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“Your sister’s
coming home then.”
Marg Nicholls
stood, dripping, in the doorway of Hetty Pimm’s shop. Marg had lived in Lower
Vale all her life, but the speed news travelled around the community irritated
her. She considered it must be the postman who regularly delivered more than
the mail to anyone willing to listen. The local grapevine would have expanded
from there. Who needed a cell phone when they had a Barry Jones?
“Well, shut the
door,” Hetty commanded, rubbing her arms against the wind gusting forcefully
into the little shop. “You can use that mop and bucket to clean up your puddle,
and there are old newspapers by the door to soak up what you miss.”
Marg looked down
at the rivulets of water trickling off her unflattering oilskin mac and
green-booted feet and shook her head, which caused more water to fly off her
plastic hood. Where else but in the bastion of an English village shop would
one be expected to clean up after oneself? Marg took hold of the mop and spread
its cotton threads over the floor. One did not argue with Hetty. Her shop had
been converted, not very imaginatively, from her cottage’s living and dining
rooms, and Marg supposed she still thought of it as her home.
Shelves stacked
with bottles, tins, and packets, which, to Marg’s eyes, looked not to have been
dusted or changed since her last visit, lined the walls. There was just enough
space for a central display stand packed with Mother’s Pride bread, Mr. Kipling
cakes and biscuits on one side, and toiletries and cleaning supplies on the
other. At the end of the counter, from behind which, Hetty owlishly surveyed
all who entered, stood a small cooler holding milk, butter, cheese, and eggs.
Marg knew it was
not Hetty’s way of doing business to ask if she could help her customers. The
customer had to do the asking, and Hetty would point a gnarled finger to the
items they wished to purchase. Cash would cross the counter, and that would be
it. No debit or credit cards for Hetty. Anyone who missed the ‘Cash Only’
notice on the door was invited to leave. Marg had no idea how Hetty managed to
keep her business going, but the locals were thankful for it as it was the only
shop in their small community.
Having purchased
the unsalted butter, cornstarch, and waxed paper she needed, Marg left the
shop, bending her head against the roaring wind and lashing rain. She threw her
shopping bag onto the passenger seat of the old Land Rover and squeezed in
behind the steering wheel. The weather reflected her mood, which transferred to
the gears as she viciously reefed through them.
The wipers barely
cleared the rain from the windshield as the Land Rover laboured up the lane to
Hill Farm, which took its name from the slopes rising steeply behind it. Bare,
blackened tree branches on either side rattled above her like sabres. Marg
peered ahead, steering between every pothole and wheel rut in the gravelled
surface. She knew them all.
And into this
moisture-laden mayhem, her sister was about to arrive. How could Ruth do this
to her after all this time? Marg didn’t even need to close her eyes to see the
note she’d received. It was too brief to be considered a letter.
Dear Marg
Kenny and I are in
London and would love to come and spend some time with you and John. We’ll
travel down on Christmas Eve and stay for a few days. Hope that’s all right.
You will have stacks of that delicious shortbread you always used to make,
won’t you?
Love, Ruth.
That was it. No
return address on the rich but anonymous cream-coloured stationery. No
telephone number, text, or email contact.
“On purpose,” Marg
muttered. “She knew if I couldn’t contact her, I couldn’t say no.”
Marg parked as
close as possible to the utility room door. Holding on to her plastic hood with
one hand and the shopping bag with the other, she dashed to the door, thanking
heaven that farmers were practical people who expected and provided for
extremes of weather. The old rush matting inside the door took the brunt of her
wet wellies as she kicked them off. The dogs, Harvey and Beau, brushed their
damp, smelly bodies against her in welcome, soaking up the rain from her mac
but leaving a swath of their yellow and black Labrador hair. She shooed them
back to their beds while she hung up her outdoor clothes, pushed her feet into ratty
looking but comfortable slippers and entered the warmth and peace of her
kitchen.
Well, it had been
peaceful when she left. Now it was something of a battlefield. Her daughter,
Penny, sat grumpily on one side of the long, pine table. An antique dealer
would describe it as distressed and probably sell it for a small fortune.
Penny’s brother, Mark, sat opposite her. Marg’s husband, John, sat in his usual
place at the head of the table. He sipped tea from a battered old enamel mug
which he refused to replace. Pottery broke. Enamel chipped but lasted longer.
End of argument.
Marg knew he
disliked the prospect of the impending visit as much as she did. Now it looked
as if the children were rebelling too.
“Ask your mother.”
John pursed his lips and cast Marg a gloomy glance.
“It’s not fair,
Mum,” Penny complained. “I don’t want Mark sharing my room.”
“For heavens’
sake,” Marg snapped. “Who said Mark had to share your room?”
“Well, where else
are Uncle Kenny and Aunty Ruth going to sleep if not in Mark’s room? They’re
not having mine.”
“I’ll sleep in
Pilot’s stable and take the dogs for extra warmth,” Mark said.
“Good idea. That
pony would probably appreciate the company.” Marg went to the Aga, where a
large teapot sat warming and poured herself a cup of tea. Was it too early in
the day to add a tot of whisky? “There’s that foam mattress and your sleeping
bag from when you camped last summer with the Scouts. You should be cozy.”
“Oh, wow.” Mark
suddenly looked cheerful. “Can I take a flask of hot chocolate and some cake
out there with me?”
“Whatever your
heart desires.” Marg passed a weary hand across her forehead as Mark scraped
his chair back and rushed upstairs.
“You never let me
sleep in Lark’s stable,” Penny grumbled as she stood.
“You never asked,”
Marg said.
“Bloody Aunt
Ruth.” Penny kicked the leg of her chair and stalked out of the kitchen.
Marg recalled when
she kicked the leg of another chair, and her mother immediately told her to stop
that. At twenty-two, she was old enough to know better.
Her mother’s tears
and her father’s temper had flowed and raged for days, ever since her younger
sister, Ruth, announced she was going to Australia with her boyfriend, Kenny
Parker. Their father raged that she was going nowhere, especially with Kenny,
that skinny, spotty, good-for-nothing layabout. Ruth shouted back that she was
nineteen and could go where and with whom she pleased, and anyway, they had
already got passports and visas. Their flight was booked and paid for, and that
was that.
Marg sighed and
topped her tea before sitting in Penny’s recently vacated chair. Looking around
the kitchen, she realized that, except for a coat of paint and a new backsplash
behind the Belfast sink, Ruth would hardly see any difference. It saddened Marg
that twenty years had slipped by almost without her noticing.
The early days
when she and John were first married were marvellous. They lived in the cottage
across the yard, helping her parents run the family sheep farm. One of their
shepherds occupied it now. He also helped raise and train their border collies.
Autumn, winter, spring, and summer did not mark their seasons. Breeding,
feeding, lambing, shearing, and all the other tasks necessary to maintain a
well-run farm, did. Marg’s father passed away quite suddenly, leaving her
mother in a permanent daze until she, too, gave up her grip on life and
peacefully followed him.
Ruth’s letters
then had been full of remorse that she had not been able to support Marg and
John, but in her heart, Marg knew this was not true. The letters became more
infrequent, and when they arrived, they told of endless blue skies, beach,
pool, tennis parties, and all the excitement of shopping in Melbourne. There
were postcards showing kangaroos and koalas, sheep and camels. Did they have
camels in Australia?
Marg wasn’t sure
but supposed it must be true for them to be on postcards. Photographs
occasionally accompanied the letters bearing the legends, ‘Me at Ayers Rock,’
‘Me scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef,’ ‘Me with opal miners.’ Me having a
great time. Me having no responsibilities, me obviously not working. Me! Me!
Me! Marg supposed all these adventures were because Ruth and Kenny had decided
not to have a family, but what was Kenny doing all this time, Marg wondered.
Penny and Mark
came back into the kitchen, still bickering. It was suddenly all too much. Marg
slammed her mug down on the table, making John and the children jump.
“You listen to
me,” she snapped, standing and gripping the back of her chair as if to gain
strength from the solid wood of it. “Ruth has been gone for twenty years. She’s
not coming back to live here. She’s coming for a couple of days’ visit. The
least you can do is be accommodating and welcoming. Ruth’s your aunt, for
heaven’s sake. Hill Farm was her home before it was yours. Yes, she chose to
leave, just as your father and I chose to stay here and run the farm, and
that’s all there is to it.” Marg paused for breath. “Penny, Mark, I don’t want
to hear another peep out of the pair of you. And you, John, can stop looking
like you’ve lost a pound and found sixpence. Ruth’s my sister. She’s the only
family I have outside of you lot. She may never get to come home again, and
what chance have I to visit Australia, even if I was invited? Oh.” Marg stopped
as something became blindingly clear to her. “You’re afraid I’ll want to go
back with her.”
John blustered it
was no such thing, and Penny and Mark quickly removed themselves from the
kitchen, sensing a disagreement brewing between their parents.
Marg pinned John
with a fierce glare. “That’s it, isn’t it? It’s not the fact that Ruth’s coming
to stay but that I might want to leave.”
John spread his
big hands with their square-tipped fingers down on the table and pushed himself
out of his chair. “You’ve got to admit you used to get pretty mopey when you
got Ruth’s letters. I knew I couldn’t put a step right for a few days after
they arrived. I put it down to jealousy.”
Marg bit her lip,
knowing John only spoke the truth. She nodded slowly. “It seemed like she had an
easier life than ours.”
“But you don’t
know that.” John gripped her shoulder. “And who knows what kind of dance Kenny
might have led her? Come on. I’ll help you make up the bed in Mark’s room.”
~*~*~*~*~
Marg could not
quite believe how they managed to pull everything together. For once, Penny and
Mark did everything she asked of them without arguing. They fetched boxes of
decorations from the attic and arranged the blue and silver tree on its stand. Now,
on Christmas Eve morning, everything was as festive and ready as it could be
for Ruth and Kenny’s arrival. There was only one thing left to do. Marg didn’t
even need her mother’s old cookbook. She knew the shortbread recipe by heart. Beat
one cup of brown sugar into two cups of softened butter, then add four to four
and a half cups of all-purpose flour. Simple.
She placed the
butter and sugar in her mixing bowl and beat it until it was fluffy, then
carefully mixed in most of the flour. The dough was too soft, so she added more
flour until satisfied with the consistency. Humming to herself, she sprinkled
flour onto her pastry board, took the dough and began to knead it. She should
have made it yesterday and left it to chill overnight in the refrigerator. Now
she could only give it half an hour but filled that time with trimming Brussels
sprouts while she waited.
Marg kept a close
eye on the clock as she listened for the oven timer. At least the family was
out from under her feet while she busied herself with the food preparation.
Another glance at the clock had her reaching for the chilled dough. She
transferred this to a sheet of parchment paper and rolled it out. When she had
an almost perfect rectangle, she placed it on a baking sheet and cut it into
finger-sized strips. Using a fork, she pricked each strip several times before
putting the tray back in the fridge for another half an hour and then turning
the oven on to preheat.
Her mother had
made the preparation of Christmas dinner, and all the trimmings look so easy, Marg
thought now. She had paid attention and helped her mother, while Ruth always
managed to find something else to do and stay out of the way. Marg grinned
while taking the baking tray from the fridge and slipping it into the oven. If
Kenny had expected a home-cooked meal every evening, she didn’t mind betting he
was one disappointed man. The sound of car doors slamming made her look up,
frowning. They couldn’t be here already, could they? She wiped her hands on her
apron and opened the back door but gasped at the figure filling the doorway.
“Kenny?” She
looked up at the well-built man with a tanned face and laughing grey eyes.
“G’day, Marg.
Here, take these.” He handed her the shopping bags he carried.
“Kenny?” she
repeated, still squinting at him. Of the skinny, spotty youth she remembered,
there was no sign. “My Lord, Australia’s been good to you.”
“We made the most
of our opportunities, that’s for sure.” Kenny stepped inside. “Hope we’re not
too early, but someone’s been hopping around like a shrimp on a barbie since
early this morning. Now she’s gone all shy.”
“No, I haven’t.”
Kenny moved out of
the way, and tears sprang to Marg’s eyes when she saw her sister. Kenny, she
would have passed on the street and not known him, but Ruth, her dark brown
hair now fetchingly streaked with grey, she would have known anywhere. The
years rolled away as they fell into each other’s arms, hugging each other
tightly, words, for now, unnecessary. All the talking and catching up could
come later.
Mark and John came
in from the yard. Penny wandered downstairs, a little shy but intrigued to meet
the visitors. Marg was happy to introduce her sister and brother-in-law to the
children. For once, Penny and Mark behaved impeccably. Mark asked Kenny what
Australia was like and grinned at the response, “bloody hot, mate.”
Ruth turned her
head and sniffed. “Is something burning?”
Marg’s hands flew
to her face. “Oh, no.” She raced to the oven, grabbed a tea towel and opened
the door. Smoke billowed out. She wafted it away and stared in dismay at the
tray.
“Mum,” Penny
breathed, stunned at the sight of the blackened offerings. “You never burn
anything.”
Marg shook her
head as she emptied the tray into the waste bin. “There’s a first time for
everything, I suppose.” She looked at her sister. “Sorry, Ruth. I so wanted
everything to be just right for your homecoming.”
Ruth stepped
forward and hugged Marg. “Tell you what, why don’t we have coffee and then you
and I will make shortbread together.”
Marg stared at
her. “You? Make shortbread?”
“You’d be
surprised at what Ruthie can make.” Kenny pulled out a chair and sat on it.
“She’s been writing a cookery column for our local paper for the last few
years.”
Marg’s mouth fell
open. “A cookery column?”
Ruth nodded. “It’s
been quite successful too. But in my last post, I promised my readers a
shortbread recipe. Would you please–pretty please– share yours?”
Marg thought of
all the times Ruth was MIA when it came to anything in the kitchen. She heard
again her mother’s grumbles, the mutterings that Ruth would likely live on
fast-food and fresh air, and now, Ruth was asking for help making shortbread.
Marg smiled, then started to laugh.
“How can I
refuse?” She shook her head. “Mum would be so impressed, and as it’s her
recipe, I don’t see why not, but we’ll have to run down to Hetty’s for more
butter.”
“Good Lord, is she
still running the shop?” Ruth sounded incredulous.
Marg nodded. They
collected their coats and left John and Kenny chatting as if they’d only seen
each other yesterday while Penny and Mark fired questions at Kenny about life
in Australia.
“They can come out
for a visit any time they like,” Ruth said quietly as they headed outside. “You
and John too.”
Marg paused as she
opened the Land Rover’s door. “Ruth, I will do my best to make it happen. But
if we come for a visit, I expect you to make shortbread.”
Ruth clambered up
into the passenger seat. “I’ve missed you, sis. I’ve missed all this.” She
indicated the sweep of the hillside dotted with sheep, the windswept trees and
hedgerows, and the lowering grey sky. “But you know what I’ve missed most?”
Marg swallowed the
lump in her throat and shook her head as she turned the key in the ignition.
“Family,” Ruth
said, raising her voice over the cough and splutter of the engine as it came to
life. “Us. I remember all those Christmases when I’d do anything to get out of
doing chores, and now I so wish I hadn’t.”
The rain started
as Marg pulled up in front of Hetty’s shop. The sisters sat looking at the bow
windows on either side of the door, the sturdy limestone walls, and the
slightly overhanging roof.
“Hasn’t changed a
bit,” Ruth commented as they left the vehicle and stepped across the narrow
pavement.
Marg pushed the
door open, listening to the clamour of the overhead, old-fashioned doorbell.
Hetty looked up from behind her counter. There was no welcoming smile, just her
usual owlish look, but Marg was sure there was a slight twitch at the corner of
her mouth when she saw Ruth.
“You’re home
then,” Hetty said.
THE END
Victoria Chatham
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