Farmerettes (16 page)

Her parents sat in the front seat of the blue Willys sedan. She shared the back with Nanny, wearing her best dress and in a cheerful, talkative mood. Mount Hope was a long drive and a lot of precious gas away, so she didn't get to see her remaining sister often.

“That nice young Isabel helped me with Fiona's birthday cake. Her pink icing roses are beautiful.”

“You spent a lot of time teaching her to bake. The farmerettes sure appreciate her now.”

“She learned from the best baker in the county. I won every year at the fall fair—my peach pies were famous,” Nanny bragged. “But why does she want to keep our baking lessons a secret? She sneaks into our kitchen before the first crow pees, or she arrives in the afternoon while the girls are away.”

“City girls have strange ideas, Nanny, but I know she's grateful.”

“Keeps me busy. Not many friends left to come calling anymore.”

Jean listened and nodded as Nanny talked about old times. “You can't raise five children and run a farm without friends to help each other along. But I've outlived most of them.”

Jean saw an opportunity. “Did you know a Polly?” She hoped Mum hadn't heard. Last week, she asked her mother the same question, but her mother had dismissed it all.

“Strange situations happen during war, Jean. People make rash decisions, then spend the rest of their lives trying to live with them. Don't dredge this up now.”

“But I want to help.”

“Help? You don't know whose carefully built-up life you may ruin. Leave it be.”

It made Jean wonder if her mother was living with a mistake too. She hoped not. It also made her more determined to find the star-crossed lovers. If there was a child born of that love, it might want to know about its parents. Perhaps this was one mistake she could rectify.

“Every Polly is gone too,” said Nanny.

“No, mother's age.”

“Polly Belding you already know. Polly Henson—prettiest girl around here, stole your Mum's first beau.” Nanny stopped to gaze out the window into her past.

Jean had read and reread the letters. The early notes were loving and passionate. Gradually they became more formal, but they never stopped begging for a reply. James described tender times together—picnics, long talks, moonlight strolls—it was obvious they had shared a great love. Polly had saved his letters in lace. She cared. Why did she never answer? Why did she not mail the news about the baby?

And what about the farmerettes? She knew by the searching way they looked at her that they wanted to solve the mystery with her. She couldn't—not yet, maybe never. She liked these girls, especially Binxie and Helene, but they didn't need to know her neighbors' business, pass judgment, turn it into an amusing story to tell the folks back home. First she had to find out more herself.

“Polly Neal,” Nanny continued. “Her family helped us the winter our barn burned down, but she was a miserable thing. I much preferred Polly Belding—Campbell then.”

Which Polly is it?
wondered Jean.
I hope not the miserable one, but I can't imagine Mrs. Belding with anyone but her Tom.
Maybe the girl who stole boyfriends? Is that how she operated? Make a boy fall in love with her, then don't answer his letters?

“We're here,” said Mum as they pulled up to a red brick house large enough to comfortably fit her aunt Morag, uncle Douglas, their daughter, Mary, and her two youngsters while Mary's husband served overseas, and great-aunt Fiona. “You can stop quizzing Nanny now.”

Jean grinned at her mother and shrugged.

“I hope you won't regret it,” her mother said. She turned to wave at Aunt Fiona standing at the front screen door.

The family walked up the stone path and stepped onto the veranda. Nanny happily greeted her sister, adding, “Sorry we're late. Have you waited long?”

“I'm not waiting for you,” Fiona replied. “I'm expecting those good-looking young fellows.”

Jean was confused. “We didn't bring any good-looking men. Just Dad.”

“Not him. I mean, handsome, dashing airmen.”

“Sure, Aunt Fiona. We'll bring a batch next time we visit.”

“Don't get cheeky with me, young lady. I'm not off my rocker yet.”

Mrs. McDonnell stepped forward. “Happy birthday, Aunt Fiona.”

Aunt Morag appeared at the screen door. “Welcome, welcome. I have a cold lunch ready,” she said, opening the door.

Lunch passed pleasantly, then Jean's father and uncle left to locate some tractor parts. They were in scarce supply, since the factories were building only war machinery. As the women chatted in the parlor, Fiona glanced anxiously out the window several times.

“Who is she waiting for? Reg?” Jean asked her cousin Mary.

Mary shook her head. “No, she knows he's in Italy. Whenever the children ask about their daddy, she points out Europe on the globe.”

So she's not completely batty,
thought Jean. She looked at her cousin, noticed how pale and tired she looked. “Have you heard from Reg lately?”

Mary frowned. “Operation Husky. They've invaded Sicily. Three thousand ships. He's with one of the eight divisions of men fighting there—the largest undertaking so far. This may be the beginning of the end, and it will get intense. I try not to let the children see me worry, but I lie awake at night imagining the worst. What would I ever do without him?”

Jean patted her cousin's arm. “We're praying for him.”

“And Rob?”

“He gets around on crutches now, says he's fine. They actually have a camp orchestra—he plays the fiddle in it. And he works in their hospital. But we get different stories. Some people mention the choir, theater groups, sports days, how good the hospital is, then others describe the prisoners' work in the coal or salt mines and quarries, getting little to eat but sugar beets. What do I believe?”

Deafening screeches interrupted them. Young Archie was yanking his sister's hair, and Annie had dug her nails into his arm. Archie pointed at a mess of Lincoln Logs on the floor. “She wrecked my tank!” he yelled.

“He wouldn't give me any logs to build my house,” she sobbed, and hit him.

As Mary wearily rose to referee, Jean stopped her. “Let me.” She called to the children, “Who wants to look for frogs?”

It was fun playing with the youngsters along the nearby creek. When they were tired enough, she brought them home for a nap. At last she had some time alone—a blessed hour to sit on the front porch swing, sip ice tea, and read. She was annoyed when a cheery British-sounding voice interrupted her, twenty pages before the end of her book.

“Well, g'day. What luck meeting you here.”

She looked up and was startled to see two men in blue air force uniforms climbing the porch steps. She was surprised to recognize the pilot who landed in their field so recklessly.

“What are you doing here?” she blurted.

“I hoped you'd be as glad to see me as I am you.” His effort to seem sad made her smile.

Realizing she had sounded rude, she said, “I didn't expect you.” She eyed the sling supporting the cast on his left arm. “How are you?”

He laughed. “That's better. Bruises and cuts long gone. My arm is healing, though much too slowly. Missed my transfer to England with my mates. Stuck here with this bloke.” He turned to the man beside him, a tall blond fellow, so wide-eyed and gangly he reminded Jean of a calf. “Dick, this is the fair sheila who came to my rescue at my unfinest hour. I missed her name but I'll never forget that beautiful face.”

She shook Dick's hand. “Hello, I'm Jean McDonnell.”

With a devilish grin, the pilot grabbed her hand next. “Hugh Redmond, at your service.”

She let go as quickly as was polite. He still had those brilliant blue eyes, skillfully combed dark hair, and natty moustache. Too slick.

“You're wondering why we're here?”

Actually, she wondered when she could get back to her book.

The screen door burst open and Fiona appeared, all smiles. “You're here!”

Now Jean realized—Fiona had been waiting for these two. Hugh's charms worked on every age group.

“I wouldn't miss your birthday for anything,” said Hugh, pecking the old lady on the cheek. “But how can you be eighty-four when you don't look a day over sixty?” With a bow and a flourish, he handed her a small box. “For you.”

Blushing like a teenager, Fiona opened the present. “Whitman's chocolates! Oh my! How did you know? My favorites!” She stood on her toes and kissed him loudly. “Now come in, boys. Dinner's about ready.”

The airmen entered the house and Annie and Archie, awake from their naps, rushed to the door, and each latched on to one of Hugh's legs. He laughed, scooped up Archie in one arm, swung him around, and passed him on to Dick. Then he picked up the squint-eyed, gap-toothed little girl. “How's my beautiful princess today?” he asked.

Annie giggled. “I'm gonna marry you next year.”

Hugh's smile turned serious. “I certainly hope so. I'm waiting for you.”

He was obviously experienced at this, but Jean loved the light shining in the child's eyes.

The dinner table was crowded, but there was plenty of chicken stew, conversation, and laughter for all.
He must be exhausted,
Jean thought as she watched Hugh flirt with Fiona and each woman at the table. But the animated old women giggled like schoolgirls, and even Mary looked heartened. Having managed to sit next to Jean, Hugh directed conversation her way several times, and caught her eye when he could. She couldn't help but smile back.

Today was Fiona's day to celebrate. They carefully avoided talk of war. Jean's father proposed a toast and everyone sang “Happy Birthday” when Morag brought out the birthday cake and homemade ice cream.

As they drove home later that evening, Jean thought about the day. She knew Aunt Morag sometimes invited servicemen from the Mount Hope training base for a good home-cooked dinner. Up to now she'd always considered it an act of kindness, her contribution to the war effort. But the ladies had smiled all evening, Aunt Morag had beamed at the compliments to her cooking, and the children joyfully played ball and wrestled with the pilots, for one afternoon not missing their daddy so much. Even taciturn Uncle Douglas and her father had conversed with the pilots about planes, then tractors.

Hugh with his blatant charm and Dick with his awkward sincerity had called themselves lucky as they thanked Aunt Morag for the hospitality, but Jean could see the family had enjoyed themselves even more than they had—a pleasant break from the usual routine.

She had refused Hugh's offer to stroll along the creek after dinner. She'd heard about his type—a wolf in alluring sheep's clothing.

Jean knew she had to stop thinking about him. The moon drifted high in an inky sky as they drove past the turnoff to Crazy Nelly's farm. Jean couldn't see the house, but she realized what she had to do. Go back to the source. Check Nelly's place. Why were the letters in her house? She hadn't always lived there alone; had she even known they were there? How was she connected to Polly, or did the letters belong to someone else?

As long as Jean could remember, it had been Crazy Nelly's farm—a woman who kept a light glowing in the front parlor window every night, who stared intensely at young children until their parents pulled them away, who sat in the back pew at every wedding, a picture of doom in a dark dress and veil. She chased away everyone who entered her property, wasn't very pleasant to Jean's mother or to church people checking if she needed help. Rumors said she kept a packed suitcase by the front door. Was she waiting for James? Jean could not imagine the bitter old woman as the girl in those love letters. And as for a baby, there was no way to hide a pregnancy in this close-knit rural community.

Tomorrow she would search Nelly's house. After all, it belonged to her family now. But the raspberries were ripening, the sour cherries would soon need picking, and the weeds had overtaken the kitchen gardens. The cycle of farmwork had been interrupted for one brief lovely day. Tomorrow it would roll on, getting ever more intense until the autumn harvest and celebration. There would be days of canning and preserving before they could rest up to begin again next spring. It was a good way to live. So why did she feel restless?

Wednesday, July 14, 1943

Binxie

Binxie marched down the road, sore in every way. Her shoulders ached, and her face stung where a branch had smacked her right on the sunburn she got yesterday hoeing tomato plants at the Grants' farm. But she was mainly sore—no, furious—at her treatment in the Scrantons' orchard. How dare he and his boorish sons order her around like that!

The last straw was when that little snip Matthew rudely refused to let her stop to use the outhouse. “You have no right to order me or anyone else around. And your vulgar profanity doesn't impress me,” she'd said in a low, cold tone that carried across several rows of trees. “If you don't know the proper words, ask your grade-school teacher to teach you some in September.”

Which was why she was walking the three miles back to Highberry Farm at two o'clock. Before he could fire her, she told him to stuff his cherries into his hat and stormed off. The stunned shock on Matthew's face satisfied her immensely.

She cut across a field and through a peach orchard, branches beginning to hang heavy with green fruit growing larger every day. The long walk through the peaceful countryside calmed her down before she reached the field where Jean hoed vegetables.

“Are you all right?” Jean looked up from her work.

Binxie shrugged. “I am now.”

Jean leaned on her hoe. “Scranton at his best?”

Binxie nodded.

“Want to tell me?”

Binxie shook her head. “I'm still too annoyed.” Then she grinned. “I'm sure you'll hear about it from everyone else, though. And I'm glad I said it.”