A Summer Promise (3 page)

‘Morning, Alice. Isn’t it a grand one?’ she said, staring pointedly at the bulge in the pocket of Alice’s pale green cotton smock. ‘Come on, show me the surprise! I came as quickly as I could but I can’t stay long.’

Alice withdrew from her pocket a large, fawn-coloured volume, laying it tenderly upon the rustic bench and keeping her hand spread over what looked like an illustration on the cover.

‘Ooh, there’s a picture!’ Maddy said. She tried to pull her friend’s hand away, but Alice, giggling, resisted.

‘Let me show you; you’re going to be ever so surprised,’ she said. ‘And I mean to read to you for a change. The book is
The Water Babies
by somebody called Charles Kingsley. Uncle John found it for me and oh, Maddy, it’s the illustrated version . . .’

Maddy squeaked; she could not help it. She had always assumed her mother had made the water babies up but it was clearly not so. Someone had written the little chimney sweep’s story down and she was about to see the very book! Her heart beat faster and her breath became short, but Alice, all unknowing, was still speaking.

‘. . . and there are forty-eight colour pictures in the book so that even if you can’t read . . . oh, you bad girl!’

For at that point Maddy’s patience wore out and she tried to snatch the volume whilst Alice, still giggling, defended her property. ‘Uncle John says I must take great care of the book because it’s a first edition, whatever that may mean. Aunt Ruby said he wasn’t to let me touch it with my grimy fingers but that was just her being careful; Uncle John knows I keep my hands spotless.’ She cast a critical eye at Maddy but was able to give a nod of approval. Maddy would not have dreamed of so much as touching a book without first making sure her hands, too, were spotless. But the book must be very special indeed for Alice to have gone to such trouble, so she put them behind her back.

‘You show me,’ she demanded. ‘You know my hands are always clean when we meet for a reading session. Miss Parrott says one should show respect for books and I’m sure we both do that.’ She examined the cover illustration. ‘Oh, Alice, isn’t that the most beautiful picture in the whole world? And since your uncle gave you the book to read it must be a true story. Oh, I can’t wait to read it and to look at all the pictures. Are we going to keep it in our hidey-hole?’ The girls had discovered a loose floorboard underneath the rustic bench, and when they lifted it up they had realised that the cavity thus revealed would be ideal as a hiding place, not just for any book they wanted to keep hidden but for other things as well. Sometimes Alice snitched a bottle of Cook’s home-made lemonade from the kitchen, and Maddy, not to be outdone, had brought apples and plums from the farm’s ancient but still productive orchard. ‘We could ration ourselves to one new picture every time we meet, then it would last us ages and ages.’

Alice, however, disagreed. ‘Uncle John would want to know what I’d done with it,’ she objected. ‘Remember, he doesn’t know you’ve been teaching me to read; he brought the book out from wherever he’s been keeping it as a sort of reward for what he called “dear Alice’s hard work”. You see, he can’t read print without his spectacles and when he’s finished his dinner and Miss Spender sends me off to the drawing room to bid him and my aunt goodnight he sometimes gets me to read him the headlines in his newspaper or even, lately, to have a go at reading the whole of any article which interests him. I think he really lent me this wonderful book because – I don’t know if you’ve noticed – each illustration has a few lines of writing telling the reader which part of the book the artist had in mind when he painted the picture. Uncle John thought I could enjoy the story just by looking at the pictures and reading what each one says underneath.’

‘Yes, your uncle is a nice man,’ Maddy agreed. ‘But don’t say we must rush through it and hand it back in a day or so because I couldn’t bear it. Why, I’ve only read a bit called
The poor little chimney sweep
and already I can tell it’s just the sort of book you and I like most. We’ll need at least a week and maybe more if we’re to enjoy it properly.’ She removed her hands from their position behind her back and began to turn the pages. ‘Oh, Alice, you laughed when I said I believe in fairies, but this is a book about real people, chimney sweeps and cooks,
real
people, so since the artist has drawn water babies in the book it must mean they truly are real too!’

‘I don’t see how you make that out,’ Alice said slowly. ‘Artists paint pictures of lots of things which aren’t real at all. I think this man – Mr Theaker – simply drew the things the story is about, not because they really exist. Well, little boys who scramble up chimneys don’t exist now, though I expect they did when Mr Kingsley wrote the book.’

Maddy sighed. She knew her friend was practical, sensible and down to earth, whereas she herself still had a secret desire to believe the wonderful, whether it be fairies or little chimney sweeps. She glanced out of the summer house doorway and saw that the sun had edged right up over the fells. Gran would be in the kitchen by now, preparing their breakfast. She jumped to her feet, still clutching the book. ‘I must go; will you trust me to look after the book until this evening? I’ll take great care of it, you know I will.’

But Alice was shaking her head despite Maddy’s attempt to combine an air of total trustworthiness with passionate pleading. ‘I really don’t think we should; it’s Uncle John’s book and although he didn’t tell me not to lend it to anyone else I think we both know that it won’t even have crossed his mind,’ she said rather hesitantly. ‘Of course I know you’ll take great care of it, but . . .’

Maddy, poised in the doorway with the book still clutched to her chest, sighed and returned to lay the book reverently on the rustic bench. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she said, giving the treasure a last pat before turning away. ‘Oh dear, and I shan’t be able to concentrate on my work for thinking about it! Can we meet later, even if it’s only for five minutes?’

Alice nodded eagerly. ‘Tell you what, I’ll go to the market with you and then we can come back and read it after we’ve sold everything,’ she said. She opened up the cavity beneath the bench, picked up the book and put it inside. ‘There you are. Safely hidden.’

‘Oh, Alice, you are so good and kind,’ Maddy said gratefully. ‘But don’t I wish I could borrow the book to show Miss Parrott. She’d love it!’

Alice pointed out that Miss Spender, too, would like the book. ‘And there must be other copies, because people don’t write a whole book just for one person to read,’ she added. ‘You might ask Miss Parrott if she’s heard of a book called
The Water Babies
and if she says she has you could ask her to bring a copy to school.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Maddy said decidedly. ‘But now I must go! See you later.’ And with one last wistful glance at the hiding place of the wonderful book, she set off at a fast trot, knowing that she would have to bolt her breakfast and rush through her morning tasks or be on the receiving end of Gran’s black walking cane.

‘Sorry, Gran. I stopped to pick some watercress, so I’m afraid I’m a bit late.’ Maddy mopped beads of sweat from her forehead. ‘It’s the Saturday market today, so after brekker I’ll gather some plums from the tree. They always sell well.’

Gran snorted, then adjusted the tiny pince-nez on her small fat nose and gave her granddaughter a tight little smile. ‘Oh well, you’re not a bad child. It’s a good idea to take a basket of plums down to the market, because most folk around here know we grow good ’uns.’ She chuckled. ‘We can’t really fail to, if you think about it. Crowdale misses the worst of the winds so our fruit trees flourish. In fact if your grandfather were still alive . . . but it’s no use wishing. Only my strength’s gone, and you’ve got no weight behind you . . .’ She reached over and heaved a big black saucepan off the range and began to ladle porridge into two pottery dishes. ‘I baked yesterday so for our tea we’ll have scrambled eggs on toast. Goose eggs, what’s more.’

‘Lovely,’ Maddy said absently, pulling a porridge bowl towards her. ‘Is there any honey left?’ The Hebditch women had two small but very productive hives at the top of the orchard, but at Maddy’s question Gran shook her head. ‘No, not for you to use, with your soft southern ways. We’ll need something to sell when winter comes, and jars of honey bring in a nice little profit. You eat your porridge as it is, and tell me what you’ve been up to.’

Maddy was so surprised that she stopped with her spoon poised halfway between the dish and her mouth. Gran almost never asked questions but now she was staring at her granddaughter as though she was really interested in Maddy’s reply. Hastily, Maddy began to spoon porridge, though she did not make the mistake of speaking with her mouth full; Gran was a stickler for table manners and had made sure that Maddy conformed.

Gran settled herself opposite Maddy at the table and raised her bushy grey eyebrows. ‘Well, girl?’ she barked. ‘You get about more than I do, so tell me what you’ve been doing so early on a fine summer morning.’

Maddy smiled but shook her head. ‘If I tell you while I’m eating then the next thing I know I’ll be dodging your stick and that won’t do much to improve my health or my temper,’ she said, quoting one of her grandmother’s many sayings. ‘Just let me finish my breakfast and then you can ask me any question you like.’ She did not add that she would choose how to answer – fact or fiction – and poor Gran would be none the wiser.

Only a few years ago, Gran had gone into the village two or three times a week. She had kept the rent money which Farmer Sutherland paid them for the pastures they no longer used in a post office savings bank and drew a small sum weekly so that she and her granddaughter could buy things like sugar, butter and flour, goods they needed but could neither grow nor make. Now it was Maddy who visited the village, bought and sold, and kept Gran happy with talk of her occasional trips. It struck her that she really should find some means of getting the old lady down to Crowdale village once in a while to meet folk her own age. After all, perhaps loneliness was the reason that Gran sometimes got so cross. Maybe her bouts of criticism and temper were no more than the result of being cooped up, day and night, on an old farm which had once been a thriving business and was a thriving business no longer.

‘Fancy a cut of my bread to round off your breakfast?’ Gran’s voice broke into Maddy’s thoughts. ‘There’s a bit of butter left from the piece Mr Sutherland gave me.’ The old lady smiled grimly. ‘I might even spare a smear of damson jam, though the majority must go to the market when the days are short.’ She drummed her fingers impatiently on the table top. ‘
Will
you open your budget, you wretched child. Or do I have to do it for you with the aid of my walking stick?’

Across the table Maddy stared, incredulous. Her gran had almost made a joke! But then, seeing the glitter in the older woman’s eyes, she broke into hurried speech. ‘All right, all right. I met my friend Alice and we agreed that she would come with me to the market.’ She giggled. ‘I don’t know what her uncle and aunt would say if they knew their niece was selling fruit in the village, but the other stallholders have their kids running errands and nobody seems to notice that Alice is a cut above the rest of us. I think she enjoys it because it means she gets to know the kids from the village school. And she likes watercress sandwiches so I picked a bunch for her . . .’

‘You make sure she pays for it,’ Gran snapped. ‘Those Thwaites can afford it.’

Maddy felt truly indignant. In her head she said ‘You mean old besom’, a term she had read in books, but of course there was no need to say it out loud because the old woman knew she was mean; was actually proud of it. She would merely snap, ‘I’m careful, like all canny Yorkshire women, so don’t you give me none of your cheek.’ And of course in a way she was right: the Thwaites were not just comfortably off, they were rich. They had four maidservants, a long and gleaming black car driven by a chauffeur, and no end of other workers including a bailiff who ran the tenanted farms and saw to it that Mr and Mrs Thwaite were never cheated.

‘Why have you never brought this girl Alice to meet me?’ Gran demanded crossly. ‘Oh, I know you think the sun shines out of her, but I might not consider her a suitable friend for my granddaughter. Huh! You may goggle, but you’ve no more idea whether the girl is a real lady than Snoops has!’

This comment made Maddy laugh out loud, though she kept a wary eye on her grandmother’s stick. ‘Oh, Gran, you’re being quite ridiculous and I’m sure you know it,’ she said. ‘Just look at me! Old plimsolls, a rummage sale dress, my hair like a bird’s nest because I haven’t had a chance to brush it this morning . . .’

Gran got to her feet, knocking over her stick as she did so. ‘Less of your sauce, madam,’ she said crossly. ‘Pick up my stick at once and I’ll show you! Smart clothes and clean shoes aren’t the only signs of a lady or a gentleman, as you should know. You think I forget, but that woman with the big nose – what was her name, Miss Crow, Miss Jackdaw – well, whatever her name is, she said you’re the brightest child in the school and that makes you a lady in my eyes.’

Maddy laughed. ‘Too bright to fetch your stick so that you can whack it across my legs,’ she said ruefully. ‘Though I’ve given you no cause to . . .’ She stopped speaking suddenly and pointed at her grandmother’s legs. ‘What’s the matter with your left foot? You’re limping! Oh, don’t say you’ve had a fall while I was out.’

Gran had limped over to the sink without bending to pick up her fallen stick, and now she sighed. ‘No, I didn’t fall, but I slipped when I put the porridge pan on the stove, and you can just stop peering at it. I admit it’s bruised, but . . . What are you doing?’

‘Oh, Gran, I’m pushing a chair across so you can sit down. I’ll wash up and clean out the porridge saucepan ready for tomorrow. Why on earth didn’t you tell me that you’d wrenched your ankle? No, likeliest it’s a sprain, because I can see it’s all purple, just like a plum.’

Gran sank into the chair with a little moan of relief. ‘It’s nothing much, anyhow,’ she declared, ‘and don’t you pretend that you wouldn’t have gone out if you’d known I’d slip, because how could you possibly tell? I don’t mean you to miss market day, you know. I put a bag of eggs in the big shopping basket; if you sell them and the plums that should keep our heads above water until next week. So as soon as you’ve washed up and cleared away you can take the reed basket and pick the fruit.’