‘Well, please let me contribute a few things – like a washing-machine and a spin dryer. We don’t want to be all day doing chores – I’ve been looking forward to revisiting all our favourite local places.’
‘The stream, and the watercress bed, I imagine?’
‘That most of all,’ Mattie said softly. ‘Now I’m here, and will be for ever.’
1985
Gracie telephoned and asked if she might visit them one weekend in May.
‘Is Lachy coming?’ Evie asked.
‘No. We are both not working at present, and there’s not much prospect of me doing so, but he has an audition for a radio play.’ Gracie sounded rather off-hand.
‘Oh dear.’ Evie turned to Mattie as she put down the phone. ‘I wonder if they are thinking of splitting up . . .’
‘Megan hinted that something was up.’ Mattie was reclining on the sofa. She’d been laid low with a chest infection which stubbornly resisted medication.
‘Are you up to a visitor, old dear?’
‘Not so much of the old; you make me feel over eighty!’
‘Well, you may not look it, but you are, and I am going to take care of you, whether you like it or not!’
‘Of course I want to see Gracie. She’s forty now . . . doesn’t seem possible.’
‘Forty she may be, but she’s taking her time to grow up, eh?’
‘I thought she’d be married by now,’ Mattie said. ‘Probably too late for a family.’
But when they saw Gracie they realised instantly that it wasn’t too late, at all.
Gracie was wearing a fine almost transparent Indian dress in an unusual shade of green, fitted under her breasts and flowing loose over a definite bump. ‘Yes, I’m pregnant,’ she said defiantly. ‘Just as much a shock to me as it obviously is to you both.’ She moved a footstool next to the sofa and sat on it, looking up at her grandmother. She was actually wearing her glasses today, which somehow made her look vulnerable.
Evie hesitated, then said, ‘I’ll make the tea. You two – talk.’
Mattie fingered the soft material of Gracie’s long sleeve. ‘I remember we had a lovely range of Indian silks and cottons in the emporium at Plymouth. Christabel and I, we had dresses made from remnants bought for a few shillings, when we went on a bank holiday outing . . .’
‘The only outing I have in view is to the maternity hospital,’ Gracie said.
‘What does Lachy think about this? Isn’t he going to ask you to marry him now?’
‘He’s been on at me for years about that! He’s a vicar’s son, didn’t you know?’
‘No . . . I didn’t know.’ Mattie was aware she was wheezing; she must keep calm.
‘Well, when I get used to the idea, I might,’ Gracie sounded less defiant. ‘I-I thought you’d be upset and say how could I, and all that . . .’
‘I didn’t say that to your mother, though I was worried stiff because she was so young, and I won’t say it to you, either. In my view, and your dear Grandad’s, a baby is always a blessing! Does Megan know?’
‘Yes, and she said I must tell you myself – that’s why I’m here.’
‘I’m glad. I really am.’
Evie wheeled in their latest acquisition, a tea trolley. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Everything is very all right,’ Mattie said. ‘Except I need a spoonful of linctus in case I cough all over those lovely cakes!’
Gracie and Lachy had a quiet wedding in September: the baby was due in November. They were staying with Megan and Max in London as Lachy had a regular spot in a series on radio.
It was obvious that Mattie’s health was declining, but she was determined to see the baby soon after it was born.
‘You mustn’t think of travelling here. Mom and Dad have promised to drive us to Suffolk, as soon as I am up to it! Ask Aunty Evie if the crib is still in the loft,’ Gracie said over the phone as she settled in at the hospital for the birth.
Evie, who was on the receiving end of panic calls from Megan, wisely kept the news of Gracie’s difficult confinement from her sister. It was a great relief to her when she was able to tell Mattie, ‘It’s a girl! Six pounds something – I didn’t quite hear all Megan was saying, she was so excited!’
‘Is all well? I was rather hoping it would be a boy, because Gracie said she’d call the baby after Griff . . .’
‘I think you’ll be pleased when you know the baby’s name, Gracie wants to tell you herself, and yes, all’s well, it seems, thank goodness.’
A week later Gracie placed a small bundle in her grandmother’s arms. ‘She’s Matilda, after you, Mommy Mattie – are you pleased?’
‘Oh, I am, but you might prefer to shorten it to Tilly, this time.’
‘Would you like that?’
‘Yes.’ Mattie, propped up by pillows on the sofa, cuddled the baby close. ‘She’s got dark hair, so far, maybe she’ll have curls like your mom and Evie.’
‘I don’t know about that, but she’s got a lot to live up to,’ Gracie said softly.
EPILOGUE
Tom had gone abroad after their graduation, as he had always planned. He wanted Tilly to accompany him on his travels, for them to paint together in exotic locations, ‘before they disappear for ever,’ he said.
Tilly had another idea. ‘It’s Aunt Evie’s hundredth birthday just before Christmas. She’s getting very frail – she has a full-time carer now. But her mind is as sharp as ever, and she still writes to me regularly, as you know. She took over keeping in touch with the family from Mattie. She’s the last one of that generation left. She wants me to be at her party.’
‘You could come home for the celebration,’ Tom thought. ‘Think about it.’
‘I already have. There’s something I want to do in the meantime.’
‘What?’
‘She sent me that slip of paper in her last letter – the address where the painting of Mattie, or rather the unknown girl was sent to, can you believe, over ninety years ago? I want to follow the trail – find the picture – take a photograph of it, if it still exists, and give it to Evie on her birthday.’
He gave her a fierce hug. ‘I’ll miss you.’
‘And I’ll miss you. But we both have to do our own thing,’ Tilly said. ‘Like the artist, wish me good luck.’
‘I do. Keep in touch . . .’
‘Always,’ she promised.
It was a time for writing letters. First to the address in Somerset given by Mr B., but although Tilly promptly received a pleasant reply, the present occupant had only lived there for four years. She knew nothing of the artist, or the picture. However, she recalled that the previous owner had mentioned that the family for whom the house had been built had lived there until the 1970s, when the property was sold for the first time.
The letter concluded: I enclose an address for my predecessor. We exchange Christmas cards, so I know this lady still lives there. Perhaps she can help?
Tilly had decided that she should correspond in her own handwriting, not dash off something which might appear too official on the computer. She had forgotten, she thought ruefully, how long it took to put pen to paper and write a letter a stranger would want to read. The older generation preferred a fountain pen to ballpoint.
There was a frustrating two weeks before she had a response to her enquiry.
I found your letter most interesting! I was told by a surviving member of the original family at Moat House when I moved there with my husband and young children, that her grandfather had been an esteemed surgeon at one of the big London teaching hospitals. Sadly, his wife died young, and he brought up a large family with the help of his unmarried sister and quite an army of servants (I had to manage with one splendid local daily help!) because, naturally, he was not often at home.
I do not remember seeing the picture you mention when we were shown over the house for the first time, but the granddaughter, who lived there then had most thi
ngs packed away, the furniture under dustsheets and so on. She had lost interest in the place. I’m afraid this lady is no longer with us.
I wonder if you have thought of writing to the Academy to find out if they have any record of the artist’s descendants?
Well, Tilly now knew just a little about the place, and to whom the picture had gone. Another letter to write! But first, she must research the artists of the time and try to find the mysterious Mr B!
At her parents’ home in Surrey one of the walls in the sitting-room had been fitted with shelves for books. There was a whole row of weighty encyclopaedias encased in grainy leather with copious illustrations. These had been published at the end of the nineteenth century. There were several artists with a surname which began with ‘B’ but only one who seemed a possibility: the son of German immigrants, a tailor and a seamstress who took up residence in the east end of London in the 1870s. There was a short piece on the artist and his work, but no photograph of him or facsimile of any of his pictures. He was said to be a painter of rural scenes, mainly watercolours, but it was noted that latterly the artist had executed some portraits in oils, one of which had been accepted by the Royal Academy.
So, Tilly said to herself, it might be worth writing there to see what they know of this particular artist and where he was after the outbreak of the First World War.
She received a formal acknowledgement of her letter within a week or two, with a note saying that her communication had been passed on to someone who might be able to help her with her quest. They must leave it to this person to get in touch and not reveal any further details, they said.
Oh, another wait, (she wrote to Tom) and it’s already November! Maybe I am on a wild goose chase, after all . . . I’m glad I decided to make this a surprise for Aunt Evie, because if I don’t manage to find the picture then she won’t be disappointed. How I wish you were here!
A month went by. Tilly was ready to give up. Then a letter in unfamiliar writing arrived. She opened it with shaking hands. Was this a polite rebuff? As she began to read, delight spread across her face.
Dear Tilly (if I may call you that),
You have found me out! I am a cousin, several times removed of the artist. I never knew him personally because he died during the Great War. Broken-hearted, my grandmother said, because he was forced to leave his home. I am the custodian of his unsold paintings, which I am afraid are stacked in the attic of my modest home some distance from you, in fact in Cardiff!
If you should wish to talk to me further, you are welcome to visit me. Please telephone before you come.
Yours sincerely,
Daphne Shelby.
Tilly’s mother lent her the money for the train fare, with a sigh. ‘Let’s hope that you will feel able to settle down in the new year, and find a job . . . time to grow up, Tilly.’
‘Just what your Grandma Mattie’s mother said to her, according to Aunt Evie,’ Tilly told her ruefully.
Daphne Shelby, a woman about her mother’s age, took Tilly up the winding stairs to the attic in her tall, terraced town house.
‘You’ll have to sort through all these, I’m afraid. Not quite my taste; I like contemporary art. What branch of art are you in?’
‘I studied fine art. Cézanne is a favourite of mine.’
‘An Impressionist, eh? He must have influenced my relative, if this particular painting is anything to go by. It’s unusual because the face is left blank – I thought at first that it had faded, because it has leaned for years against the windowsill. I don’t suppose . . .’ She lifted a small canvas, turned it round to show Tilly.
Tilly said faintly, ‘It must be! The portrait of the unknown girl in the yellow dress, the one my great-grandmother sat for.’
‘I wonder who returned it to my cousin’s estate?’
‘Maybe the person it was painted for didn’t want it, because it was unfinished. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know now, but I made up a story about why he commissioned the picture, to explain it to myself,’ Tilly said. ‘I thought the portrait was to represent a young girl who had died. The artist was given her photograph in order to complete it, but he apparently sent that back too to the client for safe keeping. May I take a photograph of the picture, Daphne, please?’
‘Better still, you must take the picture and give it to your wonderful aunt. I’m sure the artist would have wanted that. Let’s go downstairs and dust it off, eh?’
*
Tilly’s family gathered for the party. Tom was there, too. He couldn’t stay away, he said.
There was a long silence while Tilly carefully unwrapped the painting for Evie.
Then Evie touched it very gently, as Tilly held it so that she could see it.
‘Thank you, Tilly. So many memories . . . I never thought I’d see this again. Dear Mattie’s crowning glory, her hair, and that lovely, yellow dress. Just one thing will make it perfect.’
‘What’s that, Aunt Evie?’
‘Will you paint her face for me? There’s that photograph of the two of us, on the hall table, with our basket of watercress – would that help?’
‘I can see her face in my mind’s eye already, I’d love to do it,’ Tilly said, as Tom slipped his arm round her waist and squeezed it.
‘Let’s go down to the stream and pick watercress,’ he whispered. They hadn’t been alone together since he returned from abroad.
‘But it’s not the right time of year for that,’ she protested.
‘You go,’ Evie said wisely. ‘The others will have tea ready when you come back.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The Meadow Girls is dedicated to the five ‘Mackley Girls’ who grew up variously in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, Canada and Minot, North Dakota, USA.
Also, to the memory of two lovely English sisters, Lottie, who was painted as a child wearing a yellow dress, and her sister Clare, missionary and teacher.
I would like to thank my Canadian/American cousins, Jean (Mackley) and Del Plaisance for their warm encouragement, vivid recall of past times, and help with my research, (which included splendid photographs by their nephew Gary Hagen).
Also ‘over here’, Sara, Glenys, Joyce, G.C. and, as always, John.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
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 was certainly her inspiration and she was published for most of her adult life. She spent forty years living in Kent on a smallholding with her husband John, and had nine children, twenty-two grandchildren and six great-grandchildren. Sheila retired back to Suffolk where she lived until her death in January 2020.
Also by Sheila Newberry
Angel’s Secret
A Winter Hope
Bicycles and Blackberries
The Canal Girl
The Daughter’s Choice
Far From Home
The Forget-Me-Not Girl
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 Winter Baby
Welcome to the world of Sheila Newberry!
Keep reading for more from Sheila Newberry, to discover a recipe that features in this novel and to find out more about Sheila’s upcoming books . . .
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Meet Sheila Newberry
I’ve been writing since I was three years old, and even told myself stories in my cot. So it came as a shock when I was whacked round the head by my volatile kindergart
en teacher for daydreaming about stories when I was supposed to be chanting the phonetic alphabet. My mother received a letter from my teacher saying, ‘Sheila will not speak. Why?’ Mum told her that it was because I was scared stiff in class. I was immediately moved up two classes. Here I was given the task of encouraging the slow readers. This was something I was good at but still felt that I didn’t fit in. Later, I learned that another teacher had saved all my compositions saying they inspired many children in later years.
I had scarlet fever in the spring of 1939, and when I returned to our home near Croydon, I saw changes which puzzled me – sandbags, shelters in back gardens, camouflaged by moss and daisies, and windows reinforced with criss-crossed tape. Children had iron rations in Oxo tins – we ate the contents during rehearsals for air-raids – and gas masks were given out. I especially recall the stifling rubber. We spent the summer holiday, as usual, in Suffolk and I remember being puzzled when my father left us there, as the Admiralty staff was moving to Bath. ‘War’ was not mentioned but we were now officially evacuees, living with relatives in a small cottage in a sleepy village.
On and off, we returned to London at the wrong times. We were bombed out in 1940 and dodging doodlebugs in 1943. I thought of Suffolk as my home. I was still writing – on flyleaves of books cut out by friends – and every Friday I told stories about Black-eyed Bill the Pirate to the whole school in the village hut. I wrote my first pantomime at nine years old, and was awarded the part of Puss in Boots. I wore a costume made from blackout curtains. We were back in our patched-up London home to celebrate VE night and dancing in the street. Lights blazed – it was very exciting.
I had a moment of glory when I won an essay competition that 3000 schoolchildren had entered. The subject was waste paper, which we all collected avidly! At my new school, I was encouraged by my teachers to concentrate on English Literature and Language, History and Art, and I did well in my final exams. I wanted to be a writer, but was told there was a shortage of paper! True. I wrote stories all the time and read many books. I was useless at games like netball as I was so short-sighted – I didn’t see the ball until it hit me. I still loved acting, and my favourite Shakespearian parts were Shylock and Lady Macbeth.
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