Sunday morning. Early. Mm-mm. I stretched luxuriously, for once not dying for a pee, savouring the memories of staying up till midnight (!!) messing about with music, and the feelings left over from my strange, lovely dream. I’d dozed off hugging Her face on my chest, imagining what gift I might take to say thanks for granting my three wishes and some. A white rose, my dream-self had decided, yeah, white for her robe and for Yorkshire; and found some kitchen scissors thanks to washing up, and gone out into the dark frosty garden and found a single, perfect, just-opening flower spotlit by the moon, and snipped it and carried it lovingly up to Maidenhowe, and laid it in the centre of the hollow between the pines, and stuck a scissor-point into my left index finger and squeezed four drops onto the moon-silvered petals, one for each wish and one for the rest – then presumably went down to bed and to sleep, because I didn’t remember anything else except the warm glow that whispering, ‘Thank you, My Lady,’ had lit in my tum and I still felt, mixed up with excitement about Mum’s face when she saw my hair, and a big yummy Mamalou lunch, and meeting the Grangers looking like a half-fit friend for Raven, not some sad spotty lump she dragged round out of pity.
Sighing happily, I turned over and was just snuggling down again when brightness hit my closed eyelids and I heard Raven hiss, ‘Hey, sis! You awake?’
‘Uh. Yeah. Ish.’ I blinked at my travel alarm. ‘Why’re you? It’s only half-six.’
‘Because look.’ I blinked again as she flung the curtains wide. ‘The light woke me. It’s perfect – come on,’ she stepped into her trackie bottoms, ‘we need to get to the Howe PDQ! You must take some photos, this low sun’s just right.’ She threw me my Lady sweatshirt and dashed for the bathroom. ‘Hurry up,or we’ll miss the best time!’
Oh my God! I scrambled my clothes on, then goldfished out of the window while I zipped up my hoodie, because it was just the sort of gorgeous sparkly morning I’d seen in my head every time I thought about the weekend: icy clear, yesterday’s rain either frozen or rising in wisps from deep misty bowls in the grass. It was so beautiful I couldn’t wait to get outside, especially since realising I wanted to do my whole project on prehistory because I already had loads to write, and save later periods for later projects, or A Level, maybe even my degree. Then I dashed into the bathroom when Raven dashed out, then we padded downstairs in our hiking socks clutching our phones, jammed on the boots we’d left drying on newspaper near the front door, and crept out.
I literally ran after her down to the beck crossing, too keen to care if I skidded or slid. Maidenhowe Road slowed us down of course, and I was lagging well behind by the time I panted out into the blue, (if not as far as the Old Ellie would’ve lagged a week ago). While I caught my breath, I snapped a general view, including Raven for scale as she headed for the mound.
‘Come on, quick!’ She turned to beckon impatiently. ‘You’ll get the best shot from up here.’
I followed her footprints straight through the Lady’s hearth, up the side, and on towards the three pines. Then I froze. There was something in the centre of the hollow. Something small, white, and roundish. All the blood dropped from my cheeks, turning my legs to hot prickly lead, and I knew I’d gone white, white as My Lady’s rose. Oh my God! Had I actually sleepwalked up here last night, actually laid her that flower? Numb-footed, I stumbled on. Oh my God. Yes, I could make out the red drips on the petals-
‘Ellie? What’s wrong?’ Raven hurried over, concern in her voice. ‘Are you OK? You look awful.’
‘Th-th-th-there,’ I stammered, pointing.
Her eyes followed my trembling finger. ‘What? Where? Oh yes, I see.’ Pulling out a beige recycled tissue, she went to pick it up. ‘But don’t look so horrified, there’s only one bit, it must’ve blown in from somewhere. I’ll bin it when we get home.’
I looked from my index finger – unstabbed – to the ball of ketchup-stained paper napkin she wrapped in the clean tissue and stowed back in her pocket. Hot blood bounced back up, re-rosing my cheeks. Phew. Good job I hadn’t blurted out anything stupid about sleep-raiding Mamalou’s rose bush and coming up here in the small hours…
‘Um- yeah, sorry, I’m fine,’ I managed to reply. ‘It just seemed-’ such a violation of sacred soil, such a 21st century tosser’s twist on my pure lovely dream-rose, I’d have said if I could’ve found the words; instead, I finished lamely, ‘such a shock. It’s the first litter I’ve seen at Idenowes.’ To cover my embarrassment, I turned to the view – Raven was right, it was perfect – and took some pics of the Lady’s hut-circle with long, icy-blue shadows streaming westward from its stones, distinct as dark lines on a whiteboard.
By the time I’d got all the photos I wanted my knees had stopped wobbling and I’d almost forgotten the shock; and back at Hidden House I forgot it completely because Mamalou was bustling in the kitchen, and there was coffee and a big pile of eggy bread keeping hot for us on the Aga. When we’d demolished that, Raven took me up to the rock shelter in the hills out front, which was a bit disappointing after such a steep scramble; not much bigger than our MHOF at home, no stone tools or old bones lying around, and no cave paintings – though there were lots of initials and dates carved into the walls, and sooty patches on the ceiling, and splats of old candle-wax, and a ring of burnt stones near the low entrance, and I realised it had been a den for generations of young Gardiners and Grangers, which made it feel much more homey and interesting, and I took photos of all their graffiti going right back to 1680-something I couldn’t make out.
Getting down was a lot easier than getting up, and we went back in through the mud room so we could wash our hands and I could try to clean off the big yellowy-white smear of bird-poo I’d knelt in trying to take an arty shot, and made one lower leg sopping wet so I had to unzip both and roll the wet one in the dry one and stick them in the pocket of my now cargo-shorts.
Raven shushed me as she opened the dining room door and a riot of fantastic smells rushed out. ‘Don’t disturb Mum,’ she whispered. ‘She’ll be in The Zone, she doesn’t need help, it’s better we just leave her to it. So help yourself to whatever, she’ll top everything up before lunch.’
The sideboard was laid with little bowls of appetisers, and a big bowl of fruit, and a loaded cheeseboard, and a jug of iced cordial, and two plates and glasses for our elevenses (more like half-tenses, but I was well ready after all that hill-climbing). I took a handful of roasted nuts, a small bunch of grapes, a slice of cheese and two oatcakes, so any crumbs would brush off and I wouldn’t mess up more clothes. Raven had cornichons and breadsticks and sun-dried tomatoes, but when she dripped orangey-red oil down the front of her new Lady sweatshirt, she only giggled, ‘See? I’m a natural scruff. Nice clothes are wasted on me.’
That got us thinking about what to wear for lunch, and realising it was about time we started getting ready because we were all grubby and sweaty and needing a shower, and as we headed for the stairs Mamalou called something to Raven.
‘What was that?’ I hadn’t caught the rapid-fire French.
Raven laughed. ‘“If you dare wear Black Woolly, I’ll have it straight off your back and into a charity bag.” Charming! So you may as well shower first while I find something she’ll approve of.’
It was early enough not to hurry so I didn’t, because it was the first time I’d ever been able to Poo and Dish my hair properly, on my own, in my life; then scrub it half-dry with a towel, comb through with my fingers, shake my head, and hey presto, it looked just as nice as Raven’s! Then it only took me a minute to dress because the only clothes I had left that weren’t slept in, sweaty, soggy, or soiled were my second-best jeans and a funky rainbow patchwork sweater Mum had knitted from scraps, which either went with anything or nothing depending how you looked at it. I thought it looked really nice, especially now it (and my jeans) were so much looser, and the morning’s exercise had left me pink-cheeked, with strands of sunshine in my New Improved Hair. I dabbed on pink lip-balm to match, and smiled at my reflection – way to go, Ellie!
It was only just gone eleven and I was desperate to see how my photos had turned out, so leaving Raven singing in the shower, I went down to the homework room and downloaded my photos into the goddies’ laptop. I’d just finished deleting the blurry ones, and duplicates, and shots of my thumb or inside of my pocket, when she appeared wearing black velvet leggings and a dark red wool tunic.
‘Ooh! Lovely jumper.’ She glanced down. ‘I thought I’d put this on because it won’t show if I dribble my wine! What are you doing?’ She came to peer over my shoulder. ‘Oh yes, good idea, I’ll download mine too.’
Hers were ten times better, of course, because her phone probably cost ten times more than mine and had a better camera; but although Raven said I was welcome to, it felt like a cheat to use hers instead of mine even with a credit, apart from some she took specially for me to caption The author in Maidenhowe Woman’s hearth or whatever.
We carried on editing until half-twelve bonged and Raven said, ‘Cool, it’s safe to go back in the kitchen! Mum’ll be ready for a hand now, if you feel like helping set the table.’
‘Um.’ I thought quickly. ‘Actually, I was going to head up the lane, look out for Mum and Dad so they don’t miss the turn, and take some pics of the Terrace.’ I didn’t feel like saying I wanted to go out on my own to phone Fi because I didn’t think I’d get chance at the usual time – or even if I did, she’d expect our usual Facetime and see I wasn’t at home and start asking questions, and I didn’t feel like explaining about Hidden House and Raven, not right now.
I texted as I walked, RU up? Out with M&D, need to call now. No reply. Oh well. So I rang, expecting the ‘off’ message or voicemail – at least I could tell her I’d tried – and jumped a bit when an unexpectedly cheerful voice answered after three rings, ‘Hi, Eloise! You’re bright and early today.’
‘Oh! Uh, yeah, sorry. I mean, hi, Mrs McD. Um- where’s Fi? Is she still in bed?’
‘No, no, she and Jamie are away with the next-doors – well, I say next door, but the plots are so huge it’s more like a quarter-mile – to some big inter-school ice hockey thing, a couple of last-minute spare tickets came up so they offered to take our two with theirs and it’s a long drive so they set off at the crack of dawn in such a hurry she forgot her phone, well, you know Fiona! Still, it’s good that she and Jamie have finally found something in common, you know, a nice healthy interest to share, they’ve so much to talk about these days you wouldn’t believe how peaceful the house is! Such bliss, you can’t imagine.’ She rattled on without drawing breath for another minute then sort of pulled herself up. ‘But you didn’t ring to talk to me, did you, dear? So now, God knows what time they’ll be back but if it isn’t too late I’ll let Fi give you a call, do give our best love to your parents, lovely chatting with you, ‘bye now, kiss-kiss, hug-hug, bye-bye.’
Phew. I’d always loved that it didn’t matter how stupidly shy and tongue-tied you might be with Mrs McD, because she could talk for ten people and by the time she’d whisked you out of your coat and into a chair with a drink and a plateful of whatever meal was on the go, or biscuits – homemade chocolate-chip shortbread on a good day – if there wasn’t, you felt like part of the family. I guess that was why Mr McD liked having her with him at functions, she was so friendly and smiley and got on with everyone and didn’t stress about stuff; even when Fi and Jamie were screaming and throwing things at each other she’d just roll her eyes, raise her voice, and carry on.
Feeling hugely relieved, I noticed I’d reached a spot on the lane with a good view of Idenowes Terrace. It was the first time I’d been there on my own, on a fine Sunday afternoon, and I felt oddly shocked to see it sprung to life, with washing on clotheslines, and lawns being mowed, and kids playing, and music and voices and lunch smells wafting from open doors and windows and making my stomach growl. The slate roofs looked a pretty purple-grey in the bright sunshine, and I noticed that each had a skylight because some of them were open – including, I saw with a funny little pang, Arum Cottage’s. Some of its windows were open a crack too, and I thought Mr Oliver must be home from hospital until I got close enough to see that instead of the plant-pots Raven and I had watered for him there were only damp circles left on the pavers, and a single hanging basket and the window-box flowers, still dripping. Probably done by some new tenant, I thought jealously, annoyed at them and everyone for messing up my nice tidy picture with their kids’ toys and garden tools and lines of flapping undies.
While I took it anyway, a bus rolled by without stopping, which meant Mum and Dad hadn’t caught it and must be walking like they said they would if it was fine, but I couldn’t see them coming along Townsend Road even though it was quarter to one. Hoping they weren’t going to screech up in the car at the last moment because they’d got plastered last night and overslept, I nipped across to the Headland to take photos of the front, glad I’d put my hoodie over my jumper because of the stiff, chilly breeze. I’d just snapped a last pic of the date-stone when a couple wearing cargo pants and walking boots and chunky sweaters and back-packs marched past, and the woman pointed and said, ‘Yes! There, look, that must be it,’ and they nipped straight across the road before a lorry came thundering by and drowned out my voice as I yelled after them.
‘Mum! Dad!’ I yelled again. ‘Wait!’ This time they heard and stopped at the foot of the lane while I jogged over between cars.
Dad’s jaw dropped. ‘Bloody hell! Eloise? I didn’t recognise you – you’re practically bald!’
Mum just screamed. ‘Argh! Oh my God oh my God oh my God, I don’t believe- you’ve had your hair cut!’ She grabbed me in a clumsy hug and ran her hands through it. ‘At last! Oh, you look beautiful, darling. Did you get it done in town yesterday?’
‘Nah. Hidden House Hair, I’d say,’ chuckled a deep voice behind us. ‘Looks like Lou’s work to me. Eh, Mortons Three?’
I nearly jumped out of my skin, and really out of Mum’s arms. Fi was the only other person who knew our private home call-sign, (hold your nose and pretend to be a walkie-talkie), ‘Mortons Three? Come in, Mortons Three. Over.’ Spinning round, I blurted to the tall, grey-haired man coming out of Arum’s gate, ‘How did you know-’
‘Who you are?’ He chuckled again. ‘Lucky guess! Lou told us three Mortons were joining us, so I presume you’re Eloise,’ he nodded to us in turn, ‘Chrystal, and David. Hail and well met! I’m Joe Granger,’ he stuck out his hand, ‘and here’s my wife, Tez.’
‘Also answers to Teresa, Tessa or Tess,’ said a tall grey-haired lady, closing the gate and sticking her hand out too. ‘Well, this is good timing,’ she went on when we’d shaken all round, ‘we can start getting to know each other while we walk, then get stuck straight into lunch. I’m famished – not to mention shattered, it’s been quite a morning! Thank goodness it’s Lou’s turn to cook.’
‘Does the farm keep you very busy, then?’ Mum asked politely as we headed up the lane, although she kept glancing at me and I could tell she was dying to rave on about my hair.
‘Too busy!’ snorted Mr G. ‘Short-staffed, with a load of extra jobs we hadn’t planned on this weekend. That’s why our Bet’s not with us, she’s had to stay minding the shop.’
‘And Lonsdale.’ Mrs G laughed. ‘It’s just as well we’re being spared him, to be honest. Talk about terrible twos! And he’s teething, poor lamb, grizzles so much at night she’s decamped to Violet for the duration so the rest of us can sleep. Violet Cottage, I mean,’ she added as we looked blank, waving back at the Terrace. ‘Yon end, next to Tulip. Our Air B and Bs. Both vacant, luckily, so Lonnie can scream his head off without disturbing anyone.
‘But enough of our woes. I must say, it’s lovely to meet you, we’ve heard so much about you from Lou. We’re so pleased that she and Raven have begun making friends here already, after all they’ve been through.’
That started the folks off with yes, dreadful tragedy, we loved Gray Childe’s music blah blah, which kept us going up to Raven’s favourite view, then it was oohs and ahs and isn’t it gorgeous heres, until Mamalou met us at the front door and it turned into oh what a fabulous old house, did you really cut Ellie’s hair, wonderful job, thank you so much blah blah, until she’d sat us all down with drinks and nibbles, which shut them up a bit. Then a timer went ping, and she disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared a minute later with our starter, a baked half-pear stuffed with toasted walnuts and melted blue cheese, mm-mm. The main course came pretty much straight afterwards: nothing French, just a regular Sunday lunch with Yorkshires and gravy, (except that the roast was made of chestnuts with spicy plum sauce, and the potatoes were roasted in sea-salt and herbs, and the carrots glazed with honey, and the greens wilted in garlic butter instead of boiled to soggy mush like school dinners).
I was very surprised that Mrs G had produced a roast chicken out of her big straw shoulder-bag to go with it, and quite shocked when Mamalou and Raven took a slice each. ‘But you’re vegetarian!’ I blurted.
Raven grinned. ‘Not when it’s Grange meat. Sometimes things need to be eaten, and we know that they’ve had a good life.’
‘Oh yes.’ Mr G helped himself to a leg. ‘Free to roam, never a day’s pain or hunger, and no idea they’re for the chop before it’s done, too quick to know about. Aye, and this was a grand old hen, gave us plenty of eggs – but we can’t afford to keep pets, so when they stop laying it’s the end of the road, I’m afraid. Still,’ he winked at me, ‘we get a last good meal out of her, don’t we? Dig in.’
I did, and she was delicious. So was Mamalou’s apple pie and vanilla custard to follow, and because everyone had big appetites after our big mornings, we were too busy stuffing to say much more until coffee and the cheeseboard no-one could manage except Mr G, who Mrs G said had hollow legs.
Then Mamalou asked her, ‘By the way, how did your interview go yesterday?’
Mrs G rolled her eyes. ‘It didn’t! I went out to potter in the front and keep an eye open in case she missed the sign, then ten minutes after it should’ve started a stupid big backfiring car pulled up and dropped this- creature off, all hair extensions and spray tan, practically no skirt, and six-inch heels as if we’re a city boutique, not a farm shop! Anyway, the second she clapped eyes on that little rutted track she’d have to walk up, her phone was out and a minute later the car roared back and she was off, without so much as a text to apologise for the no-show. Honestly, I don’t know what they teach young people in schools these days – not manners, that’s for sure.’
‘Huh! I know something Dylan learnt.’ Mr G mimed rolling a cigarette. ‘He was our first Job Centre disaster. Nice lad, but a bit too fond of sloping off to smoke his wacky-baccy. And we can’t be doing with that at work, so he only lasted a day.’
‘Yes, and Misery Meghan- sorry, Mee-gorn – was hardly better,’ said Mrs G. ‘She was with us a week, but it felt like a month… I’ve never met such a dismal girl! No interest in anything but her fingernails and phone and pinching free testers despite me telling her staff could help themselves to snacks and lunch provided they wrote what they took in the stock book. Which she never did – then when I caught her with her fingers in the till, that was it, bang! Mee-gorn, she-gorn. Which means we’ve had no shop manager for nearly a year-’
‘Since we lost Dot Oliver,’ Mr G put in helpfully. ‘Massive stroke, died in her sleep. Massive shock an’ all, especially to Bill. She was only sixty-four.’
‘-and now we’ve no general assistant. Yes, that’s the latest, Lou,’ Mrs G sighed. ‘Bill’s not coming back, we found out Friday night. It’s going to take him six months to recover, no guarantee he’ll ever be back to full strength, and no way he can cope living on his own, so he’s officially retired and agreed to move in with Flo. His younger sister,’ she added for our benefit. ‘Got a lovely sea-view retirement bungalow in Mablethorpe, all converted for her late husband who had Parkinson’s, so it’ll be perfect while Bill’s in a wheelchair. Anyway, helping her pack and clear his things out did rather hijack our weekend, but he’s being discharged on Monday and taken straight there, so needs must.’ She grimaced. ‘And my first task when we get home is to write some new job ads, try and attract the right sort of candidates this time. Heaven knows, we’re not asking for the world, just a couple of honest, reliable grown-ups.’
Mr G nodded. ‘Aye. Practical grown-ups. Versatile. Willing to get stuck in and dirty their hands. Preferably drivers. Farm and/or retail experience desirable but not essential, all necessary training given.’ He cocked his head, bright blue eyes crinkling. ‘Ideal situation for a married couple, as it goes, with weekend and holiday work for any useful teenager they might have… so what say you, Mortons Three? If you happen to be on the job market, you could spare my good lady an onerous task and Grange Farm a whole world of pain.’
My folks looked at each other. ‘Oh, I don’t think-’ began Mum.
‘Why not?’ I burst out. ‘You hate your job, you’re always moaning about it!’ I turned to the Grangers. ‘But she loves your shop, and she can drive, and she’s been a businessman’s PA, and volunteered in a charity shop, and now she’s temping for an agency but the jobs she gets are pants. Dad can drive too, and he’s got a horrible new boss who wants to sack him because he won’t try and sell people insurance they don’t need-’
‘Whoa!’ Mr G held up his hand. ‘What’s this, an honest broker? Then you’re the very man I’m looking for! Seriously, David. Our whole insurance portfolio badly needs reviewing – I’ve just had some real rip-off renewal quotes, and I’ve neither the time nor patience to go surfing comparison websites. I’d rather pay someone who knows what they doing to do it for me.’
‘See, Dad?’ I bounced in my seat. ‘You’d be brilliant at that! It’s what he likes best, Mr Granger! And he can garden and decorate and DIY. Mum can too, well, not so much DIY but she cooks and knits and sews and makes Christmas trimmings-’
‘Enough, Eloise! Mind you, she has a point.’ Mum went pink. ‘I don’t mean the fulsome references, I mean I’m not happy at work and I do love your shop. So yes, I actually might be on the market.’ She glanced sideways at Dad. ‘Dave might be too.’
‘YES!’ I punched the air, full metal grin.
‘Calm down, Ellie,’ said Dad. ‘First things first. Say we did want to apply for these jobs, Joe – what salaries are you offering?’
‘Grand a month,’ said Mr G promptly. ‘Apiece. Plus workplace pension.’
Mortons Three faces fell. Dad’s basic-before-commission was £25K, he’s forever moaning that it’s below national average and he’s overdue a raise, and Mum’s wages vary a lot but whatever she makes they’re never exactly minty… which meant there was no way they could both afford to work at Grange.
Mr G seemed to know what we were thinking because he chuckled, ‘Plus benefits. Namely Arum Cottage, rent-free for as long as at least one of you works for us, and all your groceries and suchlike gratis from the shop.’
We cheered up instantly. I could practically hear braincells buzzing as the mortgage and shopping bills dropped out of the folks’ calculations and I grinned back happily as Mum’s mouth fell open. ‘My word,’ she gasped, ‘that does make a difference!’
‘Aye, it’s not a bad deal all told,’ said Mr G. ‘This has always been a tight-knit family business, and if you join us, you’ll find we look after our own. Tell you what,’ he pushed back his chair, ‘let’s go work off some lunch. I’ll take you down there, explain the crack, and leave you to have a proper think about it.’
‘Yes!’ I bounced so hard my knees hit the table and made everything rattle and chink. ‘Please-please-please can we? Mum? Dad? Please?’
‘Eloise!’ Mum gave me a Look and I went bright red. ‘Sorry, Lou, someone’s getting over-excited and forgetting her manners! Yes, it’d be nice to see the cottage,’ (huh, I thought, she means she’s gagging to), ‘but only if you don’t mind us deserting you. You invited us for lunch after all, not a job interview.’
Mamalou laughed. ‘Mais non! If it means acquiring you as neighbours, Mortons Three, do please go – allez, vite!’
Helen Rae Rants! 