Next, Maggie continued to the ‘girls shed’ as her father jokingly called it. Iris had put up blue and white cotton check curtains made from a worn tablecloth and had finished the look with an old dark blue ribbon for tiebacks. Over time the curtains that touched the glass had sun-bleached but the inside had remained the original blue. The shed carried an earthy smell of gardening tools and pellets of chicken feed.
An established spider web that looked like fine cotton wool was housed in the top corner of the window.
“We all have to live somewhere,” her mother would say as an excuse not to get rid of it. Maggie sometimes stared at the web for a long time hoping to catch a glimpse of the occupant, wondering just how big it was. Once, when Maggie wasn’t feeling overly brave but was overcome with the urge to see the spider, placed an apple box upside down over the garden bed, careful not to disturb her mother’s forget-me-nots. She stood on the box and lightly tapped her fingernail on the window hoping to provoke the spider into action. Either the spider was in a deep sleep or just couldn’t be bothered with the antics of a small child.
On another occasion, she picked up one of her mother’s gardening sticks used to prop up new plants and slowly positioned the thin stick at the brink of the web. She quickly looked to her left to double check the door was still open just in case she had to make a hasty retreat if the giant spider suddenly leapt out to grab her for its dinner. She then prodded the web gently. All Maggie could hear was the rapid beating of her heart.
As the stick lightly touched the web, a tiny piece of old window putty fell making a clicking sound as it landed on the lid of an old tin of paint. She could see that a small amount of web had remained on the stick and looked like candyfloss that she had eaten at the seaside the previous summer. Just then, a butterfly flew in and brushed its wings on Maggie’s leg. Maggie let out a startled cry as she bolted for the door. She had no desire to see the spider anymore.
Outside the shed, Iris and Maggie had planted a little cottage garden containing flox, forget-me-nots and sweet William. Maggie had marvelled that there was a flower with the same name as her father. There was also a patch of wild daisies and buttercups and in the springtime there were miniature daffodils and beautiful primroses. Maggie loved this little garden and smiled at it as she approached the shed door.
She picked up the small bucket and trowel and scooped up some pellets then walked carefully to the chicken pen where her father had placed a small bucket of kitchen scraps. This was Maggie’s favourite job and as always the chickens gathered around as she entered. They followed pecking and clucking at her heels as she scattered the feed.
Maggie wasn’t scared by the chickens, despite their tendency to peck and they didn’t seem to mind when she shoved her hand underneath them, albeit not always gently, as she wriggled her tiny fingers about to retrieve the eggs. She didn’t like that the chickens were couped up in pens although they had a lot of garden to wander around in. Her mother had explained that it was to keep them safe from the foxes. Maggie didn’t want her chickens to be eaten but she couldn’t believe that foxes would eat the chickens as they had such beautiful faces.
“Beautiful faces, whether animals or people, can still do bad things Maggie,” Iris had said.
Maggie never forgot this and it would prove to be one of the truest things her mother had ever told her.
Iris watched Maggie through the kitchen window as she washed up William’s breakfast things. There was Maggie, a tiny little thing in her pink striped nightie, black wellies and unruly hair, feeding the chickens. It was as innocent and lovely an image as you could get and she felt a rare pang of guilt as she knew this family wasn’t what it seemed.
“Maggie,” she called. “Time to come and have breakfast, we need to leave soon.”
A short time after, Iris and Maggie made their way along the footpath to the barn and workshop. The old-beamed workshop had a slanted, corrugated iron roof and when it rained the sound inside was deafening. A heavy wooden workbench was bolted to the floor where hundreds of new and old saw marks, oil stains, hammer and nail indents had built up over many years by generations long gone. On the far side was a slatted wooden rack suspended from the ceiling by musty old rope where William hung game ready for plucking, skinning and gutting. The smell inside the workshop was a mix of sawdust, oil and animal guts and was unpleasant, particularly on hot summer days.
The barn was the largest outbuilding used for storing their bicycles and larger items of machinery that William often brought home to mend. It was part of his job to maintain all the Primrose Farm Estate machinery alongside the three other mechanics and farmhands. Maggie enjoyed riding on the tractor with her father. The seat alone was fun as the old spring suspension squeaked each time the tyres dipped into deep ruts causing the driver to sway. Maggie liked to pretend that they were riding a camel across the desert as opposed to a tractor through an apple orchard.
William maintained the hop picking equipment and orchard ladders that varied in length to reach the top of the larger apple trees. Petrol, paraffin and coal were also stored in the barn and with the added dangers of sharp farm machinery, Maggie was forbidden to enter without supervision. William had also fixed on the doors two large bolts secured with a padlock so that entry was out of reach for the farm estate’s children. He was very safety conscious and did not want the responsibility of any child coming into harm by being in the barn.
He had also concocted a box seat from an old piece of wood that he fixed to the back of Iris’s bicycle and that Maggie had painted yellow. The seat was suspended over the back wheel and attached to the frame. Maggie knew she had to be careful when she shifted to get comfortable because if she moved too much it caused her mother to wobble and then she would get angry at her.
Maggie tried to be good but it seemed her mother often was angry at her and knew she had to try harder to please her mother. On the other hand, it seemed she could do no wrong where her father was concerned. She loved hearing him tell her stories of when her grandpa Harris was the estate’s manager. There used to be stables attached to the barn for the estate’s horses and when the produce was collected, it was taken to the village train station in large farm carts and wagons and went on to London.
Grandpa Harris had died before Maggie was born and had come from generations of master wheelwrights. They had built and repaired broken cartwheels. William’s role had not differed much from his father’s day, except that William repaired tractors and trailers instead of horse carts and wheels.
Before William had left for work this morning he had propped Iris’s bicycle against the barn. To Maggie’s delight she saw a freshly made daisy and buttercup chain suspended from the handlebar gently swaying in the breeze. Her father often assembled her a necklace when he sat outside on an apple log with his morning cup of tea.
“Daisy chain,” Maggie giggled.
“Keep still Maggie,” Iris said, as she concentrated to navigate the chain over Maggie’s head. “You know what happens if you move when I’m putting in on.”
Iris placed their packed lunches and drink in the front wire basket attached to the handlebars. She lifted Maggie into the seat and pushed the bicycle down the path and onto Honeysuckle Lane. Once she gained a little speed she mounted the bike and enjoyed the breeze as it lifted the hair from her face.
Maggie dangled her legs either side of the wheel and pulled at the daisy chain. When it broke she held it at one end and let the other end fly in the air. But she didn’t hold the chain tight enough and it slipped through her fingers. Instantly, she turned as much as the tiny seat allowed so she could peer backwards to see it fall to the ground. The sudden movement caused Iris to wobble then fight to control the handlebars.
“Maggie, for goodness sake sit still,” Iris yelled, “we’ll either crash or end up in the blackberry hedge. We’re off to Foxden Orchard today, so not too far.”
They approached the entrance to Primrose Manor where the Squire lived. On this glorious morning Mr Sutton, the head gardener, was busy trimming the lawn edge near the shingled