Here she is. All alone. Her little coat darkened by the rain. Not at all who I was expecting. The worst turns into the best.
‘Are you by yourself?’
Of course, I don’t want her wandering around on her own in the rain, but it would be better than Anna following her down the hill. She looks down at the ground, like she is embarrassed. Like she suddenly regrets coming to my house. I hurry her inside. When the heat of the fire meets her and she breathes in the cake baking, I see her shouldersdrop. It’s a horrible thing to see a child wound up so tightly.
‘Sit down there, pet. Show me your coat.’
Her feet don’t reach the floor when she sits in Bill’s big armchair by the fire. Something about it drives nails into my heart. Perhaps it’s seeing how small she really is. I put a plate of brown bread alongside her. A cup of tea. Butter, jam, sugar, milk. There is a pause before she adds three spoons of sugar to the tea. Alright, that’s reassuring.
‘How are you keeping, pet?’
She bites into the bread. It’s as though I haven’t spoken. She hasn’t said a word since arriving. Why is she here?
‘Do you want to give me a hand outside, Peggy? I’ve weeding to do. Or we could stay in here and have a little chat?’
Surely she will choose talking over weeding in the rain. Her hair is soaked, the ends dripping onto her cardigan. Who let her out like this? Taking the hairbrush from my bag, I stand behind her and start to work through her tangles. At last she speaks to me.
‘Could we stay inside and chat?’
Maybe it’s easier for her to talk when she can’t see me. Maybe I could finally get some truth out of her about her family. She starts to bite her nails, and I bat her hand away from her mouth.
‘How are things up at home? Everyone behaving themselves?’
I begin to braid her hair. I remember my mother teaching me how to do Dutch braids when I was a child. This afternoon, I will teach Peggy.
She sighs, looking at the radio, perhaps for a distraction. Dropping her wet hair, I give her what I think she wants, and turn it on. Some pop music plays: The Beatles, I think.
‘Oh, I just love this song!’
Although I’ve heard this song enough for one lifetime, I keep a happy lilt in my voice, hoping to lighten things up. But I feel hertensing again. Going to speak and then stopping herself, over and over.
‘Had you a nice time at the party, Peggy? I bet you never stayed up so late!’
It doesn’t work. Nothing seems to work. And I’m made to confront my ineptitude with her; I may be maternal, but I am not her mother. I’m fine for playing, and teaching, and the nice times. But when it comes to all her deep emotions, I fear I am wandering beyond my depth. When her hair is braided, I move around to kneel before her. There are tears in her eyes.
‘What’s wrong, pet? Did something happen?’
And perhaps knowing that I will not relent, she answers me.
‘Do you know Teresa Doyle?’
She says, without looking at me. Ah, this.
‘I do. Her father has the pub in town. Her sister Mary is having a baby.’
The tears tremble, threatening to spill. I can almost hear her heart knocking in her chest. I wonder if she can hear mine.
‘She’s mad for Jack. I saw them together last night.’
I put my hand over hers. Of course, this would be hard for Peggy, when herself and Jack are a little double act.
‘Teresa is a lovely girl, Peggy. It must be nice for Jack to have somebody who likes him.’
I stop worrying about finding the right way to respond, because I don’t think that there is one. If I’m responding at all, I’m doing more for her than anyone up in the cottage.
‘It just all reminds me of Lillian.’
‘Do you miss her, pet? Is that what’s wrong?’
