And I will be all right!’
Of course she would be all right. She was going to Candlefold, wasn’t she? What harm could come to her there?
With Aintree Racecourse behind her she could almost forget those nights of bombing, Meg thought, relaxing a little. There were fields ahead and to each side; she was in the country now and, apart from the houses in villages they drove through having criss-crosses of brown paper on the windows, you could be forgiven for thinking those nights had never happened.
Dear, kind Nell. Meg smiled, recalling that Nell had been up at the crack of dawn to see her off and taken Ma’s attaché case to put inside her gas oven, which was made of cast iron, and solid as any safe, she said.
Then she hugged Meg and told her to take care, demanding to know what poor Doll would say if she knew what her daughter was up to. And Meg smiled and hugged her back, and kissed her cheek, and almost said that Ma did know; was waiting for her at the pump trough.
She hadn’t said it, though, because if she had Nell would have said the bombing had driven her out of her mind, and had her locked up!
‘Ta-ra, well,’ she had said instead. ‘See you as soon as maybe, Nell.’
‘Never mind maybe! You’ll get yourself back tonight before it’s dark!’ Nell called after her, but Meg had waved her hand without turning round – bad luck to turn round, Kip said – and made for Lyra Street and Scotland Road at the bottom of it. Her heart had thumped something awful, she remembered, though she was calm enough now she was on her way.
She looked at her watch. It was nearly eight, and once she was on the Preston train she would be halfway there; halfway to Nether Barton and an old house called Candlefold. And to Ma.
She had come too far too quickly, Meg realized when told at Preston station there were no trains to Nether Barton. Never had been, and that if she wanted to get to a place like that, then she had better try her luck at the bus depot.
Luck was with her. There was a bus service, though sadly she had missed the eleven o’clock, and there wouldn’t be another until two. Fuel rationing, see? Bus services had been cut by half.
‘Then I’ll have to try to hitch,’ she said disconsolately, asking to be pointed in the direction of the Whalley road, along which she walked, right arm swinging, thumb jutting, half an hour later. She had just decided to accept any vehicle that stopped, men or not, when, with a clatter and a clang a milk lorry drew in a few yards ahead of her.
‘Going anywhere near Nether Barton?’ she called to the driver.
‘Sure. Got three farms to collect around that area. Get in, and don’t slam the door! And what are you staring at, then?’
‘Since you’re askin’ – you.’ Meg closed the door carefully. ‘I’ve never seen a lady lorry driver before. What made you want to drive a lorry?’
‘Money. And the Army, who gives me damn all for taking my husband off me, never mind enough to keep my kids on. Got three. Mum looks after them for me. But why is a young girl like yourself going to a dead hole like Nether Barton?’
‘Relations. Ma died, see, three months ago. I’m trying to trace her family.’ Not lies, exactly. ‘I’ll be twenty in August and my age group’ll have to register for war work, so I’m making the most of me time till then. And taking a bit of a break, after the bombing.’
‘You’re from Liverpool? Nasty, that blitz. Your home all right?’
‘Yes, thanks be. But all of a sudden I wanted to get out of the place. Them Germans have left it in a hell of a mess.’
‘Well, you’ll get plenty of peace and quiet where you’re going!’ Again, the hearty laugh. ‘Now I’m turning left at the next crossroads; got a collection at Smithies Farm, then it’s full speed ahead to Nether Barton, and your auntie.’
‘Cousin,’ she supplied, choosing to forget the lies that slipped off her tongue with no bother at all. ‘Honest to God, I can’t get over a woman drivin’ a lorryload of milk churns!’
All at once she was enjoying herself, and very soon she would be at Candlefold, though what she would do then was wide open to debate!
‘Where did you say you were going?’ the driver asked.
‘Candlefold.’ The word came lovingly.
‘No Candlefold Farm around these parts. Leastways, if there is it hasn’t got a milk herd.’
‘It isn’t a farm. How am I goin’ to set about finding it, do you suppose?’
‘I’ll drop you off at the shop in the village when we get there. It’s a post office too, and the lady behind the counter delivers the local letters. She’ll be able to tell you. Now, hang on. This lane’s a bit bumpy!’
The lady in the post office at Nether Barton did indeed know where Candlefold was.
‘Going after the job?’ she asked.
‘Job?’
‘In the window, on a postcard. Thought you’d come in to ask for directions.’
‘Oh, er, yes!’ Heaven help her, a job! ‘Any idea what it’s about?’
‘Just general help around the place, I imagine. Hours to suit, Polly said, or live in. They’re pretty desperate, if you ask me. Mrs John’s got a lot on her plate.’
‘It’s a big house, isn’t it?’
‘Not any more, so to speak. The powers-that-be took Candlefold – left the Kenworthys only the very old part of the house that used to be the servants’ quarters in the old days. But there’s no help to be had now for love nor money, and the Kenworthys such nice people. Real gentry, you know!’
‘Ar.’ She did know. Ma had said much the same thing. Often. ‘So how will I get there?’
‘Straight down the road you’ll see the gates. They’re locked, so carry on a couple of hundred yards till you come to a stile. From there, cross the field to the far corner and you’ll come out at the back of the house – the part they’re living in now. It’s the way I go to deliver the letters. You’ll see a stone archway that opens on to the courtyard – the door is straight ahead of you. Are you used to housework, then?’
‘Yes. And I nursed Ma when she was sick. I’m not afraid to roll my sleeves up.’
‘Then you’ll be more than welcome, if you suit. Old Mrs Kenworthy is bedridden, poor lady. In pain a lot of the time. Would be a mercy if she was to slip away. But I’m not one to gossip, you’ll understand.’
‘Oh, of course not! And thanks for your help.’
‘Be sure to let me know how things go,’ called the postmistress as Meg left, and she turned to smile, and said she would, then took a deep breath because her heart was thudding so.
A job at Candlefold! Ma had known about it all along! Must have, or why was her daughter here now, flush-cheeked and hardly able to believe her luck, because all she had ever thought to do was get a look, somehow, at that pump trough.
She picked up her bag, straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, walking head high as Ma had always done, no matter how bad things had been.
‘This is it, Meg!’ And oh, if there really was a heaven and a God in it, she could do with a bit of help right this minute because she needed – no, wanted – that job; wanted to live and work in the middle of fields and trees and be happy like Ma had been. She’d had enough of Tippet’s Yard and rows of little houses and mucky streets and bombs, and here, on a plate, was her chance to get out of it!
The gates, when Meg reached them, were chained and padlocked. They were wide and tall, and patterned in scrolls and swirls, and far more beautiful than the gates to Sefton Park taken away by the iron collectors. She was glad They hadn’t melted down