Joan’s stomach was knotted with nerves. Usually, she would have regarded train travel as an occasional treat, but she couldn’t enjoy the short trip to the small Fenland village.
She felt lonely and disorientated as she looked out of the carriage window, watching the plumes of steam as they chased each other across the bleak, watery landscape. Even though it was August and the sun was shining, Joan thought the view dull and uninteresting. She had believed that when she left home, it would be for the excitement of a city, where she would somehow be transformed into a glamorous, independent woman. She hadn’t bargained on heading to the back of beyond to work in the fields and live in a dismal farmhouse.
It was 1942, and earlier that year, shortly after celebrating her 18th birthday in May, she’d been required to register with the Ministry of Labour, where the alternatives had been bluntly outlined. She could work in the auxiliary services or within a range of industries, none of which appeared particularly attractive.
The Land Army had seemed the least offensive option and, in the end, she had chosen that, mainly because her cousin Betty was in it and having a ‘marvellous time’.
Betty had waltzed into their home wearing what she described as her ‘best uniform’, a thick, brown three-quarter-length coat, corduroy breeches, brown brogue shoes,
