She eagerly made her way forwards now, thinking of what they might share today and how they might sit and talk about how things were when Mrs Bridgestock was a girl. As much as Miranda dreamed of living in this cottage one day, she aspired to growing into an old lady like Mrs Bridgestock – although she’d never admit this to another living soul.
In the distance she could just about see the chimneys of Bridgestock Cottage peep above the wall of ash and rowan trees that shaded the farmhouse from winter winds and prying eyes. It was a lazy morning on the cusp of summer and Ballycove welcomed the sun as it did everything else that came its way, balancing a languid acceptance with reluctant eagerness. In truth, it seemed to Miranda Reilly, that the only thing that this village had greeted with any great excitement had been the return of her father a few weeks earlier. The whole village turned out to welcome back Harry Reilly – after four years of war and six of convalescing. In a place that Miranda knew only as St Hugh’s, some nameless doctor that her mother couldn’t thank enough had set him on the journey home. The sun didn’t shine that day, but flags blew vigorously on the breezy afternoon wind and the whole street lined out to greet the returned hero. Funny, how things can turn out so differently to how you expect.
Miranda wiped a tear from her eye now. She would not cry. Instead, she leaned forward and lifted the latch of the heavy gate that kept cattle away from what had once been a lovingly tended kitchen garden. She and her mother had spent the last ten years waiting for her father to return; honestly, Miranda had a feeling they’d both given up any hope. The village had learned after the Great War not to expect good news; her mother didn’t say it, but they both knew, World War Two was no better. If anything it had turned out even worse.
While Miranda’s father was away, her mother had considered herself lucky each time a telegram arrived in the village and it was not addressed to her. They spent years of hoping the postman would pass their door. And then it was as if they were washed through with shocked relief, gushing and exhilarating all at once when they learned he was convalescing; shell-shocked, but coming home.
Just then, she spotted the postman, coming along the path opposite, his black cap bobbing jauntily beyond the hedge. He would make it to the cottage first and that was unfortunate, because she knew that it meant Mrs Bridgestock would not have so much time for her today.
Miranda sighed as she made her way along the narrow track, worn down by her own feet on her daily visits here. She made it to the door just as Postie Kavanagh propped his bicycle against the grainy windowsill and smiled when he patted her head as though she was a friendly sheepdog. She dropped the box of vegetables in the darkness of the hallway and slumped down on the step at the front door of the cottage. She would sit for a while before making the journey back to the village. There was no rush, only more chores her mother had dreamed up to keep her out of mischief. It was summer holidays and it seemed as if the days stretched endlessly. Her walk back was meaningfully languid and slow – it was preferable to hanging lines of washing out or, worse, being made to scrub the front steps.
Out here, just a mile from town, the only building nearby was the old woollen mills. It loomed ever higher above her as she moved back towards Ballycove. It was as much a feature of this place as the mountains or the river, a grey monolith, reaching and sprawling, its chimneys forever churning out a reminder that its work was never done. Blair’s woollen mills – there was something about it, Miranda thought. She slowed down to gaze at it through the thick hedges that sheltered the river from it and perhaps it from the river life that might seek out shelter where it would not be granted willingly.
One way or another, the Blairs kept her whole family. Her mother took in laundry for the Blair family, and Lady Blair paid far more than she should for the small amount they now had each week. Her father might work there too. No-one else would give him a chance because he had come back so strange. Lord Blair had been shell-shocked in the first war so Lady Blair had said she understood better than most what it must be like. Her mother said it was a good thing the Blairs were Presbyterians – their own lot might not be so full of social conscience.
She pushed thoughts of her father from her mind then; not today. It was too nice to spoil it with things she could not change. It was a bright and sanguine day, where the breeze played with her dark hair, a soft warm caress as she moved along the banks and towards the hump-backed bridge that would lead her across to the side of the river that backed on to the mills.