The Girl in the Scrapbook, Carolyn Ruffles [iphone ebook reader .TXT] 📗

her later so she can see you in your dress. Now I think it’s time for a special someone to have her birthday tea.’

George Dunn escorted his daughter on his arm through to the dining room where Mrs Morris and the maid, Elsie, were just putting the final touches to the feast laid out on the immaculate, starched white tablecloth.

‘Oh, it all looks lovely, Mrs Morris. Thank you,’ exclaimed Norah, eagerly taking her seat and surveying the spread. There were ham, cheese and egg sandwiches, sausage rolls and meat pasties and a whole array of beautifully iced, dainty cakes.

Her father said grace as he always did and then made a fuss of her throughout the meal as they helped themselves to the food. Norah always had a good appetite and tucked in appreciatively. When they had sampled most of what was on offer, Mrs Morris and Elsie reappeared with an enormous white birthday cake, tied with a green ribbon to match the ribbon on her dress and alight with twelve candles. They all sang ‘Happy birthday to you’ and then Norah blew the candles out with gusto.

‘I’ve made a wish that every birthday is as good as this one. It really has been the best ever,’ she sighed happily as Mrs Morris handed her a piece of cake.

George smiled as he watched his daughter. He too had made a wish but it was not one he could share with her.

◆◆◆

Later that evening Norah had gone upstairs to see her mother. The room was dark so she took a candle and placed it on the dresser beside the bed. Her mother was asleep and her face seemed so pale and drawn that Norah felt a jolt of anxiety. Then her eyelids fluttered and she smiled.

‘Norah, darling,’ she whispered. ‘Help me up so I can look at you properly.’  Norah put her right arm around her mother and helped lift her into an upright position. She noticed for the first time how frail she was, how she seemed to be just bones beneath her nightdress.

‘Oh,’ she breathed after a lengthy appraisal of her daughter. ‘You look so beautiful.’ Her eyes filled with tears.

‘Why are you crying, Mummy?’ Norah asked.

‘They’re happy tears, darling. Take no notice. It’s a mummy thing. You’ll understand one day when you have a daughter. It’s because you look like an angel. Now give me a kiss before you go.’

Norah hugged her mother protectively as she kissed her pale cheek. ‘Goodnight, Mummy. I hope you feel better in the morning.’

However, when morning dawned, clear, bright and golden, Norah’s mother failed to appear at breakfast and remained in bed all day. This was to set the tone for the days and weeks to come. Sometimes, when it was neither too warm or too cold, she was helped into a chair to sit outside in her beloved rose garden and Norah would sit with her for a time until she became bored and restless. However, most days she was too ill to surface and the servants spoke of her condition in hushed tones. Norah herself firmly refused to believe anything other than this was a temporary illness and her mother would soon be back to normal. She prefaced many conversations with her father with the words, ‘When Mummy’s better,’ and he started to do the same.

Meanwhile the thrum of village life continued its gentle sway. The mill continued to turn and grind; every day the miller’s boy, Johnnie Mason, steered his pony and trap through the village, past the Dunn’s farm and out to the village of Little Chalkham with his bread deliveries; Charles Mallon, the thatcher, took advantage of the fine summer weather and was to be seen on the roof of the Emersons’ house which had been badly damaged by a fire in the spring; men and children were out in the fields, helping with the harvest. There was a solidity and a permanence in the sheer predictability of village life which Norah found comforting and reassuring. Surely nothing bad could happen when everyone else was going about their business as normal.

Even in Great Chalkham, though, there was the occasional unexpected event or scandal for everyone to get excited about. In this case, that summer, it came in the form of a shy lad in his early twenties called Ralph Watson who, according to village gospel, had been a prominent member of the church choir when he was a boy and had led an otherwise blameless life. He had been visiting the wife of farmer, George Coombes, in the marital bed, no less, when George had arrived home unexpectedly in the middle of the day. Ralph had hastily struggled into his breeches and, in his terror of imminent discovery, jumped out of an upstairs window. Unluckily for him, he broke his leg and was unable to escape a further beating from the angry farmer. George’s wife, a plain girl at least thirty years his junior, had not been seen out in public since. The village gossips were euphoric and talk of the scandal buzzed through shops, streets and the church congregation for several days.

Throughout the summer, Norah and Rusty had further success at local horse shows but on these occasions, only Arthur the stable lad, a tall, dark, gangly boy, was there to witness their triumph. Mother was too ill and Father was too busy with harvest. On a show day, Arthur would be there to help her plait Rusty’s mane and tail and to walk with her as she rode to whichever neighbouring village was hosting the event. His quiet support and encouragement gave her confidence and she enjoyed the time they spent together. He was only four years older than her and, throughout the course of their days out together, he divulged glimpses of his earlier life. He had previously lived in Yorkshire in a small mining village, the youngest of six children. His father had followed his own father down the mines at a young age