? BETH ?
21 February 1944
Dearest Beth,
It still feels strange to address you as “dearest,” but I think I’ll come to like it. We have been on the march these past two days, which is why this letter will reach you a few days late. I hope you won’t think I’m neglecting you already.
Even in February the sun sits higher in the sky than it does back home, and I find myself missing the mist of an English winter. So strange to think that just a few weeks ago, the men in my unit and I were all complaining about the sticky mud clinging to our boots during drills. The war is more real than I could ever describe on paper—not that the censors would allow it.
I think every day about the last time we spoke. Maybe I should feel guilt over asking you so abruptly to be my girl, as the American GIs would say. I hadn’t planned to do it over the telephone, but I wanted to hear your voice.
Knowing that you’re at home, waiting for me, gives me the strength to face whatever might be ahead of me in battle.
With all my affection,
Colin
The train shuddered to a stop in Royal Leamington Spa Station, and up and down the line people began to pour out onto the platform. Beth clung to the handrail, doing her best to balance the canvas bag slung over her shoulder and avoid tipping over as she stepped down. When her practical, low-heeled shoes hit the cement, she exhaled.
At last.
The train ride from London had taken twice as long as it should’ve, inconsistent service being a hallmark of wartime travel. And that wasn’t even counting the early-morning leg of her journey up from the agricultural college where she’d done her training. But now, she was almost to Temple Fosse Farm, which would be her home for the foreseeable future.
Rebalancing her bag, she started to make her way down the platform, looking out for Mr. Penworthy. She had no idea what he looked like or if he would be able to single her out from all the other travelers. She should have changed into her uniform in the Marylebone Station loo like her land girl’s manual recommended, except she’d known that this train ride would be the last time she’d wear her own clothes in… well, she didn’t know how long.
Her life was about to become all soil and crops and weather and harvest. She’d heard during her training that the isolation of rural life could be difficult for city girls like her, but she’d spent her childhood on a farm. She was sure it would be like returning home. Besides, in some counties, the land girls arranged dances in neighboring villages and towns on the occasional evening. She hoped Warwickshire would be so well organized.
The crowd on the platform began to thin as people made their way to the station lobby. The wind lifted her brushed-out blond pin curls, and she was patting them back into place when she spotted an older man standing by the waiting room door, woolen flat cap clasped between his hands and olive-green waxed jacket hanging loose from his shoulders. She let her hand fall to the strap of her bag and, swallowing down a bubble of fear, walked straight up to him.
“Mr. Penworthy?” she asked, her voice shaking a little despite her false confidence.
He looked over as a man might examine a cow for sale at market. “You’re the land girl then?”
She nodded. “My name is Elizabeth Pedley.”
“That’s a long name for such a little thing,” he observed.
“My parents called me Beth, and I might be little but I’m strong.”
His mouth twitched. “Is that so? The last girl they sent us wasn’t much to write home about.”
“What happened to her?” she asked.
“Still working the farm. We can’t afford to be too picky. It was Mrs. Penworthy’s idea to get a second girl up.” He passed a hand over his head and stuck his cap on. “It’s best to agree with Mrs. Penworthy when she gets an idea into her head. Come on now. It’ll be dark soon.”
He reached out to take Beth’s bag, but she held on to it, resolute.
He grunted. “Suit yourself.”
Beth followed the farmer down the train station’s steps and out to a horse and cart that was tied up on the gate. “Have you ever ridden in a cart?”
“Not in a long time,” she answered honestly. “My parents owned a farm.”
“They don’t have it anymore?”
“They died.” A beat stretched between them as it so often did when she talked about being an orphan. “I lived with my aunt in town until I turned eighteen and joined the Women’s Land Army.”
“Fuel is kept for farmwork now, so a cart it is,” said Mr. Penworthy.