The Tulip Girl

by Margaret Dickinson

  On the outskirts, they passed the gateway leading into Mayfield Park, the home of Sir Peter. Reminded of that tall, severe gentleman, whose every edict had ruled her life so far, Maddie asked inquisitively, ‘Haven’t you got a motor car?’

  Sir Peter had a motor car with huge bulbous wings and when he drew up outside the Home, the girls would line the windows to watch, wishing they could have a ride in it. But not one of them – not even Maddie March – had ever dared to ask.

  The woman beside her sniffed. ‘Aye, sheeted down in the barn where it’s been for the last six years or more. No petrol, y’see. Because of the War.’

  ‘But the War’s over now.’

  Confined to the orphanage she might have been, yet even Maddie knew that much about the outside world. But only, she had to admit, because the evacuees with their strange speech no longer lined the lane to school, jeering at the crocodile of orphan girls and even throwing clods of earth at them.

  ‘Barstards! They’re a lot of little barstards, who ain’t got no muvvers and farvers.’

  And then had come the day they would never forget, the day that Mrs Potter had been obliged, by Sir Peter himself no less, to allow the girls to join in the VE Day party on the Village Green.

  Oh, Maddie would never forget that day. A boy had kissed her on VE Day. She could almost still taste the sticky jam he had left on her upper lip.

  ‘Aye, the War might be over for some, girl, but we’re still feeling the pinch. Mind you . . .’ the woman’s tone mollified a little, ‘we’ve been luckier than most, living on a farm.’

  ‘What’s it like, living on a farm?’

  ‘A lot of hard work for everyone. As you will soon find out.’

  Harriet flicked the reins and the horse clopped smartly along the lane, its silky cream mane and fetlocks rippling in the breeze. It didn’t seem to mind the wet, Maddie mused, so I won’t either. But she screwed up her eyes and pressed her lips together as the rain stung her face. She could see nothing of the surrounding countryside, shrouded in grey mist, and she had no idea where they were going or how long it would take to get there.

  But they had travelled less than a mile when Maddie found herself clinging to the side of the cart as the horse, sensing home, turned sharply into a farmyard.

  ‘Are we here? Is this it?’

  The woman made no reply but climbed down. Maddie followed suit and then looked about her. In front of her was a square farmhouse surrounded by sheds and barns and wall-enclosed yards. As Maddie tried to take in her new surroundings, a black and white dog came rushing towards them, jumping up and barking furiously.

  ‘Down!’ Harriet thundered. The dog dropped to its belly, ceased its racket and gave a whine of surrender.

  Maddie glanced admiringly at the woman. ‘Isn’t he good?’

  ‘He’s a working dog. Been trained to be obedient. Let’s hope you have too, girl.’

  She led the way into the house by the back door and, following, Maddie found herself in a wash-house. Along the wall near the door hung coats and capes and beneath them a line of boots and shoes.

  ‘Come along, look sharp.’ Harriet had paused in the doorway leading further into the house to beckon her. Maddie’s curious glance darted about her, still trying to take in the clutter; a brick built copper with wash tubs and dolly pegs and a mangle close by, a heap of coal boarded off in the far corner, two bicycles and a step ladder leaning drunkenly against the wall.

  She followed the woman into the kitchen that smelled, not of stale cabbage water like the huge kitchen at the Home, but of freshly baked bread. Then stepping into the living room, Maddie saw that a fire burned brightly in the gleaming black-leaded range, to one side of which was an alcove lined with shelves of books. Directly opposite her, the window looked out on to a square of garden.

  ‘Come along, I’ll show you your bedroom. Bring your things.’

  Carefully, Maddie skirted the table, covered with a green velvet cloth, and went towards the door Harriet was opening in the far corner of the room.

  At the top of the steep, dark staircase they turned to the left into a narrow landing that ran the width of the house. Doors led off on either side and the woman pointed to the first door to the left and said, ‘This is my room and you, girl, will be in this one opposite. So I can keep my eye on you.’ She waved her hand further down the landing. ‘There’s a bathroom of sorts next to your room, but it’s open to the landing. Further on, down that step there, is the master’s room and the boys’ bedroom opposite.’

  The ‘master’ and – and ‘boys’! Maddie blinked.

  Harriet opened the door to the right into a small bedroom and jabbed Maddie on the shoulder. ‘Just put your things in there for now. You can put them away later.’

  Maddie stepped onto the peg rug at the side of the bed and looked around the room. The single bed, tight against the wall, was covered with a bright patchwork quilt and in the corner beside the tiny window was a marble wash-stand with a pink flowered ewer and bowl on it. Beneath the window was a chest of drawers.

  ‘You’ll wash in here of a morning. You can bring the water up each night. I don’t want you running into the boys in your nightgown. They use the bathroom, but you’ll only have use of it once a week to bath and wash your hair. I’ll mind the menfolk stay out of the way then. There’s no inside lavvy. Turn left outside the back door and it’s on the corner of the house, opposite the water tank. Now, come along, there’s work to do.’

  By the time the men came into the house at six o’clock for their tea, Maddie felt like a little ragamuffin. She had swept the floor and shaken the peg rug from the hearth in the living room, dusted the furniture and cleaned the windows and now her face was smudged with grime and her apron looked as if she’d been crawling all over the coal heap.

  ‘Hey, what have we here?’ a cheerful voice spoke behind her. ‘You had her up the chimney to sweep it, Mrs T?’

  Still on her knees sweeping the hearth, Maddie turned around to find that the tall young man who had spoken had squatted down on his haunches to bring his face level with her own. She found herself gazing into the softest brown eyes she had ever seen. Kind, they were, and yet at the same time they sparkled with mischief. His face was tanned and his jaw square and when he smiled, she saw that his white teeth were even and perfect. Unruly curls, so black that they shone and glistened, fell onto his forehead.

  Maddie swept the back of her hand across her brow and, unwittingly, left another streak of dust.

  The young man chuckled. He leant towards her and said softly, ‘Go into the kitchen and wash your face and hands, else Mrs T won’t let you to the table.’

  ‘But I – I haven’t finished yet,’ Maddie said, flustered and blushing beneath the dirt on her face.

  ‘It’ll still be there in the morning, young’un.’ He touched her shoulder, giving her a gentle push. ‘Go on. She’s setting the table now. You’d best hurry.’ He nodded towards the kitchen where Maddie could hear the clatter of pots.

  Giving one last swift polish to the fender with her duster, Maddie picked up all the cleaning materials and scuttled out of the living room into the kitchen. Stowing the polish and dusters in the cupboard under the sink as she had been told, she removed her hessian apron and bundled it under there too. Then she turned on the tap over the deep sink that was not, close to, so white as she had imagined. Tiny cracks, brown stained, gave its surface a mottled, dirty look. The ice-cold water spluttered into her hands. Maddie took the soap and nail brush from the dish on the draining board and scrubbed and scrubbed until her hands were red and raw, but clean. Then she sluiced her face with the cold water and smoothed back her short hair behind her ears.

  She was moving hesitantly away from the sink when the door leading into the kitchen flew open, almost knocking her over.

  ‘Sorry, lass. I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

  ‘No, no, mester. Just made me jump, that’s all.’ Maddie looked up into the man’s face and found that it was an older
version of the young man’s she had met a few minutes earlier. Though his dark hair was liberally streaked with grey and his handsome face was weather-beaten and deeply lined, the brown eyes still twinkled and the smile was as gentle.

  ‘You must be the little lass from the orphanage?’

  Maddie nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ She smoothed her hands down her gymslip and smiled at him.

  He looked her up and down, assessing but not unkindly. ‘The work’s hard, lass,’ he said, doubtfully.

  ‘I’m stronger than I look, mester.’

  ‘Aye well,’ he smiled. ‘Mebbe you’ll grow. We’ll have to feed you up a bit, won’t we?’

  He gestured towards the living room. ‘In you go. Tea’ll be ready. I’ve to change me boots and wash me hands and then I’ll be in. Go and sit down, lass. I won’t be a minute.’

  A joint of boiled bacon sat in front of where the master would sit at the head of the table, a carving knife and fork set on either side. In the centre of the table was a selection of pickled onions and home-made chutney and a large freshly baked crusty loaf with yellow butter in a dish.

  ‘You sit here, girl,’ Harriet pointed to a chair beside her, setting down a plate of buttered slices of plum bread for afters. ‘And speak when you’re spoken to and not afore. You’ve a mite too much to say for yourself, to my mind.’ She frowned down at Maddie. ‘You’re only on trial here, you know. I can still send you back if you don’t suit.’

  Across the table the young man winked broadly at her. Maddie smiled back but managed to keep her mouth firmly closed.

  Three

  There was a fifth person sitting at the table. A boy not much older than she was, Maddie guessed. He was very thin, so thin that his wrist bone protruded and his long fingers looked as bony as a skeleton’s. Although his face and hands were lightly tanned from working out of doors, under the open-necked shirt Maddie could see a ‘V’ of pale skin. His mousey-coloured straight hair fell forward almost covering one eye. Every so often he flicked it back with a toss of his head. His grey eyes were large behind round, steel-framed spectacles. Maddie noticed that he kept looking at her from beneath the flop of hair, glancing up swiftly and then away again. She smiled at him but her attention was drawn back again and again to the taller, good-looking young man who came to sit beside him and directly opposite her and whose broad shoulders seemed twice as wide as the younger boy’s.

  The master came and sat down at the head of the table and they all bowed their heads while he murmured a short prayer in a soft, deep voice. Then he took up the carving knife and fork and began to carve the meat.

  ‘Don’t give the girl too much. I don’t want her leaving any,’ Harriet said.

  The man glanced at Maddie, smiling. ‘You can always come back for more if you can manage it.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Trowbridge,’ Maddie said politely and was surprised when the young man opposite her threw back his head with a gust of laughter whilst the younger boy sniggered behind his hand. The master was amused, but beside her Maddie heard the woman’s sniff of annoyance.

  ‘I think we’d better introduce ourselves properly,’ the man said. ‘My name’s Frank Brackenbury and the young rascal sitting opposite you is my son, Michael. Mrs Trowbridge you know already and this . . .’ he indicated the young man sitting on his immediate left, ‘is her son, Nicholas, but more usually called Nick.’ He chuckled as he leant forward to say in a loud whisper, ‘Much to his mother’s disgust.’

  So where, Maddie wondered at once, was Mrs Brackenbury? What had happened to her? And what about Nick’s father?

  ‘We don’t know your name, young’un,’ Michael said, interrupting her thoughts.

  ‘Madeleine March.’

  ‘She’s called Maddie,’ Harriet said at once. ‘We don’t want her getting fancy ideas about herself. If I had my way, she’d be plain Jane.’

  Maddie felt the eyes of all three men upon her and a flush of embarrassment crept up her cheeks. No one spoke and the girl knew that, despite their kindness to her already, Mrs Trowbridge’s veiled reference to her plainness could not be refuted.

  Maddie lay on the soft feather bed watching the clouds scudding across the bright face of the moon. She was tired, yet sleep would not claim her. So much had happened in just a few hours. This morning she had woken up at the Home to the familiar sounds in the long dormitory: girls chattering, jostling each other to get to the washroom and then Jenny appearing like a wraith at the side of the bed.

  ‘Walk to school with me, Maddie?’ It was the same every morning.

  ‘’Course I will,’ Maddie responded, patient as always, swinging her feet out of bed to touch the cold linoleum. Then the younger girl was smiling, skipping away happily to get washed and dressed, safe in the knowledge that her protector would be with her.

  But tomorrow morning, Maddie thought now as her heavy eyelids began to close and the moon became a blurred, distorted shape, poor Jenny Wren would be on her own at school.

  Maddie slept fitfully, waking every so often bathed in sweat to fling off the covers, only to wake again feeling cold. It’s this bed, she thought. It’s lovely and soft, but it’s too hot. When she could stand it no longer, she got out and pulled the soft feather bed away leaving only the lumpy, hard flock mattress beneath it. She was about to climb back in when the door to her room flew open and the light was switched on, flooding the room and causing Maddie to screw up her eyes against it. Harriet, in a long white nightdress, her grey hair straggling down to her shoulders, stood in the doorway.

  ‘What on earth is all the noise, girl? And what is this doing on the floor?’ The woman pointed at the feather mattress heaped beside the bed.

  ‘It was too hot,’ Maddie declared. ‘So I took it off.’

  ‘Well!’ Harriet was flabbergasted. ‘Well, I never did. You ungrateful little chit.’ The woman bent and, picking it up, said, ‘We take the feather beds off in May and put them back in November, but if that’s how you feel, you can do without it. Just one thing, me girl, don’t come running to me in the middle of winter when you’re cold in bed of a night.’

  Suddenly remembering the nights of shivering in the cold dormitory, when ice formed even on the inside of the windows, Maddie realized that such a bed would be a luxury. She lunged forward and grasped the feather mattress, trying to tug it from the woman’s hands.

  ‘Leave it here in my room, if it’s mine.’

  Their faces only inches apart, the girl and the older woman glared at each other. ‘It isn’t yours,’ Harriet insisted. ‘At least, it won’t be if you carry on like this. You’ll be back in that orphanage where you belong.’

  ‘Is something wrong? Is she all right?’ The deep voice spoke from the doorway, making them both jump.

  ‘Oh, Mr Frank. I’m sorry you was disturbed.’

  ‘Is she all right?’ the man repeated, his glance going beyond Harriet to the girl.

  ‘She complaining she’s too hot,’ the woman’s tone expressed anger at the girl’s daring, but the man was smiling.

  ‘I’m not surprised. It’s a warm night. I was too.’ He nodded towards the offending bag of feathers. ‘But I shouldn’t take it right away, Harriet. This time of year the nights can turn just as cold again. Let her keep it in her room and she can do what she likes.’

  The woman thrust the mattress away from her, pushing it towards Maddie and almost knocking her backwards onto the bed. ‘Whatever you say, Mr Frank. Now . . .’ She turned back to the girl. ‘If you’d be so kind as to get into bed, then maybe the rest of us could get some sleep.’

  The light was switched off and the door closed firmly, leaving Maddie in darkness.

  The mester had been kind, Maddie thought as she climbed back into bed, but in sticking up for her he had shown Mrs Trowbridge up. The woman would not forgive her for that.

  Tonight, Maddie knew, she had made an enemy of Harriet Trowbridge.

  Four

  The banging on her bedroom door woke Maddie with a start before it
was even light.

  ‘Jenny . . .?’ she said aloud and then remembered where she was.

  ‘Come along, girl. Get up,’ the woman’s voice came from the other side of the door. ‘There’s work to do.’

  Maddie groaned. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’ But she pushed back the covers and scrambled out of bed.

  Washing in cold water in the ewer was no hardship for the girl raised in an orphanage where the use of hot, or even warm, water was thought to be pampering the children.

  ‘A little hardship is character building,’ had been Sir Peter’s edict, though Maddie doubted he, in his mansion, had ever washed in cold water in his life.

  Maddie had only ever seen Sir Peter’s house once. In the spring of 1943 there had been a garden party in the grounds to raise funds for the War effort. The girls from the Mayfield Home, which Sir Peter’s own father had founded during the 1890s, had been marched, two by two, through the village to the home of their benefactor. Arriving at the entrance where once massive wrought-iron gates had hung, the children had found they still had a long walk through parkland before they came in sight of the house. Maddie remembered how weary Jenny had been. Then they had been required to stand in the sun on their best behaviour and smile politely whilst the smartly dressed ladies told them how lucky they were to have someone like Sir Peter with their best interests at heart.

  That had been the day, she thought with a shudder, that they had seen the Hanging Tree.

  There were several of the village children at Mayfield Park that day with their parents. Steven Smith, whom Maddie was obliged to sit near in school, had soon sought her out.

  ‘It’s the Mad March Hare.’ He tweaked her hair and then stepped back sharply before she had time to lash out at him. ‘What you doing here? Didn’t think they’d let you out of the madhouse to come.’

  Jenny shrank behind Maddie, clinging to the back of her skirt and peeping round the older girl to watch him. But Maddie grinned at him. ‘Hello, Stinky. Didn’t think they’d let a smelly little beggar like you come here, either.’