Wildflower Hill

by Kimberley Freeman

  As Lucy ate, Beattie’s eyes were drawn again and again to the envelope. Perhaps it was good news. Perhaps Molly had met somebody new and finally wanted to divorce Henry. Perhaps she had spent months tracking him down to set him free. But Beattie couldn’t shake the feeling of dread.

  Lucy pushed her empty plate away from her. “Can we play in the garden?”

  “No, darling, we have to go to the shops. We have no food for Daddy’s dinner.” And no money to buy food, but she hoped the general store would allow her just one more tick on the books.

  Lucy climbed down from the chair and ran to fetch her shoes. Beattie glanced one last time at the letter, then told herself to put it out of her mind until Henry came home. Praying he would come home early for once.

  Beattie walked down the hill toward the shops, Lucy running several feet ahead of her to pick up rocks or pet a stray cat. From up here, Beattie could see across the masts in the harbor all the way to the clock tower on the post office. Seeing the ships never failed to give her a sense of dread. She and Henry had spent two months aboard a stinking cargo liner to get here. The first ten days were a blur of roiling seasickness, and all those that followed were a claustrophobic nightmare inside their grimy cabin, waiting and waiting for the world to turn underneath her so she might finally come to rest. But reaching land brought her no joy. For this was not home but a strange wide-skied country where some people still used horses and carts. The homesickness was almost too much for her to bear, and some days she wondered if it was only the prospect of another long journey that stopped her from turning around and going back. She swore she’d never set foot on a boat again.

  Henry had started work quickly, and their days fell into a routine. They were renting a little house from Billy Wilder on a street of brick cottages behind hawthorne hedges. Lucy had arrived in the very early hours one weekend, quickly and painfully. There hadn’t been time for the midwife to attend, and Henry had been the one to take the squirming baby from Beattie’s body and wrap it in a soft blanket until help came. With misty eyes, he’d told her they had a little girl, a daughter, and they had sat close by each other in sacred awe, holding the child—little Lucy with her fierce eyes and tuft of red hair—until dawn. Such happiness had beaten in her heart. But that happiness had been fleeting.

  The general store was run by two elderly women whom Beattie had always found difficult to tell apart. Jean and Lesley. Not sweet old ladies, either. Rather the stern, self-righteous variety. They were close but not sisters, and Beattie suspected that they might be much more than friends. Henry, when she’d suggested this, lost his temper at her for thinking scandalous thoughts. It had made her sad: did she have to second-guess before sharing her thoughts with him? How could they be close if he judged her so fiercely?

  But then had they ever been close? Fervent dalliances at the club aside, the first time they’d spent concentrated time together was on the ship to Hobart. And they’d found they had little to say to each other.

  Jean and Lesley were running a thriving business but always complaining about money. For this reason, they left the lights in the shop off during the day, so that the windowless back corner was always in semi-darkness. This was the corner they had chosen to put the toys, high up on oak shelves, tantalizingly out of reach. It was Lucy’s favorite corner. She stared up longingly at the Madame Alexander dolls. The fat baby in the red pajamas was her favorite, and Beattie was certain that only fear of the sharp voices of Jean and Lesley stopped her from climbing the shelves to get it. Beattie left her to gaze and took the basket around the shop, collecting only the essentials but still alarmed at how quickly the basket was filling up.

  Then, fearfully, she approached the glass counter, which was lined with jars of sweets and rotating racks of postcards.

  Jean—or was it Lesley . . . no, Jean was the one with the steel-gray hair—smiled at her tightly. “Good morning, Mrs. MacConnell.”

  “Good morning. I . . . wonder if my husband could come down and pay for these later?”

  Jean’s smile didn’t falter, though her eyes grew cold. “I believe we are still waiting for your husband to pay for groceries from last Thursday.”

  “Yes, I know. He will come down and pay for them all this week.” Friday, payday. Not that there was ever much left. Eight months after Lucy’s birth, Billy Wilder had formed his own company and employed Henry. Within weeks, he’d told Henry he couldn’t afford to keep him on—so many men were losing their jobs—unless he took a much lower salary. And from that salary every week, before a penny had made its way into Henry’s pocket, Billy deducted rent and gambling debts. What they had left over was sometimes less than the dreaded welfare: she’d be better off with a food relief card. “We have to eat,” she said softly.

  Jean sighed. “Some folk are so ill-starred that they make soup from grass, Mrs. MacConnell. But as your husband actually has a job, I’ll give you another chance.” She turned and opened one of the drawers behind her to pull out a well-thumbed notebook. She slapped it on the counter and opened it. “I’ll extend your credit until the end of the month. On March thirty-first, if your debt isn’t cleared, you won’t be able to shop here again. Do you understand?”

  Beattie merely nodded. As Jean rang up her bill, then pinned the receipt in the notebook, she carefully hid her squirming, hot-faced shame. Today it was a little easier to bear, because there was something even more worrisome on her mind. A letter waiting at home for Henry, and she didn’t know what it signified.

  Beattie hoped Henry would come home early and put her out of her misery. She went about tidying the house and preparing dinner. She thought about steaming the letter open but stopped herself. It wasn’t worth Henry losing his temper. Finally, she bundled Lucy up and took her out into the garden. As the long shadows crept across the patchy grass, Lucy ran about with her arms outstretched, demanded endless games of ring-a-rosy, buried her peg-doll family alive, then dug them up again. Henry’s usual arrival time came and went, and as the sun set and Lucy started moaning about being hungry, Beattie realized he had decided to stay out, probably to drink with Billy.

  She took Lucy inside and fixed her dinner—bread and dripping and some leftover pea soup—but had no appetite herself. The evening was taken up with chores: bathing Lucy, cleaning up, making up bedtime stories. Lucy cried a little that her daddy wasn’t home, but Beattie reassured her that the sooner she went to sleep, the sooner it would be morning and she would see him then.

  Beattie sat up with her sewing kit and worked. She made all of her own and Lucy’s clothes, often looking out for castoffs that could be unpicked and resewn. Her childish dreams of being a designer now seemed laughable, but she did still love drawing ideas for dresses, and many of the local women had commented on Lucy’s beautiful clothes. Beattie always kept her head down, nodding politely, though not engaging in conversation. But she had suggested to Henry that she could start a little business making children’s clothes to sell.

  Henry had scoffed at the idea. “Nobody has any money, and children grow so quickly, they’d be fools to spend it on new clothes. Just keep to yourself.”

  As Beattie sewed, she was aware of the night deepening. She had no appetite, but she ate a little bit of dinner and left the rest for Henry when he came home. Her eyes returned again and again to the letter, and as the wind off the water intensified and it grew cold enough to light the fire, her dread grew exponentially. Molly. The Irish wolfhound. A woman she had never met and yet was inextricably connected to. Beattie had stolen Molly’s husband. There, she’d allowed herself to think it. And what happened to women who stole husbands? Beattie suspected she was already finding out.

  It was ten o’clock before Beattie gave up. Even if Henry came home now, he wouldn’t be sober enough to talk to. She changed into her nightdress and climbed into bed. Gusts of wind periodically shook the windows, and she slept fitfully, half-dreams and anxious imaginings punctuating her rest.

  In the very early hours of the mornin
g, when the world seemed farthest from the sun, she heard voices.

  She sat up, sleep falling away from her in an instant. It was Henry. Had he seen the letter yet? She rose and cracked open the door. Across the hall in the sitting room, the lamps were blazing, the fire roaring. They were talking some nonsense about a rich client, making lewd jokes and laughing uproariously. She heard the clink of glasses. They were drinking. She hoped that Billy had bought the alcohol, because Henry had no money for it.

  Beattie returned to bed, leaving the door ajar so she could listen. Their conversation drifted in and out of her hearing. Then there was a burst of loud laughter and, briefly afterward, the sound of Lucy’s bedroom door opening. They had woken her up.

  As Beattie pulled on her dressing gown, she heard Lucy’s sleepy voice in the hallway. “Daddy?”

  “My wee lass!” Henry effused drunkenly. “Come here, dearie. Come and say hello to Uncle Billy.”

  Beattie’s skin crawled at the idea of “Uncle Billy” anywhere near her daughter and hurried out to intercept Lucy in the doorway to the sitting room. “Come on, love. Back to bed.”

  Henry glared at her. “I haven’t seen her all day. Give me a chance to say hello, woman.”

  Beattie bit her tongue so she didn’t tell him it was his fault he hadn’t seen her all day because he’d been out drinking. Probably gambling.

  Lucy threw herself in Henry’s arms, and he gathered her up and cuddled her savagely.

  “Och, she’s the image of you, Henry,” Billy said.

  “Until she smiles. Then she’s all Beattie.”

  Billy glanced at Beattie, his eyes drawn to her nightdress. She drew together her robe tightly at her neck. He smiled cruelly—in truth, she’d seen no other kind of smile from him—and held out an empty whiskey glass. “Drink?”

  “It’s one in the morning.”

  “It will help you sleep.”

  Beattie didn’t answer. Her gaze skimmed the mantel. The letter was still unopened.

  Henry put Lucy down and said, “Will you sing a wee song for Uncle Billy? The one about the birdies that you made up?” He turned to Billy. “She’s a clever lass, Billy, you wouldn’t credit it.”

  Beattie intervened. “She really should be sleeping, Henry.”

  “I want to stay up with Daddy.”

  Henry conceded. “Your mother’s right. I’m just so happy to see you, my chick.” He stroked her hair gently. “Go on, off to bed with you. You can sing for me in the morning.”

  Beattie took Lucy back to bed and tucked her in. By this stage, the child was wide-eyed and restless, and Beattie doubted she would sleep.

  “Just close your eyes,” Beattie said. “Off to dreamland. I’ll meet you there under the big chestnut tree. We’ll have a picnic.”

  Lucy smiled. “Can we have cake?”

  “Yes, cake with jam in the middle.”

  The little girl mimed eating a giant slice, then turned over and screwed her eyes shut. Beattie left her, closing the door quietly, then paused in the threshold of the sitting room. Henry was more subdued now, but Billy was screeching with laughter over some wild joke. She waited for him to quiet, then smiled politely. “Have you news of your brother, Billy? Did Cora have the baby yet?”

  “Yes, yes, Teddy’s a proud father. A wee boy they named Frank. They’ve moved to Edinburgh, bought a house with a garden. Domestic bliss.”

  Beattie found it hard to fight her jealousy. “Give them my best, won’t you?” She turned her eyes to Henry. “And Henry, there’s a letter up there for you.” She nodded toward the mantel. “Might be important. I’m off to bed.”

  She turned, heart thudding, and returned to her room. Closed the door all but a crack and peered out. A long quiet. He was reading it.

  “What’s wrong, MacConnell? Bad news?”

  “It’s nothing,” Henry said quickly. She saw him cross the room to the fire. He was going to burn the letter. “Just some nonsense. Another drink?”

  Beattie got into bed and closed her eyes. He burned it. That meant he didn’t want it. That meant everything was all right. Didn’t it? Sleep eluded her. Within half an hour, Billy had clattered out the front door and Henry was sliding into bed next to her, quiet, trying not to wake her.

  She turned to him. “Henry, the letter—”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “But what did she want? What—”

  “I said don’t ask!” he shouted, and it was so loud in the dark quiet that her whole body twitched in shock.

  She opened her mouth to speak, to ask for reassurance, but didn’t want him to shout again. He’d burned it. He wanted to forget it. That would have to be enough.

  Sometimes, Henry thought, it was better to take care of things himself. It didn’t matter how many times he’d told Beattie that she must go down to the general store and negotiate with them; she insisted she couldn’t, that the two hard-faced women who ran the store would not extend their credit another penny. Henry didn’t believe that for a second. Beattie was a mite lazy and a mite too worried about what other people thought. So he’d put on his hat and marched down there, Lucy clinging firmly to his hand, to make Jean and Lesley see sense. He couldn’t pay, not just yet, though he anticipated a windfall soon. His luck was bound to change at the card table. Frankly, it couldn’t get any worse.

  “Daddy, you’re walking too fast.”

  Henry slowed, giving her soft hand a squeeze. “Sorry, my dearie.”

  “Mummy lets me collect rocks.”

  “We haven’t time today.” But the sting of being unfairly compared to Beattie undermined him. “Och, I’m being a grouch. Go on, Lucy. Find your pretty rocks.”

  Her warm fingers left his, and she dashed off to the edge of the road. He watched her with a grin, aware as he always was that the child made him into an idiot. Every time he looked at her, even thought about her, his heart turned to warm water. The night she was born—a collection of hellish images of blood and bodily contortion that he could not forget when he looked at Beattie—it was as though Lucy had emerged directly into his hands, as though she were telling him, “I’m yours, never let me go.”

  They arrived at the bottom of the hill. The store was late-afternoon quiet. The larger woman, Lesley, was bringing in the news banners while Jean counted out the cash register inside. Lucy ran off to the back corner to look at the dolls, and Henry approached the counter.

  Jean looked up, unsmiling. “Mr. MacConnell? I do hope you’ve come to pay your bill.”

  Henry wasn’t one for smiling or charming people. He spoke plainly and with dignity. “I am unable to pay at this point. I want to extend our credit until April thirty, when I expect to pay it in full.” There. Not so hard to say, so why did Beattie balk at it?

  “No.”

  Henry winced. “I’m sorry?”

  “No. I’m not in the business of extending credit to bad debtors. Many people are in financial difficulties, Mr. MacConnell. Genuinely. But yours is the only family who asks for more than we can give you.”

  The rage began to build within him. What did she mean “genuinely”? Had Beattie told them about his gambling debts? Could she not keep her mouth shut? The silly, young fool! His hands balled into fists, and he wanted to smash the cabinet they rested on, to hear the satisfying shatter of its glass.

  “I can see you don’t like what I’m saying to you,” Jean said, “but nothing you can do can change my opinion. Unless you give me some of the money I am owed.”

  Henry gathered himself. He nodded once, then wordlessly turned on his heel. He marched up to the back corner where Lucy was gazing with huge, round eyes at a collection of little dolls up out of her reach.

  “Daddy,” she said, “the baby.”

  He looked and saw a tiny baby doll, smaller than his hand, dressed in red. Lucy looked at him with pleading eyes. He cursed himself. If he hadn’t lost so much to Billy—damn Billy, damn him for everything!—he’d be able to buy this little toy for his child. But instead . . .
>
  Henry checked behind him. Jean was counting her money, Lesley was still outside, the back corner was dark.

  In one swift moment, the doll was in his pocket. He herded Lucy out quickly, shushing her excited laughter. He swept her up in his arms and hurried down the hill to the empty marketplace, where they sat together and she made a game out of checking every one of his pockets until she found the doll.

  Then she threw her little arms around his neck and shrieked with happiness.

  As Lucy played with her dolly, as the plane tree leaves scattered about them, as the boats slowly bobbed on their moorings in the harbor, Henry’s anger subsided until he felt quite normal again. And a little embarrassed. Stealing toys for his daughter. Is that what he had been reduced to? Once he had known what to do with himself, with life. But then Beattie had come along, with her wide blue eyes and her soft white skin . . . For a long time, she had seemed to be his greatest love. Now, though, she was his greatest regret.

  Especially now that Molly had found him. Especially now that Molly had written to tell him her father in Ireland had finally died and left her a small fortune. She still wanted him back, despite everything. That was the kind of person Molly was. She was good: a heart handmade by angels.

  He shook himself. That was not his life anymore. This was. He watched Lucy a little longer, smiling again. The child brought him such happiness, and every choice he’d made that had brought him here—to this moment of togetherness—was worth it. He would endure without Molly’s money, without Beattie’s adoration. For the love of his daughter, he could endure anything.

  NINE

  Even though Henry had expressly forbidden it, Beattie found herself knocking quietly on her neighbor’s front door. To say she was desperate was true on so many levels, but she was most desperate for money. Her one pair of shoes, brought with her from Glasgow, the ones she had used to run away from Morcombe House, were finally beyond repair.