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Chapter Three

It was late August and the cuckoos, woodpigeons and sparrows were in direct competition with one another. The painted lady butterflies gathered in abundance around the ‘pop pop’ shrubs as Maggie called them and the clucking from the chicken pen said it was breakfast time.

Maggie threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. She was wearing a pink-striped cotton nightie that came down to her ankles and her long hair was a complete unruly mess. ‘The untidy fairies have visited during the night’ her father often said. Maggie stepped onto her rug, as it was warmer than the floorboards, then she sprinted through her door to the thin-carpeted stairs on the landing. This was one of Maggie’s favourite times of day when her parents weren’t around to tell her off as she sat on the top stair and bounced on her bottom all the way down.

Once she reached the last step, she got up and ran into the living room and stopped by the polished chestnut sideboard and jumped. This caused her mother’s ornamental cuckoo clock atop the sideboard to ‘cuckoo’ out of sequence from the movement and the loose floorboard underneath to leap. Maggie giggled every time she did this then she continued passed the two-seater sofa with the lumpy cushions and through the open doorway into the kitchen.

“Morning,” she shouted, as she quickly ran through the kitchen on her way to the porch.

“Good morning Maggie, don’t forget your wellingtons,” said her mother.

As Maggie sat on the back doormat the hessian prickled her bottom and the backs of her legs like tiny hedgehog spikes. She reached for her mud splashed wellie boots. They were well worn as the mothers in the village often pooled shoes and clothes to get the maximum wear when their children had outgrown them.

“There’s a war on Maggie and we mustn’t waste anything.” Maggie often heard her mother say this. It seemed to Maggie that there was always a war on, but that didn’t stop her mother or any grown up from saying this regularly.

With wellies on, she ran down the garden pathway, passing ‘the girls shed’ with the checked curtains, passed the washing line and chicken run then veered to the left onto the stepping stones leading to the outside lavatory. Iris had, over time, trained climbing roses to grow over the lavatory roof so it would be nicer to look at.

Although the outside was nice, Maggie didn’t like the inside of the lavatory. There were lots of cobwebs, despite her mother cleaning regularly, and big spiders. When it rained the water often trickled under the wooden door making small puddles on the ground. At twilight you could hear the frogs croaking and because the walls and roof were made of corrugated iron it enhanced the croaking and scared her. Once, Mr Tomkin’s cat had leapt up onto the roof while she was inside and she had screamed at the sound of the thump and its scratching claws.

In Maggie’s mind, the lavatory was definitely not a nice place to be. Her father always cut up pieces of newspaper to use as toilet paper and she used to sift through to find pieces with words as she didn’t think it was right to use pieces with pictures of people.

For some time she had persevered with the lavatory chain. She was very independent and had wanted to do this for herself but it was a tricky piece of equipment and you were not guaranteed a successful flush every time. Maggie had eventually worked out that if she grasped the end of the rope with both hands and gently lowered it halfway then released it immediately and pulled it down quickly and as vigorously as she could it would work. A smile of satisfaction appeared as once again her system had worked and the clunking of the chain and the whooshing of the water was music to her ears.

Next, Maggie continued to the ‘girls shed’ as her father jokingly called it. Iris had put up blue and white cotton check curtains made from a worn tablecloth and had finished the look with an old dark blue ribbon for tiebacks. Over time the curtains that touched the glass had sun-bleached but the inside had remained the original blue. The shed carried an earthy smell of gardening tools and pellets of chicken feed.

An established spider web that looked like fine cotton wool was housed in the top corner of the window.

“We all have to live somewhere,” her mother would say as an excuse not to get rid of it. Maggie sometimes stared at the web for a long time hoping to catch a glimpse of the occupant, wondering just how big it was. Once, when Maggie wasn’t feeling overly brave but was overcome with the urge to see the spider, placed an apple box upside down over the garden bed, careful not to disturb her mother’s forget-me-nots. She stood on the box and lightly tapped her fingernail on the window hoping to provoke the spider into action. Either the spider was in a deep sleep or just couldn’t be bothered with the antics of a small child.

On another occasion, she picked up one of her mother’s gardening sticks used to prop up new plants and slowly positioned the thin stick at the brink of the web. She quickly looked to her left to double check the door was still open just in case she had to make a hasty retreat if the giant spider suddenly leapt out to grab her for its dinner. She then prodded the web gently. All Maggie could hear was the rapid beating of her heart.

As the stick lightly touched the web, a tiny piece of old window putty fell making a clicking sound as it landed on the lid of an old tin of paint. She could see that a small amount of web had remained on the stick and looked like candyfloss that she had eaten at the seaside the previous summer. Just then, a butterfly flew in and brushed its wings on Maggie’s leg. Maggie let out a startled cry as she bolted for the door. She had no desire to see the spider anymore.

Outside the shed, Iris and Maggie had planted a little cottage garden containing flox, forget-me-nots and sweet William. Maggie had marvelled that there was a flower with the same name as her father. There was also a patch of wild daisies and buttercups and in the springtime there were miniature daffodils and beautiful primroses. Maggie loved this little garden and smiled at it as she approached the shed door.

She picked up the small bucket and trowel and scooped up some pellets then walked carefully to the chicken pen where her father had placed a small bucket of kitchen scraps. This was Maggie’s favourite job and as always the chickens gathered around as she entered. They followed pecking and clucking at her heels as she scattered the feed.

Maggie wasn’t scared by the chickens, despite their tendency to peck and they didn’t seem to mind when she shoved her hand underneath them, albeit not always gently, as she wriggled her tiny fingers about to retrieve the eggs. She didn’t like that the chickens were couped up in pens although they had a lot of garden to wander around in. Her mother had explained that it was to keep them safe from the foxes. Maggie didn’t want her chickens to be eaten but she couldn’t believe that foxes would eat the chickens as they had such beautiful faces.

“Beautiful faces, whether animals or people, can still do bad things Maggie,” Iris had said.

Maggie never forgot this and it would prove to be one of the truest things her mother had ever told her.

Iris watched Maggie through the kitchen window as she washed up William’s breakfast things. There was Maggie, a tiny little thing in her pink striped nightie, black wellies and unruly hair, feeding the chickens. It was as innocent and lovely an image as you could get and she felt a rare pang of guilt as she knew this family wasn’t what it seemed.

“Maggie,” she called. “Time to come and have breakfast, we need to leave soon.”

A short time after, Iris and Maggie made their way along the footpath to the barn and workshop. The old-beamed workshop had a slanted, corrugated iron roof and when it rained the sound inside was deafening. A heavy wooden workbench was bolted to the floor where hundreds of new and old saw marks, oil stains, hammer and nail indents had built up over many years by generations long gone. On the far side was a slatted wooden rack suspended from the ceiling by musty old rope where William hung game ready for plucking, skinning and gutting. The smell inside the workshop was a mix of sawdust, oil and animal guts and was unpleasant, particularly on hot summer days.

The barn was the largest outbuilding used for storing their bicycles and larger items of machinery that William often brought home to mend. It was part of his job to maintain all the Primrose Farm Estate machinery alongside the three other mechanics and farmhands. Maggie enjoyed riding on the tractor with her father. The seat alone was fun as the old spring suspension squeaked each time the tyres dipped into deep ruts causing the driver to sway. Maggie liked to pretend that they were riding a camel across the desert as opposed to a tractor through an apple orchard.

William maintained the hop picking equipment and orchard ladders that varied in length to reach the top of the larger apple trees. Petrol, paraffin and coal were also stored in the barn and with the added dangers of sharp farm machinery, Maggie was forbidden to enter without supervision. William had also fixed on the doors two large bolts secured with a padlock so that entry was out of reach for the farm estate’s children. He was very safety conscious and did not want the responsibility of any child coming into harm by being in the barn.

He had also concocted a box seat from an old piece of wood that he fixed to the back of Iris’s bicycle and that Maggie had painted yellow. The seat was suspended over the back wheel and attached to the frame. Maggie knew she had to be careful when she shifted to get comfortable because if she moved too much it caused her mother to wobble and then she would get angry at her.

Maggie tried to be good but it seemed her mother often was angry at her and knew she had to try harder to please her mother. On the other hand, it seemed she could do no wrong where her father was concerned. She loved hearing him tell her stories of when her grandpa Harris was the estate’s manager. There used to be stables attached to the barn for the estate’s horses and when the produce was collected, it was taken to the village train station in large farm carts and wagons and went on to London.

Grandpa Harris had died before Maggie was born and had come from generations of master wheelwrights. They had built and repaired broken cartwheels. William’s role had not differed much from his father’s day, except that William repaired tractors and trailers instead of horse carts and wheels.

Before William had left for work this morning he had propped Iris’s bicycle against the barn. To Maggie’s delight she saw a freshly made daisy and buttercup chain suspended from the handlebar gently swaying in the breeze. Her father often assembled her a necklace when he sat outside on an apple log with his morning cup of tea.

“Daisy chain,” Maggie giggled.

“Keep still Maggie,” Iris said, as she concentrated to navigate the chain over Maggie’s head. “You know what happens if you move when I’m putting in on.”

Iris placed their packed lunches and drink in the front wire basket attached to the handlebars. She lifted Maggie into the seat and pushed the bicycle down the path and onto Honeysuckle Lane. Once she gained a little speed she mounted the bike and enjoyed the breeze as it lifted the hair from her face.

Maggie dangled her legs either side of the wheel and pulled at the daisy chain. When it broke she held it at one end and let the other end fly in the air. But she didn’t hold the chain tight enough and it slipped through her fingers. Instantly, she turned as much as the tiny seat allowed so she could peer backwards to see it fall to the ground. The sudden movement caused Iris to wobble then fight to control the handlebars.

“Maggie, for goodness sake sit still,” Iris yelled, “we’ll either crash or end up in the blackberry hedge. We’re off to Foxden Orchard today, so not too far.”

They approached the entrance to Primrose Manor where the Squire lived. On this glorious morning Mr Sutton, the head gardener, was busy trimming the lawn edge near the shingled path.

“Hello, Mr Sutton,” shouted Maggie, waving eagerly as they swished passed.

“Morning Maggie, morning Mrs Harris,” he said, raising his cap to Iris. “Glorious morning. You ladies take care of yourselves,” he called.

“Beautiful garden, isn’t it Maggie?” said Iris. “Mr Sutton looks after it very well. How I’d love a garden like this,” she added wistfully, more to herself than to Maggie.

“I like all the flowers,” said Maggie. Then she burst into her favourite song of the moment: “Ten green bottles...” Her father had taught her this to help with her counting.

Iris cringed. Hearing the song morning, noon and night was fast becoming way too much. Iris had urged William to teach Maggie a different song and although he had promised he would, he hadn’t yet. She wondered if he did this deliberately to annoy her?

Primrose Manor was easily the prettiest house in the village and whenever they rode or walked by Maggie was captivated by it. In the centre of the picket fence was a large white farm gate secured by black wrought iron hinges that were longer than Maggie’s arm. When Mr Sutton wasn’t about, William let Maggie step onto the bottom frame and when he opened the gate Maggie would be taken for a short ride as the gate closed. The footpath leading to the house was made of shingle and it crackled and crunched underfoot as if they were walking on brittle autumn leaves. Occasionally, Maggie had seen Mr Sutton raking the shingle. When her father and the Squire talked business, Maggie went with Mrs Sutton, the housekeeper, to the kitchen where she was given warm strawberry jam tarts with a milky cup of tea.

By the time Maggie had sung her way from ten to three green bottles Iris had turned into the small incline leading into Foxden Orchard. Maggie now stopped her singing and, as her mother rode over the uneven orchard in and out of pot holes and deep ruts made by tractors, wagons and hoof imprints Maggie giggled as she was bounced around. This lead to her having a bout of sneezing.

These blessed sneezing fits, thought Iris. Just like William and his mother. She wondered if it was hereditary or coincidence? She rode carefully around the deeper indents and stopped at the corrugated shed some hundred yards into the orchard where the workers parked their bicycles, left their lunches, blankets and other possessions. It was the general gathering place for tea breaks at ten and three, and lunch at noon. Iris lifted Maggie down and she was off as soon as her feet touched the soft grass.

“Good morning, Betty,” Iris said, as she leaned her bicycle up against the shed wall “Great morning, how are you?”

“Morning Iris, fine thanks. I’m looking forward to having a slice of your rhubarb pie later.”

“Not today Bet, I’m afraid.” Iris shrugged her shoulders at her best friend. “Not enough flour, it’ll have to wait for a while.”

“I’ve some flour ration left, we can make the pie together. I’ll make the pastry and you supply the rhubarb. Come over after work.”

“Sounds good to me,” laughed Iris. The two women linked arms as they walked to the start of their rows. Everyone laughed when Betty laughed. She had a unique chuckle that was highly infectious. They had become good friends ever since Iris married William and moved to Primrose Estate cottages.

When they reached their row they saw the empty apple boxes awaiting them.

“See your William’s been busy already,” said Betty, “S’pose we’d better make a start then.”

They propped up their ladders making sure they were secure in the higher branches.

“Did I tell you the latest thing?” Betty continued. “Eric says he will grow rose bushes between the Anderson shelter and the cesspit after I kept complaining about the smell. Goodness Iris, I tell him every time when we run to the Anderson that it shouldn’t’ve been built so near the damn cesspit, I must have told him a hundred times, and does he listen? Blimey, it pongs.” Betty pinched her nose and scrunched up her face causing them both to laugh.

“Are the boys here today?” asked Iris.

“Yes, they’re about somewhere, probably up to mischief knowing those two. You need eyes in the back of your head, you do,” chuckled Betty. “Eric and I can’t keep up but they’re good lads with hearts of gold. There’s never the need to worry love, they keep an eye out for your Maggie when she’s in the orchard and the other little ones too.”

“Thanks Bet, yes I’ve noticed that they are quite protective of Maggie, and she in turn adores Pete and Billy, they are like her big brothers.”

“Just one big happy family love.” As Betty climbed the tall ladder while holding the apple basket with total control and agility. She had done this for many years. Like Iris, she was in her forties and slightly shorter and rounder in stature. She kept her light brown curly hair under control by wearing a scarf on windy days and under a thin hair net on other days.

The women wore housecoats to protect their clothing when they worked as it was often dirty work navigating in and around the taller branches. Betty had sewn two big pockets down the front of hers to hold all sorts of emergency supplies. The twins were now twelve but over the years she had to contend with many scrapes, cuts, bloody noses, and colds when they were out in the middle of the orchards.

“When you have children, you should never be without an emergency hankie or spare underwear,” she would say.

Pete had even asked one day if she had a full roast dinner in there, to which he’d received a playful clip behind the ear for being so cheeky.

“Hey Maggie,” came a sudden shout.

Maggie glanced around but couldn’t tell where the familiar voice had come from. All she could see were row upon neat row of Bramley apple trees. As delicious as the apples looked, she knew from painful experience that she couldn’t eat them uncooked as they gave her a tummy ache and the runs. That hadn’t been a good day.

“Maggie, Maggie,” the call sounded again.

Maggie jumped up and down with excitement, as she loved to play hide and seek. “Pete and Billy, just you come here.” There were two dull thumps behind her in quick succession as the boys jumped down from the thicker lower branches and landed on the luscious green grass leaving two pairs of flattened boot prints.

“What are you doing, Maggie?” asked Pete.

“Where are all the other kids?” asked Billy, as he looked around, “you shouldn’t wander off too far on your own.”

“They’re here somewhere playing hide and seek, but I wanted more buttercups,” she explained, “here Billy.”

He walked over to her and stuck out his chin as he bent down, used to this procedure.

“It means you love butter,” exclaimed Maggie excitedly. “The buttercup makes your chin go all yellowy.”

“Yes, we love butter,” said Pete, “but we don’t get to eat it often with the war on.”

“What are you doing?”

“Catapulting,” they answered together. “Want to see?”

“Yes please,” she clapped.

All three of them walked a short distance further up the apple orchard towards the hop field that was almost ready for harvesting. Pete produced a homemade catapult from his trouser pocket and handed it to Maggie, she thought it was the oddest thing she had ever seen.

“What’s it do?”

“Watch,” said Billy, as he gestured that she keep her eyes on Pete.

As if by magic Pete produced from his other pocket a very small apple, about the size of a snail shell. Pete took the catapult from Maggie and inserted the apple into its pouch and held it outstretched at eye level. Maggie was totally enthralled, wondering what on earth they could possibly be doing.

“Right Maggie,” said Billy “look at that big spider web over there, attached between the gate and the first hop pole, see it?”

“Yes.”

“Keep watching.”

Just then there was a swift whoosh in unison with the twang of elastic as the apple shot right through the centre of the spider’s web about twenty feet away. The apple landed a short distance beyond the gate encased in the almost transparent web that gleamed from the early morning dew. Only seconds before the web was intact and securely anchored and now the remains shook from the force; the spider would go without its dinner today.

Maggie stood motionless; she had never seen anything quite like it.

“You okay Maggie?” asked Pete gently, a little concerned.

“I want a turn,” she said with excitement as she held out her hands for the catapult. Pete produced another small apple from his pocket and stood behind Maggie to teach her how to fire.

“Not too close to your face or it could hurt,” said Billy absently stroking his ear and recalling a time when he’d caught his ear and the elastic had pinged near his eye. “Better to put it to the side, away from your eyes. I’ll help you with the first go and then you can do it.”

Maggie stood to attention and let Pete guide her hands into position before they fired, aiming at the gate this time. It was a good launch; the apple flew out of the catapult and hit the target splitting on impact. The juice dripped down to the middle section of the gate that would soon be a magnet for all kinds of bugs to feed on.

“Again,” she said excitedly.

“Load her up, Billy,” said Pete joyfully.

Maggie again stood to attention and unconsciously stuck out her tongue as she concentrated with all her might on hitting the gate. She carefully pulled the elastic backwards and closed her eyes before she released with gusto. To their amazement and amusement, the apple bounced a few inches skywards and then plonked at her feet. All three of them burst out laughing. There was a definite skill involved, as it wasn’t as easy as it looked.

For the second attempt they decided to move closer to the gate. Maggie loaded, aimed and fired and the elastic bounded upwards and pinged her fingers much to the amusement of the boys.

“This is heaps fun,” said Pete laughing.

“Again,” said Maggie, with a more determined look on her face while trying to ignore her stinging fingers. She re-loaded, aimed and fired. The apple left the catapult in a non-urgent manner and landed three feet away. Maggie was impressed at this improvement. Just then, the familiar sound announced the morning break. The echo carried around the orchard as one of the ladies banged on an old metal drum with a small wooden plank.

“Race you,” shouted Maggie, dropping the catapult and running towards the shed. Pete retrieved the catapult and tucked it back in his pocket, out of sight of the adults, before running after Maggie. They caught up easily and Billy crouched down for Maggie to climb up for a piggyback.

The workers and children sat together in the orchard in a circle enjoying the glorious late summer’s day. The younger children sat on the grass and swished their feet through the long blades whereas the older children and adults sat on apple boxes. Mrs Farley, in particular, believed that if she sat on the grass she wouldn’t be able to get up again.

Mothers passed their children beakers of squash and sandwiches and often shared their rations of homemade buns. The adults had flasks of tea and chatted, catching up on local topics and what was happening with the war.

“Do you know what bothers me the most?” said Iris. “It’s the fact that the war is all that my poor Maggie knows. She was only three when this started. What kind of a childhood is that? We could be killed at any minute, like when we were out during the air raid recently, my life, and her life, could be over before it has had a chance to start. It’s not fair.” She bit her lip. It wasn’t Maggie’s life that she was particularly worried about.

“Ay, know what you’re saying love,” said old Mr Gibbs, “Maggie’ll be alright, you’ll see. Kids are pretty resilient, but they haven’t the freedom growing up that we knew and took for granted. Yes, I’ve seen some tragic things in my lifetime with living through both wars, this one’ll be over soon, mark my words.”

“Maggie’s a bright happy child, Iris,” said Betty, “We were more or less kids ourselves during the last war. Okay, we were older than my Pete and Billy but we coped unscathed didn’t we? It’ll be the same for your Maggie, we’re tough ’ol birds in the country.” She laughed which lifted the conversation.

“You’re a real tonic Bet,” said Iris, smiling tightly. “You should be Prime Minister.”

“I’ve just about heard it all now,” said Mr Gibbs shaking his head, “Goodness help us all. Okay, ladies and gentlemen back to work I believe.”

“Are you alright Bet?” asked Mrs Sharp, noticing that Betty looked a little uncomfortable.

Slightly bewildered, she answered, “These trousers are tight but yesterday they were absolutely fine.” She ran her fingers around the waistband. When she looked up she noticed the women were staring at her questionably. “Goodness no.” Betty flushed, fully understanding the other women’s looks. “Nothing like that, it’s just these trousers, it’s as if the elastic has shrunk.”

At the word elastic, Maggie looked up towards Pete and Billy who both gave a swift simultaneous shake of their heads in warning. In that instant all that could be heard was the sudden burst of laughter from Maggie who instantly knew where the catapult elastic had come from. The women looked at Maggie wondering what was so funny? Maggie continued to get the giggles throughout the rest of the day whenever she thought about it.