she spent too much time with Lanky and not enough with him.
‘I like you to myself,’ he would say, stroking her hair which she was growing to please him. ‘You are my special girl and I want you to stay that way.’
Jack’s girl. Oh, it sounded so good.
‘Then will you kiss me?’ she would ask, and he was always ready to comply. Life was perfectly wonderful in Meg’s estimation. Nothing could possibly spoil it.
When spring ripened into summer they might walk over to Patterdale by way of Angle Tarn. As wild and lonely as anywhere in the Lake District, there they would marvel at the sight of a golden eagle dipping in the wind, or hares quarrelling furiously for no apparent reason. Then they would plunge into the water together, ice cold after the warmth of the sun. But no amount of sweet talk would persuade Meg to swim without a costume.
‘Prudish little miss, aren’t you?’ Jack teased and Meg could only admit to her shyness and hold fast to her ideals, however much she might wish otherwise.
‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘Of course I trust you.’
‘Then prove it.’
Slapping water at him, she would laugh and swim away as fast as she could, thinking that perhaps it was herself she didn’t trust. Will he get bored with me, she worried, if I keep him to such firm boundaries?
It was easier when they swam in their very own Brockbarrow Tarn and Kath came with them. Though Meg regretted the loss of intimacy on these occasions, she felt safer in an odd sort of way, knowing that Jack wouldn’t press her too much with company present. And the three of them always had plenty of fun together.
Sometimes they would walk for hours up Bannisdale or along part of the old Roman road of High Street then follow the ribbon of water that gushed down into Longsleddale where they would take off their shoes and paddle their tired feet in the fast-flowing river by the low bridge, squealing like children. A perfect end to a perfect day.
Meg, knowing herself lost to Jack’s charms, ached for the day when he would declare his love for her openly. He was a cautious man, as farmers often are. Oh, but she was lucky. Any number of girls would envy her having Jack. She could afford to wait.
Joe Turner, not having been born yesterday, as he was fond of saying, was well aware that something had changed in his daughter. He had his suspicions what the reason might be, though nothing had been said between them. He tried to work out a way to winkle the truth out of her, but she kept things close to her chest did Meg. It annoyed him sometimes how like her mother she was, always singing and smiling to herself as if she knew something he didn’t.
He’d never been entirely sure what went on in Annie’s head, for all she’d made herself out to be a good, obedient wife. There’d been many a time, particularly in the early days, when she’d managed to speak volumes without opening her mouth. Now this little madam was behaving in just the same way. Keeping secrets. And he wouldn’t have it, not in a house where he was master.
Love, if that was what was ailing her, had caused enough trouble for the Royal family with the King running off and marrying that Mrs Simpson. Joe would have no such nonsense at Ashlea. Duty and the needs of the farm came first and last in the lives of his own family if he had any say, which of course he did.
When she wasn’t wandering over the countryside goodness knew where, Meg was forever giggling and chattering with that Ellis girl, telling secrets he shouldn’t wonder, as silly young girls tended to do. Joe didn’t like secrets. Above all things, he liked to keep control in his own hands.
So one day he followed her and was surprised to find her land up at Broombank.
Now what would she be doing up there day after day? he asked himself, and came up pretty quickly with the answer. Jack Lawson. Plain as the nose on your face. Now there was a turn up for the book. Something he might well be able to use to
‘I like you to myself,’ he would say, stroking her hair which she was growing to please him. ‘You are my special girl and I want you to stay that way.’
Jack’s girl. Oh, it sounded so good.
‘Then will you kiss me?’ she would ask, and he was always ready to comply. Life was perfectly wonderful in Meg’s estimation. Nothing could possibly spoil it.
When spring ripened into summer they might walk over to Patterdale by way of Angle Tarn. As wild and lonely as anywhere in the Lake District, there they would marvel at the sight of a golden eagle dipping in the wind, or hares quarrelling furiously for no apparent reason. Then they would plunge into the water together, ice cold after the warmth of the sun. But no amount of sweet talk would persuade Meg to swim without a costume.
‘Prudish little miss, aren’t you?’ Jack teased and Meg could only admit to her shyness and hold fast to her ideals, however much she might wish otherwise.
‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘Of course I trust you.’
‘Then prove it.’
Slapping water at him, she would laugh and swim away as fast as she could, thinking that perhaps it was herself she didn’t trust. Will he get bored with me, she worried, if I keep him to such firm boundaries?
It was easier when they swam in their very own Brockbarrow Tarn and Kath came with them. Though Meg regretted the loss of intimacy on these occasions, she felt safer in an odd sort of way, knowing that Jack wouldn’t press her too much with company present. And the three of them always had plenty of fun together.
Sometimes they would walk for hours up Bannisdale or along part of the old Roman road of High Street then follow the ribbon of water that gushed down into Longsleddale where they would take off their shoes and paddle their tired feet in the fast-flowing river by the low bridge, squealing like children. A perfect end to a perfect day.
Meg, knowing herself lost to Jack’s charms, ached for the day when he would declare his love for her openly. He was a cautious man, as farmers often are. Oh, but she was lucky. Any number of girls would envy her having Jack. She could afford to wait.
Joe Turner, not having been born yesterday, as he was fond of saying, was well aware that something had changed in his daughter. He had his suspicions what the reason might be, though nothing had been said between them. He tried to work out a way to winkle the truth out of her, but she kept things close to her chest did Meg. It annoyed him sometimes how like her mother she was, always singing and smiling to herself as if she knew something he didn’t.
He’d never been entirely sure what went on in Annie’s head, for all she’d made herself out to be a good, obedient wife. There’d been many a time, particularly in the early days, when she’d managed to speak volumes without opening her mouth. Now this little madam was behaving in just the same way. Keeping secrets. And he wouldn’t have it, not in a house where he was master.
Love, if that was what was ailing her, had caused enough trouble for the Royal family with the King running off and marrying that Mrs Simpson. Joe would have no such nonsense at Ashlea. Duty and the needs of the farm came first and last in the lives of his own family if he had any say, which of course he did.
When she wasn’t wandering over the countryside goodness knew where, Meg was forever giggling and chattering with that Ellis girl, telling secrets he shouldn’t wonder, as silly young girls tended to do. Joe didn’t like secrets. Above all things, he liked to keep control in his own hands.
So one day he followed her and was surprised to find her land up at Broombank.
Now what would she be doing up there day after day? he asked himself, and came up pretty quickly with the answer. Jack Lawson. Plain as the nose on your face. Now there was a turn up for the book. Something he might well be able to use to
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