Christmas at the Farmhouse - Rebecca Boxall Page 0,9
him, though, darling. He might want to be involved. Maybe not financially, but in other ways.’ Just as long as his mother didn’t re-appear, to take on the role of co-grandmother.
‘I will,’ she agreed. ‘After Christmas.’ Freja looked up from her wrapping, fixing me with her dreamy eyes. ‘It’s going to be okay, isn’t it Mum? This baby business. I’m going to be able to do it?’
My heart ached to look at her, this worldly daughter of mine who was really – at heart – so vulnerable.
‘Of course it is,’ I told her. ‘We’ll be here to help you through it.’
‘I knew you’d be like this. So accepting. You’re the best mum in the world.’ Freja reached across to hug me and I fought back tears. She’d always said that to me as a little child but I hadn’t heard those words in years.
‘And you’re the best Freja in the world,’ I replied, as I always had.
Chapter Seven
January 1969
Susan
As soon as I arrived on the farm I was met with warmth by the collie dogs and then by Penny’s mum, who was sitting at the enormous kitchen table peeling vegetables. She heaved herself up when I let myself in and gave me a squashy hug.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Wren, I’ve already had a cuppa.’
‘I’ll put it on anyway. Dad’ll be wanting a nice brew. He’s trying to fix the tractor in the barn. It’s bitter out there, isn’t it? Hope it doesn’t snow. Pretty enough, but too hard on the poor livestock. Penny!’ she suddenly yelled, making me jump. ‘Susan’s here!’ A moment later, Penny came hurtling into the kitchen, a baby on one hip.
‘Here, Mum,’ she said, about to hand the baby over. ‘He’s drunk all his milk.’
‘Just plonk him down there with some pots and pans and a wooden spoon,’ said Mrs Wren. ‘He’ll be happy enough making a racket while I make the tea. You want a cuppa?’ she asked Penny.
‘No thanks, Mum. Come on,’ she said to me after she’d laid out some copper pans for the baby and given him a spoon. ‘Let’s go up to my room.’
We skirted past all the washing hanging above the range, ducking our heads, then out of the cosy warmth of the kitchen and into the draughty corridor, taking the wooden stairs two at a time and then the ladder up to the attic, where Penny’s bedroom could be found. She’d shared for years with two of her younger siblings but just before Christmas the two of us had spent a happy Saturday afternoon clearing out one of the attic rooms and giving it a lick of paint so that she could have her own space.
Penny had a natural flair for making things look nice and the room was homely and snug-looking, with her bed tucked under the eaves, a lovely thick eiderdown spread neatly over it, and a furry rug on the wooden floorboards. There was a little bedside cabinet Mr Wren had made for her that had a drawer you could lock (I envied her that – it was where she kept her cosmetics and a hand mirror to keep the younger ones from getting their hands on them) and under the dormer window was a bookshelf filled with Penny’s precious novels. She loved to read. She was very clever – bright as a button – but she never applied herself in lessons or exams so she’d ended up at the Secondary Modern with me. Not that it mattered much to her. Penny had plans to be an air hostess when she turned twenty-one, but until then she was happy helping out on the family farm.
‘So,’ said Penny, flopping down onto her bed. ‘Did he tell you this secret of his then?’
‘He did. But he swore me to secrecy. Said I couldn’t tell a soul,’ I teased, because I could never keep a secret from Penny.
Penny rolled her eyes. ‘The suspense is killing me! Come on, tell me.’ So I squeezed up next to her on the bed and told her the whole tale: the tea, the state of Mr Jenners’ house, the grumpy son called Robin and – of course – the secret.
‘What did you say, when he asked you to go with him?’ she asked.
‘I said I’d never manage to get away!’
‘Oh, you didn’t! This is our only chance! The chance of a lifetime!’
‘What do you mean “our”? He only invited me.’
‘But you’d be able to persuade him to take