care of yourself, eh?’
As the train pulled shuddering and heaving out of the station, Meg could feel only relief at leaving Liverpool behind her. Yet she still felt guilty at being so lucky when most other Liverpool folk, many of whom still had family missing, even yet, had no choice but to remain amongst the devastation. And guilty about the killing and injuries, and about the baby covered with rubble dust. She would never forget the little one, nor forgive either. She felt guilty, too, about Kip, who sent her letters and food parcels, and who would hope for letters from her at ports of call.
Mind, she had written the letter, telling him about her new job and her bedroom window that looked out onto such a view that it brought tears to her eyes; told him about the hens and the Jersey cow, and that she thought about him often and remembered him every night in her prayers, both of which were downright lies.
Polly prayed every night for Davie and Mark and for all servicemen and women – ours, of course – and a speedy end to the war. Took a bit of understanding, come to think of it, since German women would be praying for much the same thing, so if there really was a God, how did He know which side to listen to? Us, or them? Tossed a penny, did He?
They were nearing the outskirts of Liverpool now, and Meg knew they were passing through Aintree, even though station names had been removed; part of a grand scheme to bewilder invading parachutists by not providing any clues as to where they had dropped!
Aintree, where the most famous horserace in the world was run, and rich men in top hats, with their wives dressed up to the nines, came from all over the world with their horses and jockeys and grooms, and had a real good time afterwards at the luxurious Adelphi Hotel.
She pulled her thoughts back to Kip, because he was the one she felt most guilty about. Mind, she hadn’t asked for the parcels he’d sent, though she had been glad enough to get them. Nor was it her fault that he liked her a lot whilst she could only feel sisterly affection. It made her think of Amy, Kip’s sister who lived in Lyra Street. Meg had had the good sense to visit her so she was able to tell Kip he must not worry about her and her children, and that there had been no more bombing.
Thank you for the parcel. Nell and Tommy came to supper to share my luck and have a real tuck in, she had written, and Nell says thanks a lot for the ciggies and sends her best regards, as does Tommy.
Take care of yourself. She had ended the letter tongue in cheek: I think about you every night before I go to sleep. With love and kisses …
She had placed a lipsticky kiss beside her name, thinking that love and kisses was the least she could do for a parcel not only containing food, but a tablet of soap, a jar of cold cream and a carefully wrapped bottle of shampoo, all of which were in very short supply and could only be got by being in the right place at the right time, then standing in a queue!
Conscience almost cleared, she had propped the airmail envelope beside the mantel clock, then set the kettle to boil for hot water in which to wash. She missed the bathroom at Candlefold, but would make up for the all-over wash by using the sweet-smelling soap. She had sniffed it greedily, for toilet soap – when you were lucky enough to get it – had long ago ceased to be scented. It made her think enviously of a country where the sun almost always shone, where there were warm beaches and scented soap in the shops and no blackout.
And oh, damn the war and the stupid men who had let it happen again! And damn Hitler, who was probably sniggering into his champagne, knowing the British still expected to be invaded, and only he knowing exactly when it would be! It didn’t bear thinking about, so she closed her eyes and pushed the war from her mind.
And thought about Candlefold instead, just two hours away.
She was back, and never before had two days taken so long to run. Meg blinked up into the sky, breathing deeply, because even the air here was special; golden-coloured and scented with green things growing, and hay and honeysuckle.
She smiled at Mrs Potter, who always peeked through the post office window whenever a bus arrived, checking in those she knew, making a mental note of those she did not, and who, two weeks ago, had drawn the attention of a stranger to a printed postcard.
‘Candlefold,’ Meg whispered, lips hardly moving. ‘Where I live; where I was born; where I am meant to be.’ And where she would stay till Fate – or the Ministry of Labour and National Service – decided differently.
At the stile she stood quite still, listening to the safe stillness: a bird singing, leaves rustling green above her. Even the lambs were still, laying close to the ewes who stared steadily ahead, mouths rotating cud, like the blank-faced tarts who stood on every street corner the length of Lime Street, chewing gum.
But Lime Street was a long way away and in just a few more seconds she would see the old house, the worn stone steps, the thick, squat door and the pump trough. In just a few more seconds, she would be home.
‘You’re back!’ Mary Kenworthy smiled. ‘And just as I was thinking I’d have to go all the way to the garden to tell Polly that lunch is ready!’
‘What’s to do with that thing, then?’ Meg nodded in the direction of the bell that hung outside the door.
‘They’re both asleep, upstairs – thought we’d get our lunch before they’re awake.’ She broke two more eggs into the bowl. ‘Omelette and salad and stewed apples,’ she answered the question in Meg’s eyes. ‘Be a love, and tell Polly it’s on the table in three minutes, will you?’
The walk to the kitchen garden took Meg across the courtyard, beneath the far arch, past the henrun and across the drying green to the tall, narrow gate in the eight-feet-high wall. Mr Potter’s little kingdom where the war was shut out every morning at eight o’clock sharp and not confronted again until work was over for the day and the gate clanged shut behind him.
Meg saw Polly on her knees beside the strawberry bed and whistled through her fingers.
‘Hey! Ready in three minutes!’ she called, then ran down the path, delight at her heels. ‘What are you doing?’ Everything that happened at Candlefold delighted her.
‘Strawing up,’ Polly grinned, linking her arm in Meg’s. ‘The berries are starting to swell so we put straw beneath them to keep them clean and to keep the slugs away. Then when we’ve done that we’ll net them over, and that’ll take care of the thieving blackbirds too. But I’m so glad you are home. Yesterday there wasn’t a letter. I felt so miserable I got to wondering what else could go wrong, and you not coming back was high on the list. But this morning –’
‘This morning there were two letters and I am back. And if you thought I wouldn’t be, then you’re dafter than Nanny Boag – who is asleep, by the way!’
Home again, and omelettes for lunch, stewed apples for pudding, and the sky high and blue and bright. Life was all at once so good that it almost took her breath away.
‘Pull out any weeds, and tuck the straw around the roots,’ Polly instructed later that afternoon, initiating Meg into the mysteries of Mr Potter’s garden.
‘I don’t know which is weeds and which isn’t …’
‘Anything that isn’t a strawberry plant, just yank it out before you shove the straw in.
