The Meadow Girls

by Sheila Newberry

  You will be expected to attend services regularly in our chapel. You are required to undergo a medical examination with your own doctor before your place is finally awarded; we have a matron on the premises to look after your general well-being. We can cope with minor disabilities, but the aim is for our young ladies to be stoics.

  Evie couldn’t help thinking that the Amy Able didn’t sound very charitable!

  Ronnie had accompanied her on the train to her destination, where a station wagon arrived to collect Evie and other students, and to convey them and their luggage to the college. She said goodbye to her brother on the platform.

  ‘I wish you could come and see me settled in, Ronnie, but we are not allowed visitors, especially men! No followers, it states on the prospectus!’

  ‘You’ll get by, Sis,’ he told her. He looked very personable in his uniform, and Evie caught one or two envious glances from other girls who were without an escort.

  ‘Give my love to Fanny and the boys,’ she said. ‘Tell Mother to write to me soon!’

  She turned and waved to him before she climbed aboard the wagon.

  Ronnie hoped fervently that his young sister would be all right. She looked forlorn, her hair screwed back unflatteringly off her face in a fuzzy bun, under that pudding-basin felt hat. Three years! Incarcerated in what sounded like an institution.

  Evie stood back from the main body of students in the hall. There were plaques on the oak-panelled walls, detailing the alumni of the Amy Able College. She regarded the picture of the founder in its gilded frame, painted some forty years before. Dr Able’s gimlet gaze made her feel uneasy. Ahead of the group was a wide sweep of stairs with polished balustrades. There was a pervading odour which reminded her of the museums she had visited from time to time with the school, in the course of her studies. Here too, were DO NOT TOUCH and QUIET! signs.

  The girls whispered together, rather than chattered, while they waited for a guide to greet them and take them to the dormitories.

  ‘I must apologise for keeping you waiting.’ They were startled by a cheerful, ringing voice. It was a pleasant surprise to see a smiling face, and a young woman not many years older than themselves. ‘The porter will bring your trunks up; you can carry your hand luggage. First, I shall call out your names and tick you off, to make sure you are all here. Then please pair up, and follow me.’ She waved a foolscap list at them.

  ‘May I walk with you?’ a tall fair-haired girl with glasses, asked Evie.

  ‘Yes, of course! I’m Evie Rowley, and you are . . . ?’

  ‘I’m Rhoda Jefferies. I brought my hockey stick. Did you?’

  ‘I haven’t one. Still, genteel sport will at least be outside, not in this mausoleum!’

  ‘Shush!’ Rhoda warned her, but it appeared from her wry smile that she agreed.

  The dormitories upstairs were either side of a long corridor. Evie and Rhoda were allotted beds at the far end of the first room. The narrow iron bedsteads with biscuit-like hard mattresses awaited the new occupants’ linen, marked with their names. The distance between the beds was the width of the bedside lockers. Each girl took the locker to her right. Trunks were placed at the foot of the beds to be unpacked. There was a linen press on the opposite wall. Clothes were hung on curtained rails. Cupboards were shared.

  There were communal washrooms for each dormitory, with WC cubicles, basins and a single, screened bath. A sign read: DO NOT WASTE HOT WATER.

  ‘You are allowed a weekly bath. You must adhere to a strict rota,’ their guide, Miss Vanstone told them. She added, ‘Nothing to stop you having a strip-wash daily, eh?’

  The first thing Evie did was to take her family photograph from her bag. Rules stated that only one picture frame was allowed on the locker, so she’d made a montage of snapshots of her parents, her young nephews, and Mattie with Megan. On the back of this photograph Mattie had written: ‘Megan looks like you, we think!’

  ‘When you have made your beds and tidied yourselves, come downstairs in an hour’s time. Two senior students will be waiting to take you to the dining hall, where supper will be served. Afterwards, there will be a short talk in the assembly hall, welcoming you to Amy Able, before you retire for the night. Lights out at 9.30 p.m.’ Miss Vanstone looked round at them all. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘When do we begin our studies?’ Rhoda Jefferies asked.

  ‘Tomorrow, after you have familiarised yourself with the building and received your schedule.’ Miss Vanstone left them to their chores.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m going to like it here,’ Evie observed to Rhoda.

  ‘So far, to me it doesn’t seem much different from boarding school,’ Rhoda said. ‘My parents are missionaries out in Africa, and I was sent back to England at six years old. Some of the girls I was at school with had nowhere to go in the holidays, so they had to stay at school. I was lucky, my aunt was my appointed guardian and I was able to spend Christmas and the summer with her family.’

  Evie realised she was still wearing her hat. She took it off and flung it on the bed. ‘Oh, I hate wearing this monstrous thing! I feel like jumping on it!’

  ‘Why don’t you, and relieve your feelings? It would bounce back into shape! Your hair – d’you always wear it like that?’

  ‘Of course not! We were told we had to restrain our locks, weren’t we?’

  ‘Look,’ Rhoda said sympathetically. ‘I took that to mean tying it back or plaiting, not torturing it into a bun! It doesn’t suit you at all. Where’s your comb? I’ll arrange it for you.’ Evie’s hair tumbled round her shoulders. ‘Gosh, you have beautiful hair! Not greasy and straight, like mine. But . . . got a rubber band? Must obey the rules.’

  ‘You sound like my sister! Mattie could always get round me, make me feel better. I still miss her, even though she left home five and a half years ago. She’s married now, lives in America, though she went to Canada first, and she has a baby, Megan.’

  ‘Is that them in the picture? I envy Mattie’s blonde bobbed hair, too!’

  ‘She wrote that her hair came out in handfuls after she had the baby, and the only thing to do was to get it cut, to help it recover! Actually, it really suits her. She looks a modern girl again. She was very fashionable at my age, but she has to wear practical clothes, living on a farm. Dungarees and heavy boots in winter!’

  ‘I’m an only child. You are very lucky to have a sister. I’ll help you make your bed up, then you can help me.’

  They sat at long refectory tables to eat their simple but satisfying supper after saying grace: cheese-and-potato pie, nicely browned on top, with a fresh green salad. Baskets were piled high with warm rolls, butter was apportioned on a plate; there were jugs of water. When the main course had been cleared away, there was a choice between slices of Madeira cake, and apples picked from a small orchard in the college grounds.

  ‘At least they’ve got a good cook,’ Evie remarked to the girl sitting on her right. She was feeling better about things now.

  ‘Mmm. No second helpings though!’ the girl, Noreen Carter, said ruefully.

  ‘Everything is worked out mathematically, I think,’ Rhoda put in. ‘Measured before it goes on our plates! Did you realise that there was only one roll each, and few small apples left?’

  The tutor in charge clapped her hands. The girls looked up.

  ‘Please follow me in an orderly fashion to the assembly hall. Cups of cocoa will be served to you there. Our principal, Dr Anne Withers, is waiting to welcome you.’

  Dr Withers was a petite woman with a round, rosy face, a mass of untidy light brown hair escaping hopefully placed hairpins, twinkling blue eyes behind spectacles which she constantly adjusted on her nose, and a Yorkshire accent. She was informally dressed this evening, no doubt to put the students at ease, in a tweed costume.

  Evie recognised her companion on the stage, who was sitting at the piano, as the one who had interviewed her, Miss Bates.

  ‘Good evening and welcome to you all!’ said D
r Withers. ‘Before the cocoa arrives and we have our chat, will you please all stand for the college hymn. I imagine it is one you know, but as you will see,’ she tapped a nearby stand on which was pinned a large sheet of paper with words written on it, ‘here is a prompt. Are you ready, Miss Bates? To the tune of St Patrick’s Breastplate.’

  Miss Withers seemed oblivious to the squirming embarrassment of adolescent girls at the mention of ‘breastplate.’

  Rhoda, despite her parentage, was unabashed. She whispered to Evie, ‘Needed by one or two of the well-endowed girls here, I think.’

  It was Evie’s turn to say, ‘Shush!’ as Noreen’s figure was plump and unrestrained.

  Back in the dormitory they undressed and tried to get comfortable in the hard beds. As there was only one pillow, it wasn’t possible to sit up and read. Anyway, Evie was suddenly aware of just how tired she was after a full day.

  She glanced over at Rhoda’s bed. ‘Goodnight. I can’t wait for lights out . . .’

  There was no answer for a bit, then Rhoda said, ‘I was saying my prayers. Goodnight, and I’m so glad to have made a friend already.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Evie. She closed her eyes. Time to say a prayer herself, she thought; she’d lapsed in that respect since childhood. ‘Dear God, please take care of all my family,’ she managed before she fell asleep.

  There was a rush for the washroom facilities at seven o’clock the next morning. By the time Evie had managed to get to a basin the hot water tap produced only a tepid stream.

  ‘Just be glad we’re females and don’t have to shave,’ whispered Rhoda in her ear.

  ‘Shush!’ Evie said again, for Noreen had tagged along with them, and was at the basin on her other side. Noreen had a dark smudge above her upper lip. She thought: when I get to know her better I’ll advise how to disguise it, with a dab of hydrogen peroxide. She can tell Matron she needs it for a mouth ulcer. Those beauty tips Mattie passed on from Sybil may come in useful for others here, if not for me . . .

  Breakfast was at eight o’clock. A boiled egg, one slice of bread and butter, thinly spread, apiece and a cup of tea, much weaker than Evie was accustomed to drink. Then it was off to the assembly hall again, where they were given their schedule of studies, followed by a tour of the college.

  Despite her initial misgivings, Evie began to warm to her surroundings. There were plenty of specialist areas, like the gymnasium, with its climbing ropes and parallel bars, vaulting horse and wall bars. In charge here was a human dynamo in a green tunic, a wiry, small woman with a bellowing voice like a sergeant major on parade. She looked the students up and down and obviously thought them a weedy lot. Miss Vanstone, again their guide, introduced them to Miss Dodds.

  ‘Some of you need to lose weight,’ she said disparagingly. She pinched a fold of Noreen’s waist. ‘Don’t tell me that’s muscle.’

  Evie saw Noreen’s eyes brim with tears. As they moved away to the next location, she told her, ‘Better than being all gristle, like Miss Dodds! Anyway, we’ll all lose a few pounds on college rations – I didn’t dare ask for more bread and butter!’

  The art room, with easels and a pottery area, was colourful with students’ paintings on the walls. The science lab was well-equipped. Its counterpart, the domestic science kitchen, had pine preparation tables, and gleaming saucepans.

  All these designated rooms were in the west wing; the classrooms were on the other side of the quadrangle. The new girls would be taught in the first two rooms, thirty to each class. During the first year they would continue their general education at an advanced level. The second year they would be assessed again and split into several groups. Some would opt to teach children under the age of eleven, others would prefer to specialise and teach specific subjects in senior schools.

  Evie’s main subjects would be English and history. Rhoda had a preference for mathematics and science. Evie found herself in a class sitting next to Noreen, whose strengths were art and English. She would only meet up with Rhoda for music lessons, which took place in the assembly hall, in the gymnasium, and at mealtimes.

  At lunchtime they were given a light meal because the Amy Able dictum was: ‘Heavy food in the middle of the day is to be avoided. Full stomachs make for afternoon lethargy. Minds should be sharp at all times in order to learn.’

  ‘I hoped we would be in the same group,’ Evie said disconsolately to Rhoda, as they ate steamed fish with a modest amount of mashed, unbuttery potato, and peas.

  ‘So did I. Never mind. We can still be pals. Wish hard that we are about to receive suet pudding and treacle!’

  ‘No such luck. Here come the prunes and custard . . .’

  ‘Oh well,’ Rhoda was invariably cheerful, ‘at least we can count the stones and see who we’ll marry. Rich man, poor man – you can stop at rich man, for me! Though of course I know that my destiny lies in the mission field – my parents expect it.’

  ‘Well, I aim to be a dedicated teacher – my parents made sacrifices to keep me on at school, and so I should pursue a career.’

  ‘You might change your mind, Evie.’

  ‘Not much chance of that happening, while we’re here!’ Evie said, with a mock sigh. ‘I haven’t seen a single man unless you count the caretaker, and he only comes out when he thinks we’re not around!’

  SEVENTEEN

  1930

  ‘Today is special, it’s Mayday,’ Gretchen observed, as she fixed a big satin bow to Megan’s short black curls. The ribbon matched her yellow frock with the smocked bodice, which Mattie had made for her to wear now the weather was warmer. As she sewed she recalled herself as a child, dancing round the maypole at the village school, clutching one of the yellow streamers. It was still a favourite colour.

  Gretchen Larsen, the youngest of seven children born of Norwegian immigrants, kept an eye on Megan while her mom and dad were delivering their fresh, farm milk and other dairy commodities, like butter, cream and cheese.

  Despite the depression and the Wall Street crash last October, when even the small branch of their bank had been besieged by angry customers, Mattie and Griff had kept going somehow and were at last cautiously optimistic. As Griff said then, ‘The bank is only paying out ten cents to the dollar – just as well we hadn’t paid in last month’s takings before it happened . . .’

  Bigger businesses than their small enterprise had been ruined, and many were deep in debt. Most relied on the barter system – exchanging grain for sacks of flour and other commodities for a share in a pig. Small family farms strove to be self-sufficient.

  Megan, almost four and a half years old, was a fidget, as her Auntie Evie had been at her age, so her mom often told her. ‘You look like her, too!’ she would add. Now, she wriggled free of Gretchen’s grasp, grabbed her shoes and demanded, ‘Want to go outside!’

  Gretchen snatched the shoes back. ‘I was about to tell you, only you don’t stay still long enough to listen, that this is the day we go barefoot. It’s traditional.’

  Megan was puzzled. ‘Why? What’s that?’

  ‘We go barefoot today, and all summer, some of us, to mark the end of winter.’

  ‘Mom says you’ll hurt your feet with no shoes.’

  ‘Well, Mom isn’t here, and I’ve taken my shoes off too, see, and I’ll keep a good eye on you outside to see you don’t step on a rusty nail or in a cowpat.’

  Megan brightened up at that; she enjoyed poking the steaming crust of those big blobs. She wouldn’t mind treading on one of those, she thought. Besides, Dad had whispered this morning that she might pick her mom a bunch of flowers. ‘Let’s go, then,’ she said, reaching up to rattle the latch on the kitchen door.

  Mattie’s garden was burgeoning. They usually had a surplus of vegetables in season due to her diligent planting. These were shared with their neighbours. Big families were given jugs of free skimmed milk and crab-apple jelly made by Mattie from the little sour apples from the tree in the yard. In return, their friends were ge
nerous with the little they had to spare. They kept each other going that way. Every family made the most of all the abundant wild fruit, families foraged for chokeberries (again so tart, with huge pips, that just the juice was used to make jellies), wild currants and juneberries, which were dark blue with tiny pips, and sweet. The children ate nearly as many as they picked.

  There was a little clump of violets in the plot, like the ones Mattie had loved in her mother’s garden. Megan trod, cautiously at first, on the gritty path, then confidently, on the grass verge. She picked the violets and Gretchen added some longer-stemmed white daisies with yellow centres. They stuck them in a glass jamjar half-filled with water, but forgot to place it in the shade, to collect on their way back from their walk.

  Gretchen took Megan’s hand. ‘We’ll go through the fields to the creek. I’ll tell you a story or two. We’ll have a paddle, and wash the dust off our feet.’

  She didn’t know it, of course, but this was to be one of Megan’s earliest memories: swinging hands with Gretchen and wincing now and then when she trod on a hidden stone, but not saying, because she was listening to Gretchen’s Norwegian tales. ‘Ten times more snow in winter than we get here! My parents used to ski to school and they fetched shopping on a sledge . . .’

  The sun was warm on their bare heads, but the wind whipped around, as it always did, unchecked across the miles of wide open spaces. The satin bow slipped from her curls, dropped to the ground and nestled in the long grass which edged the crops, lost for ever. The water in the creek was clear enough for them to see tiny, silvery, darting fish, but still cold enough to make you catch your breath. Megan wished she had long legs like Gretchen, because the water came almost to her chubby knees.

  Gretchen was sixteen years old. This was her first paid job. With her round face, snub nose and long plaits she appeared young for her age, but she was very capable.