Wyld Dreamers

Stratton, and that’s Mrs Morle.’
She sits by her Rayburn in her cottage just across the lane from Wyld Farm. The range is not fired up today but its presence is a comfort and anyway, this is where she always sits. She puts her legs up on a stool; the cat settles in her lap.
She has been his housekeeper ever since he had bought the place from the last owners, poor Mrs Clarke, God rest her soul. Went to stay with her daughter one spring, caught a chest cold and died in Southampton. Now Mrs Clarke had been a lovely lady; proper formal, always turned out nicely. Skirts and jackets during the day, always a dress for dinner. Mrs Clarke and Mrs Morle saw eye to eye on many subjects, none of which they put into words but was implicit in the way they were in the world.
Not like Seymour Stratton with his leather coat and flowery shirts. What did the man think he looked like? The only visitors to Mrs Clarke would be the family, her daughter or her son and his wife and his children who might stay at a weekend or at Christmas. Local friends might come for lunch or for tea in the garden in the summer. All regular and organised.
Not like Mr Stratton. He didn’t come down much, weekends every so often, but when he did, he would bring friends and food and host parties. Guests arriving in their fancy cars; it could be hard to tell the girls from the men, they all had long hair and high-heeled boots. He would usually have telephoned to ask her if she was free to do extra work on those party weekends. And she would always agree. Extra money was welcome when you were raising a child on your own, wasn’t it? Necessary even. The cost of shoes and the girl always wanting something and saving for the future.
So she’d tidy up on Saturday and Sunday mornings while he and his guests slept and the house was quiet; leave a cold lunch, then come back to wash up before supper. Once he asked her to serve drinks at an evening party but she didn’t like what went on; told him as much so he never asked her again and thank goodness for that.
She pushes the cat off her lap and heats some soup. Lynn will soon be back from work. Her daughter who makes the local boys stand up straight when she passes. Hair as dark as blackbird’s feathers and green eyes like her father. But while Harry was steady, his daughter is capricious. Whatever you told her, she would always check behind a closed door in case there was something she might want.
Mrs Morle puts sandwich spread on a piece of bread. She felt sorry for Seymour’s son. Little Julian had come down on those post-party mornings, his father nowhere to be seen, sleeping with one of the women he’d driven down with, no doubt. He’d have wet the bed but wouldn’t say; would leave the wet sheets stuffed behind a door as though they might disappear. The poor little scrap would sit near her as she worked, telling her about his favourite car or cartoon character. So many glasses to wash and polish dry, so many potatoes to peel, there was plenty of time for Julian to chatter on. He was a sweet boy and lonely, too, having to spend the weekend with his father’s friends who, from the empty wine and whisky bottles left all over the house, drank a lot of alcohol at their parties. And from the strange smell of hand-rolled cigarette stubs left scattered, did other things unsuitable for a boy to witness. She did not like to think about it.
So much cleaning to do when they left. Every bedroom in the house used, and some sofas too from the bed linen that was strewn everywhere. Washing, drying, folding and tidying. Sometimes guests left a tip in the bedroom. The extra money was nice but taking it made her feel like a servant. A difficult house to keep clean what with the crumbling plaster, draughty windows making the dust swirl, and letting dogs come in the house. But Mr Stratton never complained about her work or begrudged her the money she cost him.
She could never work out why but, despite his habits and the way he lived and the fact that she definitely disapproves of him, Mrs Morle likes Seymour. She sets the table. There is something about the man that is hard to resist. She can’t put it any other way. He appreciates her as a woman. Every Christmas he gives her a bottle of scent beautifully wrapped in shiny paper and tied with ribbon. She savours every perfumed dab.
Now Mr Stratton tells her that Julian is going to live at Wyld Farm with some friends. She isn’t sure how she feels about cleaning for a group of young people and anyway, shouldn’t they be back at home with their parents and looking for jobs? How do these young people afford to live? Like that strange girl, Stella; as skittish as a race horse. She must have parents? Aren’t they bothered about what she gets to, hanging around at Mr Stratton’s house?
‘How was today, love?’
The door of the cottage slams open as Lynn slouches past. ‘Boring as usual,’ is the reply, then the girl wearily climbs the steps to her room. A creak overhead suggests she has climbed into bed. There is silence.
The train pulls into the station. Maggie Bond catches the bus waiting outside. Almost immediately she falls asleep, rocked as it swerves along empty Sunday lanes. Mother has worn her out. She wakes up as it stops.
‘Market square.’ The driver sounds bored.
On the steps of a fountain, two girls in heavy boots sit smoking cigarettes. Maggie gathers up her belongings, hoping her brother will turn up before she has to leave the safety of the bus. She