The Meadow Girls

by Sheila Newberry

  They were away from the house longer than they intended. Mattie came up the path to meet them, clutching the jar of wilting flowers. ‘Where on earth have you been!’ Then, seeing their bare feet, ‘No shoes? What are you thinking of, Gretchen?’

  ‘Day to go barefoot, Missis,’ Gretchen said simply. ‘The violets are for you.’

  ‘Oh dear, I forgot,’ Mattie said. ‘Thank you.’ She suddenly recalled the scolding she’d received from her own mother when Evie slipped up in the stream one day while they were gathering watercress. She must make amends, as Sophia had done when she realised she’d overreacted.

  ‘Come along, let’s make some griddle-cakes and have them with maple syrup.’

  How Mattie sighed in the warm weather when stubborn Megan insisted, ‘No shoes.’ Megan only gave in on Sundays, when she went to the afternoon service in the little Lutheran church with her mom, accompanied by Gretchen and her family.

  Mattie thought the church looked something like an illustration from a children’s fairy-tale book. It was a simple design, painted white with fascinating small windows – diamond-shaped, oblong, rectangular and square. There was a tower rising above the central building with a conical roof topped by a beautiful gleaming cross. It appeared to be in the middle of nowhere, with the prairie stretching out on either side, and during the winter this impression was intensified when the ground was blanketed with snow. This covered the cemetery too, beyond the palings.

  The main body of the church was furnished with pale pine; there were chairs rather than pews, a font made by local craftsmen, a polished wooden cross, and a little organ which was worked by bellows.

  Megan sat between her mother and Gretchen, turning the pages of her hymn book when they did, though she sometimes held the book the wrong way up. The service was conducted in English, though most of the congregation were Norwegians, like a handsome lad called Chittle, which mom said was nothing like the spelling of his name, Kjetl. He had his eye on Gretchen, she added with a smile.

  Griff, having finished the chores, would be there when they emerged from the church, to drive them back to the farm.

  One particular Sunday, at the beginning of June; they arrived home to find a surprise visitor. It was Bert. He had taken his final examinations at college, and was now looking for a job. Even though he was about to become a qualified engineer and had applied to the Great Northern Railway, so far he’d had no luck.

  ‘Thought I might help out here till then – that’s if you’ll have me?’ he asked.

  ‘You must have read my mind,’ Griff told him. ‘If only Bert was here, I thought, Mattie would be free to put in action a plan she’s been set on . . .’

  ‘Oh, what’s that?’ Bert said, gulping hot tea from a big tin mug, which had hung in the pantry awaiting his return. He was unaware that young Megan was staring, fascinated, as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat.

  ‘I’d like to take up an offer from the grocery store. To make and sell my ice cream two or three times a week on the premises, during the summer. They have a big freezer there. We would need to invest in an electric machine, with paddles to whip up the mixture in a bucket, much smoother than by hand, but we would use our own milk, cream and eggs.’

  ‘Mattie is already famous locally for her delicious ice cream,’ Griff put in.

  ‘Don’t think about it – do it,’ Bert advised.

  ‘All right, I will!’ Mattie said.

  ‘Well, how’re the cows doin’?’ Bert asked. He held out his hand to Megan. ‘Pull me out of my chair, eh, and we’ll go and see, shall we?’

  Giggling, Megan pulled at his hand and he instantly sprang out of the chair. ‘Strong girl you got there, Griff.’

  ‘Gretchen’s stronger’n me,’ Megan told him.

  ‘Who’s Gretchen?’ he asked, as they went out and along the track to the meadow. The cows were now allowed out of the big barn – it had been a long winter, spent inside.

  ‘She looks after me while Mom’s at work.’

  ‘Got a job and a half then, I reckon,’ Bert observed. He had slung his camera case round his neck before they came out. ‘Had your picture taken lately?’ She shook her head. ‘Well, let’s see if I can get a good one of you today.’

  Megan was a trifle nervous of the cows now that they were not confined. They lifted their heads from grazing the grass and stared at the little girl standing on the bottom rung of the gate as the young man with her, pushed it open, waited for her to jump down, and then secured it again.

  Three of the young heifers decided to meet them halfway. Their jaws moved rhythmically as they chewed the cud. Their long eyelashes flicked at the flies.

  Megan tugged at Bert’s sleeve. ‘Lift me up!’ she demanded. He obliged, encouraging her to stroke the head of one of the Red Poll cows. Then he said, ‘Here, sit on her – she’s a gentle gal – she won’t throw you off. We got friendly when I visited last fall. I’ll take a quick snap.’

  ‘She’s got a bony back,’ Megan said, cautiously feeling it. But she wasn’t frightened because Bert was calm, and so were the cows.

  She was still wearing her best Sunday shoes, but she got her wish to tread in a cowpat, and then wished she hadn’t, because despite Bert’s best efforts to clean her shoes in the grass, the stains and the smell were evident when they went in the house. Luckily, her dad saw she was in trouble and quickly removed her footwear before her mom could scold her. Bert rubbed her feet with a damp rag.

  Gretchen walked over with a covered dish sent by Mrs Larsen for their tea. She’d heard along the prairie grapevine that the Parrys had a visitor.

  Mattie introduced Bert to Gretchen and the two greeted each other shyly.

  ‘Stay for tea, Gretchen, then you can take back the empty plate, and Bert will walk you home,’ Mattie said.

  Griff caught up with her in the pantry. ‘Matchmaking already?’ he teased.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said unconvincingly. ‘She can tell her mother how much we enjoyed her honey cakes if she sees us eat them.’

  That night, when her mom tucked her up in her bed, Megan said sleepily, ‘I wish Bert could stay for ever! He’s got his own room, up in the roof, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but he needs a proper job. He deserves it, after all his hard work at college. He won’t be able to play with you all day, Megan. Not only is he going to help Dad with the cows, and the deliveries, he’ll be working part-time at Harry’s garage too. Still, Gretchen will be able to bring you along to the stores for an ice cream when I’m busy there – that’ll make you happy, I know! Goodnight, Megan dear.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ Megan said, snuggling down and thinking of vanilla ice cream cones.

  Evie had graduated the previous summer; she sent Mattie and Griff photographs of the occasion.

  ‘Rose between two thorns,’ Griff observed, for Evie had matured into a strikingly attractive young woman and her companions, Rhoda and Noreen, looked much more like the schoolmarms Mattie remembered from her schooldays.

  ‘They both have nice smiles,’ she observed kindly. ‘And Evie says the three of them will be friends for ever . . .’

  However, Evie was evidently keeping in touch with her friends by letter, as she did her sister. It had taken her some months to find a permanent position. After a spell at a poor school in a slum area in the East End of London she’d returned home, to a post as a junior English mistress at her old school. She wrote to Mattie:

  It seems as if I have never been away! Miss Jackson – yes they are still with us at the Plough – gives me a lift to school in her little car. I help with the netball team and enjoy the friendly matches with other schools. I have a very enthusiastic English group. We are rehearsing A Midsummer Night’s Dream for an end-of-term performance . . .

  Mother and Dad are well, and busy with visitors. Ronnie, Fanny and the boys send their love. Fanny is expecting again after all this time. They are hoping for a girl. How about you? I do wish I could see that lively litt
le Megan – is it a compliment, when you say she takes after me?

  I haven’t heard from Christabel lately, have you? It doesn’t look as if she and Walter will have a family.

  Oh, did you know that Griff’s stepfather has had a stroke? A full recovery seems unlikely, Sybil says . . .

  ‘Well, “how about you?” ’ Griff quizzed her as she sat at the breakfast table, drinking the first cup of tea of the day. Shortly he would be pulling on his boots and making ready for the early milking; they could hear Bert moving about up aloft, doing the same. Megan was still asleep in bed; Mattie would not leave the house until Gretchen came.

  Mattie put down her empty cup, folded Evie’s letter and slotted it back into the envelope. She was well aware of what Griff was getting at. He thought they should have a brother or sister for Megan before she went to school.

  ‘Oh, Griff, you know we agreed to wait until we could afford fulltime help with the farm and the dairy – and now—’ She paused, shaking her head.

  ‘You’ve committed yourself to your new venture,’ he concluded. Mattie and Megan, he thought, were the most important people in his life.

  ‘Yes I have.’ She rose, moved swiftly towards him and hugged his shoulders as he heaved on a boot. ‘You know how much I love you – want to please you, but—’

  ‘You do please me,’ he said quietly, making her blush. Theirs was still a passionate union. The only time you disappointed me was when you cut your hair, but now, I like it.’ Her hair was thick again, curving round her face in a shining bob.

  ‘It’s the only part of me that’s fashionable nowadays! Which makes me think of Plymouth, and Sybil and Rufus. I do hope things are not as serious as Evie thinks.’

  The cable came less than a week later: REGRET SAD NEWS. RUFUS PASSED AWAY TWO DAYS AGO. WRITING SOON. LOVE SYBIL.

  ‘I’m glad they resolved their differences,’ Griff said to Mattie, ‘and enjoyed a few happy years together.’

  EIGHTEEN

  SEPTEMBER

  Christabel and Walter were spending the weekend at the Plough. Fanny and Ronnie’s new baby daughter was to be christened on Sunday. Evie and Mattie were little Sophy’s godmothers, Christabel was standing in as proxy for Mattie. This made good sense, as Walter was the baby’s godfather.

  Sophia was thrilled to have the baby named after her. Will gently reminded her that she mustn’t neglect their three grandsons, on whom she had doted until now.

  ‘Let Evie hold her, she’s used to babies, unlike me,’ Christabel whispered in Fanny’s ear, as parents and godparents walked to the font for the baptism.

  The baby was asleep until the holy water was poured over the crown of her head. By then, she’d been passed, wrapped in her crocheted cobwebby shawl, to the parson. She gave an indignant yell. Everyone present approved her reaction – part of the tradition. Duly named, and dried, Sophy was returned to her proud parents.

  ‘Mattie should have been here,’ Christabel said to Evie, as they walked back to the house together. Christabel clicked along in high-heeled shoes, while Evie strode out in her comfortable T-bar-strapped sandals.

  Evie glanced at her. Christabel was very much a city girl, she thought, with Marcel-waved hair, smart grey flannel suit with velvet cuffs and collar, a wide-brimmed hat and sheer silk stockings. Quite a contrast to herself, in her good school skirt and plain cream blouse. ‘All good experience. Has it inspired you?’ she asked frankly.

  ‘No . . . Walter’s mum keeps dropping heavy hints, but . . . you can’t have two women in one kitchen. The truth is, Evie, despite the recession, I’m really doing well in my current job, and I’m in line for promotion. I’d never have achieved that at the emporium, in Plymouth – though I’ll always be grateful to Mr Fullilove for giving me my first chance. There is another reason, which I hope will show that I am not altogether selfish—’

  ‘Oh, Christabel, I’d never think that of you!’ Evie interrupted. ‘I know how you cared for your mother and put her first, taking on responsibility at an early age—’

  ‘Doesn’t that sound like you, too, Evie? I don’t regret those years, for one moment. But my mother’s doctor warned me that her illness could well be inherited, if not by me, perhaps by a daughter, if I had one. I discussed it with Walter, and we agreed, we shouldn’t risk it.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you were able to talk about it. How is Walter doing at work?’

  ‘He finds selling insurance dull at times, but it is a job. Badly paid, but necessary. We are lucky to be in full employment. How about you?’

  ‘I know I am in the right profession. I’m happy!’

  ‘I wish you could find a partner in life – someone like dear Walter, or Griff!’

  ‘As they are both taken there’s not much chance of that!’ Evie smiled.

  Christabel stumbled, held on to her friend’s helping hand. She guessed that Evie still carried a torch for Walter, as she did for Griff, despite her contented, loving marriage. Neither of us will say, she thought, but it brings the two of us closer together.

  The papers back home were full of ‘the gathering storm’ in Europe. On the prairies summer storms at night were frequent, as they were to be all through the thirties, rolling in from the west around dusk, causing fear and havoc until the early hours. The sky was rent by the electric zigzag of forked lightning and the thunder exploded like gunfire, reminiscent of trench warfare to any veterans. The sheet lightning, however, without the rumbling thunder, was even more terrifying and unexpected.

  Bert came down white-faced from his loft room one morning. ‘I couldn’t help thinking: my bed is against the chimney wall and that lightning might flash down the flue and strike the iron bedstead,’ he said. ‘My, I was quaking!’

  ‘Megan came rushing into our room and dived under our covers,’ Mattie said ruefully. ‘I guess it’s my fault because my mother was terrified of storms too, and I feel compelled to carry out the same rituals as she did, when I was a child. Covering the mirrors and making sure all the cutlery is shut away in the drawer . . . Scissors, too. Anything made of shiny metal, Mother said, could attract the lightning. We were told to keep away from water, even the washing-up! All the windows and doors were shut.

  ‘Mother was certainly right about one thing, when she said, “A storm will turn the cream.” I don’t suppose I will be making ice cream today, eh?’

  ‘Ooh!’ Megan said reproachfully.

  Griff was rubbing his tired eyes. He hadn’t had much sleep either. He’d ventured out a couple of times to check the cows, and to bring the terrified yard dog into the kitchen. ‘This darn drought worries me – if we don’t get some rain soon to dampen things down, there’ll be dust storms. The wind will see to that.’

  He and Bert ate their porridge standing up and, after gulping down their tea, they departed to see if there was any damage to the barns.

  They were lucky on this occasion, but Gretchen reported later that Kjetl’s father had not been so fortunate. ‘Their big barn was struck – no lightning-rod conductor, he says. It didn’t catch fire like another of their barns did a few weeks ago, when they had to rescue the horses and my dad and the boys rushed over to help put out the flames. Anyway, this time the flash hit a rafter and travelled down a stud against which Kjetl’s dad had leaned his pitchfork. It split the handle clean down the middle. At least the women didn’t have to form a human chain with buckets to douse that! Kjetl’s dad said that handle was over twenty years old, and had been good enough for another twenty!’

  Megan was not the only one who missed Bert when his patience was rewarded with an offer of a four-day working week as an engineer on the railway. Gretchen kept asking, ‘Heard how Bert is getting on?’ so Mattie copied out his address for her and suggested, ‘Why don’t you write and ask him yourself?’

  This coincided with the onset of colder weather and a slump in the sales of ice cream, so Mattie resumed her dairy duties and deliveries. Tin Lizzie conked out and Harry at the garage, advised Griff
to part-exchange her for a nippy little truck, which had room for a couple of passengers on the front seat, and would transport their products. Mattie learned to drive in a week. The wagon horses still had a role to play on the farm.

  Megan liked visiting the garage. It was a square building which Harry had put up himself next to the general store. He lived in an apartment over the store, which had originally belonged to his parents. On the fore court was a single gas pump, and when Harry was in the pit examining the underside of a motor, and a horn sounded, Griff would leave his desk in the cramped office at the side and ‘fill ‘em up’, as he put it.

  ‘Don’t touch that,’ he warned his inquisitive daughter, whether it was the spike on which the bills were impaled, or the precarious pile of oil cans in a corner.

  The rafters were used as repositories for various bits of small equipment. Harry, a kindly, middle-aged chap who wore greasy overalls and a flat cap, was amazingly athletic. He climbed a swaying ladder to retrieve items and sometimes swung perilously by one hand or hooked his knees round a rafter to reach what he was after. Harry was a jolly bachelor, but he had a twinkle in his eye when ladies were around. He was light on his feet at the church social dances, so he was popular in the Paul Jones. He hadn’t married, he said, because, ‘Who would put up with all the dirty washing, and all the noise, oil spills and smells?’

  Megan agreed that the smells in the general stores, from sacks of meal to jars of mint humbugs were nicer! Her favourite thing was watching Mattie press dollops of yellow ice cream into cones. She waited her turn, until the queue of kids was satisfied.

  The hamlet was expanding all the time, with more folk settling and building there. It was fast becoming a small town, with a bandstand and a war memorial, in the form of a cross, dedicated to those who died in the Great War. Half a dozen men were honoured belatedly. The local newspaper opened a one-room office, with a barber’s shop above, and Harry’s nephew had smartened up an old property into a café, which was proving very popular.