Farmerettes (10 page)

It occurred to her how much preparation and cleanup her mother must have done around her. Odd—she never noticed it at the time. Totally discouraged, she sat on a wooden keg and lowered her head to her hands. She couldn't handle farmwork; she couldn't stand the sun. No civilized person should have to get up before dawn. Cooking was hard work. Scrubbing the floors killed her knees, and washing the toilets was disgusting. Tomorrow they would have to spray the kitchen with DDT again—to keep insects away.

Isabel kicked backward at the keg she sat on. She couldn't do anything. She really was an itsy princess.

She couldn't kick a keg either. Her heel throbbed with pain. But it snapped her out of her pity session. “No!” she yelled. “Even princesses are useful. Princess Elizabeth herself drives an ambulance for the war.” The girls in England were clearing bomb rubble with their bare hands, nursing broken and dying people. Compared to that, what was peeling a hundred potatoes or scouring a washroom?

“I
can
do this. I'll tell Billy amusing stories about it when he comes home.” Isabel stood, squared her shoulders, and stepped outside into a stream of sunlight. It was a sign. She was strong and capable. She ran back to the kitchen, firm with purpose.

It wasn't until Cookie banged a pot lid that she realized she'd forgotten the apples. Sighing, she rushed back to get them.

Sunday, June 27, 1943

Helene

Sunday afternoon, Helene felt sticky and tired like the other girls. It had been a blistering hot week of hoeing, weeding, and picking berries. Last night, they stayed up too late dancing to records and raiding the kitchen at midnight.

After church, they had lunch at the rectory with Reverend Ralston and his wife. Helene was stuffed full of dainty sandwiches, polite chatter, and goodwill. Now no one had the energy to do more than lounge around the recreation room, playing cards and listening to the radio.

Helene was glad when
The Army Show
came on. She loved Wayne and Shuster's humor, and hearing the other girls laugh. They were annoyed when the deep voice of the radio announcer interrupted a hilarious skit with a war update.

“Operation Pointblank is proving successful. A massive Allied air raid involving eight hundred planes has destroyed the city of Dusseldorf. Twenty-seven Nazi fighters were shot down. In North Africa, intensive naval and air power achieved the surrender of 275,000 Italian and German troops. On the Italian front, Allied…”

Peggy turned down the radio and asked, “Anyone interested in playing The Landlord's Game? It's fun.” She pulled a worn box from the shelf.

“I'll play,” Helene offered.

Isabel, from her chair in the farthest corner, shook her head. “I have to start dinner soon.” She retreated back into her mail, poring over Billy's old letters, since none had arrived this week.

Kate jumped to join them. “I'm buying George Street and putting houses on all my properties, so everyone will owe me rent.”

“Ha, you'll be lucky to get Goat Alley or the Ting-a-Ling Telephone Company, my friend,” answered Peggy.

“We'll see,” said Kate. “I wish half the cards weren't missing.”

“Wait,” said Helene, searching the shelves. “Miss Stoakley delivered new games yesterday. Here it is.” She pulled out a clean box. “This is the one from the United States. They renamed it Monopoly.”

Peggy looked intrigued as Helene unwrapped the game. Lured by the novelty, Irene joined them too, and soon the girls were amicably gouging rents from each other for landing on Park Place and the four railroads.

Isabel tucked her letters into her pocket, and left for the kitchen. “Poor Isabel,” whispered Irene. “I heard the real reason the last kitchen assistant left was because she couldn't take Cookie's temper anymore.”

Helene worried about that too. How would Isabel last in that kitchen?

Stella passed by, balancing her laundry on one arm and carrying a bar of yellow soap in the other hand.

“Gosh, I should wash my clothes too,” said Kate, but she returned to the game instead.

An hour later, Helene excused herself. “I have to write my letters before I'm too tired.”

“I should write too,” agreed Irene.

“I'm the richest; I win. Just call me the Queen of Monopoly,” said Kate, raising her arms in victory before she helped pack away the game.

“Wait till next week,” said Peggy, laughing. “I should answer my mail too.”

Binxie was already deep into her letters at a round wooden table. Helene sat beside her to finish the notes to Peggy's soldiers. Only four now. One of them had found a girl in Halifax before he shipped out, and was exchanging letters with her instead.

Then she wrote to her mother.

Dear Mama,

It's a relief to know Hamilton is not too hot for you, and the boys are a help. Please hug them for me on their big day. It will be the first family birthday I've missed, and I'll think of you even more that day. I'm enclosing ten dollars to buy them a cake and a gift each and something for you too. I have no use for it here—we're fed well, and I have more clothes than I need. Jean shares her books with me, and there's a library in town.

Life here is wonderful. I'm so grateful you let me come. I've seen animals born and thrive. Every day I admire the sun rising and setting over fields of green and gold. My cough is gone, and I feel strong and full of energy. I only wish you and the boys, and Alva and her baby, were here to share it with me.

Take care of yourself, Mama. I miss you.

All my love,

Helene.

She saw Peggy looking at her envelopes with a guilty grimace. “Next week I promise I'll write to the boys. I never know what to say.”

Helene shrugged. “Everyday things. They want to hear about normal home life and that someone cares about them.”

“You always put things so nicely,” replied Peggy.

“You play the piano beautifully,” said Helene. “We're even.”

“Funny, no one ever compliments my singing.”

“I wonder why.” Helene grinned.

“I better write home too. I just wish there was some way to let them know what I'm doing without having to write a whole letter.” Peggy sighed, found paper, and made herself comfortable at the table. Helene slid into a soft chair and read.

Isabel

The pen felt awkward in Isabel's hand as she tried to avoid the bandaged finger she had cut with a paring knife.

My Darling Billy,

Thank you for the photos. The army has put extra muscles on you, and it suits you well. England looks lovely. You must send me Mrs. Wyecroft's trifle recipe so I can make it for you when you come home.

I'm still doing my part for the war too. I was promoted to camp assistant. The cook and I plan and prepare the meals and oversee the general domestic care of the camp. Tonight we're making Dinner-in-a-Roll. It's excellent training for the day I run our home. I wish I could enclose a strawberry shortcake and a thousand kisses for you, but that must wait. In the meantime, here's a picture of me and my friends in the orchard.

My work here is fulfilling, but I long to hold you in
my arms, to dance with you to our song, to hear you talk about the beautiful life we'll build together when this war is over. I look at our star and pray for you every night.

With eternal love and devotion,

Your Isabel.

She knew there was no reason to worry. Since last October, Billy had written at least one letter every week. Sometimes they were delayed and she'd get two or three at a time, but they always came. Lately he had skipped a week here and there, probably too busy training. His last letter said they were preparing to be shipped “somewhere hot.”

She tucked the photo into the envelope. She knew she looked good in it. She hoped he'd notice how much slimmer she had become.

After writing to her parents, she added her letters to the basket of outgoing mail, put on her apron, and hurried to the kitchen.

“You're late,” said Cookie. “I started the potatoes without you.”

Considering all Cookie had to do was light the stove after Freda and I peeled a hundred of them two hours ago, that wasn't so hard,
thought Isabel. She didn't apologize.

“Since I'm behind with the ham loaf and you're so anxious to bake, you may make dessert. I left the recipe for Crumb Cake on the counter. It's an easy recipe for beginners. Use the two large pans stacked beside the oven. Call me if you need help. I've already added salt to the potatoes. Watch they don't burn; Freda will prepare the peas and turnips later. Any questions?”

“I'll manage, thank you,” declared Isabel, miffed at the easy-for-beginners comment.

Cookie shrugged, and went to prepare the meat.

Isabel was thrilled. Finally she could show her talents. As soon as she heard Cookie say she could bake, she had been so busy thinking about the cake that she stopped listening.

She scanned the recipe. It wasn't just easy—it was dull. She leafed through the booklet to find something with more zip. Ahh. Coffee Spice Cake. Much better. She gathered the main ingredients, but then remembered Cookie had said something about salt and the potatoes. There were a lot of potatoes, so she sprinkled salt in generously.

She creamed the shortening and sugar, added eggs, measured the flour into another bowl. Golly, there was a lot of it. Sixteen cups. Now for the rest. This cake would be perfect.

She searched the cupboards for the spices. She knew cinnamon, but what did cloves and nutmeg look like? Luckily the bottles were labeled. Carefully she measured the cinnamon and cloves. The nutmeg was weird. Hard brown balls the size of grapes. Oh well, they probably melted as they were baking. She tossed six balls into the mixture.

She heard hissing on the stove. The potato water was boiling over. Quickly she turned the heat down and tossed in more salt before reading the next step of her recipe. Raisins. Fine. Cold coffee? She looked around. Cookie always made coffee at lunch. Luckily the grounds were still in the percolator. Isabel scooped out four spoons. Was that enough? Another two would give it extra flavor. She added the wet mixture with the coffee grounds to the dry ingredients, smoothing out most of the lumps.

She poured the batter into the cake pans. This cake would taste delicious. But there was no icing. Every cake needed icing. She flipped back to the crumb cake recipe.

What was that smell? She looked around, sniffing.

Cookie ran into the room. “The potatoes!” She lifted the lid. “You didn't add more water! You've burned them!”

Isabel was rather annoyed. How could she be expected to do two things at once? “That's all right. I was planning to brown them anyway.”

“They're not browned, they're
burned
. And they'll
taste
burned!”

“I'm sorry. I'll throw them out and make something else.”

“People are starving in Europe and you want to waste food.” Cookie glared at her in disgust. “Get those cakes into the oven and clean up this mess. Then scrape away the burned potatoes and salvage the rest.” She stomped off, muttering.

Isabel decided to skip the icing. She slid the cake pans into the oven, carefully noting the time, and headed for the potato pot. She scooped out the potatoes that didn't look burned, and placed them into a new pot. Then she tossed in butter and salt to disguise any burned taste there might be. Once Cookie ate her dessert, she'd be forgiven.

By dinner that evening, Isabel was too exhausted to even look at food, but she wanted to be there when everyone ate her cakes. They had turned out perfectly, if she did say so herself. And sprinkled with fresh parsley and chives from the garden, the potatoes looked lovely.

The girls dug into their food as usual, but when they tasted the potatoes, they grimaced and reached for glasses of water. Isabel was surprised. She took a bite and almost retched. The salt! Awful! Freda must have added more when she wasn't looking.
Too many cooks certainly do spoil the broth,
she thought.

Peggy downed her glass of water and said brightly, “I'm looking forward to that cake of yours.”

Maybe she'd talked about it too much. She'd even invited Jean over for some.

When the time came, Isabel proudly set the pans on the serving table. Her cakes were a lovely rich brown color, like chocolate. To make up for the lack of icing, she had sliced strawberries on top. Presentation was important.

“How pretty,” said everyone as she handed out slices with a regal smile. She watched eagerly as they ate, and nodded their approval. They liked it!

Then Stella asked, “What are these black specks? They're sticking in my teeth.”

“A bit gritty, but I like the flavor,” Jean added.

Isabel rolled her eyes at Stella.
She's always critical,
she thought. Then she answered Jean. “It's coffee and cinnamon.”

“Coffee?” asked Freda. “How well did you read that recipe?”

Isabel defended herself. “It said cold coffee.”

“That's actual coffee, not the grounds.”

Isabel gasped. How could she have been so stupid?

“I like it anyway,” said Helene, taking another bite.

Suddenly Millie screamed. “Ouch! My tooth!” She spit a brown ball into one hand, and with the other clutched her mouth in pain.

Cookie ran from the kitchen, took one look at Millie's open hand, and shouted to Isabel, “You put a whole nutmeg into the cake! You're supposed to grate it! Come into the kitchen right now.”

Isabel was mortified. “I'm sorry, Millie. Are you okay?”

Millie nodded, still holding her mouth.

“If your tooth is damaged, my dad will fix it for free.” Isabel was almost in tears. Then she addressed the room. “There are five more nutmegs in the cakes. Please, watch out for them.”