Bobby felt guilty, too, about the fact that she hadn’t been as honest with Lilian about her feelings for Charlie as she might have been – her twin had no idea about his regular proposals, for one thing. It was harder to share those things by letter, but nevertheless, Bobby resolved to write to Lilian as soon as she got back to Cow House Cottage and lay any secrets she’d have kept back at her feet. It was horrible to think the new, very different lives they were now leading might drive a wedge between them.
She’d invite Lil to visit again too, when she could get a day or two of leave. Lilian was reluctant to spend her precious time off in what she saw as the dull and closeted countryside, but Bobby was certain this was only because her sister had never experienced the Dales. She’d felt the same way herself before she’d moved here. Once Lilian saw the beauty of the region for herself, she’d fall in love with it just as Bobby had.
Bobby met Mary in the village. She dismounted from her bike and they walked to Ida Wilcox’s cottage side by side, Mary holding a covered dish containing the freshly baked cheese pudding in front of her like a talisman to ward off evil.
‘I hope I won’t be intruding,’ Bobby said to Mary as she rested her bicycle against the wall and pushed open the gate to Ida’s humble stone cottage. ‘I don’t know the family like you and Reg do, but I felt I ought to pay my respects on behalf of me and Dad.’
‘Oh, nonsense. You belong to Silverdale now. Ida will be very grateful to know you’re thinking of her, I’m sure.’
Bobby patted her pocket, where she’d stashed a paper bag containing half her week’s tea ration. It wasn’t much to console someone for the loss of their boy, but it was all she had to offer.
She wasn’t sure what to expect when they called on Ida. Would the grieving mother have taken herself to her bed, perhaps? Would she fall into hysterics? When Bobby tried to imagine how she might feel if it was her loss – one of her brothers, God forbid, or even Charlie – her brain and heart quickly rebelled against such monstrous daydreams. In fact they found Ida in a cobbled yard to the side of the house, engaged in the very unhysterical activity of pegging out her washing while a couple of merry girls played with a skipping rope nearby. Her little nanny goat Strawberry lay placidly watching the play of the children.
The tiny widow turned to them with a smile, putting down her basket. ‘Well, is it Polly Atherton? And young Miss Bancroft too. I’m sorry, you’ve caught me in the middle of washing day. Our Jenny’s bairns make more washing for me than a troop of soldiers, I’m sure.’
Mary smiled. ‘Afternoon, Ida. It’s good to hear that old nickname again. I reckon you must be the last one round here still uses it.’
‘I didn’t know you were ever a Polly,’ Bobby said.
‘Aye, when I was a bairn it was always Polly for short.’ Mary sighed. ‘Long time since our schooldays.’
‘You’re not wrong,’ Ida said wistfully. ‘I find myself forgetting sometimes just how long ago them days were.’
Mary held out her pudding. ‘We brought a little summat for your supper.’
Ida lifted the lid and shook her head. ‘Nay, I can’t take this. That mun be half yours and Reg’s cheese for the week, Poll.’
‘Now don’t you be daft. We can spare it for a friend.’
‘You’ll let me pay you.’
‘I’ll do no such thing and I’d thank you not to insult me by suggesting it. You’ve more important things to spend your brass on than cheese puddings.’ Mary took her arm. ‘If you want to make payment, a cup of tea will do me just as well. Your washing will keep.’
Ida smiled. ‘Come on inside then.’
Ida’s whitewashed cottage was typical of those occupied by the poorer folk of Silverdale: small, cramped and old-fashioned, but built to last with thick stone walls that kept out the weather. A single room functioned as both kitchen and parlour. Ida set the kettle on the fire to boil while Mary busied herself putting out mugs for their tea.
‘Um, I brought this for you, Mrs Wilcox,’ Bobby said shyly, producing the packet of tea. ‘I’m sorry, it isn’t much.’
‘Oh, now, isn’t that kind?’ Ida said, beaming at her. ‘You’re a good lass; I’ve always said so. I’m sure I never believed talk about city folk being excessive proud and the like.’
Bobby smiled at the peculiar compliment. ‘Can I help make the tea?’
‘Aye, that you can.’ Ida pointed to the breadbasket. ‘There’s a bread knife in t’ drawer and butter’s in the pantry.’
When a tray had been loaded with a plate of bread and butter and a steaming pot of tea, Ida ushered them into seats around a little table. There were only two armchairs, so Bobby perched on a low stool that she assumed was usually occupied by one of Ida’s grandchildren.
‘Any more news?’ Mary asked, helping herself to a slice of bread and butter. Bobby was surprised at the way her friend broached the subject of Ida’s loss so directly – she’d have opened the conversation with some general small talk first. Ida didn’t seem upset by the question, however.
‘Some officer sort sent me a letter,’ Ida said, sounding bitter towards this bearer of bad tidings. ‘The words was fancy but I knew what they meant, right enough. Until this morning there was still that tiny bit of hope, I suppose. Then it was there, set down in black and white.’
Ida’s expression didn’t change, but her hands shook as she picked up the milk jug. Wordlessly, Mary took it from her, added a little milk to Ida’s mug of tea and stirred it for her.
‘What happens now?’ she asked quietly.
‘They said… they said we can make arrangements. We might never have Bill’s body back to bury him, but I’m to speak wi’ parson tomorrow morning about funeral.’ Ida’s mouth flickered. ‘He’s not coming home, Poll.’
‘I know, love. I know.’
