The Willow Pool. Elizabeth Elgin
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She remembered Ma’s faded photographs and the trees and lawns and flowerbeds and the garden party for wounded soldiers. For whatever reason the Government had taken the house, they’d got it well shut up! And why could those men in London just take what they wanted because there was a war on; your house, your car and, at the time of Dunkirk, your little boat, even!
Meg wondered what Ma would have made of the neglect, then turned abruptly away. That part of Candlefold was of little interest to her. It was a pump trough she needed to find!
The stile looked over a field of sheep and lambs. Meg hoped sheep weren’t fierce, then decided it was only bulls she needed to look out for! Carefully, at first, looking to either side, she began to walk.
The lambs were pretty little things; the old mothers just looked at her with stupid faces, then went on with their chewing. Braver now, she made for the corner of the field and the far stile that would lead to an archway and a courtyard.
The archway was in the centre of an old, thick wall. The stones were uneven and plants with tiny purple flowers grew between the cracks. There was a safeness about that wall, as if it had stood for hundreds of years and seen things you would never dream of. Dry-mouthed, she stepped beneath it to see the cobbled courtyard of the long-ago photograph.
Her heart began to thud, her cheeks flushed red. She was looking at Ma’s heaven on earth and a trough Dolly Blundell once stood beside to be photographed. Ma had sat on that old granite trough often, and had laughed beside it and been happy.
All at once Meg knew she had done the right thing, because there was nothing foolish in following a dream. Head high, she made for the wide, low, nail-studded door, because it was no use just standing there, wallowing in sentimentality! Ma had got her here and now it was up to herself. Chin jutting, she knocked hard with bare knuckles.
‘It isn’t any use doing that!’
Meg spun round to see a fair-haired girl wearing a short cotton dress.
‘Beg pardon?’ It was all she could think of to say.
‘That door’s so thick they wouldn’t hear you knocking on the other side. You’ve got to ring.’
She took the chain that dangled from a bell hanging beside the door, shaking it to make the most terrible din.
‘See what you mean,’ Meg grinned. ‘They’ll hear that half a mile away!’
‘They once did. Years and years ago, when this was a farmhouse, they rung that bell so the workers in the fields could hear it. Now, we shouldn’t really use it. Bells aren’t supposed to be rung, except if the invasion starts, but we are so far from civilization, it doesn’t matter. I’m Polly Kenworthy, by the way, and I hope you’ve come about the job. Come in, won’t you?’
She lifted the heavy iron latch, pushing on the door with a shoulder. It opened slowly, creaking protest.
‘Hecky!’ Meg gazed at the huge, high room. Its walls were wood-panelled, the roof rounded and high. Despite the warmth of the day and the brightness outside, it was dim and cool.
‘Mm. Like the inside of a church, isn’t it? Come into the kitchen and sit down whilst I find Mummy. You have come about the job?’ she asked anxiously.
‘I have, though I haven’t got any references. Worked in a shop that got bombed, see?’
‘Look – we’re so desperate for help I don’t suppose references will be asked for. Mummy’s a pretty fair judge of people. I’m sure she’ll like you. What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Meg Blundell.’ For no reason she could think of she offered her hand, which was taken without hesitation and shaken warmly.
‘Take a pew. I think Mummy will be with Gran – or Nanny.’
‘No she isn’t. She heard the bell!’ The voice from the doorway caused Meg to turn. ‘Gran is comfortable for the time being, and Nanny is asleep. I’m Mary Kenworthy. Have you come about the job? If you have, you’ll be the first! Girls don’t want to bury themselves in the middle of nowhere these days. Be a dear, Polly, and put the kettle on? You’ll join us, Miss – er …?’
‘Blundell. Meg. And I wouldn’t mind living here. When you come from Liverpool that’s been bombed something terrible, a bit of peace and quiet is just what the doctor ordered!’
She stopped, embarrassed, wondering if she had gone too far; been just a little bit forward.
‘Then you’re welcome, Meg, if you won’t mind helping out sometimes with two elderly ladies. I’d better tell you right from the start that Mrs Kenworthy senior is an invalid. She has chronic arthritis and we have to do everything for her – sometimes even feed her. And Nanny is still with us. She is fit of body, but her mind has gone. She’s very childlike now, and can be rather – well, mischievous, you know, if we don’t watch her. There would be quite a bit of running up and down stairs, I’m afraid.’
Her eyes were anxious – pleading almost, Meg thought; looked as if a good night’s sleep would do her no harm. And she was straight, an’ all, looked you in the eyes, which was to be expected of a Kenworthy.
‘Then right from the start, I’d better tell you I haven’t got references, but if you’ll give me a try, I don’t mind giving a hand with naughty nannies,’ she grinned, ‘and I know a bit about nursing sick people. Ma died of TB, you see, so I know what it’s like.’
‘Tuberculosis? Oh, my dear, I hope you –’
‘No. I haven’t got it,’ Meg interrupted. ‘When Ma died, the people from the Health came and stoved out the house – sent me to hospital for tests. I’m all right. I didn’t catch it. I’m only pale because that’s the way I always am!’
‘Please – forgive me. But it’s natural to ask, you’ll understand?’ Nervously, she brushed her hair from her face. ‘And I’m not too worried about references. You’ve got an open face, and I’m not often wrong about people. Will you give it a try for a couple of weeks? The wages would be a pound a week, all found, and there would be time off, which we could arrange between us. Shall we give it a go?’
‘I’d have to live in …’ Meg warned.
‘That would be no problem.’
‘Then when would you want me to start? I’d have to go home first, see to one or two things and collect a ration card for two weeks. I could start the day after tomorrow, if that’s all right with you – and if you’re sure about me, ’cause you don’t know the first thing about me, do you? I might be a Liverpool scally!’
‘Scally?’ Polly set down a tray.
‘Scallywag. A wrong ’un, a thief. Somebody what’s light-fingered.’
‘And are you a scally?’
‘Course not – though youse people aren’t to know that. But I’d like to give it a try, and the wages are quite satisfactory,’ she added primly.
‘So let’s have that cup of tea.’ Relief showed plainly on Mary Kenworthy’s face. ‘Then Polly can show you the house and where you’ll be sleeping. We have three empty bedrooms; you can choose the one you like best. The bus to Preston leaves the village at five – that gives us a couple of hours, doesn’t it? Will you be very late getting back, my dear?’
‘About ten o’clock, but it’ll still be light. No bother!’
Meg took the china cup and saucer with a hand that shook. There was so much she wanted to say, to ask – like why, all of a sudden, should she be so lucky and what would go wrong to spoil it? She had come here on a whim to find a welcome she had not expected. But maybe it was all a dream; maybe she was going to wake up in the slant-roofed bedroom and draw back the curtains to see rooftops and Tippet’s Yard.
Yet it wasn’t a dream. All this was honest-to-God real, and if she didn’t grab the chance