Authors: Julia Stoneham
‘Loaded, they are, Win!’ Marion had sighed, relishing the generosity, in the form of chocolate, silk stockings, cigarettes, perfume and packets of chewing gum, that she had experienced that evening at a local hop. ‘And their uniforms is gorgeous!’
Frequently their escorts would borrow army staff
cars and drive them into Exeter to the dance halls, cinemas and hotels. There would be nights at the various military training establishments, when regimental bands would provide the music for quickstepping, jiving and jitterbugging. Often the lads would organise ‘a
whip-round
so the girls can go buy themselves something cute for the hop’, and Marion and Winnie would add five and sometimes even ten pounds to the pittance they saved from their weekly Land Army wage.
By February 1943, when the lower farmhouse was opened as a hostel and Marion and Winnie were forced to move into it, together with the other eight girls for whom Alice Todd was to be responsible, the money in their post office account had risen significantly, and the prospect of acquiring a lease on a pub of their own was solidifying satisfactorily.
Two setbacks followed. The first was that Winnie, too liberal with her favours, conceived a child which had to be dislodged. While Gwennan Pringle and Rose Crocker guessed the real reason for Winnie’s indisposition, caused, she claimed, by straining to lift heavy bags of swedes, Alice took a different view of it. If the truth of the situation had been revealed to Roger Bayliss and thence, via the Land Army Registrar, to the Ministry of Agriculture, Winnie would have been dismissed from the service and Marion would have gone with her into who knew what sort of future. So Alice Todd, in whom the two girls had confided their ambitions to run a public house and the means by
which they hoped to obtain it, and who was also aware of the genuine distress which the induced miscarriage had caused both of them, contrived to gain a second chance for them, despite being uneasy about the considerable amount of money the girls had already accumulated.
‘The thing is, Mrs Todd,’ Winnie had endeavoured to explain, ‘that the GIs is always givin’ us stuff! Far more chocolate than we could ever eat and enough pairs of stockin’s to last a lifetime! So what we do is, we sell ’em on to the rest of the girls! And not just the Post Stone girls but other land girls billeted round ’ere. The word soon went around and now we’ve got an order book, see? Half a dozen pairs of stockin’s ’ere, some chocolate there, a bottle of Evenin’ In Paris an’ a carton of ciggies somewhere else!’
‘It’s not illegal, Mrs Todd!’ Marion added, aware of Alice’s concern. ‘Them things is gifts! It’s up to us what we does with ’em!’
Alice had been forced to concede this point and avoided enquiring precisely what it was the two girls had done to deserve such generosity. She had become, largely through her dealings with the land girls, worldly-wise enough to know that, had they been dismissed, Marion and Winnie would probably have taken lodgings near one of the military training bases in the area and from there the slide into prostitution would have been difficult to avoid. So she turned a blind eye to the facts, demanded and got assurances from both girls that they would behave more responsibly
in future, and on a possibly more practical level, contrived, with the help of the free-thinking matron of Edward John’s boarding school, to procure contraceptives for them.
The second setback in Marion and Winnie’s quest for funding happened as a result of the D-Day landings, when all available troops took part, first in the invasion of Normandy, and then the liberation of France and the huge push on into Germany itself. But even with most of the men gone there remained a steady flow of personnel, on leave, recovering from minor wounds or in training, and Marion and Winnie found that their irregular income did not suffer as badly as had at first seemed likely.
Having urged the sheep through the gate and onto the rising ground, the two girls, heads lowered against the driving rain, returned to the lane to begin the half-mile trudge back to the higher farm. It was past midday and they were hungry. Their packed lunches and thermos flasks filled with milky tea were waiting for them in what had been the saddle room at Higher Post Stone.
Rounding a corner, they reached the point where a footpath, a short cut to the farm, left the lane and ran steeply uphill. Here they came upon a scene of activity that had not been there an hour previously. Roger Bayliss, his sharp eyes checking on the level of the floodwater in his valley, had noticed that a tree stump, dislodged further upstream, had come to rest against the supports of a timber footbridge. The log was jammed sideways, obstructing
the flow of the water, while debris steadily accumulated against it, adding to the pressure on the flimsy structure and threatening to carry it away. Roger had left his truck, and unable to shift the log without help, had flagged down a lorry transporting half a dozen of the local contingent of Italian prisoners of war. Their driver had agreed to allow his charges to help Roger move the log and would return to collect them after he had picked up another group who were working a mile off.
The Italians, an amiable mob, who seemed to enjoy the diversion, had quickly got a rope round the stump, hauled it aside and tethered it to a substantial willow where, when the floodwater eventually receded, it would be left high and dry. While they waited for the lorry, which would return them to their internment camp, Roger had suggested they took shelter from the continuing downpour in his
open-sided
barn which stood, disused and beyond repair, part of its thatched roof already collapsed, beside the lane.
The men huddled in the limited shelter, drawing enthusiastically on the cigarettes which Roger, unable to thank them for their help in any other way, had handed round. They had responded to his kindness, nodding, smiling, murmuring ‘
grazie, signor!
’ and watching the approach of two figures, their faces sharpening with interest when they realised that the heavy waterproofs, wide-brimmed hats and muddy boots concealed not men, as they had at first thought, but girls.
Slightly inhibited by Roger’s presence and not eager
to be seen so unglamorously attired, Marion and Winnie continued, past the barn, towards the short cut which would take them up, through the wood, back to the higher farm.
It was then that they heard, above the roar of the river and the softer fall of the rain, a faint but increasing rumble. The trees on the hillside which rose steeply behind the barn seemed to be reverberating strangely, quaking and juddering, while the rumbling sound intensified and was joined by the crack of splitting timber. Then, as the girls stopped and stood transfixed, a wedge of the woodland began to slip downhill, gathering momentum as it approached, and then struck, the rear of the barn.
The landslip, it was established afterwards, had originated near the top of the hill in a hollow formed by a disused slate quarry which the relentless rain had filled with thirty feet or so of floodwater. This had placed a huge pressure on the unstable downhill side of the quarry which, collapsing, had released the accumulated water, taking with it a section of the hillside and all the timber that had been growing on it and sliding, with increasing force, down the incline.
The solid walls of the barn took the full impact of the landslide and halted its progress into the lane, but not before what was left of a roof, already weakened by years of neglect, was driven forward, collapsing and burying the Italian prisoners under piles of rotting thatch and the timber beams that had supported it.
The men clambered out, checking first to see if they were themselves unscathed and then assuring themselves that all their companions were accounted for.
‘Allesandro!’
‘Si, bene!’
‘Stai bene, Luca …?’
‘Giorgio? Vai bene?’
‘Si … Luigi?’
Then it was discovered that all that was visible of Luigi was a booted foot protruding from a heap of mouldering thatch. But the thatch, they discovered, as they tried to extricate him, concealed an oak beam which had trapped his left forearm against a granite lintel that had once supported the entrance to the barn.
Having cleared the beam of thatch the men heaved at it, straining every sinew in their strong backs, shoulders and thighs. It was the length of the beam that was the problem. Two thirds of it was embedded in a pile of collapsed stonework.
The trapped Italian was howling with pain as his fellows swarmed over the heaped masonry, heaving the limestone slabs aside and frantically scooping away the loosened debris with their bare hands.
Winnie, who had pushed forward in an attempt to reach the injured man, succeeded in freeing his head and shoulders from the damp reeds, and while she tried to support him more comfortably, Marion examined his trapped arm. The beam had caught him just below the
elbow. What was visible of his lower forearm was already contused. She turned to Roger Bayliss.
‘You haven’t got a rug or nothin’ in your truck, ’ave you, sir? Only it’s the shock, see. You’re s’posed to keep ’em warm.’ When Roger did not respond, Marion became aware that he was standing, stock-still, his face gaunt and stark white, even in the half-light of the barn. His eyes were on Luigi’s shattered arm and he was breathing strangely.
‘It was like Mr Bayliss never even ’eard me!’ Marion told Alice, later that day. ‘Like ’e’d seen a ghost or some’at! Shakin’ like a leaf ’e was! So I went out to the truck to see if I could find anything to wrap round the fellow what was ’urt and I found a horse blanket. As I ran back into the barn Mr Bayliss went past me and got into the cab of his truck. ’E looked that strange, Mrs Todd! ’E just sat there, shakin’ and breathin’ funny. Then he puts his head down on the steerin’ wheel and he starts cryin’! Honest! Sobbin’ ’e was. It were awful to see! A man like Mr Bayliss, cryin’ ’is eyes out! I put the rug round the Eyetie fellow. By that time they’d dug away the stones so they could shift the bit of timber off of his arm. You should of ’eard ’im ’olla! Then the other lorry come back and they took ’im off to ’ospital. It were touch and go with ’is arm, though, it bein’ that badly broke.’
‘And what about Roger – I mean, Mr Bayliss?’ Alice had asked. Winnie took up the story.
‘’E were still sittin’ in his truck …’ she said. ‘’E wasn’t cryin’ no more and ’e told the pair of us to get in and
’e drove us back up to Higher Post Stone. ’E didn’t say nothin’ to us. Just drove, starin’ ahead.’
‘We was an hour late for our sandwiches, Mrs Todd!’ Marion added. ‘Starvin’ ’ungry we was!’
Alice was concerned by the girls’ account of Roger’s reaction to what was, after all, a natural disaster caused by the extreme weather. But the old building was his and its poor condition could be said to be his responsibility. Did he, she wondered, feel guilty about what had happened?
She crossed the yard to the barn which housed the farm telephone and dialled his number.
‘Are you all right, Roger?’ she asked him.
‘Bit damp!’ he said, sounding relaxed, and as far as she could tell, normal. ‘You? Lower Post Stone’s not under water yet, I trust?’ Was he, she wondered, a little too jovial, considering what had happened that day? She reassured him that apart from the lower farmhouse being filled with damp clothing, all was well with her and her girls.
‘It must have been a bit of a shock, the mudslide, I mean. And the Italian soldier getting hurt like that. Poor chap. From what they tell me he could easily have—’
He interrupted her. ‘Lost his arm. Yes, it was a pretty close call apparently. Bones can usually be fixed but if the circulation to the lower arm had been cut off for much longer … gangrene, you know …’ He paused and then excused himself, saying that Eileen, his housekeeper, was about to serve him his evening meal.
‘We ’eard this rumble,’ Marion was telling her fellows,
not for the first time, at supper that night, ‘and down come ’alf the wood! Trees crashin’ right and left they was! Great boulders and mud all roarin’ downhill like one of those avalanche things they get in Switzerland – only not snow!’
‘Right through the back wall of the barn, it come!’ Winnie cut in, matching her friend’s excitement. ‘And the roof fell in! Down came the rafters and all the thatch! Right across the lane it went! And those Eyeties was all buried underneath!’
‘You should of seen the state of ’em!’ Marion continued, when Winnie stopped to draw breath. ‘Covered in mud they was! And cut! And bruised! Could of been worse. Only one of ’em was hurt bad. You should of seen ’is arm! Ughh! It didn’t ’alf upset Mr Bayliss!’ she added, thoughtfully, picturing their boss huddled over the steering wheel, racked with sobs.
‘What was ’e called?’ Evie asked suddenly.
‘What was who called?’
‘The one what was hurt? What was ’is name?’
‘’Ow should I know?’ Winnie asked her. ‘No one said.’
‘Not Giorgio?’ Evie asked, casually.
‘Why would it be Giorgio?’ Gwennan asked, eyeing Evie, her curiosity aroused.
‘I dunno,’ Evie said, shrugging. ‘I just wondered. Lots of Eyeties is called Giorgio, aren’t they …? Can I ’ave another cup of tea, Mrs Todd?’
‘Well, all’s well that ends well,’ the warden said, rather too brightly, as she drained the pot into Evie’s cup. She
caught Rose’s quizzical glance and added, ‘What I mean is that whoever he is he’ll be in good hands by now and will most probably be repatriated as soon as he’s well enough!’
‘What’s “repatriated”, Mrs Todd?’ someone asked.
‘Sent home,’ Alice explained. ‘To his home in Italy.’ This brought smiles to some of the girls’ faces and had the effect, as Alice began stacking the pudding plates, of changing the topic of conversation. The girls drifted off to sprawl in the recreation room or go, early, to their beds.
Alice’s concern for Roger persisted for some days after the collapse of the barn. Why, she wondered, had he been so upset by it?
The injured POW was discharged from hospital, and with his arm heavily plastered, repatriated to his native Calabria, months before his fellow prisoners would be released. The barn, with the assistance of a larger group of Italians from the same detention centre, was razed to the ground and the slate quarry made permanently safe with a wide drain that would prevent rainwater from accumulating in it.