Stranger At The Door, Day 17

She was surrounded by shelves crammed with everything from tins of soft soap, candles and shoe polish to biscuits and two giant jars of sweets

There was a nip in the air. Sarah drew her warmest shawl closer round her shoulders, wondering if it had been wise to take Mary Ellen’s advice to go exploring on such a day. Daniel glanced at her in concern and immediately threw a protective arm round her shoulders. “No’ the best o’ days for exploring, Sarah,” he said, concerned. “We could turn back if you like.”

His wife laughed.

“I wouldn’t dare, Daniel. Mary Ellen has decided that I need to see more of Langrigg than just the Raws, and if we sneak back, she’ll be less than pleased.

“She almost chased me out of the schoolroom today and said she’d dismiss the children early for me. You know what she’s like once she gets an idea into her head...” As her voice tailed off, Daniel laughed.

“Take my hand.” He smiled. “We’ll run as far as the Loan and pay a visit to Maggie Pender’s shop. It’s the only shop between here and the Junction, so it’s a busy place.”

Sarah tugged his hand. “No,” she said. “Let’s take our time. I’m enjoying the quiet.”

And she was. The constant noise and bustle of Langrigg tired her and while the miners and their wives were polite enough, she wondered if they’d ever welcome her like Mary Ellen.

Respect

Respect was shown by the mothers and thanks were offered for her work with the children, but the knots of women who stood gossiping by the wash house stopped speaking as she passed.

She felt that Mary Ellen had noticed this, and was surer still when her good friend had suggested that Daniel take her out and about a bit.

On a track behind the road leading to the Junction was a scatter of cottages, one in ruins, several looking a bit tumbledown, and one, peeping out from a thicket of trees, neater than the rest, its walls painted white, a little garden in front and a freshly-painted front door.

“This is the Loan,” Daniel announced with a wide sweep of his arm. “It was a wee village once, they tell me. It was here long before Langrigg.”

Sarah looked at the huddle of cottages. “Are there people living here?” she asked. “There’s nobody about. Most of the cottages look as if they are empty.”

Daniel laughed. “That’s the Loan for you,” he said. “They keep themselves to themselves up here. Not like the Langrigg folk. All except Maggie Pender at the shop. She’s a great one for the gossip.” He pointed at the cottage nearest the road and gave Sarah’s hand a tug.

“Come on,” he smiled. “You must meet Maggie.” It was a very small shop, occupying the front room to the left of the cottage door. A plump little woman wearing wire-framed glasses and a floral apron was seated behind the counter.

She was surrounded by shelves crammed with everything from tins of soft soap, candles and shoe polish to tins of biscuits and two giant jars of sweets.

On the counter, the remains of a wheel of cheese and a slab of butter stood under glass domes.

As Sarah stared in amazement, marvelling at how much had been crammed into such a small space, the woman finished a row of her knitting and leaned forward.

“It’s yersel’, Daniel Morrison,” she said with the hint of a smile. “An’ this must be Master Ogilvie’s lassie.”

Desperate

Sarah felt herself blush under Maggie’s penetrating stare. “My wife, Sarah Morrison,” Daniel said proudly.

“Aye, Daniel. Ye’ve done weel,” the shopkeeper said without taking her eyes off Sarah. “They telt me she was bonnie, an’ they were right.

“Mind you,” she went on without pausing for breath, “your father must ha’ been pit oot when you and Daniel ran awa’ thegither. It wis the talk o’ the place for a while.”

There was a pause while Sarah tried to think of a safe reply. “We’re well settled in Langrigg now, Maggie.” Daniel came to her rescue.

“They tell me that you dinna mix much ower at the Raws,” Maggie offered. “But then, you’re no’ like them, are ye?”

As Sarah cast a desperate glance at Daniel, who was trying to smother a smile, Maggie whipped two small stools out from behind the counter.

“Ye’ll tak’ a wee cup o’ tea, will ye? I wis jist goin’ tae make some.”

Without waiting for a reply, Maggie bustled past them and into her private quarters.

“We’re trapped.” Daniel laughed. “But if you listen carefully, you’ll learn everything you need to know about Langrigg and the folk that live there.” Sarah looked doubtful.

“Don’t worry, Sarah. There’s no harm in Maggie. She’s just keen on the news,” Daniel explained, giving her a little squeeze.

So, as they drank their strong, sweet tea, Sarah listened to tales of how Daniel used to run the odd errand for Mary Ellen and carried full sacks of flour and porridge oats back to her to save her the trouble of going to the Junction.

Then, as Maggie turned the conversation to the Wee School and talk of the families who sent their children there, Sarah finished up her tea and glanced at Daniel.

“It’s getting late, Daniel,” she said. “I promised that we’d call in on Mary Ellen and Pate on our way home.” She smiled at Maggie. “It’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs Pender.”

As they took their leave, Maggie locked the door behind them.

Purposeful

At the door of the neat little cottage with the wellcared garden stood an old man, smoking his pipe. Daniel called a greeting.

“That’s Wull Greenlees, retired ploughman, who keeps a very tidy place and does odd jobs for Maggie into the bargain,” Daniel told Sarah.

“A good neighbour,” she murmured, and Daniel chuckled.

“More than that, Sarah,” he said. “He’s been courting Maggie for a lifetime.”

Sarah didn’t answer. She was reflecting that she had never run short of provisions since she and Daniel had set up home in Langrigg, and yet she’d never had to go to Maggie’s shop or indeed to the Junction.

“Mary Ellen’s doing far too much for me,” she said suddenly. “I’m getting far too used to it. Things will have to change.”

Her steps, as she and Daniel turned back towards Langrigg, were purposeful.

More tomorrow.

This story was originally written specially for The People’s Friend, which published it under the title The Life We Choose. There’s more fiction in The People’s Friend every week, available from newsagents and supermarkets at £1.30.

Artwork: Andrew Lloyd Jones