Down an English Lane (26 page)

She looked appraisingly at her mother, sitting opposite her. ‘Have I interrupted something?’ she asked. ‘Are you expecting a visitor? Or maybe one has just left?’ Or is still here, she thought to herself.

Myrtle returned her level glance without any sign of discomfiture or annoyance. ‘As a matter of fact, I have just been taking a bath,’ she replied. ‘We’ve got a bit of a do on tonight at the Ring o’ Bells with it being New Year’s Eve. And I’m expecting Fred – your father,’ she added pointedly. ‘He’ll be home in a couple of hours if he makes good time.’

‘Still long distance lorry driving, is he?’ asked Christine.

‘Yes,’ said Myrtle abruptly. ‘He’s away a lot, but he gets well paid.’ She didn’t mention the sidelines, but Christine guessed that he would have done his share of the racketeering that had gone on during the war years with the black market. ‘He’ll be coming with me tonight to celebrate the New Year… It’s a pity you can’t join us, Chrissie,’ she added. It was clear, though, that she did not want
her daughter there; it was doubtful that anyone knew of Christine’s existence.

‘Thanks all the same,’ she said. ‘It’s nice of you to invite me…’ She paused for a moment before saying, ‘but I’m far too busy. I’m getting married, you see…very soon.’

‘You’re getting married?’ Myrtle regarded her suspiciously. ‘That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?’

‘No, not at all,’ said Christine. ‘Anyway, you wouldn’t know about that, would you? I know I haven’t been to see you – I have been doing my bit towards winning the war – but you haven’t bothered to find out what I’ve been doing for the last few years, have you? Actually, I’ve done very well for myself. My fiancé was a pilot during the war – he’s still an officer in the RAF as a matter of fact – and he’s the son of a squire. They own acres of land up in North Yorkshire.’

Myrtle was still looking as though she did not quite believe it. ‘Where, exactly?’ she asked.

‘Oh, I don’t suppose you will have heard of it. A little place called Middlebeck up in the northern dales. His father is the chief landowner in the area.’

‘I see… And what is his name, this flying officer of yours?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ replied Christine. She realised, possibly too late, that the less her mother knew about it the better it might be. She couldn’t divulge the name of the family in case Myrtle tried to dig them out; the Tremaines were under the impression
that she was an orphan. She might have said too much already, but she had been unable to resist doing a bit of boasting. ‘You don’t need to know,’ she went on, ‘because I intend to make a fresh start, far away from Yorkshire. I doubt if our paths will cross again. You and my father have shown me all too clearly that you prefer to live your lives without me…in a way of which I can’t approve. So now – well – I have my own life to live…with a man who means everything to me.’

‘And what has he been told about us then, about me and your father, your disreputable parents?’

‘As much as he needs to know,’ Christine replied, shrugging vaguely. ‘We don’t talk much about what has happened in the past. It’s the future that’s important.’

‘Yes… I see,’ said Myrtle again. ‘And I suppose you’re having a big posh wedding, are you, up in… Middlebeck, did you say?’

‘No, we’re not. It’s a Register Office wedding; just a very quiet affair. That’s the way we both want it to be.’

Myrtle nodded, then a knowing smile spread across her face. ‘Mmm…so you’re up the duff, are you?’ Christine cringed. Her mother’s tone of voice had become more refined over the years, but she still came out with crude expressions that revealed her true background. She did not answer yes or no. ‘I might have guessed you would jump to that conclusion,’ she said, smiling at her mother in a
superior manner. ‘Some of us do have other things on our minds apart from sex.’

‘Then I take it that that’s a yes,’ said Myrtle, grinning. She was not one to take offence. ‘I can read you like a book, our Chrissie.’ Christine, in spite of herself, felt a momentary pang of what could be affection at the possessive form of address. ‘OK then, we’ll be going our separate ways,’ her mother continued, ‘but there’s no reason why we shouldn’t have a toast to the future.’ She stood up and went over to the display cabinet, the top half of which pulled down to show an array of bottles and glasses. ‘What’s your tipple? Whisky, brandy, or what about a gin and lime?’

‘Yes…gin and lime will be fine, thank you,’ said Christine, surprised and rather taken aback at her mother’s gesture. She hadn’t intended to get involved in any sort of social etiquette.

Myrtle handed her a crystal glass of her chosen drink, topped with a piece of lemon. ‘Well, here’s to you then, Christine,’ she said. ‘And…to a happy marriage. I hope it brings you all that you desire.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, noticing the shrewd expression in her mother’s eyes. ‘I’m sure that it will.’

She did not stay long after that, declining to stay and wait for her father’s return, as Myrtle suggested. What would be the point? He might be another hour at least, and she had already stayed longer than she had intended. They said goodbye
without a kiss or even a handshake, but each of them was aware of something very close to regret in the other one’s glance.

Myrtle watched the young woman from behind the lace curtains as she hurried away down the avenue towards the main road. That girl is far more like me than she realises, she said to herself, and she did not mean just in looks. There was a ruthless streak in her daughter, a desire to get what she wanted, whatever the cost. I hope she finds the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, she thought. She, Myrtle, had not yet done so.

Chapter Fourteen

I
t was an assorted group of people who met together on the evening of the second of January for the New Year party at the Nixons’ farmhouse. Several of the guests were strangers to Maisie. She had met Irene, Joe’s fiancée, several times, but it was the first time she had encountered the young woman’s parents, Mr and Mrs Hindle, the farmer and his wife from Lowerbeck. Another farming couple was there as well, the aptly named Mr and Mrs Tiller from a farm on the northern side of the dale, who had been friendly with Ada Nixon since long before her husband’s death.

Audrey and Brian were there as friends of Doris, and she, Maisie, had been invited this time as Ted’s girlfriend. Doris did not have a boyfriend, but Maisie noticed that she was talking quite animatedly to one of the Polish immigrants. Ted had told Maisie several weeks ago about their
imminent arrival, and they had made their appearance in Middlebeck a couple of weeks later; a young man by the name of Ivan Delinsky – he was the one who was talking to Doris – and a rather older man, mid-thirties or so, Maisie surmised, who was called Stefan Chevesky. It was kind of Mrs Nixon to invite them to the party, she thought; but folks on the whole had been very welcoming to these strangers who had come into their midst. ‘Displaced persons’ was the name for these refugees who had fled from the Communist regime, not only in Poland, but in several of the eastern European countries. It was an unfriendly, derogatory name for such men – there were, it seemed, far more men than women – who were seeking a peaceful existence after the tyranny of the war years.

Archie and Rebecca Tremaine, as was only to be expected – they were a kindly compassionate couple – had offered them accommodation at Tremaine House, and the two men were employed on the land owned by the squire and on the Nixons’ farm.

The only two guests who had not yet arrived were, in fact, the Tremaines.

‘I wonder what’s keeping Archie and Rebecca?’ said Ada, glancing at the wooden clock on the mantelshelf, which read ten minutes to nine. ‘It’s not like them to be late, and I’m sure they would have let me know if they weren’t coming for some reason. Have you any idea, Stefan?’ She turned to the elder of the two men, who was talking to Anne
Mellodey. ‘Mr and Mrs Tremaine; they will be coming, will they?’

‘I think so…yes,’ he answered. He was dark-haired and of a slim wiry build, with bright, almost black eyes in a lean-featured, but peculiarly handsome face. ‘They were talking together when Ivan and I left the house. Mrs Tremaine was a little distressed, I believe. I do not know why. But I am confident that they will arrive. Not to do so would be impolite and they are the most courteous people.’ He spoke almost faultless and precise English, albeit with a guttural accent; but it was clear that he was an intelligent and probably well educated man. His colleague, Ivan, was taller and more well built, dark-eyed and dark-haired like Stefan, and they both had the gaunt, intense features that marked them out as Eastern Europeans.

‘Thank you, Stefan,’ said Ada. ‘Like you say, they’re sure to turn up sometime. Ne’er mind, there’s nowt much spoiling. I’ll give ’em another ten minutes or so, then we’ll make a start on t’ supper. They’ll not mind; I’ll keep a few sausage rolls and mince pies in t’ oven in case they’re really late… I do hope they’ve not had some bad news though. I know Rebecca was upset that Bruce couldn’t get home for Christmas…’

Ada was talking more to herself than to anyone in particular, but Maisie was listening to what she was saying. Her thoughts, too, flew immediately to
Bruce; to Bruce…and Christine. She would bet ten pounds – at least she would if she had so much money – that it was something to do with Christine that had upset Mrs Tremaine.

‘I’m feeling hungry, what about you?’ said Ted, putting an arm around her. ‘Mam’s been busy nearly all t’ day, and our Doris an’ all, getting it ready. What a spread, eh?’

The table at one end of the spacious farmhouse living room was, indeed, almost groaning beneath the array of appetising food laid out on a pristine white cloth with a crocheted border. ‘That there cloth was a wedding present to Mam and Dad,’ Ted told Maisie. ‘It only comes out on special occasions.’ There were crusty loaves and pats of butter, slices of turkey, succulent pink ham, and pork with crispy brown crackling; pork pies oozing with jelly; pickled onions, beetroot and homemade piccalilli; a huge trifle topped with cream and glacé cherries; fruit cake, gingerbread, shortbread and chocolate biscuits; and, as Ada had said, sausage rolls and mince pies warming in the kitchen oven. The idea would be for everyone to help themselves then find a place to eat, informally, as at a picnic.

The room was a large one, comfortably, if a little shabbily, furnished. There was an assortment of chairs; chintz covered armchairs and a matching settee, two round-backed Windsor chairs, beloved of farming folk, and several wooden ones of the ladderback type. An oak dresser on which Ada kept
her day to day as well as her best china and crockery stood against one wall, and the Victorian sideboard with the mirrored back at the other side of the room was the depository for the detritus of everyday living – photographs, fruit bowl and matching biscuit barrel in a bold design of red, blue and gold; magazines and letters and unfinished knitting and sewing – but the clutter had been pushed back to accommodate the scores of Christmas cards. Others were hanging on strings fastened to the walls and, as it was not yet Twelfth Night, other evidence of the festive season still abounded. There was a pine tree, now shedding its needles, which scented the room with its tangy aromatic perfume. It was decorated with shining glass baubles and tinsel, with a lop-sided angel with a damaged wing on the top. Paper streamers of red, white and green were strung from corner to corner of the ceiling, and tissue paper bells, stars and a fat Santa Claus, which all opened out concertina fashion, adorned the walls and chimney breast. And a bunch of mistletoe, which Ted had already put to good use, hung over the doorway.

So far the guests had just mingled, forming little groups and chatting together as they sipped at their glasses of dark brown sherry or orange juice, to the background of music from the wind-up gramophone; Bing Crosby, Glenn Miller and Joe Loss and his orchestra.

It was dead on nine o’clock that there was a
knock at the back door – the kitchen door, through which guests usually entered – then Ada ushered in Rebecca and Archie Tremaine.

‘I’m sorry we’re late,’ said Rebecca. Her eyes looked extra bright; it could have been with tears, or with the frosty air. ‘Oh dear! I hope you haven’t been waiting for us.’

‘Not at all,’ said Ada. ‘Nine o’clock’s the time to serve supper, and it’s nine o’clock now, so you’re dead on time. Here, give me yer coats, and you go and have a warm by the fire. It’s a bit parky out tonight, it is that.’

There was a glowing log fire burning in the stone hearth, and Archie and Rebecca stood together at one side of it. Everyone had fallen silent at the arrival of the last guests. Rebecca looked at her husband and gave a slight nod as if to say, Go on, you tell them…

‘We are late,’ said Archie, ‘at least, later than we intended being, and we do apologise for that. The reason is…we’ve had some rather disturbing news today. We’d like to tell you about it now, all of you here, because you’re sure to hear about it sooner or later… I suppose I shouldn’t really say disturbing news, because it’s supposed to be happy news, but it’s been a shock to Becky and me, hasn’t it, love?’

His wife smiled at him sadly, but a look of love and understanding passed between them as she said, ‘Yes, a great shock…’ She took a deep breath,
then she grabbed hold of her husband’s hand. ‘Bruce rang, you see – just a couple of hours ago – to tell us that…that he and Christine are married. They got married today, at the Register Office in Bradford.’

Everyone seemed too stunned to speak. Indeed, what could they say? ‘You mean…you didn’t know anything about it?’ asked Ada, after a silence of a few seconds. ‘No, of course you didn’t,’ she added. ‘That was a silly thing for me to say. But I mean… Oh, you poor things! I can understand how you feel. But why? Did Bruce say why?’

Maisie was shocked and bewildered, as was everyone else. But it was just as she had surmised; the Tremaines’ late arrival was due to Bruce and Christine, although she wouldn’t have guessed that they were married. She felt that Ada’s question about the reason for the hasty wedding was rather tactless. I bet she’s pregnant, she thought, and following this thought there came a stab of anguish as she envisaged Bruce and that girl together, like that.

‘He said they wanted a quiet ceremony without any fuss,’ said Archie. Rebecca, once again, seemed troubled and unable to say any more. ‘That’s all very well, I suppose; it’s their wedding when all’s said and done; I know our Bruce was never one for a great deal of fuss and palaver. But Becky here was looking forward to them having a nice big do. Christine hasn’t any relatives of her own, you know,
and we felt we wanted to do what we could for the girl and to give them a good send-off, but…’ He shrugged. ‘It seems that it wasn’t to be. Anyroad, let’s try and make the best of it; there’s no point in us sitting around moping… Come on now, Ada. Let’s get tucking into this ’ere supper, shall we? Becky and I have come here to enjoy ourselves.’ He put a protective arm around his wife and, to everyone’s relief, she gave a smile and a little laugh.

‘I’ll do my best,’ she said.

Everyone tucked into the magnificent spread as though there were no tomorrows, several of the younger guests, including the two Polish men, returning for second helpings. It was all truly delicious. Ada Nixon was a bountiful hostess, not seeming to mind that most of the work was falling upon her, with a little help from her daughter; or that she was the only one of the gathering who did not have a partner for the evening. She seemed contented, quite happy, in fact, and Maisie was not the only one who had noticed that Ada had looked far less anxious since the death of her husband. There were several of her friends who had guessed – though they kept their own counsel – that it had not been the happiest of marriages…and that maybe she was not keen to embark on another one.

Nobody was sure whether or not it was intentional that there was an equal number of men and women there, not counting Ada. But it became obvious as the evening progressed that the single, so
far unattached people, had paired off. Doris and Ivan appeared to be getting on very well together; his arm was around her as they sat with their heads close together in a corner of the room. And Anne Mellodey and Stefan, also, seemed to be enjoying one another’s company, although their behaviour was more restrained than that of the younger couple.

When the carpet square had been rolled back from the wooden floor some of the couples danced together to the rather scratchy gramophone records of Joe Loss, Glen Miller and Geraldo. The two farming couples and the Tremaines were the first to take to the floor; Rebecca appeared to have brightened up considerably amidst the cheerful company, and maybe as a result of a few glasses of sherry.

The bombshell that they had dropped had not been talked about. No doubt everyone was drawing their own conclusion, rightly or wrongly; but everyone showed themselves determined to rally round and to make sure that the popular couple, their squire and his wife, had a ‘reight good time of it’.

They played a few party games; they did their best to instruct Stefan and Ivan in the intricacies of ‘My grandfather’s cat is an amiable cat; my grandfather’s cat is a beautiful cat, a crafty cat, a dangerous cat…’ and so on, all through the alphabet, to the accompaniment of much stuttering
and puzzled frowns and gales of good-hearted laughter. Everyone was delighted when Rebecca won the ‘Pass the Parcel’ prize, a half pound box of Black Magic chocolates. Ted didn’t seem to mind that his record of ‘In the Mood’ became even more scratchy with the constant lifting and putting down of the gramophone needle.

As midnight approached all the guests began to make moves towards departing. The farming folk knew that not many more hours remained before they would need to get out of bed again, and the three girls, Maisie, Audrey and Doris, had a busy time ahead of them. The pantomime,
Cinderella
, for which they had been rehearsing for the past few months, was to be performed on the following three nights.

‘Let me stay and help you with the washing up, Mrs Nixon,’ said Maisie, eyeing the mountain of pots piled up by the stone sink in the kitchen.

‘Bless you, no; I wouldn’t dream of it,’ replied Ada, ‘but it’s kind of you to offer, and I know that you mean it. We’ll tackle it in the morning, our Doris and me. No, you get along home now; our Ted’ll see you safely back. Goodnight, Maisie love, and God bless.’ She kissed her affectionately on the cheek. ‘It’s been a grand evening, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes, it has. I really enjoyed it,’ said Maisie, meaning it sincerely. In spite of the disturbing news, she had, indeed, enjoyed herself. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’

‘Of course we’d invite you,’ laughed Ada. ‘You’re practically one of the family now, aren’t you? Now, off you go. See, Ted’s got your coat for you…’