Wildflower Girl (10 page)

‘Peggy, could you teach me to write my own name? I’d like that.’

‘That’ll be the first lesson,’ promised Peggy.

By the next night the attic room was full of scraps of paper with KITTY MURPHY scrawled across them in large uneven letters.

THE ROWAN FAMILY USUALLY
kept their distance and had little to do with the maids, except for young Simon who loved to be in and out of the kitchen. He would stand up on a chair watching Mrs O’Connor and she would let him lick bowls and give her mixtures a stir sometimes, for luck. He often ran in from the garden demanding a jar or tin to put some unfortunate creature in and would arrive back to show them all kinds of insects, the like of which Peggy had never seen before. The American insects seemed a lot bigger than the Irish ones, she thought. ‘Maybe they’re better fed,’ laughed Kitty.

Roxanne, the only daughter, was fifteen and as flawlessly beautiful as her mother. She had almost silver-blonde hair which she wore in ringlets around her face, showing off her large blue eyes to advantage. She played the piano every day and studied with a tutor who came to instruct her in French and English, literature and art. Sometimes other young ladies would call and Peggy would watch from the kitchen step as they went for a short
drive around Greenbay by carriage. They were always chaperoned by one of the mothers.

Roxanne rarely came down the stairs to the kitchen area and if she did it was usually to complain. One Saturday she arrived at the kitchen door and called Mrs Madden. Kitty and the housekeeper had immediately to begin to re-press Roxanne’s pale peach dress as she wanted it for dinner.

Peggy was set to restitching the hem of Roxanne’s favourite petticoat which had snagged when she was out shopping that morning.

‘I’m no good at sewing and mending,’ Peggy had admitted from the start, but she had been met with polite disbelief by the rest of the household.

She kept sticking the needle in her finger as she tried to copy the fine stitches of her predecessor. She even managed to stitch the petticoat to her apron at one stage, she was in such a mood trying to sew.

An hour later, Roxanne stormed downstairs and flung the petticoat at her.

‘It’s got specks of blood on it – her blood,’ she screamed, pointing at Peggy. ‘I will not wear it till it’s been laundered.’

Peggy had never felt so embarrassed.

‘There, Miss Roxanne, I am afraid you will have to wait until Monday when the washerwomen come around,’ Mrs Madden replied firmly.

The daughter of the house flounced off back upstairs muttering comments about ‘those Irish!’

A few days later Peggy heard excited voices of family and friends who had come to wish Miss Roxanne a happy sixteenth birthday and toast her good health. Mrs O’Connor had provided an extravagant supper and a special cake.

Looking at the cake on the silver tray, Peggy remembered the beautiful cakes and confections that Auntie Nano and Lena used to make – and she longed again for the kitchen of Market Lane.

‘Peggy, Mrs O’Connor, look!’ Young Simon was standing at the kitchen door with a little puppy squirming in his arms. ‘He’s the best present I ever saw. Isn’t Roxanne lucky? Aunt Melissa gave him to her.’

‘He’s an angel. Look, Peggy, isn’t he lovely?’ joked Mrs O’Connor.

A shiver of fear passed through Peggy the minute she saw the dog. With a burst of energy he bounced out of young Simon’s arms and began to scamper around the kitchen, exploring every nook and cranny.

Peggy stepped back near the scullery. She tried to control the shakes that were tingling through her. Years ago, when she was only seven, a pack of dogs, wild and starving, had attacked her, and since then she had never lost her fear of dogs no matter what they were like. She just couldn’t stand them being near her. The puppy stood panting with excitement, his tail wagging and his long tongue out, staring at her, almost touching her feet.

‘Go away! Get lost!’ she muttered.

‘Bonaparte! Good dog!’ Roxanne, looking more
gorgeous than ever, suddenly appeared in the kitchen. She came to a halt right in front of Peggy.

‘Isn’t he a beautiful dog?’ announced Roxanne.

Peggy was so scared of the little creature, she could barely stutter, ‘He’s grand, Miss.’

Roxanne bent down and scooped him up.

‘Come and pet him, then.’ The older girl stared at Peggy.

She knows, thought Peggy – she can read my mind! Peggy tried to put out her hand and force herself to touch the shiny brown and white coat. She just couldn’t do it.

‘Are you scared of a little bit of a thing like Bonaparte?’ jeered Roxanne.

Peggy felt like pulling the other girl’s curls as she looked into the smug face.

‘No, it’s not that, Miss, it’s just that my hands are greasy from the pots,’ she announced, inspired.

Bored at last, Roxanne turned her attention to the others.

Peggy stood rigid and still until both the dog and his mistress had gone back upstairs. Only then, to everyone’s surprise, did the tears seep out of her. She tried to explain her fear but nobody listened. There and then she decided to keep well out of the way of the dog, who was given the run of the house. But five days later trouble struck.

Peggy had just finished cleaning out the grate and resetting the fire in Roxanne’s room. I’ll light
it later, she thought. The sun streamed in, showing the bright feminine room to full advantage, with its drapes and frills and cherrywood wardrobe and dressing table.

Peggy moved down the hallway and was just starting to clean the Master’s room when she heard the screams.

Roxanne appeared in her dressing gown. ‘Mother, come and see what she’s done!’

Peggy looked up. ‘What is it, Miss Roxanne?’ Perhaps she’d dropped some ash on the mat or maybe the fuel had fallen out. She went back to the room to check.

‘Mother, look at my dress!’ cried Roxanne.’I need it for my tea party with the Abbots this afternoon. Can’t you see what she’s done?’

Peggy looked at the dress. It had been flung rather carelessly across the bed. It was pale cream, with a neat waist and butter-coloured panels. Right across the centre lay a succession of black smudges and marks.

‘Ashes and dust all over my dress. Why couldn’t that stupid maid, Bridget or whatever she’s called, keep her filthy hands to herself.’

‘I didn’t touch the dress, Miss Roxanne, I give you my word,’ Peggy answered, totally flabbergasted by Roxanne’s reaction. Peggy moved closer to look at the dress and then she noticed it – there was a definite pattern to the marks.

‘Miss Roxanne, those are not finger marks. If you look closely you’ll see they’re paw marks. Bonaparte must have come in from the garden.
Every day I clean up marks just like them from the floor and paintwork.’

The Mistress nodded at Peggy. ‘Now, Roxanne, you know Peggy is right. Anyway I’ve told you to keep the dog out of your room.’

The two girls stared at each other and Peggy realised that she had made a dangerous enemy.

‘GIRLS, THIS HEAT’LL BE THE DEATH OF US ALL
,’ groaned Mrs O’Connor. The kitchen was stifling. Peggy’s cheeks were bright red from running around and her uniform stuck to her.

‘The minute this lunch is over, lassies, the two of you are to run off and get a bit of fresh air. ‘Tis too hot to be sitting in the attic,’ advised the cook.

Kitty waited impatiently for Peggy to finish her work.

‘This is the last thing to put away, I swear,’ said Peggy, closing the scullery door.

They walked down by the small kitchen garden and out the back gate.

‘Which way will we go?’ asked Peggy.

‘Follow me!’

Passing other newer houses and a small laneway flanked by hedgerows, they were suddenly looking
out over field after field of grass and corn.

‘Oh, Kitty, it’s just like home!’ gasped Peggy.

‘I don’t remember that very well,’ shrugged Kitty.

They climbed over a neat wooden fence into a wide open meadow. The long grass almost reached to their hips. They threw themselves down on its soft carpet and stretched out on the cushion of green beneath them.

‘One shoe, two shoe,’ laughed Peggy, kicking her shoes off and up in the air. A feeling of pure pleasure ran through her as her feet felt the once familiar sensation of grass and soil. She wriggled her toes.

Kitty had hitched up her skirt to her knees and rolled back her cuffs and sleeves. Her skin was pale and her mouse-brown hair was dull, but her face was soft and gentle.

‘Look at that sky!’ Peggy stared at its vivid blueness. ‘Not a cloud in sight.’ She squinted against the sun. A cricket chirped its strange cry, such a foreign sound.

She closed her eyes. She was back home and Eily and herself were lying in the fields outside Castletaggart. Autumn was in the air. Soon there would be blackberries. Every bush was heavy with blossom or fruit. They’d come back and pick them when they were ripe …

‘Peggy! Peggy!’

She blinked her eyes. Kitty was tapping her shoulder.

‘Wake up! I think you’re getting sunburnt. You dozed off.’

Peggy sat up. ‘I was dreaming of home.’ She felt strangely confused and empty. She wondered if
anyone back in Ireland ever thought of her anymore. She told Kitty about her dream.

‘Will I tell you a secret, Peggy? I have only one dream,’ confided Kitty. ‘I dream I’m walking along, sometimes in the town, sometimes in the countryside, and I see this girl and she looks just like me – she’s smaller and younger and prettier, but I know her and she knows me. It’s my sister, May … Do you suppose dreams ever come true, Peggy?’

Peggy nodded dumbly, not trusting herself to speak. Both of them here in a field in the middle of nowhere and thinking about their sisters …

Finally they got to their feet, stretched lazily, then wandered around to gather wild flowers. The field was covered in them, as were all the fields nearby. Swathes of flowers – vivid blue cornflowers, spikes of pink rosebay, moondaisies, white frothy yarrow, bluebonnets – blazed with colour in the sunlight. Wind and rain, animals and even man might flatten them or knock them down, but they would still spring back again and dance and bow in the summer breeze and sun. Their untamed beauty helped to banish any sadness the girls felt.

‘Come on, we’d best head home,’ said Kitty, brushing grass seed and pollen off the back of Peggy’s hair.

They carried home bunches of the simple flowers and for the rest of those long hot summer weeks they kept filling and re-filling two jam jars to brighten their attic room.

‘
KITTY, TELL ME HONESTLY, DO
I stink?’ Peggy looked at her friend for reassurance.

‘We all pong, a bit anyways, working in this heat,’ answered Kitty diplomatically.

‘You’re not telling me straight, Kitty.’

‘Look, we do our best. We only have a jug and basin to wash in. There’s a tin bath out near the woodshed – I used it a few times up here in the room, but you have to lug it up the stairs and then carry up hot water to fill it.’

‘All the way up here!’ At once Peggy realised this involved far too much heavy work.

The Rowans had a family bathroom where there was a large white bath. In the mornings the room was always steamy and the smell of perfume and soap lingered in the air.

The next day Peggy got up the courage to go to Mrs Madden’s room. The woman looked up.

‘Yes, Peggy, what is it?’

‘I wanted to ask about bathing myself.’

The housekeeper looked at her questioningly. She said nothing.

‘I mean – am I let use the bathroom?’

Mrs Madden stood up and Peggy could spot a vein throbbing in her neck. ‘Under no circumstances, Peggy. You will not dare to wash yourself there. It’s up to you to make your own washing and hygiene arrangements, whatever they may be.’

Peggy left the room, shamefaced. She went out to the woodshed and in the storage room beside it she rooted and discovered an old perambulator, two broken chairs, a dented enamel bucket and finally the tin bath. It was rusty and the suspicion of a hole lurked near the middle in the bottom of it. She could guess the lecture she would get if the water dripped from the bath and through the ceiling to the housekeeper’s room. It’s not fair, she thought. We’re expected to be clean and neat and yet we’re not given the chance! As she came back into the kitchen she passed the large sink near the door. It wasn’t used much. Would it be possible …?

The next day the house was quiet. The Mistress and Miss Roxanne had gone to get new dresses fitted. Mrs O’Connor was having tea with a widow friend of hers who was a cook in a house at the other end of Greenbay. She had put on a large white bonnet and then disappeared. Kitty had strict instructions for a simple meal to be served, as the Master and Mistress were dining out that night and Mrs Madden was working in her office upstairs.

‘This is just the time,’ thought Peggy. She put on two giant pots of water to boil and charged all the way up the stairs to her room. Kitty was breathing heavily in a deep sleep. Peggy got her spare clothes and
underthings, and her large wash-towel. From the wash-stand, she grabbed a bar of lemon-scented soap that Mrs Madden had given Kitty, and raced back down the stairs. She placed the big black stopper in the sink. She pulled up a chair, then lugged the pots of boiling water over. It was almost half-full. She added some cold water as she didn’t want to be roasted alive. She tested it – it was just perfect. She closed the back door and got out of her uniform. The whole house was still and quiet – all you could hear was the tick of the kitchen clock. In a minute she was naked.

Oh no! I’ll need a jug for my hair, she thought. Luckily there was a big enamel one under the sink. She got up on the chair and gently stepped into the back-kitchen sink. The water was warm and welcoming. The sink was too short to lie down in, but at least she could sit fairly comfortably and almost stretch her legs. She turned around and got on to her knees, then lowered her head and scalp into the water and soaped her hair with the lemon soap. She dipped it back into the water to get the lather off, then poured the jug of spare water over her head and shoulders. Now she could relax. She let the warm water soak into her. It was bliss. The skin on her feet felt rough and hard and her hands and elbows needed a bit of attention too. She gently massaged the soap around her neck and back. At home Eily and herself used to wash each other’s backs on bath night in Market Lane. Washing your troubles and cares away – that’s what her old Aunt Nano would have said.

Then as if in a nightmare, Peggy heard a step. Good God! Who was it? Mrs Madden? – she’d be
killed! The Mistress? – it didn’t bear thinking about. Peggy lay paralysed in the water. Should she jump out and wrap herself in the towel? – but then they’d hear her. Maybe if she stayed perfectly still whoever it was would go away.

But the door burst open and little Simon Rowan stood in front of her. Peggy felt every cell in her body turn puce. The little boy looked at her and didn’t bat an eyelid, as if naked young girls around the house was an everyday occurrence. His big blue eyes and innocent face turned towards her. His skin had a healthy glow and his usually neat fair hair was all askew.

‘Quick, Peggy! There’s a strange creature under the gooseberry bushes. I’ll need a cage – well, a jar anyway – to catch it. I had it cornered.’

Peggy could have hugged him. Instead she just said, ‘Master Simon, run out and guard it and I’ll get the strongest container you ever saw and will be out to you in a minute – otherwise it might escape.’

In a flash, Simon disappeared out the back door and Peggy was standing dripping all over the tiled floor.

Never in her whole life did Peggy get dressed so quickly. Briskly she rubbed her skin dry and pulled on her fresh underthings and then put on the grey dress and a fresh apron. She tried to smooth down her hair, then dried the ends of it with the rough towel and slipped on her shoes. She emptied the sink and put the chair back. The dirty clothes and towel she rolled in a bundle and stuffed into the closet under the sink and then, grabbing an empty biscuit tin from the pantry, she chased out to where young Simon lay sprawled on
the dirt.

‘Peggy, you’ve been ages, what kept you?’

She chuckled to herself.

‘Look, Master Simon, will this do? Mrs O’Connor usually stores brandy snaps in it.’

He grabbed the circular biscuit tin and motioned to Peggy to crouch down. He pointed eagerly towards a clump of scutch grass growing between the gooseberry bushes.

‘Look,’ whispered Simon.

Two tiny little eyes stared back at her. It was a very small baby field mouse, which must have got separated from its mother. It was trapped and scared and Peggy knew exactly how it felt.

‘Hold the lid, Peggy, and get down beside me.’

Simon was reaching out, trying to force the mouse to run into the tin.

Peggy managed half by accident and half on purpose to close the lid just before the mouse ran into it. Simon tried to throw himself on the tiny animal, but Peggy spotted it darting aside and weaving in and out of the gooseberry bushes before it disappeared. Simon groaned in frustration and then sat up.

Peggy laughed. Both she and the mouse had had a narrow escape.