow of silence and Brenda couldn’t refuse. ‘Trust me, I won’t mention it,’ she whispered.

  The coals in the grate shifted. One of Arnold’s dogs crept in through the half-open door and settled on the hearth rug. The rooks whirled then flew low over the house as Brenda left the building. She put on her goggles and gloves then kick-started her bike, carrying Hettie’s sad news with her along the quiet road to Burnside and beyond.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Left to herself on her afternoon off, Joyce donned a thick jumper, a pair of slacks and her sturdy shoes before setting off on the cross-country hike to Acklam Castle.

  ‘Straight on past Mary’s Fall,’ Laurence told her when he learned of her plan. ‘Follow the public footpath. Make sure you’re back in time for milking.’

  Assuring him that she would, she left him to tinker with the engine of his Land-Rover then strode on up the hill. She took in deep breaths of cold, fresh air and endured strong, whirling blasts of wind. Clumps of brown heather and stretches of boggy ground hindered her progress as she approached Black Crag. Once there, she crossed the stream then skirted around the back of the outcrop and went on picking her way across open moorland until she reached a secluded, horseshoe-shaped cove where a stream tumbled over a ledge and splashed into a deep, crystal-clear pool. She stopped by the waterfall to enjoy the spectacle of water cascading twenty feet on to mossy rocks, feeling its cold spray on her skin. Mary’s Fall. Who was the original Mary? she wondered. A local girl, no doubt, whose story had been lost in the mists of time.

  Walking on, Joyce imagined long-ago trysts in this leafy, hidden place.

  Her idle speculation brought a smile to her lips as she left the waterfall behind and a new vista opened out before her. The land rolled away towards a sizeable expanse of woodland and beyond that were the ruins of Acklam Castle standing on a bare knoll overlooking the river – a vantage point that would have provided plenty of advance warning of would-be invaders.

  So Joyce struck out across country, glad when she eventually reached the wood and found shelter from the wind. The trees were bare, fallen leaves wet and thick underfoot, and she had to pick her way through tangled undergrowth. There was a smell of damp and decay as the sycamores, ash and beech trees eased their way towards their long winter slumber.

  After half a mile of silent forest she felt a world away from war and strife. It seemed impossible to believe that the solitary plane flying high overhead – a mere glint of metal in the clear sky, glimpsed between dark branches – might carry bombs that would kill and maim. She stood a while in a small clearing and watched its thin white vapour trail dissolve. British or German? Canadian or Italian? There was no way of knowing.

  ‘Halt. Who goes there?’ Evelyn came across Joyce staring up into the cloudless sky. She rode a sturdy, dark bay cob with a thick black mane a
nd tail.

  Joyce was amused by the jaunty greeting. ‘Hello, Evelyn. It’s me – Joyce.’

  ‘Yes, I see it is.’ She sat quietly in the saddle, dressed in dungarees and a thick winter coat, bare-headed with her copper hair glinting in the sunlight, a hazel switch in her hand. ‘Have you walked from Black Crag?’

  ‘Yes, to see you. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind. We don’t have much on this afternoon, do we, Captain?’ Patting the elderly horse’s neck before dismounting, she joined Joyce in the clearing and gestured all around. ‘You see what I have to contend with? Decades of neglect; that’s what this is.’

  Joyce took in the tangle of brambles and unruly saplings. ‘Yes. It’ll take a lot of forestry work to put this right.’

  Evelyn swished her hazel stick at a nearby ash sapling. ‘Coppicing mainly. Youngsters like this have to be cut back in order to give the old-timers like the oak over there room to breathe.’

  ‘How old would you say this is?’ Joyce walked across to lay her hand on the oak’s gnarled trunk and gaze up at its twisted branches.

  ‘It takes a tree six or seven hundred years to grow to that size. Nelson’s navy was built from good old English oak and that was Lord knows how many years ago.’ Evelyn spoke fondly as she and Joyce studied the network of branches overhead. ‘I sometimes think that I like these strong old oaks more than anything else in this world.’

  Evelyn’s talent for exaggeration reminded Joyce of Brenda. ‘More than people?’ she asked with a wry smile.

  ‘Oh, ten times more.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘All right then; twice as much.’ The dark brown horse trailed his reins along the ground as he wandered over to nuzzle Evelyn’s shoulder. ‘Trees don’t die on you, for a start; not if you look after them.’

  This hit a nerve with Joyce, who frowned and dipped her head to stare at the ground.

  ‘You too?’ Evelyn asked quietly.

  Joyce nodded. ‘My first fiancé, Walter, was in the Royal Navy. His ship went down off Gibraltar. All hands lost.’