Farmerettes (3 page)

She had been surprised last night, when her mother brought up the subject of farmerette camp. “I met Miss Landry at the grocer's today,” she had begun. “She described the Farm Service Forces project. Suggested you were a perfect candidate. She said the fresh country air, exercise, and companionship of wholesome girls would do you good. And you'd be paid.”

Helene had taken a breath and shaken her head. “I'm not interested in going away to farm.”

She caught the look of relief on her mother's face just before she could pull it into a neutral expression. Helene had gazed levelly at her mother. “I'll find work around here. May I take the boys to the library after school today? Their books are due, and I need new ones.”

“Of course. Pick up a short happy one for me.”

I could be a great actress,
thought Helene, as she dropped the dishtowel into the laundry basket.
But then, so could Mama.

By eleven, Helene finished her homework and headed for bed. She was looking forward to her new book,
The Spanish Bride
. It promised adventure and romance in South Africa. She needed that after crying buckets over Jody's fawn in
The Yearling
. What a luxury to read in bed the nights her mother worked the evening shift, when she had her room to herself. But by page nine she was too tired to continue and quickly fell asleep.

She woke up with a start. The wooden floor creaked. She tried to see, to hear more in the dark room. There it was. Another creak. All she could make out were dark shadows. But she heard someone breathing. It wasn't her mother. She willed her heart to slow down. Should she pretend she was asleep, or scream for help? Mr. Perkins' radio still blared. Would anyone hear her?

Then one shadow moved closer. A man. Her heart stopped, and she couldn't breathe. Could she jump out of bed fast enough to reach the door? Not with the large shape blocking her way.

“I won't hurt you,” Jake's voice oozed from the dark. “I'm lonely, and you're so pretty.”

“Go away!” Helene croaked, pulling the covers tightly around her.

He stepped closer. She smelled his hair cream, oily and pungent. “I know you like me.”

Helene screamed and scrunched back to the wall as far as she could. She felt his hand touch the covers over her hip. She kicked with all her might and hit soft flesh. He hesitated. She screamed again, knowing he was too strong to fight off for long.

He touched her side, and the door flew open. Light, her mother and Mr. Perkins burst into the room. Helene thought she might faint.

“I only wanted to talk to her,” Jake stammered as he backed away.

“Get out!” shouted her mother in a voice Helene had never heard before. “Pack your bags, and leave this house. Now!” Then she turned to Mr. Perkins. “Please accompany Mr. Potter to the front door.”

She shut the door, rushed to Helene, and held her until the shaking slowed down. “You're going to farmerette camp. I don't know how we're doing it, but you're going.”

Friday, May 14, 1943

Jean

Her back ached, her face burned, and she was damp and dirty with sweat and dust. Jean stopped the tractor and surveyed the field she'd just plowed. The rows of furrowed earth were ready for planting. But that was for tomorrow. Today they were done. Thank goodness Gus, their foreman, had not enlisted. Mum, Uncle Ian, and two cousins would help plant. They'd work with her from dawn to dusk again. Too bad the Farm Service Forces girls weren't due for another week. She could use them today.

Her father was at the mailbox by the road. Although he had survived the heart attack last November, he'd lost weight and tired easily. Forbidden strenuous physical work, he now milked their four cows and looked after the paperwork—ordering, planning, accounting—the details of farm life he hated. Every day, he walked to the mailbox, leaning on it long after he'd found it empty.

She watched him pull out today's mail, sift through it, then stop. He stared at one envelope a long time. Jean knew it was the letter they'd been waiting for. She sat as rigid as he stood, anxious for that news.

He opened the envelope, read its contents, and ran up the driveway to the house. Was that a good sign, or bad? Jean was so tense she could barely steer the tractor across the yard. She jumped off and rushed into the kitchen. Her parents and grandmother stood silent in the room.

Seeing Jean, her mother screeched and danced around the kitchen. “He's alive! Our Robbie's alive!”

The family hugged each other. Even Dickens and Shep nosed into the embrace.

Finally Mum, tears rolling down her cheeks, explained the sober news. “Rob was injured and taken prisoner of war. They don't know where yet, but at least he's alive.” She happily bustled off to prepare dinner.

As she carried a bowl of asparagus to the table, Nanny was the first to voice her fears. “How badly is he hurt? I don't trust those Jerries to look after him. Do they even have doctors? Will they feed him?”

Her concerns dampened Jean's euphoria. She tried not to imagine how seriously Rob was hurt. She saw the quiet frowns of worry on her parents' faces. They shared her concern.

But not her extra burden—Rob wouldn't be in that terrible place if she hadn't lied to him.

Tuesday, May 18, 1943

Binxie

“I absolutely forbid it!” Mrs. Rutherford, her salt-and-pepper hair held in place in a smooth victory roll, turned from Binxie to her desk.

“But why not? It's for the war effort.” Binxie kept her voice calm. A display of temper never worked with her mother.

“There are dozens of more appropriate ways to help: knitting, filling food packages for our boys in prisoner of war camps, writing letters, selling war savings stamps.”

“I've done all that and rather well. I want to do more, and I can't do it at the cottage.”

“We have always spent summers in Muskoka. Your cousins and friends will be there. Father had the engine tuned on the Greavette. You'll have a marvelous time.”

Binxie sighed. She loved that boat, the lake, and she knew she could win the regatta this year. But it wasn't right. “How can I play at the cottage when so many people, not much older than I am, are out fighting—and dying for us?”

For a moment her mother stood quiet. Then she frowned. “You sold the most war stamps in your school, and helped immeasurably on my committees. You did your bit.”

“My
bit
. That's just it. I need to do more.”

“Farmwork is not fit for a young lady, and you'll mix with some rough people.”

“Well, they won't belong to the golf club, but I hear they're decent, and some may even know which fork to use.”

“Sarcasm is a low form of humor, Binxie. I'm concerned for your well-being.”

“How much more well could I be than on a farm? Fresh food, healthy outside activity.”

“You can get that in Muskoka. Discussion closed. We'll leave for the cottage the day school finishes.”

They'd argued all evening. Binxie considered ten weeks of Muskoka lakes, campfires, games, and dances and almost gave in. But there was Kathryn's letter. Binxie folded her arms and stood still—her mother's technique. She spoke in the low steely tone her mother used for effect.

“I'm sorry, but I will not go to Lake Joseph this summer. My duty is with the Farm Service Forces.”

Mrs. Rutherford raised an eyebrow. “Kathryn all over again,” she muttered. “Tell me the procedure.”

First Binxie stood speechless, all the arguments she had planned still whirling in her brain. Then she blurted, “I can sign up tomorrow at school.”

“I'll call the director, Mr. McLaren, now. Make sure you're placed properly.”

“I'd prefer you didn't,” Binxie protested, but her mother had already picked up the telephone.

She always has to be in control,
Binxie thought as she left the room. Closing the door, she was surprised to hear her mother grumble, “She always has to get her way.”

Binxie rushed up the stairs, two at a time, almost knocking over Sadie, carrying an armload of sheets. She swerved and shouted, “I'm going to be a farmerette!” How she wished Kathryn were here to share her victory. She hurried to her room to start packing. Kathryn's last letter lay on her dresser. Binxie sat on her bed to reread it.

Hi-de-ho, Binxie,

Can't write where I am, censors and all that. Suffice it to say, I can ride my bike to visit Aunt Letitia. Luckily she's far from the bombs that rain down on London. She sends her love to you all and has already mailed Mother a thank-you note for the food package.

I hope you decided to join the farmerettes, and that you'll be as happy as I am now, working for the Air Transport Auxiliary. At last I'm allowed to fly! And oh, Binxie, it is so wonderful! John Magee's poem says it all:

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings.

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds…

I could go on, but one day you'll discover that glorious freedom yourself.

We fly all over the British Isles ferrying new planes from the factories to the squadrons, and damaged aircraft back for repair. We transport military personnel from base to base, and go on medical missions. We're not allowed in combat, but I know each time I fly, I free male pilots to fight.

I began training in an open-cockpit Magister light aircraft, and quickly advanced through Hawker Harts, Miles Masters, and Hurricanes. Every cadet pilot's dream, including mine, is to fly a Spitfire. Since all aircraft are divided into classes, we need only learn one plane per class to be allowed to fly the others in that category. With our trusty ATA handling notebook, we can do it.

My fellow pilots are a fascinating bunch. There's an aviation journalist, a racing driver, company director, antiques dealer, even a magician. Stewart, a veteran of the Great War, flies brilliantly with only one arm and one eye, and he's not the only one-armed pilot in our group. The chaps at the RAF air bases like to tease us that ATA stands for “ancient and tattered airmen,” but they know our value.

The other women fliers are skilled and daring pilots who had adventurous lives before the war. Winnifred was a stunt pilot in an air circus. Gloria danced ballet, and Mona played international hockey. They're a jolly lot—dedicated and serious about flying, but lots of laughs off duty.

What binds us all is our love of flight and our desire to win this war. When you realize that, before the war, even the wife of the air minister wasn't allowed to enter an aircraft, we've come a long way.

Let me know all about the farm you're assigned to, and what you do there. You may borrow my Wellington boots to slosh around in, and take some good hand cream with you.

I miss the family, the cottage, and especially you, but what I'm doing is important—and exciting. This summer you too will have new adventures, an important job, and fun. And who knows, perhaps one of the tomatoes or peaches you harvest will end up on my plate!

Love as always,

Kathryn.

Binxie tenderly folded the letter, and tucked it into her dresser drawer. She wouldn't let Kathryn down. She was going to become a farmerette.

Saturday, May 22, 1943

Isabel

“Has the mail arrived yet?” When Isabel heard a noise at the front door, she dropped her knitting on the couch and hurried to open it.

“Don't look so disappointed.” Her sister Gloria waddled in and hugged her.

“It's becoming hard to get near you,” Isabel said, affectionately patting her sister's large tummy.

“Only five more weeks.” Gloria had gained too much weight, but she glowed with happiness.

“Gloria!” Mrs. Lynch swept into the hallway and embraced her oldest daughter. “Come in, sit down. How are you feeling?”

Once they were seated in the living room, Mrs. Lynch offered tea. “Itsy baked some lovely scones today.”

“Mom, I've baked before.”
But you did most of it,
Isabel added to herself.

“Oh, honey, of course. It's just so hard to see my girls grown up. Here's Gloria expecting her first baby, Rosemary and her husband moving to Toronto for the duration. And now my baby is engaged and poring over the
Woman's Home Companion.
I have to get used to it all.”

Isabel saw the quick roll of her sister's eyes. Gloria had expressed her opinions about Isabel's engagement several times already. “Seventeen is too young to marry. Why, Itsy can't even make her allowance last a week.”

“I'll be eighteen in July.” Isabel had defended herself. “And we can't marry until this war ends, and who knows how long that will be. You were engaged to Walter at nineteen.”

“Walter was twenty-three, finishing university, with an excellent position waiting for him.”

“Billy will go back to school to earn his law degree.” Isabel hated sounding defensive. She wasn't that young. Besides, this was war, and priorities had changed.

“Don't worry, Mom,” said Gloria, patting her tummy. “You'll soon be a busy grandmother.”

“I'll make the tea.” Isabel excused herself. In the kitchen she set the kettle on the stove and paced back and forth until the water boiled. Then she prepared the tea and scones, and carried them back to the living room.

Gloria and her mother were discussing baby blankets, and while they chatted, Gloria was absentmindedly knitting on Isabel's project. “You dropped some stitches around the thumb,” she said, as Isabel handed her a cup. “I'll give it a quick fix.”

“Thank you.” Isabel forced a smile. She wanted those mitts perfect for Billy.

As her mother and sister talked baby clothes, Isabel nibbled a scone and daydreamed about Billy. She wanted so badly to feel his arms encircle her, press her body into his, soak in his smell. She pictured Billy in his red cashmere sweater, his easy smile, his dark hair neatly combed away from his face. He'd wear sweaters like that when they were married, raising four children—the two boys tall and clever like their dad, her daughters petite, attractive blondes like her. But first this stupid war had to end. Right now she felt like she was in a waiting room. Waiting for the war to end. Waiting for Billy to come home. Waiting to marry him. Waiting.