The Meadow Girls

by Sheila Newberry

  Ronnie, recently promoted to railway-ticket clerk, was asked to make the travel arrangements and to accompany his sister on the train to London. ‘Aunt Mary from Mitcham will meet you,’ Sophia said. ‘She has a bundle of baby clothing for Ena. Ronnie, of course, will have to return here by the next train.’

  ‘What about me?’ Mattie endeavoured not to sound resentful, but it was difficult.

  ‘You, dear? Why, Aunt Mary will take you home with her, she’ll provide you with a meal and a bed for the night. In the morning, your cousin Walter will escort you to Paddington to board the express train to Plymouth.’

  ‘Then?’ Mattie prompted.

  ‘The Fulliloves will send someone with a conveyance to pick you up at Plymouth.’

  Evie was listening in. ‘I hope they are full of love, not the opposite!’

  ‘Evie!’ Sophia scolded. ‘They have been kind enough to offer Mattie a position in their emporium, with free board and lodging.’

  ‘I would have preferred to have made my own arrangements,’ Mattie told her. She thought: free board and lodging likely means low wages. ‘Goodbye and good luck, Sis,’ Ronnie said, after they alighted from the train at Liverpool Street station. He hesitated. He had got out of the way of giving his sisters spontaneous hugs, with Ena looking on disapprovingly. ‘Here’s Aunt Mary,’ he added.

  ‘Thanks, Ronnie,’ Mattie said, as a stout lady in black bore down on them.

  ‘For the baby,’ Aunt Mary puffed, handing over a large, ill-tied parcel. ‘Ena’s due next month, I understand. My Effie said a florin will suffice . . .’

  Ronnie looked embarrassed. This was women’s talk. ‘Thanks,’ he mumbled, feeling in his pocket for the coin, then slipping it to Aunt Mary. ‘You’ll excuse me – my train will be in, any minute now.’

  ‘Fortunately I can see a porter with a trolley,’ Aunt Mary said pointedly. She added, ‘At least you’ve a free travel pass, eh?’

  He nodded, suddenly grabbed his sister, held her close and hissed in her ear: ‘If it don’t work out, Mattie, don’t be afraid to say, to come back . . .’

  ‘I won’t, don’t worry,’ she whispered in return.

  ‘Nice lad,’ Aunt Mary remarked to Mattie as Ronnie beat his retreat. ‘Mind you, he’s not as likely to succeed as Robbie would have been, if he’d been spared.’

  Although, as a child she’d been closer to happy-go-lucky Robbie than Ronnie, Mattie wasn’t having that. She flared, ‘Ronnie looks after the family.’

  ‘Now, now.’ Aunt Mary looked amused. ‘Quick to fly, like your mother. I don’t know how your father’s put up with it, all these years.’ She was Will’s eldest sister.

  The house in Mitcham was beyond the common, nearer the cemetery than the lavender fields, a thriving commercial enterprise, but a tiring walk after their bus ride. Mattie carried her cases, while Aunt Mary led the way. There was an ominous throbbing in Mattie’s temples. The roar of London’s traffic was diminished here, but the rows of identical brick villas, in what had been known as a garden suburb at the turn of the century, seemed endless, to her.

  Walter, Aunt Mary’s only son, was on his Easter break from college. His books and papers were spread out all over the dining-room table. He was a lanky youth, with a pale face, fluffy moustache and protuberant blue eyes. He gave Mattie a friendly grin. She was wearing a neat grey costume, new lisle stockings, the toes and heels of which she’d rubbed with beeswax to prevent holing, and well-worn black shoes. Her mass of golden hair was hidden under a plain felt hat. It was an outfit more suited to a thirty-year-old.

  ‘Coffee?’ Walter offered. ‘We seem to be out of tea.’ He pulled out a chair for her to sit on. Aunt Mary had left her in the hall and disappeared upstairs.

  Mattie paused for a brief moment. She’d never tasted coffee. Perhaps now was the time to try it. ‘Please,’ she said.

  When he passed her a cup, it was full of black, strong liquid. She wondered whether to request milk, but decided not to. There was, however, lumpy brown sugar. Mattie tried not to make a face as she drank. She suddenly remembered she was still wearing the hat. She pulled out the hatpin, laid the hat on the table, and shook her head with relief. She didn’t often wear her hair up, and it was her mother’s hat, after all.

  She suddenly caught Walter’s eye. He winked, to show his appreciation of the transformation. Embarrassed, she tucked stray locks back behind her ears.

  ‘The shingle hasn’t reached your part of the world, then?’ he asked. He idly picked at his frayed shirt-cuffs. What with his yellowing celluloid collar, he was shabby like his mother – like this house, Mattie realised.

  ‘Father won’t allow us girls to cut our hair,’ she said primly.

  ‘He’d think my sisters hussies, then. Our pa left us years ago.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know Aunt Mary was a widow – I’m sorry.’

  ‘Left, I said, not died. Ma had to take in lodgers to make ends meet – she still does. My sisters married young, so she says she’s investing in me and my education. It’ll be my duty to look after her in her old age. That’s why we couldn’t do more for you. But you might have been better off here than with the Fulliloves. Long way to go, too.’

  ‘You’ve met them, then?’ Mattie felt even more apprehensive now.

  ‘Put it this way – heard of them,’ Walter said. ‘Our rich relations, Ma calls ‘em.’

  ‘I wonder why it is that families became so spread out?’

  ‘The younger members, particularly girls, left home to go into service, mostly. I am talking of thirty or forty years ago. They didn’t have the chance of further education, instead they travelled miles away. In time, they settled or married where they’d landed, so to speak, but they kept in touch with their old home, even if they never saw it again.’

  Aunt Mary reappeared. She gave a big sigh. ‘Had to get out of those wretched whalebone corsets, pinch me something cruel, they do. Oh good, the cup that cheers. Drink up, then Walter can carry your baggage upstairs to your room. You might like a wash and brush up, and a lie down before supper.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mattie said. She caught another swift wink from Walter. She was warming to him, despite her first impression that he was a mother’s boy.

  As he ushered her politely into the small bedroom at the top of the stairs, they heard the front door opening, then closing. There were voices in the hall.

  ‘The lodgers are back,’ Walter observed. ‘Ma prefers gentlemen, they’re not so particular as the ladies. Mr Stubbs will have brought a packet of tea, I hope. He don’t drink coffee. Hope you’ll be comfortable here. This is my room, so I tidied up.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Mattie exclaimed. ‘I’m sorry to put you out, Walter.’

  ‘I’ll sleep on the sofa, after the lodgers have vacated the sitting-room tonight.’ He went towards the door. ‘Must gather up my books from the dining-table now.’

  ‘What are you studying?’ she asked.

  ‘He made a face. ‘Accountancy. Though I’d rather be a draughtsman. Ma’s starting on the supper, I believe. I’ll see you later.’

  After eating, a stodgy meal and a silent affair, with the two middle-aged lodgers one side of the table, Mattie and Walter on the other, and Aunt Mary presiding over the teapot at the end, the lodgers went to the sitting-room. Mattie helped Walter to wash up, then, at Aunt Mary’s suggestion, gratefully retired for the night.

  The sheets were patched but clean, she climbed into bed, and was soon asleep.

  The Great Western Railway, like its competitors, was justly proud of its service, and the trains. The smart green and red livery, the comfortable carriages, assured the passengers of a relaxing journey.

  Walter climbed aboard first, deposited her luggage, then assisted Mattie into the carriage. ‘Worth getting here early,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a choice of seats.’

  Remembering Ronnie’s advice, Mattie selected a window seat, back to the engine.

  ‘Would you like a newspaper or a magazine?’ W
alter asked.

  Mattie thought, he probably can’t afford it. He paid my bus fare, after all.

  ‘Thank you Walter, but I’ve a book in my bag. Time at last to read it.’

  ‘Good, Well then, I’ll leave you, before the whistle blows. Don’t forget to eat your sandwiches at lunch-time. You can buy a cup of tea in the restaurant car. Mattie . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ She wondered why he appeared reluctant to go.

  ‘Ma said to tell you that you’re welcome to come back if—’

  ‘I know – if things don’t work out. It’s very kind of her, and you.’ She held out a gloved hand. ‘Goodbye, Walter.’

  ‘I hope we meet again.’ he said sincerely. As he shook her hand he pressed a small packet in her palm. He was gone before she could examine it. A sample bottle of Mitcham lavender scent. Pleased, she tucked it in her handbag.

  Mattie settled back in her seat as clouds of steam drifted past her window, then the initial jolting of the train took on a reassuring rhythm as it gathered speed.

  She opened a rather tattered small book, purchased for a penny at a recent jumble sale in the village. It was a guide to Plymouth, that great seaport. Saltash, she learned, was the secure harbourage of HM ships. She read of the Great Breakwater, erected stone by stone and completed in 1841 across the middle of the Sound, to protect the ships from the south-westerly gales. Inside The Breakwater was one of the world’s strongest forts. Drake’s island was also heavily guarded. This was hardly light reading, she thought.

  Mattie stifled a yawn, allowed the book to slip from her hands on to her lap. Then, like her fellow passengers, she closed her eyes and dozed intermittently.

  She was wide awake when they approached Exeter and enjoyed the coastal view.

  Plymouth: pocket watches were checked, tapped; the train pronounced to be on time. Mattie allowed the other travellers to disembark first, before she reached down her suitcases. The carriage door swung open, and a dark-haired man enquired: ‘Are you Miss Matilda Rowley?’ She nodded shyly. The man smiled. ‘I am Griffith Parry. My stepfather, Mr Rufus Fullilove, asked me to meet you. Allow me to take your cases.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mattie said. She followed him along the platform, handed her single ticket to the collector, while Mr Parry waited on the other side of the barrier, then led her to the promised conveyance. Her eyes widened when she saw the dark-green delivery van with the gold lettering on the side: EMPIRE EMPORIUM, PROPRIETOR, R. FULLILOVE, BARBICAN.

  Mr Parry opened the rear doors and made room for her luggage among the packages already stacked in the back of the van. He turned to Mattie. ‘There is a step up,’ he advised her, as he settled into the driving seat, ‘I must make a couple of deliveries on our way back. My stepfather insists I make the best use of my time.’

  Oh, does he! Mattie thought. What about me, weary after my journeying? She said aloud, ‘He keeps you busy, then, Mr Fullilove?’

  Mr Parry grimaced ruefully. ‘He does indeed. Well, what is your first impression of Plymouth, Miss Rowley?’

  ‘Mattie, please! We are cousins, after all.’

  ‘I should tell you, Mattie, that actually we are not. My late mother married Mr Fullilove when I was a child. She was his housekeeper, a position she took on after she was widowed. I was sent away to boarding school when my mother died. I didn’t come home for the holidays. I didn’t really mind that, because, as you will soon discover, my stepfather is a hard man. His present wife, my stepmother, is your actual relative, your second cousin, Sybil. She had money at the time; I guess that’s why old Rufus married her, to save the emporium. That’s an anachronism, since the war changed the world.

  ‘You’ll like Syb, I think. When I returned to Plymouth and reluctantly began work in the store she was kind and persuaded me to stay. My own inclination was to study art.’

  Mattie bit her lip. ‘You asked for my first thoughts on Plymouth. Well, it is so different from any place I have been before, I really can’t be sure. It is very historic, of course. Particularly the Hoe. It’s nice to know I’ll be able to walk there and look out over the sea. I understand you can see miles of coastline from the cliffs. May I call you by your first name? Even if we aren’t cousins, I can see I shall need a friend!’

  ‘I was known as Griff at school. My real father was Welsh.’

  Hence the dark and brooding looks, Mattie thought. He was a typical Celt.

  The van drew to a stop outside an imposing house whose front door was flanked by marble columns. ‘My first delivery. I shan’t be long.’

  Mattie had time to collect her thoughts. She was, she suspected, the latest in the long line of impecunious girls to leave her family. She could well languish, far from home.

  THREE

  ‘We’re here,’ Griff announced. He signalled with his raised open palm to a following motor as they drew to a halt outside another imposing Georgian house in a residential street.

  He turned to Mattie. ‘This is the Fullilove pile! Rather grand, isn’t it? But mortgaged to the hilt, I suspect. Old Rufus is more concerned with importing luxury goods from the Empire and the Continent, despite dwindling sales. Sybil brought her maid with her, shrewd lady. She didn’t intend to follow in my poor mother’s footsteps.’

  ‘Stop trying to put me off.’ Mattie was quick to ‘fly’ as Aunt Mary put it.

  Griff smiled disarmingly. ‘I’m only trying to prepare you for what lies ahead.’

  The door was opened by a tiny woman, who at first sight appeared to be a young girl. Closer to, Mattie took in a rosy, wrinkled face and twinkling blue eyes. Her slight figure was almost swamped by her black dress and neat white apron. On her silvery hair, the maid had pinned rather rakishly her badge of office, a frilled cap.

  When she spoke, it became obvious that Sybil’s maid was a Londoner, born and bred. ‘Miss Rowley, do come in. Miss Sybil – Mrs Fullilove – is in the drawing-room. I’ll take you upstairs first. Have a tidy-up and come down when you’re ready.’

  ‘This is Hilda Bunn,’ Griff said in Mattie’s ear. ‘She’s a real good sort.’

  ‘I heard that!’ Hilda beamed. ‘Griff, you can follow us with the luggage.’

  A little later she ushered Mattie into the drawing-room, announcing: ‘Miss Rowley.’

  Sybil was not at all as Mattie had imagined. She was possibly not much more than thirty years old, slim and vivacious, attired in a stylish afternoon frock in rose-pink, with wide sleeves and knee-length skirt. She wore a matching headband on bobbed platinum-blond hair. Her make-up was startling to Mattie, who’d only experimented with face powder, then been sternly advised to scrub it off by her mother. Sybil’s lips were painted a glossy scarlet, her brown eyes and long lashes emphasised with kohl.

  ‘I’ve been so looking forward to your arrival, Mattie.’ Sybil’s voice, too, was a surprise. Breathless, with a captivating lilt. She held out her hand, a silver charm bracelet jingling on her wrist. ‘Come and sit by me. How was your journey?’

  ‘Rather tedious, but comfortable,’ Mattie said. She thought wryly that it had been a waste of time dabbing Walter’s Mitcham lavender on her hanky because Sybil’s perfume was almost overpowering.

  There was a rattle of crockery as Hilda wheeled in the tea trolley. While she poured out, Sybil proffered a plate of brandy-snap biscuits, filled with fresh cream.

  ‘Dinner will be at seven. I should say, we change for that, so don’t eat too many.’

  ‘Oh, good. Hilda does sometimes take note of my heavy hints,’ Griff exclaimed, as he joined them, spotted the delicious sweetmeats and helped himself to a couple.

  Then footsteps were heard going along the hall, followed by an irritable masculine bellow. ‘Sybil, where are you? Hilda, run my bath!’

  Sybil leapt to her feet. ‘Excuse me – my husband is back. Entertain Mattie, Griff!’

  As she hurried out, Griff said to Mattie, ‘We all jump to his command. Don’t look so apprehensive, old Rufus has a penchant for young blonde ladies, hence Sybil,
eh? It was the photograph of you your mother sent that made him decide to employ you.’

  Mattie hadn’t heard ‘penchant’ before, but she could guess its meaning.

  ‘I wish I hadn’t come here,’ she said frankly.

  ‘But you don’t have a return ticket?’ Griff guessed.

  ‘No. I’ll have to save up for that out of my wages.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. Still, it was worth coming, just to meet me, eh?’

  Mattie couldn’t help smiling at his audacity. She’d met two attentive young men in a short time, she thought, but she already knew which one she found more attractive.

  ‘I have another dilemma now,’ she confided. ‘What to wear this evening.’

  ‘I happen to know,’ Griff told her, ‘that Sybil thought of that. Hilda’s hung some suitable clothes in your wardrobe.’

  ‘That’s very kind of Sybil! But won’t Mr Fullilove realise . . . ?’

  ‘Sybil chose things she bought herself, before her marriage. I should have let her tell you herself, but I didn’t want you to worry.’

  Mattie didn’t meet Mr Fullilove before dinner. When Sybil returned she resumed her cheerful chat, but Mattie noted the flickering of her eyelids, the glances at the door. Eventually, after the trolley had been taken away, Sybil looked at her wristwatch. ‘Well, Hilda gave me a nod to let me know she has tidied up the bathroom. You will find everything you need, I hope, in there. Look in the wardrobe, too. We’ll assemble downstairs at five to seven. Don’t be late.’

  Mattie was standing in her petticoat, following a reviving soak in the bath, regarding the clothes in the wardrobe, when there was a rapping on her door. For a moment she hesitated, then called: ‘Come in.’

  To her relief, it was Hilda. ‘Thought you might like me to help, Miss Mattie.’

  ‘Oh, would you? Which dress, d’you think?’ There were three to choose from.

  ‘Miss Sybil is wearing blue. How about this sprigged muslin? Not too revealing.’