Whisper on the Wind. Elizabeth Elgin
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Appleby thought no such thing. They were only half way across Ridings’ cobbled yard when a cry of rage made them turn to see a blue and white egg cup being deposited on the doorstep.
‘Who was it, then?’ Polly pointed to the flower. ‘Who brought that thing into the house?’
‘But, Poll, it’s only a little snowdrop.’ Roz laughed.
‘Aye. One snowdrop. I thought you’d have had more sense, Roz Fairchild. Asking for trouble, that’s what. And the times I’ve told you!’
‘It was a surprise,’ Kath insisted, wondering at Polly’s dismay. ‘To cheer up Mrs Fairchild.’
‘Cheer her up? She can do with cheering up when you invite death into the house!’
‘Oh Lord, I’d forgotten,’ Roz whispered. ‘I really had, Poll. I’m sorry, I truly am.’
‘And so you ought to be.’
‘I’ll go and find another. Two would make it all right, wouldn’t it?’
‘Find as many as you will. The damage is done now, you foolish girl. Oh, be off with you. I’ll get rid of it. And next time just think on, will you? Your gran has enough to worry over without you adding to it.’
Indignantly Polly slammed the door; white-faced, Roz whispered, ‘How could I have been so stupid?’
‘But what did we do?’ Kath demanded. ‘A little flower; a pretty little flower and Polly gets herself all het up.’
‘A snowdrop – one snowdrop on its own – is bad luck brought into the house. Poll even goes so far as to say it’s a death sign, but she’s so superstitious you wouldn’t believe it.’
‘Well, I don’t believe it,’ Kath countered hotly. ‘I never heard of such a thing. One tiny flower, that’s all it was.’
‘I know. One. You can bring in two snowdrops, you can bring in a bunch, but one – never. I should have remembered.’
‘I’m surprised at you, I really am,’ Kath chided. ‘Of course a flower can’t bring death. I don’t believe it.’
‘Nor should I, but Gran does. The last time it happened my parents were killed before the year was out.’
‘And your grandfather?’
‘I don’t know about then. I only know I should have thought. But Polly believes what she calls the signs. Like the St Mark’s Eve thing. She swears that’s true, as well.’
‘St Mark’s Eve? You were going to tell me, weren’t you?’ Kath reminded.
‘Oh, forget it,’ Roz snapped. ‘It’s nonsense. Superstition, that’s all. For heaven’s sake, let’s get down to the men before the sun goes in. Let’s breathe in some clean, no-nonsense fresh air.’
‘But you’ve got me curious. I want to know.’
‘Later, I said,’ Roz ground. ‘We’ve had enough superstition for one day. Just leave it, okay? Lord, how I want Paul.’
How she wanted him, needed him. Needed his arms around her and his lips against her cheek telling her it was all right, that one small flower could harm no one.
‘Paul!’ she gasped, horrified. ‘It could be Paul!’
‘It could not be Paul; it will not be Paul. I helped you pick it, Roz, and I helped you put it in water and I’m not one bit afraid. Be reasonable, girl. Say the Lord’s prayer, or something. Say something holy and that’ll be the end of it. Go on. Do as I say, and it’ll be all right.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m absolutely sure. Nothing’s stronger than Our Father …’
Closing her eyes, Roz did as she was told. Of course Kath was right and Polly was a silly, superstitious woman. One little flower? One pretty little flower?
‘Who was that?’ Hester Fairchild demanded, closing the kitchen door behind her, holding her hands to the fire. ‘Who were you talking to, Poll?’
‘Only Roz and Kath,’ she replied without looking up. ‘On their way to the game-cover. Just called, in passing.’
‘The game-cover. Why on earth do we call it that? There’s been no game in it since Martin died.’
‘There’s been partridge and a few wild pheasants and rabbits, too, though they’ll be gone, now. The girls are fetching some wood, so go easy on the coal; there’s bad weather ahead of us and you don’t want to face it with an empty coalhouse, now do you?’
The mistress of Ridings did not, and though she had resented the tearing out of the game-cover she knew full well that next winter there would be logs enough to warm the whole house. It would be something to look forward to, with coal so hard to come by.
‘They should ration coal,’ she murmured, frowning. ‘Ration it officially, that is, then we’d all know where we stood.’
‘Happen they should, at that.’ Polly was still upset about the snowdrop but she had managed to throw it away and wash out the egg cup before Hester came downstairs. ‘Happen they will. And I’ve seen to the water like Roz asked me. It’s in the white bucket outside.’
‘Water?’
‘Rainwater,’ Poll supplied. ‘From the backyard tub. She wants to wash her hair tonight.’
‘I see.’ So tonight would be the last of her granddaughter’s evenings at home. Tomorrow, it seemed, the airman would be back from leave and the untruths and prevarications would start all over again.
She walked to the window that overlooked the orchard and gazed at the yellow carpet of aconites and the pale green sheen that covered the hedge bottoms; the green that promised snowdrops soon to flower.
Once – last year, even – the sight would have given her happiness, but not any longer. To see the first stirrings of spring left an emptiness inside her because now it meant only another year to be endured. She was, Hester admitted, getting tired. Her love of living had ended with Martin’s death, but there had been a daughter to rear and a granddaughter, too; a granddaughter who had changed overnight, almost, from child to woman.
‘I’m lonely, Poll,’ she whispered. ‘Suddenly I’m so very lonely.’
‘Nay, ma’am, you’re weary. We all are. Sick and tired of this war and us never winning anything. There’s nothing the matter with any of us that some good news and a day free from worrying wouldn’t put right, and that’s a fact. So let’s make ourselves a pot of tea and be blowed to the rationing! Go on, ma’am. Put that old kettle on to boil, won’t you?’
‘Have you ever once wondered,’ Hester smiled, ‘what would happen if suddenly there was no tea?’
‘That I have. Many a time. And I came to the conclusion that if our tea ration dried up we’d just have to throw up our hands and give in.’
‘But we won’t, Poll?’
‘We won’t, Mrs Fairchild, ma’am. We won’t.’
Tuesday, beautiful Tuesday and only five minutes more until he came. Five long, lovely minutes, then he’d be here.
Roz waited, hands in pockets, coat collar upturned. Today was cold, yesterday’s little April forgotten. But the days were lengthening. Soon they would have to find some other place to meet. Soon, it would no longer be possible to wait, hidden by darkness, until she heard his footstep, his whistle.
Today she had seen catkins; not yet fat and fluffy and golden with pollen but her heart had beaten more quickly at the sight of them nevertheless. Today, everything was beautiful and precious, touched with their love; the gentle-eyed calves, fat little Daisy, the rooks, lazy wings flapping on the wind, and the daffodil