Glynis Peters - The Secret Orphan

No amount of moaning about always having to make do with what she found in the farmhouse ever gained Elenor new clothes. Scraps of cloth filled out shoes too large and repaired handed down dungarees from her brothers. When their father died four years after her mother, the twins did nothing to change Elenor’s life. Neither showed any signs of marrying. There was no other woman in her life to help with the domestic tasks. She had no escape from the humdrum of daily life. The Depression meant nothing but hardship to Elenor, so this opportunity to enjoy a different style of living appealed to a girl of her age.

With no available money and the realisation that her farm clothes were not suitable, she spent her evening altering two of her mother’s old dresses. She’d kept them in a trunk in readiness for when they’d fit her properly. Their drab brown and greens did nothing to flatter her tanned complexion.

She imagined her aunt Maude’s stern tut-tut when she saw the brown leather belt holding her battered suitcase together. The pathetic contents would also send her into a frenzy of tutting, a sound Elenor had heard leave her aunt’s lips many times in the past. Her mother’s eldest sister was a force to be reckoned with when it came to snobbery – her father’s words, not Elenor’s. In the past the woman had scared her with her black gowns and upper-class manner, but Elenor would never dare breathe a word against the woman. When her aunt had visited the farm to nurse her sister, she’d taught Elenor a few basic rules of grace and how to conduct herself in a better manner than some of the female farmhands. Elenor often hoped her aunt would become her key to freedom, and today, in a roundabout way, she had become just that.

The following morning the bus bumped its way past fields of cattle chewing the cud in a leisurely manner. It jostled over cobbles and through narrow winding streets past small stone cottages. Clusters of women stood passing the time of day with village gossip, and men gathered around a cow on a piece of ground close to the inn. Elenor knew they’d haggle for a good price until opening time when half would be spent inside the inn sealing the deal. There was no hurry or urgency in their tasks. Slow-paced and content, the villagers laughed and frowned together. Elenor envied their ability to accept their lives. Even though she felt stifled in Summercourt, under different circumstances she might have found living there more bearable.

When the slate roof and granite walls belonging to the Methodist church came into view, Elenor shivered. The last time she’d entered those doors was to lay her father to rest. It had been a sombre affair and her brothers had been particularly obnoxious that day. Her father’s will had stated the farm be left to all three children, but the boys insisted it meant male heirs, and took no notice of her request for a wage. They stated Elenor was holding onto her part of the farm by living there rent-free.

Elenor continued to stare out of the murky glass and focused upon the trees as the bus meandered towards the edge of the village. She envied the power of the oak as it stood fast against the wind blowing in from Newquay, and she was fascinated by the way the silver birch dipped and swayed much like a group of dancers together in rhythm, with elegance and poise. They reminded her of the male versus female challenges she’d encountered over the years. One standing strong and the other bending to the will of another.

‘Clear your head, Elenor. Think pleasant thoughts.’ She muttered the words as she refocused on children playing with a kitten. Their giggles brought a smile to her face and reminded her of when she and her mother had chased three tiny farm kittens who’d found their way into the house. They’d had such fun chasing them back out into the yard.

The bus driver slowed down for a few sheep and Elenor could see Walter lumbering along in front guiding them into a new pasture. He was identifiable by his long greasy hair flapping like bird wings in the wind.

Resentment choked her. Neither of the twins had seen her off that morning. Not one had said goodbye.

Wait ’til you get home to a cold house and no meal. You’ll regret your haste to be rid of me so easily. Oh, and I’ve left you a parting gift in the sink after the way you treated me this morning!

Both men had risen at sunrise and ate the breakfast she had prepared, then left without a goodbye. Elenor looked around but could see no sign of a coin left out for her journey.

With a heavy heart she packed food, a bottle of water and a tin mug into a cloth bag.

She was so angry with her siblings she threw the dishes into the sink. She heard the chink and ping as they crashed against each other.

‘You can do your own dishes. When you’ve repaired them.’

She’d shouted the words to an absent audience.

Tears fell as she’d gathered her bags and walked away. Now, watching her brother she felt nothing.

‘Goodbye village. Sadly, I won’t be back this way again,’ Elenor whispered.

A weary Elenor forced her tired legs the last few yards to her aunt’s home. Coventry city bustled around her. She jumped at buzzing noises from the car manufacturers and inhaled the delicious aroma from a bakery. It taunted her grumbling stomach. Eight hours and counting since she ate her last meagre meal.

Her suitcase bumped against her legs as she hurried along the narrow, cobbled streets. Despite her initial excitement about leaving Cornwall, the grey of the city streets closed in around her and gave Elenor a new set of anxieties. Had she been wise in leaving the farm? Maybe she should have fought harder to stay. At least when the men were at work she was left alone in peace and silence. Would that be the case here?

As the road shortened and her aunt’s home came into view, it wasn’t just the case weighing her down. Elenor trudged the last few steps trying to ignore the blisters on her feet, and once she’d arrived at the house she stood back to look at her surroundings. The house was smaller than she remembered. Smaller than the farmhouse, but larger than the terraced houses running either side of the street, the detached house sat as if at the head of the table, relishing in its glory of being the only one, yet to Elenor it lacked beauty. The house was a testament to her aunt’s snobbery. It was too symmetrical, too neat, square with bay windows either side – unlike the higgledy-piggledy medieval properties she’d walked past to get to Stephenson Road, with their beams and angular structure. As a child she remembered peeping into the six large bedrooms and shivering in the gloomy parlour with stuffed dead animals.

Elenor took a deep breath and lifted the brass door knocker gleaming in pride of place, a lion’s head. Again, Elenor had a renewed sense of foreboding.

The woman who answered the door scuttled about like a nervous mouse.

‘Welcome, Miss Cardew. I’m your aunt’s housekeeper.’

Elenor stepped inside the dark hallway.

‘Thank you. Please, call me Elenor.’

She handed her coat to the housekeeper who busied herself hanging it in a large cupboard.

‘Mrs Matthews has given instruction you will meet in the parlour before she retires for the evening, after which you will eat.’

With a nod the woman left Elenor’s side. Bemused, Elenor left her case propped against the wall, and made her way to the parlour.

After an arduous journey, the last thing Elenor wanted was to entertain her aunt with information about her brothers and the farm. She wanted to put the twins to the back of her mind.

She pushed open the door and stepped into the gloomy room. It was cold to the point of unfriendliness. She was, however, grateful to note the absence of the stuffed animal heads.