Farmerettes Read online

  This time his audience waved and cheered him on. But not Binxie. Kathryn would have been appalled at his reckless behavior. And she was hungry for lunch. Why couldn’t this idiot just fly away?

  He was flying too low, heading straight for the barn. Too late the plane swerved, cleared it, then grazed the flagpole with a wing tip.

  Isabel cried, “He’s going to crash!”

  Every eye was riveted on the machine. Each heart pounded, every lip prayed.

  For a second the plane seemed to hover in midair. Then it wobbled forward, dipped, and landed hard in the field near the road.

  The farmerettes raced to the plane, and Helene detoured to the dorm. “I’ll phone for help.”

  As Binxie neared the yellow Avro Anson, she saw the pilot slumped against the side window, eyes closed, sunlight glinting on red blood trickling from his temple.

  “Let’s pull him out of there!” shouted Peggy, trying to climb onto the wing.

  “Stop!” ordered Binxie.

  “Why? He needs help.”

  Binxie pointed at the pilot. “If you open his door, he’ll fall over. If his back is injured, he’ll end up crippled for life.” She ran around to the other side of the plane, climbed onto the wing, careful to step on the marked pad, and wrenched the passenger door open. She crawled in next to the pilot and felt his wrist for a pulse.

  “Ummm, that feels nice. You smell good too.”

  She jerked back, and stared down at the young man now assessing her with saucy blue eyes and a cheeky grin. “Guess I won’t try that stunt again. But it sure was worth it to meet such a bevy of beautiful gals.”

  “I hope your squadron leader feels the same about you ruining a plane,” Binxie retorted.

  The young pilot lifted his arm, winced in pain, and fainted onto the control wheel. Great, thought Binxie. Is this another attention grabber or is he really hurt?

  Jean knocked on the window. “Is he dead?”

  Binxie shook her head. “Good! You brought water. Come on up. Walk only on the marked mat or you’ll step right through the wing. I’ll look for a first aid kit.”

  Binxie rummaged around the back as Jean climbed in and dabbed cool water on the pilot’s cut.

  A minute later, he came to. He gazed at Jean gratefully. “Another angel. My head and arm hurt like hell, but I’ll live.”

  “Until your flight leader gets hold of you,” Jean answered.

  “Keep still.” Binxie crawled forward and pointed at his left arm wedged against the door at an odd angle. “I’m sure it’s broken.” She handed Jean a bandage for his head.

  “Damn. That grounds me for awhile.” The pilot grimaced. “And I was ready to leave for merry old England next week.”

  A military jeep raced up the road and into the field. Two men in blue uniforms climbed out and approached the plane. One offered to help the girls down.

  “We got up on our own.” Binxie ignored his arm and jumped to the ground. Jean followed. The medic climbed into the plane, and an officer barked questions at the girls. Soon the medic helped the pilot out of the cockpit to the jeep. A truck pulled up and a mechanic in greasy overalls stepped out.

  Once the officer had spoken with the fellow, the jeep pulled away. As he was driven off, the handsome pilot cheerfully saluted the girls.

  Binxie shook her head, but the other girls giggled and sighed.

  After lunch, the girls left for the baseball game and passed the air force mechanic working on the plane. “He’s cute,” Peggy declared. “And so was that pilot.”

  “He was too cheeky for me,” Jean retorted. “And he knows he’s good-looking.”

  “If he keeps acting that recklessly, he won’t last long,” added Binxie.

  Jean

  By nine-thirty that evening, Jean sat on the front porch to catch her breath before she had to feed the chickens. The first star glowed in a denim sky. Jean loved the evenings, when time stood suspended in that hushed expectant way just before night fell. She was nodding off to sleep when a cheery “Hello” startled her.

  Johnny walked up the porch steps. Something about the way his smile reached his brown eyes made Jean’s heart lurch. “You heard we had lemonade. I’ll get you some.”

  When he had settled in the chair beside her with his drink, he said, “I missed you at the baseball game today.”

  “No time. The berries are a nightmare. The faster we pick, the quicker they ripen.” She grinned. “But we got them all—until tomorrow. I hear you won the game.”

  “Six–four. I hear you had some drama here today.”

  “A training pilot from Mount Hope tried to impress us and ended up crash-landing. I expect he’s in a mess of trouble. Did you get your hay cut?”

  “Yup. Tomorrow we plant the late corn crop.”

  They sat sipping lemonade, watching stars appear in the darkening sky. Jean was aware of the girls down by their dorm, craning their necks to see Johnny. She turned away slightly. She preferred having him to herself.

  “One of the Beldings’ dogs twisted his front leg in barbed wire yesterday.”

  “Ouch. What did you do?”

  “Fed him a handful of aspirin, then untangled it fast.”

  They fell into comfortable silence as the peepers in the pond began a backup chorus to the song of the crickets in the bushes. Too soon, Johnny left and Jean headed for the chicken coop. Would there ever come a day when they didn’t have to part in the evenings?

  Thursday, June 24, 1943

  Isabel

  Isabel struggled to carry a heavy pail of water across the kitchen to the stove.

  “Try getting that here before July!” Cookie said.

  Isabel stopped and regarded the cook, a tall, muscular woman who looked more like she belonged in a munitions factory than a kitchen. “Every time I take a step, it sloshes over the rim. I have to wait until it settles again.”

  “You can mop up after you finally fill that kettle.”

  I don’t know why she’s called Cookie, thought Isabel. It should be Sourdough. She set the pail down twice more to give her aching arms a break. She was exhausted. Whoever heard of getting up at five o’clock to make breakfast? And this was the fourth morning in a row.

  “Next time fill it halfway and take two trips,” Cookie grumbled. “Why have they sent me a princess?” She grabbed the pail handle with one muscled arm and swung it onto the stovetop without spilling a drop.

  She could have told me that sooner, Isabel thought as she found the mop and squeezed her trail of puddles into another pail. She stepped outside to toss the water into the yard and saw Jean staggering to the barn with a pail of feed. They nodded at each other in understanding.

  “Fetch some apples from the storage shed, and don’t drop any this time,” Cookie demanded. “We’ll serve Salmon Surprise and Apple Brown Betty tonight.”

  The surprise will be if the salmon is edible, thought Isabel, as she hurried across the barnyard. As always, she was careful to avoid Cracker. He perched on his fence-post throne, glaring at her with beady eyes, deciding whether to attack or merely intimidate.

  The storage shed was cool and gloomy. The smell of earth and ripe things was strong. Spiders and bugs scurried into cracks in the wooden walls and floor.

  She looked around for the apple bin. She felt greasy, hot, and exhausted. Her hands were nicked in several places where she had cut herself peeling turnips, carrots, endless potatoes. Her thumb blistered where she had scalded herself over the teakettle. Baking at home was never this difficult. But at home she hadn’t cooked for seventy people.

  It occurred to her how much preparation and cleanup her mother must have done around her. Odd—she never noticed it at the time. Totally discouraged, she sat on a wooden keg and lowered her head to her hands. She couldn’t handle farmwork; she couldn’t stand the sun. No civilized person sh
ould have to get up before dawn. Cooking was hard work. Scrubbing the floors killed her knees, and washing the toilets was disgusting. Tomorrow they would have to spray the kitchen with DDT again—to keep insects away.

  Isabel kicked backward at the keg she sat on. She couldn’t do anything. She really was an itsy princess.

  She couldn’t kick a keg either. Her heel throbbed with pain. But it snapped her out of her pity session. “No!” she yelled. “Even princesses are useful. Princess Elizabeth herself drives an ambulance for the war.” The girls in England were clearing bomb rubble with their bare hands, nursing broken and dying people. Compared to that, what was peeling a hundred potatoes or scouring a washroom?

  “I can do this. I’ll tell Billy amusing stories about it when he comes home.” Isabel stood, squared her shoulders, and stepped outside into a stream of sunlight. It was a sign. She was strong and capable. She ran back to the kitchen, firm with purpose.

  It wasn’t until Cookie banged a pot lid that she realized she’d forgotten the apples. Sighing, she rushed back to get them.

  Sunday, June 27, 1943

  Helene

  Sunday afternoon, Helene felt sticky and tired like the other girls. It had been a blistering hot week of hoeing, weeding, and picking berries. Last night, they stayed up too late dancing to records and raiding the kitchen at midnight.

  After church, they had lunch at the rectory with Reverend Ralston and his wife. Helene was stuffed full of dainty sandwiches, polite chatter, and goodwill. Now no one had the energy to do more than lounge around the recreation room, playing cards and listening to the radio.

  Helene was glad when The Army Show came on. She loved Wayne and Shuster’s humor, and hearing the other girls laugh. They were annoyed when the deep voice of the radio announcer interrupted a hilarious skit with a war update.

  “Operation Pointblank is proving successful. A massive Allied air raid involving eight hundred planes has destroyed the city of Dusseldorf. Twenty-seven Nazi fighters were shot down. In North Africa, intensive naval and air power achieved the surrender of 275,000 Italian and German troops. On the Italian front, Allied…”

  Peggy turned down the radio and asked, “Anyone interested in playing The Landlord’s Game? It’s fun.” She pulled a worn box from the shelf.

  “I’ll play,” Helene offered.

  Isabel, from her chair in the farthest corner, shook her head. “I have to start dinner soon.” She retreated back into her mail, poring over Billy’s old letters, since none had arrived this week.

  Kate jumped to join them. “I’m buying George Street and putting houses on all my properties, so everyone will owe me rent.”

  “Ha, you’ll be lucky to get Goat Alley or the Ting-a-Ling Telephone Company, my friend,” answered Peggy.

  “We’ll see,” said Kate. “I wish half the cards weren’t missing.”

  “Wait,” said Helene, searching the shelves. “Miss Stoakley delivered new games yesterday. Here it is.” She pulled out a clean box. “This is the one from the United States. They renamed it Monopoly.”

  Peggy looked intrigued as Helene unwrapped the game. Lured by the novelty, Irene joined them too, and soon the girls were amicably gouging rents from each other for landing on Park Place and the four railroads.

  Isabel tucked her letters into her pocket, and left for the kitchen. “Poor Isabel,” whispered Irene. “I heard the real reason the last kitchen assistant left was because she couldn’t take Cookie’s temper anymore.”

  Helene worried about that too. How would Isabel last in that kitchen?

  Stella passed by, balancing her laundry on one arm and carrying a bar of yellow soap in the other hand.

  “Gosh, I should wash my clothes too,” said Kate, but she returned to the game instead.

  An hour later, Helene excused herself. “I have to write my letters before I’m too tired.”

  “I should write too,” agreed Irene.

  “I’m the richest; I win. Just call me the Queen of Monopoly,” said Kate, raising her arms in victory before she helped pack away the game.

  “Wait till next week,” said Peggy, laughing. “I should answer my mail too.”

  Binxie was already deep into her letters at a round wooden table. Helene sat beside her to finish the notes to Peggy’s soldiers. Only four now. One of them had found a girl in Halifax before he shipped out, and was exchanging letters with her instead.

  Then she wrote to her mother.

  Dear Mama,

  It’s a relief to know Hamilton is not too hot for you, and the boys are a help. Please hug them for me on their big day. It will be the first family birthday I’ve missed, and I’ll think of you even more that day. I’m enclosing ten dollars to buy them a cake and a gift each and something for you too. I have no use for it here—we’re fed well, and I have more clothes than I need. Jean shares her books with me, and there’s a library in town.

  Life here is wonderful. I’m so grateful you let me come. I’ve seen animals born and thrive. Every day I admire the sun rising and setting over fields of green and gold. My cough is gone, and I feel strong and full of energy. I only wish you and the boys, and Alva and her baby, were here to share it with me.

  Take care of yourself, Mama. I miss you.

  All my love,

  Helene.

  She saw Peggy looking at her envelopes with a guilty grimace. “Next week I promise I’ll write to the boys. I never know what to say.”

  Helene shrugged. “Everyday things. They want to hear about normal home life and that someone cares about them.”

  “You always put things so nicely,” replied Peggy.

  “You play the piano beautifully,” said Helene. “We’re even.”

  “Funny, no one ever compliments my singing.”

  “I wonder why.” Helene grinned.

  “I better write home too. I just wish there was some way to let them know what I’m doing without having to write a whole letter.” Peggy sighed, found paper, and made herself comfortable at the table. Helene slid into a soft chair and read.

  Isabel

  The pen felt awkward in Isabel’s hand as she tried to avoid the bandaged finger she had cut with a paring knife.

  My Darling Billy,

  Thank you for the photos. The army has put extra muscles on you, and it suits you well. England looks lovely. You must send me Mrs. Wyecroft’s trifle recipe so I can make it for you when you come home.

  I’m still doing my part for the war too. I was promoted to camp assistant. The cook and I plan and prepare the meals and oversee the general domestic care of the camp. Tonight we’re making Dinner-in-a-Roll. It’s excellent training for the day I run our home. I wish I could enclose a strawberry shortcake and a thousand kisses for you, but that must wait. In the meantime, here’s a picture of me and my friends in the orchard.

  My work here is fulfilling, but I long to hold you in my arms, to dance with you to our song, to hear you talk about the beautiful life we’ll build together when this war is over. I look at our star and pray for you every night.

  With eternal love and devotion,

  Your Isabel.

  She knew there was no reason to worry. Since last October, Billy had written at least one letter every week. Sometimes they were delayed and she’d get two or three at a time, but they always came. Lately he had skipped a week here and there, probably too busy training. His last letter said they were preparing to be shipped “somewhere hot.”

  She tucked the photo into the envelope. She knew she looked good in it. She hoped he’d notice how much slimmer she had become.

  After writing to her parents, she added her letters to the basket of outgoing mail, put on her apron, and hurried to the kitchen.

  “You’re late,” said Cookie. “I started the potatoes without you.”

  Considering all Cookie had to do was light t
he stove after Freda and I peeled a hundred of them two hours ago, that wasn’t so hard, thought Isabel. She didn’t apologize.

  “Since I’m behind with the ham loaf and you’re so anxious to bake, you may make dessert. I left the recipe for Crumb Cake on the counter. It’s an easy recipe for beginners. Use the two large pans stacked beside the oven. Call me if you need help. I’ve already added salt to the potatoes. Watch they don’t burn; Freda will prepare the peas and turnips later. Any questions?”

  “I’ll manage, thank you,” declared Isabel, miffed at the easy-for-beginners comment.

  Cookie shrugged, and went to prepare the meat.

  Isabel was thrilled. Finally she could show her talents. As soon as she heard Cookie say she could bake, she had been so busy thinking about the cake that she stopped listening.

  She scanned the recipe. It wasn’t just easy—it was dull. She leafed through the booklet to find something with more zip. Ahh. Coffee Spice Cake. Much better. She gathered the main ingredients, but then remembered Cookie had said something about salt and the potatoes. There were a lot of potatoes, so she sprinkled salt in generously.

  She creamed the shortening and sugar, added eggs, measured the flour into another bowl. Golly, there was a lot of it. Sixteen cups. Now for the rest. This cake would be perfect.

  She searched the cupboards for the spices. She knew cinnamon, but what did cloves and nutmeg look like? Luckily the bottles were labeled. Carefully she measured the cinnamon and cloves. The nutmeg was weird. Hard brown balls the size of grapes. Oh well, they probably melted as they were baking. She tossed six balls into the mixture.

  She heard hissing on the stove. The potato water was boiling over. Quickly she turned the heat down and tossed in more salt before reading the next step of her recipe. Raisins. Fine. Cold coffee? She looked around. Cookie always made coffee at lunch. Luckily the grounds were still in the percolator. Isabel scooped out four spoons. Was that enough? Another two would give it extra flavor. She added the wet mixture with the coffee grounds to the dry ingredients, smoothing out most of the lumps.

  She poured the batter into the cake pans. This cake would taste delicious. But there was no icing. Every cake needed icing. She flipped back to the crumb cake recipe.