Where Bluebells Chime. Elizabeth Elgin

it could, and happen we might cover it up when the hot weather comes. But we’ll worry about that next summer.’ If they lived to see another summer, that was. ‘And till then, I want you to see to the ponching. Every day. The hen manoor will be your responsibility, lass, so don’t forget, will you?’

      ‘Every day.’ She closed her eyes briefly and shuddered inside her. Stuffed vegetable marrows were bad enough. Never would she eat one she had vowed, and now, just to think of tomatoes grown red and fat and juicy on hen muck made her towny soul writhe. ‘I’ll remember. And while I’m remembering – I won’t be able to go to Lady Helen’s party. Our forewoman told us this morning we’re to go on leave in two lots. Now the corn harvest is in, she said, we’d all of us best take it whilst we could, because soon the farmers will be busy lifting potatoes and sugar beet. Sorry, Mr C. but we’ve got to do as we’re told.’

      She did so want to see her family again, tell them about Rowangarth and Mr Catchpole and all the things she was learning about gardening, yet it was a pity, for all that, to have to miss the party.

      ‘Can’t be helped, Gracie. I’ll miss you, but a week isn’t for ever. And them little hens are going to miss you, an’ all. Who’ll be looking after them?’

      ‘Daisy said she and her mother would see they got a hot mash every day, and plenty of water, though I bet you anything you like they’ll lay their first egg whilst I’m away,’ she sighed.

      She was fond of Mrs Sutton’s six Rhode Island Red pullets, loved their placidity, the way they scratched industriously, their softly feathered bottoms wiggling this way and that. She had almost given each one a name until common sense told her she must not become too attached to them. But it really would be awful if Daisy were to find the first egg in one of the straw-lined nest boxes. In fact, Gracie was forced to admit, she was getting too contented with her new life in the kitchen garden, and seeing seeds she had helped to plant and pot on growing into fine cabbages and sprouts and leeks.

      It was going to be awful going back to Rochdale. It would be unbearable were not Mum and Dad and Grandad there. In fact, the only thing good about leaving Rowangarth and Mr Catchpole would be the certain fact that the war was over.

      ‘Now don’t look so glum, lass. You look as if you’ve lost a shilling and found a penny. Cheer up. It might never happen.’

      ‘No, Mr C. It mightn’t.’