The Meadow Girls

by Sheila Newberry

  Gretchen cuddled her in her strong arms. ‘What would you like for breakfast?’

  ‘Pancakes,’ Megan said hopefully. ‘With lemon and syrup. Like Mommy makes.’

  It was six weeks before they were able to welcome a frail Mattie home. No one told her how very ill she had been, but fortunately she had only vague memories of fever-ridden nights, the gasping for every breath, and the pain which had taken over her body. She had no concept of time. Sometimes she had been aware that Griff was sitting at her bedside, holding her hand, and once, she knew he was crying, but she couldn’t say anything to console him.

  Megan had started school while Mattie was in hospital. She walked there with Gretchen, as she now did to church on Sunday afternoons. She drew pictures for her mother, and the teacher and the other children made a special fuss of her, so although of course she missed Mattie she was made to feel secure and as happy as possible, in the circumstances. And she got plenty of hugs from her dad, as always.

  When she and Gretchen returned from the school one day Megan had no idea that a wonderful surprise awaited her.

  ‘Mommy!” she cried, rushing over to Mattie on the settee, still in her night clothes, and covered by a quilt. Her mother was so pale and thin, and Megan could hardly make out what she was saying, but she was smiling and holding out her arms to her.

  Griff, standing by, watched anxiously, but didn’t interfere, as mother and daughter embraced and kissed. He knew it would be hard to tell Mattie that the doctors had decreed it would be a long process before she was fit enough to get back to a normal life. She would be unable to resume her hectic working life on the farm. The weakness in her lungs would prevent that, especially in cold weather.

  The friends had rallied round magnificently, but, come spring, decisions must be made. Griff knew they would have to let all this go . . . find another dream.

  TWENTY

  JUNE 1931

  Mattie took the pictures down from the living room walls, interleaving them with great care between the pages of a scrap book. She’d already pasted in the stories she’d written, which Griff’s pictures so vividly illustrated. He’d painted the design on the cover: OUR FAMILY STORY, PRAIRIE TIMES, 1925–1931.

  The little house where they had been so happy, worked hard, and enjoyed life, was almost cleared of their furniture and belongings. Only a small table and one chair remained for Mattie to complete this last task in comfort.

  She heard the arrival of the truck, then the door opened and Griff came in, as she closed the book and silently wrapped it in a piece of cotton sheeting.

  ‘Are you ready now?’ he asked. ‘It’s time to pick up Megan from school.’

  She nodded, too emotional to speak.

  ‘Come on then. We’ll bequeath them the table and chair – somewhere to rest between the unpacking . . .’

  ‘I must take a last look at my garden,’ she managed.

  He held out his hand for the book. ‘I’ll put it on the front seat in the truck. I’ll meet you out the back.’

  The flowers were wilting in the heat of day. The wind stirred the parched grass. Mattie could make out the cows moving slowly in the field beyond and the horses under the trees, tails swishing, no doubt at the irritating flies. The yellow rosebush was in full bloom. As she stretched out to pluck one, petals drifted lazily to the ground.

  ‘Who will care for my garden?’ she said aloud. ‘To me, this will always be home . . .’

  Griff gently touched her shoulder. ‘Let’s go. Before the new owners arrive, eh?’

  In the spring they had mentioned to the Larsens that they must sell the farm, the dairy cows and the business, because if they tried to carry on they would most certainly be in debt. The hospital fees had drained them.

  ‘You do not need,’ Mr Larsen said, ‘to pay us for our assistance. We help when and where we can.’

  ‘We couldn’t have continued this far without you!’ Griff affirmed. ‘But there will be no end to our problem, with my wife unable to work with me, unless we sell up.’

  ‘Wait another week or two. I will find you a buyer . . . even for a scrabble-farm.’ This was a description for a place without piped water or mains electricity.

  The Larsen family grapevine was soon buzzing, and an offer was made, by a brother-in-law who wished to return to the family fold. He and his wife had no children of their own, but as they were aware that Kjetl was a most capable young man, they asked him to join them. ‘If he should marry a suitable girl, one willing to work alongside us, that will be for our common good. I understand it is a family house,’ his uncle said.

  Kjetl, now eighteen, proposed to Gretchen, and was accepted. The marriage was arranged for this coming Saturday, when they would move in with their relatives. The wedding clothes would be no problem – the young couple would wear national dress.

  ‘Gretchen is so young to be married,’ Mattie worried as they drove to the school.

  ‘You were not much older,’ Griff pointed out, with a smile.

  ‘I didn’t really know anything about anything, you know . . .’

  ‘You soon learnt. We both did, eh? Here we are, and Megan waiting at the gate.’

  Megan’s school bag was bulging with gifts from her classmates. She would start at her new school on Monday, in the middle of a term, which was daunting.

  ‘Goodbye, good luck,’ the youngsters called out, waving energetically.

  There were other farewells to make, although they hoped to see most of their friends from time to time. Doc came out from his surgery, stethoscope round his neck, to tell Mattie she was looking much better, but not to try to do too much, too soon.

  ‘We will still sell Mattie’s ice cream,’ the storekeeper said, ‘Gretchen insists we keep the name. It will be the same recipe.’

  Harry swung hand-over-hand along the beams in the garage, at Megan’s request.

  ‘Thank you, Griff,’ he said, rolling down his shirtsleeves over his muscular arms. ‘I appreciate you getting the accounts up to date, when you’ve been so busy. Join me in the café for a cup of Gary’s good coffee and a slice of his crumble cake.’

  ‘Smile, please!’ Gary, in his spotless white apron, beamed, as he clicked his camera. ‘I’ll send you a copy when I’ve developed the photograph, and I’ll put an enlargement on the café wall, so that folk will be reminded of the Parry family!’

  ‘That’s good. We’d best get on,’ Griff said. ‘It’s a fair way to Minot and our new life in the city.’

  ‘It’ll take time to get used to city life again.’ Mattie clutched the sheet-wrapped package to her, in the truck. They would be exchanging that for a small car tomorrow. The truck had played a vital role in moving their goods. She thought, I’ll keep the scrapbook in the little trunk, as I won’t be able to look at it again until I stop my inward crying. I’ll take out the clothes that I last wore in Plymouth, even if they’re out of fashion now, and pack away my dungarees. They’re more patch than original denim; I probably won’t wear them again, but they were given me by Ollie, at the trading post . . .

  Minot had grown rapidly from humble beginnings and was designated a city in 1897. North Dakota had become a state in November 1889. There was still a strong Norwegian presence in Minot, with a good mixture of other pioneering descendants, which included Danish, German, English and Icelandic families. The Lutheran church remained prominent. The city was well-served by the great railway companies, there was an air force base thirteen miles north of Minot, excellent schools and colleges of further education and gas stations to fuel the increasing number of motor cars. There were well-stocked shops, cinemas and theatres, hotels, dance halls and musical entertainment – a lively social scene.

  Their new home was on a lot developed by an enterprising builder, filling in the gaps between self-build houses erected a decade before. It stood in a pleasant, quiet setting with wide boulevards along which small trees, planted at intervals, bordered the sidewalks. It was a short distan
ce to the small local shops and a dime store, so there was a sense of living in a village community. The city bustle was a bus ride away.

  Number 43, a white-painted house behind a caragana hedge, had a front porch, with room for a swing seat, cane table and chairs, which had influenced their decision to buy the place. Somewhere to sit and entertain friends and neighbours.

  Mattie longed to plant the front garden with a stretch of grass and flower-beds, but they were advised to clean and build up the soil with a first crop of potatoes. At the back was a square yard, still choked with builders’ debris, but a concrete path had been laid and there were two poles for the washing-line.

  The property next door was empty, but would soon be occupied.

  The area of land around the house was small compared with all the space they had become accustomed to, but Mattie approved of the layout of the house. The rooms both up and down were a good size and there were interesting views from the windows. There was a lot of glass to keep clean and shiny, as Griff ruefully noted.

  There was a gas cooker in the cream-walled kitchen, a boiler, which provided hot water; copious cupboards; a clothes-copper with detachable mangle, stowed under the draining-board by the deep sink; a walk-in larder with a cold cabinet, and dark-green linoleum on the floor. Their table and chairs fitted into the bay window recess.

  Upstairs there were three bedrooms, a large airing-cupboard and a compact bathroom. There was a separate WC which they soon dubbed the sentry box.

  The living-room had a double aspect, with windows at either end. The fireplace had a tiled surround, there was a picture rail, and Mattie thought immediately that the wooden plank floor needed shaggy rugs to make it more homely.

  ‘The furniture’s not in the right place,’ she told Griff.

  ‘We can soon shift it around, but not tonight, eh? I don’t start my new job at the gas station until next Monday, there’s plenty of time.’ He flicked a switch, and the room flooded with light. ‘Oh, the joy of instant electricity, Mattie!’

  ‘Turn it off! We haven’t any curtains up, either!’ she protested.

  On the floor above they could hear thumps and the banging of doors. ‘Who would think one small girl could make so much noise?’ He smiled. Megan was exploring, and she’d turned on every light upstairs, not caring about no curtains!

  Mattie and Griff stood in the fading light. He drew her gently to him and held her close. ‘I’ll work hard tomorrow,’ he promised. ‘Let’s heat up that casserole you prepared this morning, in the oven and have our first family meal in the kitchen. The agent lit the boiler, as promised, so later you and Megan can have a nice, relaxing bath, while I make up the beds – how does that sound?’

  ‘Perfect.’ The lingering kiss she gave him was full of promise for later.

  Megan was pleased to discover that there were three children in the house next door but one. There were two boys, aged ten and nine, and their sister Kay, the same age as herself. She would be in Kay’s class at school. Kay’s mother said that when Mattie was satisfied that Megan was settled in she might like her to walk to school with Kay and her brothers. Mattie was actually rather hurt when, after the first morning, Megan said tactlessly, ‘You don’t need to take me any more, Mommy – I’d rather go with the Barkers!’

  However, Megan didn’t mind telling her parents what went on at school each day.

  ‘I was just dreaming a bit, ‘cos I know all my letters, and Miss tapped me on the hand with her ruler and told me to pay attention . . . I didn’t close my eyes in prayers and she called me out the front . . . she said I didn’t hold my pencil correctly . . . she said I stuck chewing-gum under my desk, but it wasn’t me – honest, Mommy!’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Mattie said to Griff, ‘That Miss sounds a bit of a monster! Megan’s only a little girl, after all.’

  ‘You’re not going there to confront her, Mattie. Megan has to toe the line.’

  Megan, apparently absorbed in rearranging the doll’s shoebox house, heard their whispering. ‘I got a gold star on the chart for being the best reader,’ she put in.

  ‘There you are, it’s not all bad news!’ Griff said.

  He was smarting somewhat from the attitude of his own new boss. Griff had jumped at the chance to become an automobile salesman and to double up as bookkeeper at a big gas station on a busy road. There was a modest salary for the bookkeeping, which was guaranteed, but the salesmen were on commission, and the employer had his favourites. Life would continue to be a struggle, with a loan to repay. As Griff’s boss remarked ominously, ‘No one is indispensable if he don’t meet the targets.’

  Mattie had plenty to occupy her once Griff had dug over the front garden. Maybe Doc, she thought, would not have approved of her planting potatoes, shuffling along the ground on her knees. First impressions counted, and they were awaiting the imminent arrival of Sybil! She had purchased the house next door, but would stay with Mattie and Griff for a couple of weeks until her new home was furnished to her satisfaction.

  The cab drew up outside number 43. Mattie was watching out for it, and hurried to the gate. An impressive array of luggage was decanted onto the path. Sybil had arrived in style, and looked as fresh as a daisy, but then, she’d travelled first class, all the way.

  The cabbie carried the trunks and boxes into the hall. Mattie guessed there was more to follow. Sybil thanked him graciously and asked Mattie to sort out a generous tip from her purse. ‘It will take me a while to get used to the new currency,’ she said.

  The beaming cabbie presented her with a card. ‘Give me a call, if you need a cab.’

  ‘I most certainly will,’ Sybil said graciously.

  When he had departed they went into the sunlit kitchen to drink coffee and to eat brandy snaps which Mattie and Megan had made, with varying success, the evening before. ‘Hilda’s specials!’ Mattie recalled. Some of theirs were a funny shape.

  They studied each other over the rims of their coffee cups. Mattie thought that Sybil had changed little in appearance since they had last met. Her hair was now ash-blonde, in a longer, sleeker page-boy bob. Her skin was smooth, her make-up as bold as ever: scarlet lips, darkened, curled eyelashes and finely plucked eyebrows. Sybil wore navy linen slacks, bell-bottom style, a fitted white jacket, with twinkling brass buttons and a jaunty beret. Mattie guessed it was an on-board-ship outfit.

  ‘How do you spend your days?’ Sybil enquired. She was relieved that Mattie was not pale and frail, as she’d expected after her serious illness. Mattie was a mature young woman, not the girl she’d been when they parted. She approved of Mattie’s hairstyle, and button-through green and white candy-striped dress.

  ‘I am concentrating on the garden. I like to be outside while the weather’s fine.’

  ‘What are you growing?’

  Mattie giggled. ‘Potatoes! Don’t look surprised; I grew plenty on the farm.’

  ‘Yes, but . . . potatoes in the front garden – it’ll look like a jungle!’

  ‘Visitors will have to fight their way through, then, won’t they?’

  ‘Oh, Mattie – you haven’t changed in spirit at all,’ Sybil said. ‘I’m glad we’ve got some time to talk on our own, before the others join us.’

  ‘Megan can’t wait to see you; we had to coax her to go to school this morning.’

  ‘Oh, don’t make me sound selfish! I hope I’ve improved in that respect. I just wanted to tell you my plans, now I’m here. Get your opinion! I wasn’t too sure, you know, whether it was fair to you and Griff to move into the house next door. It wasn’t my original intention, and I want to assure you I don’t want to intrude in any way—’

  ‘You’re family, Sybil! I know what you’re trying to say, and I appreciate it, but we have honestly been looking forward to you coming.’

  ‘Thank you! Well, first I must buy a small car. Griff can help with that, eh?’

  ‘He’d be glad to, but . . . you can’t drive, as I recall.’

  ‘No, but you can,
I understand! Would you be my driver, Mattie? I don’t think it would take up too much of your time, and you would be paid, of course! I take it, that nod means yes. You look quite bemused, lost for words! You see, I know exactly what I intend to do: I shall open a beauty and hair-styling salon in the city – sell my own products. What d’you think? I could run courses for students in the art of make-up, too.’

  Mattie found her voice. ‘I think it’s a great idea – I’d love to be involved!’

  ‘It seems to me that women have become so used to the drabness of the depression, that they need a lift to their spirits. I don’t want to sell in an exclusive fashion as I did back in Plymouth – I want to brighten the lives of women in general!’

  ‘What will you call your business?’

  ‘The Fullilove Beauty Experience. I think Rufus would have approved.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  APRIL, 1932

  ‘It’s good fun,’ Megan observed, spooning up her breakfast porridge, ‘having Aunty Sybil next door. She’s taking me to the movies on Saturday afternoon—’

  ‘Movies!’ Mattie exclaimed. ‘Back home we called it going to the pictures – that’s all it was, when we left for Canada – now we have talkies . . . Can you choose the film?’

  ‘Well . . . Kay’s coming too, and her brothers said the new Harold Lloyd movie is amazing – he does tricks like Harry in the garage . . .’

  ‘Fortunately, Harry confined his acrobatics to the garage beams. Well, off you go to school – it’s time for me to honk the horn to let Sybil know her chariot awaits.’

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to look at the funnies yet,’ Megan complained. ‘Dad’s allowed to read the paper at breakfast, why can’t I?’

  ‘Evie and I weren’t permitted to read at the table.’

  ‘That was in the old, old days, Mom!’

  ‘Your dad says you’ll look like Popeye if you keep reading under the covers when you should be asleep at nights. Got your lunch box?’

  ‘Hope you made me corned-beef sandwiches? ‘Bye, Mommy.’