The Flour Mill Girls, page 10
Until early the previous year the Grahams hadn’t had a gate positioned at the property’s junction with the road. This had altered after the calm of a spring day had been rudely shattered when out of the blue a frolicking herd of cattle came onto the mill property. The cattle had been made heady with escaping from their nearby field, feeling the wind under their tails, and they bucked and jumped in elation at their freedom, their split hooves slapping pell-mell upon the cindery flints of the hard standing and their huge udders with gigantic teats swaying dangerously from side to side.
The cows lolloped as one onto the mill property, happily kicking their way through Cynthia’s lovingly planted vegetables and fruits that were just showing the first signs of growth after the winter, and then they made merry with two bulging sacks of grain they found, which Jared had propped outside of the mill wall so as to be on hand for the next milling. In no time at all the cattle had had great fun pulling the sacks apart so that they could gorge on what was inside.
It had been comical at first to watch them, and to hear Cynthia telling the bovine rascals off to no avail.
But the humour didn’t last as Clem had taken a nasty kick to the thigh from one of the cows when he had tried to shoo them back to their field. It had left a bruise that made him limp for over a week, and the doctor said he’d been within a gnat’s breath of having had a broken femur. And then the farmer’s sheepdog had barked aggressively at Tansy and Senna and scared the girls when the farmer arrived with a sour look on his face and a big stick to drive his beasts back to where they belonged.
To stop a repeat of such events, especially as the farmer had been reluctant to pay for the two sacks of grain, even though the whole calamity was his fault, Jared had installed a sturdy gate with a huge metal spring latch that could be opened from horseback or by leaning over from a cart, although care had to be taken not to get reins or stirrups caught on the latch when passing through.
On the gate there was displayed proudly a huge painted sign that said ‘Shut the Gate’ in large black letters on a white background, its blunt instruction softened by the pictures of cows that Tansy and Senna, only five at the time, had been allowed to daub in blue and purple beneath the words, the cows’ happy expressions and tombstone teeth making Daisy grin every time she noticed them.
Rose remained blissfully asleep as Daisy manoeuvred her over the rutty dried mud and through the gate, and she didn’t stir when the latch sprang back into place with its distinct metallic clang once the gate shut.
Daisy was going to push Rose over to the general stores in Crumford as the Grahams were running low on tooth powder and coal-tar soap – Cynthia’s firm instructions ringing in Daisy’s ears to ‘make sure you get Wrights; the other soaps just aren’t worth it’, a request that had been quickly followed by a ‘and make sure you pick up some fresh cream for Joy to have on her morning porridge’. Cynthia always swore this thick cream, maybe even made from the milk of the very cows that had gambolled so joyously around Old Creaky that day, would be a good pick-me-up while Joy was breast-feeding. Then Cynthia added that if Daisy could find some Mackeson Milk Stout too (which came from nearby Hythe), then so much the better as this would be good for the new mother’s milk production.
Daisy had had to set off quickly so that the shopping list didn’t get any longer.
She double-checked the gate was firmly closed now she and Rose were in the road and was about to turn towards the pram once more when there was the tinkle of a metal bicycle bell.
She stopped rearranging Rose’s crocheted blanket that previously she’d not had time to tuck in securely, and straightened up to see Big Tom coming her way on his tricycle.
A tiny man – his nickname was a joke that he’d had to put up with since he was a lad – Big Tom had retired years ago from his job of postman, but the war meant he had been persuaded back into work, even though he was a bit doddery these days, and looked smaller and frailer than ever.
Big Tom braked squeakily as he back-pedalled his contraption to a standstill so that he could pass Daisy an envelope from a canvas satchel that was slung over a bony shoulder, with a ‘How do, miss’ before he wobbled away on his trike.
When she saw her own name on the envelope in a copy-book-standard cursive script she didn’t recognise, Daisy’s heart gave a flip. She hardly ever got any post.
And her heart went a second time when she looked at the back of the envelope to discover that Ren had finally written back to her.
As Rose snoozed on and certainly didn’t appear as if a delay to their walk would make her peevish, Daisy immediately ripped the envelope open and quickly scanned what Ren had to say.
To her delight he proved to be rather a decent correspondent, certainly streets ahead of her brothers, and Daisy admired his practised, even hand – his copperplate penmanship putting hers to shame.
But what she liked especially was how his words seemed to flow off the page, making it very easy for her imagine that he was actually speaking them out loud to her.
My dearest Daisy
Thank you for your letter, which I very much enjoyed reading.
It was so good to receive one from Crumford that did not want to talk about the price of beer, as yours avoided doing, as it did too the question of how many barrels of ale Crumford Brewery has in the storehouse, and how lazy the current batch of hop-picker casuals have been this past month, and, extraordinarily, you also managed to avoid mentioning anything to do with tax and war coffers. That cannot have been easy at all to judge by how my other post is reading these days, and so hats off to you! And there was no wondering either about how one of Father’s draught horses is lame with a nasty abscess that needs daily poulticing, nor how another of the horses has somehow got herself in foal! Well, I suppose that we can all guess how the mare got in foal—but the comedy lies in the fact that Father does not have a stallion at the brewery, and so I guess the mystery of who the stud is will only be solved once the foal is born, and only then if it takes after its father.
I am sorry not to have written back to you sooner, as I do feel very bad about it, especially when you were so kind to think of me in the first place. The truth of it is I have been homesick, much more than I expected, and so I tried not to dwell too much on everyone at home in Crumford, and when I did, I found it difficult to write. I do apologise for being so tardy and hope you understand.
I have spent a lot of time with your brothers and my two brothers though, which has cheered me up no end, even though they are all rascals, and so we have made up a very jolly gang of five, and I can’t pretend that we have not laughed a lot, often over the most silly of things. We have even taken bets on which local stallion is the father of the foal! If it turns out to be that noisy donkey over at the Convent, which is Clem’s bet, then Father will be so put out, albeit more on the mare’s behalf than his own, I fear. If that does indeed turn out to be the case, I won’t be able to resist yelling ‘Heehaw!’ as loud as I can at him – I mean at your Clem, and not Father. If I were to try shouting it at Father I think I would only be able to get the ‘Hee’ out, before he came down on the ‘Haw’ like a ton of bricks.
That was an excellent idea of yours about me and Alder and Rosen having our photographs taken, by the way. Father was very pleased with his photographs, so much so that I told Clem that he and Asa must have theirs taken too as I’m sure Mr and Mrs Graham would appreciate the gesture, and Clem agreed. I made sure to go along and supervise, so it actually did happen. I thought they both looked very handsome when they had their pictures taken, and so I wonder if you have seen the photographs yet?
To be honest I am not sure if Alder and Rosen will send their pictures to your sisters. I told them they should, but they said neither Violet nor Holly had written to them, and they feel too embarrassed to make the first move in this respect, especially as they have now been gone such a long time and I suppose they feel the moment has passed. I can tell you however that they are not writing to any other young ladies and don’t seem to have any intention of doing so, and therefore if Violet and Holly did feel able to correspond, I think the response would be positive from both my brothers.
Meanwhile, I enclose a photograph of me; thank you for sending the one of you – yours is small enough for my wallet and I do treasure it as it is such a reminder of the last day when all of us could be happy and without a care in the world. That makes it feel special. You look very fine indeed in the picture.
Of course I would appreciate it if you cared to write back to me. I can’t promise to be a very regular or a particularly quick responder, but do please know I will be thinking of you all the same.
We are not supposed to tell those at home where we are exactly or what our experiences have been. I guess you know this, but I mention it in case not – it is so hard to suppose what people at home know and what they have no idea about.
Suffice to say that that pleasant summer afternoon at the party at your mill seems in complete contrast to all that has happened since. I very much enjoyed our walk close to sunset, and I hope you have fond memories of it too.
And I have a good memory as well of seeing you and everyone else wave us off from the train station, with the Union Jacks waving in the breeze and the band playing. It was a special moment, was not it?
Thank you again for writing, and I remain your obedient servant.
Yours truly, Ren Brewer Esq.
Her heart gave a little double-thump now that she could see it in blue ink – Ren did indeed want her to write to him.
He must think there was something between them, surely?
Then Daisy studied carefully the photograph Ren had included in the envelope.
It was small, being at the most about three inches by two. The image showed Ren’s body angled towards the photographer with an elbow on one thigh and a hand on his other, as he sat stiffly and rather awkwardly on a wooden crate in front of a painted backdrop of what appeared to be a bucolic scene in the tradition of an old master. There was a prop of an ancient wooden plough in the corner of the picture behind him for no reason that Daisy could fathom.
It had clearly been taken in a photographic studio, or else the photographer had come to the depot where the lads were billeted with camera and backdrop and props. There was probably good business to be had with troops who wanted to send photographs home to loved ones.
Daisy wasn’t at all sure about the photograph of Ren, if she were honest. It looked posed and old-fashioned, and completely lacking in vigour.
Ren appeared handsome enough, she supposed, but also as if he were rather a dull man, the sort who would love a hobby such as stamp collecting, and who would be overly fond of routines and would always love clotted cream before jam on scones, and never think to try it the other way around, not even once. The sepia tones of the picture made Ren’s puttees look too obvious and as if his lower legs were in better focus than the rest of him, whilst what seemed to be a blank expression on his face because the image had become so light-sodden during the exposure of the plates that Ren’s face seemed washed out, didn’t make him look particularly recognisable either.
In fact, Daisy wasn’t certain she would have said it was Ren, should there not have been inked ‘Ren Brewer, 1914, age 21’ on the reverse of the image.
There was nothing in what she saw in the photograph, try as Daisy did to see otherwise, that suggested Ren’s friendly personality or how lively he was, no sense of him either being continually in movement, or that he had just smiled or was about to, all of which were the attributes that Daisy thought stood out most about Ren Brewer.
Somehow the photograph and her memory of him just didn’t seem to match, a feeling added to as she knew he was really twenty-two years old, and not twenty-one, although Daisy supposed the age would be easy for the photographer to get wrong if he was photographing a lot of young men on the same day.
However, the photograph Daisy had sent to Ren of herself hadn’t been particularly wonderful either – Ren had been exaggerating massively in his assertion she looked ‘very fine indeed’.
A pre-war Daisy might have tried to convince herself the adage ‘love is blind’ was true in regard to Ren’s comment, but now she was realistic and concluded he was just being polite.
Anyway, staring at the photograph he’d included in the letter, Daisy wondered if perhaps what she was looking at was pretty much par for the course in its shoddiness of a professional photographer taking pictures of young soldiers. She didn’t have anything to compare it with as Asa and Clem’s photographs were yet to arrive at Old Creaky.
Still, the picture that she had sent to Ren had the advantage that its image was unmistakeably that of Daisy, albeit a much more harum-scarum version of herself than how she liked to think she presented herself to the world.
There was a reason for this.
Every Yuletide Cynthia had a local photographer come out to the mill several days before Christmas to take pictures of the whole family, which were then lovingly added to the family photograph album that was Cynthia’s pride and joy, and then everyone would laugh at these annual photographs and how they had or hadn’t changed as time had passed.
But the Christmas of 1913, the photographer was already quite sozzled by the time he arrived at the mill house, as his previous client had been unnecessarily generous with the porter.
And when Jared wouldn’t be dissuaded from giving him a large tot of rum for festive cheer, despite all of Cynthia’s vociferous advice to the contrary, the quality of the subsequent portraits had taken a distinct downturn. Jared had had to take quite an earful from his wife once the photographs were ready for collection.
Daisy’s photograph was the worst, although Cynthia’s had run hers close. Daisy had been the last one to pose, and by that point there was definitely a lack of focus to the image itself, as well as a rather cross look about her eyes as she had grown impatient with the fiasco of the situation, an impression mirrored by her hair looking quite a bit more untamed than it had when she had brushed and pinned it up upon the photographer’s arrival.
The photographer who visited Old Creaky when three sheets to the wind that December day had volunteered at the same time as Asa and Clem, and Daisy had seen him clamber onto the same train that day at the station.
She wondered if the war really would be over by Christmas, as some people still claimed (Daisy herself increasingly dubious of this fact), and whether the photographer would be back with them in a couple of months eager to take this year’s photographs for Cynthia’s album. If so, they’d better make sure the kettle was on for a pot of tea, and that they had hidden the rum from Jared, just in case he had forgotten the previous year’s fiasco.
Rose gave a snuffle, and with a small start as she had completely forgotten about being in charge of the baby, Daisy remembered what she was supposed to be doing, which was taking Rose for a walk in the autumn sunshine.
She slipped the photograph and letter back into their envelope, and stuffed the envelope deep down into her reticule. And then she began to push the pram in the direction of the shops in Crumford, the springs to the wheels giving Rose quite a bouncy ride on the unmade road.
Daisy purchased the items Cynthia had requested, and stacked them in the pram at the end nearest its push-handle as Rose’s little toes were nowhere close yet to reaching down to that bit of the pram.
But then instead of turning towards home, and even though she knew Holly had asked her to make sure she was back as soon as possible to relieve her in the tea room, Daisy dawdled around the pretty streets of red-brick houses, many of which were centuries old.
Crumford looked enviably picturesque as what might be one of the last blasts of golden autumn sunshine that year was bringing out all the lovely russet tones of the deep-red brickwork of the shops and houses she passed. As she strolled along, Daisy thought how rarely she allowed herself to really look and appreciate living right next to such a pretty town.
As she listened to the soothing sound of the turn of the pram’s wheels, Daisy found Rose’s presence oddly companionable too, and she realised that she was enjoying herself, and that this was the first time she had actively felt content since the night she and Ren had kissed.
She looked down at Rose’s face, and decided that at the moment the baby girl didn’t really take after either of her parents, with none of Asa’s wild eyebrows or Joy’s steely jawline.
Rose was perfect though, with the sweetest small hands, a rosebud mouth and long eyelashes fluttering upon her cheeks as she slept.
Up until this point Daisy hadn’t really paid Rose much attention since she had been born. There’d been other things to think about, and Daisy had told herself that she didn’t seem to respond to babies with quite the same cooing eagerness that Violet and Holly did. Should Joy give either of them the slightest come on, they were always ready to dandle Rose on their laps and play peekaboo, even though Rose was far too young to give any sort of response.
Her own lack of likewise inclination had made Daisy suspect she wasn’t really cut out for motherhood, and this had made her wonder now whether this meant she might not really be cut out for marriage either. She didn’t feel horrified by these thoughts, she discovered, at least in the way she might have been on the day of the twins’ birthday party.
She supposed it was because Olive leaving to train as a nurse seemed to have driven it home that not all women need these days be content to marry and have children.
In fact, she was somewhat surprised now by her assumption of just a few months back that a marriage and a family were necessary for all young ladies. Instead, to have one’s own offspring seemed these days to Daisy to be a huge additional responsibility that one was wise to be very wary of, especially having seen the dark shadows under Joy’s eyes when she’d collected Rose earlier.
As she walked, Daisy realised it was nice to play hooky from her usual routine for just a while.
