“But I am absolutely one million per cent determined to do this and to make it work for six months minimum. I want to be able to look at Ruby when she’s older and tell her that I took her to live in the country by ourselves when she was six months old and that while we were there I wrote my children’s novel. This story – it’s been buzzing round my head since I was a kid – the characters are there, the story is mostly there – it’s time for me to finally get it out of there and onto paper. More than that, I need to do this for me – I mean, look at you, you’ve always wanted to be a journalist and now you’re not only that but you’re one of the most sought-after freelance feature writers in the country. You dance to your own tune – do exactly what you want to do and you’re the happiest person I know in their job. I’ve never had that, working in that damned agency. I’ve spent my life licking so much of other people’s bums that I couldn’t get the taste out of my mouth till I’d been on maternity leave for three months!”
Sue forced a grin. “You can write in London,” she tried.
“I know I could. I could write on the moon but being here at Hawthorn Cottage is a whole package. I’ve never lived on my own before – I’m finally being independent, taking control of things. And this place is beautiful.” She gazed outside, taking in the view of the garden, a lazy butterfly hovering around the flowerbeds.
Martha had a look of longing in her eyes like she was pleading with Sue not to take her away and it made Sue’s heart melt. She had never seen Martha this passionate about anything other than Ruby, not even about Dan back in the early days. She knew that Martha was a talented writer – she’d known since university – but then Martha had gone into advertising and spent her time trying to keep everyone else happy at her own expense. Sue couldn’t count the number of times she had seen her friend angry and stressed, the number of consolation bottles of wine they had shared over the years as Martha ranted on about her job. Sue couldn’t imagine not loving what she did. It made her angry to see Martha so unhappy, and also that she had put writing on the back burner for so long. Queen of Procrastination, she called her. Over the years Martha had always promised to write – once her wedding was over, once things had calmed down at work, once she was on maternity leave . . . Here in the countryside it was finally going to happen for her because Martha had made it that way. Sue finally understood what it meant to Martha to be here and it was then that she knew no amount of pleading could get her away from this place. She almost felt jealous of the passion that Martha was showing in her eyes and she suddenly grabbed her in a bear hug.
“Alright, alright – enough of this!” she said, forcing a smile. “Stay here in the bloody godforsaken middle of nowhere then, if you bloody must!” She released Martha from the hug and saw that she was smiling bravely through her moist eyes. “But if anything at all happens – anything,” she warned, “you are to ring me, day or night and this time I’ll come get you.”
Martha grinned. “I will, I promise,” she said. “Oh, someone’s awake.” She stood to go get Ruby who they could hear stirring on the monitor.
The rest of the morning was subdued, Martha making preparations for the week ahead and Sue packing to return to London. Sue said nothing about the night before, the warmth of yet another glorious day making the memory fade and making her wonder if it wasn‘t some odd local weather anomaly. She knew that the sea was nearby, and that there were marshes and flatlands and she wondered if the hot weather somehow had created some sort of weird fog or temperature drop that had made her experience what she had felt. It didn’t however explain the light being switched on. She had asked Martha if she had come in for some reason and turned it on, but she had shook her head and thrown her a bemused look. Sue wondered if she had maybe done it herself, or if the wiring was faulty or if it was on some sort of timer that Martha was unaware of.
Many times throughout the day she thought about telling Martha but, knowing how fervently her friend didn’t want to leave, she felt it would be unfair to tell her anything that would make her nervous. When the time came to leave that afternoon, Sue decided to stay silent and pray that nothing like that would happen once she had gone.
Going down the gravel drive, Sue kept a wistful eye on Martha and Ruby in her rearview mirror. Martha was making Ruby wave by manipulating her hand up and down, while Ruby stared intently in the opposite direction. Twice, Sue nearly slammed on her brakes and went back for them but she fought against the urge, remembering the look in Martha’s eyes as she described her intentions. They went out of sight, hidden by an overhanging bush, as Sue reached the end of the driveway and she turned left for the motorway, feeling sure that she had just done the wrong thing.
Chapter 6
Eyrie Farm,
Shipton Abbey,
Norfolk,
England
March 12th, 1953
Dear Caroline,
I must start by apologising for taking so long to write to you again. I knew I wouldn’t have a reply from you soon because your time is taken up with Jesus and your duties as a sister, but that’s no reason for not writing to you myself to tell you our news here in Norfolk.
How has the weather been in Dublin? Are you allowed out sometimes? I wish I knew what your life was like, so I could picture you as you go about your business. Maybe if I describe what it is like here, then you could do the same for me? It would give me comfort to think you were thinking of me because it is very lonely here, despite having Marion for company all day.
The weather here has been bitterly cold. Myself and Marion are frozen to the bone and as it is very important for the baby that Marion stays warm she spends much of her day in bed. I have given her my covers, other than a single blanket for myself, and suggested that we share her bed at night-time, like when we were small and Mammy told us that to huddle together would keep us warm. Marion says that she doesn’t want my cold feet near her in the night, though, so I stay in my own bed in my little room upstairs.
There are a lot of good things about being here in Shipton Abbey. Our little house is lovely, if draughty! And it’s very good of Mr Mountford to let us stay here – he is a very good friend to Daddy. The cottage used to be a farmhouse – it’s not any more you’ll be glad to know! I’m not spending my days milking cows and shearing sheep as well as looking after Marion! It’s still called Eyrie Farm, though, as there are lots of rooks’ nests in the trees around. Thank God for the big trees as they shelter us a little bit from the winds coming in from the estuary. Did I tell you we were near the seaside? It’s not the sort of seaside you’d go paddling in, mind, like Dollymount at home! I’ve been to the village shopping every week but I haven’t seen the sea yet. From what I hear it’s very muddy and people come there to watch all sorts of birds.
Our cottage is small, just two rooms downstairs and two upstairs and an outhouse at the back. Downstairs we have a little parlour and then our kitchen which is where we spend our days – except when Marion keeps to her bed. We each have a bedroom upstairs and there is even a very small spare room at the back, behind my own room. The rooms are set into the roof so the ceilings in them are the inside of it and we have to stoop right down if we want to go into any of the corners! Both of the bedrooms have little fireplaces, which is a good thing because once I can keep the one in Marion’s room going then she and the baby are warm at least.
I hope you don’t mind that I talk about the baby, Caroline. I know that Marion has committed a deadly sin and that she will have much penance to do. But, in my own selfish way, I feel that the better things are for Marion and the baby, then the easier life is all round.
Her humour is no better than before, worse if anything with the terrible weather and her being cooped up inside all the time. You know yourself that Marion has always preferred to be out and about than at home, and I think it troubles her greatly that she is here with only myself for company each day, especially when she still feels so ill. She can barely eat and even the smell of me cooking the d
inner can send her into a rage. The sooner the baby gets here the better, I think. Then maybe we can go home and Marion will calm down and not be so vexed all the time.
Mr Mountford came to see us on Tuesday. It was a huge honour to finally meet him and guess what, Caroline? He brought us a bicycle! Our very own bike with a basket on the front so I can carry the shopping home from the village without having to walk half a mile carrying the bags. He said it used to belong to his daughter Iris (isn’t that a beautiful name, Caroline? I wonder, if the baby is a girl, would Marion call her Iris maybe?) but that she has her own motor car now and doesn’t need it any more. They must be very rich indeed if Iris has her own motor car, come to think of it. Anyway, Mr Mountford may as well have given me my own motor car I am so delighted. And the best thing about it (God forgive me for being selfish!) is that with her condition Marion couldn’t cycle it, so I have the bike all to myself and sure isn’t it a great way to keep warm, pedalling all over! It’ll be no time at all before I go to see the estuary proper and explore the big old ruined monastery that’s in the village. I’ll tell you all about that when I go there.
Mr Mountford is a lovely man, really, and I was at pains to tell him how grateful we are for his help. Marion said she just didn’t want to see anyone and stayed upstairs. She got cross with me when I told her we had to let her fire go out for a while to light the one in the parlour for his visit (he had sent word in a note that he was coming). I had to put my foot down though – we’re not made of firewood and I couldn’t let the man into the house without taking him to the best room.
Mammy has said she’ll box up some ornaments that she doesn’t need, and a picture of the Sacred Heart so we can make the place more of a home for ourselves. Mr Mountford seemed happy enough though with the fire lit and a cup of tea in the parlour. He had one of my scones as well with some creamy butter – he brought it with him, would you believe, from his own rations, and gave it to us as a gift and it went very well with the gooseberry jam that Mammy gave me to bring with us. That was the last of it, of course, and Marion went mad when she found out for she says it’s the only thing that she likes to eat. But I have written to Mammy to see if she can send us another jar in her next parcel. She is sending some old clothes of Granny Flynn’s to see if I can make anything of them for Marion as she will soon outgrow her own clothes and were I to go into the draper’s in Shipton Abbey then our secret would be out.
Marion is very low, I am afraid. God forgive her but she told me last week that she wasn’t a bit sorry for doing what she did to get herself into trouble and that she’d do it again in a heartbeat. I tried to reason with her and tell her that it was wrong when she wasn’t married and then she gave me the biggest shock. She told me that the baby’s father was a black sailor that she met at the docks. I couldn’t stop crying at her, Caroline. Imagine if the baby is black? But, before, she told Mammy and Daddy that it was a married man who Daddy knew. She has no shame now, I’m afraid, but I feel she’ll come round when she realises what she has done. Hurry up, baby, so my sister will get some sense into her head and Daddy will tell us what to do next. I pray for the spring, Caroline, so that the summer won’t be far behind and the autumn after that and this will all be over.
With lots of love,
May God be with you,
Lily x
PS I don’t know if this will reach you in time but Happy St Patrick’s Day! Do write and tell me all about the parade if you see it!
Chapter 7
June 5th
The next few days passed in a whirlwind for Martha. By Wednesday, she wasn’t crying any more when leaving Ruby with Mary Stockwell at the small local crèche and nursery she ran called Lullabies.
Ruby seemed to be settling in well from what Martha could tell and even though she was still a little jealous of the time that Mary had with her baby, she realised that the time had come for Ruby to leave their little bubble and give her the chance to experience life away from her mother.
At nine each morning Martha was sitting at her desk in the small study across from the kitchen, ready to begin doing what she had dreamed of since she was a child. The outline of the story had lived in her head for years – a unicorn, the last of his type, living a lonely existence in a forest in an imaginary land. She had mapped out in her head the solitary adventures of this Lonely Pony, as he thought he was, having only ever seen from a distance the king’s horses and thinking himself the same. But somewhere along the line she would create an event which would lead to his becoming aware that he was in fact the most magical creature of all. Martha had adored stories like this when she was a child. The urge to write had simmered inside her for years. Now that all the other factors were in place she felt compelled to finally begin the children’s tale – and if it were never published, then if nothing else she had the story for Ruby alone.
She found writing difficult at first – on Monday morning, fully alone in the house for the first time, the black screen of the laptop had proved too daunting and she had slunk from her study, intimidated, and found herself wandering from room to room, noticing little features in the house that she hadn’t taken in before. A solid oak beam set into the wall in the living room that served as a mantelpiece, picture-rails along the study walls, and the little bedroom windows upstairs. She shifted the bed where Sue had slept into a recess alongside the chimneybreast and rearranged the furniture to accommodate the cot but decided to keep her baby in with her for a while longer. Outwardly, Martha reasoned that it was until Ruby got used to her new surroundings but in her heart she knew it was because she wasn’t yet ready to let her free from under her wing.
It was eleven when Martha realised the time. She chastised herself and returned to the study where she eventually pushed aside her laptop and took up a pen and paper. Soon, a little inspiration began to flow and Martha finally began her story about the lost unicorn with a scene where the unicorn stared at his reflection in a lake and thought how lonely he was.
At one she set off to collect Ruby from crèche, stopping at the end of the drive to check if there was any post for her.
It had bothered her to learn that the postman left her letters in a hollow in an oak near the road – he had dropped in a note informing her of the fact after she first arrived. She had assumed at first it was because to come up to the cottage would add more distance to his route. But Hawthorn Cottage was a bit of a delivery black-spot in general, she had discovered – the butcher also refused to deliver, citing the distance of the cottage from the village as the reason. Yet she was sure that she had seen his delivery van in Bickford once, over five miles away. It was puzzling. She had begun to wonder if some of the locals had issues of some sort with Rob Mountford.
Evenings were her busiest times. With Ruby bathed and bedded in her mum’s room by eight, and then housework to be done, she found herself exhausted but satisfied by bedtime. Fresh laundry on the line overnight, fresh purées in ice-cube trays for Ruby’s meals in the freezer, bottles ready for the following day, floors mopped – Martha knew it was probably just a house-proud phase and before long she’d be catching up on herself at weekends, but for now she was nesting and loving every minute of it.
She didn’t feel lonely in the first few days at all, despite thinking that she’d miss London terribly. In the evenings, out at the washing line down the end of the garden, she’d take a moment to breathe in the air, its smells of grass and distant salt from the sea. Evening, she noted, had a different smell from morning and afternoon and it was her favourite. Despite the isolation, Martha felt finally some semblance of peace for the first time in months. And of pride as each day passed and she grew stronger in her new life.
Ruby was settling beautifully. Each morning she greeted Mary with a smile and beamed with excitement when she came to pick her up. She was eating well, unphased by the new surroundings and was particularly impressed with lying on her playmat under the pear tree in the garden and picking at clumps of grass which Martha had to
intercept on their way to her gummy mouth. She was sleeping well in Martha’s room, but was now taking her afternoon naps in the room that would be her own, in a nest on the bed made of pillows and Hugo, her teddy bear.
By Wednesday, Martha decided that it was time she bit the bullet and moved Ruby to her own room to sleep. “Or else you’ll still be sharing with Mum when you’re twenty-five and no boy will want to marry you!” Martha explained while tickling her nose with a daisy in the garden.
Martha mentioned the move to Mary Stockwell when she went to pick Ruby up on Thursday.
“Just take the bull by the horns and do it,” said Mary. “Isn’t that right, little precious?”
In the buggy, Ruby beamed and kicked her chubby legs and then reverted to trying to take her sunhat off.
“I know you’re absolutely right,” said Martha with a sigh. “I suppose I just needed to hear someone else say it.”
The two women sat on the low wall running between the crèche playground and the attached community-centre car park.
“You know you’ve got her in your room as company for you and not the other way round,” chided Mary playfully.
“It’s worse than that,” confessed Martha. “She generally ends up in my bed with me, and not because she’s the one who needs a cuddle!”
Mary feigned outrage. “Oh my goodness!” she said to Ruby, making her giggle. “Your mummy is going to ruin you!”
Mary Stockwell was in her forties and had run the crèche in Shipton Abbey for five years but had taken care of children, including her own four, on and off for most of her life.
“Can’t say I blame you,” she said to Martha. “You’re a brave girl living up there on Eyrie Farm all by yourself.”
The Dead Summer Page 4