rel="nofollow" href="#ulink_2b28586f-d5db-572f-a54a-9815ff104dd4">Four
Meg was surprised and pleased to find Polly Kenworthy waiting at the bus stop.
‘How did you know when I’d be getting here?’ she beamed.
‘I didn’t. I was posting a parcel to Davie and Mrs Potter asked me if the young lady had managed to find Candlefold – about the job, she meant – and I told her you had. And that you’d be coming today. The bus was about due, so I hung around just in case.’
‘Did you think I wouldn’t come?’
‘I hoped you would. My bike is outside the post office. We can put your case on the seat – save you carrying it.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Meg said slowly, remembering how her mother had spoken, feeling that now was her chance to knock the edges off her Liverpool accent; talk proper, like Ma had done.
‘So how often do you write to your young man,’ Meg asked as they walked.
‘Every day. Sometimes more than that – even if it’s only I love you and miss you – oh, you know what it’s like when you’d give anything to be with them for just a couple of minutes.’
‘No. I don’t. There’s someone I write to; he’s in the Merchant Navy. He’d like us to go steady – even said he’d buy me a ring in Sydney, but I hope he won’t. I – I’m not ready to be in love with anybody yet.’
‘Not ready, Meg? But falling in love just happens, whether you’re ready for it or not! You see a man and that’s it! The minute I laid eyes on Davie everything went boing! inside me. He’s in Mark’s regiment – Mark is my brother, did I tell you? – and he got a crafty thirty-six-hour pass and brought Davie along. They were walking across the courtyard, Mark said something, and Davie threw back his head and laughed. That was the exact moment I fell in love with him. I didn’t know who he was and it never occurred to me to wonder if he had a girl or might even be married. He was the man I wanted; simple as that! And don’t tell me I’m too young to know my own mind, that I haven’t been around enough. I met Davie, so I don’t want to gad around now. I just want us to be married.’
‘And will you be, or must you wait till you’re twenty-one?’
‘Mummy would like me to wait. She agreed to our being engaged but she wants us to give it time, so we’re both sure. Mind, if Davie gets posted overseas she might let us get married on his embarkation leave, which wouldn’t be very satisfactory, really.’
‘See what you mean. It would be lovely bein’ married, but it might only be for a week.’
‘Yes. I’d be a lonely young wife for the rest of the war, probably. I wish I were twenty-one.’
‘How old are you, Polly?’
‘Twenty, almost.’
‘Ar. You’ll have to register when you’re twenty, for war work.’
‘Don’t I know it! If Davie and me were married, They couldn’t send me into the armed forces – only make me find a job. I’d like to stay at Candlefold. When I’m not helping in the house, I work in the kitchen garden, digging for victory, sort of. We grow a lot of vegetables and saladings and soft fruits – apples and pears too. Once, when fuel wasn’t rationed, we could heat the greenhouses and get early crops, but not any more.
‘When the Government took the brick house, they left us the kitchen garden, and the Home Farm, which Mrs Potter’s brother-in-law rents from us. I suppose it was a good thing really that They wanted the brick part of the house. It saves us heating it, because one bag of coal a week doesn’t go far, does it? Thank goodness we have the woods. We go scavenging if there’s been a gale, and bring in branches that have come down and saw them into logs. Every little helps.’
‘So what do we do here?’ They had come to the stile. ‘Shall I give you a lift over with the bike?’
‘No. We’ll carry on to the crossroads. A lane leads to the house from there. It’s a bit further to walk but it’s better than pushing the bike through the grass.’
‘Tell me, please.’ Meg decided it was time to sort out the way things were to be. ‘I’ve never worked as a servant before. In the shop, we had to call ladies madam and men sir. Is that what I call your mother? And do I call you Miss Polly?’
‘Good heavens, no! You’re not a servant, Meg. You’re a home help and we’re glad to have you! I’m Polly; Mummy is Mrs John, Gran is Mrs Kenworthy, so there’s no mixing them up. My real name is Mary, like Mummy’s, so I get called Polly, which I like. With two Marys and two Mrs Kenworthys, you’ll see what I mean. Oh, and there’s Nanny Boag!’
‘Boag!’ Meg gasped, remembering the lady on the photograph.
‘Mm. An unusual name, isn’t it? Scottish, I believe. She came to Gran when my pa was born, then stayed on, and when Mark and me arrived she was our nanny too. She’s part of the family really, when she remembers who she is. Mostly, these days, she’s in love with the Prince of Wales!’
‘But we haven’t got a Prince of Wales! He shoved off with Mrs Simpson.’
‘Nanny chooses to ignore that, poor thing. She was such a love. Now, she’s in a world of her own most times!’
‘And you go along with it?’
‘We-e-ll, she’s no trouble, really. You’ll soon get used to her ways.’
‘And Mrs Kenworthy?’
‘Darling Gran. She doesn’t have much of a time of it. You’ll be kind to her, won’t you, Meg? Often, especially when the weather is cold, she’s in pain; sometimes her hands are so bad she can’t hold a cup. She doesn’t complain, though, and she’ll be so pleased if you pop in from time to time, ask her if she’s comfy – maybe have a little chat. She hasn’t been downstairs for ages, poor love.’
‘Then wouldn’t it be better if she was?’ Meg reasoned. ‘When Ma got real bad, I made her a bed on the living-room sofa.’
‘We’ve thought about that, but someone would have to sleep downstairs, then, and there isn’t room. It’s one of the reasons we need you, Meg. Mummy gets tired sometimes.’
‘Then it’s a good job you’ll be getting an extra pair of feet,’ Meg smiled as they came into the courtyard from the far end. ‘And doesn’t the house look lovely, all covered in flowers?’ Her mother might once have stood at this very spot and felt as she did, Meg marvelled.
Ma? She sent out her thoughts as they passed the pump trough. Do you know I’m here?
There was no reply; she hadn’t really expected one. But a red rose that trailed over the doorway blew in the breeze as if it were nodding to her, telling her what she needed to know.
‘Here we are, then!’ Polly pushed open the door. ‘Welcome to Candlefold, Meg Blundell, and I do hope you’ll stay.’
‘I hope so too.’ Meg returned the smile, and contentment washed over her.
Oh, but she would! She had come home to Candlefold and to Ma, and no doubt about it, she was stoppin’!
‘So you’ve come, Meg!’ Mary Kenworthy – Mrs John – stood at the door, drying her hands. ‘I’m so glad. Be a dear, Polly; pop and tell Nanny I’ll be up in five minutes! She’s been ringing her bell for ages and I was determined not to answer it until I’d peeled the potatoes!’
‘OK,’ Polly sighed, disappearing.
‘Well, now that I’m here, peelin’ potatoes will be my job, and once I’ve met Nanny, I’ll run up and down when she rings. But should you be waitin’ on her, Mrs John? Why can’t she come down once in a while? Is she bad on her feet, or somethin’?’
‘No. It’s just her mind that’s