The Meadow Girls

by Sheila Newberry

  Two of the most senior officers were to attend a weekend conference in London. Megan was chosen to drive them there. The officers would be staying at a big hotel, where security was already in place: Megan would put up at a smaller establishment, and was told to enjoy her short break, but to stay within the hotel at all times in case she was needed.

  She told herself there was no reason why she shouldn’t contact Tommy and ask him over on the Saturday evening; he was stationed in Surrey and grounded for a spell. It was a pity she wouldn’t be able to see anything much of London, she thought, on her first visit. She knew that her mother was disappointed too, that she hadn’t yet been able to get in touch with her Aunt Evie in Lincolnshire, or the relatives in Suffolk.

  Driving through bomb-ravaged London was a sombre experience. Some of the buildings were mere shells. Having come from the lush countryside, she realised just what London and the other big cities had suffered two years previously.

  The great hotel, however, was seemingly untouched. Megan was not invited inside but drove away immediately her passengers had alighted. Her more modest destination was some miles away.

  Her arrival was expected. She was escorted to a pleasant room on the first floor, where a tray of refreshments was delivered shortly afterwards. ‘Dinner at seven, madam, in the dining room.’ The young woman who’d accompanied her opened a door. ‘Your private bathroom. There’s enough hot water if you wish to take a bath.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Megan said. ‘I’d sure appreciate that.’

  She took off her cap and threw it on the bed. It would be good, she thought, to hang up her uniform, to change into something pretty and feminine before Tommy arrived. That was if he did, of course. He hadn’t confirmed that he would.

  It was four o’clock. Time for tea. She settled herself at the small table in the sitting area. A silver tea service was a pleasant change from the tin mugs she’d become accustomed to. She’d hoped for a gooey cake or two, but there was a single scone on a plate, already split and spread thinly with butter.

  Refreshed, she rested on top of the coverlet on the bed and closed her eyes for a brief nap. She awoke with a start, to discover that it was past six. I’ll have to hurry, she thought ruefully – but I’m not going to miss out on my bath, or washing my hair!

  Fortunately, she’d brought bath salts, soap and shampoo, because these luxury items were no longer provided. However, there was a big white towel, embroidered in one corner with the name of the hotel, and a smaller towel for drying her hair, which she’d wash in the bath, to save time and water.

  The pale pink chiffon dress, with cap sleeves and cross-over bodice sparkling with silver sequins was the one she’d worn for the studio portrait she’d sent to Tommy. She’d had no chance to wear it since. It was lined in silk, so she’d no need of a petticoat, only minimal underwear. She smoothed her nylon stockings carefully over her legs, then slipped her feet into borrowed silver dancing shoes, with heels. Her hair was still damp but she swept it up off her neck with a pair of glittery combs. No worries about setting a style – her hair was curly, and that was it, she thought.

  Megan looked at her face in the dressing-table mirror. Just a dab of powder to disguise the shine bestowed by steaming water, coral-coloured lipstick and touches of the expensive perfume given her by Sybil last Christmas.

  She took a deep breath. Just on seven. Would he be already at the table, waiting for her to appear? I can’t hurry in these heels, she reminded herself.

  The dining-room was almost deserted: no Tommy. A couple of women in sensible tweeds sat at a corner table. Megan immediately felt conspicuous. In wartime, she realised, it was not necessary to dress for dinner.

  She was guided to her table by a middle-aged man, with sleek pomaded hair and a pencil-thin moustache. ‘Good evening, madam. My name is Louis. Do you wish to order now, or wait for your guest to arrive?’

  ‘I’ll wait, thank you,’ she said. She was aware that the women were regarding her from their table. Did she look that much out of place?

  ‘Would you like a drink while you study the menu?’ Louis prompted.

  Megan felt flustered. She’d never ordered a drink for herself.

  ‘A little wine, perhaps?’ Louis persisted.

  ‘A small glass of sherry,’ she decided. Sybil was the most sophisticated person she knew, and that was usually her choice.

  She picked up the menu nonchalantly. Most of the items were crossed through. The selection of food on the base was more appetising, mostly flown over from the States. They enjoyed fresh-baked white bread, and deep-fried doughnuts.

  ‘Chef’s choice of the day . . . stewed rabbit and savoury dumplings,’ she read aloud in disbelief, wrinkling her nose. ‘I wonder why they didn’t translate that into French!’

  ‘Doesn’t sound too bad to me,’ remarked a cheerful voice.

  Megan looked up, couldn’t suppress a gasp. ‘Tommy – you got here!’

  ‘Sure did. I’ve even booked a room overnight. Glad to see me?’ He slid into a chair opposite, placed his cap on the table, and sat smiling at her, still in his uniform.

  ‘Oh, I am!’

  Louis appeared, removed the headgear smartly to a curved coat-stand. ‘Good evening, sir. Would you care for a drink? Are you ready to order?’

  ‘Whisky, please. Say, can’t you rustle up something more special than rabbit?’

  Louis stiffened. ‘Are you not aware, sir, of the strict rationing over here?’

  ‘You think I come from the States? Well, I’m from Canada, of British parents, and I’ve been over here almost from the start of the war . . . It’s just that this is by way of being a reunion, and I guess I hoped to impress a beautiful girl.’

  ‘In that case, sir, I apologise, I’ll see what I can do. Leave it to me,’ Louis said.

  The wait was worth it. Toad in the hole, one fat, herby sausage each, in batter made no doubt with dried egg and milk, served with thick brown well-seasoned gravy, mashed potato and glazed carrots. Some of the batter was reserved for crispy pancakes, served, to their delight, with maple syrup.

  Louis beamed at their obvious enjoyment of the meal, but it was time for vacating the dining-room to allow the staff to clear up and lay the tables again for breakfast. It was past nine o’clock.

  ‘Would you like coffee in the foyer – or perhaps in your rooms?’ Louis asked.

  He didn’t even blink when Tommy said immediately, ‘In your room, I think, Megan? Booking at the last minute, the only room available to me was on the top floor, next to the staff WC.’

  ‘Not quite, sir, it’s closer to the broom cupboard. You’ll find it adequate, I’m sure. Do you want your bag taken upstairs?’

  ‘No, I’ll keep it with me, thank you. Lead the way, Megan!’

  They drank their coffee, sitting side by side on a chaise-longue. Megan removed her shoes and wriggled her toes. She gave a contented sigh. ‘This is nice. D’you have to go up to your attic? There’s a spare blanket, you could sleep on the couch, couldn’t you? I don’t want the evening to end yet.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ he said softly.

  She didn’t look at him when she said, ‘Or, as you’ve noticed, there is a perfectly comfortable double bed . . .’

  His arms encircled her, he turned her gently towards him. ‘Are you ready for this?’ he queried, his breath fanning her cheek.

  ‘Not quite . . . I don’t want to crush my best frock . . .’

  ‘That’s easily solved,’ he whispered. ‘You don’t have to do this, Megan, you know. I didn’t realise you were all grown up, I admit. But please remember I’m older, and yes, more experienced than you. I don’t want to take advantage of you—’

  ‘I’m in love with you Tommy. I can’t help myself. I intend to marry you one day!’

  ‘Oh, Megan, how can I resist you? I think I’m falling for you, too . . .’

  *

  The talking, the meticulous planning was over – the D-day landings b
egan in June, 1944. Europe would be liberated at last. Amid the euphoria, there was the cruel reality of great loss of life for the Allied forces. Tommy was among those who would never return. Also, the war in the Far East was not over yet.

  In August, Megan was flown home to North Dakota on compassionate grounds. Her war was over, too, because she was four months pregnant.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘No more weeping, Mattie darling,’ Griff said gently to her that homecoming day. ‘No recriminations – promise?’

  Mattie’s lips trembled. ‘I’ll try . . . promise. It’s just that—’

  ‘You’re her mother – it’s natural you should feel the way you do. Disappointed – let down – we both feel she’s too young. If . . . things hadn’t turned out the way they have, well, we would have been shocked and angry that Tommy was so irresponsible, as Megan is so young.’

  ‘She’s not grown-up enough to be a mother! Nor was I, at that age. We were married almost four years before she put in an appearance! Another thing, I don’t feel ready to be a grandmother – at just forty-two! I could still have a baby myself . . .’

  Griff hugged her tight. His voice was muffled as he rested his face against her hair. ‘This one will do . . . Megan has suffered enough, losing Tommy. We must support and love her, and her baby. Is her room ready?’

  ‘You know it is. Oh, Griff, how will I know what to say to her?’

  ‘You will. She’s still our Megan.’

  They had both taken the afternoon off work. Mattie had decided on a simple supper, Chicken Maryland. Not too heavy a meal, but nourishing for an expectant mother, she thought. This was a favourite family dish: chicken portions, coated in breadcrumbs, fried to a golden brown; sweetcorn picked from Mattie’s front vegetable garden and made into fritters, served with sliced, cooked bananas. Megan had written that bananas had been unobtainable in England during most of the war. For dessert, Mattie baked individual blueberry tarts, and whipped up a jug of cream.

  She wondered whether Megan had an aversion to certain foods, as she had had when she was expecting her daughter; she hoped that Megan might be past the morning sickness stage. She mustn’t treat her as an invalid – she hadn’t allowed that herself, she recalled wryly.

  After Griff had gone to collect Megan from the station Mattie sat watching the clock, trying to relax, as Griff had suggested. She heard the car arrive, but she waited for the tap on the door, which would mean that it was Megan, for Griff had his key.

  She opened the door slowly. Griff was backing the car into the garage. Megan stood there, pale-faced and unsmiling. Mattie held out her arms. ‘Welcome home, darling!’ She drew her daughter inside the house, pulling the door to; Griff would be tactful, she guessed, and allow them a few minutes together.

  Megan followed her into the kitchen and Mattie set the kettle to boil for tea. Megan wore the striped baggy dungarees she’d bought at Bigelows in 1941, which accommodated her baby bump. She didn’t look much like the cheerful girl in uniform in the full-length photograph she’d sent her parents before she left for her duties in England. This young woman was obviously desperately unhappy.

  They were aware that Griff had come in, but he went straight upstairs with Megan’s baggage.

  Megan spoke at last. ‘Poor Dad, I couldn’t say anything to him except hello . . .’

  ‘I’m sure he understood. Mug or cup, dear?’

  ‘A cup and saucer – I missed your china tea set. I missed you, Mom. I missed Dad! I wanted you to be proud of me.’

  ‘We are,’ Mattie assured her. ‘Drink your tea. I have a letter here for you from Grace. I had to tell her about the baby, of course.’

  ‘Did she – understand?’

  ‘She said it was helping her to cope with her grief. It’s brought us even closer.’

  ‘Tommy didn’t know. I wasn’t sure, you see, at that time. After he’d – gone – I had a letter. He said he loved me, that we’d be married as soon as we could – how wonderful it was that we’d come together – destiny, he said . . .’

  ‘You didn’t tell us for some time, did you? I was worrying myself sick about those awful flying bombs, knowing you drove into London quite often. Please God, I said, let Megan come safely home to us.’

  ‘And here I am,’ Megan said simply.

  ‘Any tea left in the pot?’ Griff asked, joining them.

  Later, in her room, resting on the bed, Megan unfolded Grace’s letter.

  Dear Megan,

  You will soon be home, so I am enclosing this letter with your mother’s. I am still trying to come to terms with my loss, but I am grateful for the years I had my son – he was brave and resolute like his father, who also died young, doing his duty.

  He wrote to me, you know, after you met in London last April. He could hardly believe his luck, he said he knew you and he were meant for each other, and he was going to ask you to marry him. I was so happy then – your parents befriended me on the boat over here, and we have been pals ever since – this would be a further strong bond between us, I thought.

  Now, Mattie tells me that you are carrying Tommy’s baby! Please allow us to be part of your life, for dear Tommy’s sake.

  Take care of yourself, and God bless, with love from Grace, Mungo and Lydia.

  The sobbing began then. She turned her face to the pillow, trying to stifle the sound.

  A hand gently caressed her hunched shoulders. Her father sat down on the side of the bed. He used the soothing voice he had used when she was upset as a child, or had shouted at Mom when she was a teenager, railing against not being allowed to do some activity her parents didn’t approve of. He was the family peacemaker.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked, as if he didn’t know.

  ‘Oh, Dad, I’ve let you down, you and Mom, and now I’m going to be a burden, because I haven’t any money, though the army says it will help, and how can I get a job, in my condition?’

  ‘Look, you don’t need to worry about that now. All that matters is that we are here for you, and always will be. If you want to pour your heart out, now is the time. I’m listening. Mom will call us when supper’s on the table.’

  Megan sat up, and reached for his hand. ‘We were only together for a weekend, Tommy and me. Don’t blame him – please . . .’

  ‘It takes two,’ Griff said softly. ‘You may find it hard to believe, but your mom and I almost succumbed to all that, before we were married. Of course, times were very different then, but, it was frustrating. Barriers are broken down in wartime. A last chance to be together, who knows what will happen next? Is that how you felt?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t feel guilty!’ She fingered the pendant round her neck, remembering. ‘He said: “Let me see whose picture you have next to your heart,” then he opened it, and looked inside. I said, I had to cut you down . . .’ She gave a little hiccupping giggle.

  Griff cleared his throat. ‘Good to see you smiling. Want to share the joke?’

  ‘Well, now, you’ve confessed about you and Mom – I omitted to say that when we were in bed, that the pendant was all I was wearing!’

  ‘Mom’s calling! Ready to come downstairs?’

  Mattie refrained from asking what they had been talking about. She said only, as she dished up the meal: ‘Oh Megan, after you left home I was sorting out the washing and I found a fraternity pin on your pyjama jacket! I put it back in that little box on your bedside table. Didn’t you miss it?’

  ‘I thought I’d lost it – I expect you realised that Max gave it to me that Christmas? I never heard from him – I guess he found a nice girl!’

  ‘I doubt it, in the jungle in Burma. Eat up, before it gets cold.’

  Megan wasn’t prepared to stay at home putting her feet up for five months. She had too much nervous energy for that. She asked Mattie to approach Bigelow’s and ask whether they could do with another member of part-time staff. ‘They can hide me in a back room, and disguise me in one of those old-fashioned fa
rming smocks,’ she said.

  Bigelow’s was also adapting to a fast-changing world. There were two other expectant mothers, GI brides both of them, who were allowed to perch on stools behind the counter, and they welcomed their former student helper back.

  ‘I can work until I go pop!’ Megan told her mother.

  ‘I’m sure Mr Bigelow Junior didn’t put it quite like that!’ Mattie mock reproved. She was aware that Megan was determined to make everyone believe that she was all right. She wasn’t, of course, but it was good she was keeping busy until the baby was born.

  Mattie accompanied Megan to a prenatal appointment at the hospital in late November, six weeks before the birth was due. The doctors warned that her blood pressure was soaring, and there were the first ominous signs of toxaemia. They said that she must give up her job immediately and have bed rest in hospital for ‘a week or two’. Megan was not convinced. ‘Supposing they make me stay there until my due date?’ she fretted.

  Megan wasn’t allowed to go home, but was shortly lying on a bed, in a cubicle off the main maternity ward, dressed in a well-laundered hospital gown, which she complained was indecent because it was open at the back, while Mattie went home to pack a bag hastily for her. Meanwhile, Megan was given a sedative, tucked up and told to have a good sleep.

  Sleep was just what she did, for the following two weeks. She was woken to take tablets, to be helped to a commode, washed like a baby herself as she lay on the bed. Visitors came and departed at different times of the day. Sometimes she was aware of their presence, sometimes she slumbered on. A delicious fragrance caused her to open her eyes one day, to see Sybil leaning over her to bestow a gentle kiss on her damp forehead. It was the perfume she had worn herself, the day Tommy came back so briefly into her life. Sybil brought flowers and also a special bunch of red roses. ‘These are from Max. He asked me to bring them, as he couldn’t come himself. He sends his love and best wishes,’ she said, not sure whether Megan could hear her.