‘I made a few tarts for Robert and –and Jacob, if he’s here.’ He’d said he would be but, even so, Meg was nervous; or was it excitement that churned her stomach?
‘Oh he will be. Robert says he’s quite taken by you.’
‘Really?’ Meg felt a thrill of anticipation run down her back. Jacob belonged to a different Clarion Club from Robert, but this little market town in the heart of the Yorkshire Dales was popular with cyclists escaping grimy cities for fresh air. In summer, the early train from Leeds was packed and the guard’s van full of bicycles.
‘I saw a notice in the post office about setting up a Clarion Club for girls,’ Meg commented. ‘Are you interested?’
‘I was going to tell you later. I’ll be moving to Leeds. Robert’s landed a job with the Corporation and found us a house to rent so we’re definitely getting married this summer.’
‘Oh, how exciting! You are lucky.’ Meg was really pleased for Sally and Robert, but she would miss her friend at the mill. First her family and now her friends were moving away.
‘You should join, though,’ Sally suggested.
‘I haven’t got a bicycle.’
‘I’m sure you can find one rusting away in somebody’s wash house.’
Meg warmed to the idea. ‘And I can easily run up a divided skirt with that wool worsted from the mill.’
‘Like Mrs Dawson,’ Sally giggled, ‘pedalling along the High Street.’
‘Sssh, she’ll be here in a minute.’ Meg looked around for the lady in charge of teas at the Mission Hall on Sundays and commented, ‘She’s late with the key this week.’
Sally wandered away scanning the fells basking in hazy sunshine for a sign of the cyclists on their way back. Meg lapsed into thought and wondered what her father would think. Lady cyclists were considered, at best, to have independent ideas or at worst, be radicals or suffragists. But a bicycle would be really useful to her. She could get home from the mill quickly and be able to carry home end-of-the-day bargains from the market. She wondered how much she would have to pay for one. She caught up with Sally and said, ‘I think I might see if I can find a second-hand bicycle. Will you ask around for me?’
‘Robert might know somebody’
‘Where have they gone today?’
‘Swallowdale.’
‘Oh, not too far, then. Here’s Mrs Dawson at last. She’s pushing her bicycle; she must have a flat tyre.’
A group of Mrs Dawson’s Mission ladies had gathered and waited patiently while she wheeled her bicycle round the back, unlocked the back door to stow it safely in the scullery and returned to open the front entrance. Mrs Dawson was limping, Meg realised, as she followed the last of the ladies into the Hall and placed her tin box on the floor by the small stage. She and Sally set to work arranging trestle tables and wooden benches in long rows ready for the ramblers and cyclists. It was hard work so the older ladies were glad of their help. Besides, Mrs Dawson wouldn’t let them near the food and drink. Meg heard her giving orders to her helpers. One of the older ladies came over with cleaning cloths to wipe down the tables.
‘It’s not like Mrs Dawson to be late,’ Meg commented.
‘She’s got a bad knee,’ the lady said. ‘She had to push her bicycle all the way here. The doctor says she got to ease up a bit.’
‘Do you mean she will give up her Mission work?’ Meg thought that Mrs Dawson was a permanent fixture on the ladies committee.
‘It’s time somebody else had a chance to run things.’ The lady’s tone was critical. ‘We felt sorry for her. She came back home as a widow to look after her ailing sister. When the sister passed away she had empty days to fill so we invited her on to the committee and now she’s taken over. We were glad to have her at first but you can have too much of a good thing.’
‘I suppose she’s lonely,’ Meg said. ‘Where are her children?’
‘They all emigrated when they married, so she doesn’t get to see them.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame.’
Mrs Dawson had taken up her position at a small table by the door to take the money when walkers and cyclists clattered in, hungry and thirsty from their outing. Her selected servers stood behind a wooden counter making up the enamel plates of potted meat sandwiches, buttered scone and fairy cake or jam tart, baked by Mrs Dawson and a select few.
When the Hall was ready, Sally went outside to look for Robert. Meg followed her to the door and asked, ‘What shall I do next, Mrs Dawson?’
‘Go and help with the copper in the back. If the water’s ready you can fill the teapots.’ She stared at her for a moment before adding, ‘You don’t want to be spoiling that nice blouse. You’ll find a clean pinny in my bicycle basket.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Dawson.’
The big enamelled teapots were so heavy when full of water that they had extra handles above the spout for lifting. Meg put wood on the fire underneath the copper and added more water from the pump at the sink. Then she took off her apron and went to stand with the other ladies behind the counter in the Hall.
She scanned the benches for Jacob. Sure enough, he was sitting with Robert, enjoying his tea. He noticed her and waved. Meg’s heart somersaulted and she waved back.
Sally sidled up beside her and murmured, ‘He’s here, then.’ Meg felt a tingle of pleasure run down her spine. She remembered their first meeting outside this very hall.
Robert had introduced him to his fiancée and her friend, and Meg was immediately attracted to Jacob. They had chatted about the villages he’d cycled through and he had told her about his position in an office. Jacob was handsome and sociable with dark hair and bright blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He had told her about his position in an office but that was all she knew about him, except that she’d taken an instant liking to him. He’d said how much he loved the Dales and they had discussed whether the railway was a good thing or not for the villages.
Mrs Dawson distracted Meg from her dreaming as she arrived at the counter with her cash box ready to take money from those who were hungry enough for a second round of tea.
Jacob rose to his feet and came over. He handed payment for two more teas to Mrs Dawson and scanned the remaining plates. ‘Any more with lemon curd tarts?’ he asked.
‘Lemon curd tarts?’ Mrs Dawson queried. She appeared to be offended. ‘I didn’t ask for lemon curd tarts. We don’t do them as a rule.’
‘Oh!’ Meg exclaimed. ‘I left them in a tin…’ She looked around quickly for her tin which she spied under the counter, opened and empty. ‘Oh,’ she repeated, ‘they were mine, Mrs Dawson. I made them for my father’s tea and –and –I brought some with me.’ She looked at Sally who had put her hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles.
Jacob smiled at the row of ladies in front of him and went on, ‘They were very good. We both said so. May we have them again next week?’
‘We’ll see,’ Mrs Dawson replied, handing him two plates with sandwiches, scones and jam tarts.
‘I’ll bring your mugs of tea over,’ Sally volunteered, and went to talk to Robert.
‘The lemon curd tarts did look very nice,’ one of the Mission ladies commented.
‘I made the lemon curd myself,’ Meg added.
‘I suppose you want paying for them?’ Mrs Dawson answered.
‘Well no, not really, they were for…’ She stopped.
‘You have to be paid for the ingredients now they’ve been sold,’ Mrs Dawson stated. ‘How many did you bring?’
‘A dozen.’ Jacob was in lodgings and she thought he might take them on the train back to Leeds.
Mrs Dawson opened her cash box and began to count out coppers.
‘No, honestly, Mrs Dawson, I don’t want paying for them.’
‘The Mission always pays its way.’
‘Well –Er, well,’ Meg’s mind was racing. ‘Well, actually you could do me a favour instead.’
‘What kind of favour?’ Mrs Dawson sounded defensive.
Meg looked at her expectant face. ‘I’m looking for a second-hand bicycle. Do you know anybody with one for sale?’
‘For you?’ Mrs Dawson asked.
‘Yes, we’re having a girls cycling club here.’
‘Indeed?’ Mrs Dawson appeared to approve. ‘I’m thinking of selling mine. The doctor says I have to get rid of it.’
‘Can I have a look at it, Mrs Dawson?’
‘It’s worth more than a dozen lemon curd tarts, my girl.’
‘Oh yes, of course. I didn’t mean –’ Meg began.
‘You’ll have to wait until I’ve had my committee meeting after we’ve done. Go for a walk or something.’
Oh, dear, she would be late home and Father would be wondering where she was. But she wanted a bicycle. ‘All right, Mrs Dawson,’ she replied and went over to join her friends.
Later, Jacob suggested that he and Meg take a different path from Sally and Robert. He leaned his bicycle against a stone wall and turned his face to the sun. ‘You’re lucky to live in these parts.’
‘There’s not much work though,’ Meg commented.
‘I know, but I wish I still lived here.’
‘Where are you from, then?’
‘My father’s a gamekeeper up on Ferndale Moor. I used to help him in my school holidays.’
‘Ferndale’s a long way from the grammar school.’
He smiled at her –she adored his smile –and continued, ‘I had lodgings in the week. I’d won a scholarship, you see.’
‘Good for you.’ Meg had inherited her father’s admiration for learning. ‘They said that I could have gone on to the girl’s high school if I wanted.’
‘Didn’t you want to?’
‘I did actually,’ she realised suddenly. She hadn’t bothered too much at the time but now she experienced an unusual pang of disappointment. ‘But I have four brothers and they came first.’
‘That’s a pity.’
Yes it was, she thought, and liked him for saying so. She said, ‘But I wouldn’t have met Sally in the mill,’ and smiled.
‘Or me,’ he added seriously.
‘I have to go back to the Hall before Mrs Dawson locks up. She might be selling her bicycle and I want one.’
‘Is that so? Which model is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, how much does she want for it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’d better let me take a look at it for you.’
‘Would you?’
‘Of course I would. Although, I reckon Mrs Dawson will have bought the best, don’t you?’
‘Probably,’ she agreed with a grin.
‘Come on then, let’s go back.’ Jacob pushed his bicycle with one hand and offered Meg his free arm. She linked hers with his and it felt comfortable.
Meg stopped suddenly when they approached the Mission Hall as she recognised her father talking to a couple of the Mission ladies’ husbands. They were waiting for the committee meeting to finish.
‘Oh dear,’ Meg muttered with a sinking heart. Surely her father could have spent his Sunday afternoon without her? She hoped he wasn’t going to make a fuss just as she and Jacob were getting on so well. ‘My father’s here,’ she said.
‘Really? Where?’
‘Over there with the others.’ Reluctantly she unhooked her arm from Jacob’s and said, ‘Wait here.’
‘Why? I’d like to meet him.’
‘He doesn’t he know about you yet.’
‘Don’t you think he should, then?’
Jacob looked hurt so she rushed on. ‘He’s –he depends on me so much since Mother died. He doesn’t like me going out on a Sunday and I –I don’t want him any more upset.’ Neither did she want her father to blame Jacob for keeping her out. It was very important to her that Father liked him. ‘I’ll see what he wants,’ she said, and quickened her step.
Thankfully, Jacob didn’t follow her. It wasn’t that she didn’t want Father to meet him. It’s just that she didn’t want Father to think she was deserting him. Well, not yet anyway. But there was no sense in avoiding it now, because everyone at the Mission Hall had seen her with Jacob so she ought to tell Father about him before anybody else did.
‘Hello, Father.’
Her father turned round and his face brightened immediately. ‘Hello, love.’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘The house is empty without you. I wondered where you were.’
Meg suppressed a sigh and raised a smile. ‘I’m on my way home now. I was just waiting to have a word with Mrs Dawson. She’s the lady in charge.’ Meg looked around for her and saw Jacob approaching slowly. He stopped a few yards away, caught her eye and began to examine his bicycle chain.
One or two ladies wandered out of the Hall, called, ‘Cheerio,’ and left. The next one headed straight for her husband and said, ‘Mrs Dawson’s giving up the chair at last.’ They linked arms and walked off with their heads together.
‘Where is this Mrs Dawson, then?’ Father asked.
‘She’ll be locking up. She wants to sell her bicycle and I was thinking of buying it for going to the mill.’
‘You want a bicycle now? You’re full of ideas you are, just like your mother.’
‘Here she is.’ Mrs Dawson came round the corner with her bicycle.
Father frowned in the sunlight. ‘Who did you say she was?’
‘Mrs Dawson.’
‘I know that face.’ Father gazed at Mrs Dawson. ‘Don’t I know you?’
Mrs Dawson stared back. ‘Albert Parker?’
‘Edith Braithwaite?’
‘Edith Dawson now. Well I never. Albert Parker.’
‘I thought you lived in Leeds.’
‘I did. I came home after my husband passed on.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Father looked flustered and went on quickly, ‘I mean I’m sorry about your husband, not about you coming back.’ After an awkward pause he added, ‘I know how it is. I lost my wife a year ago.’
‘It’s two years now, Father,’ Meg added.
‘Is it, love?’ He seemed surprised.
‘Is this your daughter?’ Mrs Dawson asked.
‘She’s my youngest.’
‘Well I never,’ Mrs Dawson said again. ‘Mine are all married. Are you still at the quarry?’
‘I’m foreman now,’ he answered proudly.
Mrs Dawson looked impressed and her father smiled. Meg hadn’t seen that smile in a long time and her tears threatened again.
She heard Jacob cough behind her. ‘Is this the bicycle?’ he asked, stepping forward.
Meg took a deep breath. ‘Father,’ she began, ‘Father, this is Jacob. He’s with the Clarion Club from Leeds.’
Father looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I thought there was a lad involved somewhere.’
Jacob held out his right hand. ‘Jacob Wright, sir, how do you do?’
Meg’s father took it in a firm grip. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Jacob. From Leeds, you say?’
‘Ferndale Moor, actually. My father is a gamekeeper up there.’
‘Ferndale? I know the mason at Ferndale Lodge. He comes to the quarry for his stone.’ He glanced at Jacob’s bicycle. ‘That’s a fine machine you have there, young man.’
Now it was Jacob’s turn to look proud. ‘Thank you, sir. Do you cycle yourself?’
‘Not these days.’
‘Meg is thinking of buying Mrs Dawson’s bicycle. I said I’d take a look at it for her.’
But Meg had been watching Mrs Dawson and her father’s cheerful reaction, and she had a much better plan in her head. ‘Oh you don’t really have time now, Jacob. You mustn’t miss your train.’
‘It’s not until –’ Jacob started to protest. Meg shook her head slightly and he stopped.
‘Father, I’m going to walk to the railway station with Jacob. You know all about bicycles, so why don’t you have a look at Mrs Dawson’s for me?’
‘Mrs Dawson doesn’
t have time to stand about waiting for you –’ her father began.
‘Yes, I do,’ Mrs Dawson said. ‘It’s a lovely afternoon, Albert –I can call you Albert, can’t I? Let’s go and sit on the wall.’
‘All right then, Edith.’
Puppy Love
Chrissie Manby
Chrissie Manby
CHRISSIE MANBY is the author of sixteen romantic comedies including Getting Personal, The Matchbreaker and Seven Sunny Days. She has had several Sunday Times bestsellers and her recent novel about behaving badly after a break-up, Getting Over Mr Right, was nominated for the 2011 Melissa Nathan Award.
Chrissie was raised in Gloucester, in the west of England, and now lives in London. Contrary to the popular conception of chick-lit writers, she is such a bad baker that her own father threatened to put her last creation on www.cakewrecks.com. She is, however, partial to white wine and shoes she can’t walk in.
Chrissie’s new novel A Proper Family Holiday will be published by Hodder in summer 2014.
Puppy Love
Fiona Griffiths was not having a good day. Of the team of four people she managed at the Candlewick Café on Cathedral Green, only one had turned up for the busy Bank Holiday Monday. The others had claimed various chronic ailments but would all be spotted later that evening at the free concert in the town park.
So Fiona had slaved over a sandwich toaster all day long with only cross-eyed Sarah to assist her. Actually, ‘assist’ was not the word for it. Sarah spent most of her shift standing in front of the open fridge door, complaining of a debilitating flush. She couldn’t go out into the café dining room, not looking as red as she did, she said. In the end, Fiona sent Sarah home early and thus had to shut the café early too.
If she hadn’t had to close early, none of this might have happened. But shutting the café had meant that Fiona was home a good hour before she was expected. It meant that she was putting her key in the door just as her best friend Lucy was reaching new heights of passion. With Fiona’s live-in boyfriend.
‘Oh, er, Fiona,’ said Lucy, when they met at the top of the stairs. ‘Greg was just showing me…’
Fiona knew exactly what Greg had been showing her.
Truly, Madly, Deeply Page 11