Farmerettes (20 page)

“I've changed my mind. I'm going to sing ‘Over The Rainbow' instead of ‘Roses in December,'” said Estelle. “It showcases my voice better.”

Most of the girls rehearsed every available minute.

“Are you sure you won't sing with us?” Binxie asked Helene.

Helene shook her head. “I could never sing in front of a room full of people.”

Peggy shrugged. “I think you could.” But she left it alone, and the girls went on to eat their sandwiches and discuss the outfits for their number.

Helene couldn't think about singing when she was so worried about home. Her mother's last letter sounded too cheery. No one had rented Jake Potter's room yet, and Alva and the baby had returned to Alberta to live with her parents. Mama said that meant less work, but Helene knew it also meant less money to pay the bills.

She stretched out on the grass. If she had a short nap, maybe she wouldn't feel so exhausted, so discouraged. But sleep was as elusive now as it had been last night. Her mind would not rest. The money she was sending home wasn't enough. She should go home, take a well-paying factory job. School could wait a year or two.

But she had seen too many girls in her neighborhood leave school “for awhile” and never return. She couldn't do that. She was determined to accomplish something with her life. Besides, she loved it here. Tonight she would ask Smokey to arrange for her to work overtime.

And she grieved for poor Isabel's Billy, for Peggy's cousin, for the boys she no longer wrote to—and for her own father, wherever he was.

More terrible thoughts crowded her mind. She hated working at the Scrantons'. There was no kindness on this farm. Matthew and Luke went out of their way to be unpleasant to her. They gave her the oldest ladders, brought her water last, and fussed over the cherries she picked.

But what bothered her most was Dan. The orchard was not large enough to keep her from seeing him. He would drive by in a truck, work in a nearby field, collect baskets in a distant row of trees. Once he passed her in the barnyard. He stopped as if to speak, then with a grudging hello, moved on. Helene couldn't understand it, but Peggy kept insisting, “He likes you. He stares at you when he thinks no one's looking.”

Helene had shaken her head. “Then he has an eight-year-old's way of showing it.”

Now Helene shifted into a more comfortable position on the grass. Tonight she would ask Smokey to move her to another farm. But she already intended to request additional hours of work. Afraid if she asked too much that Smokey would say no to everything, she decided the extra pay was more important. She finally fell asleep.

Helene dreamed she was in a lovely meadow. Her mother and brothers were there. All was carefree, joyful. Why had she ever worried? Helene handed her brothers a bowl of cherries. They laughed, red juice dribbling from their lips. Her mother smiled.

Distant voices called her name, but her mother shook her head. “It's not for you. Stay here with us.”

Helene wanted to remain in this peaceful place.

The voices became louder, more insistent. But the twins beckoned her to come swim in a sunny pond that had suddenly appeared. She stepped into the water. It was so warm, so wonderful, she felt released.

Then the laughter broke through. Helene woke up. She stared into the grinning face of Matthew Scranton, who was holding a glass of water to her hand. Beyond him, the horrified expressions of the farmerettes. What had happened?

Helene's hand was wet and she felt uncomfortably damp below. She bolted upright, her face hot with shame.

“I told you we had a cure for layabouts who sleep instead of work,” Matthew gloated. He poured the rest of the water onto the grass.

“You swine!” Peggy shouted at him. She helped Helene up, and tried to hug her.

Helene pushed her away. She turned and ran from the orchard. Only when she was on the road, out of earshot, did she let herself sob. She had never felt so humiliated in her life. How could she ever face the girls, Matthew, again? Seventeen years old and she had wet herself. Her shorts, her underpants felt cold and shameful. She had never disliked anyone in her life, but now hatred of the Scranton boys pulsed through her body. All she wanted was to go back to the dorm, shower for a long time, then pack up and return to Hamilton, where she belonged.

When she heard the truck behind her, she didn't turn. Hopefully it was only a stranger driving by. But the truck slowed down. Could she run into the field? No—a stone wall blocked her way. Keeping her face turned away, she walked faster.

“Helene.”

Dan. The last person she wanted to see in this condition. She sped up.

“Helene, please. This shouldn't have happened. I'm sorry.”

So am I,
she thought bitterly.
I thought I belonged here. I liked you.

She heard the motor stop, the truck door slam, the crunch of boots on gravel. She ran.

Dan quickly caught up and ran beside her, but he didn't touch her. “Let me drive you home. Please.”

Without looking at him, she spat, “Why?”

“You didn't deserve this. It's my fault.”

The words came out so broken. She glanced at him, saw his bloody nose and swollen eye. She stopped.

“Matt's sorry now too.”

Without a word, she followed him back to the truck. He handed her a towel to wrap around herself, and she climbed in.

In silence, they drove along the bumpy road, then turned onto the lane to Highberry Farm. Dan pulled up at the dorm, got out of the truck, and opened the passenger door for her. She climbed down without looking at him. “Thank you.”

“Helene. Can we talk?”

She shook her head.

“Please.”

“Not now.”

“When?”

She wanted to say never, and she wanted to bury her head in his chest and cry. Instead she shrugged.

“That was a cruel thing Matthew did. He was wrong, not you. Please, when can we talk?”

“I have to wash.”

“How about Monday?”

“I don't know.” Helene still couldn't face him.

“After your dinner. Seven?”

“All right.” Without looking back, Helene hurried into the dorm, grabbed her soap and clean clothes, and headed for the bathroom. In the shower she cried. And dreaded Monday at seven.

Saturday, July 24, 1943

Binxie

Binxie washed her hands for the third time, trying to scrub the green stain from her fingers, without total success. At least she liked the musky, pungent scent of tomato plants. Her back was sore from hunching over to snip off the suckers all morning, but her mind was on the talent show. Some friends from school were coming to watch, then take her out for dinner. Tomorrow she could sleep in and relax. Girls hurried each other out of the showers, borrowed outfits, tuned instruments, and practiced one last time. The atmosphere was electric.

Binxie hoped the fun and excitement would distract Helene. Ever since the incident with Matthew on Thursday, the poor girl had avoided everyone. Binxie wished fervently she had been there. She would have stopped the lout before he could hold that glass of warm water to Helene's hand. She couldn't understand why the other girls had just stood by. Of course, Peggy blamed herself for not seeing what he was doing until too late, and had apologized to Helene several times.

Nevertheless, Helene went about her work silently, head down. Any confidence she had gained here vanished. She barely ate, and spent her time off lying on her bed, reading.

“Come outside. We're doing a quick run-through of our song,” Patsy called. Binxie followed her to a spot past the chicken coop, hoping Cracker wasn't feeling aggressive today.

“We'll sound better if we look good,” Kate had suggested earlier in the week, so they'd rounded up matching checkered red-and-white shirts and denim overalls. Helene had sewn a jaunty red bandana for each girl. Now with some straw in their hats, they did look dandy.

By two-thirty, the excitement was at fever pitch. Friends, neighbors, and girls not taking part in the show milled around the farmyard, sipping lemonade and eating squares—Freda's best efforts to imitate Isabel. Binxie waved at Jean, who had come with her parents and Nanny.

The Belding family, the Smiths, and the Grants took seats near the front. Agnes Fraser arrived with Reverend and Mrs. Ralston. Of course, Miss Willing and her choir ladies were there. Binxie half-expected them to jump up and perform too.

The surprise visitors were Peggy's parents, who drove up in a noisy old Dodge. Peggy screeched with joy and hugged them repeatedly. Then two blond boys bounced out of the backseat, followed by a thin woman who resembled Helene. Helene ran to embrace her mother and held her like a life preserver. Her brothers—identical fellows with freckles and short uneven haircuts—ran around them gleefully.

Watching the joyful reunions, Binxie wished for a moment that her parents had come to watch her, but, the train ride down from Muskoka was too lengthy and strenuous. Then, watching Helene lead her family to the refreshment table, Binxie worried—would Helene return home with them? One friend gone was already too many.

Helene

By the time Helene and the rest of the audience finished the last lines of “The White Cliffs of Dover,” tears and happiness mingled on their faces. The talent show had been a success, and this song brought everyone together in a perfect finale.

Helene exchanged smiles with her mother. How good it felt to see her again. But when her mother stopped smiling, the lines remained on her face. Next to the robust farmers and farmerettes, she looked pale and weary.

People rose in their chairs, clapping, cheering, whistling. Finally the performers ran from the stage to greet their guests. Peggy, out of breath and beaming, hugged her parents and shook hands with Mrs. Miller. “A standing ovation! They loved us!”

Helene smiled at her. Peggy would cherish this day for a long time—and she deserved the glory. She had worked hard to put this show together, get everyone involved, give their best. And she'd perfected her performance of Dvořák's boisterous “Festival March
.
” Helene knew she too would treasure this memory.

Now others came to congratulate Peggy, and meet her parents. Helene and her mother drifted away to watch her brothers tearing around the barn with the other youngsters, climbing the bales of hay, running, stopping only long enough to grab sweets from the refreshment table.

“You look lovely, Helene,” said Mrs. Miller. “I've never seen you healthier.”

Helene wished she could say the same to her. “I'm glad you came. I've missed you.”

Her mother looked at her a moment. “Something's wrong. What's troubling you?”

“I should come home. Give you a hand.”

“Don't be silly! Several people are coming to look at the rooms, and until they decide to rent them, I have less work—a little holiday.”

Peter ran between them. “Mama, I brought you a cherry tart.” He handed her a slightly smushed pastry.

“Thank you, son.” She rolled her eyes in exaggerated joy. “Mmm, delicious.”

He ran off again.

Mrs. Miller regarded her daughter closely. “There's more.”

Does she have to know me so well?
Helene looked down at Mama's worn shoes, polished to a proud shine. She wouldn't burden her with the story of her humiliation in the orchard. “It's nothing really. I'm just disappointed in someone I thought might like me.”

Her mother nodded sympathetically. “That hurts.”

Helene was glad she didn't offer platitudes about getting over it, or say that someone better would come along.

“Hello. You must be Mrs. Miller.”

Helene and her mother turned to face Agnes Fraser, who smiled warmly and offered her hand. “You have a charming, bright daughter. She knows how to work too.”

Now where did she hear that?
wondered Helene, even as she tried not to blush. She introduced the two women and stood by while they talked. When Peter ran up with another tart, Mrs. Fraser stopped him before he could escape, and quizzed him as she had done with the farmerettes at the growers' party. Helene was relieved that he answered politely, in spite of his obvious wish to get back to playing with the others. Finally Mrs. Fraser excused him. She watched him run to the field and said softly, “My little brother was just like him once.”

When Mrs. Ralston waved to her, Mrs. Fraser said her good-byes and left.

“She's quite assertive, but I like her. I'm glad she thinks so highly of you, Helene,” said Mrs. Miller. Before she could say more, Mr. Pigeon strode over and said, “I'm hungry. Let's eat.”

Helene looked confused until Mrs. Pigeon pointed at the car. “We packed a picnic.”

The girls helped unload the hamper of food and Peggy led the way to a wooden table near the apple orchard.

It was a cheerful meal with jokes and laughter between mouthfuls of food. Helene thought it was a treat to eat the sausages and salads she was used to at home. How nice it would be to go back with her family. But until this week, she'd been happy here. And Dan wanted to speak with her on Monday. What could he possibly have to say?

Too soon the meal was over and Mr. Pigeon announced it was time to leave. “We need to go before it gets dark on these unfamiliar roads.”

Peggy hugged her parents. “Thank you for coming. Give Oma and Opa hugs and kisses from me.”

Her mother shot her a strange glance. “They would have come, if you'd let them.”

Peggy looked away, and Helene felt bad for her—if her grandparents came, their German accents would tell everyone her secret.

Peter tossed a ball back to one of the farm boys and told Helene, “I want to stay here.”

“I wish you could.”

He looked up at Helene with big brown eyes. “Come home with us. We miss you.”

“We want to hear
Treasure Island
again,” added Willy.