‘No. I reckon they’d all rather be in their proper place at home, but a lot of them didn’t have much of a choice!’ Meg flung.
‘Now stop it, Mark! C’mon – let’s find Mummy!’
Polly took Davie’s hand, her happiness a delight to see.
‘Shall we?’ Mark indicated the archway with an exaggerated sweep of his hand.
‘Er – no, ta. I’ve got things to do – the hens, for a start.’ This was a family thing and she wasn’t pushing in. ‘And why did you call me Merrilees? My name is Blundell!’
‘You haven’t heard of Meg Merrilees?’ He was looking at her as if she were stupid.
‘No. Should I have?’
‘I’d have thought so. She was a gypsy, who lived upon the moors. It’s a poem!’
‘Oh. I see.’ She didn’t see, of course, because no one had taught her poems about gypsies. ‘Er – well – got to go. Nice meetin’ you,’ she added, remembering her manners.
‘Nice meeting you too. See you around. Bye, Merrilees!’
And he was gone, boots clattering on the courtyard cobbles, back straight as a ramrod. So sure of himself, she thought angrily; sure of his charm, the certain knowledge that his smiling gaze could charm the ducks off a pond! Likely he did that to all the girls he met, but it wasn’t goin’ to work with Meg Blundell – too right it wasn’t! Her insides were back to normal again. She was in charge of her emotions though she knew now exactly what Polly had meant about that boing! It had really been something – till she’d got the better of it, that was!
But for all that, her hand was just a little unsteady as she laid eggs as carefully as she was able in the bottom of the bucket. Meg Merrilees, for Pete’s sake! A gypsy, was she, because she couldn’t talk proper! Skittin’ her, was he?
Well, sod Mark Kenworthy, because he wasn’t gettin’ the chance to throw her into a tizzy again, she would see to that! Nell had been right. Likely he was no better than the rest of them, and out for one thing!
Well, she wouldn’t let him make a fool of her like some scally had made a fool of Ma! And anyway, would a feller like him, who could have any girl he took a fancy to, be interested in someone from a slum like Tippet’s Yard and who was illegitimate, an’ all? Bet your life he wouldn’t, so forget him, Meg Blundell; stick to your own kind!
Yet, for all that, she wondered if he could dance and remembered that Polly had said he could. Oh, heck! Imagine dancing with him. Close. It didn’t bear thinking about!
‘There you are! Where on earth did you get to, Meg? They’ve gone now, and you weren’t there to say goodbye! Mark asked especially; said I was to say so long to you – Davie, too.’
‘Ar, well, that was nice of them both, but I reckoned it was family, so I went to see Mr Potter, ask if he wanted anything doing. I heard them go.’ Such a hooting and laughing and crunching of tyres on the gravel drive, and she breathing a sigh of relief – or was it regret? – that they’d gone. ‘Less than two hours! Talk about a flying visit!’
‘Mm. They only had time for a sandwich. Mark looked in on Nanny, then went to sit with Gran, and Davie and I went to look at the hay at the brick house. Then we sat on the front steps as if we’d every right to be there, and talked and talked.
‘And I forgot to tell you! Mummy had a letter from a school friend this morning – they’ve kept in touch for years and years – and would you believe it, her daughter got married about a month ago. She sent a photo of the bride. Such a beautiful white dress with a full skirt and train.’
‘Don’t tell me. Bet she’s offered the lend of it!’
‘She has! Isn’t that lovely of her? And we are about the same height and build. She’s even offered her wedding shoes, which are size five, like I take.’
‘And will you mind being married secondhand, then?’
‘Of course not. And think of the coupons I’ll save. Davie and I were talking about it, and when he comes on leave we’re going to ask if we can get married before I’m twenty-one. It’s so awful, waiting, when we both know there’ll never be anyone else.’
‘I’ll agree with you there. You and him look good together. Made me a bit envious, wishin’ I was close to someone. But I haven’t met him, yet …’
‘So you didn’t like Mark? Surely you found him just a little bit attractive?’
‘Listen, Polly, your brother isn’t for the likes of me. I’d be a right fool, wouldn’t I, to let myself fall for him?’
‘Why would you? And I’ve told you before, you don’t let yourself fall in love; it just happens. Seems pretty obvious that you just didn’t like him. A pity, that, when I’d thought we could make up a foursome when they’re home and go to a dance somewhere.’
‘I didn’t say I didn’t like him, and I certainly wouldn’t mind going dancin’ with him – in a foursome. But I wouldn’t let it go any further than that!’
‘You’re a strange girl.’ Polly frowned. ‘You seem so set against being in love. Why, will you tell me?’
‘I’m not against it!’ Meg coloured hotly, because she had fallen for Polly’s brother, if that boing! had been anything to go by. But his sort would take advantage of her sort. Stood to reason that any feller as good-looking as he was would think girls were there for the taking. ‘I – I’ll know when I’ve fallen in love, and when I do you’ll be the first to know. I wonder where they are now.’
‘Going like the clappers to make up the lost time, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Polly smiled dreamily. ‘Such a lovely surprise. And by the way, what did you do with today’s eggs?’
‘Left them in the wash house – didn’t want to come to the house, like I said. I’ll get them for you.’
She hurried off, glad to be away from Polly’s questioning and from her own downright lies, because to think of Mark kissing her made her go very peculiar.
But thinking about it was all she would do, because kissing and all that was what got girls into trouble, and she was living proof of it!
Yet mightn’t it be nice to give it a whirl? Just the once? For the heck of it?
‘Especially not for the heck of it, Meg Blundell, if you know what’s good for you,’ hissed a voice in her ear that sounded remarkably like Nell Shaw’s.
‘Oh, damn and blast!’
She shook the voice away, gazing intently at ten brown eggs, wondering why all of a sudden life seemed to have become so very complicated.
It was Sunday – six days more to cross off on the calendar – and they worked for the best part of the day on the hay on the brick house lawns, gathering it into lines with three-foot-wide wooden hay rakes. The better the day, the better the deed, Armitage said, and since the war didn’t stop on Sundays, he could see no reason why they shouldn’t get it cocked and loaded and safe in the barn by evening.
‘Right! Are you ready?’ They stood side by side, eyes closed, fingers crossed as the load of hay bumped past them. ‘Wish, Meg …’
And though she had never felt so tired in her life before, and there was a blister on her hand, Meg knew she had never been so happy, and hoped with all her heart that her wish to stay at Candlefold for ever and ever would be granted. Oh, please it would!
‘Tomorrow, if anyone asks, I’ll be able to say that Davie will be home this week. Think of it, Meg; this week. Seven whole days to spend together.’
‘I’m