A Christmas Wish for the Land Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘How could I forget?’ It was hideous all right, with its over-the-top trimmings – not Alma’s style at all.

  ‘I don’t want it. I’m going to send it back.’ She jammed the top on the box and put it back on the sill.

  ‘Please yourself.’ He sounded calm but his insides were playing up. He realized that this was about more than a silly hat.

  ‘I am,’ she insisted. ‘And I’m going to write a note telling her she’s not welcome here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ He caught her by the hand to stop her flying around the room.

  ‘Yes.’ Alma was adamant that she wouldn’t allow her aunt to force her way back in. ‘She’ll only cause trouble between us.’

  He nodded slowly.

  ‘I wouldn’t want that. I want us to get on better.’

  He felt his heart race. Alma’s hand was still in his; small and slim.

  ‘So I’ve decided to do more work on the farm now that Joyce is going over to Acklam for part of the time. It’ll be lambing season before we know it – I can lend a hand with that.’

  Laurence grasped her hand more tightly. The moment he’d set eyes on Alma, in a shop buying blackout blinds with her aunt, he’d fallen for her. A single glance had been enough to convince him that she was beautiful, with a rare mixture of quiet simplicity and steadfastness. There was nothing flighty about her. He’d hardly noticed the burn marks but when he did he’d remembered the depth of her loss and his closed heart had opened up.

  He’d known that he must bide his time. The farm kept him busy and his trips into town to the hardware shop and the feed suppliers were few and far between. But he’d worked out Alma’s routine of running errands for her aunt and put himself in her way until she’d grown used to seeing him. He’d invited her to come with him to the Lyons tea shop on the corner of Kitchener Street and she’d accepted. She’d smiled a bit over tea and scones as she’d remembered going swimming with her sister and brother in the pond below Mary’s Fall. She still missed the countryside, she’d said.

  It had been a slow, old-fashioned courtship that had taken everyone by surprise. Muriel had been outraged when she’d realized what had been going on behind her back. Laurence’s son, Gordon, had been called up and was on the brink of going off to fight. He’d said that his father was a fool for even thinking about Alma in that way.

  But they’d gone ahead and got married. Laurence had brought her to Black Crag and waited patiently for her to make herself at home. There was plenty of time. And then there they were a few weeks later, living side by side but not together at night, in the same bed. Alma had cooked and cleaned without complaint. He’d worked with the sheep. She’d hardly spoken, had been keenly conscious of her disfigurement and seemed hardly to know what being married entailed.

  And for long enough Laurence had decided not to force her into anything she didn’t want. The silences between them had lengthened. Then he’d tried to talk her round to being what he described as a proper wife. She’d shied away and her early steadfastness had turned into stubbornness. She’d refused to explain herself. The arguments had started. Then Joyce had arrived and taken up residence in the attic.

  ‘So you want us to get on better?’ he asked in a low voice, her hand still resting in his.

  ‘Would you like us to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ She stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the lips. One soft touch left him reeling before she broke away. ‘Remember that stair rod still needs fixing before you put your tools away.’

  He took up his tool bag. ‘Which one is it?’

  ‘The fourth one up.’ She brushed past him and went up the stairs.

  He took out his hammer and knocked in a couple of extra nails. Upstairs on the landing he heard Alma moving quietly back and forth.

  Still tingling from the kiss, she took her nightdress and dressing-gown from her room and carried them into his. She laid the nightdress on Laurence’s bed, hung the dressing-gown on the door hook then went back for her hairbrush and slippers. She set the hairbrush on the embroidered square of linen on top of the chest of drawers (most likely made by Lily in her early married days) and slid her slippers under the bed. Then she had second thoughts, picking up the embroidered square, folding it neatly and putting it away at the back of a drawer. Tomorrow or the day after, she would arrange for the hat to be sent back to Aunty Muriel. Before Christmas, at any rate; then her past life would be over and done with. It would soon be 1943 and she and Laurence could look forward to a new beginning.

  The old woman had left the coal-shed door open and gone to shout for Brenda and Joyce. Alan took his chance. He threw off the dirty sacks and forced his frozen limbs into action, stumbling over lumps of coal then rushing out to climb a wall that overlooked the riverbank. The ground sloped away steeply towards the fast-running river which slapped against the bank and eddied between rocks. He leaned towards the trunk of a horse chestnut tree and tried to grasp it with his useless fingers. His hand slipped and he slid down the banking towards the roaring brown water.

  ‘Don’t move!’ A voice yelled at Alan from the opposite bank. It was the vet from the big house, arms raised over his head and waving at him. ‘Stay there – I’m on my way!’

  Alan’s foot had jammed against a rock and stopped his downward slide. Ignoring the vet’s instructions, he went on to all fours and tried to crawl towards the bridge, head down, still desperate not to be caught. His shoe came off and fell into the water as he scrambled under the stone arch. He panted for breath, almost toppled backwards but threw himself forward instead. He landed belly-down, his face pressed against slippery, cold rock.

  Brenda joined Geoff and leaned over the bridge. She’d answered Emma’s call but had arrived too late to stop Alan from escaping. She’d heard Geoff’s cry and spotted Alan crawling along the bank. Now she looked down from the bridge at the terrified youngster sprawled across the rock, clinging on for dear life. ‘Hang on,’ she instructed. ‘I’ll come and get you.’

  He felt himself slide inch by inch towards the water. There was nothing to hold on to – only smooth, wet rock. He cried out as his feet touched the icy water and the current tore off the remaining shoe.

  ‘Hang on, Alan!’

  He looked up to see Brenda edging across the rock, holding out her hand for him to grab. She was too far away. He reached out but slid again.

  Now Joyce appeared on the bridge with Geoff and they looked helplessly at the scene below. Alan was drenched, spread-eagled on the rock, sliding ever closer towards the water. Brenda found a foothold and then another. She was risking everything to save the boy, reaching a narrow ledge then going down on to her belly and stretching out her hand.

  The water roared and tugged at his legs. The stone arch soared above his head. He felt Brenda’s fingertips and then her whole hand grasp his. With a groan he let himself be pulled clear of the water and into her arms.

  She held him tight and waited for the others.

  Geoff came down the bank ahead of Joyce. He handed Brenda his coat and she wrapped it around the shivering boy. Other searchers congregated on the bridge.

  ‘I won’t go back,’ he whimpered.

  ‘We won’t make you,’ Brenda promised.

  ‘I won’t!’ He was too cold to cry, almost too cold to speak, clinging to Brenda and pleading with her as she handed him over to Geoff who took the dripping bundle and carefully carried him up the bank.

  ‘Don’t worry – I think I’ve got the solution,’ Geoff said over his shoulder to Brenda, who followed him up the riverbank. Then he called up to Joyce. ‘Tell Mr Rigg that Alan is found.’

  Rigg’s name terrified Alan. He struggled to break free but Geoff held him tight as they reached the path.

  ‘Say I’ll look after him,’ Geoff insisted. ‘And tell Walter Rigg to stay away.’

  Brenda, Joyce, Emma and Giles gathered around the rescued boy.

  ‘What else?’ Joyce asked before she set off for the vicarage.

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nbsp; ‘Tell him he’s not a fit guardian for this child.’ Geoff carried Alan over the bridge towards his house. ‘He’ll stay at New Hall. The authorities will be informed.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Brenda asked Dorothy as the eventful day drew to a close. Smoke from Bernard’s pipe filled the kitchen and the comforting tap-tapping sound of his small hammer driving nails through the new leather soles of his work boots accompanied their talk.

  ‘Nothing.’ Dorothy seemed put out by something but was not willing to explain what that something was.

  ‘Come on; out with it.’

  ‘No, it’s nothing.’

  ‘Have you had another row with Cliff?’ Brenda had come inside to telephone Dale End and tell Donald that she would arrive at the house in good time for Hettie’s funeral on Wednesday. But she’d found Dorothy in a gloomy mood and decided to try to talk her out of it before making the call.

  ‘No. I’m still giving him the cold shoulder, though.’ Dorothy huffed and puffed her way through yet another of her magazines, flicking pages then pushing it across the table. She’d sat around all day in her dressing-gown, refusing to go back to bed after Alma’s visit despite Bernard’s nagging. ‘Cliff’s moved back in here for a few days, did you know that?’

  ‘Has he now?’ Brenda was intrigued. Good for Evelyn, she thought.

  ‘Yes. He’s threatening to go back to Acklam for his dirty washing and bring it here. I told him not to bother – I won’t do it for him.’

  ‘So you have had a row?’

  Dorothy shrugged then picked at her fingernails. ‘All right, I suppose so. But the point is I’ve been stuck in the house all day, missing the excitement. It’s not fair.’

  Bernard finished his boot repairs and put away his tools. ‘She means the goings-on at the vicarage,’ he explained as he puffed away on his pipe. ‘I wouldn’t let her go down and watch. The vet gave me strict instructions to keep an eye on her.’

  ‘The vet!’ Dorothy echoed scornfully. ‘Geoff’s not even a proper doctor.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Brenda tried to smooth ruffled feathers, ‘there wasn’t much to see; not once we’d found Alan and taken him to New Hall.’

  ‘What did the vicar have to say about that?’

  ‘Nothing. He wouldn’t come to the door when Joyce knocked so she posted a note through the letter box bringing him up to date. In the meantime, Geoff wrapped Alan up in lots of blankets and made him a cup of cocoa. I left him sitting by the fire while Giles read him a story. Giles is Geoff’s friend from their college days.’

  ‘I know who he is,’ came the huffy reply. ‘It’s not fair,’ she repeated. ‘I would have read Alan a story if I’d been there.’ It seemed she was destined to sit on the sidelines, never to occupy the centre of the action. ‘What is he still doing here anyway?’

  ‘Who – Giles?’

  ‘Yes. Doesn’t he have a wife and family to go back to?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ It was clear to Brenda that Dorothy’s bad mood was set in for the night. ‘Is it all right if I use the telephone?’ she asked Bernard, who nodded.

  So she rang the operator and was soon put through to Arnold. ‘I’ll be there on Wednesday,’ she assured him. ‘Please thank Donald for letting me know.’

  ‘Thank you, Brenda. It means a lot.’

  ‘There’s no need to thank me. I want to come.’

  ‘We’ll have a drink and a bite to eat here after the church service.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do …’

  Hettie’s father sighed heavily. ‘Thank you. That’s all in hand. Anyway, you and Les will want to spend time together.’

  ‘Les will be there?’ Brenda clutched the mouthpiece and rolled her eyes towards the ceiling in silent prayer. She held her breath.

  ‘Yes. They’ve given him three days – Tuesday to Thursday.’

  ‘Three days!’

  ‘To make up for the leave that was cancelled at the last minute. Didn’t Donald tell you?’

  Three whole days with Les. A funeral two days before Christmas. Brenda’s feelings see-sawed between joy and sorrow. ‘No, but that’s marvellous news,’ she whispered. ‘And you’re sure there’s nothing I can do?’

  ‘No; thanks all the same.’ Arnold’s voice was scarcely audible.

  Brenda pictured him in his study lined with books from floor to ceiling, sitting at his carved desk with his dogs at his feet, surrounded by the shell of his life. Hettie had been the heart of it and she was gone. ‘I’ll come over on Tuesday evening,’ she promised.

  There was another sigh, a click and then the line went dead.

  ‘I take it Cliff didn’t tell you the part about your fiancé?’ Dorothy said when Brenda put down the receiver. Coils of tobacco smoke drifted up towards the ceiling as Bernard carried his mended boots to the porch. Embers shifted in the grate and sparks shot up the chimney. ‘That’s Cliff for you: never thinking about others, always putting himself first.’

  Joyce’s billhook sliced through side branches of some young mountain ashes growing at the edge of a small clearing in Acklam wood. They fell to the ground with pleasing cleanness and the smell of sap filled her nostrils. On she went, from one tree to the next, with Evelyn working beside her – a swish of the blade, a small thud, a rapid slice and then the severed branch would land amongst the bracken.

  ‘Has the Weatherall family been in touch?’ Joyce asked as Evelyn stooped to gather an armful of branches, ready to stack them in the centre of the clearing.

  ‘No, not a dicky bird.’ Evelyn worked on. ‘No news is good news as far as that goes.’

  ‘And what about Cliff?’

  ‘Likewise. It’s been a whole twenty-four hours.’

  Joyce brought the blade down with another swift slice. ‘That’s good too, I take it?’

  ‘Yes. I made him promise to stay away until I’d had time to think.’

  ‘And have you decided?’

  Evelyn collected more fallen branches. ‘No, not yet.’ In fact, she’d lain awake most of the night, swayed first this way then that. She would follow a train of thought towards a sensible conclusion, listing all the reasons why she should have no more to do with Cliff – his selfishness, his up-and-down moods, the apparent ease with which he’d lived a lie for three whole years. But then a memory of them in bed together would derail her – skin to skin, the softness of his touch, the light glinting in his hazel eyes. And she would be thrown back into confusion, staring up at the ceiling while outside a strong wind tore through the trees and battered the walls of the deserted, crumbling castle, gusting across the yard and almost rattling doors off their hinges.

  ‘What would you do if you were me?’ Evelyn asked Joyce as she set to work with her billhook.

  ‘I really couldn’t say.’ More branches fell, disturbing a pair of blackbirds in a nearby sycamore. There was a flutter of wings and a flash of yellow beaks as they rose into the dull grey sky. ‘It might look like an open-and-shut case from the outside but from where you’re standing it’s bound to be more complicated.’

  ‘I know what I ought to do.’ Evelyn missed her aim and the blade cut through the bark deep into the trunk. She worked it free again with a bad-tempered frown. ‘I ought to get in touch with my local rep and request a move away from Acklam – it wouldn’t matter where to, just so long as Cliff didn’t know. I could have done it first thing this morning but I didn’t.’

  Joyce stopped work. She tightened the knot in her woollen headscarf, which she wore turban-style to keep her hair clear of her face. ‘It’s up to you, of course. But I will say this: for me the best thing about Edgar is that he’s honest as the day. He has his faults, don’t get me wrong. He’d be the first to admit it.’

  ‘Such as?’ Evelyn was curious. Joyce rarely talked about her fiancé, though it was a wonder to Evelyn how she could bear in silence the razor-sharp slash of fear each time she imagined him setting out on one of his death-defying Spitfire missions.


  ‘He has his dark moods, but don’t we all? He can push people away even though they want to help him. Even so, I know he would never lie to me.’ Joyce looked directly at Evelyn to measure her response. ‘That’s the most important thing.’

  Evelyn lopped off another branch. ‘I envy you.’

  ‘And Edgar cares for me. He would never want to hurt me.’ Joyce’s voice, always calm and low, grew stronger. ‘Deep down he’s a kind man.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Joyce said simply. ‘That’s what matters to me.’

  ‘And you’re right.’ Evelyn worked on, slicing through side branches, making room for the saplings to grow straight and tall. ‘I know you are.’

  And yet, maybe Cliff would change. Now that he had nothing to hide, the mists might lift and there would be a clearer way ahead. After all, he’d said time and again that he loved her.

  The work went on. Joyce and Evelyn stopped at noon for tea and sandwiches back at the yard and a general look ahead at what Christmas might hold for each of them – not long now, no turkey this year, Evelyn didn’t mind spending it alone at Acklam if it came to it. During the gaps in the conversation Joyce thought of the letter she hoped to write to Edgar that evening. Then, as they brushed away crumbs and drained their cups, Evelyn went back to a topic that Joyce had mentioned earlier.

  ‘You say Geoff has taken little Alan under his wing?’

  Joyce smiled as they set off for the clearing. ‘That’s a nice way of putting it. Yes, he has.’

  ‘And what did Mr Rigg have to say?’

  ‘Nothing so far. He’s holed up inside the vicarage, refusing to come out. Brenda and Geoff swear they won’t let it drop, though. They’ve decided to telephone Alan’s billeting officer and Mr Rigg’s bishop to find out what can be done.’

  ‘Good for them.’

  ‘Alan will stay at New Hall for the time being.’ They reached the clearing and Joyce took off her coat, ready for action.

  ‘What do you make of Geoff’s friend, Giles?’ Evelyn’s question hung in the cold, damp air.

  ‘He seems a nice chap. Why?’