she was back at her proper home in the East End of London. But she knew she couldn’t go back. Her real mum was dead.
The cottage was a place remote enough from the village that no one came here. And that was how Michael and Vera Sawyer liked it. He would often rail against the conspiracies that he saw in every shadow; the untrustworthiness of human behaviour. Margaret let these rants pass over her head, failing to understand how he could get so riled over things that were probably the inventions of his mind. No one was out to get them. No one wanted to take their lives here away from them. And while Michael stayed in the cottage or worked the garden, Vera would make necessary trips to Helmstead but try not to get drawn into conversations with anybody. They lived like ghosts and Margaret supposed that was just the way they liked things: the three of them, insular and alone.
She flung open the door and heard Vera’s voice call out.
“Margaret? Is that you?” She was clearly surprised that the girl was back so soon. Margaret said hello and put her school bag and coat neatly on a hook in the cupboard under the stairs. The place. She glimpsed the small wooden step that she would sit on for hours on end. Luckily, on this occasion, she closed the door on that sad and lonely part of her world. Maybe she’d be sent there later, but not yet.
The stern-looking woman from the train crash came through to the living room, wiping her hands on her apron. Vera looked the young girl up and down, suspicion in her eyes. Why had she rushed back?
“They let us out early,” Margaret lied, trying to control her panting from the exertion of running all the way.
Vera seemed to accept this statement.
“Wash your hands, then there’s some darning to do.” Vera returned to the kitchen. With her out the way, Margaret had a scant few minutes to do what she intended to do when she’d left school so quickly. She looked at the small collection of letters on the sideboard. Underneath was a copy of The Helmstead Herald, unread and still folded neatly. Margaret tucked it under her jumper and ran to her room. Once inside, she quietly closed the door, hoping Vera wouldn’t hear her latch and realise where she was. She pulled the newspaper from under her jumper and opened it out. Skimming through to page five, she found the thing she was looking for. Connie Carter in the photograph. Margaret pulled out the sheet of newspaper. She knew not to tear it as it would leave a single page on the other side of the middle of the newspaper, so she removed all four pages. She closed up the edited edition; worried that it felt thin in her hands. She had no choice but to trust that Michael wouldn’t notice that four pages were missing when he read it. She tucked it back under her jumper and quickly folded up the excised pages and put them safely under her bed. But as Margaret turned to go back down to the living room, she realised Vera Sawyer was standing in the doorway.
“What are you up to?” Vera could read the guilt on the young girl’s face.
“I just wanted to change,” Margaret stammered.
Vera shook her head. “I’m not doing more washing. You wear your uniform for now. Come on.” She pulled Margaret by the hand, downstairs to the living room. All the while, Margaret hoped that The Helmstead Herald wouldn’t fall from her jumper. Luckily she made it to the dining table, where seven pairs of holed socks were waiting for her. Vera scowled and went to the kitchen demanding that the darning was finished by teatime. Margaret turned silently in her chair, placed the newspaper back where she had found it, and went to work on the socks. Phew, she’d done it.
Later, after tea, Margaret washed up the plates with one eye on the living room, where Michael sat reading the paper. He was dressed in his shirt and tie – an outfit in which he would inexplicably work in the garden. Standards had to be maintained, as he often said. Margaret hadn’t thought much about it, but occasionally she would wonder how Michael made any money. She knew he sold, or rather Vera sold, vegetables grown on his large plot. It didn’t seem to make much money, but enough for the family to get by. For now, Margaret was more concerned with The Helmstead Herald. Would Michael feel it was thin and realise a spread was missing? Or would he give the paper a cursory glance and then go back to his shed?
Finally, he closed the newspaper.
“Not much in it,” he sighed, reaching for his tobacco.
“Nothing much happens around here.” Vera shrugged as she knitted a brown scarf by the fire. “We should be grateful really.”
“Surprising they didn’t report on the train crash,” Michael commented.
“They did,” Vera said.
Margaret’s blood ran cold. Had Vera already read the paper? Surely not – as she’d have kicked up a storm if she’d seen the picture.
“They did a front page on it last week. There was a picture of the train wreck and everything.” She wanted to move on to another subject, wary that Michael would blow up again about them taking the train and risking their lives.
Michael knew about the front-page story, but just wondered why they hadn’t done more on it, that’s all. Like most people, he knew that they usually follow things up with a report centring on the human-interest stories around the main event. It was a good opportunity for the local rag to fill its pages with stories that might actually interest people for once.
“Maybe they will when they find out who did it,” Vera said, missing a stitch.
“Who knows if they can ever catch these people.” Michael rose from his chair.
Margaret dried the last of the plates and brought them through to the Welsh dresser. Carefully she opened the door and placed the china inside, aware that Vera would always watch her like a hawk to check she didn’t chip anything. Relieved that all the plates were in place, undamaged, she asked if they needed anything else doing.
Vera shook her head. Margaret could go to her room and read her books if she liked. The young girl went off. She liked it when she was in her room with her own thoughts. Upstairs, Margaret opened her copy of Black Beauty by Anna Sewell and read a few pages. She listened as Michael moved to the front door and went outside to the shed.
With Michael gone, Margaret knew that Vera would come up to check on her soon, so she ensured that she was reading studiously when she entered. Vera asked if she wanted a glass of milk. Margaret declined politely. Vera left and as Margaret heard her footfalls retreating, she pulled out the pages of The Helmstead Herald from under her bed. She opened them up. A chance to study them at last. Margaret had heard from an excitable school friend that her picture was in the newspaper and now she could see it for herself.
There was the picture of Connie Carter with Margaret. The story was a report on what had happened and what Connie had said to the reporter. Nothing that Margaret had said was in the piece. Nothing about where she lived. Margaret was relieved. She’d had a horror that in a daze of shock she might have said that Vera wasn’t her mother or something. But she still knew that if Vera even saw the photograph she would go mad. Any publicity would be hated by this private couple.
Margaret knew that she had to put it away. But she was mesmerised. She looked at the beautiful face of Connie Carter and thought about her kindness. The shared cheese, the offer of tea, the repeated enquiries about how she was. Connie had tried to find out if she was okay, even before the train crash. Connie Carter was even willing to stand up to Vera to ask that awkward question. Margaret’s heart swelled with warmth and pride at the heroine on the page. She liked Connie Carter. She wished she was her mum.
Frederick Finch couldn’t resist a good-natured chuckle at the sight before him. Henry Jameson dressed
