by Janet Woods
Aunt Esmé had referred to him as Meggie’s grandfather at the last New Year party. The sisters had been talking in the kitchen, and her mother had told her aunt to mind her own business.
There was a noise out in the hall and she froze. She’d be in trouble if she were caught. Heart thumping in alarm, she quickly replaced the documents, locked the case and replaced the key in the bureau.
It was a cold, grey day and drizzle drifted across the sky. She hoped her mother had taken the umbrella. As she straightened, a glance out the window showed the postman disappearing through the gate. Relieved, she left the study and closed the door behind her. She hadn’t learned anything more than she’d already been aware of. She was curious to know why she had always been discouraged from seeing her own grandfather. But there was always another day.
In the hall the family umbrellas jostled for position with several walking sticks in the vaguely oriental, and very ugly green and orange glazed pot her mother had bought at some jumble sale. The sticks had come with the pot, and her mother said they belonged together. Somehow, the pot and its contents suited the house.
There were letters in the wire basket . . . three of them postcards from Esmé. Meggie’s had tourists in pith helmets riding on donkeys in Suez. There were camels on the two for the boys, with impossibly arched necks and their noses in the air as they gazed at the camera with disdainful expressions.
‘Superior creatures,’ she murmured, and read the messages as she went to the kitchen to put some milk on to warm. She placed the postcards on the dresser. It was the usual tourist stuff designed for a stranger’s eyes to consume.
The letter got a thorough scrutiny from her. It was addressed to Major Sangster at Foxglove House. Her stepfather usually dealt with the mail destined for there. Often, they were bills of some sort. She’d never wondered why he paid Foxglove House bills before. Now she did. The letter had an American stamp and a faint smell of perfume lingering about it. It would give her an excuse to visit him.
Her mother would punish her if she found out, though. The squirm she experienced at the thought was swallowed by her sense of adventure and curiosity. A lecture couldn’t hurt her, she supposed.
Meggie’s thoughts were interrupted when Shadow gave a deep-throated woof from outside. Guiltily she slid the letter for the major in to her pocket. She poured the milk into two glasses and stirred. Boys and dog came rushing through the door, Shadow to slurp noisily at the water bowl, and the boys reaching for their mugs of Ovaltine.
‘Where’s Mummy?’ she said.
They gazed at her, their cheeks glowing from the exercise, their upper lips decorated with milky foam. ‘Mummy got a bit puffed out and is resting on the tree stump. She told us to go on.’
That was a five-minute walk away. ‘I’ll take her an umbrella. Don’t eat all the buns while I’m gone, and be careful Shadow doesn’t steal any. There are some postcards from Aunt Es for you on the dresser.’
‘Wizard!’ Luke said as she left.
Her mother had made progress, and wasn’t too far from the gate. She looked as pale as a sheet, and Meggie’s heart lurched.
‘What is it, Mummy?’
‘Something’s wrong . . . I’m bleeding, and I felt a bit dizzy. I didn’t want to scare the boys.’
‘Bleeding . . . have you cut yourself?’
‘No, love . . . it’s coming from inside me. I think I’m losing the baby.’
Panic flickered at her, but she managed to control it for her mother’s sake. ‘I see . . . are you sure it’s not one of those monthly period things you told me about?’ She’d not experienced one yet herself, but her friend Susan had, and it had sounded horridly messy.
‘Yes, I’m sure. They stop coming when you are expecting a baby. That’s how you know you’re having one, you see.’
Meggie didn’t really see. She knew nothing about babies except they grew inside a woman’s tummy and made her look rather an odd shape. How inconvenient having that big bulge at the front must be. She had no idea of how babies got out. Her friend at school said they came out through the mother’s belly button, to which Meggie had scorned, ‘That’s silly. Boys have got belly buttons, and they don’t have babies.’
Come to think of it, she didn’t know how babies got in there in the first place. It was all so intriguing, but now was not the time to ask her mother, who had a small trickle of watery blood running down her leg into her shoe.
‘As soon as we’re indoors I’m going to lie down on the couch. Fetch me some towels, a flannel and a bowl of warm water. Then go upstairs and get me those sanitary napkins I showed you. They’re in my dressing table drawer. But first, I want you to phone your grandfather. Tell him what’s happened and ask him to come out.’
‘What about Daddy?’
‘We’ll let his father call him, if need be. They understand each other’s language.’ Her mother’s fingers brushed against her cheek. ‘Don’t you worry, Meggie Moo. Everything will be all right. I just wish Esmé were here. She was always so calm and capable, even when she was your age. She helped me give birth to you when she was only twelve.’
There was a twinge of resentment at her mother’s use of the pet name. That was her aunt’s name for her. Meggie had overheard her mother telling her father of the argument they’d had before her aunt left. Her mother said she’d been angry and upset, and had driven Aunt Esmé away. Maggie hoped she’d come back because she missed her.
The drama surrounding her own birth was something Meggie was well aware of, and because of it she had a strong sense of kinship with her aunt. It was closer than the bond she had with her mother. Sometimes, she caught her mother looking at her as if she were a stranger to her, and wondered what she was thinking. Now, her thoughtless words made Meggie feel as if she wasn’t capable. After all, any fool could use a telephone.
Knowing this was not the time to upset her mother, she did what she was directed to do. Summoning the doctor, she fetched the bits and pieces her mother needed to clean herself up with. She didn’t like seeing the blood; it made her feel queasy. She didn’t think she’d like to be a nurse when she grew up, like her aunt.
She thought that she’d rather like to be a famous writer, like Agatha Christie. Her mind went to a summer house in a cottage garden. The air was balmy and dandelion seeds floated through the air. In her imagination, Meggie inserted a piece of paper into the typewriter and picked out on the keys, Death by Dandelion Wine. Speeding up, the machine clacked words at a fast rate on to the page and paper began to fly from it. Two seconds later she wrote: The End. She ripped the paper from the machine, placed it on top of the manuscript, and then smiled. Imagination was a wonderful thing. Perhaps she’d write a letter to Agatha Christie and ask her what came next.
‘Stop daydreaming and empty the water on the garden, please, Meggie, and then put that towel and flannel to soak in cold water while we’re waiting.’
The dandelion seeds dispersed, along with the typewriter and manuscript. Perhaps it would be better if she learned how to type before she tackled a novel.
When she came back from her task, she asked her mother, ‘Would you like some tea and a buttered bun . . .? That’s if the boys haven’t eaten them all. They were as ravenous as wolverines in winter.’
Her mother gave a bit of a high-pitched giggle and bit her lip. ‘I’d better not. Have you packed my bag in case I need it?’
‘I’ll do that when the doctor arrives. He shouldn’t be long now.’
The doctor arrived within ten minutes. His wife, Helen, came with him. Suddenly superfluous, Meggie was sent from the room to keep her brothers amused.
They were amusing themselves, oblivious of the drama taking place downstairs, and playing marbles accompanied by various boy noises and protests of, ‘That’s not fair, it was my turn.’
‘Try and be a bit quieter. Mummy isn’t well and your grandfather has come out to see her.’
They looked up from their game, the expression in their eyes more aler
t than alarmed as they searched her face for clues.
‘I’m sure she’ll be all right. Stay here out the way. I expect Grandma Elliot will stay and look after us till Daddy comes home.’
They relaxed and went back to their game, believing her because she was older, and because they didn’t want the insecurity of worrying about their mother’s health.
She went through to her parents’ room, and laid out all the things her mother had told her to. Spare nightwear and underwear, toiletries and slippers – where were the handkerchiefs kept? The Sittaford Mystery by Agatha Christie was next on the list. Her mother had received the book for a Christmas present, and had kept it for her lying-in time with the new baby. It was on a shelf in the wardrobe.
Only now there might not be a lying-in, and her mother would be terribly sad if something bad happened to the baby. Meggie wouldn’t know how to comfort her, for they’d never had the ease of physical closeness that her mother enjoyed with the boys, and besides, she never knew what to say when other people became emotional.
The handkerchiefs were in the other dressing table drawer. As she lifted them, a photograph was revealed underneath. It was Richard Sangster. Her father was tall and handsome in an army uniform, his cap tucked beneath his arm. Her stepfather stood beside him, equally handsome and slightly taller.
She gazed at Richard Sangster, taking in his direct gaze, his smile and his fair curls. His smile was like sunshine, and there was a little stirring feeling inside her. Why couldn’t it have been Denton Elliot who’d died, and Richard Sangster who’d lived?
Immediately she felt guilty. She adored her stepfather. Gently, she kissed the images of both men and put the photograph back.
Helen Elliot was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She looked harassed as she took the items from her. ‘Goodness, girl, I was just about to come looking for you. Stop dawdling now; go and wait at the crossroads for the ambulance to come, in case they take the wrong turning.’
‘Will my mother be all right?’
‘Well there’s a silly question; how would I know? We’ll just have to wait and see.’ Her expression softened. ‘Try not to worry, dear. It won’t help.’
‘Who will look after Adam and Luke?’
‘I’ll stay here until their father comes home.’
‘I can get the dinner ready if you like,’ Meggie offered, determined to be helpful, because after all, she was nearly grown up. ‘We’re having beef casserole and dumplings. The casserole just needs warming through with the dumplings on top. There are carrots and sprouts, and I can boil some potatoes and mash them.’
‘Goodness, you are little miss efficiency, but let’s get our priorities right. Off you go now to keep a lookout for that ambulance. We’ll worry about dinner later.’
Meggie’s face heated. Grandmother Elliot was good at using sarcasm to dilute a compliment. She didn’t like her much. But then, she wasn’t her real, flesh and blood grandmother.
And later, Helen took over the dinner, and then reorganized the kitchen to her liking, cleaning the shelves and tut-tutting over the task.
‘You needn’t do that,’ Meggie said. ‘You’re puffing yourself out, and Mummy always leaves it to the cleaning lady.’
Helen awarded her observation with a frown, and a terse, ‘As I see. My son was brought up in a clean home, young lady, and I’ll be the judge of whether or not I’m . . . how did you put it . . . puffed out.’
Their father didn’t come home for dinner, and the boys were so worried they ate their sprouts and carrots without complaint. Meggie told them a story about angels, to prepare them in case their mother died.
Afterwards, she helped her brothers say their prayers, which would save her having to say her own separately, later on. ‘Bring Mummy and the baby home to us safely,’ she prayed, her eyes teary.
The boys started to sniffle.
‘Amen,’ she said loudly, and they copied her. Because she felt holy at that moment, she thought she might become a nun when she grew up. Remembering the sober black robes they wore, the next second she abandoned the idea.
When she went down Grandmother Elliot was asleep in a chair.
Making her a cup of tea, Meggie served it with a slice of Madeira cake.
Grandmother Elliot woke with a start. Her fuddled glance fell on the tea. ‘Thank you, dear. Are the boys asleep?’
‘Yes.’
The telephone in the hall rang.
‘I expect it’s your stepfather.’ Grandmother Elliot was the only person who referred to him that way, at least, to her face. ‘I’ll get it, dear.’
‘Denton . . . is everything all right?’
‘I see . . . yes, the boys are organized and settled down in bed . . . Meggie is still up. No, it was no trouble. Would you like to speak to the girl?’
Meggie nearly tripped over the edge of the carpet getting to the phone. ‘Hello Daddy, is everything all right?’
‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid, Meggie love. Your mother has lost the baby. He was too small to survive.’
So, she would have had another brother. It was sad that he hadn’t survived, but she hadn’t seen him as a person so he didn’t seem quite real to her. ‘And Mummy? What about her . . . she’s not going to die, is she?’
‘Good Lord no.’
An image appeared in Meggie’s mind of the three of them standing round Mother’s grave with their father. Their mother flew overhead in floating, filmy white garments. She had a spread of luminous wings and her hand clasped the podgy fist of a cherub. As a final touch, her imagination placed a golden trumpet in her mother’s mouth, so she could blow a fanfare to order St Peter to open the gates to heaven – if he happened to be on gate duty. On second thoughts she removed the trumpet. Her mother wasn’t very musical.
Meggie didn’t want her mother to go to heaven yet, so she stopped that train of thought and concentrated on what her stepfather was saying.
‘Mummy’s a bit tired and sad, but she’ll be all right in a day or two, and should be home in about a week if all goes well. I won’t be home tonight. Can you manage?’
‘Yes . . . Grandmother Elliot is here. I’ll make the bed up in Aunt Esmé’s room for her, and put a hot water bottle in the bed to warm it. Give Mummy my love, and from the boys, as well. They’ve been really soppy, but ever so good.’
‘Tell them, well done. Goodnight, sweetheart. Sleep tight.’
‘Goodnight, Daddy. I’ll do my best to be helpful.’
She made the bed, filled a hot water bottle and found a nightgown for Grandmother Elliot to wear.
The woman sniffed the air in Esmé’s room like a bloodhound, and announced, ‘This room smells damp.’
‘It’s just cold, I think. There’s a radiator, and I’ve opened the valve to let the hot water fill it, so it’s beginning to warm. It will take a little while longer to warm the room, though. I wish I’d thought of it sooner. The room hasn’t been used since Auntie Es left, you see.’
‘Well, yes, as one would imagine.’
‘I’ve put a hot water bottle between the sheets, and the blankets and eiderdown are warm and cosy; straight from the top of the airing cupboard. If you’d prefer, you can sleep in my bed, but Shadow has learned how to open the door and sometimes he makes himself comfortable on the bed and wakes me up. He’s jolly clever.’
‘No . . . this room will do,’ Grandmother Elliot said hastily. ‘Besides you’ve been sniffing all evening and your bed will be filled with cold germs.’
‘My cold is nearly better.’
Grandmother Elliot ignored the snippet of information. ‘We’d better make sure the windows and doors are locked, and the fireguards are in place. There are too many people wandering about the countryside these days.’
‘Daddy said they’re looking for work. It’s the Depression.’
‘Some people use it as an excuse. Our hen house was raided the other day and two of my best layers were stolen.’
‘We lost some cabbages and potatoes from
the garden; they were probably taken by someone with children to feed. If they’d knocked at the door Mummy said she would have given them something. Daddy agreed with her.’
Grandmother Elliot snorted. ‘Goodness. Thieves are thieves, whatever the circumstances. Livia would be better off making them work for it. The windows need cleaning, and the garden gate is hanging off its hinge.’
‘All the same—’
‘If these people are encouraged you’ll wake up one morning to discover you’ve been murdered in your bed.’
Meggie giggled, because Grandmother Elliot must surely have meant it as a joke.
But she hadn’t, for she said quite severely, ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Well . . . how can you wake up if you’ve already been murdered?’
‘Ah . . . yes . . . well of course, it goes without saying, doesn’t it. I was making a joke, and you’re being too clever by far. Off to bed with you, now.’
The thought of intruders kept Meggie awake and alert to every crack and creak until after midnight. When the clock in the hall chimed midnight she pulled the eiderdown up around her ears, so if someone sneaked in to murder her she wouldn’t hear them coming. Even so she jumped when Shadow pushed the door open and settled on the end of the bed with a heavy sigh.
‘Pest.’ Drawing her knees up to give him the room he required, she felt thankful she had someone to guard her. She just wished her bed was bigger . . . or that Shadow was smaller!
Five
Meggie got the opportunity to visit her father the following weekend.
Grandmother Elliot had upset the cleaning lady by insisting that the house be cleaned from top to bottom. The cleaner worked sullenly, making aggrieved little remarks when Grandmother Elliot was out of earshot.
‘I’m only staying because your mother’s sick, poor lady. Very polite, Mrs Elliot the younger is, and she never criticizes my work. That old biddy says, “Clean this, scrub that, iron this, polish that,” as though I don’t know how to do my own job. She’s an old fusspot, and I don’t get a moment’s peace from her.’
