by Janet Woods
Her aunt’s eyes widened at that. ‘At your age one tends to see everything from the viewpoint of only how it affects you. Believe me, things tend to fall together as you get older.’
‘You mean I’m self-centred.’
‘Not exactly, but girls of your age have a tendency to dramatize things and read more into them than there is. Your mother loved Richard Sangster. We all did. It was sad that he died without him getting to know you, or you to know him. But your mother has married again and has Dr Denton and the boys to care for, as well. She’s had to put the past behind her and move on, for their sakes.’
‘Do I sound horribly selfish?’
‘No, you’re fast becoming a woman, and I’m sure your mother will tell you what you need to know regarding your place in the family when she’s good and ready. It’s not for me to interfere.’
It wasn’t until they reached home that Meggie realized that her aunt hadn’t given her the information she’d wanted. But then, her aunt wasn’t married, so perhaps she didn’t know much about the act of procreation, either.
‘We could always ask the vicar,’ she suggested to Susan, the thought of which kept them laughing for the rest of the week.
The subject became a bit of a passion with them. Meggie and Susan enjoyed endless whispered conversations about what took place between men and women, and they giggled a lot, especially when Susan found some postcards of almost naked women in her brother’s coat pocket and they tried out the poses, though with their clothes intact.
It was a pity her mother didn’t recognize the onset of her womanly attributes as a signal that she’d grown up, Meggie thought, because she was still treated as if she were a child, despite the brassieres.
And even though she’d passed one hurdle it seemed to Meggie that there was another. She wouldn’t be regarded as a proper woman until she’d married, and had gone through the experience of losing her virginity. As if she would do such a thing after seeing that diagram of a naked man and woman together. It all seemed so ridiculous, and she wouldn’t be able to stop laughing if it happened to her. Why couldn’t women just lay eggs and go about their business until they hatched?
But what if she never married, like poor Aunty Es, who although very pretty, must be at least twenty-four?
She started looking at boys in a different way, and found some grown men to be a little uncomfortable with their furtive glances . . . even her grandfather, who often patted her on the knee or on the bottom, and put his arms around her shoulders sometimes, as if he wanted to kiss her. She instinctively shrank away from any attempt at grandfatherly affection from him. Could she dare ask her mother the truth about doing It?
No . . . her mother was bound to think she was precocious. She’d give her that look, the one that said she was wondering what on earth she’d given birth to. Then she’d send her scurrying to do some task rather than give her an answer.
Meggie did the next best thing. She waited until she was alone in the house, and then fetched one of the medical books down from the bookcase. There were diagrams, and her eyes widened. She’d seen her brothers in the bath when they were babies, of course, and they had floppy little appendages to indicate they were male . . . but heavens! This drawing wasn’t in miniature, but man-sized. And she hadn’t known that they could point upwards like that. It was exactly how Susan had told her. Meggie knew, of course, that men and women were different, but hadn’t known why . . . now she did. How utterly hilarious!
Meggie couldn’t look at either her stepfather or her mother for a while after the talk without having to stifle the urge to giggle. They must have done it at least three times to produce the boys, and her mother had done it once with Richard Sangster as well.
Armed with this knowledge, she felt more grown-up and important, and, when her menstrual period finally arrived, rather dignified, so she walked rather than ran, and kept her knees together in a ladylike manner when she was seated.
On one occasion she affected the mannerisms of the vicar’s wife when the woman came for tea. Her mother had sent her to fetch the cake, and then followed her out.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing, Meggie?’
‘I’m practising to be a lady for when I grow up. Mrs Avery is awfully pretty and smart, isn’t she? They’re nicer than the last vicar and his wife. What a pity her front teeth are a bit crooked, though. I’m glad mine are even.’
Her mother bit down on her lip as though she wanted to laugh. ‘If she saw you crooking your little finger like that she’d be horribly embarrassed, and so would I.’ Her mother’s sigh was one of pure exasperation. ‘Honestly, Meggie . . . I could shake you. I sometimes wonder what you’ll do for a living when you grow-up.’
‘Oh . . . I might become an actress, like Rosemary Mortimer. Being a family member, she might invite me to Hollywood and I’ll have four husbands, fur coat, lots of glittery diamond rings to flash, and I’ll become the famous star of the silver screen. I’ll call myself Eloise Elliot. It’s a much better name for a film star than Margaret, since practically every woman in the world is called that.’ She pouted her lips and fluttered her eyelashes at her mother.
Her mother looked stunned for a moment, then said quietly, ‘Who told you about Rosemary Mortimer?’
Oops! Meggie scrambled for a credible answer, and then decided to brave it out. ‘Oh . . . everyone in the district seems to know about her. Wasn’t her name Sangster, and wasn’t she married to—’
‘Rosemary Mortimer was only a Sangster by marriage.’
Meggie refused to be put off. ‘To Major Henry, my Sangster grandfather,’ she finished. There, it was out, and the subject now dangled like the sword of Damocles over her head. She hoped the horse’s hair it was suspended from was a strong one, because now she’d named the unnamed she was attacked by a sense of overwhelming doom. Her brain seemed to shrivel in the long, cool assessment her outspokenness attracted. Her mother’s eyes were glazed over and almost icy. Under it lurked a sense of vulnerability, as though Meggie had mortally wounded her.
Voice even, though in a tightly controlled sort of way, her mother said, ‘Enough! Bring that cake in, please. After that you may make your excuses to Mrs Avery. No doubt you can think of an excuse that’s convincing. Then you can go off and practise being a lady elsewhere . . . preferably in your room.’
How cold she sounded. Meggie mentally flinched, and, overcome by guilt, whispered, ‘Sorry, Mother.’
‘I’ll talk to you later.’ Her mother then turned and walked away, and Meggie decided that being ignored was worse than a lecture, because waiting for the latter was fraught with tension.
But that aside . . . what was it about Major Henry that brought such a response from her mother? What had he done? Perhaps she would ask him.
Feeling penned inside her natural need to rebel, she ignored her mother’s suggestion to retire to her room, pulled on her coat and the cheerful red gloves and scarf Aunt Esmé had knitted for her, and then went out into the cold November afternoon.
Dr Andrew Elliot’s car was parked outside Nutting Cottage. She hoped her grandfather wasn’t sick. But no . . . old Dr Elliot often called in on him, the major had told her. So did her father, and the district nurse, and the lady who came to clean and do his shopping. But rarely in the afternoon, so it would be best if she visited then.
She went past, deciding to look in on him on the way home, and a little while later she let herself into Foxglove House. Usually, she enjoyed the solitude of the place, but today she was unsettled and upset by the argument with her mother . . . and all over a stupid crooked finger. It seemed that she could never do anything right. Soon she wouldn’t be allowed to breathe without a lecture.
Her throat ached with the tension of unshed tears. She picked up a photograph of her father and absorbed his smile, her mind reaching out for any trace of him that might still reside in the house. He looked jolly, dashing and nice. She wished he were still alive so she could talk to him.
Sh
e went upstairs to the room where he used to sleep. Misty afternoon light came in through the grimy window that gave her enough illumination to see clearly. There was a safe in the room next door. She knew where the key was kept; in a secret compartment in the dresser. The door swung open easily when she turned it in the lock.
A bulging brown leather document case took up most of the room inside. Tipping the contents on to the bed she shuffled through it. There, she found the details of the Sinclair side of the family, including a couple of Richard Sangster’s diaries. But they were old ones, and shed no light on events that occupied her mind. But there was a record of his war service, birth, marriage and death. And there was a family tree. The last person who was recorded on it, in her mother’s hand, herself. Margaret Eloise Sinclair Sangster. She giggled when she realized that the initials spelled MESS.
She’d been born . . .? She stared thoughtfully at the date, and at the date of her parents’ marriage. So that was it! Her mother had been expecting her when she’d married Richard Sangster. He hadn’t lived long enough to see his own daughter born.
But what had that to do with not being allowed to see her grandfather? She wished her mother would tell her. It must have been something really bad . . . or perhaps it was because the marriage had been one of convenience.
The light was failing fast, and the temperature plummeted with it. She hurried home through the gloaming light, leaving the diaries where they were, but taking the family tree to study. It was too late to see her grandfather.
Her mother was waiting for her, annoyance painted on her face. ‘Where have you been, Meggie? I was worried.’
Her chest felt bulky where the document was flattened against her body. She kept an arm over it in case it slipped to the floor. She thought fast and uttered the first plausible lie that entered her head. ‘Aunt Es is due home soon. I went to see if she was on the train.’
‘She usually rings us when she’s on her way. You’re very dusty, go and tidy yourself up, then come down to the sitting room, I want to talk to you while the boys are out.’
She presented herself, and said before her mother could get the first word in, ‘I’m sorry I was rude to Mrs Avery, and to you. I don’t know what comes over me sometimes, and I have this horrible sense of humour that makes me want to giggle at times, when everyone else wants to be serious.’
‘You should try to control it. I don’t like my guests to be embarrassed.’
‘Remember, Mr Pike’s funeral? When the hearse went past and everyone closed their curtains, I peeked out, and I wondered how the undertaker had managed to fit such a large man into such a slim box.’
Her mother chuckled. ‘I wondered exactly the same thing. Listen now. Meggie. What happened was my fault, and it’s me who should apologize. Being a teenager is not easy, and I think I expect too much of you.’
‘Were you really worried . . . why? I won’t become an actress, I promise.’
‘Because my father-in-law saw you walking past Nutting Cottage.’
She found a plausible connection. ‘Well, you have to walk past it to go to the station.’ She hesitated. Her mother seemed to be in an approachable mood. ‘Will you tell me why you don’t like me mentioning my grandfather?’
The blank look appeared in her mother’s eyes, then she sighed. ‘I suppose you’re old enough to know. He had a mental breakdown after his wife left him and was in hospital for a while. He’s on pills to stop it happening again. I’ve always been worried in case his mental condition deteriorates. Denton said it’s unlikely.’
Meggie remembered her grandfather telling her that he was mad – and she’d thought he was making it up! Even so, the confirmation from her mother’s lips was not what Meggie had expected to hear. ‘I thought . . . I thought it was something to do with you being pregnant to my father before you married. I don’t mind about that . . . honestly.’
‘You don’t mind what!’ Her mother’s eyes flew open. ‘Who told you such a wicked lie, Meggie? You were born early, that’s all. You were lucky to survive.’
‘Nobody told me . . . I just guessed.’
‘Guessed?’
‘I think I saw the date of your marriage on a form you filled out. It was seven months before my birth.’
Her mother’s eyes impaled her, so she felt like an insect pinned inside a specimen cabinet. She wriggled but couldn’t escape.
‘What form was that?’
‘I can’t remember now . . . it was ages ago though. Does it matter?’
‘It does if you go around blurting such things out to all and sundry. And am I to take it that you’ve been snooping into matters that don’t concern you?’ Thank goodness her mother didn’t require an answer, for she went on, ‘If I ever hear you repeat what you just said, or indeed, find out that you’ve discussed family business with anyone, I’ll . . . well, I’ll probably slap you. Do you understand?’
Meggie was sure her mother wouldn’t perform such an aggressive act, but she certainly could have predicted that their conversation would end up in its usual manner – with them at loggerheads.
Her mother just didn’t understand her.
She sighed. ‘Yes, Mother.’
Eleven
1935
It seemed to Esmé that dates always managed to conspire so she spent Christmas in England.
It had been a wet year, the ticket inspector on the train had told her morosely, and she’d need her umbrella.
She arrived at the station on Christmas Eve, pleased to see that they’d left the rain behind. She hadn’t telephoned to tell the family she was coming, else she would have missed the train. But they usually checked with the shipping company, and somebody came to meet her. This year there was nobody.
She left her suitcase with the stationmaster, with a promise to get someone to pick it up. It was a long walk to Eavesham House in court shoes, and she was laden down with parcels she’d decorated with festive green, red and gold ribbons.
It was nearly dark when she passed Foxglove House. It looked cold and unwelcoming against the grey expanse of sky. Grass grew in tall yellow fronds under the shuttered windows. It was hard to believe she’d spent part of her childhood there. She remembered the summer when Richard Sangster had left them . . . remembered his brilliant smile, his laughter and vitality and the way his spirit shone through his pain.
They had been in the garden. Richard had been under the oak tree in his invalid chair, watching them play. Denton had been part of their game. It seemed as though Livia had known, for she’d turned and given a little cry. It was if, at that moment, the world had stopped turning for her sister. She could see them all, standing like a frozen tableau. It was hard to believe Richard no longer existed on earth, but she liked to think he was looking down on them, especially his daughter, Meggie, who’d been born after he’d died.
She lit a golden candle in her heart for him. ‘Have a joyous Christmas with the angels, Richard,’ she murmured.
Nutting Cottage wasn’t far away. The major would be spending another lonely Christmas, she imagined, and wished Livia would unbend towards him.
Placing her shopping bags down, because the biggest one in particular was getting heavier by the minute, she stretched.
She heard a car coming up behind her and turned. Thank goodness. It was Chad driving an Austin Morris Seven. Bringing the car to a halt he beamed a smile at her.
‘You haven’t driven all the way from Edinburgh in that tin can, have you?’
‘No. I’ve been here a week . . . it belongs to Livia. She said that it’s more her size than the old one. I’ve been into Blandford for some last minute shopping, and was going to see if you were on the train. Only I was a bit late. The stationmaster told me you’d arrived, and I’ve got your case. Hop in; you can throw your parcels in the back seat. I hope there’s one for me . . . that big one looks exciting.’
‘That’s a joint one for Denton and the boys, but they might allow you to play with it while you’re home.’
‘No . . . I’ll be on board the ship for that. We’ll have a terrific party, I imagine. It’s hard to believe that 1936 is just around the corner.’
Exchanging a hug with her twin, she said, before he set the car rolling forward, ‘How is the studying going?’
‘It seems endless. But I’m keeping up with it. What about life on the ocean wave?’
‘Relaxing. Most of the passengers are brimming with good health, and the novelty has worn off.’
‘Bored, are you?’
She slid him a glance. How well he knew her. ‘A bit . . . but the ship’s only got one journey left in her. I believe the immigration department has scraped up a load of migrants to make another trip to Australia worthwhile, though they won’t find the streets paved with gold . . . the Depression is beginning to bite hard there. We’ll drop off passengers in Australia then the ship will go to Singapore to become scrap.’
‘How will you get home?’
‘I don’t know yet. I hope the company will offer us a return fare, or I can work my passage on another ship.’
He gave her a quick glance. ‘If you get stuck, I can probably manage a return fare.’
‘Thanks, Chad, but I hope I won’t need it. I thought I might stay with Minnie for a while. She expects to lose her position soon, too, due to a mine closure. By the way . . . I ran into that friend of yours . . . Leo Thornton. He sends his best.’
‘Leo? Good Lord . . . what a coincidence!’
‘Yes . . . it certainly was. He was doing some locum work and was called to attend an accident at the mine site, where Minnie runs the nursing post.’
‘How is Minnie; is she still a flirt?’
Esmé didn’t want to discuss Minnie’s hurried, but already failing marriage, or the reason behind it. That was Minnie’s business. So she just said, ‘Minnie has married an Australian.’
