Читать книгу The Willow Pool - Elizabeth Elgin - Страница 7

Getting to Preston had been easier than Meg had ever dared hope. Liverpool city centre was still choked with the debris of shops and offices and warehouses, but once she had skirted streets closed by ‘DANGER. UNEXPLODED BOMB’ signs and taken heed of ‘NO NAKED LIGHTS’ warnings, and tried not to look at piles of rubble under which might still be bodies, she had seen a red bus going to Ormskirk, and any time now, the conductor told her.

‘So get yerself on sharpish. There’s a war on, or had you forgot?’

As if she were likely to! Meg selected a seat, settling herself, arms folded, to think about what was to come, and what had been.

‘You’re goin’ where?’ Last night, Nell had drawn sharply on her cigarette, then blown smoke out fiercely through her nose. ‘You’re goin’ to a place you don’t know exists, on the off chance? What if it’s been bombed, then, or them Kenworthys have upped and offed? Goin’ to look a right wet nelly, aren’t you, and wasted time and money into the bargain? What do you expect to find there? Who do you expect is goin’ to be there?’

‘Ma.’ Meg had whispered so quietly that Nell had stopped for breath and appealed to Tommy to tell the girl she was round the bend and God only knew where she would end up if she went on with such foolishness.

‘But what harm can it do? She knows right from wrong,’ Tommy had reasoned, ‘and not to take lifts from men. Can you blame her for wantin’ out of this hole, even if it’s only for a day? Wasn’t you young once, Nell Shaw? Didn’t you do daft things, an’ all?’

‘I was, and yes, I did daft things and lived to regret some of them. But I promised Dolly I’d look out for Meg and that’s what I’m tryin’ to do! She’s getting as bad as her Ma! That Candlefold was like some magic place Doll dreamed up!’

‘You can’t photograph dreams, Nell. That house is real and it’s there still, an’ I’m goin’ to find it! If I leave early in the morning I can be there by noon – with luck, that is.’

‘So what’ll you do for food?’ Nell was wavering.

‘I’ll take cheese sarnies, and a bottle of water.’

‘You’re determined, aren’t you? If only you’d tell me why.’

‘I don’t know why. I only know there’ll be no peace for me till I find the place. You said Ma thought it was heaven on earth, and you said that heaven was where you made it! Well, if I’m to find Ma, she’ll be at Candlefold. I’ve got to know she’s all right before I decide what I’m goin’ to do.’

‘Oh, Meg Blundell, why can’t you let Doll rest in peace? She was sick and fed up with life, went the way she wanted to. Why can’t you accept it and act your age? And if you want to know what you’re goin’ to do with your life, wait till August! All the twenties are goin’ to have to register for war work soon. Why don’t you just wait and see?’

‘Because till I’m twenty, my life is my own, and until They tell me what to do and where to go, I’ll do what I want. I’m goin’ to find that house, just to look at it. I’ve got to, can’t you understand?’

‘I’m trying! But what’s going to happen if you can’t get there and back in a day? Where are you goin’ to sleep and what’ll you use for money? And how will you let me know if you end up in trouble? Ring me up on me telephone, will you?’

‘Nell, I’ll be all right! It’s somewhere I’ve got to go. Then I’ll do what the Government tells me, and go where they tell me come August. But, just this once, don’t try to stop me, Nell?’

‘Is there anything I can say that would?’

‘No, there isn’t. And I will be all right!’

Of course she would be all right. She was going to Candlefold, wasn’t she? What harm could come to her there?

With Aintree Racecourse behind her she could almost forget those nights of bombing, Meg thought, relaxing a little. There were fields ahead and to each side; she was in the country now and, apart from the houses in villages they drove through having criss-crosses of brown paper on the windows, you could be forgiven for thinking those nights had never happened.

Dear, kind Nell. Meg smiled, recalling that Nell had been up at the crack of dawn to see her off and taken Ma’s attaché case to put inside her gas oven, which was made of cast iron, and solid as any safe, she said.

Then she hugged Meg and told her to take care, demanding to know what poor Doll would say if she knew what her daughter was up to. And Meg smiled and hugged her back, and kissed her cheek, and almost said that Ma did know; was waiting for her at the pump trough.

She hadn’t said it, though, because if she had Nell would have said the bombing had driven her out of her mind, and had her locked up!

‘Ta-ra, well,’ she had said instead. ‘See you as soon as maybe, Nell.’

‘Never mind maybe! You’ll get yourself back tonight before it’s dark!’ Nell called after her, but Meg had waved her hand without turning round – bad luck to turn round, Kip said – and made for Lyra Street and Scotland Road at the bottom of it. Her heart had thumped something awful, she remembered, though she was calm enough now she was on her way.

She looked at her watch. It was nearly eight, and once she was on the Preston train she would be halfway there; halfway to Nether Barton and an old house called Candlefold. And to Ma.

She had come too far too quickly, Meg realized when told at Preston station there were no trains to Nether Barton. Never had been, and that if she wanted to get to a place like that, then she had better try her luck at the bus depot.

Luck was with her. There was a bus service, though sadly she had missed the eleven o’clock, and there wouldn’t be another until two. Fuel rationing, see? Bus services had been cut by half.

‘Then I’ll have to try to hitch,’ she said disconsolately, asking to be pointed in the direction of the Whalley road, along which she walked, right arm swinging, thumb jutting, half an hour later. She had just decided to accept any vehicle that stopped, men or not, when, with a clatter and a clang a milk lorry drew in a few yards ahead of her.

‘Going anywhere near Nether Barton?’ she called to the driver.

‘Sure. Got three farms to collect around that area. Get in, and don’t slam the door! And what are you staring at, then?’

‘Since you’re askin’ – you.’ Meg closed the door carefully. ‘I’ve never seen a lady lorry driver before. What made you want to drive a lorry?’

‘Money. And the Army, who gives me damn all for taking my husband off me, never mind enough to keep my kids on. Got three. Mum looks after them for me. But why is a young girl like yourself going to a dead hole like Nether Barton?’

‘Relations. Ma died, see, three months ago. I’m trying to trace her family.’ Not lies, exactly. ‘I’ll be twenty in August and my age group’ll have to register for war work, so I’m making the most of me time till then. And taking a bit of a break, after the bombing.’

‘You’re from Liverpool? Nasty, that blitz. Your home all right?’

‘Yes, thanks be. But all of a sudden I wanted to get out of the place. Them Germans have left it in a hell of a mess.’

‘Well, you’ll get plenty of peace and quiet where you’re going!’ Again, the hearty laugh. ‘Now I’m turning left at the next crossroads; got a collection at Smithies Farm, then it’s full speed ahead to Nether Barton, and your auntie.’

‘Cousin,’ she supplied, choosing to forget the lies that slipped off her tongue with no bother at all. ‘Honest to God, I can’t get over a woman drivin’ a lorryload of milk churns!’

All at once she was enjoying herself, and very soon she would be at Candlefold, though what she would do then was wide open to debate!

‘Where did you say you were going?’ the driver asked.

‘Candlefold.’ The word came lovingly.

‘No Candlefold Farm around these parts. Leastways, if there is it hasn’t got a milk herd.’

‘It isn’t a farm. How am I goin’ to set about finding it, do you suppose?’

‘I’ll drop you off at the shop in the village when we get there. It’s a post office too, and the lady behind the counter delivers the local letters. She’ll be able to tell you. Now, hang on. This lane’s a bit bumpy!’

The lady in the post office at Nether Barton did indeed know where Candlefold was.

‘Going after the job?’ she asked.

‘Job?’

‘In the window, on a postcard. Thought you’d come in to ask for directions.’

‘Oh, er, yes!’ Heaven help her, a job! ‘Any idea what it’s about?’

‘Just general help around the place, I imagine. Hours to suit, Polly said, or live in. They’re pretty desperate, if you ask me. Mrs John’s got a lot on her plate.’

‘It’s a big house, isn’t it?’

‘Not any more, so to speak. The powers-that-be took Candlefold – left the Kenworthys only the very old part of the house that used to be the servants’ quarters in the old days. But there’s no help to be had now for love nor money, and the Kenworthys such nice people. Real gentry, you know!’

‘Ar.’ She did know. Ma had said much the same thing. Often. ‘So how will I get there?’

‘Straight down the road you’ll see the gates. They’re locked, so carry on a couple of hundred yards till you come to a stile. From there, cross the field to the far corner and you’ll come out at the back of the house – the part they’re living in now. It’s the way I go to deliver the letters. You’ll see a stone archway that opens on to the courtyard – the door is straight ahead of you. Are you used to housework, then?’

‘Yes. And I nursed Ma when she was sick. I’m not afraid to roll my sleeves up.’

‘Then you’ll be more than welcome, if you suit. Old Mrs Kenworthy is bedridden, poor lady. In pain a lot of the time. Would be a mercy if she was to slip away. But I’m not one to gossip, you’ll understand.’

‘Oh, of course not! And thanks for your help.’

‘Be sure to let me know how things go,’ called the postmistress as Meg left, and she turned to smile, and said she would, then took a deep breath because her heart was thudding so.

A job at Candlefold! Ma had known about it all along! Must have, or why was her daughter here now, flush-cheeked and hardly able to believe her luck, because all she had ever thought to do was get a look, somehow, at that pump trough.

She picked up her bag, straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, walking head high as Ma had always done, no matter how bad things had been.

‘This is it, Meg!’ And oh, if there really was a heaven and a God in it, she could do with a bit of help right this minute because she needed – no, wanted – that job; wanted to live and work in the middle of fields and trees and be happy like Ma had been. She’d had enough of Tippet’s Yard and rows of little houses and mucky streets and bombs, and here, on a plate, was her chance to get out of it!

The gates, when Meg reached them, were chained and padlocked. They were wide and tall, and patterned in scrolls and swirls, and far more beautiful than the gates to Sefton Park taken away by the iron collectors. She was glad They hadn’t melted down Candlefold’s gates. She gazed down the long, straight drive to a red-brick, two-storeyed house with little gabled windows in the roof. Even from a distance, she could see that the downstairs windows were shuttered from the inside; that the drive was weed-choked, the grass either side of it in need of cutting.

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 with both hands she was a fool, because Ma must have gone to a lot of trouble to get her here! It was the only explanation that made any sense. She had Ma to thank for this!

‘And where have you been till now?’ Nell Shaw demanded. ‘Coming in at this hour! Tommy and me was sick with worry!’

‘You know where I’ve been. It’s only eleven, and I’m ravenous, Nell. There’s a tin of Spam Kip sent in the cupboard. What say we open it and make ourselves some sarnies? Then I’ll tell you all about it!’

‘There’s something to tell, then? You found the place?’

‘I did! And a job too! A pound a week; live in! We’re giving it a go for two weeks, see if I suit – and if they suit me. Remember the photo of Ma and two maids standing by a stone trough? Well, it’s still there. It was like stepping back more’n twenty years!’

‘What sort of a job? Skivvying?’

‘People like the Kenworthys don’t employ skivvies! But let’s make a brew, Nell, and a plate of sarnies, then I’ll tell you about it all, right from when the milk lorry picked me up.’

‘You’ve been hitching lifts, then?’

‘The driver was a lady. Look, Nell, let me tell it? Don’t be saying I’ve done something I shouldn’t till you’ve got the whole story?’

‘All right, then. I’ll provide the tea; you supply the sarnies. Then we’ll have a good natter.’

‘Where’s Tommy?’

‘Gone to bed ages ago. Said I was bothering over nothing!’

‘You said he was worried sick.’

‘Now see here, Meg Blundell, you get on with them sarnies and I’ll go fetch me tea caddy! All right?’

They talked long into the night about how it had been; about the lady at the post office and the job on a card in the window; about Polly Kenworthy and Mrs John and the elderly ladies and the pump trough; talked about peace and quiet and the little white-walled bedroom with matching curtains and bedspread, and the washstand with a blue and white china bowl and jug on it.

‘And you’ll be expected to help clean the place and run up and down the stairs and fetch and carry; all for a pound a week!’

‘A pound a week and Candlefold, Nell!’

‘So Doll was right?’

‘Ma’s heaven on earth, and I want to give it a try. It might only be for two weeks, but I want to go there.’

‘Tommy and me’ll miss you.’

‘I’m not going to Australia! Once the buses and trains get back to normal I can be here and back easy in a day – if I take on the job permanently, that is.’

‘You will. That house has got you charmed like it charmed your ma. What’s to do with the place? Even after she’d got herself into trouble, not one bad word did Doll say about it!’

‘And now I’ve seen it I know why.’ Though there weren’t words to tell about the brightness of the air; about the trees and the sky, all high and wide around them. And the old part of Candlefold, with its huge entrance hall and walls covered from floor to ceiling in carved wooden panels. And the big bell beside the door, and birdsong.

‘Ar, hey. I suppose there’ll be no living with you till you’ve given it a try. And it won’t be for long.’

‘Two weeks, Nell.’

Only it wouldn’t be for two weeks. Candlefold had called her, and as far as Meg Blundell was concerned she was staying for ever!

‘Did you tell them who you was?’ Nell asked, spooning tea.

‘Decided not to. Said nuthink about Ma, or that I was born there. I’m going to wait and see what I can find out first. As far as they’re concerned I’m someone who went there for a job. I never said nuthink about Ma getting this house for a shillin’, and anyway, the man who gave it to her is dead now – Mr John Kenworthy. He died when Polly was quite young. The old lady who is sick is his mother, Mrs Kenworthy, and the other one – Polly’s mother – is called Mrs John so as not to get them mixed up.’

‘And the name Blundell – didn’t it ring any bells? After all, it wasn’t all that long ago. Surely Mrs John would remember a housemaid called Dolly Blundell who got herself into trouble? That lady would be there when you was born, don’t forget. It was her husband who let Doll stay there to have you, then gave her this house.’

‘Nothing was said, Nell. After all, Blundell is a fairly common name around these parts. There’s Ince Blundell and Blundellsands, the posh areas. And I don’t look anything like Ma did. Why should Mrs John get suspicious?’

‘OK, then – why should she?’ Nell shrugged, and wondered instead about the flush to Meg’s cheeks and the brightness of her eyes.

‘Is there a son?’ she asked bluntly.

‘I believe so. He’s a soldier and Polly is engaged to his best friend. Want mustard on yours, Nell?’

Although they had talked late into the night, Meg awoke early, lying very still for a little while to hug her joy to her.

There was much to do today. She must take her ration book to the Ministry of Food office, get a temporary card for two weeks; and she must draw out the money from Ma’s bankbook and write to Kip and make arrangements for Tommy and Nell to take in her coal ration when it came, and for them both to keep an eye on number 1 for a couple of weeks, after which she would be back. Back to visit, she hoped, on her first day off, though there was no need to say that, yet.

‘I did hear the buses are gettin’ through again to Skelhorne Street,’ Nell said. ‘You’ll be able to get a bus from Lime Street through to Ormskirk tomorrow, no messin’.’

‘Yes, and maybe catch the eleven o’clock bus to Nether Barton.’ Allowing for the walk, carrying her case, she could be ringing that bell tomorrow by one o’clock. ‘You’re not mad at me, Nell?’

‘No. More mad at myself at realizing I’m goin’ to miss you! But Doll would want you to give it a try, and if heaven gets to be too much for you, girl, there’s always Tippet’s Yard to come home to! Reckon I’d do the same if I was your age!’

The post office in Scotland Road was open again for business, its windows boarded up, the inside gloomy. There was a queue in front of Meg and a longer one behind her.

‘Gotyeridentitycard?’ The lady behind the counter was too busy to go into minute details over a few pounds. Meg handed over the withdrawal form and her mother’s identity card.

‘Four pounds, ten shillings you want?’

‘Yes, please. Leave the eight and six in, will you?’

Meg signed D. Blundell with the exaggerated looped D and a rounded B. It might, she thought, have been her mother’s own signature, so well had she done it.

‘Next, please!

The clerk pushed the book, in which she had folded three pound notes, three ten-shilling notes and the identity card, under the grille.

Meg walked out into the road, relief shuddering through her. Though why she should feel like this she didn’t know, because it was her money, left to her in Ma’s will, and if she had signed – or was it forged? – Ma’s name, she hadn’t done anything illegal; not really illegal!

The branch office of the Ministry of Food, next door but one, which had been damaged by the same bomb that had closed the post office, was now open too.

‘Gotyeridentitycard?’

If there was a phrase that would go down in history when this war was over, Meg decided, it was the time-after-time requests for identity cards!

Meg offered her ration book and watched as two weeks’ food was obliterated by a purple stamp and two one-week emergency cards filled in with her name and identity number.

Now there was only a letter to write to Kip, the floors at number 1 to be swept and mopped, and the last of the bomb dust shifted from the furniture. Then she would pack enough for two weeks, collect Ma’s case from Nell, and all would be ready for an early start in the morning.

She wouldn’t sleep tonight, but who cared?