Elizabeth Elgin - The Linden Walk

‘Unless you’ve lost your sense of smell, only by ten minutes. It’s all in the oven, ready to dish up. Pheasant casserole. By the time you’ve washed your hands I’ll have cleared this lot away. Told you, if you think back, that I didn’t want to be last-minute with my dress for the wedding, and I was right. Wedding brought forward, now, to April.’

‘Aye, lass, but that’s still near on five months away.’

‘I know that. And I’m glad I didn’t buy anything flimsy, with June in mind. Must have known to buy something a bit more substantial. April can be cold, sometimes. Can’t go far wrong with a nice bit of fine wool, though heaven knows why I chose this colour – apart from it going nicely with my hat, of course.’

‘I like it. You’ll look bonny in it. What colour would you call it, Alice?’

‘Apricot, and it’ll never be out of the dry-cleaners, if you want my opinion.’ Carefully she gathered swathes of material and the pieces of paper pattern pinned to them. ‘But never mind. April is the best month for weddings. Our Daisy’s was perfect. So get out of your best suit and put something comfortable on. Five minutes, and supper’ll be on the table.’

Pheasant, with carrots and baby onions and jacket-baked potatoes. Casseroling was all she could do with the old bird Tom had brought home yesterday but welcome for all that, when meat was as hard to come by as it had been in the war.

But the war was over, and Daisy and Keth and Drew safely back from it; Lyndis, an’ all, thanks be. She heard Tom walking overhead and the creaking of the wardrobe door. Nasty old month, November, but Keeper’s Cottage was snug and warm, and there was a good play on the wireless tonight. And with a little new Sutton due and Tatty getting wed next month, and Christmas to follow, it wasn’t a bad old world, Alice was bound to admit. Better by far than the day Daisy had left for Dunfermline to be a Wren, and the war looking like it would go on forever.

Yet it had been over these three years gone and herself a gran, and Daisy living hardly a cock-stride away. Aye, and Keth with a new car and half of Holdenby green with envy.

‘Aaaah.’ She billowed out the tablecloth then let it fall to a sigh of contentment, smiling at her husband more comfortable now in corduroy trousers that had seen better days, and the sweater she knitted for his last birthday. His fifty-seventh and him as good to look at, still, as the day she’d first met him in Brattocks Wood.

‘So what have you been doing with yourself this afternoon?’ Tom sat in the fireside rocker, filling his pipe then laying it aside in the hearth to be smoked when supper was cleared away and Alice sitting opposite him, knitting.

‘Doing? Well, apart from laying out the pattern, I’ve been to the Bothy. Polly was there, and asked me in for a look round. You’d hardly know the place, Tom. That little room you slept in has a carpet on the floor that stretches from wall to wall, and very posh curtains. All from Pendenys, of course. I reckon Julia will be doing a forage in Rowangarth attics before so very much longer. Nothing ever thrown away, there. Lady Helen used to say, “Keep a thing for seven years, and you’ll find a use for it.” Shouldn’t wonder if Julia doesn’t find most of what she needs up there to furnish the Bothy. Remember when you slept there, Tom, with the garden apprentices and the stable lads?’

‘Aye, and ruled with a rod of iron by Jinny Dobb …’

‘Who did Rowangarth’s washing, an’ all, and told fortunes. Then the Great War came, and there was no one there to be looked after; all gone to fight. Then we left Hampshire, came home again to Rowangarth. Left Dickon behind in the churchyard, and Beth and Morgan in Beck Lane with a stone over them so people would know, and not disturb them …’

‘And Polly and Keth came with us, too, and Polly took over at the Bothy, grateful for a job and a roof.’ Tom stared into the fire. ‘And her glad when the government commandeered it and put land girls in there for her to cook for, when another war came. Memories, Alice. Good ones and bad ones. But it worked itself out in the end, and if you don’t mind, love, I’m ready for my supper.’

‘Was there ever a time, Tom Dwerryhouse, when you weren’t? And shift your feet so I can get at the oven!’

So he smiled and got out of her way, and if she hadn’t had a very hot dish in her hands, he’d have pinched her bottom as she bent over. A very nice bottom, come to think of it, for a grandmother who would not see fifty again!

Lyn had been sure all day that a letter from Kenya would be there when she got home from work. And it was.

She put a match to the fire, changed her wet shoes for slippers, then carefully slit open the envelope.

Hullo, lovely girl!

This is a quick one to tell you that your dad has got us a passage home, and we should dock in England a week before Christmas. We have a cabin on a cargo ship from Mombasa to Cape Town where we embark on the Stirling Castle – newly refitted after being a troopship in the war.

I’m a bit nervous about flying, so your dad said it was no problem. By sea was much nicer, even though it’s going to take a lot longer.

Will give you all details – sailing times, cabin numbers, etc, as soon as we have them confirmed. Now that I know we are almost on our way, I can’t wait to see my girl again. And I’ll remember to pack warm clothes. I haven’t been so long gone that I have forgotten how cold it can be in Wales, in winter.

Will write again, soon.

With love ,

Mam X X (and Dad)

Home! Her mother – her darling Auntie Blod – was coming home for Christmas! Only then did Lyn realize how much she had missed her, needed her. Eighteen months since she had seen her; eighteen years , near as dammit, since she saw her father.

Christmas, and them together in the little cottage in Wales – or would they be asked to Rowangarth? And how long would they be staying, once they knew that the wedding had been put forward to April? She wouldn’t care if they never went back. They would, of course, but just for a while she would be part of a family, with her father walking her down the aisle.

Her father, Jack Carmichael, was little changed it would seem, from when she last saw him. Still straight-backed and slim; still the thick, dark hair with hardly a streak of grey in it. Handsome, even yet. No wonder Auntie Blod had fallen in love with him and stayed in love with him.

All at once Lyn felt a strange contentment, because she wasn’t alone; stupid of her ever to have thought she was. Soon, she would have her mother to confide in, to tell of the uncertainties she still sometimes felt. And her mother would understand because she knew, didn’t she, what it was like to love a man, to lose him and then, in the end, to marry him.

‘There’s stupid, our Lyndis. Worrying about your wedding night, are you? Then get yourself into bed with him, girl. Try before you buy, why don’t you? I did!’ Lyn could almost hear the words.

‘Yes, and look where it got you. It got you pregnant with me,’ Lyn smiled to the face in the mirror over the mantelpiece.

All at once she was hungry. Nothing like good news to give you an appetite. She would boil the brown egg Daisy’s mother had given her and slice into the loaf Daisy’s mother had baked, then spread it thickly with bramble jelly. Sheer bliss. Eating home-made bread and jam was almost as good as being in love, especially when you were getting married in April. The second Saturday in April. It had a firm ring to it. Daisy had been married in April.

‘I always associate my wedding with windflowers,’ she once said. ‘The little white, wild anemones. They were flowering in Brattocks Wood.’