Gracie's Sin (23 page)

‘I’m sure there must be,’ Lou said, not noticing her friend’s disquiet as she was fully occupied pulling on an extra pair of socks against the cold. ‘You just haven’t found him yet. They say there’s someone for each of us, don’t they?’

Gracie blew out the candle and climbed into bed beside her. For a few moments they lay shivering in the darkness, curled up like spoons in an effort to keep war, silently reflecting on the likely truth of this statement. ‘But if there’s only one person for each of us, it’s rather a chancy business ever finding them, isn’t it?’ Gracie mused.

‘Well I found Gordon, just by going on holiday to Cornwall. So you never can tell when Mr Right might turn up. He could well be at this dance. You never know. I’m for a night out, aren’t you? Time we had some fun.’

‘Yes, but what if you hadn’t chosen to go on holiday at just that moment, or to visit Brixham on the very same day that Gordon had leave, you would never have met him, would you?’

‘Oh, I’m sure I would have. On some other day, in some other place. We were destined to meet.’

‘But how did you know he was the
one
?’

‘I just did. We both did.’

Gracie frowned into the darkness, for this was something which had long puzzled her, probably because she had no experience of observing marital happiness at first hand. ‘Yes, but how? I mean, how could you be sure it was love and not just,
you know
- lust! A desire to go to bed with him.’ She giggled, having thoroughly embarrassed herself by this time.

‘Gracie Freeman. What a thing to say! You really are a caution. If I’d said such a thing at home, my Mam would’ve told me to wash me mouth out with carbolic soap.’

‘Aren’t all men like that?’

‘No, they certainly aren’t. My Gordon isn’t. Now go to sleep and stop worrying. You’ll meet Mr Right soon, and you don’t want bags under your eyes when you do.’

Gracie dutifully stopped fighting her eyelids which were desperately trying to close and allowed herself to drift. Later, she was woken by Lou’s quiet sobs into her pillow and she put an arm gently about her friend’s heaving shoulders to console and comfort her, feeling guilty at having upset her and knowing that there were worse things to worry about in this world during wartime, than whether or not she ever found a lover.

Irma’s friend, Madge, owned a tiny shop, which occupied the front room of her cottage on a quiet lane right in the heart of the forest. It soon became a favourite place for Lou and Gracie to call, whenever they were in the vicinity. They would buy liquorice sticks, pear drops or sherbet dabs, just as if they were still young girls which, in a way, they were, and enjoy a bit of crack with Madge. A bell clanged as they pushed open the door and went inside, when they would instantly be overcome by the wonderful aroma of freshly baked bread which Madge made herself.

The first time they called, they discovered her to be a jolly, round faced woman in a huge, wrap-around floral apron. ‘Anything you’re wanting, just keep a look out for our van. My Jim goes round and round these lanes like a May fly. Stop us and buy one, that’s us.’ And she chuckled like a babbling brook as she snipped the correct number of coupons from their ration books; a noisy, happy woman with a brood of wide-eyed youngsters of varying heights and ages, all crowding about her, the smaller ones sneaking jelly babies from the jar on the shelf behind, or peeping out from behind her skirts.

She introduced the three eldest as Sarah, Rachel and Matthew. ‘Sarah’s the sensible one and Rachel, our little sweetheart, would charm the birds out of the trees. Matthew is a fine young man, don’t you reckon? He’s waiting to be old enough to join his brother in the army.’ Madge flickered her eyebrows in a gesture which clearly meant, over my dead body, since she already had one son in Singapore.

‘Please to meet you.’ Lou and Gracie grinned at the two girls, shook hands with the solemn Matthew and gratefully accepted a jelly baby from a fourth child, Daisy.

‘You’re staying with Irma then?’

‘That’s right. At Beech Tree Cottage.’

 
‘So what d’you think?’

‘About what?’

‘About Irma, of course. Who else? Keeps that son of hers on a tight leash, eh? You’ll have noticed, I expect. Give her eye teeth, she would, to see him wed. Desperate for grandchildren. That’s why she takes in lodgers. I dare say one or other of you two is the next candidate.’

Lou agreed that she had mentioned something of the sort, while Gracie simply blushed.

‘Though she’ll have summat to say on his choice, make no mistake. But then she allus did like her own way, did Irma. Known her since I was a lass, so I should know, eh? Never underestimate her. Once she has her sights set on an idea, there’s no stopping her. Make sure you don’t allow her to bully you. Think on!’

‘There’s no danger of that,’ Gracie said, determined to stand up for herself, praying Madge wouldn’t hear how she’d allowed Irma to talk her into this so called ‘date’.

Madge raised her eyebrows, taking this newcomer’s measure and, clearly approving of what she saw, smiled warmly. ‘Aye, you’ve a sensible head on your shoulders, I can see that. Well then, if you cycle over here, one of my tribe’ll serve you. And if we haven’t got what you want, we’ll either get it in for you the very next day or you’ll have to do without it altogether.’ Nodding happily over this dumbfounding logic, quite convinced she’d made a joke, Madge slipped a slab of home baked ginger parkin and a wedge of cheese into a bag for them. ‘There y’are. Bit of summat special for your tea. I know how you land girls do love your cheese.’

Lou and Gracie smiled in unison but managed to say nothing to this, not even to correct her mistake over their identity. Land girls indeed! Once safely outside, they both doubled up with laughter.

When they’d calmed down a little, Gracie said, ‘what do you think she meant about Irma? About not underestimating her.’

‘I’ve no idea, and I really don’t care,’ Lou gasped, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. ‘She gave us extra rations. I love her already. Madge could turn into a blessing.’

As so often in Lakeland, the weather was unpredictable. One day mild and blossoming, the bobbing daffodils golden in the sunlight, fresh green grass starred with delicate primroses and wood violets; the next bitterly cold so that buds shrivelled and froze on the trees. Soon the grip of winter would leave the land and a brief spring would pass slowly into the welcome warmth of summer. But no matter what the season, the work of the great forest would continue. Charcoal would be burned, rushes collected, baskets made, woods coppiced, as had been done since Norman times when the monks of Furness Abbey had owned the forest. Ownership might have passed through several hands since and, if now it was called upon to fulfil a less altruistic purpose, at least the forest itself was unchanging, constant, an endless regeneration of cutting and regrowth.

Out in the wider world, change was very much in evidence. The success of El Alamein had provided the boost to morale everyone had needed this winter, and if no one fully understood what exactly was happening in Stalingrad, at least there was hope in the air at last. All anyone could do was to keep on believing in the ultimate victory.

The girls’ task most days when they were not actually felling, was to measure and mark suitable trees. Any softwood over fourteen and a quarter inches in girth was a likely candidate. Sometimes, like today, when shafts of sunlight pierced the gloom, the work was a joy. More often than not it would be raining, almost as if the trees themselves attracted such conditions. Then everything could go wrong.

The blaze of white marking paint, with which they’d so carefully daubed each tree, would be washed off before it had time to dry or they’d loose all sense of direction in the forest, walk for miles, probably in circles, and end up marking all the trees twice. Or the measurements they’d scribbled in their notebook in a howling gale would be quite indecipherable the next day. Even if the weather were not at fault, their own incompetence or naivety could lead them astray. They might run out of paint, trip over the pot and lose half of it in the undergrowth; or get themselves caught up in a tangle of brambles and briers. Nothing, they’d discovered, could ever be taken for granted about this job. Even so, they loved it.

They loved the fresh glow on their cheeks, their bright eyes and the feeling of alertness which came from working outdoors. They loved the freedom of the woods, the scents, the excitement that each day, despite the routine, something new or unexpected could happen. They loved it all, even if they did often have to eat their sandwiches standing up, and spend most nights drying off their wet clothes ready for the next day, or stamping on the tiny wood spiders that dropped from their clothes when they undressed at night. Gracie never minded these as they had such pretty colours and patterns but Lou would squeal and jump about in great agitation. Then would follow an hilarious half hour while they chased, located and evicted every spider from their room. Not an easy task in the gloom of candlelight.

‘Why am I doing this dreadful job? At least in a weaving shed we never got spiders in our knickers. Have you checked between the sheets, Gracie? I don’t want them in my nightie as well.’

‘So far as I can see in this light, the sheets are perfectly clear of livestock.’

This would happen most nights until eventually Lou would climb into bed with some degree of reluctance, starting at every tickle, quite certain that she wouldn’t sleep a wink. Yet because of the fresh air and the vigorous exercise, more often than not they’d be asleep the minute their heads hit the pillow.

The girls didn’t always work alone. As in Cornwall, they were often teamed with foresters who were too old, even in their late thirties and forties, to be called up for active service. Local girls were bussed in, often from Barrow, to help with the peeling and stacking of timber, and there were the refugees, or displaced persons as they were more properly called. These were Poles, Jews, Checkoslovakians, Latvians and the like; cheerful, hard working young men, eager to play their part in a war which had driven them from their homelands. The lorry brought them by ferry across the lake from a local camp where they were billeted, to work in the forest most days of the week. The Forestry Commission paid the government one shilling an hour for the benefit of their labour, and most of them were ready enough to do their bit.

One young man in particular, known simply as Luc, since his surname was unpronounceable, spent much of his time trailing after Lou with dog-like devotion. It was perfectly clear that he adored her, worshipped the ground she walked on.

‘We belong together, I think. Lou and Luc. Ees good, yes?’

‘It would also be bigamy,’ Lou would cheerfully remind him, wiggling her ringed finger in his face. Somehow, this made no impression at all.

‘Husband not here. Luc ees here. You need man now. Yes?’

‘Oh yes. I mean - no. At least - not like that.’ It was Gordon she wanted, ached for, with a pain in her heart which, at times, consumed her.

‘You no like Luc?’

‘Yes, of course I do. You’re a very nice man.’ He was indeed supremely good looking, dark and handsome with Rudolph Valentino eyes, and his devotion was really quite flattering. Unwilling to offend her admirer, Lou would hurry away giggling, refusing to take him too seriously for all he continued to pursue her. But she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him and, as they ate their sandwiches at dinner time, she would encourage him to talk of his home, which he did readily enough, often with tears in his eyes.

‘In my country, the Russians they come and take our land. They leave us with very leetle. It ees hard. Very hard. Just when we think we might survive, they come and take more. What can we do? We accept or we go to Siberia. Many people go to Siberia in cattle trucks. Teachers, doctors, important people, not poor farmers like us. No come back. My family lucky. We left alone but I join Army against the Communists. We fight on the Eastern Front. I get wound and escape with Polish friend through his country to England. I very glad. Ees good in England.’

Lou listened to this tale, not quite able to take in the true awfulness of it. ‘What about your family? Your mother and father? Do you have any brothers and sisters?’

For a brief instant his face brightened, a smile filled with pride and joy. ‘Two sisters. They very young, stay with my mother. My father, he broken man. Lost his land, his - what you call it?’

‘His future?’

‘Yes. The hope he had for his family. My elder brother Buca, he join ship. My mother write me. Say it go down, since then - ‘ he paused, shrugged his shoulders as the tears spilled over. ‘I hear nothing.’

‘Oh Luc. That’s awful. Dreadful. What can I say, except, I understand. You’re not alone in this pain. My husband is at sea. God knows where. Oh, I do hope he comes home safe.’ Now they were both crying and Luc was patting her hand.

‘See. We comfort each other, you and I. Ees good, yes?’

And through her tears Lou had to laugh. ‘Some comfort I am. Look at us. Like a wet fortnight in Blackpool.’

Luc evidently thought different since he took to riding a rusty old bicycle over to Beech Tree Cottage and, propping it against the garden wall would wait for hours on the off-chance that she might come out.

‘Hey up, lover-boy’s here again,’ Irma would chuckle, and Lou would groan.