Farmerettes (11 page)

With all the dignity she could muster, she turned and followed Cookie to the kitchen, her face white, her hands shaking. This time for sure she'd be sent home.

Binxie

Binxie sat propped up in bed, finished a note to her parents, then reread Kathryn's latest letter.

Dear Binxie,

By the time you get this letter, you'll be settled at Highberry Farm. I'm glad you decided to go. You'll like it far more than another season at the cottage. Yes, we had great times growing up there, but suddenly sailing regattas and stuffy cocktail parties seem dull.

My last two weeks have been wonderful. I am finally allowed to fly a Spitfire. It's a beautiful machine—light, maneuverable—like it's a part of me. On Monday, I ferried a brand-new Tiger Moth north, couldn't catch a flight home, so ended up returning on a dark train crammed with troops. Every sound made me nervous—was it a V-I rocket hurtling upon us? Too many railroad lines here are bombed and twisted like steel spaghetti.

Wednesday I made six flights, on five different planes. There was barely time to grab my parachute and maps from one plane, sign my delivery chits, and get to the next one. The next day I flew a Miles Master to transport an air commodore from Leeds to Wales, hoping he'd approve of my flying skills. Saturday I picked up a damaged Swordfish from Scotland and got lost in some clouds coming home. Luckily they opened in time for me to land safely at a little airport north of London. Even on clear days, it's easy to lose your way—from above, one town looks like the other, and the airports are camouflaged against enemy pilots. But thanks to our trusty maps, our handling notes, and some heavenly help, I always manage to make it.

Some time ago (can't say when), I delivered a Spitfire to a small airfield. Two tough, silent men wearing dark coats, low hats, and blackened faces took over. I'm sure they were headed for some secret mission across the channel.

Can you believe there are still people who disapprove of us—little ladies flying big machines, daring to wear trousers! I do enjoy landing a heavy plane at a new airfield and seeing the shocked faces of the other pilots and ground crew as I emerge from the cockpit. Before I get out, I comb my hair and put on fresh lipstick, just to disturb them more.

Last week, my fellow pilot Diana Barnato invited me to spend three days at her father's estate in Surrey. It was such a pleasure to trade in my leather flying jacket, slacks, and serviceable black shoes for pretty dresses and dancing slippers. We dined at the Orchid Room in London one night with the very handsome son of Lord Wexbourne. He taught me what to do next time I fly into clouds, even drawing me a diagram on the white damask tablecloth. He promised to take us dancing next time we're in the city.

There is so much to see and to learn, such fun and adventure, and I know the good I'm doing. There'll be many stories to tell you when I get home.

Meanwhile, keep up your fine work, and let me know all about it.

Love and hugs as always,

Kathryn.

Binxie read the letter twice. Clearly her sister was in her glory. Although Binxie was extremely proud of her, and Kathryn made light of the dangers, she worried. She yearned to be old enough to join her in England, but even more, she wished Kathryn would come home safely.

She picked up her pen and wrote.

Dear Flying Whiz,

Thanks for your letter of June 7. It arrived quickly. What an exciting life you're leading. Who would have guessed all those years you read about Amelia Earhart, Charles Lindbergh, and Alcock and Brown's flying triumphs with such longing that you'd be a “mighty pilot” one day too.

I can't wait to join you. I'm studying flight manuals to prepare myself, and will sign up for lessons in September.

As you predicted, life on the farm is dandy. It's an interesting assortment of characters—farmers who lift eighty-pound bags of seeds over their shoulders with ease, but can hold a little chick or tender seedling with hands as gentle as a baby's; a cook with arms like ham hocks who yells better than she cooks; a nasty rooster who threatens my dainty friend Isabel whenever he spots her in the barnyard—and a handsome neighbor who has a wonderful way with animals. The farm women toil inside and out, while praying fervently for their sons to return. This area lost too many boys last year at Dieppe.

The other farmerettes are nice. Four of us have become pals. Peggy is a character. She keeps us entertained on the piano and with whatever instrument is handy—last night, she showed us how to make music with a spoon. She gets us singing and laughing in the fields and never runs out of ideas for fun. Helene is smart, thoughtful, and has a dry sense of humor. Isabel is like a porcelain doll. She struggles to cook and clean. She's good at adding flourishes to make our ordinary meals more appealing. Under her pink and fluffy exterior, I sense a tough soul, even if she doesn't.

You'd like Jean, whose family owns Highberry. When she's not working, we like to walk, or ride the horses together—Merlin for her, Cairo for me. She knows everything about farming, and more geography than our teachers back at good old Branksome. She loves the farm but dreams of travel overseas.

Our “camp mother,” Miss Stoakley, is firm but fair. She's a stickler for the rules, but last week, some of us spotted her puffing a cigarette behind the barn! That's definitely against the rules, so we pretended not to see. Now I know why she eats so many mints. We call her Smokey now.

The work here isn't hard—just monotonous—nothing like soaring across the skies to save the world. All but one of the farmers treat us well. I have become used to green stains on my fingers and cow dung on my shoes. I'll never look at a piece of fruit without utmost appreciation again.

Binxie then described how the cocky pilot crash-landed in front of them. The girls had talked about him all week. She saved the best story for last, telling about the birth of Tessie's calf. She hoped she could convey to Kathryn how marvelous it was.

As always, she signed off begging Kathryn to stay safe.

Thunder and Starlight

Thursday, July 1, 1943

Isabel

Isabel watched Freda carry the large cakes into the dining room, a dozen candles sparkled on the biggest one. The lights were dimmed, and seventy people burst into “Happy Birthday
.
”

Isabel and six other girls came to the serving table. Cheers echoed around the room and everyone called, “Make a wish.”

Isabel wished for Billy to come home soon, then helped the other girls blow out the candles. Applause filled the room. Isabel smiled and watched as Freda sliced into her beautiful creation. The slab cake had come plain from the bakery but Isabel spent an hour swirling on clouds of pink and white icing. The pink geranium petals scattered artistically over it were a last-minute inspiration.

Once everyone was served, Isabel took her plate to join her friends at their table. She was greeted with warm wishes and hugs. Her actual birthday wasn't until July eighth, but for practical reasons the first of each month was the day chosen to celebrate every birthday.

Each of the seven July birthday girls received a gift—a small jar of lavender-scented hand cream—from Smokey, and various joke gifts from their friends. Tonight they would all head to Romeo's to dance. Peggy and Kate had discovered the restaurant by the lake that not only served hamburgers and sodas, but had a jukebox full of modern hits by Bing Crosby, The Mills Brothers, Harry James, Glenn Miller, and of course, Frank Sinatra. It had been a long time since Isabel had danced, but she planned to tonight.

Her birthday gifts from Billy and her family were already tucked under her bed. She fought the temptation to open them, savoring the anticipation. But she hadn't been able to resist reading Billy's birthday letter. It was so full of love and sweet longing that she almost cried.

Eighteen. She gazed at her diamond ring. Old enough to marry. When this war ended, her life would begin.

Saturday, July 3, 1943

Binxie

“Could I borrow that silver hair clip?” Kate asked Binxie, pulling a brush through her mass of curly red hair.

Binxie hesitated, then handed it to her.

“Thank you.” Kate moved aside so Binxie could see herself in the mirror too. Binxie checked herself over. Chin-length, wavy brown hair, clear skin, a flared red skirt, white blouse with short sleeves that showed her tanned arms, and a simple strand of pearls. She looked good. Maybe too good for a party in a barn. On the other hand, perhaps that Johnny Clifford would be there too.

Millie sprayed liberal amounts of cologne on herself. It drifted over several others too.

Binxie was glad to leave the crowded washroom, but even the dorm was a frenzy of dressing, swapping blouses to match scarves, trading skirts, sharing scents, and fashion advice. Nancy was drawing a black line down the back of Irene's legs. Since silk stockings were impossible to get, painted-on seams and a tan had to do.

“I feel like I've stepped into the giant closet of my dreams,” Peggy said, admiring herself in a pair of blue shorts donated by someone in exchange for her red blouse. “If we all keep sharing clothes, we can dress in a different outfit every weekend this summer.” She grinned cheerfully at Binxie. “You can borrow anything you like of mine.”

I'd never wear someone else's clothes,
thought Binxie. “Thank you,” she said politely and headed outside, where two wagons waited to transport the girls to the growers' party. She approached the closest horse and patted his soft muzzle. “I'd rather gallop across the fields with you than bump around a barn with a bunch of locals,” she whispered to him. Working at Scranton's farm yesterday had left her grouchy about farmers.

Another wagon clattered up the laneway, and girls trickled from the dorm. They clambered into the wagons—freshly swept out for the occasion, with clean blankets spread over the benches. Binxie settled in one.

“Wait!” someone shouted, as they rolled down the drive. She turned to see Isabel, clad in a flowery dress and matching yellow hat, carrying a large box, running across the barnyard. The wagon stopped for her and eager arms pulled her up.

“Thank you,” Isabel puffed.

“What took you so long?” Peggy chided. “You nearly missed the party.”

“I peeled onions all morning, had to shower twice.” Isabel smiled and pointed at the box in her lap. “And I baked tarts for tonight.”

“Have some water ready,” Stella joked, but only Grace laughed.

Binxie smiled at Isabel. “You look lovely. And I bet the tarts will be delicious.” She was as relieved as the other girls that Isabel could stay. In spite of her mistakes, everyone appreciated how hard Isabel tried to make things attractive, and lately, her desserts had become quite tasty.

Even though dark clouds were gathering over the lake to the north, the girls were in a jolly mood as they reached the Beldings' farm. Several farmers and their families were there by the massive brown barn. A WELCOME FARMERETTES banner hung over the wide double doors. The Beldings loved entertaining, and judging by the cheerful talk and the amount of food being loaded onto tables lined up in the barnyard, they did it well.

Mr. and Mrs. Belding were the first to say hello. Their two blonde daughters stood back a bit.
Are they shy,
Binxie wondered,
or just suspicious of us city girls?
Then others made their way over, and greetings and laughter filled the barnyard.

This is pleasant, but a bit sad,
thought Binxie. A party full of old people, women, and girls and boys too young to enlist.

“Who's playing volleyball?” Peggy called from behind her.

Evie Belding nodded shyly.

“Are you any good?” Peggy challenged with a devilish grin.

“We sure are,” her sister, Alice, shot back. “Evie whacks that ball so fast you won't see it 'til it spits up dirt on your side of the net.”

“In that case, I'm on your team,” Peggy answered. “I do a mean spike.”

“Come meet our cousin. She gives a wicked serve,” Evie invited, all shyness gone.

Binxie watched Peggy beckon Helene to join them. She liked the way the two looked after each other. The four girls crossed the yard to meet a tall, brawny girl. Soon all five chatted together like old friends.

“Hello, Miss.”

Binxie turned to greet the minister, a salt-and-pepper-haired, stooped man with a solid handshake. She tried to look attentive as he talked about their church choir and the knitting club, but she was more interested in the girls stringing up a net and batting the ball around to warm up. Reverend Ralston introduced her to a group of white-haired choir members. Wondering if you had to be eighty years old to join, she exchanged pleasantries with them.

Soon the volleyball game was in full swing. The players threw good-natured taunts across the net and shrieked in triumph when they hit the ball. Even Isabel removed her hat and joined the game, giggling prettily every time she dropped the ball.

Just as she answered her ninth question about life in Toronto, Binxie heard Peggy call. “Hey, Binx! We need you on our team!”

She looks after me too,
Binxie realized as she jumped into the game in time to smack the ball neatly over the net and score a point. Everyone cheered as she got into position for her team's next serve. Then Johnny arrived, looking handsome in blue jeans and a white T-shirt that showed off his muscled arms, and joined the other side. A minute later, Binxie whacked the ball over the net—right into the side of his head. He took it cheerfully, but Binxie, blushing crimson, wanted to run to the barn and hide.

By the time Mrs. Belding called them to dinner, everyone knew each other's name, and no one knew the score. “We may have to eat quickly.” She pointed at the dark clouds rolling across the lake.

“Nah. There's lots of time before that storm hits,” Mr. Scranton drawled. He wore the same battered fedora, but he had shaved and changed into a clean shirt and overalls. Two of his sons sat next to him. Younger versions of him—short haircuts, large teeth, solid builds—they piled food onto their plates. The third son, finer-featured and thinner, stood behind them. He pulled out a chair for an older woman, and sat beside her.

Binxie helped carry platters of ham and vegetables to the table until Isabel patted the chair next to her. “I saved you a seat.”

Binxie headed her way, then realized it was next to Johnny. She hesitated, suddenly feeling shy. He stood up to pull her chair out for her. As she sat down, he introduced himself. His smile was devastating and his eyes as deep and brown as the earth. She could barely stammer her name. Luckily Jean sat to his right and chatted to them both about the volleyball game.

On her left, Isabel was breathless and exhilarated. “I actually knocked the ball over the net! It came at me so fast I shut my eyes and hit. It flew over the net! And we scored a touchdown!”

Binxie didn't have the heart to correct her.

At the head of the table, Mr. Belding stood up and officially welcomed the farmerettes with a short, funny speech. Miss Stoakley spoke a bit longer—not as amusing, though no less sincere. Reverend Ralston said grace, and everyone dug in to the food.

Someone passed a basket of rolls her way.

“Hey, Binxie, throw me one,” called Alice from across the table.

Johnny clutched his head and ducked.

Binxie blushed and handed Alice the basket. Johnny grinned at her and waited for her to say something. Binxie, master of polite small talk, sat speechless. What good was all that etiquette training if it failed her when she most wanted it?

Johnny helped himself to potato salad and handed the bowl to Binxie. She served herself and passed it to Isabel, thinking hard. She could talk about the weather—those dark clouds were rolling closer. But when she turned his way, he had already resumed his conversation with Jean. Binxie surveyed the tables, loaded with food. Everyone, including the farmerette camp, had contributed—fried chicken, fresh asparagus, cabbage rolls, pickled pigs' feet, deviled eggs, rhubarb strawberry pies, Isabel's strawberry tarts, and, of course, strawberries. She'd never have guessed there was war rationing. These people had gone all out to welcome them.

She wished she felt as welcome to Johnny and Jean, discussing cows, crops, and people she didn't know, with only a polite comment here and there directed at her. At least Isabel chatted with her.

Just as people were finishing the last pies, a brown Hudson drove up and parked near the stables. Out climbed a man wearing a red-and-white checked shirt and a straw hat with a red hatband to match his bow tie. Evie and her friends cheered, and four choir ladies rushed to greet him.

“That's Seth Rogers. Looks like we'll dance after all,” Jean said. She hurried to fill a plate with food for the square dance caller.

Luckily Seth wasn't much of an eater. He soon stood up, requested a glass of cider, and strode to the barn. Everyone followed. Inside, Gus and another man already stood on an improvised stage, tuning their fiddles.

Quickly young and old alike grabbed the hands of eager farmerettes, divided into squares of eight, and tapped their toes to the warm-up notes coming from the stage. Old-timers explained some steps to the visitors, and the music began.

Soon the barn was swinging to music and Seth's calls. “Now the girls lead in and the gents go out, then turn your two stars round about…” Binxie do-si-doed and sashayed with cheerful farmers, happy young people, and nimble choir ladies. She had never laughed so much in her life.

Seth called, “Now the little ladies sashay left, leaving all the men feeling quite bereft,” and Binxie swung from a grizzled farmer to the bony arm of a granny who smelled like lavender. Suddenly Johnny stood before her. He held her hands and they promenaded across the square together. Binxie felt his arms and muscled shoulders against hers, his breath against her ear. Too soon the delicious moment ended, and Binxie did feel bereft. Minutes later, the music changed and the dancers formed different squares. Alice grabbed her and they bowed to their new partners. The music sped up and people whirled in a kaleidoscope of arms, smiles, and colorful outfits. Binxie was having so much fun she ignored the rumbling from the northeast. No one else seemed to notice it either.

Seth continued. “Bow to your partner, bow to your corner, allemande left, and roll away.”

The joy of music and friendship filled the room. The approaching storm, the crops ripening in the fields, and the war raging across the ocean—were, for one evening, forgotten.

Peggy

Peggy was having the time of her life. First the exhilaration of whacking that volleyball back and forth, then the happy bunch at dinner, and now the fiddle music. She skipped from partner to partner with such joyful exuberance it infected everyone around her. It would have been nice if there were more young men to dance with, but the boys were cute and the old farmers and their wives pleasant.

One really handsome fellow about her age—with broad shoulders and closely cropped dark hair that made him look heroic—had held her a bit closer, a second longer, each time they met in the square.

She noticed Stella eying him too. Stella had positioned herself across from him, and smiled extra sweetly whenever he skipped across the square with her. But on the next set, he deftly switched places with a choir lady so he could dance with Peggy one more turn. Stella glowered at her.

When it was time to break, Peggy was delighted when he crossed the floor with two glasses of cider. He introduced himself as Harry Rayner. “So how do you like working on a farm?”

She liked his deep voice too. He had to be at least eighteen. “It's tough, but good. You farmers work awfully hard.”

He grinned proudly. “Sure do. Whose place have you been to?”

“Beldings', Grants', Scrantons', but mostly Highberry Farm. The strawberries ripen faster than we can pick them.”

“Too hot, too early. Everything is coming up sooner than usual. Glad you girls are here to help.” The way he said that as he gazed into Peggy's eyes seemed to indicate that he meant
her
more than anyone else.