Farmerettes (15 page)

That news had upset Peggy terribly. She worried about them every time the news announced another attack on England.

“Thank God they lived,” her mother had said. “But can't you find another way to help?”

And so their battle continued. Peggy hated it. She agreed with them both. Canada had to win this war. Her English cousins had to stay safe. But one person dead in her German family was already too much. Especially Michael.

Finally her father had volunteered for noncombatant duties. They weren't eager to send someone his age overseas anyway. Peace reigned in their home again, but tension remained. Before the war, Peggy hadn't known a happier couple than her parents.

She gazed at the bookshelves. Where could she start her research? Newspapers? No. She was looking for an event that happened nearly a quarter century ago. No one saved papers that long. It might be faster to ask the librarian, a woman with white curls framing a pleasant face, shelving books. Peggy was pleased to recognize Miss Willing, one of the choir ladies who had danced at the growers' party. She held a book, squinted at the numbers on its spine, and searched for its rightful spot, a job that seemed more tedious than picking berries.

“Excuse me, Miss,” Peggy whispered.

“Hello, Peggy!” The librarian reached out her arm so enthusiastically Peggy thought she might skip-de-doo with her right here in the library. Instead, she shook hands and asked, “How can I help you?”

“Um. I want to find someone who lived here about twenty-five years ago. Polly. I don't know her last name.”

Miss Willing held her finger to her cheek. “Let me see. Old Polly Baxter is long gone. Polly McBride was the smartest girl in my grade. Now she's quite batty and can't remember her own name.”

Peggy shook her head. “She wouldn't be older than fifty.”

Miss Willing brightened. “Polly Belding. Our hostess at the growers' party.”

Peggy shrugged. That Polly didn't look tragic. She seemed happily married to Tom Belding.

The librarian paused. “Well, there was Polly Henson, who moved to Toronto to be with her daughter.”

This was going nowhere. Peggy took a chance. “Is there a Polly Earnshaw?” She held her breath until Miss Willing shook her head. “No. Nothing even close to that.”

“You're sure?”

Miss Willing regarded her, but refrained from asking the questions in her eyes. “I've lived here sixty-three years and never heard of an Earnshaw family in these parts. There was Polly Neal. She moved west twenty-some years ago.”

The timeline fit. Peggy hid her eagerness. “Can you tell me more about her?”

Miss Willing scrunched her nose. “She was an angry young thing. Nobody missed her when she left.”

Peggy was disappointed. The Polly she pictured from the letters was a sweet-natured girl, more like Mrs. Belding. “That's all?” she asked.

“I'm afraid so.”

“And you haven't heard of a James Earnshaw?”

Miss Willing shook her head, and picked up another book to shelve.

“Well, thanks for your help,” said Peggy. At least she had some Pollys to check out.

She glanced at Helene, now chatting and smiling with the man in the other chair. Peggy looked more closely.
Hmmm, I saw them together at the growers' party. Do I sense a romance in the air?

They stood up and walked her way. Helene's eyes sparkled as she introduced Peggy to Dan Scranton. “We're heading to Linton's for ice cream.”

“Would you like to join us?” Dan gallantly offered.

Peggy knew enough to refuse and watched them leave. They were deep in conversation about some book. Of course. That would be Helene's type.

Peggy turned back to the shelves. There must be some local maps showing who owned which farm—perhaps some Earnshaws, or the previous owner of Nelly's farm. Otherwise, she'd have to wait for Jean to cooperate, and that might take forever.

Sunday, July 11, 1943

Binxie

Binxie felt restless. What would she do today?

Yesterday had been dull. She had politely refused Peggy's offer to join the expedition to town. How could they be excited about going to that little village? What could they possibly want in some dusty, outdated country stores?

Once the group of girls had disappeared down the road, chatting and laughing, she had taken her flight manuals, a blanket, and a thermos of lemonade to a shady corner of a field. Too many notes and diagrams later, she drifted off to sleep.

Last night, most of them had hitchhiked out to Romeo's again. The city girls were at their sparkling best there. The country girls glared at them, but were learning to compete, and the outnumbered fellows were in their glory.

Binxie ate breakfast quickly. Wanting to avoid the crowd in the bathroom, she'd dressed for church earlier. Too impatient to stand waiting, she walked to the pasture where Tessie and her calf grazed. She felt a special bond with little Tinxie, and tore up a handful of grass to feed her. If only Jean were around. Walking, or riding the horses, was a habit they had developed on the evenings they weren't exhausted. They didn't talk much, just enjoyed each other's company and the stillness that dusk brings. Jean would sometimes quiz Binxie on life in Toronto, and Binxie found she enjoyed hearing about farming. She wondered about the letters, but Jean never mentioned them. Although happy to explain about milking, raising livestock, and the cycle of growing fruit and vegetables, she kept the privacy of the farm folk. Even though it irritated Binxie, she respected that.

Four horses headed her way, remembering the treats she always brought. She patted their soft muzzles and handed them pieces of apple. She looked at Cairo longingly. “I wish we could gallop together across these fields together.”

As if summoned by Binxie's wish, Jean appeared, wearing her dark blue church dress and hat. She joined Binxie at the fence and they stood side by side, enjoying the day.

“Can you go riding after church?” asked Binxie.

“We're skipping services today, going to visit Nanny's sister in Mount Hope. Her eighty-fourth birthday.”

“That sounds nice—a chance to get away.”

“Cairo needs exercise. You can take her out later.”

Binxie grinned at the beautiful brown mare. “Oh. Thank you!”

“Take the roads. No galloping through the fields. They'll either have a crop growing, or holes where horses could break a leg. If you lose your way, stop at any farmhouse. They'll point you back to Highberry.”

Jean's mother, wearing a fine-print dress, followed Nanny and Jean's dad to the family car. She waved at Jean.

“I better go. Enjoy the ride.” Binxie watched them drive away, wishing she could leave for the day too.

After church, the girls devoured a large lunch—deviled eggs and potato salad over-spiced with curry. Luckily they finished with yummy oatmeal cookies full of nuts and berries—Isabel at her best. They still had to put up with her overboiled vegetables and lumpy gravy, but Isabel had become an excellent baker.

After dessert, Binxie slipped away and saddled Cairo. They trotted along the road, enjoying the movement and the fresh breeze. At the sound of hoofbeats behind her, Binxie turned and her heart smiled. It was Johnny on a tall black horse. She brushed her fingers through her hair.

“Good day for a ride,” Johnny greeted her. “Where are you headed?”

Maybe it was her restless energy, or the sun and wind on her face, but today Binxie felt she could say anything to him. “Exploring the countryside. Any recommendations?”

“Want to see my favorite spot?”

Binxie decided she'd follow him anywhere. “Lead the way.”

They rode side by side along the gravel concession, then turned into a grove of trees.
All those riding lessons were worth it,
she thought, glancing sideways at her escort.

The woods were dappled and cool. Shrubs, ferns, and wildflowers crowded the trail, forcing them to ride single file, Johnny leading the way. A chipmunk skittered across the path and birds chirped overhead. It was so enchanting she half-expected some Walt Disney animals to perch on a branch and sing to them. Prince Charming was already here.

Abruptly the forest ended and before them stretched a magnificent vista—a green field sloping down to a blue lake, which rolled seamlessly into an azure sky.

Johnny stopped and watched her expectantly.

Binxie was too awed to speak. She smiled at him and they rode on until they reached the beach. There they unsaddled their horses, and led them to the cool water to drink. Then they tied them to two shady maple trees and walked along the shore.

“We usually swim in the inlet east of here, but this is more private because there's no road in.”

“But the path to get here is so beautiful.”

“Not if you're walking on a hot day.” He took off his shoes and waded into the water.

Binxie did the same.

“Watch these rocks. They're slippery.”

Even as he said this, Binxie's foot slid out from under her and she landed on her behind. Shocked, she sat in the cool water. Even more shocking, instead of helping her up, Johnny burst out laughing.

She dipped her arm into the lake and swooshed a wave of water at him. Then she laughed too.

Dripping, he finally reached a hand and helped her up. “I'm sorry. If you had seen your face, you wouldn't blame me.”

“We're wet now. We may as well swim,” Binxie shouted and plunged into the lake.

Johnny followed and the two swam far out. And farther. It became a contest—who would turn back first.

Finally, puffing hard, Binxie realized she would need enough energy to return, so reluctantly she angled toward shore. Johnny followed. As they waded from the water, he looked at her, blushed, and quickly turned to point to a sunlit patch of grass. “Let's dry out there.”

She realized how her wet shirt clung to her breasts, and sat with her arms folded in front of her. Their silence was awkward until a formation of yellow planes flew overhead.

Johnny looked up. “I wonder how that pilot is doing, the one who crashed in your field.”

“I suspect he talked his way out of trouble.”

“And is already on to more escapades, maybe overseas.”

“He probably needs to find excitement. There's a lot of drudgery and boredom in between the flights,” she said, thinking of Kathryn's countless hours of training. Once last summer she and her friend Marion had taken Binxie out to the airfield in Goderich. They'd talked endlessly about throttle friction, tail wheel locks, and hydraulics, checked over every inch of the plane and its instruments before taking off.

“Jean said your sister flies?”

Jean. Binxie wondered how she would feel about this expedition. Did she care for Johnny or were they just buddies? It was hard to tell. “Yes,” she answered. “For the ATA in England.”

“England?”

“The Canadian forces won't let women fly.”

“Picky bunch,” Johnny said ruefully.

Binxie knew from Jean that he had tried to enlist at least two more times. She looked right at him. “They're missing some good people.”

He smiled hopefully. “If this war goes on, they may have to get less choosy.”

Binxie shuddered. “I'd rather it ended now.”

“We'll fight until we win. Stop that madman Hitler.”

“I wish there was a better way to do it.” Binxie decided to steer the conversation to him. “What are your plans? Veterinary college? I hear there's an excellent one in Guelph.”

“Probably. I have some other ideas too.”

Binxie tried to picture him crammed into a suit and tie in an office. She couldn't imagine him anywhere but on a farm.

As if he'd read her mind, he said, “My life is in the country, but I may try something new. Raise beef cattle or try breeding some new stocks. I've heard interesting things about French Limousins or cattle from South America. What about you?”

“Not sure yet. First and foremost, I want to fly like my sister. Come September, I'll sign up.”

“You fly already?” He looked at her with such admiration she was tempted to fib.

“As a passenger. Kathryn used to take me up. The view from there is incredible. There's nothing like it.”

He nodded, and they sat quietly for awhile, watching the silver-tipped waves sparkle in the sun. Nearby, wild red roses grew thick and lovely. They reminded her of the tin the letters were in.

“Have you ever heard of a James Earnshaw living around here?” It didn't hurt to ask.

“Jean already asked me. No, I don't know him.”

Jean again. Just how close were they? And why was he sitting here with her?

Cairo whinnied restlessly. “I guess it's time to go,” Binxie said reluctantly. “I promised to exercise the horse.”

Johnny led the way back through the woods, Binxie wishing they had walked so they'd be closer together for a longer time. Too soon they reached the road. Then with a wave, they separated, Binxie wondering when she'd see him again.

X

She sat in the meadow, sketching the wildflowers and the cows, content in their grazing. How wonderful that must feel, instead of this turmoil, this guilt. She waved at Binxie riding by with that young fellow who sometimes visited Jean. Why couldn't she be like her? She had wept when she realized she loved Isabel. If this was a sin against God, why did He allow it? Was it punishment? But for what?

She pressed her colored pencil so hard it punctured the paper. It didn't matter. She had a dozen pasture scenes already. She had also drawn over forty pictures of Isabel and destroyed most of them. Much safer to sketch scenery.

Jean

Jean felt good speeding through the countryside at twenty-five miles per hour, windows open, her hair blowing in the breeze. Strawberry season was over, the raspberries were under control, and the cherries were coming along—early this year, but not yet screaming to be picked.