Farmerettes (2 page)

“I'll fake it. Lots of boys do.”

“Wait a year or two.”

Binxie kicked a bush. Kathryn wrapped an arm around her as they headed back into the kitchen. “There is another way to serve.”

“Don't you dare tell me to roll more bandages.”

“How about the Farm Service Forces? Help feed everyone fighting for us.”

“What, the jam isn't enough?”

“Funny. The Farm Service Forces is an army of girls who work on farms for the summer.”

“How dull! And what do I know about farming?”

“As much as the other girls who sign up. Our troops need food.”

“That's why we have farmers,” said Binxie, pouring a glass of water for each of them.

“Most of the able-bodied men have left the farms to fight. The rest are working in factories. There's barely anyone left to tend the crops. Don't you want to break away from our cozy little world, see other places? Or would you rather spend the summer with Mother and her committees?”

“I don't see myself as a farmer. There are pigs and bulls on a farm. And manure.”

“Where there's manure, there are horses.”

“Hmmm.”

“And handsome farm boys.”

“Farm boys?
Puhleeze
. I'd never be interested in a farmer. Remember the boys at the stables in Muskoka? Dirty fingernails, dirty mouths, and maybe ten years of education between both of them.”

“That's harsh, Binxie. Most aren't like that.”

“You're not dating one!”

“Among others.”

“You wild woman. Anyone special?”

“No.” Kathryn pulled a cookie from the tin on the kitchen counter. “Give the Farm Services some thought. You'd help the war effort and have fun at the same time.”

Binxie shrugged. “I'll think about it.”

Kathryn clapped Binxie's shoulder. “Want to see that movie
before dinner? I hear Clark's a heartbreaker.”

Isabel

Isabel Lynch stood across from the Hunter Street train station. She had taken extra care with her blonde curls this morning, and wore her pink blouse and the navy suit that brought out the blue in her eyes. It wasn't warm enough, but it looked smarter than a coat. Now, holding her hand with the small bright diamond over her heart, she scanned the lines of marching soldiers. Where was Billy?

They had said good-bye at home in Guelph two nights ago—a romantic evening of passionate kisses and promises. But she had managed a ride into Hamilton with her uncle today, just to see Billy once more. She had another gift for him. Two nights ago, it had been the photo of them together—to help him remember her and the life they planned after this war. Of course, nothing could compare to the gift he gave her the day he enlisted—an engagement ring. He had taken her for an evening stroll along the Eramosa. At a curve in the river, framed by cascading willows and lit by a full October moon, he said he loved her and on bended knee asked her to become Mrs. Billy Morrison. She cried when he slid the diamond on her finger. It was beautiful. They would spend their lives together. He was going away to war.

Yesterday she'd bought a fine silk handkerchief and spent the night embroidering their intertwined initials on it. Then she'd dabbed a drop of her Chanel N°5 on one corner. She had visions of Billy keeping it in his breast pocket, and when his strength faltered, he would hold it, inhale her scent, and regain his courage.

Isabel moved away from the crowd. The end of the line was in sight. Had she missed him? As the men reached the station, they milled about in groups, chatting and puffing cigarettes before they embarked.

And there he was. Handsome and tall, he stood out from the crowd. She felt so full of love for him she thought her heart might burst. Pulling the handkerchief wrapped in soft tissue from her pocket, Isabel stepped off the curb. Across the street from her, Billy suddenly threw his head back in laughter. The fellows around him laughed too. In that moment, Isabel hated him. Here she was heartbroken and frightened about him crossing the ocean to fight, maybe to die—and he was joking with his pals. Tears prickled her eyes. She stopped to wipe them away. He mustn't see her like this.

As she pulled herself together, the last group of men surged the platform and she lost sight of Billy. She pushed her way through the noisy throng until at last she saw him—climbing aboard the train several cars down. “Billy!” she called, but he disappeared onto the train. She couldn't bear to stand alone and watch that train leave the station. Isabel tucked the handkerchief into her pocket and walked away. She could always mail it to him.

Friday, November 20, 1942

Jean

Jean McDonnell shut the barn door and brushed bits of chaff from her auburn hair and blue overalls. The animals were fed and settled for the night. She waved at Dad and whistled for Dickens to follow her to the mailbox at the end of the drive.

She felt good. The harvesting, haying, and preparations for winter were finished. Robert couldn't have done better. She thought how wonderful dinner and a hot bath would soon feel. After evening chores, she would spend a delicious hour reading
Out of Africa
.

Maybe today they'd get a letter from Rob. It had been four worrisome months since they'd heard from him. Even then, any mention of where he was posted was blacked out by censors. She had hoped to track his whereabouts on the map posted on her bedroom wall, look up the cities in her atlas.

She opened the mailbox. Rob had painted a cow in a field on it. She pulled out several envelopes and walked back up the drive, leafing through them. Four letters, a farm magazine—an envelope from the government. Jean stopped cold. The telegram shook in her hand.
Was it…please, please, God, no.
She always thought a soldier came to the door to break the dreaded news. Maybe they'd already been there when she was in the back field. She walked to the house dazed by a jumble of thoughts, prayers, and guilt. Rob, her older brother, taught her to swim, shared his paints and treats with her, gave her his travel books before he left. As a farmer and only son, he didn't have to sign up to fight. So why had he enlisted? Because of her.

Her square, gray stone home, its white shutters and delicately carved bargeboard trim, looked so normal, so safe. She opened the screen door to the kitchen. The room was steamy with the aroma of dinner simmering on the stove. Her mother pulled a loaf of bread from the oven, humming along with the radio. In the rocking chair by the window, her grandmother sat knitting socks, with their old collie, Shep, snoozing beside her. Dad had come in just ahead of her. He took off his boots and headed to the sink to wash his hands. This letter weighing five hundred pounds in her hand was about to shatter their world.

Her mother saw her first. She crossed the room and grabbed the envelope. Jean couldn't breathe as she watched Mum stare at the address. She wanted her to read it—and she didn't.

With shaking hands, her mother tore open the envelope. She read the telegram, then closed her eyes. “Rob is missing in action.”

Jean felt like she'd been punched. Her father turned, clutched his chest, and collapsed unconscious to the floor.

X

It was the last dance, and the couples around her had moved closer together, eyes closed, swaying slowly to “Red Sails in the Sunset
.
” They were probably already thinking about the walk home and romance under the moonlight. If only she could be like them. Instead, she dreaded any thought of goodnight kisses with Arthur. He was handsome and fun to be with. She liked playing tennis with him. Any other girl would love him. Any girl but her.

If only there was someone she could talk to. Someone who would explain to her why she wasn't attracted to Arthur—or any boy. Why it was his sister who made her heart race. Was she sick? It was the last dance, and she wanted to cry.

Wednesday, May 5, 1943

Peggy

Peggy Pigeon stood in her bedroom holding up the dress she planned to wear tomorrow. It was the perfect shade of red, setting off the warm highlights in her hair. The skirt swung gracefully with her when she moved. She was looking forward to the tea dance after school.

Would Benny be there? She hoped so. Joseph was fun too—knew all the latest dance steps.

“Bang, bang, you're dead!”

“
Ahaht, ahaht, ahaht!
I got you!”

Outside her window, the neighborhood boys ran across lawns, playing war again. A window in the house next door slammed shut. Mrs. Ferguson. Peggy understood. Donny Ferguson had been the best dancer around here—but that hadn't saved him on the rocky beach at Dieppe.

Stop thinking about him,
she told herself.
And don't think about Michael. I'm seventeen and I want to care about dresses and dances, not this stupid war.

From below came the sound of musical instruments warming up. She hung the dress in her closet and hurried downstairs.

“Homework finished?” asked her father. With his dark hair, brown eyes, and tall build, he was more handsome than other fathers, though not as dreamy as Frank Sinatra.

“Most of it.”

Her father nodded and adjusted his viola.

Mum stood beside him, adjusting a peg on her violin. Grampa drew a string across his cello, drawing out the first bars of Debussy's “Clair de lune.” His wife hummed along with him, resting her violin comfortably on her left shoulder. Both of them were silver haired, but there the resemblance ended. Her grandfather, with his slight accent and rimless glasses, had the stately bearing of a professor, while her grandmother, all jolly laughter, red cheeks, and large chest, looked like an opera singer. But they had made beautiful music together for fifty years.

The cello began playing; the other instruments followed. Peggy sat at the piano and joined in. It felt like old times—before things got tense at home.

Next they played a Dvořák concerto, then Dad segued into the first bars of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B.” Peggy snapped her fingers to the beat and everyone sang.

Mum said, “Let's not ignore Frankie.”

Dad laughed. “I'll take on that youngster any time.” In his rich baritone voice, he crooned and clowned the words: “All or nothin' at all…” Then the others joined him. By the time they reached “Then I'd rather, rather have nothin' at all,” they were laughing so hard they could barely finish.

“Could we play something from home now, please?” Peggy's grandmother asked softly. She hummed a few notes, Mum joined in on the violin, and the others followed. Dad's expression became tight and Mum glanced at him several times with an odd look. Warning, defiance, or apology?

Had the mood in the room changed, or was it her? “I better finish my homework now,” Peggy excused herself. “I hate this war,” she muttered as she climbed upstairs to her room. “I wish it would just end.”

She flopped onto her bed and slapped through the pages of a
Compact
magazine. She stopped at the illustration of three girls in shorts and stylish cotton shirts by a wooded lake. There were no worries in their world.
I'd look good in those shorts,
she thought.

Those suntanned girls made her think of the poster at school:
“The Farm Service Forces Need You.”
She remembered the stories the girls in the year ahead of her had told them last fall. They came to school looking spiffy, full of tales about the fun at “farmerette camp.”

Peggy sighed and looked at her mathematics book spread open nearby. She'd have to study for exams soon.

Suddenly the answer to everything fell into place. She could skip the final examinations at school. Earn enough money to buy those shorts. Get away from here. Have an interesting summer! All she had to do was sign up for the Farm Service Forces tomorrow. Yes, the summer of 1943 was going to be swell.

Tuesday, May 11, 1943

Helene

Helene watched the greasy water swirl down the drain, then turned on the taps for the next load of dirty dishes stacked on the counter. She looked longingly at her schoolbooks on the kitchen table. She wanted to get at them, lose herself in orderly mathematical equations, biology diagrams; anything but endless plates and pots.

The floor needed sweeping, her school blouse had to be washed and ironed, and lunches made for tomorrow. Luckily the boys were asleep. She hoped the baby's crying didn't disturb them. Or the music and laughter in the sitting room. The merriment was loud, but not pleasant—the kind of guffaws that burst from men sharing crude jokes. Mama should have taken in more female boarders, but they used too much water, cooked in her kitchen, stayed too long in the bathroom. The men paid extra for meals and laundry. But now they lounged in her living room, dropping ashes on the rug, setting glasses on every table, filling the room with smoke and rough words.

Helene scraped oatmeal from the last pot then grabbed a towel to dry. Red and yellow fruits bordered the dinner plate in her hand, making her yearn for ripe cherries or peaches. She knew where to get them—any farm just a few miles away. Peggy was begging her to spend the summer there with her. If only Mama didn't need her at home.

Helene thought of her mother's weary eyes, her job at Firestone, the boarders, her brothers and knew she couldn't leave. Besides, they couldn't afford the clothes she'd need, or the cost of getting there. She rammed the towel into a glass so hard that it broke. She felt a sharp sting. Luckily the towel prevented the glass from cutting too deep, and it soaked up the blood.

Alva entered the kitchen and set the kettle on for tea. “How was your day?” she asked, too tired to notice Helene's bleeding hand. Jake Potter soon followed Alva in. Helene didn't like the way he looked at Alva, as she leaned on the counter, stirring milk into her tea.

“I need a glass of water, sweetheart.” He brushed Helene's arm as he reached for the tap. She shuddered. He grinned, showing the ruined teeth that kept him out of the army. He paused as if to chat, but Helene turned away to wipe the counter, and was relieved when he left the room before Alva did.