mirror. Not lovely at all, Kip Lewis; perhaps pretty in parts – blue eyes that didn’t go with black hair; a good complexion, though pale. And she was slim, she supposed, but so were most people these days, thanks to rationing. And Nell had said she had good legs and should shorten her skirts a bit – but lovely? Not really.
She took the sixpenny airmail letter from the mantel, and pen and ink from the drawer.
Dear, kind Kip,
The parcel arrived safely this morning and you are very popular with the people in Tippet’s Yard, who will be having a luxurious tea on Sunday at number 1.
I saw Amy and the children yesterday, and they are all very well.
She stopped, frowning. Best not mention the bombing; just that they were all right and, anyway, if she did, the Censor’s Office would slice it out and the folded letter card would arrive looking like a paper doily!
Today is lovely and warm and the light nights a blessing. Nell has suggested a picnic in Sefton Park. (She says many thanks for the ciggies, by the way.)
She stopped again, reading what she had written. Not much of a letter to send to a man all those miles from home and planning to buy an engagement ring in Sydney.
I think of you often, Kip, and look forward to seeing you again, and wish you a safe journey home.
Take care, Kip.
All my love,
Meg
All my love. That sounded better than the rest of the letter, and a nice bit to end up with. She wished she could love Kip and want him that way. He was a good, kind man, and anyone with half a brain would jump at the chance to be his girl and wear his ring. And to marry him, and have an allowance every month from the shipping line he sailed for.
But that would not be enough, and she wasn’t able to love Kip as he deserved; not yet, anyway. And she had to love him – or any man she married – with all her heart and soul, and want him that way.
Once, twenty years ago, Ma had wanted a man that way; hadn’t thought of the consequences, only about being in love. And the fact that his name did not appear on her birth certificate was neither here nor there, Meg brooded, because Ma would have been deeply in love that way the night her daughter was conceived.
It was a point in her favour, Meg frowned, that she was really a love child, which sounded better than illegitimate and much, much better than bastard. Who was he, Ma? Why did he leave you? Did he know about me? Would he have married you, if he had?
Meg had already worked out when she’d been conceived. Babies born at the end of August were got round about Christmastime, she’d decided. Or had it been New Year? Had there been holly and ivy and a Christmas tree and dancing and fun? Was her conceiving a happy one?
In which room at Candlefold had she been born, and had Nanny Boag delivered her? And why hadn’t she been called Carol or Holly or Noelle? Why two saints’ names?
Oh, there were so many questions, so much still to discover. And all the answers were at a house called Candlefold Hall, if only she knew how to get there. And whilst she was daydreaming about bonny housemaids and sunny summer days, did the Kenworthy family still live there, or had it been taken by the Government as an Army billet, or a hospital or convalescent home for wounded soldiers.
Candlefold 1916. Garden Party for wounded soldiers, and Ma in a long cotton frock and a pretty straw hat.
Oh, Candlefold, why are you bothering me like this? Or is it you, Ma? Is there something you want me to know, like who my father is? Do you want to tell me you are happy again, and waiting at the pump trough in the cobbled courtyard? And if I stand there, will I hear your voice with my heart, and be glad?
And had you thought, girl, demanded her common sense in Margaret Mary Blundell’s most scathing voice, that the flamin’ pump trough might not be there; that the house, even, might have gone, an’ all?
But if she found the house unchanged, did she march up to the front door and say, ‘Excuse me, missis, but can I sit on yer pump trough for a couple of minutes; have a word with Ma?’
She clucked with annoyance, because what she intended to do was so ridiculous and stupid that Nell would give her the length of her tongue and tell her to grow up and get herself down to the dole office like most folk else with one iota of sense in their heads would do!
Yet it didn’t matter what Nell would say, nor Tommy, because Ma did have something to tell her and Candlefold hadn’t fallen down, nor the Kenworthys left it, or why did she feel so strongly about going there? Why had an old house called to her, all sunlit and shining, and why, ever since she’d opened Ma’s little attaché case, had she felt so curious and excited?
Was she bomb happy? Had the seven fearful nights got to her, and the desolation that had once been a city, and the baby on the pavement? Or was it simpler than that: did she want to get out of this place and had she latched on to Ma’s dreams and made them her excuse?
Only one thing was certain. She would never know until she found a house called Candleford. And Ma.
Getting to Preston had been easier than Meg had ever dared hope. Liverpool city centre was still choked with the debris of shops and offices and warehouses, but once she had skirted streets closed by ‘DANGER. UNEXPLODED BOMB’ signs and taken heed of ‘NO NAKED LIGHTS’ warnings, and tried not to look at piles of rubble under which might still be bodies, she had seen a red bus going to Ormskirk, and any time now, the conductor told her.
‘So get yerself on sharpish. There’s a war on, or had you forgot?’
As if she were likely to! Meg selected a seat, settling herself, arms folded, to think about what was to come, and what had been.
‘You’re goin’ where?’ Last night, Nell had drawn sharply on her cigarette, then blown smoke out fiercely through her nose. ‘You’re goin’ to a place you don’t know exists, on the off chance? What if it’s been bombed, then, or them Kenworthys have upped and offed? Goin’ to look a right wet nelly, aren’t you, and wasted time and money into the bargain? What do you expect to find there? Who do you expect is goin’ to be there?’
‘Ma.’ Meg had whispered so quietly that Nell had stopped for breath and appealed to Tommy to tell the girl she was round the bend and God only knew where she would end up if she went on with such foolishness.
‘But what harm can it do? She knows right from wrong,’ Tommy had reasoned, ‘and not to take lifts from men. Can you blame her for wantin’ out of this hole, even if it’s only for a day? Wasn’t you young once, Nell Shaw? Didn’t you do daft things, an’ all?’
‘I was, and yes, I did daft things and lived to regret some of them. But I promised Dolly I’d look out for Meg and that’s what I’m tryin’ to do! She’s getting as bad as her Ma! That Candlefold was like some magic place Doll dreamed up!’
‘You can’t photograph dreams, Nell. That house is real and it’s there still, an’ I’m goin’ to find it! If I leave early in the morning I can be there by noon – with luck,
