Farmerettes Page 7

  “How about your family, Isabel?” Stella asked.

  Isabel looked dazed. “Um. My Billy is training in England. Ummm. Dad’s a dentist,” she murmured.

  Helene wondered why no one seemed to notice how vague Isabel sounded.

  “So your dad’s making a profit from the war,” Stella shot at her.

  Isabel looked confused. “He repairs teeth so men can enlist.”

  Helene wanted to make sure Isabel was all right, but she couldn’t risk drawing attention to herself. She was glad when Peggy moved toward Isabel and spoke quietly. Stella quickly singled Peggy out. “Your dad isn’t away fighting.”

  Peggy looked Stella up and down. “No. He works for the ministry of war—to keep all of your fathers supplied with food and weapons.”

  Helene admired her friend. No one could tell from her light tone how much tension that had caused in her home.

  Isabel got up, staggered from the table to the cool grass under the tree, and lay down. Something was wrong. Helene hurried to her side and felt her forehead. Clammy.

  “No sneaking away, Helene. What about your family?” Stella’s machine-gun voice zeroed in on her.

  Helene’s mouth opened like a goldfish, but nothing came out. Answers raced around her brain, tripping over each other. How could she admit she didn’t know where her father was? That he had abandoned his family?

  An icy voice rescued her. Binxie. “I hardly think we honor our families and their sacrifices by bragging like this.”

  Shamed into silence, Stella concentrated on her dessert, while Binxie brought a cup of cold water to Isabel. “Drink this,” she said gently.

  Helene helped Isabel sit up to take a few slow sips. “You shouldn’t work this afternoon,” she ventured.

  “Definitely not,” Binxie agreed.

  Isabel took another sip. “Let me rest a minute. I’ll be fine.”

  Binxie and Helene gazed at each other doubtfully, but Isabel lay down again and turned her back to them. They stayed beside her, even when some girls got up to toss a ball around. Peggy brought their lunches over and joined them.

  Too soon, Jean returned. The girls quickly used the bathroom, washed up at the pump, and trooped back to work.

  The midafternoon sun blazed. Helene wished she was as strong as Peggy, leading the girls in a merry medley of songs. But she loved the green fields, the heady smell of earth and leaves, the bright blue sky above. Was there any place on earth this wonderful?

  She hoped it wasn’t this hot at home. Maybe a breeze from Lake Ontario was cooling Hamilton down a bit. Her brothers wouldn’t care, swimming in the bay, playing cowboys or army with their shirts off. But her mother worked in the factory, then cooked, and did other people’s laundry. Helene worked faster, trying to hoe away the guilt.

  “Isabel!” someone shouted.

  Helene looked up as two girls jumped across the rows toward a mound of baby blue and white. She got up and raced toward her friend. “Someone bring water!”

  Nancy ran to the pump.

  Jean’s face scrunched with concern. “Peggy, get salt and some cloths from the house.”

  While they waited, Helene cradled the crumpled figure who lay with eyes closed, face drained of color. Desperately she fanned the air over Isabel. “They’re bringing water. You’ll soon feel better,” she told her.

  Jean barked at the other girls watching them. “Go back to work.” Then she softened her tone. “Please.”

  When Peggy returned, Jean dipped a cloth into the pail and wiped Isabel’s forehead, neck, and arms.

  Jean’s mother hurried toward them with a cup. While Helene propped Isabel up, Mrs. McDonnell gave her a few sips of salted water, which Isabel swallowed with a shudder. Her eyes fluttered shut again.

  Mrs. McDonnell soaked two more cloths and rolled them under Isabel’s armpits. She lifted her shirt and sponged her back until finally Isabel opened her eyes again, and tried to smile.

  “How do you feel?” asked Mrs. McDonnell.

  “Dizzy,” Isabel whispered weakly.

  “Take another sip.”

  Isabel drank, stopped to rest, tried another mouthful.

  “You’ll be okay now,” said Jean. “I’ll get back to work.”

  Isabel looked stricken. “I’m sorry I held you up.”

  “It’s not your fault. It happens in this heat.”

  Isabel looked at the other farmerettes working in the field. “But they’re all right.”

  Isabel tried to sit up, but Mrs. McDonnell held her back. “You’re not out of the woods yet. I need to keep cooling you down before you can move. How do you feel now?”

  Helene heard Isabel whisper, “Like a stupid baby.” More loudly, Isabel answered, “I’m fine, ready to work now.”

  Mrs. McDonnell shook her head. “You’ve had sunstroke. We need to get you inside.”

  Isabel began to stand, but swooned back to the ground. Helene let her rest before she tried to help her up again. This would not be easy.

  From a nearby row stepped a tall girl with a yellow scarf tied around her hair. She bent down, swooped Isabel into her arms, and carried her from the field.

  Mrs. McDonnell followed. “I’ll leave the water bucket and salt tablets here for the rest of you,” she called back. “If anyone feels the least bit faint or sick, stop right away and get to the shade.”

  Helene watched them disappear down the lane. She felt slightly woozy herself, but she had a job to do. She finished another row, and then stopped at the water bucket, which now had leaves and an unhappy insect floating in it. She scooped out the bug, filled the tin cup with water to drink, and patted some on her face. She glanced up at the sun, blazing on her right. It was midafternoon.Would she last three more hours?

  Wednesday, June 16, 1943

  Isabel

  Next morning Isabel woke up to weak light wavering through a small window. Her head pounded, every muscle ached. She lay still, trying to place herself. From the bottles and bandages on a shelf nearby, she realized she was in the infirmary. She gazed around the cubicle. Two beds were set apart from the main dormitory by half a wooden wall. The pale light must mean a new day. Then she remembered yesterday.

  Miss Stoakley had kept watch over her, bathed her with cool cloths, smoothed lotion on her arms, made her drink too much water and juice. Isabel had slept restlessly, her sunburn stinging, her stomach queasy. Every time she awoke, either Miss Stoakley or Helene was sitting by her side with a smile and a cool drink. Once she had awoken to the laughter of a card game on the bed beside her. Peggy, Helene, and Binxie waved at her cheerfully, and kept on playing.

  They cared about her. But no one gushed over her like Mother and Gloria did at home. At first she missed that, then she was grateful. Baby Itsy didn’t exist here.

  Miss Stoakley entered the silent dorm and whistled. “Time to rise, girls.”

  Moans and groans emanated from under blankets on the other side of the half-wall. Cots creaked as girls got up to plod downstairs to the washrooms.

  Isabel flipped back her covers and tried to sit up. A bolt of pain shot from her forehead to the back of her skull. Gently she eased herself back down. She lay listening to the parade of girls marching downstairs, chatting and giggling, energized for the new day. If they could do it, so could she. She took a deep breath, swung her legs over the edge of the cot, but then a shadow loomed over her.

  “Isabel, you stay there.” Miss Stoakley looked official this morning in a crisp white blouse, her hair twisted back into a knot. “You’re not getting up today.”

  “I need to work. That was just a silly spell yesterday. I’m fine now.”

  “No. You had sunstroke. We take that seriously here.”

  “But I feel better.”

  The camp mother shook her head. “I’m afraid not, my dear. I’m calling your parents this
morning to arrange for them to pick you up.”

  The horrible events to come flashed through Isabel’s mind. Father and Mother rushing her to Dr. Jones, clucking and fussing about her, babying her for the rest of the season. Her sisters barely hiding their I-told-you-so smirks.

  And worse, what would Billy think? He and his mates faced terrible danger and hardship. He was watching as the English girls endured bombings, then pulled victims from the rubble. Would he respect a fiancée who couldn’t handle strawberry picking?

  “I’m not leaving.” She sat up. Pain bolted through her head, but she blinked and bore it.

  “Yes, you are,” Miss Stoakley said gently, but firmly. “We appreciate your dedication, but we won’t endanger your health. Sunstroke is dangerous.”

  “I’ll wear a hat and long sleeves. I’ll be fine. Please don’t call my parents.”

  “Be reasonable,” Miss Stoakley crooned. “Next time it could be worse. You can’t risk your health out there.”

  Isabel looked around her in desperation. She spotted the empty glasses that had been left for her last night. And the dust balls in the corner. “I don’t have to work outside,” she said. “I could clean. I can cook.” Hadn’t she read all those magazines for recipes and decorating ideas? Wasn’t her cubby the prettiest in the dorm? “Please. I’ll peel potatoes, wash floors, anything. Don’t make me leave.”

  “Yes, please, Miss Stoakley.” Peggy stood at the entrance of the room. “Let her stay.” Helene and Binxie came up behind her to add their support.

  Isabel smiled at them gratefully. She noticed Helene leaning against the doorway, looking quite pale. She feels sick too, Isabel realized.

  Miss Stoakley hesitated. “Well…Cookie’s second kitchen assistant wants to transfer to a camp closer to home. But she’s a strong girl. It’s a big job.”

  Binxie said, “Isabel has baking experience and she’s eager to work.”

  Helene added, “Isabel’s a fast learner. She’ll do a good job.”

  Isabel sensed that Miss Stoakley was ready for that final push to say yes. She regarded her with anxious blue eyes. “Please don’t call my parents. Please let me stay.”

  “I’ll need to file a health report. See what the director says.”

  “Of course that’s the right thing to do,” agreed Peggy. “But they’re so busy there, still placing girls. Maybe we should wait a week or two before we send it—so it doesn’t get lost with all their more important mail.”

  Miss Stoakley raised an eyebrow at Peggy, the girl who had conveniently lost one telegram already. She looked at Isabel, sighed, then nodded. “Rest this morning. Be ready to help prepare dinner tonight. You’ll have a lot to learn.”

  “Thank you, thank you, Miss Stoakley!” Isabel couldn’t stop grinning. She flashed a victory sign to the others. She was staying on the farm! And they had stuck up for her! All her strength spent, she lay back on the bed and fell asleep.

  Saturday, June 19, 1943

  Jean

  Jean squinted across the strawberry fields into the just-risen sun. It wasn’t the glorious display of golden dawn that concerned her. It was the rows of ripening red berries. The day promised to be another scorcher. She could almost see the fruit turning mushy. There was one less girl to help pick—Isabel for sure wouldn’t return, and a couple of others looked as if they wouldn’t last either. The Women’s Institute in Hamilton needed all the berries she had, to make jam for Great Britain. If she couldn’t supply enough, they’d find another farm.

  She rubbed her eyes, still tired. She and her mum had picked until dark last night, then finished the other chores. Now here she was again. Luckily Gus had asked the farmerettes to start work an hour earlier this morning.

  There was a time when June Saturdays meant swimming in the lake, strawberries and cream for dessert, and evenings on the porch swing deep in a book. That seemed so long ago.

  Jean crouched and began picking. She hoped to finish several rows before the girls arrived. If only she had slept better last night. But the heat had kept her restless—and the letter.

  Rob’s note was too short, probably checked by his guards. Did he really think his cheery tone would keep them from worrying? It didn’t answer their questions. Was his injured leg healing? Was he hungry? Did her letters telling him they were managing the farm just fine, and that his fiancée was waiting for him, bring him comfort? Did he even receive them? And had he forgiven her?

  Jean shook her head. Worries wouldn’t pick berries. She filled another box, wiped the sweat from her forehead, and kept picking.

  When the farmerettes arrived, they were cheerful and eager. What would she do without them? She was glad to see Binxie in the lead. Binxie worked quickly, quietly, and kept the others working steadily too. And Jean couldn’t help but smile at Peggy bouncing along behind Binxie. Her good-natured cheer and her songs kept up everyone’s spirits.

  Behind the girls came her mother. She looked tired and her hair was hastily held back with bobby pins. “Milking’s done. Dad’s working on the books today. I had to convince Nanny she’s more useful in the kitchen than out here.” She picked up a box, and joined the farmerettes in the field.

  Binxie

  Binxie dreamed she was flying. With arms spread wide, she glided freely through the air, no controls or tail drag to worry about. Her sister smiled and flew beside her.

  “I knew it was easy,” Binxie said, swooping into a graceful curve.

  Suddenly she heard a pop, then another. Gunshots? She panicked and sank.

  “Sorry,” Kathryn whispered. She faded away and Binxie woke up. Valiantly she tried to get back to sleep, to be with her sister again, but a rustling sound began and she knew she was awake for the day. Across from her, Isabel was shutting her suitcase.

  Binxie sat up instantly. “You’re not leaving!”

  “Shhh.” Isabel raised her finger to her lips, then indicated the other girls stirring in their sleep. Binxie glanced at her alarm clock. Five o’clock. “Why are you up so early?”

  Isabel bent over to pick up her shoes and tiptoed closer. “I’m on kitchen duty,” she whispered proudly. “See you at breakfast.”

  “Glad you’re staying,” Binxie mumbled as she scrunched back under her blankets. “Hope you learn to get up more quietly.”

  An hour later, Binxie munched crisp toast—really crisp—and watched Isabel, a frilly white apron over skirt, her hair tucked into a hairnet, preside over the breakfast table as if she were serving King George himself.

  Binxie left the toast, finished her tea, carried her dirty dishes to the counter, and headed outside. They were starting an hour earlier today, but she didn’t need to pack a lunch. Saturdays they only worked until one o’clock—even though ripening berries didn’t take weekends off.

  This afternoon, most of the farmerettes were going to town to watch the baseball game, then find ice-cream sodas somewhere. She hummed to herself as she walked to the field, picked up her basket, and crouched down to work.

  At one o’clock, the girls headed back toward the dorm, hot and tired of working, but with enough energy left for an afternoon of fun.

  As the girls chatted, an ominous hum in the eastern sky grew louder. Binxie shaded her eyes and squinted upward. The others hadn’t noticed anything yet.

  The low rumble intensified. Soon it echoed across the fields. Even the leaves seemed to tremble at the sound. Flying and turning in unison, four airplanes, wings glinting in the sunlight, flew their way. Binxie stared in awe. How could machines designed to deliver death be so beautiful?

  A high-pitched scream pierced their roar. “Nazi bombers! Run for your lives!”

  Binxie glanced at the old woman standing on the farmhouse porch as Jean ran to calm her nanny.

  The farmerettes stood looking up and around, confused and frightened.

  “Head for cover!” Nanny
shrieked.

  Peggy, ever the showman, dove under a wooden wagon, as though that rickety thing could protect anyone from a bomb. Kate raced for the trees, and most of the others followed. Two girls stood frozen with fear. The roar became deafening.

  This didn’t make sense. Binxie stayed where she was and studied the planes. She tried to remember what she knew about identifying aircraft, as the other girls screeched for her to run.

  Isabel appeared from the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

  Nanny shouted, “The Nazis are coming to kill us!”

  Isabel stood transfixed by the planes. Two of them had broken formation and were flying straight at them. “So this is how I’m going to die. Hot and dusty in a barnyard, never to hold my Billy again,” she said sadly.

  Peggy climbed out from under the wagon. “Those aren’t German planes. They’re Canadian Avro Ansons. See? They’re painted bright yellow—training planes.”

  Isabel looked puzzled.

  “We learned to identify planes at school last year,” Peggy explained. She yelled to the others, “Don’t worry. We’re safe.”

  “Not if that plane crashes into us.” Binxie pointed up. One machine rejoined the others, but the second one still flew too low.

  The other girls came cautiously out from the trees.

  Jean called out to them, “There’s nothing to worry about. Those are our boys, learning to fly. They’re from the training base in Mount Hope.”

  “But your nanny…,” began Isabel.

  “Every time she hears a plane, she’s convinced the Nazis are attacking us, no matter how often I explain they can’t fly this far inland.”

  “Well, whoever they are, one of them is flying right at us!” shouted Peggy.

  The breakaway plane dipped a wing as it rushed past the girls, close enough for Binxie to see a helmeted head inside and an arm waving at them. Then it rose again.

  “Stupid show-off.” Binxie said. Slowly, the other girls left the safety of the trees, excited about this taste of danger.

  Although his mates were rapidly flying west, the rogue pilot circled back.