by Pam Weaver
Halfway through the evening, when the stir was hotting up, he wondered about giving his cousin a twirl. She might be his cousin but he’d hardly known her until he came from Leeds just before war started. Their paths had never crossed much as children, just occasional visits and the escapade when she broke her arm in one of Jack’s madcap schemes.
She had looked a right tomboy in her grammar school gear and always had her head stuck in a book when they came to visit. In truth he was a little in awe of her book learning. But, like everyone else, she’d put any career ambitions on hold once war was declared, which made him admire her all the more.
It was about time he told her how much he liked her, but that would sound daft and she’d probably laugh him away. They were mates on the farm, a good team. He wasn’t any good at all this romance lark and was in no position to go courting. He didn’t fancy making a fool of himself on the dance floor so he hung back, content to let others swing her around the floor.
There was the usual scramble for the supper plates and Ben ended up going back and forth to the kitchen on somebody’s orders. It was eleven o’clock before he plucked up courage to ask Mirren for the slow foxtrot, which was a big mistake as it was also a gentleman’s ‘Excuse me’.
Arnie was shuffling around, polishing the floor with his feet and clinging on to her for dear life so he decided to rescue her, butting in: ‘It’s my turn now.’
He hadn’t realised she was so small. She barely came up to his shoulders. He could smell her newly washed hair and when she smiled up at him he went all wobbly inside. They did a few steps and he trod on her toes.
‘Excuse me.’ There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned round to see Jack Sowerby smirking at them.
‘Jack! Oh, Jack, you made it!’ squealed Mirren with such obvious delight that Ben stood back to release her, watching bemused as she hugged Tom’s stepson with a little too much enthusiasm for his liking. They glided off together without a backward glance.
So that was how the land lay, he sighed. Ah well, perhaps as well. He backed off to the doorway and pulled out a packet of ciggies to join the lads. That was his last foray onto the dance floor tonight. Once was enough. He needed a smoke and some fresh air.
Mirren had no eyes for any of the other soldiers once Jack was in her arms. He looked so bright and handsome, his dark eyes flashing mischief as they twirled around the floor, dancing and dancing until she was giddy with excitement.
He was home for Christmas, for five whole days. For once, trains had run on time, snow hadn’t disrupted the roads, his arm was healed; everything was perfect.
How glad she was to have made that extra effort to glam up. He’d saved her toes from being broken by Ben’s size twelves. When you worked alongside someone all day what was there to say to each other except, ‘How’s Daisy’s udders?’, ‘Have you set that trap for the rats?’, ‘Did the new lad see to the hen hut roof?’ but with Jack there was a whole world of fresh topics. Where was he now? What had he seen? What’s on in London?
‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ she sighed. ‘Why didn’t you write? I could have come and met you.’
‘And spoil the look on your face when I breezed in? You can never tell with trains and I hitched a lift from Scarperton station. If you’d been waiting and I’d not shown, you’d have a face on you like sore feet. Come on, let’s get out of here…’ he whispered.
‘You’ve brought a bike?’
‘’Fraid not. It’s shanks’s pony for a bit until I get another one,’ he said as he guided her by the elbow out of the crush. ‘Let’s pop into The Fleece.’
‘It’s after hours and you know I don’t go in those places,’ she said.
‘Signed the pledge, have we?’
‘I did as a kiddy…I just don’t fancy the stuff,’ she insisted.
‘Well, let’s walk the slow way home then. We’ve a lot of catching up to do.’
They climbed the path to Gunnerside Foss and on up to World’s End, holding hands. The sky had cleared and stars were dotted right across the sky, making patterns and shapes. The moon was bright but in the distance the searchlights arced over the moors.
They found some shelter out of the wind and Jack whipped off his greatcoat and sat down, holding out his hand. ‘Come on, Land Girl. Backs to the land!’
‘Stop that!’ she snapped, and caught him on the arm and he winced. ‘Sorry, is that your bad arm? Is it badly hurt?’
‘I’ll get worse before this war’s over,’ he quipped.
‘Don’t let’s talk about the war…Let it wait. It’s Christmas and you’re here,’ she sighed, snuggling into his side.
‘Is that all the welcome I get?’ he laughed, pulling her closer, and she kissed him with a closed mouth.
‘That’s a little girl’s kiss,’ he teased. ‘Let me show you another way.’
He was kissing her so deeply, forcing open her mouth to receive deeper longer kisses that sent shivers down her insides. His hands began to feel for her breasts and finger them roughly. Even Mirren knew where this would lead and drew back coyly.
‘Not here, not now, Jack,’ she whispered. Things were moving too fast and she was afraid.
‘When then?’ he whispered back. ‘You’re my girl, my only girl…don’t you want me to…?’
‘I do, but it’s damp and cold and I’m frozen. This is my best frock…if it gets stained,’ she said, knowing they weren’t the real reasons she was holding back.
His jibes about Land Girls being ‘easy’ had gone deep, making her wary of spoiling the romance of his return. She felt a novice and clumsy, not knowing what to do next. There were dangers in letting a lad have his way. One of the girls in the hostel had already been discharged pregnant and in trouble.
‘I’d make it right, love. I’d never do anything to get you in trouble, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ll not force you into anything either. It’s just I’ll be going away soon and we might not see each other for ages, or ever again. You can’t blame me for wanting an early Christmas present,’ he said, standing up. ‘But you’re right. It’s a bit parky up here. Funny how we always trek up to World’s End…’
‘Because it’s quiet and no one comes here, and this is where you found me or have you forgotten?’ she whispered, thinking of the night in the snow.
The moment had passed and the chill was getting to both of them. Time to plod downwards and towards Cragside.
‘We could have got a lift with Ben,’ she offered. ‘He ran me down to the hall. Have you heard about Bert?’
Jack nodded but said nothing.
She sensed his disappointment hanging unspoken like icicles, cross with herself for being so slow and calculating, but there was a warning light flashing in her eyes and a voice saying: ‘Be careful, slow down. There’s plenty of time, no rush to fulfil your loving.’ Now it felt awkward and her excitement deflated.
‘You’ll be coming for Christmas? We’ll play silly games and do carol singing–you will, won’t you?’ she asked, desperate to know she was still his special girl.
‘Same old Cragside Christmas. Don’t worry, Mirren, I’ll be there…hoping and waiting…You’re my girl.’
‘Am I? You don’t mind me being…?’ she pleaded, looking him straight in the eye.
‘You looked gorgeous tonight. Every man in the hall was jealous. You should have seen Ben’s face when I turned up,’ Jack laughed. ‘You and me’re meant for each other.’
She sensed he was no virgin lover, no novice declaring his undying love. He knew what he was doing and how to go about loosening her up, but she couldn’t help herself when she was in his arms. Why was it all right for lads to have fun but if a girl experimented she was a slut?
He saw her to the farmhouse door, pecked her on the cheek and walked on up to Scar Head, leaving her feeling mean and silly, confused, excited, nervous and suddenly afraid. She mustn’t let Jack down. He was going to fight. He could be killed and he needed comfort. If she didn’t give it perhaps someone else would.
If only there was someone she could trust enough to talk this over? Florrie was too close, and family. The girls in the hostel talked about sex all the time but she didn’t live in and had no special friend there. Lorna had gone very religious since Freddy died. She would be horrified at this behaviour. The only mate she had was Ben. He was her listening ear but he was the last person she could ever tell about this.
He’d just heard his brother was missing in action. He was going to go home to see his parents again to persuade them to come back to Cragside to cheer them up. Why did this war change everything?
Even Gran was looking peaky, out of breath at the slightest rush. Mirren hated to think Joe and Adey were getting old but there was such a weariness in Gran’s eyes when they sat at the peg rugging, a breathless panting as she climbed the stairs. The thought of Gran not being around made her panic. There was so much to learn and so little time.
8
Mirren was determined to put on a good show for the family. The fact that she had never been in charge of the whole Christmas dinner before didn’t matter. Gran was not well and confined to bed for the morning so she must see to the goose for the first time, and organise Daisy and Grandpa like troops before battle.
She loved Christmas, the most magical time of the year, even for a farm hand, and with wartime rations it took a palaver of bartering to get enough raisins and muscatels and spices to do the pudding justice. Thankfully there were enough people who couldn’t stand dried fruit in the village but wanted fresh eggs or a bit of brawn as a swap.
It was Christmas morning and Jack, who was staying at Scar Head, would be coming to sample her cooking so she must look sharpish and see to all the vegetables. The farmhouse dresser looked so festive and cards were strung up across the beams, the tinsel and holly sat on every ledge, the fire in the big parlour blazing. Now there were just the buckets of potatoes and carrots to peel. Her hands were frozen in the cold water but her heart was singing. Tonight she would be with Jack.
On the cold slab sat one of Uncle Tom’s geese ready to be stuffed with Auntie Florrie’s homemade forcemeat. What a blowout there was going to be. Daisy was peeling the store apples to make a sauce and there was just Gran’s pudding full of grated carrot, nuts and every spare currant to be boiled in the set boiler in the outhouse: so much to think about before they went to chapel.
Daisy was to see to the range and Gran while they were out. The dining table was already prepared with the stiffest of the damask cloths, set with china and napkins. All the cutlery sparkled, and in the centre was a cardboard and plaster sleigh full of holly and the first Christmas roses, that grew in the old croft under the wall. There were home-made crackers with no bangers inside so everyone had to shout as they pulled and pretend they were the real ones.
Mirren thought she ought to stay home but it was always the tradition to go to chapel and support the singing. Perhaps Jack would turn up with Tom and Florrie but if he had any sense he would lie and make the most of the morning. She would go and pray for forgiveness for what she was about to do tonight given half a chance!
Once there, her mind was racing, anticipating lying in Jack’s arms, when she was jolted awake by Ben singing the next Christmas carol, drowning out these fantasies with his rich deep voice. If only it was Jack standing by her side.
Not even Hitler could spoil this Christmas, she thought, with his bombs and threats, not here at least where the family was gathered together. Only Uncle Wes and Auntie Pam were absent–and Bert, of course. If Gran could come down for the meal then everything would be as it always was for a few hours.
‘I’m ready for that goose,’ said Uncle Tom on the way home, looking at his fob watch on a chain. ‘Singing and a good sermon gives me a grand appetite.’
Too long a sermon gave Mirren a sore bum on the hard chapel benches with sit-up backs, but the minister had kept it short for once, and she needed to be getting back to see to the trimmings. Daisy was reliable but had to be told to do things. Perhaps she should have stayed at home after all.
There was a delicious aroma when they opened the back door. ‘Oh, joy in the morning!’ said Grandpa. ‘I’ll have to loosen my belt to do justice to all your efforts.’
‘Nice not to have to cook for a change,’ whispered Auntie Florrie, unpinning her best felt hat and making for the lobby. ‘I’ll go and see to Gran and help her dress. I see our Jack’s arrived at last,’ she smiled, looking out of the window at her son standing by the wall smoking a cigarette.
‘I’ll just see to the bird,’ Mirren croaked, trying not to blush, opening the oven door gingerly to check on the roasting fowl.
Everyone had drifted into the kitchen towards the delicious smell. Ben went to fetch the ginger beer jar from the cold larder shelf, when there was an explosion of smoke and fat as the goose shot across the kitchen like a cannonball, setting everyone back on their heels. Quick as a flash Ben pulled Mirren away from the lava of fat. Auntie Florrie took one look at the mess and screamed as the hot fat bubbled over the flat tin onto the flag floor and Tom’s glass of ginger beer spilled and ignited the fat into flames.
‘I thowt this house was supposed to be teetotal.’ He looked down with surprise. It was Ben who whipped up the rag rug and dowsed the flame.
It was like a flash flood all right, Mirren just standing there yelling, ‘The goose, my poor goose! The dinner’s ruined!’ She looked round the room in horror.
‘Never mind the goose, love, we could’ve all been drowned in fat and done to a turn,’ laughed Uncle Tom. ‘Roasted in that avalanche.’
‘I’m so sorry!’ Mirren was in tears.
‘Didn’t Daisy think to drain off some of the fat out of the tin?’ whispered Auntie Florrie.
‘She didn’t say,’ said Daisy looking woebegone at Mirren.
‘Still, Adey’s floors are spotless, we can eat off them later,’ chuckled Ben, seeing the funny side of it. But Mirren was shaking her head, feeling stupid and shamed in front of the family.
‘You’ve cooked your goose and no mistake,’ added Jack, putting his arm round her. Everyone was smiling and laughing as if it was all some big joke not a humiliating disaster.
‘No one’s been injured. All’s not lost, love,’ said Grandpa Joe. ‘Wait until Adey hears this. It’ll cheer her up no end.’
Mirren rushed out into the yard, wanting to cry, taking in great gulps of air to steady her fury. How could they laugh at this disaster?
‘Come back in,’ shouted Auntie Florrie. ‘We’ve called out the lifeboat to rescue us…You did well to get it all done on time. Don’t get in a maddle on Christmas Day. If we get on us pinnies when the fat’s cooled down, we can let the bird rest a while and no harm done.’
She was only trying to help but Mirren wailed, ‘What about the veg? I can’t get at them.’
‘Dinner will be a little late this year,’ said Jack, fanning the flames of Mirren’s fury. ‘I’m sure Mam can find a few bits to keep the wolf from the door. We’ll all muck in and make it happen, you’ll see. Don’t take on, it’s only a bird!’
Mirren sniffed back her shame, not seeing the funny side at all. The floor was like a skating rink as they crouched down to scrape off the goose fat. What a waste of precious medicine; all those jars of liniment and chest rub piled into a lump of gunge.
As if reading her thoughts, Florrie smiled. ‘Don’t worry, we can render it down again.’
The goose was laid to rest on top of the range and soon the veg were ready for the table. Everyone was full of elderberry cordial, pink-faced and making merry. Gran struggled downstairs to see what the fuss was about and had a good laugh too, which was the best medicine of all even if it was at Mirren’s expense.
‘She didn’t say,’ Daisy kept repeating to anyone who’d hear, but they were all too busy enjoying themselves to criticise.
Then Tom, Jack, Ben and Grandpa put on a floor show in their pinnies, prancing about.
‘You’ve heard about the Dying Swan,’ sai
d Jack. ‘This is the dancing goose.’
The sight of them fooling around made Mirren’s lips quiver and burst into a smile.
‘That’s better. No tears on Christmas Day.’
The goose was rich and succulent despite its strange dance across the floor and everyone fell on it with gusto. Adey’s Christmas pudding was up to scratch and her Christmas cake tasty, despite being a little thin on fruit this year. Uncle Tom did his usual trick of producing a ten-bob note from his mouth and pretending to choke on it.
Soon the dining table was covered in crumbs and stains and bits of cracker and silly hats, and the old folk retired to their little snug to snooze away what was left of the afternoon in peace.
Then it was time for the next lot of company to arrive, visiting farmers and their families for a party singsong and a game or two of cards. The tale of the dancing goose was told over and over again as the women cleared away the debris to start again on preparing supper. All the tensions of the day were drifting away.
It was the usual Christmas ritual: games and a day out of time, but there was still the stock to see to. Thankfully it was the men’s turn to see to them while the women prepared a supper fit for the King: rounds of cheeses, trifle with real cream topping, Christmas spice bread, cakes and cold meat with bowls of potato salad, chutney, beetroot pickle.
No one had come empty-handed. The day was going well and it was not over yet.
Mirren’s eyes followed Jack around the room. It was as if some invisible thread was spinning a web around them, a strange attraction of heat and body, a feeling she had never experienced before of anticipation, an aching in her loins to reach out and touch the fine curve of his cheek, to bury his head in her breasts; a spark of sudden awareness that he felt the same pull of souls. Something was fizzing inside her like bubbling pop. In the bustle of busyness, toing and froing with the other women, something magical was stirring, so warm and wonderful she could hardly breathe. It separated her off from the rest of the noise and laughter. She was lost in a whirlpool of desire. All she wanted was to fall onto the rag rug into his arms and for everyone to go away so she could make the most of him. She felt like a bitch on heat.