The Meadow Girls

by Sheila Newberry

  ‘Have a good day, darling. Learn lots!’

  As she went down the front path Mattie thought ruefully: Sybil’s right, it is a jungle of potato plants but North Dakota reds are simply the best! In Sybil’s garden, next door, the flower-beds appear to be manicured round the edges, and that’s right for her.

  She settled into the driving seat of the smart black box-shaped car, a new model from Ford, so easy to start after old Tin Lizzie. She squeezed the horn. No sign of Sybil yet. She sighed. Why does Sybil assume that she can take Megan out, and spoil her with treats, without asking me if I mind, first? Griff is happy with this, saying Sybil is family. It was he who suggested she should eat with us in the evenings – she still hasn’t learned to cook, and as for housework, I’d have been landed with that, no doubt, if I hadn’t known that Kay’s mother was looking for a little job. Megan seems bewitched by her glamorous aunt – not that she’s really an aunt, unlike Evie, whom she resembles so much, but Megan decided to call her that.

  Mattie sounded the horn again, trying not to feel jealous. She reminded herself that Sybil often told them how happy she was to be with them again.

  Sybil apologised profusely for not being on time. ‘I didn’t manage breakfast, so could we stop at the bakery on the way and buy a bagel?’ Mattie nodded, as they drove off. ‘D’you approve of my new perfume?’ Sybil added.

  Mattie smiled. ‘It’s very . . . potent. Have you named it?’

  ‘Not yet. Any ideas?’

  ‘I think you should call it “Sybil” Mattie said, tongue in cheek.

  ‘Perfect!’ Sybil agreed. ‘I could hardly say that myself, but coming from you . . .’

  ‘That’s all right then, eh?’

  The Fullilove beauty salon was situated in a parade of rather old-fashioned stores which had evolved from humble beginnings, opposite a modern lofty office block. There were beauty shops in the vicinity of the city centre, but this was a new venture here.

  This was not a wealthy, big-business area, but it had survived the lean years, and seemed a good place to start working life. Stenographers in dark dresses brightened by colourful scarves and cinched at the waist by shiny patent leather belts (for hour-glass figures were back) and sometimes detachable white collars and cuffs, hurried in through revolving doors and took the lift up to one of the firms named on the brass plates in the foyer. The junior clerks wore tan-coloured rayon stockings and clumpy shoes; their superiors sported sheer silk hose and ankle-strapped shoes with heels. The majority were young or middle-aged, a good many were the family breadwinners, for unemployment had risen to twenty-five per cent. They shopped during the lunch-hour break. As professional women they must keep up appearances, and the salon had prices they could afford.

  The beauty salon had been adapted from a store with an apartment above. The beauty treatments and hairdressing were accommodated downstairs. Upstairs, there were products for sale, and helpful assistants, who would oblige by filling the customers’ own containers with lotions and creams. Beyond the sales area there was a door to the balcony. This spring, Sybil had invested in café tables and chairs and set them out. Clients were welcome to eat their packed lunches overlooking the busy street and to have a cup of freshly made coffee ‘on the house’.

  Sybil watched from the doorway to wave Mattie off, then she turned and went inside. She wished she had been able to persuade Mattie to work part-time in the salon, but Griff had worried that it would be too much for her. She inhaled with pleasure the exotic scents. The whole place was decorated in pale pink with chrome fittings. There were comfortable cane chairs, with heart-shaped cushions, a treatment couch, mirrors everywhere, a manicure bar with stools to perch on, and manicurists behind the counter. The curtained cubicles were for those requesting privacy. At the rear of the long salon a door marked PRIVATE led to a suite of rooms where new products were tested by an expert in the field before going on sale. Earlier, Sybil had been disconcerted when warned by the consultant, Lloyd Morris, that some preparations must be modified because of a toxic content. She’d learned to accept his wise advice.

  She was greeted by members of staff she passed by on the way to her small office. They were pretty, smiling girls who naturally used Sybil’s potions themselves.

  Dolores, who dealt with the appointments book, was sitting at her desk, telephone in hand. Sybil lifted her hand in silent greeting, then hung her jacket and hat on the stand in the corner. She went to her desk by the window, but before shutting her handbag in a drawer, she removed a brown-paper bag. The bagel was still warm. She took a bite. Dolores would make her a drink when she had finished her call.

  They drank their coffee together. Dolores had a doughnut in lieu of breakfast. She was enviably slim despite her consumption of such items, with a dark, natural beauty, large, expressive eyes and perfect white teeth, unlike many girls of her age who’d grown up in a poor area. Dolores was ambitious, already achieving at age twenty-two.

  ‘No treatments booked until eleven,’ Dolores observed. ‘Axel is hoping you will have time to watch him using the new permanent wave machine – he has a client coming at 9.30 a.m.’

  ‘Curls are in vogue again – the short, straight styles don’t flatter all faces, do they? So I hope we soon recoup the outlay,’ Sybil said. ‘I may have a permanent myself  . . . ’ She remembered how she’d transformed her appearance, and upset her parents, when at sixteen she’d bleached her mousey locks, and begun experimenting with make-up.

  The croquignole method of permanent waving had been developed for the liberated woman, freeing her from the time-consuming ritual of caring for long hair, when crimping meant applying sizzling-hot tongs, or curling with rags which were uncomfortable to sleep on. These curls were short-lived, especially when it rained.

  Axel’s client looked definitely nervous, despite the hair-stylist’s soothing chatter as he wound strands of hair tightly on steel rods upwards to her scalp. There was a strong smell of chemicals, and she closed her eyes, which were smarting and watering. Fearsome dangling clamps were attached to the rods, the machine vibrated, and the resulting steam, with a strangulated yelp from the client, caused the audience to retreat.

  ‘Phew!’ Sybil told Dolores. ‘I need more coffee. I hope she won’t sue us!’

  ‘Best dollar I ever spent,’ said the satisfied client, some hours later. Her scalp still tingled, but the deep waves in her hair were indeed impressive.

  Sybil was relieved that the client still possessed a full head of hair. However, she decided to forgo the experience herself. She was rather glad that the clever, aloof Mr Morris had not been at work today. He might well have disapproved, she thought.

  Mattie was feeling at rather a loose end back at home. She’d found a letter from Evie waiting on the mat.

  Been having fun! Mother said I must get out and about more, so I took her advice! Went to stay with Christabel and Walter for a few days during Easter break from school. Walter had to work, but C had two days’ holiday owing, and was able to accompany me to the Crystal Palace – a wonderful experience! – I had my picture taken leaning against a dinosaur! I certainly wouldn’t have got that near if it had been real!! The girls at school will have a giggle when I show the photo to them!

  We went to see The Desert Song. The third time for C. Lovely! I don’t know if she has told you yet, but I can’t keep secrets from you. It wasn’t intended, she says, but she and Walter are expecting a baby in September, after all this time! If it is a girl, they have decided on the name Dolly after her dear mum . . .

  I’m jealous again, Mattie realised. Christabel and I were best friends, but she hasn’t told me her news . . . what’s the saying: Out of sight, out of mind? I need to be doing something – but what? – to keep me busy and happy.’ This house is easy to clean, Megan is at school, and I miss, oh so much, working alongside Griff, as we did on the farm.

  The thought of her beloved home on the prairie made her wipe her eyes on her apron. She went upstairs, ope
ned the honeymoon trunk, as Griff had dubbed it, and took out the scrapbook of memories.

  Much later she popped down to the dime store. She bought half a dozen cheap notebooks, a box of quality writing paper, a fountain pen and a bottle of black ink. She’d write her ideas in pencil in the notebooks, edit them, and then copy them out neatly on the good paper. First-person articles often appeared in the local newspapers. She enjoyed reading human interest stories herself. ‘So,’ she said aloud, ‘I can but have a go  . . . ’ She had a title for what she hoped would be a series: PRAIRIE SONG. The inspiration had come from The Desert Song, the film mentioned in Evie’s letter.

  On Saturday both Griff and Sybil had a rare afternoon off. Sybil, as promised, took Megan and her friend to the local cinema. ‘We’ll catch the bus there, the girls will enjoy that,’ Sybil said. ‘Afterwards, Mrs Barker has invited Megan and me to join them for tea. We should be home around seven.’

  Mattie cleared the lunch table and glanced at Griff, reading the paper. It seems ages since we’ve been on our own like this, she thought. What can we find to talk about? I don’t know why, but I want to keep my writing secret for the moment.

  ‘D’you want me to help with the washing up?’ he enquired, without looking up.

  ‘Only plates and cups and saucers – you relax. You’ve had a busy week,’ she replied, as she rinsed the crocks clean.

  He took her by surprise, bending over the sink, as he had often done in the early days of their marriage, arms tight around her waist. He kissed the nape of her neck.

  ‘That tickles.’ She giggled. She shook the water from her hands and turned in his embrace. ‘Give me a proper kiss.’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he said softly. ‘Dry your hands, shed your pinny, and follow me upstairs. Take your own advice, relax, be Mattie instead of Mom for a few hours.’

  She realised, with a pang of remorse, that it had been weeks since they last made love with abandon. Following her illness and slow recovery Griff had been patient, and understanding in that respect, as the doctors had advised. Then had come the big move to the city and she had felt drained and disappointed. Now it was another spring, and time to change, for she realised that Griff had suffered too.

  She unbuttoned her frock, slipped it over her head, and lay back on the bed. ‘Well, don’t stand there looking mesmerised,’ she said, ‘come here!’ And he did.

  Some time later, she asked him: ‘Are you happy now?’

  ‘I am. How about you, darling?’

  ‘I’m like a new woman,’ she said solemnly.

  ‘You feel like one . . . you obviously made up your mind not to fade away, eh?’

  ‘I’ve a secret to share with you . . .’

  ‘I’m listening,’ he said, smoothing her hair out of her eyes. ‘Not  . . . ?’

  ‘Not another baby, no. Unless we’ve crossed that bridge today . . . I want to write, Griff – about our experiences since we decided to emigrate, ten years ago. All the ups and downs, all the good friends we met along the way – what d’you think?’

  ‘It’s the best idea you’ve had in a long while,’ he said, ‘I love you so much, Mattie.’

  Harold Lloyd had the audience gasping when, caught in a hoist, he was hauled up the side of a skyscraper in his latest film, Paramount’s Feet First. Megan dropped her packet of popcorn and, later, crunched it underfoot before they emerged, blinking, into the afternoon sunshine in the street.

  There was time to visit the drugstore for an ice cream before catching the bus home. After the mishap with the popcorn, Sybil thought it wise to save this treat for ‘when you can see what you’re doing’.

  Others from the cinema had the same idea, so they joined a growing queue. There came a polite tap on her shoulder, and Sybil turned to see her colleague – she wouldn’t have dreamed of calling him her employee – Lloyd Morris, smiling at her. He was accompanied by a boy of about Megan’s age.

  ‘Did you enjoy the film?’ he enquired. ‘This is my grandson, Max. He is visiting me this weekend. This is Mrs Fullilove, Max.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Fullilove,’ Max said, and it was obvious, unwillingly.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you, Max. This is my stepson’s daughter, Megan, and her friend Kay. Oh, excuse me – I must pay for their ice creams.’

  ‘I will see you on Monday, goodbye,’ Lloyd said, as they moved away.

  ‘That boy poked his tongue out at me,’ Megan sounded indignant.

  ‘Did you do the same?’ Sybil asked.

  ‘Oh, Aunty Sybil, of course I did!’

  ‘My mom’s a writer,’ Megan told her friends proudly at school. ‘You can read her story in the paper. They came and took her picture, and printed that, too. She’s going to write lots more, and my dad’s going to do some pen-and-ink pictures, he says. Tell your moms to buy the paper every Friday.’

  ‘We only get it wrapped round meat from the butcher,’ Kay told her. Then, ‘That was meant to be a joke, Meg.’ She added, to mollify her, ‘My mom says I can go to the Saturday morning kids’ club at the cinema, with my brothers – d’you want to come?’

  ‘Depends what’s on.’ Megan was still huffy.

  ‘Our Gang – kids who get up to all sorts of mischief.’

  ‘Like us?’

  ‘Like us, if we got half a chance!’

  Mattie bought a gramophone with her earnings, and some big band records. The woodblock floor in the living room came into its own now; they rolled up the shaggy rugs, and on Saturday evenings, when Sybil was invited out for dinner by her friend Lloyd, and Megan was in bed, she and Griff danced cheek-to-cheek. She thought: No one would know we’re an old married couple.

  Megan, listening to the music, in bed, with her eyes closed in case Mom or Dad checked whether she was asleep, knew, of course, but although she wouldn’t tell anyone their secret, even Kay, because they were too old, surely, she liked the thought of them being all silly and romantic.

  To her surprise Sybil discovered that, despite her being over forty, romance was back in her life, too. Lloyd was proving an ardent suitor. He’d been a widower for several years, and he couldn’t believe his luck at meeting a woman like Sybil when he was in his late fifties. No point in hanging about when you were older, they both believed that. They announced their engagement in September, and later that month there was more excitement when the family heard that Christabel and Walter had their daughter, Dolly.

  TWENTY-TWO

  1939

  It was yet another hot, dry summer and dust storms were creating havoc on the prairies. It was enervating in the city, too, so the Parry family were nostalgic for the wide open spaces, forgetting the drawbacks.

  Mattie was delighted when the newspaper editor suggested she should pen something along the lines of A Return to the Prairie. It was the summer vacation and Megan, who would not be fourteen until Christmas, had so far not been lucky with finding a holiday job. Kay and her brothers were picking peaches on a relative’s farm, but Mattie thought Megan was too young to join them, unaccompanied by an adult.

  ‘What is there to do?’ Megan lamented loudly each morning. She loved high school, the course work and the sport. She and Kay were hoping to become cheerleaders for the football and basketball teams. Megan practised her moves in front of the long mirror in her parents’ bedroom. ‘She’s obsessed with it!’ Griff said wryly, when once they were wakened from slumber to see her twirling Mattie’s feather duster.

  Megan cheered up when Mattie suggested they might drive out to their old home and see Gretchen. It was hard to imagine her the mother of four children under seven.

  When Sybil and Lloyd married six years ago he’d given up his apartment and moved in to her house. Lloyd was now her business partner as well as her husband, and the beauty salon was thriving. They made a good team. Sybil, now she was no longer in need of a chauffeur, generously donated her car to Mattie. Mattie was grateful for, as she said, ‘Megan has a busy social life, and needs me to f
erry her back and forth!’ This was her chance to drive a longer distance, and to see old friends.

  ‘I wish I could come with you,’ Griff said, ‘but it’s not possible on a weekday. Try to be home before dark. The roads haven’t improved out there – it’ll be a rough ride.’

  ‘Mom’s a good driver, and knows the way,’ Megan reminded her dad.

  They left early and arrived mid-morning. Gretchen was plumper but so dear and familiar, with her long, braided blonde hair, though now she had little ones clinging shyly to her apron. She came to greet them with a welcoming cry of, ‘Here you are, at last!’

  Kjetl came out from the barn and gave them both a hug. He smells like Griff used to when we lived here, Mattie thought: of hay, sour milk from spills, manure on his boots. Griff now smells pleasantly of fresh laundered shirts and shaving cream; he polishes his shoes, but he was doing a real man’s job then, and I know he misses that.

  ‘Aunt has made a fresh pot of tea,’ Gretchen said.

  ‘Oh good,’ Mattie said. ‘We drink too much coffee nowadays!’

  The house was much the same. Megan went up the ladder into the loft, now a bedroom for the three young sons, who wanted to show her their toys.

  ‘Uncle and I are hoping to add two rooms on to the house; we need more space now our family has grown.’ Kjetl said. He jiggled the fat little baby on his lap. ‘Well, we got our girl at last, our Wenche.’ He pronounced the name ‘Vinka’.

  Mattie sipped the hot tea, reflecting: it won’t be the same house then. She said aloud, ‘I like her name. It seems ages since Megan was that small.’

  ‘We pasteurise the milk, it is the law, and we sterilise the bottles,’ Uncle told them. ‘Times have changed, Mrs Parry. Since we got real electricity, we have machinery and refrigeration – no more ice to cut and store.’ He noted her expression. ‘Ah, we still deliver by horse and wagon. Mama can crack a whip, but not drive a motor.’

  ‘Come and see your garden,’ Gretchen said quickly. ‘I try to keep it the same.’