The Forget-Me-Not Girl

by Sheila Newberry

  ‘I’m forty-six – but I don’t look it – or do I? I could pass for forty if I do something about my hair!’

  ‘Ask Aunt Becca about that. She doesn’t seem to have any grey hairs!’

  Tom had a word with his mother on Ted’s behalf. ‘Mother, Ted has asked if he can stay on in Beccles with me and Immi. He doesn’t want to go to Newmarket if you get the job. He wants to become a clerk on the railway. I promise you we would care for him, and see he attends school until it is time to leave.’

  ‘I know I can trust you both to do so, but it hurts a bit he that he doesn’t want to be with me,’ Emma said, her bottom lip trembling. Was she doing the right thing – dividing the family?

  ‘He loves you as we all do, you can be sure of that,’ Tom assured her.

  *

  Shortly after she’d sent her application, and much to her excitement, Emma received an invitation to come to Newmarket for an interview. Rebecca was called upon to give advice on improving her appearance. Emma had, after all, given her age in her letter as forty!

  ‘How do you cover the grey in your hair, Becca?’ she asked bluntly.

  ‘Well, I’m not so worried about that yet,’ her sister replied cheerfully. ‘I use some of Richard’s pomade; he darkens his moustache with that. But you need a safe dye – how about henna?’

  ‘I don’t want to turn into a redhead!’

  ‘I believe you can use henna first and then indigo for black hair – or the chemist, I’ve heard, mixes up something in a blue bottle—’

  ‘That means it’s poisonous!’

  ‘Only if you drink it, Emma. A friend of mine recommends tincture of iron, mixed with red wine—’

  ‘We don’t have any wine, red or otherwise,’ Emma said flatly.

  ‘The grocer will oblige, I’m sure. Some use it in cooking. You wash your hair and rinse it well, then while it’s still damp, apply the solution with a fine-tooth comb from the roots. You need to protect your face, ears and neck from splashes. When your hair is dry, my friend says, oil your scalp and brush as usual.’

  ‘I’ll try that,’ Emma decided.

  ‘You can always drink any wine that’s left over.’ Rebecca winked.

  The hair colouring was successful, and then Emma was persuaded to rub a little rouge on her cheeks and lips. ‘The dark hair makes you appear pale,’ Immi said.

  On the morning of her appointment, Emma wore her best black dress. ‘I want to look like a housekeeper, not a lady of leisure,’ she said, rejecting the floral dress she’d worn to Yarmouth.

  *

  She didn’t find rail travel daunting nowadays, and it was a pleasant journey, which she whiled away by reading her well-worn copy of Mrs Beeton. Tiring of this, she tucked it away in her reticule. I know I’m a capable housekeeper, she thought to herself, and I guess I look the part now I’m older. She gazed out of the window at the rolling countryside and on the horizon saw a string of horses being galloped. Frank will be excited to be near the stables if I’m successful and secure the position, she thought.

  She was met by a groom, who tipped his cap respectfully and assisted her into a gig. A flick of the reins. and they were off at a trot to the estate.

  The Lodge was an impressive edifice with an adjacent group of outbuildings, surrounded by extensive grounds. The groom pointed to a new building, ‘That’s the squire’s boxing saloon; us grooms never get a look-in. He got left a fortune when he was a young boy and money runs through his fingers like water, they say,’ he said laconically, but seeing Emma’s reaction, omitted to tell her about the cock-fighting and gambling. There were two cottages nearby. ‘The butler lives there with his family,’ the groom told her, ‘and the other one is the gardener’s house. Beyond are the stables. they look like a horseshoe, don’t you think?’

  Emma had already learned that the squire was George Alexander Baird, whose exploits, both in the racing world and romantically, were often in the newspapers. She felt apprehensive. Now she knew why discretion was required.

  ‘You won’t have too much to do with him,’ the groom said cheerfully, reading her thoughts. ‘However, you’ll have a lot to do with the staff who live in at the Lodge but you’ll find them all easy to get on with. Here we are, this is the stable block. Mr Gurry is waiting to greet you.’ He added, ‘He and the squire fall out regular so don’t be surprised if another trainer gets to take over.’ Emma’s unease increased.

  Mr Gurry was in his office talking to a wiry man wearing breeches and boots – there was an aroma in the air that Emma immediately identified, for it reminded her of the farm and her father after working with the horse all day.

  Mr Gurry rose to greet her and introduced Emma to his companion. ‘Mrs Meehan, this is Fred Archer, the champion jockey, he came along this morning to observe the exercising of our string of horses, one in particular, on Bury Side. That’s our nearest gallop. The squire rode out with us as usual, too, but he is off to Paris today, so he left this side of things to me.’ He turned to his companion, who was about to leave. ‘Well, Fred, I’ll see you later, no doubt?’

  Fred Archer nodded. He was very tall for a jockey, Emma thought, and he had a sad face. She recalled that she’d read in the paper of the tragic loss of his wife in childbirth. ‘I must get back to my own stables at Falmouth Lodge; nice to meet you, Mrs Meehan.’ He shook her hand before leaving. Emma was unsure after whether his parting words were addressed to her or not: ‘Good Luck.’

  ‘Do sit down,’ Mr Gurry said to Emma, indicating a chair. ‘I must say we were impressed with your letter, and your references are excellent. The butler was looking forward to meeting you this morning. He sends his apologies. The squire requires his services before he leaves, but there is also a houseful of guests who arrived last night for a party. Now, we can discuss the matter of your employment and what the job entails, please ask as many questions as you like.’

  They were soon talking like old friends, and Emma was reassured it would be a rewarding position, both financially and personally, as she planned to send money home to help with Ted’s keep.

  ‘You have a motherly look,’ Mr Gurry said, ‘and I’m sure you can handle spirited lads of this age group – they are a good bunch, but they need guidance at times.’

  Emma thought ruefully, Motherly . . . so much for dyed hair and a tight corset! ‘My younger son, Frank, will enjoy life here, I know. He is passionate about horses.’

  ‘I understand your older boy will be looking for work? He might be employed here in some capacity, perhaps as a stable lad, but we are not looking for another apprentice at the moment.’

  ‘I would be most grateful,’ Emma said. ‘His name is Ernest.’

  ‘As for young Frank, he could work here part-time as kitchen boy – he has to have a title, to earn a small wage.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She added impulsively, ‘Please call me Emma, everyone does!’

  Mr Gurry smiled. ‘Now, follow me and I will show you where the stable staff are housed. The first cottage, which is fully furnished, you will share with Dorcas, our cook. I’m sure you will get on splendidly – she will take you to the kitchen and mess hall to introduce you to the daily staff. Dorcas will also inform you about the tradesmen who call, and the daily records of expenditure.’

  ‘Does that mean I have the job?’ Emma had to know.

  ‘Yes, Emma, it does,’ he smiled. ‘If possible, we would like you to commence your duties in a month’s time.’

  *

  Emma helped Tom furnish his new home with furniture she had collected before she came to Beccles. ‘I know Immi will keep it polished,’ she said. ‘Those particular things hold sentimental value for me. The furnishings we bought in the auction rooms can go back there to be sold. The money won’t be much but should pay for the move.’

  Immi was to be custodian of her grandmother Isabella’s trunk, which also held memorabilia from her father. ‘I bequeath you my purple eiderdown, too,’ Emma told her. ‘I must travel as light as possibl
e to Newmarket, though there will be a trunk full of our clothes for the three of us.’

  There was good news about the lease of the Beccles boarding house, for the house and business already had a new tenant waiting to take over.

  Emma had been there with her family for almost five years: Time to move on, she thought. However, first, she was looking forward to a fortnight back in Wymondham, with her younger boys. William had written Come home and have a well-earned rest! Friends ask after you. All is well, Love Will and Sarah.

  EPILOGUE

  Wymondham, Autumn 1885

  ‘We’re home, boys!’ Emma exclaimed excitedly as the train arrived at Norwich Station. They would soon be back at Wymondham and Browick Bottom Farm, where they would stay at the farmhouse with William and his family; it would be her first time back there since Jeremiah’s wedding some eighteen months before. She reached up to the rack and took down a bulging bag – this was TF’s old naval sack, as he’d referred to it. It was nice to have something of Tom’s to bring back with them to Wymondham and she was glad she hadn’t discarded it when they’d left Hungate. He’d probably smile and say, ‘You’re sentimental, Emma, about my old sack, but I suppose I kept it for the same reason,’ she thought with a sad smile.

  Jeremiah was waiting on the platform and took them round to board the farm cart, for the smart wagon William had owned years ago had been given to his elder sons when they took over his business.

  When they arrived, the boys were given a tour. There were some changes to the farm, of course. There was a fine new cowshed, and one of the barns was now a repository for all the machinery. There was no big shire horse to pull the plough, though. No pigs either, and the hens now had a large secure pen – no more searching for eggs hidden in hedgerow nests – and there were ducks swimming in an enlarged pond, as their eggs were popular when sold at the market.

  ‘Where are the cats?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Some in the barn, but they are not domesticated, Frank,’ Jeremiah said. ‘Indoors, us hev a pet kitten, a ginger one, so that’s a tomcat, and us do call him Ginger, too.’

  ‘Like Ernie – they call him Ginger at school!’ Frank said, earning a poke from his brother in return.

  Then they went into the dairy to see William busy churning the butter. ‘The gals do like a chatter when folk come, so I be doing my bit,’ he said. ‘Who would like to turn the handle?’

  ‘Me!’ cried the boys in unison.

  ‘One at a time,’ William said, hoisting Frank on to a three-legged stool.

  Inside the big kitchen, still with its black-leaded range and singing kettle, Emma sat down at the old pine table, and said reflectively to Sarah and Emily, Jeremiah’s wife, ‘Do you still make bread and use the oven in the wall?’ She looked round the room, thinking, It doesn’t seem the same without all of us who once lived here.

  ‘We do,’ Sarah said with a smile. She was bustling about as usual, making cups of tea and putting hot griddle scones on a plate, with a dish of farm butter beside them. Minnie, who was shy at first with visitors, was strapped in her little chair. She was toddling now at a year old, but not in the kitchen when cooking was going on. Emily was adding dumplings to the simmering salt beef in the big pot on the stove, for dinner later. She turned and asked, ‘I’ll call them in, shall I? Lucky it’s not raining, the boys would hev muddy shoes.’

  The little ginger cat suddenly jumped up onto Emma’s lap. She stroked him and he purred loudly. ‘You make a lot of noise for a little ’un,’ she told him, tickling him behind his ears.

  Ernie and Frank came in, and Sarah told them to wash their hands in the scullery first, before eating the scones. Frank was eager to tell his mother what they had been doing outside but followed his brother reluctantly. He was back in a couple of minutes. ‘I made some butter in a big churn, it rolled over and over but William made it do that – I wasn’t big enough, he said.’

  ‘Uncle William,’ Emma reminded him.

  ‘Oh, I’m Will or William to all of ’em.’ William said, smiling.

  ‘I didn’t see a horse. You haven’t got one now, have you, William?’ Frank piped up.

  ‘No, I’m an engineer you see, us don’t need one now, but I miss our old hoss too,’ William said.

  ‘And they haven’t got a spaniel called Fly any more, like the one you told us about, Mother.’ Ernie had arrived. He held up his clean hands to show his mother, and she nodded. ‘He only dipped his in the water, not washed them,’ Ernie said.

  ‘Don’t tell tales,’ Emma said firmly. ‘He’s younger than you, so it’s allowed.’

  ‘Pass the scones round, Ernie,’ Sarah suggested. She smiled at Emma. ‘Boys don’t change, do they? Just like mine used to be . . .’

  *

  That evening, after the boys had gone to their beds in the room Emma’s brothers had slept in years ago, and Emily and Jeremiah had retired, Emma, William and Sarah sat round the fire talking of old times and remembering life as it was here thirty or more years ago. Then Emma enquired after old friends. ‘Do you remember – the day Frank was born?’

  ‘I certainly do,’ Sarah said, sipping her bedtime cocoa.

  ‘I delivered those twins, I recall, and then went home to be delivered myself – by you, Sarah!’

  ‘Those twins, who were so small,’ Sarah said, ‘are big girls now and today they can wrestle any lad to the ground who teases them. Where do the years go to, Emma?’

  Emma shook her head. ‘Don’t ask me, but I am glad I am back home again, even if it’s for a short time. Sarah, I have a favour to ask of you. Would you mind if I go by myself to the Abbey – could the boys stay here with you – I need to say goodbye to my husband and tell him I will be away and not able to visit him for some time.’

  Sarah leaned over: ‘Go there whenever you feel the need, my dear, us understand.’

  *

  Emma stood looking at the impressive headstone over TF’s grave. She had gone early to the Abbey graveyard, while the mist was clearing and the stone gleamed white; it was obvious her brother and sister-in-law had cleaned it regularly. Emma traced the outline of the forget-me-nots carved above her husband’s name with her finger. She spoke in a whisper, although there was no one about: ‘My darling Tom, I have to go away for a while, but I had to say goodbye to you. My love for you is as strong as ever, and I will think of you every day, I promise. Our wonderful family are growing up fast, and I have to let them go, but they all love you too. You would be so proud of what they have achieved.’

  She looked up; the sky was still streaked with red, but the mist was gone. There was the promise of a lovely day ahead.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The support and enthusiasm of Glenys, Nell’s daughter is much appreciated. Glenys, a dedicated nurse/tutor, helped with recalling times and places and advised on medical matters of the era. I am grateful to Pam Kempton for her painstaking research concerning TF, his family, as a boy sailor in the Crimean War, service in the original London fire service (LFEE) and the London Salvage Company. The information from the LFB museum was most helpful. Various letters come from my late mother Bella’s box; Bella perpetuated Emma’s stories in the Uggeshall Book and Nell too shared fond memories of their grandma. Myrtle’s daughter, Sandra, is also thanked for her warm support. My dear husband John as always helped in my research. Thanks too, to Lynne in Canada for sharing memories of her intrepid great-grandfather Frank.

  All Emma and TF’s children were very special in their own way, and the youngest, Frank, was heroic like his father. There is one character, previously unknown to me, who was an unsung hero, Emma’s half-brother, William, who looked out for every single one of his extended family.

  I hope I have captured the essence of Emma. I was very young at the end of her long life, but I still see her in my mind’s eye, and now I have given her a voice I hope others can see her too. I have followed in Emma’s footsteps it seems, for she was a great storyteller and certainly used her imagination . . . and I bel
ieve she would have approved of my interpretation of her love story.

  I would like to thank both Claire and Gillian for their skilful editing and for not changing ‘my voice’ or the storyline. I really must pull my socks up and not capitalise so freely! My apologies for those slip ups! This was a very special story to write, and I hope I might be asked for more . . .

  *

  NB: The names of minor characters in the story have been changed, as they appear briefly in the story and were not relevant to research. Some friends come and go during a long life. Too many characters called Thomas on both sides of the family could cause confusion, so Emma’s father, the most prominent of these, is now Tobias!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sheila Newberry was born in Suffolk and spent a lot of time there both before and during the war. She wrote her first ‘book’ before she was ten – all sixty pages of it – in purple ink. Her family has certainly been her inspiration and she has been published for most of her adult life. She spent forty years living in Kent on a smallholding with her husband, John, and has nine children, twenty-two grandchildren and six great-grandchildren. Sheila retired back to Suffolk where she still lives today.

  Also by Sheila Newberry

  Angel’s Secret

  Bicycles and Blackberries

  The Canal Girl

  The Daughter’s Choice

  The Family at Number Five

  Far From Home

  The Gingerbread Girl

  The Girl With No Home

  Hay Bales and Hollyhocks

  Hot Pies on the Tram Car

  Molly’s Journey

  The Nursemaid’s Secret

  The Poplar Penny Whistlers

  The Punch and Judy Girl

  The Watercress Girls

  The Winter Baby

  Welcome to the world of Sheila Newberry!