Farmerettes (22 page)

She had been so careful, telling her mother to make sure her grandparents' letters were enclosed with hers, not letting them and their German accents come to the talent show, even though she wanted to see them. It had all been for naught.

The deep blues of evening sky set in. The trees silhouetted against it stood ancient and peaceful, not caring where anyone came from. She loved being here with the other farmerettes, working and playing side by side every day—sharing meals, laughter, clothing, and secrets. But even now she heard their voices in the barnyard, discussing her. How could friends turn against her so quickly? Not one of them came out to support her. She hated this war with all her being.

Then through the dusk walked Helene. She sat beside Peggy and touched her arm. Once Peggy told her what had happened, Helene said, “It'll blow over. They know you.”

Peggy shook her head. “You didn't see how the girls looked at me. They hate me.”

“That's how they feel about the enemy. We all do. Give them time to think. They'll understand you're on our side.”

“I am, Helene. I'm Canadian and proud of it. I have cousins in England I care about, but I like my relatives in Germany too. I worry about all of them.”

Helene nodded. “Of course. Look, you're here—working to feed our soldiers.”

“And we're not Nazis. My mum's German.”

“Right now they don't see a difference,” said Helene.

“No. If you had heard what Stella said to me…”

“Stella's jealous of you. She's never forgiven you for being more popular. She's just nasty. Running you down makes her feel good.”

“But they believe her. They've heard so many stories about German atrocities, about bombs on England, dead women and children. I've seen posters so awful I believe them.”

“Every country does that in war. No one advertises what damage their own side does.”

“There's more,” Peggy whispered. “The ugly posters, the goose-stepping sadists on the newsreels, the horrible stories. Mum and I spent a summer in Germany six years ago. My aunts, uncles and cousins, the villagers were kind, ordinary people. They wouldn't do those things.”

“I'm sure they don't,” Helene said soothingly. “But obviously some people do.”

“And the rest of us get tarred with the same brush.”

Helene nodded. “You and your family have always been kind to me.”

“Thank you.” Peggy sat silent for a moment, then looked up. “I didn't even ask about you. How did it go?”

Now Helene broke into a wide smile. “Beyond my craziest dreams. Oh, Peggy, he cares for me.”

Peggy clasped her friend's hands. “I knew it! I saw how he watched you. What did he say? Did he explain himself?”

“He's worried he'll be bad for me. Says he can't farm well enough to make a decent living.”

“You don't care about that,” said Peggy. “Tell me more.” She wanted to hear something pleasant, anything to mask the hateful words still echoing in her mind.

Even in the twilight, Peggy saw Helene's flaming cheeks. “He kissed you?”

Helene smiled.

“You devil!” Peggy punched her arm. “How was it?”

“I've wondered if anyone would ever want to kiss me. And if they did, how it would feel. Well, it was glorious. My heart, my whole body felt unbearably light and joyful.”

“I'm so happy for you. When will you see him again?”

“Tomorrow night—going to Linton's for ice cream.” Helene smiled. “And now, dear friend, it's getting dark and damp out here. It's time to go back.”

“I can't face them.”

“I'll be beside you.”

“I'd rather go home.”

“You love it here.”

“Not if everyone hates me.”

“They don't.”

“They did just now.”

“Wait until morning before you decide. You can't leave tonight anyway.”

“And you can't leave me in the lurch,” said a voice from the dark. Both girls jumped up. Jean stepped close, Binxie right behind her.

“What on earth is going on?” asked Binxie. “We're out in the stable unsaddling our horses and everyone's gone crazy.”

Peggy stood and brushed bits of grass and soil from her clothes while Helene explained. “Stella found out about Peggy's German relatives, and accused her of being a dangerous alien.”

Binxie took one look at Peggy's face and stepped over to hug her. “You're no more alien or dangerous than these trees,” she stated. “What's wrong with that twit?”

“You're a good worker and a fine person—even though you eat as much as you pick,” said Jean. “Give them a day or two. They'll be fine.”

“How can I go back there?” asked Peggy.

“The same way you do everything else—with lots of spirit and a joke,” said Binxie.

Jean began to walk.

Helene reached for Peggy's hand. “Come on.”

Together the four friends headed back to the barnyard, where several girls sat chatting on the lawn. They stopped as the four approached, then quickly glanced away. Stella glared.

Peggy's knees felt weak, her heart pounded, but she held her head high and walked toward the dorm, eyes focused on the door ahead. She knew the second she passed them that every girl would stare at her. She felt like a criminal.

At the crunch of gravel in the lane, all eyes turned in that direction. Even Peggy glanced at the familiar truck rolling closer. Had Mr. Belding heard about her already? Was he coming to tell her to stay away from his farm?

But Tom Belding waved cheerfully as he pulled to a stop. He climbed from the truck and walked around to the passenger door. He opened it and out stepped Isabel.

Binxie

Binxie stared at Isabel, pale and delicate in her black dress. She looked more ethereal, more lovely—grief suited her.

Peggy and Helene ran to Isabel. Hugs, tears, and laughter, words of surprise and sympathy followed, while Mr. Belding stood by, smiling. Finally he swung a suitcase and a bag from the back of the truck to the ground.

Isabel threw her arms around him and thanked him for the ride.

His face flushed. “You're welcome, Miss,” he stammered. “I'm glad I could help.” He climbed back into his truck, waved, and drove off. He was such a kind man; Binxie hoped it wasn't his wife who once loved James Earnshaw and carried his baby.

Now the questions began.

“How did you get here?”

“Are you back to stay? We missed you.”

In reply, Isabel reached for her luggage. Peggy picked up the suitcase, but Isabel insisted on carrying a small bag herself. “Is my bed still free?”

“So you're staying?” asked Binxie.

Isabel nodded. “Billy would have wanted me to continue my work for our country.”

It sounded stiff, rehearsed, to Binxie, but who knew how grief made people act.

As they walked inside and up the stairs, other girls welcomed Isabel and expressed their sympathy. She handled them with perfect grace and the occasional brave sigh.

Binxie watched Peggy, well behind Isabel, carrying the suitcase like a shield. Isabel couldn't have timed her entrance any better—all attention was on her, not Peggy.

They dropped the bags by the bed, and Isabel got busy smoothing her sheets and blanket onto her cot. Smokey arrived, puffing minty gasps from her run up the stairs. She welcomed Isabel back and asked her to come down to the office. That suddenly left a large group of girls standing around, staring awkwardly at each other. Most turned back to what they had been doing. Some seemed puzzled or curious about Peggy's new identity, a few looked at her with disdain.

Peggy turned to fluff Isabel's pillow. She stayed busy until most of the others left. Binxie was relieved for her when Kate called out, “Hey, Peggy. We're setting up a Monopoly game if you want to join us.”

“I'll be there in a sec,” Peggy called back. She stood still a moment, then turned around. In a chirpy voice, she called Helene and Binxie to come too.

Helene nodded, but Binxie declined. “I want to read my sister's letter.” Seeing Peggy's disappointment, she changed her mind. “I'll read it downstairs.”

The recreation room was abuzz with news of Isabel's return. If they spoke about Peggy too, it was hard to tell. Binxie chose a chair near the Monopoly game and opened her letter. She'd read it already, but she loved rereading the details. It felt like Kathryn was with her—almost.

Next year I'll be flying with her,
thought Binxie,
soaring through the skies. Free. Fast. In control. Not like home, where my parents and “being a lady” limit me.
Or here, where the YWCA makes the rules, the farmers choose the jobs, and a bell tells us when to wake up and when to eat.

She skipped descriptions of each plane Kathryn flew and went to the interesting part.

I delivered a Spitfire to London, and Lord Wexbourne's son took me dancing as promised. His name is Alastair. Binxie, I'm in love. We're in love. Deeply, madly in love. I have never been so happy. Yes, five weeks sounds crazy, but things happen fast in wartime. Everything is more intense, urgent—much more delicious. I feel like I've already lived a lifetime here.

Anyway, aside from being devastatingly handsome, Alastair is funny, smart, and full of plans for the future. He wants to form an airline after the war—to fly freight and passengers all over the world. He asked me to join him! Now that we know so much more about the capabilities and advantages of flight, the sky's the limit—pardon the pun. Once this war ends, it will be such an exciting world…

Binxie could feel Kathryn's enthusiasm jumping off the page and into her veins. She was in love. Alastair had to be special. Men had fallen for her beautiful, spirited sister before, but they soon either bored her, or they couldn't cope with a woman smarter and more outspoken than they were.

Binxie folded the letter away. What she would give to have Kathryn here now. Kathryn would listen thoughtfully and tell her what to do about Johnny. Every time Binxie saw him, she tingled. She wanted to be with him. But what about Jean? Was there anything between her and Johnny?

She looked up as Isabel came from the office. “Smokey says I can start back in the kitchen tomorrow morning. I should phone my parents, let them know I'm here.”

“You didn't tell them you were leaving?”

“They would have said no.”

Binxie tucked Kathryn's letter into her pocket. She had predicted this war would soon be over. The enemy was being pushed back on several fronts. If only Kathryn was right. Binxie wanted her home safely. But if the war ended tomorrow, would she leave the farm? No. She needed to stay. There were fields to hoe, crops to be picked—and there was Johnny.

Friday, July 30, 1943

Jean

Jean had no stomach for dessert tonight. Dad looked pale. He had spent the afternoon on the couch, angry about his weakness, agitated by the news.

Mussolini was ousted and jailed, and Italy stood close to defeat. The Allies could now focus on destroying Germany's industrial areas and ports. Lorne Greene's Voice of Doom doled out more details of bombings and battles by the hour. They were tidied up for family audiences, but Jean could imagine some of the horror.

Mum turned off the radio at dinner. “We don't need that to spoil our appetites.” It may as well have been left on, for the worries stayed with them like unwelcome guests.

Before Nanny even cleared away the unfinished cherry cobbler, Dad spread a map on the table. Stalag VIII-B was somewhere in Silesia, Poland. How close to it were the Allies bombing? Could a stray bomb hit the camp? Rob would be powerless to escape.

Jean's guilt lay like a rock in her chest. She had to step outside to breathe. The heavy heat of July was finally subsiding. A light breeze fanned her face, swayed the young corn in the fields. The sun clung stubbornly to the lower western sky, reminding her there was still time to work.

The last eggs had to be gathered. The hole where a skunk could enter the chicken coop needed to be sealed. She could even pick a few baskets of young cucumbers before they grew too large for Nanny and Mum to make pickles. Feeling weary of it all, she decided if her chores were always waiting, they could wait a bit longer. She'd collect the eggs then stop.

She heard the crack of a bat, and shouting, as a baseball arced far over the nearby field and three girls ran their bases. Binxie at bat. Saturday night, they were invited for a game and cookout with the farmerettes at the nearby Smith farm, and they planned to win. Jean smiled. Even after working all day, they found the energy to play.

Fifteen minutes later, she left the eggs in the kitchen and headed for the far orchard, where the silence could soothe her.
Surely the Allies wouldn't bomb their own men below. Surely this war would end soon. Rob would come home, set up his own house, ready for the family he wanted. Would Fran share it with him?
All Jean could envisage was the girl dancing and flirting with the boys here.

After another turn around the orchard, she headed back home, her soul somewhat lighter. Twilight had ended the game and all was peaceful in the yard. She passed the elm tree and saw Binxie, Peggy, and Helene sprawled in the grass, listening to Isabel. As Jean got closer, she heard Isabel explaining how Billy's unit had been chosen to fight in Sicily. Jean sighed. In spite of his death, Billy was still Isabel's main topic. Her dark clothes, her diamond ring still sparkling on her finger, her sad blue eyes, the certain proud way she held herself—made Isabel the perfect widow, or whatever one called a bereaved fiancée. How ironic. Isabel couldn't let go of her dead Billy, while Fran seemed to have forgotten her living Rob altogether.

Jean was about to pass by, but Binxie called her over. She sat on the grass.

“You were right,” Helene said. “
Gone with the Wind
was an incredible story. I must have cried at least three times. Do you think Rhett and Scarlett will get back together?”