Snapshots

Peggy was fidgeting again. She couldn’t help it; the lessons her mother insisted on were so boring.  Why should she have to learn how to darn and cook and clean while her brother got to learn to repair motors and build furniture?  It really wasn’t fair.

“Margaret Elizabeth Carter!” her mother scolded from the kitchen. “Cease that fidgeting at once!”  Peggy sighed, stilling her leg with a bit of effort and refocusing on the task at hand.  She grimaced as the needle punctured her finger, then bent her head obediently over the skirt she was working on.  After several seconds, her mother moved off, and Peggy sighed, scowling down at the faded beige material in her lap.

“Psst! Peg!” a familiar voice hissed and Peggy looked up, grinning at her older brother who was leaning through the open window. “What’re you doing?” Michael asked.

Peggy wrinkled her nose. “I’m repairing this awful skirt,” she replied holding up the fabric and needle as proof.  Then she took a second look at him.  “What were you doing?” she demanded.

Her brother rubbed his nose, smearing grease as he did so. “Charlie needed help in the garage,” he grimaced.  Peggy giggled; Charlie was a crotchety sixty-something local mechanic with a habit of scaring off his employees by throwing tools at their heads.  For some reason, Michael liked the old man and would happily fill in between assistants.

“Yeah, well, you’d best get your hands off that sill before mama comes sees you looking all scruffy,” she told him, needle and thread forgotten as she rose from her seat to join him by the window. “You know how mad she’ll be if you leave dirty fingerprints all over the place.”

Michael’s eyes were sparkling as he grinned up at her. It was a look Peggy knew well; it meant he was about to get them both in trouble.  “Then why don’t you join me? Surely sewing can’t be more interesting than the Mercedes-Benz Roadster that came in,” he said, waggling his eyebrows comically.  Peggy laughed, quickly covering her mouth and glancing over her shoulder.  Her mother was nowhere in sight, and Peggy caved to the inevitable – fast cars were more fun that something as silly as sewing, after all – and hopped up onto the windowsill, swinging her feet outside before dropping lightly to the ground and ducking down, out of immediate view.

Michael just rolled his eyes, waiting impatiently as Peggy slipped into a pair of well-worn sneakers that he’d been holding. They had actually been Michael’s at one time, when he was much younger, but they fit Peggy well enough now.  Anyways, her mother got upset when she dirtied a nice pair of shoes, so this seemed like a fair compromise.

“Come on,” Michael hissed impatiently. Peggy raised an eyebrow, then took off running.  “Hey!” her brother called out, surprised, and then he was running after her back towards town, their mother’s angry yells chasing after them.  Peggy glanced back at Michael with narrowed eyes; he’d better run interference with their mother when they returned.  Peggy didn’t fancy being made to hand-sew a dress or shell a bushel of peas as punishment.

By the time they hit the edges of town, Peggy and Michael had slowed to a walk, wandering down the sidewalks with linked arms, surrounded by the noises of a busy England afternoon. It was rare to have a sunny day in the middle of October, as it was England’s rainy season, so people were taking advantage of the nice weather.

“Back again?” Charlie grouched as the two of them rounded the corner of the garage. “Carter, you know better than to bring a broad back here, even if she is your kid sister.”  Peggy didn’t stick around to listen to her brother’s reply, drawn towards the hotrod red of the car his brother had promised she’d see.  She’d never seen this particular roadster around here, so its owner was probably from somewhere else – London, perhaps – and just out on a lark.  Though why they’d bother to bring it to Charlie, she hadn’t the faintest idea.

Her fingers brushed lightly along the car’s side, her eyes soaking in the curves and chrome eagerly. One day, she would own a fast car, her mother’s teachings be damned.  Peggy had a thirst for adventure that her brother shamelessly encouraged, much to the chagrin of their mother.  Their father stayed out of the fights, mostly, unwilling to argue with his wife, but equally reluctant to discourage their willful daughter from pursuing her dreams.

“You like cars?” the male voice wasn’t one she recognized, and Peggy startled upright.

“Don’t sneak up on people like that!” she snapped at the dark-haired stranger watching her from the far side of the car.

The man smiled widely, tilting his head. “My apologies, darlin’,” he drawled.  “I hadn’t realized I was sneaking up on anything but my car.”

Peggy blanched, jerking her hand away from the Roadster’s front fender. She tipped her chin up defiantly, shoulders back; she hadn’t done anything wrong.

“You know anything about cars?” the man asked.

“I don’t even know anything about you!” Peggy retoted. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Michael walking towards them determinedly.

 The car owner saw him, too, and raised an eyebrow.  “Howard.  Howard Stark,” he introduced himself, gesturing at Michael with a careless tip of his hand.  “Boyfriend?” he drawled, amused.

Peggy scowled. “Brother,” she admitted, relaxing a bit with Michael at her back, undoubtedly glaring daggers at the stranger.  Howard.  He certainly didn’t sound English, though.  Certainly not from anywhere that she’d ever been.

“Ah,” Howard murmured, offering his hand to Michael, who shook it firmly. “I was just going to ask your sister here if she’d like to take a peek under the hood.”

Michael’s elbow in her side forestalled her initial excitement, and her brother narrowed his eyes. “I think we’ll pass.  I apologize for the trouble.  C’mon, Peg,” he murmured, steering her gently but pointedly away from the stranger and his car.

Peggy frowned, but allowed Michael to push them both back out the front door before she dug her heels in, bringing them both to a halt, and whirled on her brother. “What was that about?” she hissed at her brother.

Michael grimaced, glancing back as if he expected Mr. Stark to be following them. “Charlie said that bloke has been flirting with every dame that wandered by.”

Peggy raised one eyebrow. “I’m sixteen,” she pointed out.  She was old enough to take care of herself, and if she attracted the attention of an older boy – because he didn’t look that much older than Michael, to be honest – then she was perfectly capable to turning his attentions away herself.

“And he has a bloody Mercedes-Benz!” Michael retorted crudely. Peggy laughed.

“Yes and a fine piece of machinery it is, too!” she demurred. Michael stared at her in mock horror, and Peggy shoved his shoulder.  “Don’t worry, Mr. Stark isn’t really my type,” she reassured him.

“Oh, Mr. Stark is he, now?” Michael teased her back. “Well, come on.  It’s nearly time for tea, and you know mother hates it when we miss tea.”

Just then, the skies opened up. Squealing, Peggy made a dash for home, her brother chasing after her the whole way.