Elizabeth Elgin - Whisper on the Wind

And did it have to be December when Janet and Toby drove up to Scotland, leaving a two-year-old child behind them at Ridings and never coming back for her?

‘Yes, Polly, it’ll soon be over. And take no notice of me. I’m just a silly old woman.’

‘Old? You? Nay, I’ll not have that.’

The Mistress was sixty-four, Polly knew that as fact. She looked nowhere near her age, with those great brown eyes and hardly a line on the whole of her face. A beautiful woman, holding back time; still waiting for her man to come home, and find her unchanged. To Polly, she was still the laughing young girl who came to Ridings all those years ago on Martin Fairchild’s arm. And she would always be a fitting mistress for Ridings, no matter how life had treated her.

Thank God for the man from the War Ag. because now Ridings would be earning its keep again – the Mistress would have a pound or two in her pocket and not have to worry about keeping body and soul together, counting every penny and every lump of coal she put on the fire. Hester Fairchild had kept her pride and reared Miss Janet’s little lass to be a credit to the place. High time she had a bit of luck. Heaven only knew she deserved some.

Sniffing, Polly placed her cup on the draining board. ‘Ah, well. Best be making a start. What’ll it be today, then? Bedrooms or bathroom and stairs?’

The sky was ice-blue, the earth hard underfoot, the grass white and crisp with hoar frost. There was no sun, but the sky shone with a strange, metallic brightness and Roz knew that tonight it would be bitterly cold again. Tonight, the bombers at Peddlesbury would remain grounded.

‘I’m back!’ she called, slamming shut the door, hurrying to the fire. ‘My, but it’s cold. No sign of a let-up. It’ll freeze hard again tonight, just see if it doesn’t. I don’t suppose there’s a cup of tea in the pot?’

There was. Almost always. Tea was rationed, so the pot was kept warm and used until the leaves inside it would take no more diluting.

‘What did Mat say?’ Hester poured boiling water into the pot. ‘Was he pleased?’

‘Mat wasn’t there. He’s gone to the Labour Exchange again to nag them some more about a farm man, and Jonty’s gone to York for spares for the tractor. Grace said he wants to make a start on our ploughing as soon as the frost lets up a bit. It’s going to be one heck of a job, you know.

‘And good news – they’re getting a landgirl very soon. She might even be there tomorrow. Grace said that since I know everybody in the village, it might be a good idea for me and the new girl to take over the milk-round.

‘So don’t worry too much, Gran love. We’ll have Ridings parkland earning its keep before so very much longer. Think I’d better pop upstairs and tell Polly about the letter …’

‘Polly knows, so don’t keep her talking!’ Hester called to the retreating back. Then her lips formed an indulgent smile, because it seemed that her granddaughter was right. Between them they would make those long-idle acres grow food and earn money. Roz didn’t have to go away and December would soon be over. There’d be another year to look forward to; another spring.

‘Thank you, Janet,’ she whispered, eyes closed, ‘for giving me this lovely child …’

Roz walked around the bed Polly was making and picked up a corner of the sheet. ‘You know about the letter, Poll?’

‘Aye. Charity begins at home.’

‘Hmm. Jonty’s making a start on Gran’s ploughing very soon and Mat’s been allocated a landgirl at last, so it’s all going to work out, isn’t it? We’ll make it by March, if the frost breaks soon. Bet it’s terrible on the Russian front. They say it’s the coldest December for nearly twenty years.’ She abandoned the bed-making to wander over to the dressing-table mirror. ‘It’s freeeeezing outside. Just look at my nose. Red as my hair, isn’t it?’ Frowning, she turned away. ‘I’m not a bit like Gran, am I, Poll? Come to think of it, I’m not really like anybody. Where do you suppose my colouring came from?’

‘Colouring? With hair like yours, you’re complaining?’

‘No. Just curious. Gran is dark and so was Grandpa. And my parents were dark-haired and dark-eyed, so who sneaked in my carrot top?’

‘ Auburn. ’ Carrot top, indeed!

‘Auburn, then. But where did it come from?’ Not from anyone in any of the portraits, that was certain. All the way up the stairs and on the landing and in the downstairs rooms, not one of the Fairchilds hanging there had red hair. ‘Where, will you tell me?’

‘Gracious, child, how should I know? From your father’s side, perhaps, or maybe you’m a bit of a throwback? Yes, come to think of it, there was one with red hair, I seem to remember. Her portrait got burned, though, in the fire.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Roz didn’t remember, but best not talk about the fire, especially in December, that bleakest of months. ‘I suppose it makes a change – my being green-eyed, I mean, and red-haired.’

‘Suppose it does. Wouldn’t do if we all looked alike, would it? Now are you going to give me a hand with this bed, or are you going to stand there staring into that mirror till it’s done?’

‘It isn’t going to be a barrel of laughs, Poll, my being in a reserved occupation.’ Roz straightened the fat, pink eiderdown. ‘People look at you when you’re young and not in uniform, you know. Jonty’s had all sorts slung at him.’

‘Then I’m sure I don’t know why.’ Polly sniffed. ‘Jonty is doing a good job for the war effort and so will you be. Growing food is important, or why did they make you reserved?’

‘Yes, but when you’re as young as Jonty and me, people just expect you to be in uniform. He’s taken quite a bit of stick about it. “Get some in!” someone yelled after him. “Why aren’t you in khaki, mate? A bloody conchie, are you?”, though I know he’d rather have been a pilot, or a Commando.’

‘They’d never take Jonty Ramsden for a pilot nor a Commando,’ Polly retorted, matter-of-factly. ‘When did you ever see a pilot or a Commando wearing spectacles? Jonty will survive such talk and so will you, though it’s sad people should say things like that.’

If Martin Fairchild had been in a reserved occupation in the last war, he’d have been alive today, the older woman brooded. Uniforms were all very well, were fine and smart and patriotic, but they got you killed. The Mistress wouldn’t have minded the taunts. And now it was happening again. The war to end all wars, they said that one had been, yet only twenty years on …

Sad for the young ones, really. This war was none of their making, yet it was young shoulders the burden had fallen on, Polly sighed silently, and so many of them would never see the end of it. The Master hadn’t, nor her own young man. But that war was history, now. Their war had been glorified slaughter and because of that she was glad Miss Roz was staying at home with her gran; glad she would never join the armed forces, nor wear a uniform. And if thinking that was unpatriotic, then she didn’t give a damn, Polly thought, defiantly. Roz was all the Mistress had left. It was as simple as that.

Now the daft young thing was nattering on about her hair again, and that they could do without. Mind, it came up from time to time and was dealt with by her grandmother. But Roz ought to be told, Polly scowled, picking up dustpan and brush. She’d said as much, not all that long ago.

‘Don’t you think Miss Roz is old enough to know about –’ she’d said.

‘About what ?’ the Mistress had interrupted, off-hand. ‘That she’s a Fairchild? But she knows that, Polly. She’s always known it. What more is there to tell?’