The Ladies' Midnight Swimming Club(79)

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.

Although it was not the first day of the holidays, it seemed to Miranda that her summer began that day, when she met Richard Blair. He was sitting idly on the bridge, his legs hanging over it while he skimmed stones downriver. A boy, perhaps a year older than herself, he was fair-skinned to her tan, blue-eyed to her green and his hair was somewhere between a very light brown and a dark blonde, whereas Miranda was so dark, she might have been a gypsy child roaming about the roads. He looked at her with a mixture of mischief and camaraderie.

‘Hey,’ he said as though he’d been waiting there for her to come along. It was early yet, full of promise; one of those long hot days that seem like a dream when they’re over. Miranda had already spent what there was of it trying to put distance between her father and herself. Instead, she’d offered to bring vegetables to old Mrs Bridgestock who couldn’t leave her house because she was a martyr to the gout.

‘Hello,’ she said spotting his icy blue eyes squinting against the sun while at the same time they picked out flashes on the water beneath him. Miranda had never seen this boy around before and Ballycove was small enough to know everyone. Then she remembered she’d heard her mother say the Blairs had guests, back for summer holidays with a boy not much older than herself. ‘On holidays, are you?’ she asked hopping up on the bridge next to him.

‘I am,’ he said, flashing a shy smile and handing her a flat stone to skim across the water’s surface.

‘Good shot,’ she said as she watched an elongated hopping string of splashes along the water’s rim. She threw her own and it almost matched his, and she smiled with satisfaction when she saw a glint of admiration in his eyes for her skill. ‘Are you staying with the Blairs?’

‘Yes, they’re my grandparents. I’m here for the whole summer long.’ He nodded towards the trees and she presumed he meant the big house, Blair Hall.

‘You’re really good at that.’ She nodded towards the river where another flat stone scudded efficiently across the water’s surface.

‘Thanks.’ He laughed then. ‘Richard Blair.’ He held out a hand formally. ‘Very pleased to meet you.’