by Pam Weaver
Apart from all the restrictions no one would know there was a war on up here but now she did. For the first time she knew how helpless they were. If the bomb blew it would wipe Cragside off the map, and all those brave men close by. Ben was down there protecting their stock in danger too. Suddenly she knew they weren’t playing war any more. This was real and the danger was real.
None of them spoke but, once they were settled at Scar Head, for the first time in months she walked up to World’s End and prayed hard that all would be well.
Ben watched the demolition operations with fascination from the top field. The sixty-foot barrage balloon had drifted all the way from the coast at Barrow-in-Furness docks. It was a hush-hush job with an external device in the box now dangling precariously over the great ash tree.
The winch on the back of the lorry was attached to the cables. Every move was planned and rehearsed. The valve was released to deflate the balloon. Then the bomb squad corporal was ready and padded to climb the tree and remove the triggering device from the explosive. One false move and all that would be left of Cragside would be a crater.
For achingly long minutes life was held in the balance, but the brave man did his business and suddenly the panic was over.
Everyone stood around in a cloud of blue cigarette smoke once the explosive box was carted off. Ben found himself handing round mugs of sweet tea, knowing Gran wouldn’t mind him using her precious rations; a small reward for saving the farm.
‘What a tale to tell the nippers,’ laughed one of the bomb disposal squad, eyeing the farm building with interest. ‘Nice place…Unusual architecture for a farmhouse. Your wife did well to get the old folks out so quickly.’
‘She’s my cousin, not my wife,’ said Ben quickly.
‘Sorry Not wed then?’
‘Nah, no time for all that with two farms to run,’ he replied, sensing the question in the air: what’s a strapping lad like you doing out of the army? ‘Home Guard duties, of course,’ he added.
He was not going to tell him, or anyone for that matter, the truth: that he’d been approached early on to train for special duties alongside the Home Guard. It was his cover for secret training in the Auxiliary Unit, a hush-hush platoon of locals who met under cover of darkness; men who could go into hiding at a moment’s notice into their secret fox-holes underground, bunkers already prepared and stocked should there be trouble. They were men trained to hide out for weeks, sabotage, kill, and be killed if necessary; a very secret army that no one must know about.
They’d been meeting in the dark, hiding out, doing exercises and no one suspected a thing. That was how it must stay. With a bit of luck they might hold out for six months. Knowing every nook and cranny of these hills was essential and they were handpicked for just that special knowledge and for their ability to blend in unnoticed wearing Home Guard uniforms when needed.
If Tom wondered where Ben went late at night with his rucksack on his back, he never said anything and he’d have got a load of lies from his nephew about catching poachers or night exercises.
There were six of them in his cell: Podge, the gamekeeper; Evan, the Scoutmaster; Dick and Dave, farmers; and the officer in charge, all known by nicknames. Ben was Lanky. He knew the score. Survival might be only for days or weeks should the invasion come.
The fewer people knew, the better. Ben was praying their skills would never be put to the test but at least he could look uniforms in the eye, knowing he was doing his bit on two fronts just as much as they were.
It was a shame there were no women recruited, for Mirren knew the terrain even better than he, but even she hadn’t spotted the bunker tucked down the side of World’s End with its entrance so carefully concealed. There was just a concrete tube as a rear escape route if things got hot. He was glad all his Boy Scouting days had come to some good use.
When all the danger was over and the lorries drove off down the hill to the main road, Ben made back to Scar Head to give them the good news. He found everyone sitting around looking glum and Auntie Florrie was wiping her eyes. Mirren stood silent, her face white with shock.
‘What’s up?’ Ben said.
‘It’s Jack,’ said Uncle Tom, pointing to the telegram. ‘The lad’s had a bad accident on his motor bike…hit a tree in the blackout. He’s in hospital. Florrie and Mirren want to go and see him near Aldershot.’
Serves him right, Ben thought but said nothing. Jack careered around corners as if he owned the road on his Norton, scaring sheep and horses. It was about time he slowed down.
‘Done much damage?’ he asked.
‘It doesn’t say, but wrapping yourself round a tree must be painful,’ sobbed Mirren. ‘Why does he have to tear around like a mad thing?’
Why do girls always fall for the reckless ones? Ben sighed, seeing how upset she was by this news. Her blue eyes were sparkling with tears. She’d lost the puppy fat of her schooldays and was growing into as fair a lass as any in the dale. Trust Jack to mark her card.
‘He’s got the luck of the Irish and a bump on the head won’t stop him, you’ll see,’ he replied. ‘They’ll give him some leave once he’s recovered. Don’t worry, Auntie Florrie, he’s tough as cowhide.’
‘But I do worry. He’s already come through one bad scrape in Dunkirk and now this. One day he’ll run out of lives to squander. I wish he was steady like you.’
How to be damned with faint praise, he thought. Good old boring Ben…If only they knew what he could do with a piece of wire and rope, they’d not write him off as dull.
‘Just look on the bright side, everyone,’ he smiled. ‘At least he’ll still have Cragside to come home to. The balloon’s gone and you can all go home.’
Mirren leaped up at his news and soon they were all packed and back on the cart, chattering with relief that the ordeal was over. Arnie and his troop had long gone, leaving a mound of stub ends and a pile of grey balloon lining on the mucky yard.
The women pounced on the booty. ‘It’ll sew up well for couch covers,’ said Gran, fingering the cloth.
‘We could make a suit out of it and trim it up for summer,’ said Mirren.
‘Florrie will want some for curtains.’
‘Finders keepers,’ said Mirren. ‘There’s enough cloth here to suit up Windebank. We’ll divide it up and wash it off and see how we go…Pity it isn’t black for lining the big curtains.’
‘You’re never satisfied, ladies,’ said Grandpa. ‘The Lord has tempered the wind to the shorn lamb, indeed. Let us pray and give thanks for a safe delivery and for Jack’s recovery.’
They all bowed their heads right there in the yard and stood in silence. Cragside was restored to them. Danger was averted. Perhaps it was a good omen, Ben mused, that Hitler wouldn’t come and he might just live to a ripe old age. But until victory came, he must set himself apart and keep shtoom.
Mirren waited anxiously for news of Jack’s slow recovery. The weeks dragged into a month. She wrote every day, even telling him about the escapade with the balloon, against her better judgement, to try to keep his spirits up. Perhaps this accident would slow him down.
Florrie managed one visit to the hospital, taking fresh baking in a tin that got lost in the crush on the train.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ Florrie laughed on her return. ‘He’s all in one piece and as cheeky as ever. His head must be made of concrete. Your letters cheered him up no end…’
Mirren blushed scarlet. There was no hiding how she felt about Jack from anyone now.
They’d been hard at the pig killing and now Cragside could face winter with a line of salted flitches stored in the back dairy on hooks in the beams, when George Thursby, the old postman, puffed through the farm gate as Mirren was mucking out.
‘The inspector’s on the warpath counting pig quotas. Taylor’s rang The Fleece to pass it up the dale to get them extras hidden.’
‘Thanks. Come in and get your drinkings,’ Mirren winked. ‘Tell Gran you deserve an extra slice of spice
bread.’
No one took notice of the rules and regs that said they could only kill one pig for their use, but took liberties in the hope that what wasn’t seen wasn’t missed. If they were found there’d be a fine and a fuss, and no one wanted that so it was up to each farm to spread the word when the War-Ag man came to call.
Ben would have to get word now to Scar Head. They’d promised pork for Christmas to some of the families who’d helped over the summer by way of a thank you.
‘Where shall we hide them?’ whispered Mirren, knowing the obvious places were the first to be checked. ‘The cellar’s not safe or the out barns. If he creeps in there while we’re not looking…’ Then she heard a whinny from the stable, where Hercules, the bad-tempered Clydesdale, was stamping for attention.
They fetched the oat bag and tempted him while Ben carried the carcasses out of sight covered in sacks to the back of the stable.
An hour later Mr Simpson’s van arrived unannounced. He was in a foul temper, having slipped on the mud and splashed his gaberdine mac, so Gran sat him down for a chat and a wodge of her best treacle parkin. Little did he know he was eating molasses from the can allowed for cattle feed, which cooked up a treat in cakes and biscuits.
‘Time to get going, Mrs Yewell. Just the two carcasses, is it?’ He smiled a sly smile, knowing what the score was but powerless to do anything about it. ‘I’ll just have a nosy around,’ he continued. ‘On my own, if you don’t mind.’
He searched the dairy and cellar, the attic eaves, the barns, and was making for the stable block until Mirren stepped in. ‘Please help yourself, Mr Simpson, but I must warn you, Hercules doesn’t like strangers…I’d hate to see him kick you. We can’t be responsible for any injury caused.’
‘Really?’ The inspector looked at the stable door and at Mirren’s open face. ‘I’m good with horses.’ Her heart sank as he made to open the door but Hercules reared up right on cue and Simpson shut it quickly again. ‘I take your point, miss. Thank you, everything seems to be in order, but then I’d expect honesty from the God-fearing family of Joseph Yewell,’ was his parting shot that, fortunately, Grandpa Joe didn’t hear.
‘What’s that he was saying?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ Mirren smiled, glad that his hearing was not what it was. ‘I’m going to find a carrot for Hercules.’ That bad-tempered beast had saved their bacon in more ways than one.
It was nearly Christmas and if the weather held Jack would be back on leave now that he was recovered and on duty again. He’d been knocked out and bruised but nothing to worry about, so Auntie Florrie was baking for Yorkshire just in case he made it home.
Mirren was rushing through her chores in time to get a lift to the Home Guard hop in the village hall that evening. All the girls in the hostel were turning out and they’d be dressed to kill. For once she was going to make an effort and get out of her jumpers and dungarees so as not to let them down. That meant buckets of hot water to heat to have a strip wash and a scrub to get the farmyard stink off her body and hair. She was going to wear her one and only best frock and stockings, and show off the marcasite necklace that Jack had bought her for her twenty-first birthday.
Her new outfit was inspired by the scene in Gone With the Wind, when Scarlett O’Hara made a dress from curtains. Florrie had rummaged in the trunk for a length of some velvet salvaged from old parlour curtains. Gran insisted that Mirren should have something decent to wear to the party but no one wanted to waste good fabric, so they cut away the faded bits. There was enough to make a fitted frock with short skirt, three-quarter sleeves and a sweetheart neck. Jack’s necklace was on show for all to see. Florrie helped Mirren sweep her hair into a victory roll at the front, leaving the rest to fall in waves down her back.
‘You look a right bobby-dazzler. Those lads won’t know what’s hit them!’ she laughed.
Mirren hardly recognised herself in the mirror. Getting dolled up was not something she’d bothered with before. It was like looking at a stranger in the mirror, but it was the brightness in her eyes with the hope that Jack would be coming home that was lifting her spirits.
If Jack came home she didn’t want him to see her in all her old muck and make-do. The other Land Girls would be giving him the eye. ‘Eau de Farmyard’; that pong of stale milk, dung and sweat took a bit of stomaching, and getting rid of, but they’d soon got used to it. Everyone competed to have the strongest perfumes, just in case, but all Mirren could manage was lavender water and Lifebuoy soap. She hoped it was enough.
Ben would pick her up in the farm truck and just so it looked a legitimate use of petrol, he’d tether the nanny goat in the back as if she was being taken to the vet. They all did this from time to time, stretching the War-Ag regs a little bit.
As she dressed with care Mirren wished it was Jack escorting her to the dance, but there’d been no letter for a week. She’d lost track of him since his accident and he was vague about his new posting. If only he’d get back for Christmas it would be the best ever, war or no war.
Ben took trouble to brush down his uniform for the dance and polish his boots to a glass finish. He’d washed and shaved, Brylcreemed his fair hair when he found a parting, and brushed his teeth. He didn’t want to smell of the farmyard tonight, not when he was escorting Mirren in her best clobber, but he was not in the mood for dancing.
He had heard that his big brother, Bert, was missing. The telegram came a week ago and so far there was nothing else. They were praying he was shot down and captured. So many young men lost on bombing raids ended up as prisoners. It was better than the alternative, but the news was awful and he felt sick whenever he thought of it.
He’d gone straight to Leeds to comfort his mam and dad. They were putting a brave face on things but his mam’s eyes were red-rimmed with crying. He’d felt so helpless.
‘We have to keep hoping and getting on with the job,’ she’d smiled through her tears. ‘Thank God you’re safe.’ There was not one iota of reproach in her voice that he was in a reserved occupation but he could see it in the faces of other town folk, who passed on their condolences at the front door of their villa close to West Park.
When he saw Mirren coming down the grand front staircase in her velvet dress, with her hair half up and down, carrying her dancing shoes and looking like a ripe plum, he forgot his sorrows.
‘You scrub up well,’ he said, trying not to show how much her appearance stirred him. ‘Better wrap up and take yer gumboots. It’s right clashy weather outside. There’ll be snow before long.’
She looked put out at his words for some reason and gave him a scowl but he bundled her into the passenger seat, shoving his rucksack to one side.
‘Any news? How’s Auntie Pam?’ she asked. ‘You must bring them here for Christmas.’
He nodded, not wanting to spoil the evening by thinking of the war.
‘You go everywhere with that old thing–has it got your life’s savings in it?’ she said, starting to fidget with the strap of his canvas bag.
He pushed it onto the floor. He could tell no one that it was his survival kit. If there were a sudden warning, he would down tools, grab it and go into hiding. Inside was all the weaponry for killing: a pistol, a few rounds of ammo, a Fairburn knife, wires, tools, maps, Horlicks tablets, rations to keep him on the go until he went into his secret bunker to await instructions.
They’d done so many rehearsals now: exercises in the dead of night, recces of the camp on the moors, seizing the battery in a mock battle, laying dummy traps on the railway line, living off the land for days on end. It was Boy’s Own stuff but in deadly earnest. Uncle Tom once caught him for being late and gave him an earful for skiving off but he took it like a man. It would have been treason to betray the truth and reveal anything.
The two of them bumped down the track to Windebank in silence, leaving the truck parked out of sight up the top lane, and tethered Jezebel to the verge to munch around. There were plenty of other revellers with the same idea, with chi
ckens squawking and dogs barking. He could hear the trio warming up and the windows were blacked out, but it was pitch-dark with only a few white lines etched onto the street corners to guide wary travellers.
The church hall had been done up by some of the Home Guard wives; lanterns, storm lamps and candles in jars on windowsills, paper chains and bells hanging from the ceiling. There was a Christmas tree on the stage where the Jimmy Benson Trio had set up shop; fiddle, drums and piano to give the dance a bit of swing.
Ben looked hopefully to the far end where under cloths was a Jacob’s join supper laid out with the usual sausage rolls and pies, bridge rolls full of cold cuts and meat paste, pasties, fruit pies, slices of cake, all portioned out to give everyone a fair share. He was starving just thinking about the supper. There was a licensed bar but little beer to go round, pop and crisps if they were lucky. Some of the lads would be sneaking off back down to The Fleece to top up. Dancing was thirsty work and they’d be here until dawn, if it was a good do.
There were a gaggle of schoolgirls in ankle socks, trying to look grown up. Mirren’s friends from the hostel eyed Ben up with interest; the lipstick and rouge brigade, smelling like a chemist’s shop. A few village ladies were hovering around the tablecloth to shoo away sneaky fingers.
Ben wasn’t much of a dancer: two large left feet in the waltzing, but he could swing around better in the country dances. He spotted some of his platoon lurking in the doorway, eyeing up the talent, and went over to have a chat. He felt safer in male company. When he turned round again, Mirren was tripping the light fantastic with Arnie Blewitt. She did look grand in the lamplight, full of life, her fair hair bouncing after her, neat ankles twisting and turning. She made the other girls look common and over-made-up, he thought.