Margaret Leonards had fallen ill quite suddenly, as in a dream where time does not move in any proper order. None of her daughters arrived to see her while she was bedridden, wrapped up in her stillness and illness. Her only company was her granddaughter, Charlotte. But then, nearer to Easter, just when the crocuses bloom and chocolates fill the shops, the daughters appeared, drawn by the memory of country treats their mother still prepared, as if those delicacies called them from far off places.
Margaret met them at the garden gate, her presence crisp and cold as a spring morning.
“Why have you come?” she said, her voice like the clang of a distant church bell.
Her eldest, Abigail, froze in disbelief. “Mother, whats this about?” she gasped.
“Oh, nothing! Thats all, my dears! Ive sold up everything… the whole place,” Margaret announced with an odd whirl of finality.
“How? And uswhat about us?” The daughters blinked at her, not understanding this peculiar unfolding, words floating about as if on wispy London fog.
Life in Little Woodford was as flat and predictable as the endless clouds rolling over the downs. Thus, anything that might disturb its tedious landscape became a tale worth telling. But the arrival of Charlotte, granddaughter of the retired village shopkeeper, spun the village into dreamlike commotion, as if someone had spilled a bottle of ink onto a page of an old storybook.
It was said that the more delicate ladies clasped their hands and sighed at sight of her, her steps humming with distant city tunes.
“Oh, Charlotte!” they murmured. “What a girl! Clever as you like! Shes shown them all! Now, let them turn green with envy!”
Most of the villages upstanding women could barely conceal their irritation as Charlotte, gleaming in her polished Range Roverits black paint as deep as midnightglided through the twisting village lanes. The entire population of Little Woodford turned out, like unmoored chess pieces, to witness this odd, historic parade.
Old women dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs stitched in pink thistle, whispering, “Is this truly happening? Its as if shes real-life Cinderella!”
Indeed, it seemed destiny had wrapped Charlotte in that old nickname, Cinderella, since she was just a slip of a thing.
Now Charlotte had every right to look down her gentle nose at the neighbours who once laughed behind bent teacups at her patched raincoat.
She glimpsed local musician Peter, and waved from the open window, her voice all bells.
“Mr. Parker, lovely to see you! Hows your health?”
“Doing just fine! Charlotte, pop into the village hall for rehearsal, wont you?”
“Absolutely, see you there!”
With a whoosh, the shiny car vanished past the ancient yew tree, leaving the villagers to meander home, legs heavy, stories spinning. Peter Parker, all satisfaction, announced,
“Well done, that girl! Got exactly where she wanted. Now its our nurses turn next, you mark my words.”
Old Mrs. Pritchard peered, nose wrinkled, and asked, “Whatve they to do with it?”
“Oh, Mrs. P, dont you know? Todays the day most will feel the green-eyed monster creeping in! A proper affliction, I say!”
Mrs. Pritchard flapped him off, crossed herself with superstitious haste, and rushed to her cottage, slippers whispering on flagstones.
Peter Parker was never offended by such things; he knew she meant no harm. With a long sigh, he settled outside the village hall, thoughts swirlinglike pink-frosted meringuesabout Charlottes strange fortune.
Once, Peter had played a central and literal role in Charlottes life. Shed lost her mother far too early, her father having vanished into the city and never returned. No relative wished to be saddled with extras, so Charlotte lived nearly two years in the county orphanage, dreaming of kittens and apple pips.
But something twinged in Margarets heart, and she reclaimed her granddaughter to the village.
Her neighbours applauded the act, crowing, “If only more folk were like Margaret Leonards!” But some, eyes sharp as magpies, muttered, “Government subsidies, thats why! Kind old Margaret just wants a bit of extra cash. Can you really believe theres kindness in her heart?” For Margaret had a dark reputationa shopkeeper whod slip a second penny on your bill and squabble with all the neighbours about fence lines and lost chickens.
Margarets favour extended only to her son, Dr. Edward, working at the district hospital, and her two city-dwelling daughters. All three made regular pilgrimages, baskets in hand, for suppliessugar, eggs, cheese, jams, appleswhatever might be harvested from Margarets impressively large kitchen garden, whose scale invited jealous looks from even the most successful farmers in Hampshire.
Dozens of ducks preened by the pond, hens as ruddy as russets, piglets grunted, and goats eyed whatever scraps might fall their way. Two acres of land was required for such industriousness, and Margaret saw no reason not to mine her memories for labour; she remembered little Charlotte.
Over cups of tea, Margaret confided in her childhood friend Sarah, who had worked beside her in the village shop since they both wore pigtails.
“Ill take Charlotte inno need for her to wander those orphanage halls,” Margaret said. “And the village is already wagging tongues, saying I abandoned her.”
Sarah nodded, her dependence on Margaret as deep as the tea pot.
“Right as rain, Margaret. Better for all. And shes old enough now to help with the chores.”
“Youre a clever one, Sarah! While Im at work, Charlotte can see to the animals.”
“What about school?” said Sarah, brow furrowed. “These days, the curriculums impossible. My grandchildren study into the night! And clubs, andI dont knowballet and all that jazz!”
“Shell do without clubs. Theres a good dinner on the table for her, isnt there?”
Small Charlotte was quietly happy, running wild, completing any task handed down, and soon the neighbours began calling her Cinderellanot as praise, but as mild regret. Many scolded Margaret.
“Leonards, have a word with yourself! That girl looks like a ghost in your gardenutterly worn to a wisp!”
Margaret cut them dead. “Mind yourselves! She wants to work, clever as you like. Shell finish school and train as a vet,” she declared. She planned it all, as if scripting a play. But dreams, even Margarets, changed their lines.
One glittering summer, a new woman arrived to run the village hall. Julia had just finished art college in Oxford and was eager to stir up talents as if shaking lost coins from old sofas.
She didnt have to coax Peter, whod always fancied himself a mentor.
“Miss Turner,” he said, “If I only had a new clarinet, Id lead a band thatd have the farmers leaping from their tractors. We used to raise the spirits of the ploughmen with our tunes!”
Julia called him the very next day.
“Give it a go, Mr. Parker! The instruments old, but itll do in a pinch!”
Peter launched into a sprightly tune, soon rounding up local choristers. Yet no soloist completed his band. He told Julia so.
“No soloist, Miss Turner, is like roast beef without horseradish. Where do we find a young lass with a voice?”
Julia smiled, a secret smile. “I know just where one might be. Bring your clarinet!”
The village school was abuzz as girls queued, fretting over old folk tunes and pop ballads. Charlottes form teacher, Miss Judith, insisted, “Dont give me that, Charlotte! Ive heard you sing!”
Charlotte nearly cried. “Miss Judith, I cant! I need to get homeGrandma will be furious!”
“She wont, not if I talk to her. Imagine if luck handed you a winning ticket today.”
Torn between dread and hope, Charlotte agreed. “Fine, but lets not drag it out.”
She sang everything she could recall, her only previous audience being piglets and goats, or birds in the fields. She owned a voice of pure silver, drawing silent awe from Julia.
“A prodigy! Not a note out of place!”
Big changes followed. Margaret had to ease Charlottes chores; teachers had won the argument. The thought troubled Margaret, who confided in Sarah:
“So now I feed Charlotte for nothing at all? Dragged off for concerts, and Im meant to manage on my meagre pension?”
“You get a carers allowance though!”
“Oh, what use? And shoes and frocks dont come cheap! I thought shed work summers and know the value of a pound. What does this singing nonsense bring?”
Sarahs eyes glimmered. “Margaret, mark my wordsten years from now, Charlotte could be a famous singer, her face in the papers, on telly!”
Margaret snorted. “And what good would that do me? Ive got other children to help. The animals wont feed themselves!”
Sarah gave her a look as if seeing her for the very first time.
“Honestly, Margaret, you are just like the wicked stepmother in the Cinderella stories! Just look at Charlotteshes worn out, poor child!”
After that, their lifelong friendship frayed, and Margaret was left with no one left to understand her dark moods.
Charlotte went from triumph to triumph: travelling with the village band across every corner of Hampshire, her songs raising spirits in muddy barns and cold village halls. She won at the county competition, but local fame did not go to her head. She stayed patient and devoted to her grandmother, and when Margaret fell suddenly unwell, Charlotte tended her round the clock.
The daughters did not visit then, as if time had curled up tight. They returned, as always, around Easter, in search of scones and pies and jams, not family.
Margaret greeted them by the old gate.
“Why have you come?” she said again, a shiver in her words.
Abigail stared. “Mother, whats happened to you?”
“Oh, nothing, darling girls. Ive sold all the livestock and the garden patch everything!”
“Whatyou mean, and what about us? The daughters looked lost, like children dreaming on Christmas morning and finding the tree bare.
“Well, you can go to the shops and buy what you need. Ive not the strength to cater for you all any longer.”
“And Charlotte? What of her?”
Margarets thin patience broke.
“Charlotte isnt your skivvy! Not for you or anyone! When I was ill, none of you came. You come only when theres something to be had! Well, no more. I deserve a bit of rest in my old age!”
“And Charlotteshe deserves to study, maybe even become a real singer!”
The sisters drove off empty-handed. Margaret went to find Sarah.
“Thank you, old friend, for opening my eyes! I nearly ruined Charlottes life. Now will you help me sell the meat?”
“What meat, Maggie?”
“All of itsave for one goat I kept for company!”
“Quite right, too. And your daughters?”
“Theyll have to manage. They only know how to take. I count no hopes there”
Years flew. Charlotte vanished from Little Woodford for a long while, pulled by recitals, lessons, and stages across the country. Yet she called Margaret often, sent her fun parcels and pounds in cheery cards. Despite her schedule, she found a week to return home at last.
A rustle came from the back seat, then a young voice, sleep-warmed and bright.
“Mum, are we nearly at Grannys?”
“Almost, Max! Looktheres Granny waiting for us!”
Despite her years, Margaret stood strong as an ancient oak. She scooped up her great-grandson, showering him in kisses.
“Oh, my little sunshine! I thought Id never see this day!”
She kissed Charlotte, more carefullya performers hair must remain neat.
“I watched you on the telly, and let me tell youmost beautiful out there!”
Charlotte hugged her back. “Nonsense. Im nobody specialI just sing a bit!”
“Dont be shy, youre a true artist!”
“If not for you and Uncle Peter, Id be nothing. Id still be Cinderella, lost in the larder.”
Margaret smiled. “Except, in the story, a fairy godmother turned a pumpkin into a carriage and found her a prince. You built your own future with your own hands”
Charlotte briefly tucked her tired old hands out of sight, but Margaret noticed, and hid her own wrinkled face in Charlottes shoulder, weeping and asking forgiveness for hurts long forgotten.
Charlotte had let go of all resentment; for her, the most important thing of all was having someone to lovesomeone to care for, and call her own, in this strange, ever-shifting dream called life.
