Farmerettes (12 page)

Peggy smiled at him and the music resumed.

“It's cooler outside. Want to sit out the next dance?” he whispered.

Peggy pretended to think for ten seconds—she shouldn't look too eager—then nodded.

Harry offered his arm.

What a gentleman,
she thought, as she hooked her arm in his and headed for the doors.
I wonder why he isn't taken?
She glanced at the dancers, and saw not only Stella's frown, but also Evie Belding's glare and the scowls of Evie's sister and friends, and she had her answer. She felt badly. Evie was a nice girl, but Harry was sooo good-looking.

As they reached the barnyard, she heard the low rumble of thunder. A heavenly warning? Never one to heed signs of caution, Peggy let him hold her closer and continued walking.

A yellow sliver of moon hovered low on the horizon, still at the beginning of its journey across the sky. As they strolled arm in arm across the yard, Harry lightly steered her away from a group of farmers smoking and arguing about battle strategies on the Italian front.

Peggy was glad to walk farther into the field, to talk about the latest music, their favorite movies—anything other than war. She wanted to listen to Harry's deep voice, watch his dark eyes lock onto hers, maybe share some kisses.

In the dusky field, Harry stopped, faced her, and stepped closer. He slid his hand up Peggy's bare arm. She barely breathed. This was the most romantic experience she'd ever had. Somewhere in the back of her mind lurked her mother's warning: “Never walk in the woods with a man.”
But they hadn't quite reached the trees, and Harry was sweet.

Even this far away, bits of the barnyard battle conversation floated their way. “Our boys really showed them how we win a war. Imagine a bouncing bomb!” The men were talking about the Dambuster Raid in May, when an important dam in the Ruhr Valley was blown up. Peggy's family had talked about that mission too, Dad proud, Mum in tears. But right now she wanted to concentrate on Harry.

He stroked her cheek and gazed into her eyes. “I wish I'd been there,” he declared. “Those pilots were amazing. I'd like to have blasted that dam too.”

Peggy stepped away from him.
You sure blasted this romantic spell,
she thought, and told him, “The night that dam burst, the flood killed hundreds of innocent people downriver—mostly villagers and Polish mine workers.”

He shrugged. “It was a strategic mission. It's too bad extra people died, but that's war. Next month I'll be fighting too. I can't wait.”

At that moment, the moon drifted behind the clouds, so she couldn't see his expression, but she felt the sudden pressure of his hand around hers, heard the pride in his voice. “I've signed up. Passed my physical, got my uniform. I'll show you tomorrow.”

Damn this war,
Peggy thought.

“Yep.” He nodded. “I'm gonna bomb me some Krauts.”

Peggy dropped his hand. “Those bombs will kill women—and little children too. Doesn't that bother you?”

“They'll just grow up to be Nazis.”

Something sour rose from Peggy's stomach to her throat. She brushed away his arm and wondered what he'd say if she told him some of those Krauts were her relatives—her aunts, uncles, and cousins in Hannover. Would he apologize for his remarks? Or would he turn on her? She knew the answer. She wouldn't tell him, and she dared not tell the girls at the farm. They'd hate her, or at least treat her with suspicion, like her neighbors in Greenvale had. “We'd better get back before they miss us.” She turned toward the barn.

“Wait.” Harry sounded confused, angry. “You can't run off on me like this.”

Peggy didn't answer.

“What's the matter with you?” Harry grabbed her arm.

Peggy shook it off and kept walking, Harry close behind.

Helene

Helene stood by a post, tapping her foot to the music, drinking in the happy scene around her. She enjoyed watching the youngsters play tag between the dancers, hiding and seeking in the hay, and running for the sheer joy of it. They sped along the dessert table, snatched a cookie, slid a finger across the icing of a cake, and scurried off. Her brothers would have loved this. And it would have done her mother good to cut loose and dance.

Cut loose and dance? She wanted that too, but how? Where would she barge in and begin? The caller sang so fast she didn't know how anyone could keep up with him. She'd not only trip on her own feet, but stumble over everyone else's too. Peggy signaled her to come join them every time she whizzed by in the maze of dancers, but Helene felt safer on the sidelines.

A snow-haired choir lady swung past her in the arms of Mr. Scranton. Cleaned up and smiling, he didn't look so bad, and he was surprisingly light on his feet. So were his two taller sons. Girls seemed eager to partner with them and smiled blithely in their arms.

The third son stood, painfully thin, with darker brown hair combed neat, fine features, the only young person wearing a long-sleeved shirt on this hot evening. She watched him walk with a slight limp, balancing two cups of coffee and a plate of cake, to the older woman who had sat beside him at dinner. She sat still and regal, her gray hair swept back in an elegant roll, a well-cut dark dress. Every so often she summoned a farmerette to talk with. The rest of the time, the two perched on a bale of hay watching the dancers. At one point she seemed to be urging him to join them, but he shook his head.

Suddenly the woman turned to beckon Helene.

Helene hesitated. Then, not wanting to be rude, she walked over to the woman, who offered her hand. “Hello. I'm Mrs. Agnes Fraser.”

Helene curtsied and shook Mrs. Fraser's hand. Although lined, her face had a classic beauty, high cheekbones, and intelligent tawny-colored eyes. She turned to the fellow at her side. “And this is Daniel Scranton, my efficient farmhand, accountant, and friend.”

“People call me Dan.” He smiled at Helene, but held his right arm protectively at his side so she nodded at him.

Mrs. Fraser continued. “And you are?”

“Helene Miller.”

“From?”

Helene decided to answer as briefly as Mrs. Fraser fired her question. “Hamilton.”

“In school?”

“Just completed grade twelve.”

“Will you continue?”

“Grade thirteen for sure.” Helene frowned. Her marks this year would decide whether she could go on after that. She had to get a scholarship.

“Are you clever?”

Helene blushed. “Yes. I am.”

“So what will you do with those brains when you graduate?”

“I've always wanted to teach children.”

“And what will you teach them?”

Helene paused. How could she turn this interrogation into a conversation? She looked Agnes Fraser in the eyes, and said, “I'd like to share with them the wonder of books and words and ideas.”

“Share something with me.”

Helene hesitated, then recited her favorite poem.

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood…”

Mrs. Fraser joined her for the next line.

“And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth…”

They regarded each other and smiled broadly. They had connected.

Dan completed the poem.

“I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.”

Helene hid her surprise. Who would have expected Mr. Scranton's son to know Robert Frost?

Mrs. Fraser continued. “How do you like farm life?”

Helene grinned from ear to ear. “I believe I was meant to be here.”

“Why?”

Helene wondered how to put her feelings into words. Dan nodded encouragement. “Last question,” he gently chided Mrs. Fraser, then turned to Helene, waiting for her answer.

“I love the endless green fields, the wide clear sky, the smell of earth and freshly cut hay, the scent of blossoms, fresh milk, the peepers singing in the pond, hearing the cows moo in the evenings.” She stopped for breath. “And I like my dorm mates, the people here, this wonderful evening…”

“So why aren't you dancing?”

Helene opened her mouth, hoping an answer would come out. Suddenly someone smacked into her stomach, making her lose her balance. An arm whipped out to keep her from falling.

She looked up into the eyes of Dan Scranton. “Thank you.”

“Willy Grant! You stop that tearing around,” Mrs. Fraser scolded. “And come apologize to our guest.”

A little fellow her brothers' age, straw stuck to his overalls, came shamefaced before her. “I'm sorry, Miss. I was trying to catch my friend.”

His name stabbed Helene with homesickness. She nodded at Willy then crouched down to ask him what he was playing. They talked a minute, but sensing his restlessness, she told him to go have fun. She watched him race off again, turned to Agnes, and blurted, “Excuse me.” She hurried from the barn.

She stood outside, sucking in deep breaths of air. What were her brothers and her mama doing now? Certainly not gorging on food and dancing. How could she love it here so much and worry about home so terribly too? For once she couldn't take comfort from the farm. No breeze stirred; everything felt heavy, still, waiting for something large. An arrow of lightning shot across the lake.

“No stars out tonight. They usually make a spectacular show,” a deep voice behind her said. Dan.

“One more thing to love about the country.”

Another streak of light was followed by a thunderous boom seconds later.

Dan surveyed the western horizon. “Dry May. Wet June. We need rain but a storm won't be good for the strawberries.”

“They'll spoil?”

“Fast. And E.D. Smith and Sons, as well as the ladies in Hamilton, need all our berries for their jam.”

Helene pictured mushy strawberries. “So much of your hard work can be ruined by one storm.”

“Or lack of one. Or insects, disease, frost, or too much heat. That's the downside of farming.”

“But not down enough to stop.”

“Never. The war tried.” He raised his right arm slightly. She noticed the red, scarred skin visible under the cuff of his sleeve. She glanced sideways at his profile—erect posture, a good face, kinder than his brothers. They and most of the boys here looked to be in their teens, but Dan seemed older. Fighting age. She wondered about his story.

On the other side of the barnyard a group of men in overalls stood smoking and loudly debating the war. “Why are they bothering with those little Italian islands? They should be blasting the Nazis out of France and Holland!”

“Barnyard generals,” said Dan.

“Hey, Scranton! You were there. Come settle this,” called an old farmer.

Dan waved him off and turned toward her.

“Aw, come tell us about it,” called a young fellow Helene recognized. Hadn't he gone outside with Peggy earlier? Where was she now?

The group advanced toward them. Should she stay with Dan or leave the men to their talk of weapons and strategies? A fat raindrop made her decision. Several more splattered down, then sudden sheets of rain slashed at them. Helene, Dan, and the farmyard generals dashed into the barn. The men aimed for the food tables, pulling Dan along with them. Peggy's fellow strode up to a pretty farmerette in a pale blue dress.

Helene looked for Peggy. She must be dancing at the far side of the room. She certainly wouldn't stay out in that rain. She glanced at Dan, now surrounded by the group of men, picked up two strawberry tarts from the table, and joined Mrs. Fraser to watch the gaiety from the sidelines.

Jean

Jean skipped across the circle on her mother's arm, and watched Peggy leave the barn with Harry Rayner. That would surely annoy Evie and some of the other farm girls. They'd be happy in September when these city girls would leave their boys alone. Quickly she skipped left from her mum, and on to Johnny. He smiled and squeezed her fingers before she whirled over to Mr. Belding's calloused hand. Seth Rogers and the fiddles were at their best. Only the sound of Dan Scranton's fiddle was missing. Had been since he'd gone to war three years ago and returned last winter with scars on his arm and deep inside.

Johnny allemanded back again and they two-stepped around the square. As she passed Alice Belding, Uncle Ian, then Gus, they smiled at her and she grinned back. These were her people and it was a relief to laugh and dance, without thinking about weather, weeds, and hungry livestock.

Then she spied Fran Murphy do-si-doing in the next square with Lou Puddicombe. Did she have to dance that close to him, giggle so happily? How could she flirt like that when Rob was imprisoned in a POW camp? Jean stared bullets at Fran until the smile left the girl's face.

When Johnny danced toward her again, they skipped to the right together. Suddenly she realized how much she too was enjoying herself, while her brother—whom she had sent away—paid the price. As soon as the set was over, she hurried outside, past the men loudly winning the war in the barnyard. She needed air and quiet. She turned the corner and stopped behind the barn.
Tears won't help Rob,
she scolded herself. She took a deep breath and another; the sounds of music and gaiety throbbed from the barn at her back.

Before her lay silent fields and shadowed trees barely visible under the starless sky. Was it this dark for Rob too? What time was it where he was? She prayed he was peacefully asleep, dreaming of freedom and home.

A small sigh nearby startled her. She walked along the side of the barn until she saw a dark shape huddled into the wall.

“Isabel?”

The shadow quickly stood taller. “Yes?”

Not sure what to say, Jean blurted, “Your strawberry tarts were a hit tonight.”