Farmerettes (18 page)

“Hey,” Peggy called from the next tree. “Should I put my hair up, borrow Kate's long dress, buy dangly earrings from Jackman's, and play an elegant Dvořák piece, or is something light better? Maybe ‘Over the Rainbow'? I could sing along with the piano.”

Helene smiled at her friend. “What are the others doing? You want variety in the program.”

“We're not paying you to plan your social lives. You skipped a branch,” Matthew shouted at them.

Helene reached for the cherries she'd missed.

Across from her, Peggy picked a green cherry. With a devilish grin at Helene, she held it between two fingers, aimed, and shot. It bounced neatly off the back of Matthew's head.

He turned, furious, but Peggy had already faced the other way, innocently rolling fruit into her basket.

But if Scranton was bad and his two sons worse, their older brother, Dan, was worst of all. Helene couldn't understand it. What had happened since they last met? He had been so attentive at the growers' party, and genuinely happy to be with her at the library. They had talked for an hour after their ice creams. He had seemed disappointed when the other girls came to say it was time to leave. His good-bye was reluctant, with a promise to see her soon—or had she just imagined that?

She had felt a tingle of joy to see him driving the farm truck into the orchard to unload the baskets, dressed again in a long-sleeved shirt in spite of the heat. She waved, but he didn't see her. He worked, favoring his right arm, never looking her way. It was Matthew or Luke who came down her row collecting baskets. Never Dan.

Watching Binxie storm from the orchard, Helene wished she had the courage to leave with her. Was she being too sensitive? Maybe Dan liked to keep work separate from his personal life. But what did a simple wave or a smile hurt?

Peggy noticed too, gazing from Dan to Helene with a frown on her face and questions in her eyes.

Helene shrugged. This hurt. But then, she was used to it—the men in her life had always let her down.

Saturday, July 17, 1943

Jean

Jean pulled extra hard at a weed that dared to hide in the tangle of squash vines. She was confused, tired, frustrated. She was glad when the girls left to work on other farms this morning, chattering like starlings over a juicy beetle.

“May I borrow your pink dress?”

“What if I forget the words?”

“What looks best with my white blouse—a necklace or Nancy's striped scarf?”

“How do you like the Tangee lipstick I bought last weekend?”

As though orange lips could make you sing better,
thought Jean. Tonight's talent show had been their main focus all week—practising every spare minute, worrying if they had chosen the right song, begging Smokey to tune the piano. They had started loud on Monday, and built steadily up to this frenzy today.

And they still gushed about the fun last night. Oh, why had she gone too?

Because Hugh had invited her.

Last Wednesday evening, Hugh and Dick had stood at her door with eager smiles and an invitation. A dance party at their base in Mount Hope that Friday. “We want all the girls to come,” he'd said, but he'd looked directly at her with his piercing blue eyes, “especially you.”

“I bet you've said that to a dozen girls already,” she replied, but his expression told her he hadn't.

Recognizing the handsome pilot, the farmerettes had mobbed them then, and she had no chance to refuse the invitation—not that she wanted to.

Smokey allowed the girls to leave early on Friday, on the condition they work later Saturday. Only the girls seventeen or over were allowed to attend, and Smokey insisted on coming with them to make sure the base chaperones did their job in keeping her charges' virtue and reputations intact.

The young men at the base had gone all out for their guests. The mess hall was polished and decorated with pink streamers. They put together a great band, played all the modern hits, and served a delicious supper of sandwiches and sweets. And the charm. Jean told Binxie, “I'm convinced every fellow who trains with the air force takes smooth-talking lessons along with their flight instruction.”

“I hope it works better on the Germans than it does on us,” laughed Binxie.

But when Jean had said as much to Hugh a few minutes later, he replied seriously. “They're just happy to spend time with some pretty girls. They miss their home and friends.”

That left Jean without a smart answer.

“And besides, some of you girls are right skilled at this yourself.” Hugh nodded toward Peggy, who was having the time of her life flirting with a steady stream of dance partners.

Isabel too was surrounded by a flock of fellows. It had taken the girls awhile to convince her to come, telling her Billy was probably dancing somewhere too, and he'd want her to have some fun. There was something about her blonde curls and sweet sad expression that drew the men to her like bees to an especially fragrant flower. Isabel was polite to them all, but she danced with them at a proper distance, her whole body saying:
I'm not available
. If only Rob's fiancée, Fran, were that loyal to him.

Jean turned to Hugh. “Where's home? Your accent sounds almost British.”

“Nay, girl. I'm an Aussie, from God's country.”

“Oh, Australia! Kangaroos, eucalyptus trees, Ayers Rock, and deserts.”

Hugh smiled. “You know something about us! We also have majestic mountains, a beaut of a seashore, and miles and miles of good ranch land.”

Jean looked at him more closely. “You're homesick!”

Hugh blushed. “It's easier now that I'm stationed here, away from the city. Once you live on the land, every place else feels too crowded.”

Jean nodded. “I never pegged you as a farm boy.”

“Too debonair, eh? We learn it as we shear the sheep.”

“Tell me about it.”

And Hugh, the charming rake, described life on his ranch in the outback of New South Wales. “We may as well dance as we talk,” he said, offering his hand, and Jean stepped into his arms naturally.

Now, no matter how hard she hacked the earth, she was unable to stop thinking about Hugh, how well they danced together. What about her feelings for Johnny? Hugh's handsome face and smooth words were different from Johnny's solid good looks and direct manner. Perhaps Hugh was too suave, but he would not stay out of her mind. And if he moved over just an inch in her thoughts, there was the mystery of James and Polly and the child they may have had. Binxie had checked the cemetery yesterday. No Earnshaws rested there. Small baby headstones, yes, but all were claimed by grieving parents, named neither Polly nor James.

And like an underwater current running through it all was the constant worry about Rob. His last note was so short, so cheery, she feared something was wrong. Last week, she had seen Fran at Linton's giggling over sodas with a group of friends. Sitting far too close to Alan Goode, she waved at Jean to come join them, but Jean ignored her and left the store without buying what she'd gone in for.

Now Jean stood up, wiped her brow, and stretched her stiff arms. From down the road, she heard girls' voices, saw the chug of truck motors, and the dust cloud. The farmerettes were coming home. She saw Isabel rush from the farmhouse to the kitchen—Nanny had given her last-minute advice about the special butterscotch squares for after the show. Jean guessed that dessert would be the best act of the evening.

The noise grew louder and in no time the girls spilled from the wagons. It was four o'clock. In two hours, the talent show would begin. Jean decided to hoe the field farthest away from the chatter.

Then another cloud of dust rolled up their laneway. A large black car stopped in front of the dorm doors. It stood there a moment like a black ominous box. The girls stopped to stare. Finally the driver's door opened. Out stepped an older man wearing a dark suit and a face heavy with sorrow. “Is Isabel Lynch here?”

Isabel

Humming a tune, Isabel pulled the last batch of butterscotch squares from the oven and placed the pan on a rack to cool. Brushing back a damp curl, she surveyed her work. Several dozen cinnamon crisp cookies were already artfully arranged on platters. When the squares cooled, she would cut them up and spread them on trays covered with lace doilies. She had tied blue ribbons around vases full of white daisies and placed them on the serving table. Betty Crocker couldn't do better.

Now all she had to do was prepare the butter extender and break up bread for tonight's caramel ham loaf. Then she would read her latest letter from Billy. The envelope had been waiting on her nightstand since morning. She loved the anticipation of reading it. After that she would shower and get ready for the talent show.

“Isabel.”

Isabel looked up to see Jean enter the kitchen, a strained expression on her face. “Someone is here to see you.”

“Not one of those persistent pilots from last night, I hope.” Then behind Jean she spotted her father, black suit, ashen face—and she knew. As every one of her dreams shattered into empty shards, Isabel collapsed into her father's arms.

Jean left discreetly. Dr. Lynch stroked his daughter's hair. “He died a hero, honey. Died saving our king and country.”

Isabel didn't care. Billy was gone. He would never come home to her. Her life was over.

“Mommy's waiting. Come.” Her father led her gently from the kitchen out to the car. The other girls stood silent and shocked in the barnyard.

Her father opened the car door. Isabel climbed inside and her mother crushed her in an embrace, her tears dampening Isabel's face. Almost hysterical, she patted Isabel's back, repeating, “My poor baby. He was a hero, sweetie,” over and over.

Isabel turned it off. No sound. No tears. Just numbness and pain. Billy was gone.

“We'll take you home,” said her father. “I've asked someone to bring out your belongings.”

A minute later, Helene, Peggy, and Binxie carried Isabel's suitcases and bedrolls to her. Peggy reached into the backseat to try to hug Isabel, but the large frame of Mrs. Lynch made it too awkward.

Her father spoke briefly with Smokey, then climbed into the driver's seat, started the motor, and they drove off. Isabel was vaguely aware of a line of sober faces watching her, waving, but she was too dazed to respond.

At home in Guelph, she felt like she was underwater—everything looked unreal, hazy, moved slowly. Sounds were muted and it was hard to breathe.

Her sisters were already there, offering sympathy and sweet tea. Soon neighbors and friends dropped by, murmuring condolences and clichés, but it didn't matter what they said. Speech doesn't register underwater. Just pain.

Next day they visited Billy's home, where neighbors, relatives, and casseroles filled the parlor. In his mother's eyes, Isabel recognized her own sorrow. Mrs. Morrison wrapped her arms around Isabel. They clung to each other but neither cried. Their grief was still too raw for tears. Billy's mother broke the embrace when her sister arrived, and Isabel stood numb where she had left her.

People approached her with hugs and sympathy.

Isabel heard the words from underwater. Somewhere in her sea of grief was the awareness that her Billy had died liberating Sicily. She was the widow—if that was what you called a bereaved fiancée—of a hero.

Her haze was penetrated only by the low urgent voice of Billy's aunt telling his parents, “You've got to think of her too. Help her somehow.”

A high school friend hugged Isabel. “I'm so sorry.”

It was all too much. Isabel slipped away, walked home along the route she and Billy used to take hand in hand, and sank to her bed.

Sleep wouldn't come to her rescue. She lay staring at the engagement ring on her hand, images of Billy flashing across her mind. When her family returned home, she turned her back to them. It took too much effort to answer, to move, even to think.

Two days later, Isabel let her mother lead her to the bath. Mom and Gloria toweled her dry, helped her dress, combed her hair. Bits of advice floated through. “It's Billy's funeral service…he loved you…it's the last thing you can do for him.”

She slid into the hard wooden pew behind the Morrisons—the minister in front, draped in black, talking, praying, too many flowers, perfume too heavy, deep organ music, its sad, somber vibrations jarring her bones. Then to the hall—sandwiches and coffee passing by, too many people saying they're sorry, Gloria offering her a sandwich, a strange glance from Billy's sister, talking, talking, all around her. Isabel stood tall and rigid, giving gracious automatic replies. If being a stoic widow was the last thing she could do for Billy, she would do it well.

Finally she was led home and put to bed. She slept awhile. She awoke in the dark, silent house. Her clock showed four-fifteen.

Glad to be alone, she sat in a chair beside her window, watching their star shine lonely in the sky. It hovered closer to heaven than she was—maybe Billy could see it still.

On the floor beside her dresser lay her closed suitcase. The farm. It seemed so far away. Someone must have packed the bag for her. They surely had cleared everything from the top of her night table too—her pink tablecloth, Billy's photo. His last letter. Could she bear to read it? No.

She went back to bed, but her gaze kept returning to the suitcase. Sleep was gone, and the letter was there. She sat up, turned on her light, and stared at the case.

As if the letter were a magnet, she crossed the room and opened her suitcase. Right on top, wrapped in the pink cloth, lay his photo. She picked it up and looked at his brave, beloved face. Gloria had snapped it at their engagement party—a day of sunshine and plans for their perfect future.

She tenderly kissed the picture, clutched it to her breast, and picked up his letter.

My Dear Isabel.

How strange it felt to read these words. When they were written, he was alive and strong in England. In this letter, her Billy still lived.