The Watercress Girls (26 page)

T
he house echoed in its emptiness as it had the day Mattie, Griff and Megan had arrived to live there – was it really getting on for forty years ago? It was ten years since Griff had died. Mattie hadn’t intended to stay there so long. When Evie retired from the Amy Able in 1968 and returned to Plough Cottage, she’d written to her sister: ‘Now you have no excuse not to come – oh, the two of us together again – how wonderful!’

Mattie had seen Megan and Max several times during these years, including last fall, when Megan said bluntly, ‘Don’t you want to sell up after all?’

Gracie, of course, was long since grown up. There had been more adolescent
angst
, and she hadn’t lived at home since she was eighteen, when she had her first walk-on part in a touring play. Megan hadn’t confirmed it, but reading between the lines in the occasional postcard Gracie sent her grandmother, Mattie suspected that Gracie was living with her boyfriend, an actor named Lachlan. Megan sent Mattie a snap of the two of them at a party: Mattie hardly recognized the sultry, pouting young woman with long, straight hair, in a skimpy dress, with a brimming glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Lachlan, on whose lap she perched, had long locks, too, an earring, and a shirt open to the waist. How was it, she thought dismayed, that she could discern a similarity to the young Griff? Perhaps because Lachlan too had a dark Celtic air.

The world was changing at an accelerating rate. There had been the terrible assassinations in America which stunned the population. On the other side of the Atlantic there were the dark troubles in Northern Ireland. Decimalization of Britain’s coinage had taken place, the Common Market was in sight. The trade unions were in an uproar, strikes were frequent, unemployment rising.

Mattie realized that she would have to prepare herself for a few shocks when she returned to England. But surely, she thought, Plough Cottage will be as it was?

Her luggage was piled ready for collection in the hall. The little trunk was there, with all the treasures she’d collected together over the years. She’d looked in there once more, then closed the lid and fastened the straps to keep it secure. The furniture had gone to auction. Her good neighbours would let her know how that went, in due course. She glanced at her watch. There came a knock on the door. The new owners were on time. She was glad the house was going to friends: Megan’s schoolfriend Kay’s son and his wife.

She opened the door, welcomed them in. They were going to measure up for curtains and decide where their furniture could go. They were in their twenties, with no family as yet, the girl was in blue jeans and a sweatshirt which matched her husband’s.

‘I can’t wait to plant all my favourite flowers in the front garden.’ Katy smiled.

Mattie smiled back, thinking, she’ll be surprised when she digs up the odd potato!

‘I left the kitchen curtains up, I thought you might like those,’ she said.

She saw the girl bite her lip. ‘Thank you.’

Mattie added quickly, ‘Of course, you may want a different colour. You can always start a rag-bag with mine!’ She sensed they were waiting for her to go, so that they could explore the house on their own, and make plans. ‘Well, your grandfather will be waiting to take me to the hotel. Then he has kindly offered to take me to the airport tomorrow morning. Good luck! I hope you’ll be as happy as we were here.’

I don’t suppose they’ll stay forty years, as I have, she said to herself. And I wonder if Mattie’s Ice-Cream Kiosk will open up again this summer in the park by the pool? Will they find someone to run it who enjoys watching the kids at play, as much as I did? That kept me going on the days I missed Griff most.

The flight was all that Megan and Max had assured her it would be. It was amazing to think that this time the journey in reverse would take hours, not days. She sat back in her comfortable seat and actually dozed, for she had been too excited to sleep much last night.

Her daughter and son-in-law were waiting to greet her when she came towards them, trundling her baggage. The necessary formalities completed, they drove home.

‘Will Evie be there?’ Mattie wondered hopefully.

Megan was in the back with her mother, holding tight on to her hand as she had as a child. ‘Mom, she said she’d see you in a couple of days, when we take you to the cottage. She said it ought to be just family today. You’ll have all the time in the world to catch up, after all.’

‘Gracie?’

‘Gracie and Lachy are appearing in a show in Drury Lane! They don’t rise very early, but they’ll make an exception for you, and join us for lunch.’

‘No wedding bells yet?’

‘Not even a tinkle! She’s only twenty-six. I guess you’re hoping for a great-grandchild, eh? There’s nothing maternal about our Gracie, I’m afraid!’

‘I knew someone else like that! And here you are, enjoying supply teaching nowadays, eh?’

‘Gracie may do the same one day – if the starring parts continue to elude her.’

Later, as she changed out of the smart pants-suit into a shirtwaist frock, and tidied her hair, she looked round the guest room, wondering who had chosen the geometrically patterned bright wallpaper and the jazzy curtains. She glanced through the window, saw that it overlooked the courtyard, and smiled to see a tiny, splashing fountain and pots both large and small, with unusual plants. Not a potato in sight!

Gracie had long ago discarded her glasses. ‘Contact lenses,’ she confided. ‘At least I can see where I’m going now, and am in no danger of falling off the stage!’

Mattie thought immediately that Gracie was far too thin, but she knew better than to comment on that. Actually, Gracie had a good appetite, and obviously enjoyed the smoked salmon, tiny buttered
potatoes
and green salad, with crusty bread. She declined the lemon meringue tart, saying she preferred a cigarette with her coffee.

Lachy said very little, allowing Gracie to do all the talking. Mattie was relieved to see that his shirt, with its tapering collar, was buttoned to the neck and that he even sported a bootlace tie. He’d grown a lot of facial hair since that photo was taken.

Some time later, in the comfortable sitting room, Mattie rested her head back in her armchair, and before she knew it, she was asleep. The journey had taken its toll.

‘We must go, Mom.’ Gracie dropped a light kiss on her
grandmother’s
forehead. ‘Tell Mommy Mattie we’ll see her again soon. If she feels up to it, before she goes to Aunty Evie’s, why don’t you bring her to the theatre? I could wangle some seats.’

They were driving through the countryside, and Mattie kept exclaiming, ‘Oh, it’s just as I remembered it!’ She’d only passed through London on a bus on her way to catch the train to Plymouth when she was eighteen years old, but it had changed in many ways since the wartime bombing and later rebuilding.

The door to Plough Cottage stood open. Megan and Max let Mattie go forward on her own, to greet her sister. The two women embraced, and then there was laughter and tears, and the welcoming words from Evie, ‘Here you are at last, then!’

After the others had left for London, and Robbie and Vi, who had joined them for a while, retired to their side of the old house, Mattie went from room to room with her sister, exclaiming with pleasure as she recognized the old and familiar things.

‘I had the kitchen made more up to date,’ Evie said apologetically.

‘You haven’t got a washing-machine,’ Mattie noted.

‘No, just a Baby Burco boiler. Gets the sheets as white as Mother did!’

‘Well, please let me contribute a few things – like a washing-machine and a spin dryer. We don’t want to be all day doing chores – I’ve been looking forward to revisiting all our favourite local places.’

‘The stream, and the watercress bed, I imagine?’

‘That most of all,’ Mattie said softly. ‘Now I’m here, and will be
for ever
.’

G
racie telephoned and asked if she might visit them one weekend in May.

‘Is Lachy coming?’ Evie asked.

‘No. We are both not working at present, and there’s not much prospect of me doing so, but he has an audition for a radio play.’ Gracie sounded rather off-hand.

‘Oh dear.’ Evie turned to Mattie as she put down the phone. ‘I wonder if they are thinking of splitting up….’

‘Megan hinted that something was up.’ Mattie was reclining on the sofa. She’d been laid low with a chest infection which stubbornly resisted medication.

‘Are you up to a visitor, old dear?’

‘Not so much of the old; you make me feel over eighty!’

‘Well, you may not look it, but you are, and I am going to take care of you, whether you like it or not!’

‘Of course I want to see Gracie. She’s forty now … doesn’t seem possible.’

‘Forty she may be, but she’s taking her time to grow up, eh?’

‘I thought she’d be married by now,’ Mattie said. ‘Probably too late for a family.’

But when they saw Gracie they realized instantly that it wasn’t too late, at all.

Gracie was wearing a fine almost transparent Indian dress in an unusual shade of green, fitted under her breasts and flowing loose over a definite bump. ‘Yes, I’m pregnant,’ she said defiantly. ‘Just as much a shock to me as it obviously is to you both.’ She moved a footstool next to the sofa and sat on it, looking up at her grandmother. She was
actually
wearing her glasses today, which somehow made her look vulnerable.

Evie hesitated, then said, ‘I’ll make the tea. You two –
talk
.’

Mattie fingered the soft material of Gracie’s long sleeve. ‘I remember we had a lovely range of Indian silks and cottons in the emporium at Plymouth. Christabel and I, we had dresses made from remnants bought for a few shillings, when we went on a bank holiday outing….’

‘The only outing I have in view is to the maternity hospital,’ Gracie said.

‘What does Lachy think about this? Isn’t he going to ask you to marry him now?’

‘He’s been on at me for years about that! He’s a vicar’s son, didn’t you know?’

‘No … I didn’t know.’ Mattie was aware she was wheezing; she must keep calm.

‘Well, when I get used to the idea, I might,’ Gracie sounded less defiant. ‘I-I thought you’d be upset and say how could I, and all that.…’

‘I didn’t say that to your mother, though I was worried stiff because she was so young, and I won’t say it to you, either. In my view, and your dear Grandad’s, a baby is always a blessing! Does Megan know?’

‘Yes, and she said I must tell you myself – that’s why I’m here.’

‘I’m glad. I really am.’

Evie wheeled in their latest acquisition, a tea trolley. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Everything is very all right,’ Mattie said. ‘Except I need a spoonful of linctus in case I cough all over those lovely cakes!’

Gracie and Lachy had a quiet wedding in September: the baby was due in November. They were staying with Megan and Max in London as Lachy had a regular spot in a series on radio.

It was obvious that Mattie’s health was declining, but she was
determined
to see the baby soon after it was born.

‘You mustn’t think of travelling here. Mom and Dad have promised to drive us to Suffolk, as soon as I am up to it! Ask Aunty Evie if the crib is still in the loft,’ Gracie said over the phone as she settled in at the hospital for the birth.

Evie, who was on the receiving end of panic calls from Megan, wisely
kept the news of Gracie’s difficult confinement from her sister. It was a great relief to her when she was able to tell Mattie, ‘It’s a girl! Six pounds something – I didn’t quite hear all Megan was saying, she was so excited!’

‘Is all well? I was rather hoping it would be a boy, because Gracie said she’d call the baby after Griff….’

‘I think you’ll be pleased when you know the baby’s name, Gracie wants to tell you herself, and yes, all’s well, it seems, thank goodness.’

A week later Gracie placed a small bundle in her grandmother’s arms. ‘She’s Matilda, after you, Mommy Mattie – are you pleased?’

‘Oh, I am, but you might prefer to shorten it to Tilly, this time.’

‘Would you like that?’

‘Yes.’ Mattie, propped up by pillows on the sofa, cuddled the baby close. ‘She’s got dark hair, so far, maybe she’ll have curls like your mom and Evie.’

‘I don’t know about that, but she’s got a lot to live up to,’ Gracie said softly.

T
om had gone abroad after their graduation, as he had always planned. He wanted Tilly to accompany him on his travels, for them to paint together in exotic locations, ‘before they disappear for ever,’ he said.

Tilly had another idea. ‘It’s Aunt Evie’s hundredth birthday just before Christmas. She’s getting very frail – she has a full-time carer now. But her mind is as sharp as ever, and she still writes to me
regularly
, as you know. She took over keeping in touch with the family from Mattie. She’s the last one of that generation left. She wants me to be at her party.’

‘You could come home for the celebration,’ Tom thought. ‘Think about it.’

‘I already have. There’s something I want to do in the meantime.’

‘What?’

‘She sent me that slip of paper in her last letter – the address where the painting of Mattie, or rather the unknown girl was sent to, can you believe, over ninety years ago? I want to follow the trail – find the picture – take a photograph of it, if it still exists, and give it to Evie on her birthday.’

He gave her a fierce hug. ‘I’ll miss you.’

‘And I’ll miss you. But we both have to do our own thing,’ Tilly said. ‘Like the artist, wish me good luck.’

‘I do. Keep in touch….’

‘Always,’ she promised.

It was a time for writing letters. First to the address in Somerset given by Mr B., but although Tilly promptly received a pleasant reply, the present occupant had only lived there for four years. She knew nothing of the artist, or the picture. However, she recalled that the previous owner had mentioned that the family for whom the house had been built had lived there until the 1970s, when the property was sold for the first time.

The letter concluded:
I enclose an address for my predecessor
.
We
exchange Christmas cards, so I know this lady still lives there
.
Perhaps she can help?

Tilly had decided that she should correspond in her own handwriting, not dash off something which might appear too official on the computer. She had forgotten, she thought ruefully, how long it took to put pen to paper and write a letter a stranger would want to read. The older
generation
preferred a fountain pen to ballpoint.

There was a frustrating two weeks before she had a response to her enquiry.

Well, Tilly now knew just a little about the place, and to whom the picture had gone. Another letter to write! But first, she must research the artists of the time and try to find the mysterious Mr B!

At her parents’ home in Surrey one of the walls in the sitting-room had been fitted with shelves for books. There was a whole row of weighty
encyclopaedias
encased in grainy leather with copious illustrations. These had been published at the end of the nineteenth century. There were several artists with a surname which began with ‘B’ but only one who seemed a possibility: the son of German immigrants, a tailor and a seamstress who took up residence in the east end of London in the 1870s. There was a short piece on the artist and his work, but no photograph of him or facsimile of any of his pictures. He was said to be a painter of rural scenes, mainly watercolours, but it was noted that latterly the artist had executed some portraits in oils, one of which had been accepted by the Royal Academy.

So, Tilly said to herself, it might be worth writing there to see what they know of this particular artist and where he was after the outbreak of the First World War.

She received a formal acknowledgement of her letter within a week or two, with a note saying that her communication had been passed on to someone who might be able to help her with her quest. They must leave it to this person to get in touch and not reveal any further details, they said.

A month went by. Tilly was ready to give up. Then a letter in
unfamiliar
writing arrived. She opened it with shaking hands. Was this a polite rebuff? As she began to read, delight spread across her face.

Tilly’s mother lent her the money for the train fare, with a sigh. ‘Let’s hope that you will feel able to settle down in the new year, and find a job … time to grow up, Tilly.’

‘Just what your Grandma Mattie’s mother said to her, according to Aunt Evie,’ Tilly told her ruefully.

Daphne Shelby, a woman about her mother’s age, took Tilly up the winding stairs to the attic in her tall, terraced town house.

‘You’ll have to sort through all these, I’m afraid. Not quite my taste; I like contemporary art. What branch of art are you in?’

‘I studied fine art. Cézanne is a favourite of mine.’

‘An Impressionist, eh? He must have influenced my relative, if this particular painting is anything to go by. It’s unusual because the face is left blank – I thought at first that it had faded, because it has leaned for years against the windowsill. I don’t suppose.…’ She lifted a small canvas, turned it round to show Tilly.

Tilly said faintly, ‘It
must
be! The portrait of the unknown girl in the yellow dress, the one my great-grandmother sat for.’

‘I wonder who returned it to my cousin’s estate?’

‘Maybe the person it was painted for didn’t want it, because it was unfinished. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know now, but I made up a story about why he commissioned the picture, to explain it to myself,’ Tilly said. ‘I thought the portrait was to represent a young girl who had died. The artist was given her photograph in order to complete it, but he apparently sent that back too to the client for safe keeping. May I take a photograph of the picture, Daphne, please?’

‘Better still, you must take the picture and give it to your wonderful aunt. I’m sure the artist would have wanted that. Let’s go downstairs and dust it off, eh?’

Tilly’s family gathered for the party. Tom was there, too. He couldn’t stay away, he said.

There was a long silence while Tilly carefully unwrapped the painting for Evie.

Then Evie touched it very gently, as Tilly held it so that she could see it.

‘Thank you, Tilly. So many memories … I never thought I’d see this again. Dear Mattie’s crowning glory, her hair, and that lovely, yellow dress. Just one thing will make it perfect.’

‘What’s that, Aunt Evie?’

‘Will
you
paint her face for me? There’s that photograph of the two of us, on the hall table, with our basket of watercress – would that help?’

‘I can see her face in my mind’s eye already, I’d love to do it,’ Tilly said, as Tom slipped his arm round her waist and squeezed it.

‘Let’s go down to the stream and pick watercress,’ he whispered. They hadn’t been alone together since he returned from abroad.

‘But it’s not the right time of year for that,’ she protested.

‘You go,’ Evie said wisely. ‘The others will have tea ready when you come back.’