tried to be good but it seemed her mother often was angry at her and knew she had to try harder to please her mother. On the other hand, it seemed she could do no wrong where her father was concerned. She loved hearing him tell her stories of when her grandpa Harris was the estate’s manager. There used to be stables attached to the barn for the estate’s horses and when the produce was collected, it was taken to the village train station in large farm carts and wagons and went on to London.
Grandpa Harris had died before Maggie was born and had come from generations of master wheelwrights. They had built and repaired broken cartwheels. William’s role had not differed much from his father’s day, except that William repaired tractors and trailers instead of horse carts and wheels.
Before William had left for work this morning he had propped Iris’s bicycle against the barn. To Maggie’s delight she saw a freshly made daisy and buttercup chain suspended from the handlebar gently swaying in the breeze. Her father often assembled her a necklace when he sat outside on an apple log with his morning cup of tea.
“Daisy chain,” Maggie giggled.
“Keep still Maggie,” Iris said, as she concentrated to navigate the chain over Maggie’s head. “You know what happens if you move when I’m putting in on.”
Iris placed their packed lunches and drink in the front wire basket attached to the handlebars. She lifted Maggie into the seat and pushed the bicycle down the path and onto Honeysuckle Lane. Once she gained a little speed she mounted the bike and enjoyed the breeze as it lifted the hair from her face.
Maggie dangled her legs either side of the wheel and pulled at the daisy chain. When it broke she held it at one end and let the other end fly in the air. But she didn’t hold the chain tight enough and it slipped through her fingers. Instantly, she turned as much as the tiny seat allowed so she could peer backwards to see it fall to the ground. The sudden movement caused Iris to wobble then fight to control the handlebars.
“Maggie, for goodness sake sit still,” Iris yelled, “we’ll either crash or end up in the blackberry hedge. We’re off to Foxden Orchard today, so not too far.”
They approached the entrance to Primrose Manor where the Squire lived. On this glorious morning Mr Sutton, the head gardener, was busy trimming the lawn edge near the shingled path.
“Hello, Mr Sutton,” shouted Maggie, waving eagerly as they swished passed.
“Morning Maggie, morning Mrs Harris,” he said, raising his cap to Iris. “Glorious morning. You ladies take care of yourselves,” he called.
“Beautiful garden, isn’t it Maggie?” said Iris. “Mr Sutton looks after it very well. How I’d love a garden like this,” she added wistfully, more to herself than to Maggie.
“I like all the flowers,” said Maggie. Then she burst into her favourite song of the moment: “Ten green bottles...” Her father had taught her this to help with her counting.
Iris cringed. Hearing the song morning, noon and night was fast becoming way too much. Iris had urged William to teach Maggie a different song and although he had promised he would, he hadn’t yet. She wondered if he did this deliberately to annoy her?
Primrose Manor was easily the prettiest house in the village and whenever they rode or walked by Maggie was captivated by it. In the centre of the picket fence was a large white farm gate secured by black wrought iron hinges that were longer than Maggie’s arm. When Mr Sutton wasn’t about, William let Maggie step onto the bottom frame and when he opened the gate Maggie would be taken for a short ride as the gate closed. The footpath leading to the house was made of shingle and it crackled and crunched underfoot as if they were walking on brittle autumn leaves. Occasionally, Maggie had seen Mr Sutton raking the shingle. When her father and the Squire talked business, Maggie went with Mrs Sutton, the housekeeper, to the kitchen where she was given warm strawberry jam tarts with a milky cup of tea.
By the time Maggie had sung her way from ten to three green bottles Iris had turned into the small incline leading into Foxden Orchard. Maggie now stopped her singing and, as her mother rode over the uneven orchard in and out of pot holes and deep ruts made by tractors, wagons and hoof imprints Maggie giggled as she was bounced around. This lead to her having a bout of sneezing.
These blessed sneezing fits, thought Iris. Just like William and his mother. She wondered if it was hereditary or coincidence? She rode carefully around the deeper indents and stopped at the corrugated shed some hundred yards into the orchard where the workers parked their bicycles, left their lunches, blankets and other possessions. It was the general gathering place for tea breaks at ten and three, and lunch at noon. Iris lifted Maggie down and she was off as soon as her feet touched the soft grass.
“Good morning, Betty,” Iris said, as she leaned her bicycle up against the shed wall “Great morning, how are you?”
“Morning Iris, fine thanks. I’m looking forward to having a slice of your rhubarb pie later.”
“Not today Bet, I’m afraid.” Iris shrugged her shoulders at her best friend. “Not enough flour, it’ll have to wait for a while.”
“I’ve some flour ration left, we can make the pie together. I’ll make the pastry and you supply the rhubarb. Come over after work.”
“Sounds good to me,” laughed Iris. The two women linked arms as they walked to the start of their rows. Everyone laughed when Betty laughed. She had a unique chuckle that was highly infectious. They had become good friends ever since Iris married William and moved to Primrose Estate cottages.
When they reached their row they saw the empty apple boxes awaiting them.
“See your William’s been busy already,” said Betty, “S’pose we’d better make a start then.”
They propped up their ladders making sure they were secure in the higher branches.
“Did I tell you the latest thing?” Betty continued. “Eric says he will grow rose bushes between the Anderson shelter and the cesspit after I kept complaining about the smell. Goodness Iris, I tell him every time when we run to the Anderson that it shouldn’t’ve been built so near the damn cesspit, I must have told him a hundred times, and does he listen? Blimey, it pongs.” Betty pinched her nose and scrunched up her face causing them both to laugh.
“Are the boys here today?” asked Iris.
“Yes, they’re about somewhere, probably up to mischief knowing those two. You need eyes in the back of your head, you do,” chuckled Betty. “Eric and I can’t keep up but they’re good lads with hearts of gold. There’s never the need to worry love, they keep an eye out for your Maggie when she’s in the orchard and the other little ones too.”
“Thanks Bet, yes I’ve noticed that they are quite protective of Maggie, and she in turn adores Pete and Billy, they are like her big brothers.”
“Just one big happy family love.” As Betty climbed the tall ladder while holding the apple basket with total control and agility. She had done this for many years. Like Iris, she was in her forties and slightly shorter and rounder in stature. She kept her light brown curly hair under control by wearing a scarf on windy days and under a thin hair net on other days.
The women wore housecoats to protect their clothing when they worked as it was often dirty work navigating in and around the taller branches. Betty had sewn two big pockets down the front of hers to hold all sorts of emergency supplies. The twins were now
