Farmerettes (9 page)

She rubbed her eyes, still tired. She and her mum had picked until dark last night, then finished the other chores. Now here she was again. Luckily Gus had asked the farmerettes to start work an hour earlier this morning.

There was a time when June Saturdays meant swimming in the lake, strawberries and cream for dessert, and evenings on the porch swing deep in a book. That seemed so long ago.

Jean crouched and began picking. She hoped to finish several rows before the girls arrived. If only she had slept better last night. But the heat had kept her restless—and the letter.

Rob's note was too short, probably checked by his guards. Did he really think his cheery tone would keep them from worrying? It didn't answer their questions. Was his injured leg healing? Was he hungry? Did her letters telling him they were managing the farm just fine, and that his fiancée was waiting for him, bring him comfort? Did he even receive them? And had he forgiven her?

Jean shook her head. Worries wouldn't pick berries. She filled another box, wiped the sweat from her forehead, and kept picking.

When the farmerettes arrived, they were cheerful and eager. What would she do without them? She was glad to see Binxie in the lead. Binxie worked quickly, quietly, and kept the others working steadily too. And Jean couldn't help but smile at Peggy bouncing along behind Binxie. Her good-natured cheer and her songs kept up everyone's spirits.

Behind the girls came her mother. She looked tired and her hair was hastily held back with bobby pins. “Milking's done. Dad's working on the books today. I had to convince Nanny she's more useful in the kitchen than out here.” She picked up a box, and joined the farmerettes in the field.

Binxie

Binxie dreamed she was flying. With arms spread wide, she glided freely through the air, no controls or tail drag to worry about. Her sister smiled and flew beside her.

“I knew it was easy,” Binxie said, swooping into a graceful curve.

Suddenly she heard a pop, then another. Gunshots? She panicked and sank.

“Sorry,” Kathryn whispered. She faded away and Binxie woke up. Valiantly she tried to get back to sleep, to be with her sister again, but a rustling sound began and she knew she was awake for the day. Across from her, Isabel was shutting her suitcase.

Binxie sat up instantly. “You're not leaving!”

“Shhh.” Isabel raised her finger to her lips, then indicated the other girls stirring in their sleep. Binxie glanced at her alarm clock. Five o'clock. “Why are you up so early?”

Isabel bent over to pick up her shoes and tiptoed closer. “I'm on kitchen duty,” she whispered proudly. “See you at breakfast.”

“Glad you're staying,” Binxie mumbled as she scrunched back under her blankets. “Hope you learn to get up more quietly.”

An hour later, Binxie munched crisp toast—really crisp—and watched Isabel, a frilly white apron over skirt, her hair tucked into a hairnet, preside over the breakfast table as if she were serving King George himself.

Binxie left the toast, finished her tea, carried her dirty dishes to the counter, and headed outside. They were starting an hour earlier today, but she didn't need to pack a lunch. Saturdays they only worked until one o'clock—even though ripening berries didn't take weekends off.

This afternoon, most of the farmerettes were going to town to watch the baseball game, then find ice-cream sodas somewhere. She hummed to herself as she walked to the field, picked up her basket, and crouched down to work.

At one o'clock, the girls headed back toward the dorm, hot and tired of working, but with enough energy left for an afternoon of fun.

As the girls chatted, an ominous hum in the eastern sky grew louder. Binxie shaded her eyes and squinted upward. The others hadn't noticed anything yet.

The low rumble intensified. Soon it echoed across the fields. Even the leaves seemed to tremble at the sound. Flying and turning in unison, four airplanes, wings glinting in the sunlight, flew their way. Binxie stared in awe. How could machines designed to deliver death be so beautiful?

A high-pitched scream pierced their roar. “Nazi bombers! Run for your lives!”

Binxie glanced at the old woman standing on the farmhouse porch as Jean ran to calm her nanny.

The farmerettes stood looking up and around, confused and frightened.

“Head for cover!” Nanny shrieked.

Peggy, ever the showman, dove under a wooden wagon, as though that rickety thing could protect anyone from a bomb. Kate raced for the trees, and most of the others followed. Two girls stood frozen with fear. The roar became deafening.

This didn't make sense. Binxie stayed where she was and studied the planes. She tried to remember what she knew about identifying aircraft, as the other girls screeched for her to run.

Isabel appeared from the kitchen. “What's going on?”

Nanny shouted, “The Nazis are coming to kill us!”

Isabel stood transfixed by the planes. Two of them had broken formation and were flying straight at them. “So this is how I'm going to die. Hot and dusty in a barnyard, never to hold my Billy again,” she said sadly.

Peggy climbed out from under the wagon. “Those aren't German planes. They're Canadian Avro Ansons. See? They're painted bright yellow—training planes.”

Isabel looked puzzled.

“We learned to identify planes at school last year,” Peggy explained. She yelled to the others, “Don't worry. We're safe.”

“Not if that plane crashes into us.” Binxie pointed up. One machine rejoined the others, but the second one still flew too low.

The other girls came cautiously out from the trees.

Jean called out to them, “There's nothing to worry about. Those are our boys, learning to fly. They're from the training base in Mount Hope.”

“But your nanny…,” began Isabel.

“Every time she hears a plane, she's convinced the Nazis are attacking us, no matter how often I explain they can't fly this far inland.”

“Well, whoever they are, one of them is flying right at us!” shouted Peggy.

The breakaway plane dipped a wing as it rushed past the girls, close enough for Binxie to see a helmeted head inside and an arm waving at them. Then it rose again.

“Stupid show-off.” Binxie said. Slowly, the other girls left the safety of the trees, excited about this taste of danger.

Although his mates were rapidly flying west, the rogue pilot circled back.

This time his audience waved and cheered him on. But not Binxie. Kathryn would have been appalled at his reckless behavior. And she was hungry for lunch. Why couldn't this idiot just fly away?

He was flying too low, heading straight for the barn. Too late the plane swerved, cleared it, then grazed the flagpole with a wing tip.

Isabel cried, “He's going to crash!”

Every eye was riveted on the machine. Each heart pounded, every lip prayed.

For a second the plane seemed to hover in midair. Then it wobbled forward, dipped, and landed hard in the field near the road.

The farmerettes raced to the plane, and Helene detoured to the dorm. “I'll phone for help.”

As Binxie neared the yellow Avro Anson, she saw the pilot slumped against the side window, eyes closed, sunlight glinting on red blood trickling from his temple.

“Let's pull him out of there!” shouted Peggy, trying to climb onto the wing.

“Stop!” ordered Binxie.

“Why? He needs help.”

Binxie pointed at the pilot. “If you open his door, he'll fall over. If his back is injured, he'll end up crippled for life.” She ran around to the other side of the plane, climbed onto the wing, careful to step on the marked pad, and wrenched the passenger door open. She crawled in next to the pilot and felt his wrist for a pulse.

“Ummm, that feels nice. You smell good too.”

She jerked back, and stared down at the young man now assessing her with saucy blue eyes and a cheeky grin. “Guess I won't try that stunt again. But it sure was worth it to meet such a bevy of beautiful gals.”

“I hope your squadron leader feels the same about you ruining a plane,” Binxie retorted.

The young pilot lifted his arm, winced in pain, and fainted onto the control wheel.
Great,
thought Binxie.
Is this another attention grabber or is he really hurt?

Jean knocked on the window. “Is he dead?”

Binxie shook her head. “Good! You brought water. Come on up. Walk only on the marked mat or you'll step right through the wing. I'll look for a first aid kit.”

Binxie rummaged around the back as Jean climbed in and dabbed cool water on the pilot's cut.

A minute later, he came to. He gazed at Jean gratefully. “Another angel. My head and arm hurt like hell, but I'll live.”

“Until your flight leader gets hold of you,” Jean answered.

“Keep still.” Binxie crawled forward and pointed at his left arm wedged against the door at an odd angle. “I'm sure it's broken.” She handed Jean a bandage for his head.

“Damn. That grounds me for awhile.” The pilot grimaced. “And I was ready to leave for merry old England next week.”

A military jeep raced up the road and into the field. Two men in blue uniforms climbed out and approached the plane. One offered to help the girls down.

“We got up on our own.” Binxie ignored his arm and jumped to the ground. Jean followed. The medic climbed into the plane, and an officer barked questions at the girls. Soon the medic helped the pilot out of the cockpit to the jeep. A truck pulled up and a mechanic in greasy overalls stepped out.

Once the officer had spoken with the fellow, the jeep pulled away. As he was driven off, the handsome pilot cheerfully saluted the girls.

Binxie shook her head, but the other girls giggled and sighed.

After lunch, the girls left for the baseball game and passed the air force mechanic working on the plane. “He's cute,” Peggy declared. “And so was that pilot.”

“He was too cheeky for me,” Jean retorted. “And he knows he's good-looking.”

“If he keeps acting that recklessly, he won't last long,” added Binxie.

Jean

By nine-thirty that evening, Jean sat on the front porch to catch her breath before she had to feed the chickens. The first star glowed in a denim sky. Jean loved the evenings, when time stood suspended in that hushed expectant way just before night fell. She was nodding off to sleep when a cheery “Hello” startled her.

Johnny walked up the porch steps. Something about the way his smile reached his brown eyes made Jean's heart lurch. “You heard we had lemonade. I'll get you some.”

When he had settled in the chair beside her with his drink, he said, “I missed you at the baseball game today.”

“No time. The berries are a nightmare. The faster we pick, the quicker they ripen.” She grinned. “But we got them all—until tomorrow. I hear you won the game.”

“Six–four. I hear you had some drama here today.”

“A training pilot from Mount Hope tried to impress us and ended up crash-landing. I expect he's in a mess of trouble. Did you get your hay cut?”

“Yup. Tomorrow we plant the late corn crop.”

They sat sipping lemonade, watching stars appear in the darkening sky. Jean was aware of the girls down by their dorm, craning their necks to see Johnny. She turned away slightly. She preferred having him to herself.

“One of the Beldings' dogs twisted his front leg in barbed wire yesterday.”

“Ouch. What did you do?”

“Fed him a handful of aspirin, then untangled it fast.”

They fell into comfortable silence as the peepers in the pond began a backup chorus to the song of the crickets in the bushes. Too soon, Johnny left and Jean headed for the chicken coop. Would there ever come a day when they didn't have to part in the evenings?

Thursday, June 24, 1943

Isabel

Isabel struggled to carry a heavy pail of water across the kitchen to the stove.

“Try getting that here before July!” Cookie said.

Isabel stopped and regarded the cook, a tall, muscular woman who looked more like she belonged in a munitions factory than a kitchen. “Every time I take a step, it sloshes over the rim. I have to wait until it settles again.”

“You can mop up after you finally fill that kettle.”

I don't know why she's called Cookie,
thought Isabel.
It should be Sourdough.
She set the pail down twice more to give her aching arms a break. She was exhausted. Whoever heard of getting up at five o'clock to make breakfast? And this was the fourth morning in a row.

“Next time fill it halfway and take two trips,” Cookie grumbled. “Why have they sent me a princess?” She grabbed the pail handle with one muscled arm and swung it onto the stovetop without spilling a drop.

She could have told me that sooner,
Isabel thought as she found the mop and squeezed her trail of puddles into another pail. She stepped outside to toss the water into the yard and saw Jean staggering to the barn with a pail of feed. They nodded at each other in understanding.

“Fetch some apples from the storage shed, and don't drop any this time,” Cookie demanded. “We'll serve Salmon Surprise and Apple Brown Betty tonight.”

The surprise will be if the salmon is edible,
thought Isabel, as she hurried across the barnyard. As always, she was careful to avoid Cracker. He perched on his fence-post throne, glaring at her with beady eyes, deciding whether to attack or merely intimidate.

The storage shed was cool and gloomy. The smell of earth and ripe things was strong. Spiders and bugs scurried into cracks in the wooden walls and floor.

She looked around for the apple bin. She felt greasy, hot, and exhausted. Her hands were nicked in several places where she had cut herself peeling turnips, carrots, endless potatoes. Her thumb blistered where she had scalded herself over the teakettle. Baking at home was never this difficult. But at home she hadn't cooked for seventy people.