Farmerettes Page 3

She always has to be in control, Binxie thought as she left the room. Closing the door, she was surprised to hear her mother grumble, “She always has to get her way.”

  Binxie rushed up the stairs, two at a time, almost knocking over Sadie, carrying an armload of sheets. She swerved and shouted, “I’m going to be a farmerette!” How she wished Kathryn were here to share her victory. She hurried to her room to start packing. Kathryn’s last letter lay on her dresser. Binxie sat on her bed to reread it.

  Hi-de-ho, Binxie,

  Can’t write where I am, censors and all that. Suffice it to say, I can ride my bike to visit Aunt Letitia. Luckily she’s far from the bombs that rain down on London. She sends her love to you all and has already mailed Mother a thank-you note for the food package.

  I hope you decided to join the farmerettes, and that you’ll be as happy as I am now, working for the Air Transport Auxiliary. At last I’m allowed to fly! And oh, Binxie, it is so wonderful! John Magee’s poem says it all:

  Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

  And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings.

  Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

  Of sun-split clouds…

  I could go on, but one day you’ll discover that glorious freedom yourself.

  We fly all over the British Isles ferrying new planes from the factories to the squadrons, and damaged aircraft back for repair. We transport military personnel from base to base, and go on medical missions. We’re not allowed in combat, but I know each time I fly, I free male pilots to fight.

  I began training in an open-cockpit Magister light aircraft, and quickly advanced through Hawker Harts, Miles Masters, and Hurricanes. Every cadet pilot’s dream, including mine, is to fly a Spitfire. Since all aircraft are divided into classes, we need only learn one plane per class to be allowed to fly the others in that category. With our trusty ATA handling notebook, we can do it.

  My fellow pilots are a fascinating bunch. There’s an aviation journalist, a racing driver, company director, antiques dealer, even a magician. Stewart, a veteran of the Great War, flies brilliantly with only one arm and one eye, and he’s not the only one-armed pilot in our group. The chaps at the RAF air bases like to tease us that ATA stands for “ancient and tattered airmen,” but they know our value.

  The other women fliers are skilled and daring pilots who had adventurous lives before the war. Winnifred was a stunt pilot in an air circus. Gloria danced ballet, and Mona played international hockey. They’re a jolly lot—dedicated and serious about flying, but lots of laughs off duty.

  What binds us all is our love of flight and our desire to win this war. When you realize that, before the war, even the wife of the air minister wasn’t allowed to enter an aircraft, we’ve come a long way.

  Let me know all about the farm you’re assigned to, and what you do there. You may borrow my Wellington boots to slosh around in, and take some good hand cream with you.

  I miss the family, the cottage, and especially you, but what I’m doing is important—and exciting. This summer you too will have new adventures, an important job, and fun. And who knows, perhaps one of the tomatoes or peaches you harvest will end up on my plate!

  Love as always,

  Kathryn.

  Binxie tenderly folded the letter, and tucked it into her dresser drawer. She wouldn’t let Kathryn down. She was going to become a farmerette.

  Saturday, May 22, 1943

  Isabel

  “Has the mail arrived yet?” When Isabel heard a noise at the front door, she dropped her knitting on the couch and hurried to open it.

  “Don’t look so disappointed.” Her sister Gloria waddled in and hugged her.

  “It’s becoming hard to get near you,” Isabel said, affectionately patting her sister’s large tummy.

  “Only five more weeks.” Gloria had gained too much weight, but she glowed with happiness.

  “Gloria!” Mrs. Lynch swept into the hallway and embraced her oldest daughter. “Come in, sit down. How are you feeling?”

  Once they were seated in the living room, Mrs. Lynch offered tea. “Itsy baked some lovely scones today.”

  “Mom, I’ve baked before.” But you did most of it, Isabel added to herself.

  “Oh, honey, of course. It’s just so hard to see my girls grown up. Here’s Gloria expecting her first baby, Rosemary and her husband moving to Toronto for the duration. And now my baby is engaged and poring over the Woman’s Home Companion. I have to get used to it all.”

  Isabel saw the quick roll of her sister’s eyes. Gloria had expressed her opinions about Isabel’s engagement several times already. “Seventeen is too young to marry. Why, Itsy can’t even make her allowance last a week.”

  “I’ll be eighteen in July.” Isabel had defended herself. “And we can’t marry until this war ends, and who knows how long that will be. You were engaged to Walter at nineteen.”

  “Walter was twenty-three, finishing university, with an excellent position waiting for him.”

  “Billy will go back to school to earn his law degree.” Isabel hated sounding defensive. She wasn’t that young. Besides, this was war, and priorities had changed.

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” said Gloria, patting her tummy. “You’ll soon be a busy grandmother.”

  “I’ll make the tea.” Isabel excused herself. In the kitchen she set the kettle on the stove and paced back and forth until the water boiled. Then she prepared the tea and scones, and carried them back to the living room.

  Gloria and her mother were discussing baby blankets, and while they chatted, Gloria was absentmindedly knitting on Isabel’s project. “You dropped some stitches around the thumb,” she said, as Isabel handed her a cup. “I’ll give it a quick fix.”

  “Thank you.” Isabel forced a smile. She wanted those mitts perfect for Billy.

  As her mother and sister talked baby clothes, Isabel nibbled a scone and daydreamed about Billy. She wanted so badly to feel his arms encircle her, press her body into his, soak in his smell. She pictured Billy in his red cashmere sweater, his easy smile, his dark hair neatly combed away from his face. He’d wear sweaters like that when they were married, raising four children—the two boys tall and clever like their dad, her daughters petite, attractive blondes like her. But first this stupid war had to end. Right now she felt like she was in a waiting room. Waiting for the war to end. Waiting for Billy to come home. Waiting to marry him. Waiting.

  The sound of the mailbox lid clinking shut broke through her thoughts. Isabel rushed outside. Yes! A small gray envelope with a King George stamp. Tossing the other mail onto the hall table, she clutched Billy’s letter and hurried to her room.

  It was her ritual—she combed her hair, straightened her dress, sat in her chair by the dormer window with his photo on the table beside her. The extra waiting was delicious agony. She tore open the envelope. First she’d rush through it, devour it. Then she’d reread it slowly, savoring every word, every endearment. Sometimes there’d be pictures of Billy with the fellows. Those were held, stroked, some even kissed and slept with.

  Billy wrote how much he missed her, thanked her for her last package. He described the endless drills and marches around the English village where they were posted, but he was not allowed to name it. That gave her a thrill of intrigue—her brave soldier on his heroic mission to fight Nazis and fascists. How proud she had been to walk the streets of Guelph with him in his new uniform, looking taller and more mature than ever. Girls had always eyed Billy and her—the golden couple—all through high school and his college football games. But that day, they had stared with open envy. She was even prouder when he escorted her to Rosemary’s house for the engagement dinner. No one called her Itsy then.

  This time Billy had included a photo of the Wyecrofts. She was glad many English villagers invited the boys for home-cooked dinners and some
family life. She studied the photo. Billy stood in a garden surrounded by a thin older couple, two girls, and a young boy almost dwarfed by the sheepdog beside him. The girls looked about her age, pretty in a dowdy way, but pleasant.

  Billy described an amusing incident about the dog and young Cecil, and the inventive recipes Norah and Vera tried out on him. England was rationed far more severely than Canada. He admired the family’s spirit, and the hours the women put in volunteering at the hospital. Under all his light news, Isabel sensed a longing to be sent to the front.

  Isabel reread the paragraph about the sisters. Billy practically gushed about their courage. They had learned to drive an ambulance. Did he think she wasn’t doing enough? He knew she rolled bandages and knit socks. But here in Canada there was no chance for more heroic deeds.

  She glared at the photo. Suddenly she didn’t like Vera’s toothy smile, or Norah’s saucy stance. What could she do? Daddy would never let her work in a war factory, and she was too young for nursing. What else was there?

  She remembered the announcement about the Farm Service Forces the principal had made last week, and sat up straight. She could pick fruit, do a bit of hoeing. They had to have uniforms. She would send Billy a picture of herself in her smart outfit, ready and able to serve her country.

  Wednesday, June 2, 1943

  X

  She locked the cubicle door and sat on the toilet seat, shaking. What had she done? She’d always been so careful before. But this afternoon, as they changed into their gym wear, it had been too much. Vivian sitting so close to her on the bench—subtle cologne scent, rosy skin. Vivian’s mass of long brown curls had touched her arm, and she couldn’t resist—she had caressed it. Only for an instant, but long enough to be noticed.

  She shut her eyes tight, trying to block the memory of the confusion and horror on their faces. Had the girls guessed her shameful secret? Would they spread it around the school? Around the whole town of Brantford?

  Could she move away? Maybe she’d get better in a new place. She had to get away from here, the whispers, the strange looks.

  The poster hanging in the hall outside the bathroom all month offered her the chance. Hard physical work on a farm in the wholesome countryside—it would help her make a clean new start. She prayed the Farm Service Forces would cure her.

  Sunday, June 6, 1943

  Helene

  “Isn’t it swell?” Peggy said as she stretched across Helene’s narrow bed. “No more homework, no exams. The girls at school envy us. Wait until they see us in September.”

  “Your patriotism is truly inspiring,” said Helene as she folded a dress into her suitcase. “How many work shirts does the list say?”

  “Four. Two with long sleeves.”

  Helene frowned at the last of the clothes sharing the bed with Peggy. She picked up a plaid shirt her father had left behind, tossed it back, then held up a frayed white one. “Which ones look the least awful?”

  Peggy wrinkled her nose. “The white, and that blue one. They’re only for working in the fields, anyway. Look at the lovely new things you have.”

  Helene smiled. “I’m still amazed my teacher was so generous. I love this dress.” She held up a flowery cotton frock. On the bed lay various toiletry items, several packages of new underwear, and a crisp white blouse still with that new-clothes scent.

  “Miss Landry obviously thinks you deserve it,” said Peggy.

  “I’ll bring her some fresh fruits in the fall.”

  “Did you hear each camp got a piano and record player this year? Dad is letting me take some records.”

  “Harry James, I hope.” Helene tucked two towels into her bedding and rolled them all up. “That’s it. I’m ready.”

  She checked her dresser top. “Tickets, travel money, the address, and ration coupons.” She turned to her friend. “I can’t believe we’re actually spending summer in the country. It’s so exciting.”

  “Then let’s go. Our adventure begins now.” Peggy picked up Helene’s suitcase and headed into the hall.

  Helene held her mother in a long hug, torn between sadness at leaving her stuck in the hot city and joy at her own escape. Everything had already been said over the last few days of preparation and at the special dinner her mother cooked last night. Now her mother simply gazed at Helene and said, “We’ll be fine here. You be happy there.”

  A final hug, and the girls headed off to Peggy’s house, where her father would drive them to the one o’clock bus to Niagara Falls.

  “I have disappointing news,” Mrs. Pigeon greeted them as they rushed into the kitchen. She held up a telegram. “This just arrived from the Farm Service Placement Officer.”

  Helene set her bedroll down and her hopes plunged with it.

  “What’s wrong?” demanded Peggy.

  “Apparently the farmer in Niagara Falls finished planting early this year, and they have enough girls hoeing. He won’t require you for another two weeks.”

  Peggy gazed at their luggage standing in the hall. “But we’re packed and ready to farm. We’ll look silly if we go back to school tomorrow—and we’ll have to write exams!”

  Mrs. Pigeon shrugged her shoulders. “I’m disappointed for you too, and your bus tickets are already paid for.”

  “Mum, we have to go.”

  “It’s no use ranting,” sighed Helene, picking up her bags. “We have to accept this.”

  Peggy looked at Helene, then at the jaunty red sun hat perched on top of her own bedroll. She turned to her mother. “Gee, that telegram arrived at the very last minute. What if it had come an hour later—after we’d left?”

  Her mother grinned. “Telegrams often arrive late.” She tucked the note into a drawer. “Don’t forget to write, my dear. Now here come your grandparents to see you off.”

  “Be sure to send their letters inside your envelope, okay, Mum?” said Peggy.

  Her mother sighed and nodded, and with a last flurry of hugs, kisses, and advice, the family said good-bye, and the girls rushed out to the car.

  Monday, June 7, 1943

  Binxie

  Another lineup! Binxie frowned with annoyance. First the queue for the train from Toronto to Hamilton, then for the old bus that delivered them from Hamilton to this farm, and now they waited to fill out endless registration papers. Her traveling outfit felt sticky under the blazing afternoon sun, and the blonde girl ahead of her whined for water. Two girls at the registration desk held everyone up. The pale nervous one looked ready to flee, and the girl wearing a red sun hat had too much to say—something about a telegram not received and being assigned to a new camp. Would they ever settle it? Binxie smiled at the blonde girl.

  Finally the matter at the desk was resolved. The two girls, grinning from ear to ear, ran to the dormitory, and the line moved forward.

  Once Binxie had registered and handed in her ration booklet, she hurried to the dormitory too. It was actually a gray barn, its two large doors boarded up, and a regular door open beside them. At the entrance, a middle-aged woman with heavy eyebrows, black hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a strong smell of mints, introduced herself as Miss Stoakley, their camp mother. She welcomed them, and pointed to some stairs to the right of the doorway. As Binxie climbed them, three girls pushed past her. “First ones up get the best beds,” one shouted.

  Binxie followed them to a large room running the length of the building with about thirty cots lining each of the two long walls. They reminded her of the Madeline book her young cousin loved to read. The room was scrubbed spotless and painted fresh white. Next to each narrow bed stood a wooden orange crate. Primitive, but handy. Small windows over every second bed let in light and air. She wondered where the washrooms were—hopefully not outside.

  She surveyed the cots and the girls scrambling to claim one next to a friend. No one seemed to want the far end of the room. It was
gloomier there and a disadvantage in any race for meals or the washrooms. But she’d have more privacy. Just as she placed her bedroll on the very last cot, another girl plopped her bags onto the bed beside her. Binxie unrolled her bedding as her neighbor opened her suitcase.

  When they backed into each other in the narrow space between the cots, they laughed and turned around. The girl looked pleasant—blue eyes, curly brown hair held back with a bobby pin, a pretty smile. Binxie extended her hand. “Hi. I’m Binxie, from Toronto.”

  “Hi, Binxie, I’m Stella, and that’s my friend Grace on the next bed. Isn’t this fun?”

  Grace waved cheerfully.

  Stella continued. “We’re from Wiarton. My cousin lives in Toronto. She goes to Bloor Collegiate. Where do you go?”

  “Branksome Hall.”

  Stella’s smile fell. She gathered her things and walked away. “Come on, Grace. We don’t bunk with private school snobs. We had enough of them last year.”

  Binxie stood stunned. But before she could reply, another bag flew onto the bed beside her. “Helene, quick! Two beds left together. Grab that one.”

  It was the loud, red-hatted girl who had held up the line.

  Her mousy friend heaved her battered suitcase onto a bed.

  At almost the same time, another girl, dressed in blue, plopped her bag onto the same bed as the pale girl—Helene? “This bed’s mine. I got here first.”

  Helene coughed and reached to remove her suitcase. Binxie feared she might collapse.

  “No!” her red-hatted friend hissed. “Helene was here first. Go find your own bed.”

  The girl stood firm, trying to stare them down. The red-hatted girl narrowed her dark blue eyes, pursed her lips, and glared back harder.

  Binxie smiled in amusement.

  Suddenly the red-hatted girl burst out laughing, a sound that would make a donkey proud. Her opponent shrugged, picked up her bag, and stomped off.

  Helene nervously set her old suitcase onto the floor and unrolled her sheets to make her bed. Noting the cheap material, Binxie decided not to mention Branksome Hall again. She smoothed out her own linens, adjusted the blanket, then opened her suitcase.