Farmerettes (32 page)

“Of course.”

Mr. Grant came to pick up the crates. “Good work, girls. I'm sure gonna miss you.”

Binxie smiled at him. “Me too.” She tried to erase thoughts of home. What would she do there? Without her parents' permission, she had enrolled in flying lessons on Toronto Island. Maybe in the cockpit of a plane, up in the sky, she would find her sister's spirit and make sense of her loss.

“Ready?”

She looked up to see Peggy waiting for the next broccoli.

“Sorry.” She sliced off another plant. Peggy looked so pretty. She had the tan she'd wanted and her hair was streaked with sunshine. What a shame she looked so sad. “Peggy, it's just talk. Your friends are all still with you. You know who you are.”

“That's just it.” She sniffed back hard. “The films, the posters, the awful news stories are even convincing me. Maybe it's in our blood. Maybe I really am evil.” She reached to squash a cabbage looper, then pulled her hand back.

Binxie crushed it instead. “Peggy! Don't be crazy. There isn't enough evil in you to fill a thimble.”

“I used to believe that.”

“Well don't stop now. You're a good person.”

“You really think so?” Peggy stood, cradling the broccoli.

“I know so. I also know you can't color a whole race with one brush. There are decent and bad people everywhere—German, English, African, Chinese.”

Peggy sighed. She placed the broccoli into the crate.

Binxie cut the next stalk, tossed it to Peggy, and said, “Isabel sold her ring in Hamilton yesterday afternoon.”

“I know. It was an amazing thing for her to do. That should pay for the tractor. Helene is over the moon with relief. Of course, she's vowed to repay Isabel.”

“The money isn't important to Isabel,” said Binxie. “She said it was the best thing she could have done with it. Now Helene can go back to school.”

Peggy shook her head. “Her family can't afford it.”

“That's sad.” She paused. “Will you go?”

“Yes, though it won't be the same without Helene.”

“You'll see her on the weekends.”

“I hope so. What about you?”

“Learn to fly, then off to England to the ATA.”

“Like Kathryn?”

“Like Kathryn.”

“I'm curious. Why didn't you learn to fly sooner?”

Binxie worked silently. That bothered her too. Why had she never taken up Kathryn's invitations to fly, or at least hold the controls? Finally she answered Peggy. “I don't know.”

The girls finished the row, stretched, then started the next one. This time Peggy cut and Binxie caught. “At least you've read all those manuals.”

Binxie glared at Peggy. Did she know how few she had actually read? Peggy had surely seen her nodding off over them. The biographies Jean gave her were more interesting, but even there, she had skimmed over the Amelia Earhart article—she knew the story—and instead found herself enjoying one about Elizabeth Blackwell, who began as a farm girl and now directed a clinic in Hamilton.

Peggy asked carefully, “Do you ever wonder if flying isn't for you?”

“Do you ever mind your own business?” Binxie immediately regretted her outburst. “Sorry, I was rude.”

“I was too.” Peggy tossed her a stalk.

Although they worked quietly for awhile, Binxie's mind raced with thoughts until one burst from her. “I have to fly.”

“Why?” Peggy said.

“I have to finish Kathryn's job. She wanted me to.”

“Want to know what I think?”

“No! Yes.”

“You don't really want to fly.”

Binxie hesitated a second too long. “Yes I do.”

“No.” Peggy stopped cutting and faced Binxie. “You want to be like your sister.”

Binxie stood firm. “I have to live up to what she'd want.”

“You've told me Kathryn was independent and questioned things.”

“And took time to teach me so much.”

“Like having a mind of your own?”

“I need to live up to her legacy. It's the only thing I can still do for her.”

“You won't honor her by becoming a pilot. Your sister wanted you to be your own person and think for yourself. If you blindly follow her footsteps, do something you don't even like…you're not doing that, are you?”

Binxie stared at her.

“I think Kathryn wanted you to do what's right for you, the same way she followed her own dream.” Peggy turned and gazed at the field, counting how many rows were left.

The giant clamp squeezing Binxie's heart loosened a bit. She took a deep breath. “Throw me another broccoli, will you?”

X

Her work as a farmerette was almost done. Gossip and shame waited for her at home. She couldn't go back.

As the other girls made plans for the evening, she slipped away. The days darkened earlier now, and autumn flowers blazed defiantly before winter frosts killed them. She needed to walk these beautiful fields, feel the fresh breeze in her hair, see the lake at sunset once more—before she was gone.

Friday, September 3, 1943

Isabel

Isabel finished stirring the custard into the butter, scraped it into molds, and set them into the refrigerator. She filled the salt and pepper shakers. With no dinner to prepare she had extra time. Tonight was the baseball game and corn roast at the Smith farm.

Freda dried the last of the lunch dishes and hung up her towel. “You bought three pounds of flour yesterday?”

“Yes. Cookie gave me permission to bake apple muffins for everyone when they leave Sunday morning.”

“They're going to follow you home.” Freda smiled at her.

Isabel had enjoyed working side by side with Freda this summer. She'd miss their easy cooperation, and this kitchen with all its modern equipment. She looked at Freda. “You're staying until October? Then what?”

“I'll find some other place to cook, at least until my husband comes home from Africa. He loves my meals as much as I enjoy preparing…” She smacked her hand to her mouth.

“It's okay.” Isabel smiled. “That's what I want too—I mean, to keep cooking, learn more about it. Be taken seriously.”

“Then you're in luck,” said Freda.

“Why?”

“You have a school right in Guelph that teaches cooking and all the domestic sciences.”

“Where?”

“The MacDonald Institute.”

MacDonald Institute! Maybe there was a place for her after all. She had often passed the big red brick building, but never wondered about it. For the first time in a long while, Isabel felt a glimmer of hope.

The next morning Isabel rushed to the library. Miss Willing helped her find information about the school and its founder, Adelaide Hoodless. “Amazing woman, passionate about the importance of a healthy, efficient home. I was fortunate to hear her speak once and I'll never forget her.”

Isabel read an article about the MacDonald Institute with growing excitement. Daddy wouldn't say no—he wanted her to be happy. She belonged there. She felt it in her bones.

The last paragraph smashed her dream. Two years ago, the MacDonald Institute closed to make room for an RCAF training facility. “Damn,” Isabel swore—for the first time in her life.

Saturday, September 4, 1943

Peggy

Peggy watched the solemn faces in the McDonnells' parlor. If only the farmerettes could relive last Sunday evening—undo the damage done in those few foolish minutes.

The McDonnells listened politely to Helene's heartfelt apology.

“It's done,” Jean's mother finally interrupted. “You're here to repay us.”

Helene handed her an envelope of money.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. McDonnell, and her husband nodded.

Nanny wasn't satisfied. “And will you send us money for the hours wasted working without the tractor, the time spent looking for the new parts, the back pain—”

Peggy faced the old woman. “We are sorry, and we're trying to make up for it. We worked extra hours all week, and we'll pick your peaches this afternoon too.”

“Your time off. That's kind of you,” said Mrs. McDonnell. “We really can use your help.” Her graciousness made Peggy feel worse than Nanny's outburst.

The girls excused themselves and headed across the barnyard. Mr. Grant's wagon would be here soon to pick them up for a morning of tomato harvest.

“I'm glad that's over with,” said Isabel. “I don't know how much sorrier I could feel.”

Helene laughed shrill and sharp. Peggy worried her friend would reach a breaking point. Helene had worked too hard, worried so much lately. Now she was afraid Mrs. Fraser's offer was too good to be true.

Peggy wondered if she'd ever love someone as much as Helene did Dan. She preferred someone more dashing, like Hugh—devilishly handsome, daring—and who could sing and play music with her family. But not yet. There'd be some interesting fellows at school next week—if they hadn't enlisted. She'd be a senior, in the school band, and head of the social committee.

One quick trip to the washroom first. She whistled “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning”
as she washed her hands. Now that they had settled with the McDonnells, she looked forward to Romeo's tonight.

When Stella and Grace joined her at the sink, Peggy stopped whistling and braced herself for a comment. Peggy glanced in the mirror at her, then Grace. No words, just a smirk and a lifted eyebrow. It was enough to make Peggy cringe.

Angry at them, and at herself, Peggy stormed out to Mr. Grant's wagon and stayed silent all the way to the tomato fields.

“What are we singing today?” Helene asked as she bent to pick her first ripe tomato.

“Maybe later,” Peggy replied. She grabbed a tomato too hard and tore off the branch. Stella disliked her for reasons besides her background. And Stella wasn't alone. Other people were more subtle. Conversations that stopped when she came close, the slight currents of mistrust, all hurt. She could buy war savings stamps, hoe vegetables, and pick fruit until her fingers fell off, but she was still the enemy. Would it be like this forever?

She shook her head to get rid of her gloom. What had Binxie told her? No matter what anyone said, she knew she was decent and kind. Her friends trusted her. That had to be enough.

Helene began to sing softly, “There's a bright golden haze in the meadow…” The other farmerettes joined in. At last Peggy did too.

At one o'clock, they returned to Highberry and rinsed off at the pump. Smokey called to them. “Helene, there's a phone call for you.”

Helene rushed to the office.

Peggy groaned. Now what?

X

She washed the pungent odor of tomatoes from her hands, though it wouldn't matter. Her work at the farm was finished. It was time.

The other girls jostled to the dining room. After lunch, most of them would shower and get ready for tonight. They would take extra care with their appearance for the last evening at Romeo's. Their last chance to dance with their farm beaus—something she hadn't been able to care about.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Binxie watching her, a small frown on her face. It wasn't the first time. Ignoring Binxie, she headed upstairs for her knapsack. Her sketchbook and private things were tucked safely inside it. She wanted them with her.

Just as she leaned down to pull out her knapsack from under her bed, she noticed the thin red book on her pillow. In spite of herself, she was curious. She flipped open the book. Poetry? She read the poem on the bookmarked page. Hmmm. Who wrote this? Walt Whitman. Who was he? Who left this book here? It didn't matter. She tossed it back onto the bed, shrugged on her knapsack, and went downstairs, outside, to the lake.

Jean

Jean packed the last of Nelly's clothes and things into a box. Reverend Ralston had promised to find families who needed them. She stood up to survey the bedroom. Like the other upstairs rooms, it was scrubbed clean, the floors waxed, windows washed clear. Fran had sewn a red, white, and blue quilt for the bed.

“It's beautiful,” said Jean.

“I think Rob will be pleased. I keep him up-to-date on our progress.” She paused. “I hope they give him my letters.”

“I'm sure he gets them,” Jean said with a smile. “They always send a receipt for the packages we send.”

“His notes never say much.”

“I suspect he's not allowed. Your letters are the important ones—they give him hope and a glimpse of home. And when this war finally ends, he'll come home and see for himself what you've done.”

“How I pray for that day,” said Fran. “We can finally begin our life together.”

“What a wedding that'll be!”

Fran smiled. Then she looked at Jean carefully. “I know I did well. I readied this house. I financed the repairs by renting out the extra fields. I love my position as the mayor's clerk.” She paused. “Don't take this wrong…I love Rob with all my heart. But…I don't want to give all that up when we marry.”

Jean was startled. Her future sister-in-law had voiced what Jean had been thinking too. She nodded. “I manage our farm as well as a man. My cousin works in a factory in Hamilton. Clara Linton has run her household and the drug store without her husband for three years now, manages it better than he did. What will happen to us when the men come home? Do we all go back to the way it was?”

“The war has changed our world, Jean.”

“We've changed even more. I hope the world can keep up with us.”

They carried four cartons to the front porch. “Johnny's coming by to pick them up for the church,” said Jean, wiping her brow.

“Johnny? You two have been close for so long. Won't you ever be interested in him as someone more than a pal? He's such a catch.”

Jean forced a casual smile. “Maybe, someday. Now let's tackle that parlor.”

The girls retrieved their brooms and rags and headed for the parlor—another dusty room overcrowded with heavy furniture.