Read Online Wish Me Luck by Margaret Dickinson - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Dickinson
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a little bench seat under it. It’s where her and her Arthur used to sit on a summer’s evening, she said.’
‘You know,’ Fleur suggested, ‘we could help her in our spare time.’
‘Hey, hang on a minute. I’m a city girl. Born and bred in Lincoln. That’s why I chose the WAAFs instead of the Land Army. You’re welcome to go grubbing about in Mother Earth but don’t ask me to join you.’ The words could have been tart and dismissive, but they were spoken with such a warm humour that Fleur laughed.
‘We’ll see,’ she teased, as Ruth grabbed her arm and pulled her towards the back door. As she pushed it open, it scraped and shuddered on the uneven floor.
‘Coo-ee, Mrs Jackson. You in?’ She turned and whispered. ‘She hardly ever goes out, ’cept to church on a Sunday and sometimes as far as the village shop, but her legs are getting that bad, poor old thing. She walks with a stick as it is, though she can move about the house without it. Come on in. Mind the blackout curtain. It’s a bit long and trails on the floor. It gets caught under the door if you don’t watch out.’
They moved through the back scullery, which housed a deep white sink and wooden draining board with shelves of pots and pans above. There was also a cooker to augment the range that Fleur knew would be in the kitchen. Ruth flung open the door into the kitchen-cum-living-room where an elderly lady was struggling to lever herself up out of her armchair in the far corner of the room beside the black-leaded range that Fleur had expected to see. A fire burned in the grate and a kettle stood on the hob. It really was just like home, Fleur thought.
‘Don’t get up, Mrs Jackson,’ Ruth was saying. ‘I’ve brought another lodger for you. This is Fleur Bosley. She’s just come to work in the watch office.’
The old lady sank back thankfully into her chair, but she beamed up at Fleur with such a wide smile that her rounded cheeks lifted her spectacles. She was a plump little woman, with her white hair pulled back and wound into a roll at the nape of her neck. She wore low-heeled lace-up shoes and lisle stockings, and her striped blouse and navy skirt were almost hidden by a paisley overall. Fleur smiled. It was identical to the one her mother wore. This woman could be Betsy in thirty years’ time, she thought, though she couldn’t imagine her mother welcoming complete strangers into her home the way this woman was doing. Her mother wouldn’t even make someone she knew welcome, Fleur thought wryly, thinking of the uncomfortable last few hours she had spent at home. It was a sad fact – and it hurt even to think it – but she’d been glad to get away.
Fleur quickly scanned the room, taking in the other armchair on the opposite side of the range and the table with its white lace runner and two chairs set against the wall. On a small table beside the old lady sat a wireless with a polished oak cabinet, silk front and black Bakelité controls. It seemed out of place in the old-fashioned cottage, yet Fleur knew that the wireless had become almost a necessity in the homes of those anxious for news of the war.
Fleur crossed the room to stand on the pegged hearthrug. ‘Hello, Mrs Jackson. I’m pleased to meet you.’
‘You’re very welcome, lass,’ the old lady said, her faded blue eyes smiling up at Fleur. ‘Mek yourself at home. Ruth’ll show you your room upstairs. I can’t get up there now.’
‘Mind your head,’ Ruth warned, as she led Fleur up the narrow staircase to the two attic bedrooms under the eaves. ‘There’s only us here. We have a room each. I’m in the bigger room with the double bed and you’ll be in here …’ she said, opening the door into a small room that only had space for a single iron bedstead, a wardrobe and narrow dressing table. But the bed was covered with a cheery patchwork quilt and there was a pegged rug beside the bed to step onto instead of the cold floor.
‘Do you mind?’ Ruth
‘You know,’ Fleur suggested, ‘we could help her in our spare time.’
‘Hey, hang on a minute. I’m a city girl. Born and bred in Lincoln. That’s why I chose the WAAFs instead of the Land Army. You’re welcome to go grubbing about in Mother Earth but don’t ask me to join you.’ The words could have been tart and dismissive, but they were spoken with such a warm humour that Fleur laughed.
‘We’ll see,’ she teased, as Ruth grabbed her arm and pulled her towards the back door. As she pushed it open, it scraped and shuddered on the uneven floor.
‘Coo-ee, Mrs Jackson. You in?’ She turned and whispered. ‘She hardly ever goes out, ’cept to church on a Sunday and sometimes as far as the village shop, but her legs are getting that bad, poor old thing. She walks with a stick as it is, though she can move about the house without it. Come on in. Mind the blackout curtain. It’s a bit long and trails on the floor. It gets caught under the door if you don’t watch out.’
They moved through the back scullery, which housed a deep white sink and wooden draining board with shelves of pots and pans above. There was also a cooker to augment the range that Fleur knew would be in the kitchen. Ruth flung open the door into the kitchen-cum-living-room where an elderly lady was struggling to lever herself up out of her armchair in the far corner of the room beside the black-leaded range that Fleur had expected to see. A fire burned in the grate and a kettle stood on the hob. It really was just like home, Fleur thought.
‘Don’t get up, Mrs Jackson,’ Ruth was saying. ‘I’ve brought another lodger for you. This is Fleur Bosley. She’s just come to work in the watch office.’
The old lady sank back thankfully into her chair, but she beamed up at Fleur with such a wide smile that her rounded cheeks lifted her spectacles. She was a plump little woman, with her white hair pulled back and wound into a roll at the nape of her neck. She wore low-heeled lace-up shoes and lisle stockings, and her striped blouse and navy skirt were almost hidden by a paisley overall. Fleur smiled. It was identical to the one her mother wore. This woman could be Betsy in thirty years’ time, she thought, though she couldn’t imagine her mother welcoming complete strangers into her home the way this woman was doing. Her mother wouldn’t even make someone she knew welcome, Fleur thought wryly, thinking of the uncomfortable last few hours she had spent at home. It was a sad fact – and it hurt even to think it – but she’d been glad to get away.
Fleur quickly scanned the room, taking in the other armchair on the opposite side of the range and the table with its white lace runner and two chairs set against the wall. On a small table beside the old lady sat a wireless with a polished oak cabinet, silk front and black Bakelité controls. It seemed out of place in the old-fashioned cottage, yet Fleur knew that the wireless had become almost a necessity in the homes of those anxious for news of the war.
Fleur crossed the room to stand on the pegged hearthrug. ‘Hello, Mrs Jackson. I’m pleased to meet you.’
‘You’re very welcome, lass,’ the old lady said, her faded blue eyes smiling up at Fleur. ‘Mek yourself at home. Ruth’ll show you your room upstairs. I can’t get up there now.’
‘Mind your head,’ Ruth warned, as she led Fleur up the narrow staircase to the two attic bedrooms under the eaves. ‘There’s only us here. We have a room each. I’m in the bigger room with the double bed and you’ll be in here …’ she said, opening the door into a small room that only had space for a single iron bedstead, a wardrobe and narrow dressing table. But the bed was covered with a cheery patchwork quilt and there was a pegged rug beside the bed to step onto instead of the cold floor.
‘Do you mind?’ Ruth
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