Read Online A Time for Courage by Margaret Graham - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Graham
Tags: Fiction, Chick lit, Romance, Historical, Sagas, Love Stories, War, Family Saga, World War I, loyalty
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marmalade towards her.
‘Quince marmalade,’ he said. ‘Mother has made it every year since we’ve been here.’ He looked over his shoulder towards his mother who was hanging ironed sheets on the wooden slats of the airer, which she had lowered in front of the black leaded stove. Hannah liked the bitter taste, liked the warm soft neck of Mrs Arness which she now glanced at again and again as she stooped and stretched with the clean linen. Joe turned to her.
‘Excuse me, Hannah.’ He pushed himself up from the table with his hands and again she saw how rough they were, how big. His eyes were blue, like his mother’s, she noticed, as she watched Joe take the rope to raise the now laden airer. He was as big as Harry but not as big as her father and he had only a faint moustache, fair like his hair. She hoped he would not grow a beard because too much hair would hide his smile. She sat back in the chair, feeling its spokes against her back. The sun was pouring in through the door and windows and the room felt warm and dry; her back loosened and her shoulders drooped with the pleasure of just being.
Joe was talking to his mother as he carried out the washing she had just finished. Did people in Cornwall always talk to one another, she wondered, talk and laugh and eat in the kitchen? But she knew that was not so because at Eliza’s it was just like being at home.
There was a washing-line running along the path which led from the door and Joe was handing his mother the clothes. How very strange. She had never seen a man do that before and it pleased her, made her feel complete. Polly sent their washing to the woman who lived in the back streets. Hannah took more marmalade. It was good, very good. She watched as Mrs Arness came back towards the door.
‘Put a kettle on, would you, Hannah. I meant to but forgot.’ She smiled and returned to the garden, her skirt swirling out and the plait catching the sun.
Hannah felt uncertain again as she looked around the kitchen. Where was the kettle? What was a kettle? She wiped her hands, sticky from the quince, on her serviette and rose, looking through the door at Joe and his mother. They were talking again, not looking at this visitor of theirs who was so ignorant, so unworldly. She wanted to groan aloud but there wasn’t time. She hurried to the sink but there was nothing there. Perhaps it would be in the cupboards underneath – but there were only black pans like the old one that the gardener used to shell the peas into sitting on the glasshouse step. Would it do? Her skirt was dragging on the flagstoned floor. She moved one of the pans; it was heavy and black. She wanted to cry or to run away. Would Mrs Arness tell her father of her stupidity?
Then she heard footsteps behind and stood up, turning towards the sound. Would they stop smiling now that there was no kettle, no boiling water? But Joe did not; neither did his mother who said, ‘The kettle’s over on the side hob, Hannah. It’ll need filling, I’m afraid.’ She was pointing to the fire and Hannah nodded, brushing the dust from her skirt before she walked past the table and grasped the kettle. It too was heavy and she began to understand why Mrs Brennan insisted on employing only a good strong girl to help Cook in the kitchen.
At the sink the water splashed red-flecked from the tap into the kettle’s dark insides, and as it grew heavier in her hand her arms began to shake. She tightened her grip. The geranium on the windowsill was splashed from the force of the water and its smell was acrid. She turned to Mrs Arness.
‘Is it all right?’ she asked, pointing to the strange water, but suddenly the kettle was full and water began spilling over. She heaved, feeling the strain in her shoulders, and as she lifted it the gushing flow caught the edge of the kettle and sprayed her. It was cold and sank through to her skin but she held on to the kettle, heaving it on to the scrubbed drainer.
‘Oh, Hannah, not
‘Quince marmalade,’ he said. ‘Mother has made it every year since we’ve been here.’ He looked over his shoulder towards his mother who was hanging ironed sheets on the wooden slats of the airer, which she had lowered in front of the black leaded stove. Hannah liked the bitter taste, liked the warm soft neck of Mrs Arness which she now glanced at again and again as she stooped and stretched with the clean linen. Joe turned to her.
‘Excuse me, Hannah.’ He pushed himself up from the table with his hands and again she saw how rough they were, how big. His eyes were blue, like his mother’s, she noticed, as she watched Joe take the rope to raise the now laden airer. He was as big as Harry but not as big as her father and he had only a faint moustache, fair like his hair. She hoped he would not grow a beard because too much hair would hide his smile. She sat back in the chair, feeling its spokes against her back. The sun was pouring in through the door and windows and the room felt warm and dry; her back loosened and her shoulders drooped with the pleasure of just being.
Joe was talking to his mother as he carried out the washing she had just finished. Did people in Cornwall always talk to one another, she wondered, talk and laugh and eat in the kitchen? But she knew that was not so because at Eliza’s it was just like being at home.
There was a washing-line running along the path which led from the door and Joe was handing his mother the clothes. How very strange. She had never seen a man do that before and it pleased her, made her feel complete. Polly sent their washing to the woman who lived in the back streets. Hannah took more marmalade. It was good, very good. She watched as Mrs Arness came back towards the door.
‘Put a kettle on, would you, Hannah. I meant to but forgot.’ She smiled and returned to the garden, her skirt swirling out and the plait catching the sun.
Hannah felt uncertain again as she looked around the kitchen. Where was the kettle? What was a kettle? She wiped her hands, sticky from the quince, on her serviette and rose, looking through the door at Joe and his mother. They were talking again, not looking at this visitor of theirs who was so ignorant, so unworldly. She wanted to groan aloud but there wasn’t time. She hurried to the sink but there was nothing there. Perhaps it would be in the cupboards underneath – but there were only black pans like the old one that the gardener used to shell the peas into sitting on the glasshouse step. Would it do? Her skirt was dragging on the flagstoned floor. She moved one of the pans; it was heavy and black. She wanted to cry or to run away. Would Mrs Arness tell her father of her stupidity?
Then she heard footsteps behind and stood up, turning towards the sound. Would they stop smiling now that there was no kettle, no boiling water? But Joe did not; neither did his mother who said, ‘The kettle’s over on the side hob, Hannah. It’ll need filling, I’m afraid.’ She was pointing to the fire and Hannah nodded, brushing the dust from her skirt before she walked past the table and grasped the kettle. It too was heavy and she began to understand why Mrs Brennan insisted on employing only a good strong girl to help Cook in the kitchen.
At the sink the water splashed red-flecked from the tap into the kettle’s dark insides, and as it grew heavier in her hand her arms began to shake. She tightened her grip. The geranium on the windowsill was splashed from the force of the water and its smell was acrid. She turned to Mrs Arness.
‘Is it all right?’ she asked, pointing to the strange water, but suddenly the kettle was full and water began spilling over. She heaved, feeling the strain in her shoulders, and as she lifted it the gushing flow caught the edge of the kettle and sprayed her. It was cold and sank through to her skin but she held on to the kettle, heaving it on to the scrubbed drainer.
‘Oh, Hannah, not
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