Farmerettes Page 2

  As she pulled herself together, the last group of men surged the platform and she lost sight of Billy. She pushed her way through the noisy throng until at last she saw him—climbing aboard the train several cars down. “Billy!” she called, but he disappeared onto the train. She couldn’t bear to stand alone and watch that train leave the station. Isabel tucked the handkerchief into her pocket and walked away. She could always mail it to him.

  Friday, November 20, 1942

  Jean

  Jean McDonnell shut the barn door and brushed bits of chaff from her auburn hair and blue overalls. The animals were fed and settled for the night. She waved at Dad and whistled for Dickens to follow her to the mailbox at the end of the drive.

  She felt good. The harvesting, haying, and preparations for winter were finished. Robert couldn’t have done better. She thought how wonderful dinner and a hot bath would soon feel. After evening chores, she would spend a delicious hour reading Out of Africa.

  Maybe today they’d get a letter from Rob. It had been four worrisome months since they’d heard from him. Even then, any mention of where he was posted was blacked out by censors. She had hoped to track his whereabouts on the map posted on her bedroom wall, look up the cities in her atlas.

  She opened the mailbox. Rob had painted a cow in a field on it. She pulled out several envelopes and walked back up the drive, leafing through them. Four letters, a farm magazine—an envelope from the government. Jean stopped cold. The telegram shook in her hand. Was it…please, please, God, no. She always thought a soldier came to the door to break the dreaded news. Maybe they’d already been there when she was in the back field. She walked to the house dazed by a jumble of thoughts, prayers, and guilt. Rob, her older brother, taught her to swim, shared his paints and treats with her, gave her his travel books before he left. As a farmer and only son, he didn’t have to sign up to fight. So why had he enlisted? Because of her.

  Her square, gray stone home, its white shutters and delicately carved bargeboard trim, looked so normal, so safe. She opened the screen door to the kitchen. The room was steamy with the aroma of dinner simmering on the stove. Her mother pulled a loaf of bread from the oven, humming along with the radio. In the rocking chair by the window, her grandmother sat knitting socks, with their old collie, Shep, snoozing beside her. Dad had come in just ahead of her. He took off his boots and headed to the sink to wash his hands. This letter weighing five hundred pounds in her hand was about to shatter their world.

  Her mother saw her first. She crossed the room and grabbed the envelope. Jean couldn’t breathe as she watched Mum stare at the address. She wanted her to read it—and she didn’t.

  With shaking hands, her mother tore open the envelope. She read the telegram, then closed her eyes. “Rob is missing in action.”

  Jean felt like she’d been punched. Her father turned, clutched his chest, and collapsed unconscious to the floor.

  X

  It was the last dance, and the couples around her had moved closer together, eyes closed, swaying slowly to “Red Sails in the Sunset.” They were probably already thinking about the walk home and romance under the moonlight. If only she could be like them. Instead, she dreaded any thought of goodnight kisses with Arthur. He was handsome and fun to be with. She liked playing tennis with him. Any other girl would love him. Any girl but her.

  If only there was someone she could talk to. Someone who would explain to her why she wasn’t attracted to Arthur—or any boy. Why it was his sister who made her heart race. Was she sick? It was the last dance, and she wanted to cry.

  Wednesday, May 5, 1943

  Peggy

  Peggy Pigeon stood in her bedroom holding up the dress she planned to wear tomorrow. It was the perfect shade of red, setting off the warm highlights in her hair. The skirt swung gracefully with her when she moved. She was looking forward to the tea dance after school.

  Would Benny be there? She hoped so. Joseph was fun too—knew all the latest dance steps.

  “Bang, bang, you’re dead!”

  “Ahaht, ahaht, ahaht! I got you!”

  Outside her window, the neighborhood boys ran across lawns, playing war again. A window in the house next door slammed shut. Mrs. Ferguson. Peggy understood. Donny Ferguson had been the best dancer around here—but that hadn’t saved him on the rocky beach at Dieppe.

  Stop thinking about him, she told herself. And don’t think about Michael. I’m seventeen and I want to care about dresses and dances, not this stupid war.

  From below came the sound of musical instruments warming up. She hung the dress in her closet and hurried downstairs.

  “Homework finished?” asked her father. With his dark hair, brown eyes, and tall build, he was more handsome than other fathers, though not as dreamy as Frank Sinatra.

  “Most of it.”

  Her father nodded and adjusted his viola.

  Mum stood beside him, adjusting a peg on her violin. Grampa drew a string across his cello, drawing out the first bars of Debussy’s “Clair de lune.” His wife hummed along with him, resting her violin comfortably on her left shoulder. Both of them were silver haired, but there the resemblance ended. Her grandfather, with his slight accent and rimless glasses, had the stately bearing of a professor, while her grandmother, all jolly laughter, red cheeks, and large chest, looked like an opera singer. But they had made beautiful music together for fifty years.

  The cello began playing; the other instruments followed. Peggy sat at the piano and joined in. It felt like old times—before things got tense at home.

  Next they played a Dvořák concerto, then Dad segued into the first bars of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B.” Peggy snapped her fingers to the beat and everyone sang.

  Mum said, “Let’s not ignore Frankie.”

  Dad laughed. “I’ll take on that youngster any time.” In his rich baritone voice, he crooned and clowned the words: “All or nothin’ at all…” Then the others joined him. By the time they reached “Then I’d rather, rather have nothin’ at all,” they were laughing so hard they could barely finish.

  “Could we play something from home now, please?” Peggy’s grandmother asked softly. She hummed a few notes, Mum joined in on the violin, and the others followed. Dad’s expression became tight and Mum glanced at him several times with an odd look. Warning, defiance, or apology?

  Had the mood in the room changed, or was it her? “I better finish my homework now,” Peggy excused herself. “I hate this war,” she muttered as she climbed upstairs to her room. “I wish it would just end.”

  She flopped onto her bed and slapped through the pages of a Compact magazine. She stopped at the illustration of three girls in shorts and stylish cotton shirts by a wooded lake. There were no worries in their world. I’d look good in those shorts, she thought.

  Those suntanned girls made her think of the poster at school: “The Farm Service Forces Need You.” She remembered the stories the girls in the year ahead of her had told them last fall. They came to school looking spiffy, full of tales about the fun at “farmerette camp.”

  Peggy sighed and looked at her mathematics book spread open nearby. She’d have to study for exams soon.

  Suddenly the answer to everything fell into place. She could skip the final examinations at school. Earn enough money to buy those shorts. Get away from here. Have an interesting summer! All she had to do was sign up for the Farm Service Forces tomorrow. Yes, the summer of 1943 was going to be swell.

  Tuesday, May 11, 1943

  Helene

  Helene watched the greasy water swirl down the drain, then turned on the taps for the next load of dirty dishes stacked on the counter. She looked longingly at her schoolbooks on the kitchen table. She wanted to get at them, lose herself in orderly mathematical equations, biology diagrams; anything but endless plates and pots.

  The floor needed sweeping, her school bl
ouse had to be washed and ironed, and lunches made for tomorrow. Luckily the boys were asleep. She hoped the baby’s crying didn’t disturb them. Or the music and laughter in the sitting room. The merriment was loud, but not pleasant—the kind of guffaws that burst from men sharing crude jokes. Mama should have taken in more female boarders, but they used too much water, cooked in her kitchen, stayed too long in the bathroom. The men paid extra for meals and laundry. But now they lounged in her living room, dropping ashes on the rug, setting glasses on every table, filling the room with smoke and rough words.

  Helene scraped oatmeal from the last pot then grabbed a towel to dry. Red and yellow fruits bordered the dinner plate in her hand, making her yearn for ripe cherries or peaches. She knew where to get them—any farm just a few miles away. Peggy was begging her to spend the summer there with her. If only Mama didn’t need her at home.

  Helene thought of her mother’s weary eyes, her job at Firestone, the boarders, her brothers and knew she couldn’t leave. Besides, they couldn’t afford the clothes she’d need, or the cost of getting there. She rammed the towel into a glass so hard that it broke. She felt a sharp sting. Luckily the towel prevented the glass from cutting too deep, and it soaked up the blood.

  Alva entered the kitchen and set the kettle on for tea. “How was your day?” she asked, too tired to notice Helene’s bleeding hand. Jake Potter soon followed Alva in. Helene didn’t like the way he looked at Alva, as she leaned on the counter, stirring milk into her tea.

  “I need a glass of water, sweetheart.” He brushed Helene’s arm as he reached for the tap. She shuddered. He grinned, showing the ruined teeth that kept him out of the army. He paused as if to chat, but Helene turned away to wipe the counter, and was relieved when he left the room before Alva did.

  She had been surprised last night, when her mother brought up the subject of farmerette camp. “I met Miss Landry at the grocer’s today,” she had begun. “She described the Farm Service Forces project. Suggested you were a perfect candidate. She said the fresh country air, exercise, and companionship of wholesome girls would do you good. And you’d be paid.”

  Helene had taken a breath and shaken her head. “I’m not interested in going away to farm.”

  She caught the look of relief on her mother’s face just before she could pull it into a neutral expression. Helene had gazed levelly at her mother. “I’ll find work around here. May I take the boys to the library after school today? Their books are due, and I need new ones.”

  “Of course. Pick up a short happy one for me.”

  I could be a great actress, thought Helene, as she dropped the dishtowel into the laundry basket. But then, so could Mama.

  By eleven, Helene finished her homework and headed for bed. She was looking forward to her new book, The Spanish Bride. It promised adventure and romance in South Africa. She needed that after crying buckets over Jody’s fawn in The Yearling. What a luxury to read in bed the nights her mother worked the evening shift, when she had her room to herself. But by page nine she was too tired to continue and quickly fell asleep.

  She woke up with a start. The wooden floor creaked. She tried to see, to hear more in the dark room. There it was. Another creak. All she could make out were dark shadows. But she heard someone breathing. It wasn’t her mother. She willed her heart to slow down. Should she pretend she was asleep, or scream for help? Mr. Perkins’ radio still blared. Would anyone hear her?

  Then one shadow moved closer. A man. Her heart stopped, and she couldn’t breathe. Could she jump out of bed fast enough to reach the door? Not with the large shape blocking her way.

  “I won’t hurt you,” Jake’s voice oozed from the dark. “I’m lonely, and you’re so pretty.”

  “Go away!” Helene croaked, pulling the covers tightly around her.

  He stepped closer. She smelled his hair cream, oily and pungent. “I know you like me.”

  Helene screamed and scrunched back to the wall as far as she could. She felt his hand touch the covers over her hip. She kicked with all her might and hit soft flesh. He hesitated. She screamed again, knowing he was too strong to fight off for long.

  He touched her side, and the door flew open. Light, her mother and Mr. Perkins burst into the room. Helene thought she might faint.

  “I only wanted to talk to her,” Jake stammered as he backed away.

  “Get out!” shouted her mother in a voice Helene had never heard before. “Pack your bags, and leave this house. Now!” Then she turned to Mr. Perkins. “Please accompany Mr. Potter to the front door.”

  She shut the door, rushed to Helene, and held her until the shaking slowed down. “You’re going to farmerette camp. I don’t know how we’re doing it, but you’re going.”

  Friday, May 14, 1943

  Jean

  Her back ached, her face burned, and she was damp and dirty with sweat and dust. Jean stopped the tractor and surveyed the field she’d just plowed. The rows of furrowed earth were ready for planting. But that was for tomorrow. Today they were done. Thank goodness Gus, their foreman, had not enlisted. Mum, Uncle Ian, and two cousins would help plant. They’d work with her from dawn to dusk again. Too bad the Farm Service Forces girls weren’t due for another week. She could use them today.

  Her father was at the mailbox by the road. Although he had survived the heart attack last November, he’d lost weight and tired easily. Forbidden strenuous physical work, he now milked their four cows and looked after the paperwork—ordering, planning, accounting—the details of farm life he hated. Every day, he walked to the mailbox, leaning on it long after he’d found it empty.

  She watched him pull out today’s mail, sift through it, then stop. He stared at one envelope a long time. Jean knew it was the letter they’d been waiting for. She sat as rigid as he stood, anxious for that news.

  He opened the envelope, read its contents, and ran up the driveway to the house. Was that a good sign, or bad? Jean was so tense she could barely steer the tractor across the yard. She jumped off and rushed into the kitchen. Her parents and grandmother stood silent in the room.

  Seeing Jean, her mother screeched and danced around the kitchen. “He’s alive! Our Robbie’s alive!”

  The family hugged each other. Even Dickens and Shep nosed into the embrace.

  Finally Mum, tears rolling down her cheeks, explained the sober news. “Rob was injured and taken prisoner of war. They don’t know where yet, but at least he’s alive.” She happily bustled off to prepare dinner.

  As she carried a bowl of asparagus to the table, Nanny was the first to voice her fears. “How badly is he hurt? I don’t trust those Jerries to look after him. Do they even have doctors? Will they feed him?”

  Her concerns dampened Jean’s euphoria. She tried not to imagine how seriously Rob was hurt. She saw the quiet frowns of worry on her parents’ faces. They shared her concern.

  But not her extra burden—Rob wouldn’t be in that terrible place if she hadn’t lied to him.

  Tuesday, May 18, 1943

  Binxie

  “I absolutely forbid it!” Mrs. Rutherford, her salt-and-pepper hair held in place in a smooth victory roll, turned from Binxie to her desk.

  “But why not? It’s for the war effort.” Binxie kept her voice calm. A display of temper never worked with her mother.

  “There are dozens of more appropriate ways to help: knitting, filling food packages for our boys in prisoner of war camps, writing letters, selling war savings stamps.”

  “I’ve done all that and rather well. I want to do more, and I can’t do it at the cottage.”

  “We have always spent summers in Muskoka. Your cousins and friends will be there. Father had the engine tuned on the Greavette. You’ll have a marvelous time.”

  Binxie sighed. She loved that boat, the lake, and she knew she could win the regatta this year. But it wasn’t right. “How can I play at the cott
age when so many people, not much older than I am, are out fighting—and dying for us?”

  For a moment her mother stood quiet. Then she frowned. “You sold the most war stamps in your school, and helped immeasurably on my committees. You did your bit.”

  “My bit. That’s just it. I need to do more.”

  “Farmwork is not fit for a young lady, and you’ll mix with some rough people.”

  “Well, they won’t belong to the golf club, but I hear they’re decent, and some may even know which fork to use.”

  “Sarcasm is a low form of humor, Binxie. I’m concerned for your well-being.”

  “How much more well could I be than on a farm? Fresh food, healthy outside activity.”

  “You can get that in Muskoka. Discussion closed. We’ll leave for the cottage the day school finishes.”

  They’d argued all evening. Binxie considered ten weeks of Muskoka lakes, campfires, games, and dances and almost gave in. But there was Kathryn’s letter. Binxie folded her arms and stood still—her mother’s technique. She spoke in the low steely tone her mother used for effect.

  “I’m sorry, but I will not go to Lake Joseph this summer. My duty is with the Farm Service Forces.”

  Mrs. Rutherford raised an eyebrow. “Kathryn all over again,” she muttered. “Tell me the procedure.”

  First Binxie stood speechless, all the arguments she had planned still whirling in her brain. Then she blurted, “I can sign up tomorrow at school.”

  “I’ll call the director, Mr. McLaren, now. Make sure you’re placed properly.”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t,” Binxie protested, but her mother had already picked up the telephone.