Farmerettes Read Online Free PDF

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.
    The sound of the mailbox lid clinking shut broke through her thoughts. Isabel rushed outside. Yes! A small gray envelope with a King George stamp. Tossing the other mail onto the hall table, she clutched Billy’s letter and hurried to her room.
    It was her ritual—she combed her hair, straightened her dress, sat in her chair by the dormer window with his photo on the table beside her. The extra waiting was delicious agony. She tore open the envelope. First she’d rush through it, devour it. Then she’d reread it slowly, savoring every word, every endearment. Sometimes there’d be pictures of Billy with the fellows. Those were held, stroked, some even kissed and slept with.
    Billy wrote how much he missed her, thanked her for her last package. He described the endless drills and marches around the English village where they were posted, but he was not allowed to name it. That gave her a thrill of intrigue—her brave soldier on his heroic mission to fight Nazis and fascists. How proud she had been to walk the streets of Guelph with him in his new uniform, looking taller and more mature than ever. Girls had always eyed Billy and her—the golden couple—all through high school and his college football games. But that day, they had stared with open envy. She was even prouder when he escorted her to Rosemary’s house for the engagement dinner. No one called her Itsy then.
    This time Billy had included a photo of the Wyecrofts. She was glad many English villagers invited the boys for home-cooked dinners and some family life. She studied the photo. Billy stood in a garden surrounded by a thin older couple, two girls, and a young boy almost dwarfed by the sheepdog beside him. The girls looked about her age, pretty in a dowdy way, but pleasant.
    Billy described an amusing incident about the dog and young Cecil, and the inventive recipes Norah and Vera tried out on him. England was rationed far more severely than Canada. He admired the family’s spirit, and the hours the women put in volunteering at the hospital. Under all his light news, Isabel sensed a longing to be sent to the front.
    Isabel reread the paragraph about the sisters. Billy practically gushed about their courage. They had learned to drive an ambulance. Did he think she wasn’t doing enough? He knew she rolled bandages and knit socks. But here in Canada there was no chance for more heroic deeds.
    She glared at the photo. Suddenly she didn’t like Vera’s toothy smile, or Norah’s saucy stance. What could she do? Daddy would never let her work in a war factory, and she was too young for nursing. What else was there?
    She remembered the announcement about the Farm Service Forces the principal had made last week, and sat up straight. She could pick fruit, do a bit of hoeing. They had to have uniforms. She would send Billy a picture of herself in her smart outfit, ready and able to serve her country.
    Wednesday, June 2, 1943
    X
    She locked the cubicle door and sat on the toilet seat, shaking. What had she done? She’d always been so careful before. But this afternoon, as they changed into their gym wear, it had been too much. Vivian sitting so close to her on the bench—subtle cologne scent, rosy skin. Vivian’s mass of long brown curls had touched her arm,