Maggie's Girl

by Sally Wragg

  She grinned back. What did one kiss matter!

  ‘I hope we both go on to lead the most boring lives in the world,’ she whispered softly as he bent his head to hers. The sweetest of kisses! She gave herself up to it, knowing Alec would have understood.

  He walked away, quickly swallowed up in the darkness, whistling cheerfully.

  Feeling infinitely better, Holly turned and hurried on her way.

  ‘Andrew! Dear man. Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?’

  Herta Fleischman’s command of the English language had grown immeasurably since she’d arrived in England with her husband from Czechoslovakia.

  Knowing they were in dire straits, Andrew had opened his home to them, so while he was away he didn’t worry about the place.

  He dropped his kitbag in the hall.

  ‘It’s good to see you again, Herta.’ He meant every word.

  ‘You eat? You must be hungry. Come! I cook you food!’ She was already ushering him towards the kitchen.

  He hung back. Rest and food were tempting – he’d just spent twenty-four hours getting up here. But there were other more important things on his mind.

  ‘I’ve only called to drop things off.’ He backed towards the door, and a sudden bright smile washed the years away. ‘Someone I need to see!’

  Maggie flooded his mind. How could he wait to see her? He’d a day’s stubble on his chin, but dash it all …

  Herta stood, hands on hips.

  ‘Is a woman, yes? You have a woman?’ She threw back her head and laughed, her face creased in delight. Then she shooed him towards the door.

  ‘Go. Go and tell her you love her!’

  Andrew fled, red-faced, down the path. At the gate he pulled on his cap, before walking smartly down the road into town, through Castle Maine’s parade of busy little shops with their pitifully few wartime goods.

  Then it began.

  ‘Doctor Hardaker!’

  Ex-patients, old friends, too eager to hear about his time spent on the hospital ship, where he’d see active duty again before too long.

  It was frustrating when he could only think of Maggie, what she was doing, how she was! For most of his last duty, one thing had taken root in his mind. If he managed to return home, he’d tell Maggie Bates exactly how he felt….

  Passing the front room window for the umpteenth time that morning, Maggie paused to gaze out into the garden.

  Andrew had sounded so urgent during that trunk call, so desperate to see her!

  She moved away reluctantly, flicking her duster at the sideboard, then picked up each of William’s old trinkets, trying to remember the family history. Anything to stop her thinking.

  Why did he want to see her? She gave up, putting away the duster and smoothing down her dress, which happened to be her best.

  The reflection in the glass returned her gaze, a mature woman retaining a hint of the girl she’d once been.

  The day was a cold one, despite the sunshine. Pockets of frost still lingered under the high stone walls, and on William’s old shed, which no one quite had the heart to take down.

  Over in her corner, Dolores rootled contentedly, steam rising from her hot pink flank. Everything looked normal, a scene she’d seen so many times before …

  Then at long last, Andrew opened the gate and walked briskly up the path.

  *

  ‘I wish you’d say something.’ His calm grey eyes rested thoughtfully on her face. ‘You know how I feel about you.’

  They’d sat together talking about the war and Andrew’s part in it, the hospital, the children – anything other than the one thing they should be discussing.

  Finally, they’d put on their coats and gone for a walk, stopping on the bridge by the factory to watch the surge of white water crashing over the weir.

  ‘You do know I love you?’

  The sound of the water swallowed his words. Outside, away from the house, it had been easier to say it.

  She took a deep breath and looked up into his face.

  ‘I’m afraid, Andrew,’ she confessed. Afraid of taking that fateful step down the path of intimacy.

  ‘You think I’m not? Maggie, I’m a middle-aged man – set in my ways! What could you possibly see in me?’

  She laid a finger to his lips, but he pulled it away, determined to have his say.

  ‘I want to know how you feel.’ His eyes were wide with fear. ‘I know you can’t possibly think of me as you used to think of Hughie, but all—’

  What a mess he was making. Hughie Bates was between them – as always, the love of Maggie’s life.

  ‘I’ve never really got over him.’ Then she frowned. ‘I’ve never allowed myself to get over him.’

  ‘You loved him.’

  ‘I could love you, too, Andrew.’ She was shocked at what she’d just said, but it was the truth.

  ‘I was hoping—’ He stopped. ‘I was hoping you already did.’

  Could she really have loved him all along, and refused to face the fact? He took her hand, running his thumb softly over her fingers, sending shivers running along her spine.

  ‘One thing this war’s taught me, Maggie, you have to seize life by the throat! I’ve seen too many things – too much heartache!’ He stopped and kissed her, a tender, tentative kiss.

  ‘Look to the future, that’s all I ask! We do have a future, Maggie.’

  Maggie heard him. She gazed over his head to the massive red-brick façade of the factory.

  ‘I once worked here,’ she murmured. ‘When I was a young factory lass, the dashing local doctor would never have looked at me twice!’

  She’d been so in love with Hughie then, she’d never given Andrew a second thought.

  ‘I was a stupid young fool.’ Andrew smiled at her, his eyes soft with love.

  ‘The war’s changed everything, or what are we fighting for? Give us a chance. We belong together – I won’t let you ignore that.’

  Was it so easy? She reached for the lapels of his coat and pulled him towards her to kiss him again.

  He groaned, and his arms enfolded her, lifting her feet from the ground. When they stepped back, Andrew’s face was tight with apprehension.

  Below the bridge the water sparkled, its torrents rushing through her mind, and with it rushed realisation.

  ‘I do love you, Andrew.’ And love for this dear and wonderful man invaded every fibre of her being, as if the weir behind had burst its banks and swept her away in the flood.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘It’s a beautiful day, Stamps.’ Maggie stepped past the butler into the cool hall. ‘Am I late?’

  ‘No, indeed. No set time was mentioned. The mistress said she’d rather everyone paid just as much respect as they wished.’ Stamps’s eyes were twinkling.

  The occasion was the unveiling of the portrait of Silas Bradshaw, commissioned some months before his death, and the murmur of voices from the drawing-room suggested things were already well under way.

  Maggie took a deep, steadying breath. It still felt odd to be here, and Silas no longer with them. As if this beautiful old house had lost its heart.

  ‘Is my mother here?’

  ‘Mrs Bridges came with the children and Mrs Bertram not ten minutes since, madam.’

  Stamps had taken the loss of his master hard, Maggie could see. She smiled before walking into the drawing-room. The room was full, the happy chatter of voices rising to a crescendo, and as Adèle had intended, her gaze fell immediately on the painting, bound, eventually for the town hall.

  Maggie’s eyes widened, her heart thumping in shock. She’d heard it was a magnificent painting, but never in her wildest dreams had she expected this!

  Her grandfather was still here, a heavy mass of suppressed energy, eyes twinkling roguishly as he surveyed those who’d come to pay homage.

  And all these folk had come to do that.

  ‘It’s wonderful!’ She clasped her hands in joy.

  ‘Me mam’s here!’


  ‘Too late,’ Holly Bates advised cheerily, laying a restraining hand on her brother’s arm as Connie Bertram ran to Maggie’s side.

  ‘I don’t see why we’ve had to come. We don’t know anyone!’ Harry grumbled. He’d felt ill-at-ease since they’d got here.

  ‘Of course we should be here,’ Holly answered quietly. Even if it was causing heads to turn – folk could think what they liked! She was jolly glad her leave had coincided with this. She wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

  She squeezed her brother’s hand in sympathy. It was impossible to believe they’d never see Silas again, surveying his domain, sweeping aside those who dared to stand in his way.

  All the great and good of Castle Maine seemed to have dressed in their best to pay tribute to Silas, filling the room, spilling out on to the terrace where the early summer sun shone on the tubs of geraniums and verbena Stokes had spent the morning dragging about.

  Stamps, hovering silently, dispensed the best Silas’s cellar had to offer. Holly had enjoyed the champagne, knowing Silas’s widow saw today as a celebration.

  ‘I wish she’d hurry up.’ Harry sighed heavily, his eager young eyes scanning the press of people for the stock figure of his best friend.

  ‘I’ve not told Clifford I’m going to be a fighter pilot yet!’ He grinned at Holly.

  ‘Harry, for goodness’s sake!’ Holly shot him a venomous look. If their mam could only hear him. She’d a jolly good mind to tell her what her only son was plotting!

  There was Cliff’s half-brother, John, by the French windows, home on leave, talking to his stepfather Bertie Bertram.

  He was looking tired, his sensitive face showing all the strain of the last few months.

  No wonder; he’d had a tough time of it, flying Hurricanes all through the war, and now he had lost Silas.

  Holly’s generous heart filled with pity. Silas Bradshaw had been her mam’s grandfather, and their great-grandfather – how odd to think she and John were related, with Silas as the connection.

  She sipped her drink, her well-shaped head with its mass of curls slightly to one side. Why did she still have a soft spot for John Bertram, even while she was so worried about Alec in Italy?

  As he had throughout the whole of the day’s events, John Bertram was keeping a watchful eye on Adèle, who was doing too much.

  ‘Just a minute, Dad.’ He put down his glass and pushed his way towards his grandmother.

  ‘Come here,’ he murmured, drawing her to him, sweeping her out through the french windows, letting her rest against him. She was too old to cope with this!

  He stopped to drop a light kiss on the top of her halo of silver hair.

  ‘Why don’t you go upstairs and have a lie down?’ he urged. ‘People would understand.’

  ‘Don’t fuss, John. I’m enjoying this! Silas would have been amazed, all these people coming to see his picture.’ Adèle stepped back, looking up at her grandson thoughtfully.

  ‘You do look tired, my dear.’ She took his hand, drawing strength from his strength. ‘You’re going to miss him, too. You know he thought the world of you.’

  Her breath caught in a tight little sob.

  ‘A lot of people are going to miss him, Gran. Perhaps it’s only just beginning to sink in!’

  ‘He was a good man, John; people are only just beginning to realise.’

  There’d been a lot of envy during Silas’s eventful life. Adèle had to admit Silas, being himself, had managed to upset many people. He could never bring himself to understand exactly how he’d managed it. If only they’d known the Silas she’d known!

  ‘How will I cope?’ she asked, thinking aloud, and his arm tightened round her shoulders.

  ‘You’ll cope.’ His own voice wasn’t quite steady. ‘You’re a strong woman, Grandmamma, and you know it.’

  ‘Adèle …’ Maggie had at last managed to prise herself away from John’s mother. She hugged her grandmother, who was too thin, skin and bone, almost. There was no doubting the last few weeks of Silas’s illness had taken it out of his wife.

  ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without you both,’ Adèle said, ‘but you really must stop fretting. John, please go and look after that wife of yours!’

  Her gaze had fallen on Mary Bertram by the stairs, a little away from the crowd. John threw his grandmother a pained look, but did what she asked.

  ‘Are those two all right, do you think?’ Adèle asked abruptly.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Maggie followed her gaze, seeing her sister’s face light up despite John’s scowl. ‘They don’t see enough of each other, but they’re no different there from a lot of other folk! This blessed war has a lot to answer for.’

  Poor Mary was bringing her twins up virtually single-handed – no wonder she was always so tired. Eddie and Mattie were blooming, even if their father was away so much.

  ‘Silas won’t be here for Victory, Maggie.’ Adèle dabbed her eyes, embarrassed at her show of emotion.

  ‘You’ll have to enjoy it for him.’ Maggie wished there was something else she could say.

  Like many people, John’s mother included, she’d been wondering how Adèle would cope without Silas, after living in his shadow the whole of her married life. And such a shadow that massive frame had thrown!

  Adèle took a calming breath.

  ‘I’m so pleased you were with him at the end, my darling.’ The endearment slipped out, as it often had over the course of the last few weeks, so often Maggie took it now as customary. It still thrilled her, but when she remembered her grandfather’s last few hours, tears were never far away.

  They’d pulled his bed over to the window so that he could see Castle Maine, his own private kingdom. How content he’d seemed.

  ‘I’d have liked us to have known each other better, Maggie.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know you?’ She scoffed at him. ‘You’re family! Of course I know you.’

  His eyes were asking the question she’d tried all her life to evade. How could she deny him this one small thing, which meant everything?

  ‘You know I love you.’ She even summoned a smile, unable to understand even now how mistrust and dislike could turn to love.

  Adèle knew what she was thinking about, and squeezed her hand.

  ‘If you’ve got anything to say, Mary, I wish you’d come out and say it.’

  The Bertrams had taken their drinks on to the terrace, looking out over a garden showing signs of neglect – as if even the roses were displaying their unhappiness at their owner’s passing.

  John had been dreading this moment, yet knew he’d been longing for it, too. They had to get things straight between them, once and for all.

  His wife gazed up at him, with an expression he didn’t care to interpret. Not so long ago, he’d have been ecstatic if Mary had looked at him in that way.

  ‘I know this isn’t the time or place,’ she said.

  ‘Quite right. You’re only here because of the gossip if you weren’t.’

  ‘John, don’t.’ Despair lent wings to her tongue. ‘I understand how you feel, of course I do, but – I made a mistake, John. I’d give anything if I could undo it, but I can’t. Eddie and Mattie are here. Do we have to let this ruin the rest of our lives?’

  Her passion matched his and heads began to turn. Mary struggled to regain control.

  ‘When we first married, I wasn’t sure if I loved you.’ She looked up at him. ‘Perhaps it’s taken this to bring me to my senses, and made me realise what’s really important. I do love you. I love you, John. I think I always have …’

  ‘Love?’ He’d once longed to hear that word on her lips, and now it meant nothing to him.

  ‘When should I say it? I never see you. The twins never see you!’

  ‘Why should they?’

  He wasn’t their father – but they were gorgeous children. He would have been the proudest man in the world, if only—

  ‘They need a father, John,’ Mary persisted,
and it was the one thing he couldn’t deny. Mary saw it in his face, and a flicker of hope, virtually extinguished over the last two years, sprang up in her heart.

  ‘Hold it out, me love, and she’ll take it …’ As if mindful of the little girl’s tender years, Dolores’s mouth closed gently and neatly round the apple Mattie held eagerly out – one of the last windfalls from the attic bedroom.

  The pig grunted in delight, and Mattie squealed, turning to beam triumphantly at her brother, who was hanging back as usual.

  Dolores finished crunching and looked for more. If only that pig could talk! Peter blessed the impulse that had denied her a date with the local butcher.

  ‘Naughty Gramma. As if Grandpa’s darling was ever going to see the nasty butcher,’ he murmured, more to himself than the children, his hand scratching Dolores lovingly. Her small, crafty eyes closed in bliss.

  ‘’Gain, Grandpa?’ Mattie was holding out one plump hand for another apple.

  May sunshine spilled from the sky. It was almost impossible to believe there was a war on, that down on the coast, if rumour was true, troops were gathering. Like everyone else, Peter was heartily sick of it all and longing for the invasion.

  ‘I thought I’d find you up here.’

  The voice startled him. His smile abruptly disappeared.

  ‘Billy,’ he answered gruffly.

  So long as Billy skirted round the war and his refusal to fight in it, and his father kept his interminable comments to himself, they could get on passably now. Mam said he’d come round eventually – he couldn’t continue being so stubborn for ever.

  Couldn’t he!

  ‘I’ve tickets for the football, Saturday.’ Billy’s casual tone was carefully calculated.

  ‘I’ve something on,’ his father retorted obstinately.

  ‘Oh, come on, Dad! It’s a Forces eleven versus Derby County select. Raich Carter – Peter Doherty – you’re surely never going to miss the chance of seeing that pair turn out for the Rams? If you knew what I’ve had to go through to get the tickets!’