Whisper on the Wind

‘We’ll be making a start soon, Kath. They’ve only to fix the belt, and then we’ll be away.’

‘What will Roz be doing?’

‘She’ll be seeing to the filling, most likely. There’s hooks at the back end of the thresher, for holding the wheat-sacks. Roz will watch them and tie them when they’re full; there’ll be a couple of big strong lads to hump them away.

‘Last time we threshed, Roz was on the chaff.’ Jonty grinned. ‘It’s a dirty job. The poor love was black all over by the end of the day. She didn’t speak to me for ages after.’

Kath laughed with him, biting back the words she longed to say; that if he truly cared for Roz, if he acknowledged what his eyes showed so plainly, then he would wait a while; be there if one day she should need him and the comfort of his safe, broad shoulders. She didn’t say them, though, because there was really no need, and anyway, it was no business of hers. But oh, if a man smiled at me the way Jonty smiled at Roz; if his eyes loved me the way his eyes loved her, Kath yearned, I’d be putty in his hands. If, she thought, dismissing such stupid thoughts, she were heart-whole and fancy-free. And not married to Barney, of course.

The thresher was belted-up to the traction engine, the drum rotated noisily. Beside it in the stackyard stood two carts; one for straw, the other to carry away the fat, full sacks of wheat. Roz stood to the rear, a pile of hessian sacks at her side and she waved to Kath who looked giddily down from the top of the stack.

‘Be careful,’ Marco warned. ‘Straw can be slippy. Be careful how you step.’

‘I will.’ Of course she would. ‘Tell me again? I just throw the wheat sheaves over to you and –’

‘That is so. And I shall cut the binding-twine, then throw them down, like so.’ Gravely, he mimed the operation. ‘It is nothing for worry. I show you how.’

The air was frosty and filled with scents of coal-smoke and dusty straw. Kath smiled at Flora Lyle who had come to help, and taken up her position beside Roz.

‘All right?’ Flora mouthed, and Kath lifted her hand in a reassuring wave.

‘Right!’ the engineer called. ‘Here she goes!’

Marco spat on his hands, rubbed them together, then lifted the first sheaf. Kath took a deep breath. This was better than working in a factory or on munitions. This was where she had always wanted to be; what she had always wanted to do.

She spat on her hands as Marco had done. This was it, then!

She was glad when eleven o’clock came for her arms ached and her mouth was dry with dust; already she had stripped off her pullover and unfastened the top button of her shirt. For the last thirty minutes she had been unable to think of anything but a glass of cool, clear water and the sight of Grace and Polly carrying jugs and a tray of mugs was more than welcome.

‘Slack off!’ came the cry. ‘Drinking time!’

‘Come.’ Marco held the ladder steady, indicating to Kath to climb down first.

‘Water, anybody?’ Grace called and Kath answered with a grateful ‘Please,’ closing her eyes, drinking deeply.

‘All right?’ Roz walked over, followed by Flora who carried mugs of tea.

‘Just about.’ Kath laughed.

‘You’ll be stiff in the morning,’ Flora warned. ‘A good hot bath is what we’ll all need tonight.’

‘Mmm.’ Kath nodded to Marco who stood a little apart, unsure amongst strangers. ‘Those sheaves get heavy, after a time. Marco works like a machine. It was hard going, keeping up with him.’

Not that she was complaining; far from it. She was part of a team; she was with friends. She belonged here. It felt right, and she never wanted to leave.

They settled into an easy rhythm again. Marco worked steadily, pausing only to mop his forehead or to glance briefly in Kath’s direction and smile encouragement. The height of the stack had already fallen by two feet and in time, by mid-afternoon perhaps, when the stack was lower still, the grain elevator would be pushed alongside and the sheaves fed on to it and carried up to the drum, just as people were carried up a moving staircase.

But that would not be yet, Kath knew, already hoping it would not be too long before they stopped to eat and could troop, aching and hungry, into Grace’s kitchen.

She looked briefly down. To her left, Roz and Flora tended the corn sacks and to her right, straw was being forked into a cart. She smiled across at Marco and in that instant she felt and saw a fat, black rat, its body soft against her ankle.

‘Aaaagh! No!’ She jumped back, startled, kicking out wildly at the straw beneath her feet. Then she let go a cry harsh with terror for the sheaves were shifting beneath her. She was falling!

She opened her mouth to cry out, but no sound came. She grabbed blindly at the straw, grasping it tightly, halting her fall only a little. The mass beneath her was still moving; she was rigid with panic and fear.

‘Kat!’ A hand caught her wrist with a grip of steel and the sliding and slipping stopped. ‘Your hand! Give to me your other hand!’

She lifted her arm slowly, felt his fingers grasp hers. The beater drum flailed and crashed below her, the belt slapped and snaked on and if she fell on it – oh, God! Why didn’t they stop the thing?

‘Hang on to her.’ It was Jonty’s voice, above her. ‘I’ve got you, Marco. Don’t let her go!’

‘Is all right, Kat.’ Marco’s voice was gentle and calm. ‘Be still. Not to struggle.’

Her body had turned to stone; her mouth was dry with terror. Hands tugged at her shirt. They were pulling her back.

‘Relax, Kath,’ Jonty called softly. ‘We’ve got you. Try not to struggle.’

The straw scratched her face and arms as inch by inch they dragged her back to them. The scream of the belt changed to a soft hum, then stopped; the drum juddered to a halt. Hands grasped the seat of her dungarees. With one grunting, groaning heave she was up and over, landing on top of the stack in a sprawl of arms and legs. For what seemed forever she lay there, shoulders heaving, trying to stop the jerking of her limbs.

‘Is all right, Katarina.’ Marco gathered her to him, holding her tightly, stroking her hair. ‘Is all over now.’

She clung to him and the sobs came; great, tearing sobs of relief. ‘Marco, oh, Marco …’

‘Here now, stop that noise! Come on, lassie; blow your nose!’ Flora was there, holding out a handkerchief. ‘What was it? What made you fall?’

‘A rat. There, at my feet!’

‘A rat, Katarina? A little frightened rat?’ Marco chided.

‘I thought it would crawl up my leg.’

‘Help her down,’ Jonty said gently. ‘I’ll take over up here with Marco.’

‘No! She stays.’ Flora’s voice was sharp. ‘If she doesn’t, she’ll never go on a stack again. Snap out of it, Kath! On your feet!’

‘I can’t. The rats. I’m sorry, but –’

‘We fix it, yes?’ Marco took two pieces of the discarded twine. ‘We fix those rats good. Stand up, Kat.’

Unsteadily she got to her feet, watching bewildered as Marco tied round the bottoms of her dungaree legs. ‘Is okay, now. No rats in trousers.’

He was smiling. Everybody was smiling. Kath sniffed loudly and pulled the back of her hand across her eyes.

‘I’m all right, now,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll stay.’

Grace Ramsden’s midday kitchen was warm and steamy, rich with the scents of cooking; a place of safeness and normality after the terror of the stackyard.

‘Feeling better now, lass?’ Grace asked as Kath hung her jacket on the door peg.

‘Fine, thanks. My word,’ she smiled shakily, ‘but I caused a bit of an upset, didn’t I? Marco caught me, you know; just grabbed my wrist. And Jonty was on top of that stack in a flash; held on to Marco’s belt with one hand and hung on to the roof beam with the other. Between them – oh, let’s just say I was lucky. I still don’t like to think what might have happened.’

‘Might have, but didn’t,’ Grace retorted, ‘so sit yourself down and let’s hear no more about it.’

‘But it was so stupid,’ Kath persisted. ‘And all because of a rat.’

‘I’m scared stiff of earwigs,’ Grace confided. ‘So away with your bother and find yourself somewhere to sit.’

Farms were not duty-bound to feed their workers on threshing days, but Home Farm had a reputation for good food, generously served, and even though now she was reduced to providing less than she would have liked, Grace Ramsden still saw to it that no one went without in her kitchen.

The stackyard workers arranged themselves around the table on chairs and benches, all of them hungry and glad of the break.

‘Sorry, Grace, but I don’t much feel like food.’ The familiar churning was inside Kath still, and if anyone else said one more word about it, even in fun, she would break down and weep again, she really would.

‘Then how about taking Marco his dinner? I’ll give him yours as well, shall I?’

‘You could do worse.’ Kath shrugged. ‘He did the work of two men this morning.’ Apart from saving her life, and holding her comfortingly afterwards, not telling her, either, that she was a silly woman who had no place on a farm if she went berserk at the sight of a rat. ‘Is this it?’ She picked up the tin tray.

‘Aye. Hurry along before it gets cold, there’s a good lass.’

Marco was sitting where he always sat and she settled the tray on his knees.

‘Here you are. It’s rabbit pie.’ She sat down beside him, chin on hands. ‘I want to thank you for saving my life, because you did, you know. I could have fallen into that machine and –’ She stopped, remembering the flailing, crashing thresher.

‘No. I would not have let you. You are not to think about it.’

‘But I must. I can’t forget what you did.’

‘Jonty was there. He help, also.’

‘Yes, and I shall thank him, too.’ She made a small, appealing gesture with her hands. ‘What can I say?’

‘Say you are no longer afraid of rats.’ He smiled.

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t. They’ll always frighten me, I think. But at least I know now how to stop them running up my trouser legs.’ She smiled, and the smile came more easily. ‘Well, I’d best be going, I suppose.’ She rose to her feet, then bending quickly, taking his face in her hands, she gently kissed his cheek. ‘Thanks, Marco …’

She turned then, and ran; back to Grace’s kitchen and the men and women who sat at her table. Pulling out the empty chair beside Roz she said, ‘All of a sudden I’m hungry. I don’t suppose there’s any of that pie left?’

Roz kicked off her wellingtons, called ‘Sorry I’m late!’ then kissed her grandmother’s cheek.

‘It’s almost dark. Did you manage to finish?’

‘We did. All over and done with till next year. God! I’m filthy! There wouldn’t be any hot water to spare, Gran? My hair’s thick with dust and I’ve got chaff down my shirt and it’s itching like mad. I need a bath.’

‘I thought you might; towels are on the fireguard. I held back supper till you came in. How did it go, darling?’

‘Fine. Well – up to a point, that is. Kath took a tumble over the side of the stack. She’s okay, but still a bit shaken. Marco grabbed her, just in time.’

‘The Italian?’

‘Yes, Gran. Marco. If it hadn’t been for him, there could’ve been a nasty accident.’

‘When am I going to meet your friend?’ The conversation took an abrupt about-turn. Not that she was not relieved, Hester acknowledged silently, that something awful hadn’t happened to the poor young woman, but it could not be discussed at Ridings if the credit must go to an Italian. ‘She seems nice. Ask her to tea sometime, and show her the house. You said she was interested to see it.’

‘Okay. Sunday’s her day off, same as mine. Maybe she’d like that.’

‘All settled, then. Perhaps Grace could spare me a couple of eggs for sandwiches,’ Hester murmured, ‘and there’s a little of the Christmas cake left.’ An almost fatless, almost fruitless, almost sugarless Christmas cake, she sighed, remembering the take-six-eggs-and-one-pound-of-butter recipe of pre-war days. ‘I’ll look forward to meeting her. Now upstairs with you. Supper’s at six sharp, so don’t lie there wallowing.’

‘All right now, Kath?’ asked Flora as they pedalled back to Peacock Hey. ‘Sorry I had to be a bit sharp this morning.’

‘I’m fine – you were right to make me stay up there. And one thing I’ve learned – not to go threshing again without tying my trouser bottoms. Did I make an awful fool of myself?’ she asked, frowning.

‘No more than I’d have made if it had happened to me. But farms are notorious places for accidents, Kath, so try to forget it. And we’d better get a move on, or there’ll be no hot water left.’

A letter was waiting at the hostel; Kath had sensed there would be one. It bore the Censor’s stamp and the handwriting on the envelope was Barney’s. She could have done without a letter from North Africa, she thought petulantly. Today of all days she needed Barney’s disapproval like she needed a rat up her trouser leg!

Lips set tightly, she returned it to the letter-rack. Right now she needed a hot bath more than anything else in the world. The letter must wait until after supper.

‘Ready for your supper?’ Grace asked of her son who sat in the fireside rocker.

The departure of the threshing team had not signalled the end of Jonty’s day; there had still been cows to feed and milk. Now he was so weary that if the house took a direct hit, he doubted he could get out of the chair.

‘Can you keep it warm till I’ve had a bath?’

‘I can. Kath offered to stay on and help with the milking, mind, but your dad sent her back with the Forewoman. She was badly shaken this morning, though she tried not to make a fuss. I like that girl, but just when I think I’ve got the measure of her and start treating her like I treat young Roz, then a barrier comes down, if you see what I mean?’

‘Sorry, Mum, no. Kath seems ordinary and normal to me, and for a towny she’s fitted in fine. What do you mean – a barrier?’

‘I don’t know; not exactly. But I’m right, I’m sure I am. Woman’s instinct, you could call it.’ Of course Jonty hadn’t sensed it; what man would? ‘And get yourself off your behind, lad. You’ll feel all the better when you’ve washed that muck off you.’ Oh, yes. It took a woman to know a woman. ‘And don’t forget to rinse out the bath when you’ve finished!’ she called as he slowly climbed the stairs.

There was something, Grace insisted, but she couldn’t pry – even in wartime, when people had grown kinder and closer, she couldn’t. Poor lass. Even in that hostel amongst all those girls, she’d still be alone, she wouldn’t mind betting; still holding back that last little bit of herself that no one would be allowed to see, or know.

‘Take care, Kath,’ she whispered, wondering how she was feeling and what she was doing. ‘Take care, lass.’

Kathleen Allen sat beside the common-room fire, a notepad on her knee. Only when she had bathed and eaten her supper had she returned to the letter-rack to pick out the blue air-mail envelope. And she had guessed right; Barney was still angry with her, though when he wrote he had not received the Christmas Day letter she hoped would make things right between them. Things would be better, when he did. When he read of her love; when he realized how she missed him and worried for his safety then perhaps he’d be the Barney she had cared for, and married. It stood to reason, she supposed, that a man should feel resentment when he was parted from all he cared for most.

She looked down at the pad.

Dearest Barney,

Tonight, when I got back to the hostel, your letter was waiting for me. It is very cold here, the skies are grey and darkness comes early. I tried to imagine you sitting there writing to me, with the sun beating down and you trying to keep cool.

She had not mentioned his annoyance in her letter, nor apologized again. By now, surely, he must be prepared to forgive and forget?

Today at Home Farm we all worked very hard, threshing the last of the wheat. Everyone who could be spared came along to lend a hand and we finished just a little before dusk.

She would not tell him about the rat, nor about what happened to her. It might only cause him to worry – or prompt him to say he’d told her so. To tell him was impossible, anyway, because he still didn’t know about Jonty who should have been in the Army, and she could never tell him about Marco.

Tomorrow things will be less hectic and Roz and I will be back to normal again. Roz isn’t very happy, at the moment. Her boyfriend has gone home on leave and she misses him, as I miss you, Barney.

Yes, she did miss him, but not with the tearing ache with which Roz missed Paul. Her eyes misted over. Roz and Paul had no secrets yet she, Kath, must measure every word she wrote to her husband and it was wrong, for he was all she had in the world. He had married her knowing what she was, and given her his name. And having that name, one which was really hers, was more important to her than ever she would admit.

Yet how could she tell him? How would he react if ever he was to discover that an Italian – a man who was his enemy – had today almost certainly saved her life? And how could she argue that it had been Marco who was there when she needed help; when she needed comfort?

‘Marco is your enemy, too,’ whispered her conscience. ‘His country is at war with your country.’

‘Think,’ demanded the voice of her reason, ‘that if Barney and Marco had faced each other in North Africa and each had carried a gun …’

She shivered with distaste. It was all so wrong. Wars were wrong. If women governed the world there’d be an end to war. Women would say, ‘No more sons; we will conceive no more children if every score of years you send them to war!’

She clucked angrily. She was being stupid, her with her grand thoughts. Women would never be anything but women. It was the way it was; the way it always would be unless – or until – women stood together and demanded to be as good as men. They’d done it before, hadn’t they; had chained themselves to railings and gone to prison, died even. And because of that, a woman could vote and need never tell her husband how she voted. Now women were at war, really at war. They wore the uniforms her husband detested and tried not to be afraid. They weren’t comforts for officers!

Barney was wrong. He had no right to such opinions and she could not go through life being grateful to him for making her his wife; for marrying a woman who’d been reared in an orphanage and knew neither who she was nor what she was.

She was Kath. She was like Grace and Roz and Flora. She could no more help being abandoned than Marco could help being born Italian. Heavens above, Roz hadn’t so much as raised an eyebrow when she’d found the courage to tell her. Roz hadn’t cared, so why was she so prickly about it? She could no more help being unwanted than Jonty could help being in a reserved occupation, or Paul being an airman. Barney had no right to be so angry when all she was doing was trying to help win the war.

All? But hadn’t this war given her the opportunity to do what she most wanted? Couldn’t she have helped win the war in a factory, in a shop, or by becoming a nurse? All right. So she’d wanted to be a landgirl and live in the country. Was it so wrong? Was every landgirl in Peacock Hey as racked with guilt as she was?

Defiance blazed briefly through her and she looked at the unfinished letter on her knee. Supposing she were to have a brainstorm? Just supposing she were to go completely mad and write, ‘Today, at threshing, I could have been killed. I slipped and fell and an Italian caught me and held me, and a young man who isn’t in the Army helped him save my life. And afterwards, Barney, I thanked that Italian, and I kissed him.’

Shame flushed her cheeks. Shaking her head as if to remove all such thoughts from it she wrote, I miss you, Barney. I want this war to be over so we can be together again. Take care of yourself, and come home safely.

Come home to me quickly, Barney, before I take leave of my senses.

5

‘You can say what you like, it’s getting a lot lighter now, in the mornings,’ Kath remarked, her eyes fixed on the bird that hovered over the churchyard. ‘Is that a kestrel?’

‘It is. Out hunting for breakfast; mice or voles, a rat, if it’s lucky.’

They ate rats? ‘Y’know, I think I like kestrels.’

‘Thought you might.’ Roz paused, then said hesitantly, ‘Kath – remember the other day we were talking about – well –’

‘About being careful? Not getting pregnant?’

‘Yes. And I’m not.’ Her cheeks flushed crimson. ‘Pregnant, I mean. Thought you’d be glad to know.’

‘I’m glad if you are,’ Kath said softly.

‘What do you think?’ There was relief in her voice. ‘Just think, Kath, in less than three days Paul will be back. I’m an idiot, aren’t I, wishing my life away? I miss him, though.’ They were walking past the little church, eyes still on the bird of prey. ‘My parents are there, in the churchyard.’

‘And your grandfather – the one who died in the last war – is he there, too?’

‘No. He never came home. He’s with all the other soldiers who died there, but Gran has never been to France to see his grave as some wives have. She had a stone put up here for him. I suppose she likes to think he’s here in Alderby with all the other Fairchilds.’

‘That’s sad.’ Kath frowned. ‘I think I’d want to go, if I could, to see where he is. It might have comforted her, if she had.’

‘She doesn’t want to be comforted. That’s why she still hates Germans. She finds more comfort doing that.’

They left the little graveyard behind them, with its moss-covered headstones, its yew trees and the railed-off corner where all the Fairchilds lay. Roz did not agree with those railings; even as a small child she had demanded to know why it should be so.

‘Because they’re Fairchilds.’

‘Poor things. Aren’t they lonely, cut off from the others?’

‘I don’t think so.’ And Gran had said she would understand when she was older, but she hadn’t. She still didn’t.

‘I’m sorry for your gran.’ Kath sighed, it’s a long time ago now. Wouldn’t you think she’d have got over it a little?’

‘You would, but she hasn’t. I told her about what Marco did, but she just cut the conversation dead; refused to listen. I suppose we should hate Marco, too, come to think of it.’

‘We should, but I can’t; not now. He didn’t have to put himself at risk for me, but he did. He didn’t hate me, did he?’

‘Nope. It’s a funny old world. By the way, Gran says I’m to ask you to Sunday tea – if you can call egg sandwiches tea, that is. She’d like to meet you and I can show you paintings and photographs of Ridings as it used to be, if you’re interested.’

‘Interested? I’d love to come.’ Kath blushed with pleasure. ‘I’ll have to wear my uniform, though. I haven’t any civvy clothes with me. Will she mind?’

‘Of course she won’t. Apart from hating Germans – and Italians now, of course – and fussing over Ridings as if it’s something special, Gran’s quite normal and rather a love, most of the time. I’ll tell her you’ll come. Will half-past two suit you, then we can have a walk around the ruins while it’s still light.’

‘Any time at all.’ Kath beamed, picking up a milk-crate. Afternoon tea at the big house. Now fancy that.

‘I’m getting sick of waiting for it to be summer.’ Arnie Bagley scraped his porridge bowl thoroughly and noisily. ‘When is it going to be sunny again?’

‘Soon, lad. Soon.’ Polly longed for warmer days, too. ‘Winter’s more than half over. Afore very much longer we’ll be able to have Sunday tea in the daylight, then we’ll know for sure that spring isn’t far away.’

Sunday tea in Yorkshire was always taken at five o’clock, just as Sunday dinner was taken at one. They were habits a body didn’t break, Polly considered – well, not around these parts – and it was generally accepted that on the second Sunday in February the days would have drawn out sufficiently to enable tea to be eaten in ‘the light’. High tea, that was. A knife and fork tea, though heaven only knew how a body was to manage with the weekly sugar ration cut to half a pound. And in February, the Government was to cut fats by an ounce – lard, margarine and butter, too, which would put paid to saving up a little for a cake. No more home-made cakes now, and shop cakes so hard to come by that you could queue for half an hour and still not get one.