by Tania Crosse
He couldn’t help watching, though, as Meg turned to bid goodbye to the last of the mourners. People squeezed her hand and were no doubt offering some final words of comfort. Meg nodded, her lips moving briefly. Ralph overheard a balding, stocky man in worn tweeds say something to her about now not being the time and that he’d call back in a few days.
‘Yes, Mr Briggs, I understand.’ Ralph caught Meg’s level tone, so he assumed it was something to do with farm business.
As the man found his own way out, the only people left were the girl who had sat with Meg during the service, and a woman Ralph guessed must be her mother. She exchanged a few words with Meg, and then went to wait by the door while her daughter spoke to Meg in private. The girl was the only person to hug Meg, and then at her earnest words – if her expression was anything to go by – Meg shook her head. The girl then delved into her bag, handed Meg a small parcel and kissed her on the cheek before following her mother out of the door.
It just left the four of them: Meg, Mr and Mrs Stratfield-Whyte, and Ralph himself. They all lent a hand, packing everything away. The last Ralph heard as he returned the now empty hamper to the motorcar was Meg’s decline of Mrs C’s offer to help wash up. Ralph was touched by an immense pride in the mistress. He was sure there couldn’t be anyone else in her position who’d treat those of a lesser standing, for want of a better expression, with such kindness and respect. Oh, yes. Mr W and his wife were as human and compassionate as the next person on the street. And Ralph considered himself privileged to live and work at Robin Hill House.
He waited patiently outside, ready to hold open the passenger doors of the motorcar. It wasn’t long before his employers emerged, Mrs C in particular not hurrying to take her leave. Ralph noted that they had scarcely turned away from the house before Meg shut the door. She certainly wasn’t inclined to wave them off, then, despite all their help!
Ralph drove slowly down the rough track to the lane, deep in thought. It was a relief that he’d never again have to exchange words with Miss Chandler, yet he couldn’t help feeling sorry about it. But he was sure she would indeed be able to sort out her life for herself! As if to prove it, a young boy came haring towards them, bumping along on his bicycle, and Ralph pulled as close as he could to the left to let him pass safely. Must be the boy from the village she had spoken about.
Ralph turned the car out of the farm track. He must concentrate on the road now. They could do without another accident! And so, with a profound sigh, he shut Miss Meg Chandler out of his mind forever.
*
Meg finally came in through the back door of the farmhouse and turned the key in the lock. She would have to let Mercury out again for a few minutes just before she went to bed, but apart from that, the working day was over. Except that it hadn’t been a full working day. She had only done the minimum necessary for the welfare of the animals, and that only with young Andy’s help. There hadn’t been time for anything else, for today had been the day she buried her parents, said goodbye to them for eternity.
She suddenly felt exhausted. Utterly drained. Plates, cups and saucers were neatly piled up by the sink, waiting to be washed. But she couldn’t summon up the energy. Perhaps she should have accepted Mrs Stratfield-Whyte’s offer to help, after all, but her pride had got in the way. Oh, well, it’d have to wait until morning. She just wanted to slump down in a chair with a mug of tea and let the weariness pulse out of her.
By banking up the firebox, she’d kept the range alight while she’d been at the funeral, and so the side boiler had provided all the hot water needed to supply the mourners with cups of tea. Not everyone had come back to the house. Just as well. They’d never have all fitted in the small room. It was kind of so many to have come to the church to pay their last respects, but, to be honest, Meg would as soon have been there alone. Her family had never felt the need to socialise that much. It had just been the three of them; they were an entity, their own self-sufficient world. None of them could ever have predicted that its existence would be ripped apart by such tragedy. And now Meg was left alone to carry the burden of grief too deep to endure.
She made herself a pot of tea, going through the same set of motions she had done so mechanically during the hour or so the mourners had graced the parlour. She sat down, exhausted, empty even of her own sorrow. She sipped at the hot drink, scarcely aware of it warming her chilled body, her mind subconsciously mulling over the events of the day: things people had said, Mrs Stratfield-Whyte’s kindness that Meg had felt too dead to respond to, the deep hole in the ground with the two coffins. Her parents lying side by side. As they had done for so long in life, now they would remain always in death.
Meg stared into the empty mug. She couldn’t recall drinking every drop. She scraped herself from the chair and went over to the sink. It was almost dark, and she lit the lamps, pulled the bright gingham curtains at the kitchen window. She would need to close the inside shutters in the parlour. Shut out the world outside. Just be alone to grieve in whatever way her heart led her.
She dropped the latch on the closed shutters and turned back into the room where earlier subdued voices had muttered in sympathy. Everything had been cleared away, the only remaining evidence the tablecloth strewn with crumbs. It’d need washing before she put it away. She’d probably never use it again.
She folded it carefully to trap the crumbs, ready to shake them outside, and it was then that she caught sight of the little package Mandy had given her. She’d forgotten it was her birthday tomorrow. It didn’t mean anything. Nothing would ever mean anything again. Just to keep the farm running as her parents would have wanted was the only thing that mattered to her now. Mandy had asked her if she’d like to have tea at her house the next day. She’d thanked her but said no, and Mandy had understood. But Meg had the feeling her friend was secretly relieved.
She couldn’t blame her. It must be hard to think of what to say. If someone elderly had died, you could at least utter some platitude about them having reached a good old age. But when two people had been cut down in their prime, there weren’t any suitable words for one’s sympathy. Oddly enough, it was the practical attitude of the Stratfield-Whytes that had brought her most comfort. Their steady, grave expressions spoke volumes. Meg almost wanted to like them, but she couldn’t let herself. It’d feel like a betrayal of her parents. No. What she’d said to Ralph Hillier was the truth of what was in her heart: as soon as her parents’ affairs were settled, she’d want nothing more to do with the people who’d been involved in the tragedy. Her head might be telling her they weren’t to blame, but her heart was telling her the opposite.
She realised she’d been staring at Mandy’s little package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Mandy and her family didn’t have much money, and it was kind of her to give her a present at all. Mandy was the closest Meg had to a best friend. From a child, most of her time outside school had been spent working on the farm, and she’d never had the chance to develop the close intimacy she’d seen between others. And she certainly wouldn’t have time for that sort of thing now that she had the farm to run almost single-handedly.
She picked up the parcel and went out into the hall to place it on the bottom step to remind her to take it upstairs when she went to bed. At least it would be something to bring her a little cheer when she woke up in the morning. Remind her it was her birthday at least. Her first birthday without her mum and dad. From now on, she considered bitterly, her birthday wouldn’t be about how old she was, but how many years she’d been without them.
And then, as if she’d been shot through with an arrow, she remembered. There’d been secret smiles between her parents, shared whispers with happy, knowing looks in recent weeks. And her mum had quickly hidden something away whenever she’d come into the kitchen unexpectedly.
Her heart took a painful bound in her chest. She’d had no cause to look in her mum’s sewing basket. Hadn’t even thought about it until now. Should she…? But she’d have to
at some point.
The blood was spinning so fast in her head that she almost felt dizzy. Her feet somehow took her into the kitchen and stopped in front of the cupboard built into the recess beside the chimney breast. Her trembling hand hesitated as she reached to open the door. She’d taken her mum’s best tea set from there earlier in the day, and really hadn’t given a thought to the sewing basket on the top shelf.
Now she lifted it down, her pulse thumping. It was the sort that had sewn into it a material bag with a drawstring, so that anything inside would be kept clean and wouldn’t fall out. The bag was bulky, so it was definitely concealing something beyond the needles and thread usually kept there.
Slowly, hardly daring to look and yet compelled to do so, she opened out the top of the basket. An unfamiliar pattern of dainty pink, red and blue flowers, blurred slightly together. Meg lifted it out. Let the folds fall away. A dress. V-neckline, buttons down the front, the skirt gathered at the waist. It would be a perfect fit. The only part unfinished was the hem of the full skirt. Did her mum want to wait until she’d tried it on to decide on the length, or had she intended to finish the dress in time for Meg’s birthday and never got the chance? Meg would never know.
She held the garment against her. Hugging it. Crushing it. Smelling the crispness of brand new material mingled with a hint of the lavender soap her mum would have washed her hands with before taking up her needle. The lingering fragrance Meg would always associate with her, the longing, the dull ache inside that she would never see, hear or smell either of her parents again.
The brutal pain welled up inside her, escaping from the dam she had held it behind all day. The agony of an emptiness that could never be filled. She felt herself sway as thundering waves swamped her brain, and she fumbled for a chair to lower herself onto. The wood was hard and unforgiving. As cruel as the grief that broke over her in a torrent and left her drowning in her own tears.
She wept and wept, until she had no more tears to shed. Even then, the torture in her breast refused to go away. And so she sat and stared into the shadows of the night.
Twelve
The darkness mingled into dawn. Meg had drifted in and out of a fitful sleep, but as soon as light began to lift the blackness of the night, she found herself awake again, bleary-eyed and with her head thumping. Her limbs moved instinctively. Time to bring in the cows for milking, feed all the other animals, attend to the million and one jobs that needed doing on the farm. Routine. She could lose herself in it. Be numb.
It was as she scraped herself out of bed that she noticed once more the little package Mandy had given her the previous day. Oh, good God, it was her birthday. As if she cared. But it had been kind of Mandy to think of her, and so she unwrapped the brown paper with a heavy heart. A handkerchief, embroidered with her initials. Huh, that was appropriate. A handkerchief to wipe her tears. She’d been doing enough of that of late.
But then she pulled herself together. That was churlish of her. She was sure Mandy would have chosen the gift way before the accident, and she meant well. Reprimanding herself, Meg made a cup of tea and went out into the misty autumn morning.
Later on, when all the essential tasks were done and she’d had a wash and something to eat, she sat back and took stock of herself. It was her birthday, and her mum and dad would’ve wanted her to do something to mark the occasion, so she supposed she should. And there was only one way she could.
‘Come on, Mercury,’ she said, clicking her tongue at the young dog who stretched as he lifted himself from the cosy place by the range. Meg took his lead from the hook as she put on her coat and stepped outside, locking the back door behind her.
Mercury bounced about her as they made their way down the long track, but when they reached the lane, she clipped the lead onto his collar. It was about a twenty-minute walk into the village. By now, the sun was trying to break through the mist, casting a yellow haze over the fields and twinkling on the moisture in the hedgerows.
When they reached the tiny village, Meg was thankful that there was nobody about. She really wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. She’d done enough of that at the funeral the day before. She paused to take a deep breath as she opened the gate to the churchyard. She wanted to do this, and yet she didn’t, her head all topsy-turvy, and she had to force her legs to carry her to the place where her mum and dad now lay together at eternal rest.
The grave had been filled in now, a mound of earth that would take six months to settle, she’d been told. Six months before she could erect a headstone. The bare clods seemed disrespectful among the grass, but fortunately they were almost entirely covered in the flowers everyone had brought. Many of the villagers had little money and had picked what blooms were left in their own gardens at that time of year, but it had been good of them to make the gesture. Mrs Stratfield-Whyte had asked Meg what flowers she’d like, and had ordered them from the florist along with her own wreath. She’d even offered to pay, but Meg wouldn’t let her. She needed to be allowed that dignity, at least.
Now Meg stood at the foot of the double grave, her face crumpling as the tears pooled in her eyes again. But she mustn’t let them, and thumbed them away. Then Mercury cocked his leg on a bush just feet away, and Meg had to smile. Life went on, didn’t it?
Mum, Dad, she spoke in her head, it’s my birthday. So I wanted to see you. Thank you so much for making the dress, Mum. It’s beautiful. I’ll finish it off as soon as I have time. I expect you were going to give me something else as well. I don’t know what you’d planned, but thank you anyway. I’ll be all right, you know. I can manage the farm on my own, and Andy Fairweather’s helping me after school. I’ll maybe take him on full-time when he leaves. So don’t worry. I’ll be fine. And… I love you both. So much.
She bowed her head. There wasn’t much else to say, and Mercury had lain down on the grass, head on his paws looking thoroughly bored. So Meg blew her parents a kiss, and turned away.
*
‘Oh, there you are, Meg. I guessed you’d be out here somewhere.’
Meg lowered the handles of the wheelbarrow she was pushing across the yard. ‘Hello, Mr Briggs. What can I do for you?’
As he lifted his battered trilby, the dome of his balding head seemed to come down to meet his raised eyebrows. ‘I did say I’d have to come back in a few days to talk to you.’
‘Yes, of course. I remember. Shall we go inside?’
‘Good idea. Bit parky this morning.’
He followed her across the yard towards the house, his head swivelling on his thick neck as they passed the open doors to the milking shed. ‘Keeping everything spick and span, I see,’ he approved. ‘So how are you managing?’
Meg gave a wry grimace as she opened the back door and, pulling off her gum boots, invited him inside. ‘Keeping busy helps keep my mind off things,’ she told him, pushing her feet into her slippers and leading the way into the kitchen. ‘Take a seat. Tea?’
‘Thank you, my dear. I won’t say no.’
He pulled out a chair from the table and sat down, fingers drumming on his spread knees as he gazed about him. Meg was glad of the hissing of the hot water from the range boiler tap as she filled the teapot, and then the tinkle of china as she set mugs, sugar bowl and milk jug on the table. He was good as land agents went, was Mr Briggs, but just now he appeared unusually indecisive.
Meg poured the tea, and pushing a mug towards him, sat down on the opposite side of the table. ‘Do I have some papers to sign or something?’ she asked, hoping it wouldn’t take long as she needed to get on.
‘Ah, well, something like that,’ Mr Briggs faltered, his gaze wandering about the tidy room. ‘I was wondering, have you sold any stock yet?’
Meg’s eyebrows shot up towards her hairline. ‘Why should I do that? We… we’d just sold all we wanted to at the market. You must know. You were there. Or d’you mean it’d be less stock for me to look after, especially when the cows come in for the winter?’ she asked, thinking that she
must have answered her own question. ‘Well, I think I’ll cope all right. I’ve got a boy from the village helping me after school each day and at the weekends. Dad’s…’ She paused, swallowing the sudden lump that had come into her throat at the mention of her dear father. ‘Dad’s bank account’s been, er, frozen, I think that’s what they called it,’ she forced herself to continue. ‘But I’ve got enough to pay Andy until it’s all sorted out.’
‘Oh, erm,’ Mr Briggs stammered, ‘what I meant was, are you going to sell the stock at market, or see if whoever takes over the farm wants to buy it?’
Meg’s brow pleated into deep folds. ‘What d’you mean, whoever takes over the farm?’
It was the land agent’s turn to frown. ‘Just that, my dear. You must know that you can’t keep it on on your own.’
‘Well, of course I can.’ Meg sat up straight, both wary and affronted. ‘Mum ran it all through the war on her own, and I’m just as capable as she was. Or dare I say it, possibly more so.’
She stared, alarm bells ringing in her head, as a bright red hue spread up Mr Briggs’s neck and into his cheeks. ‘I don’t doubt it. But the thing is…’ He hesitated, licking his lips nervously. ‘The thing is,’ he repeated, ‘you’re a minor. Far too young to hold the tenancy, however good a little farmer you are. You have to be twenty-one. Surely you must’ve known?’