years now—everyone had taken it for granted that when the time came they would marry, and she had got used to the idea and accepted it; she wanted to marry, she wanted children and a husband to care for her, and at twenty-eight she was sure that romance—the kind of romance she read about in novels—had passed her by.
But romance had touched her with feather-light fingers in the shape of Gijs van Kessel, and life would never be the same again.
She glanced across the table at Mrs Merridew, who was a formidable woman, tall and stout, with her iron-grey hair permanently waved into rock-like formations and a mouth which seldom smiled. She was respected in the village but not liked as her long-dead husband had been liked, and she was always ready to find fault. Only with George was she softer in her manner...
‘Fetch me the other preserving pan, Margo.’ Mrs Merridew’s voice cut into her thoughts. ‘I’ll get this first batch on the stove. By the time you’ve finished stoning that lot I can fill a second pan.’
Margo went to the far wall and got down the copper preserving pan and put it on the table.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ asked Mrs Merridew. ‘Never known you so quiet. What’s all this nonsense I heard about you and a pack of tramps?’
‘Not tramps—travellers. And it wasn’t nonsense. One of them had a baby by the side of the road.’
‘More fool her,’ declared Mrs Merridew. ‘These people bring shame to the countryside.’
‘Why?’ asked Margo, and ate a plum.
‘Why? They’re dirty and dishonest and live from hand to mouth.’
‘Well, they looked clean enough to me,’ said Margo. ‘And I don’t know that they’re dishonest—no more so than people who live in houses...’
Her companion snorted. ‘Rubbish! If any of them came onto the farm George would soon send them packing.’
‘Would he? Would he really? Or would he do it to please you?’
Mrs Merridew went red. ‘You don’t seem yourself today, Margo. I hope you’re not ill—picked up something nasty from those tramps.’
She set the pan of fruit on the old-fashioned stove. ‘While that’s coming to the boil we’ll have a cup of tea, then you’d better go home. I dare say you’ve a cold coming.’
Margo never wanted to see another plum; she agreed meekly, drank her tea, washed the cups and saucers in the sink, bade Mrs Merridew goodbye and got on her bike. She had wanted to talk to George but she wasn’t to be given the chance. She would come up early in the morning; he would be in the cow parlour and there would be time to talk.
‘Early back, dear,’ commented her mother as she came in through the kitchen door. ‘Weren’t you asked to stay for tea?’
Margo sat down at the table and watched her mother rolling dough for scones. ‘No. Mrs Merridew thinks I may have caught a cold.’ Margo popped a piece of dough into her mouth. ‘Mother, I don’t want to marry George...’
Mrs Pearson was cutting rounds of dough and arranging them on a baking tray. ‘Your father and I have always hoped that you wouldn’t, although we would never have said anything if you had. You don’t love him.’
‘No. I like him—I’m fond of him—but that’s not the same, is it?’
‘No, love, it isn’t. When you do fall in love you’ll know that. Have you told George?’
‘I’ll go and see him tomorrow early. Do you think he’ll be upset?’
Her mother put the scones in the oven. ‘No, dear, I don’t. George is a nice young man but I think he wants a wife, not a woman to love. She’ll need to be fond of him, of course, and he of her, but that will be sufficient. And that wouldn’t be sufficient for you, would it?’
‘No. I would like,’ said Margo thoughtfully, ‘to be cosseted and spoilt and loved very much, and I’d want to be allowed to be me, if you see what I mean. I would be a good wife and have lots of children because we would have enough money to keep us all in comfort.’ She laughed a little. ‘Aren’t I silly? But I’m sure about George, Mother. I’d rather stay single...’
‘I know you are doing the right thing, love. See what your father says.’
Margo laid the table for tea and presently, over that meal, the Reverend Mr Pearson voiced his opinion that Margo was indeed doing the right thing. ‘And if you feel unsettled for a while, my dear, why not go and stay with one of your aunts? Heaven knows, your mother and I have enough relations to choose from.’
‘I’d be running away...’
‘No, clearing the decks. And you wouldn’t go for a week or two. Give the village a chance to discuss it thoroughly.’ They all laughed. ‘There’s not much happening until the bazaar; it’ll liven things up a bit.’
Margo was up early, dressed and on her bike while it still wasn’t quite light, and was in plenty of time to see George while the cows were being milked..
She leaned her bike against a pile of logs and, her heart thumping hard despite her resolution to keep calm, went into the cow parlour.
Two of the cowmen were already milking, and George was standing by the door checking some equipment. He looked up when she went in.
‘Good Lord, what brings you here at this time of the morning? Mother said you were sickening for a cold. Don’t come near me, whatever you do.’
Not a very encouraging beginning, but Margo braced herself.
‘I haven’t got a cold. Your mother just thought I might have one because I didn’t talk much... I’
‘Won’t do not to get on with Mother,’ said George. A rebuke she ignored.
‘I wanted to talk to you for a minute or two—this is the only time when we’re alone.’
‘Well, let’s have it, old girl. I’ve not got all day.’
It was being called ‘old girl’ which started her off. ‘You have never asked me, George, but everyone seems to think that we will marry. Perhaps you don’t intend to ask me, but if you do don’t bother, because I don’t want to marry you. I would make a very bad farmer’s wife—and your mother would live with us.’
‘Well, of course she would—show you how things are done before she takes her ease and you take over.’
The prospect left Margo short of breath. She persevered, though. ‘George, do you love me?’
‘What’s got into you, girl? We’ve known each other almost all our lives.’
‘Yes, I know that. That’s not what I meant. Are you in love with me? Do I excite you? Do you want to give me the moon and the stars?’
‘You’re crazy, Margo. What’s that twaddle got to do with being a good wife?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think it must have a great deal to do with it. So you won’t mind very
