The Forget-Me-Not Summer (23 page)

Miranda had beamed, delighted with the praise which she honestly felt she had earned, for despite attending evening classes in both typing and shorthand she had continued to study for her school certificate, and was always working at her desk or doing some other necessary job well before nine o'clock in the morning.

Since moving into the flat and on Mrs Grimshaw's advice, she had spent a good deal of her salary on the
sort of clothes she could not have dreamed of buying before – not dance dresses, though she intended to purchase one as soon as she felt she could afford it – but what she thought of as sensible office clothing: a green pleated skirt, a crisp white blouse and a dark green cardigan. Steve, still working in his factory, also spent some of his wages on what he thought of as ‘suitable clothing' for taking a young lady – Miranda – out to the cinema or the theatre, or for similar treats.

And Steve was not the only young man who took her about. Gerald Grimshaw, though still at school, managed to see her at least once a week and made it plain that he enjoyed her company. Miranda thought Steve did not altogether approve of this friendship, though he never said so, and Miranda did her best not to favour one above the other, though, as she told him, Steve would always be her bezzie.

Right now, however, the two were in the tiny kitchenette of the flat in Russell Street engaged in the tear-jerking task of pickling onions. Miranda had procured a promise from a stallholder in the Great Homer Street market to sell, on Miranda's behalf, as many jars of pickled onions as she could provide, and naturally she would make a small profit herself on every jar. When she had told Steve that this was going to be her way of paying for various little extras, like a dance frock, he had agreed at once to come round on weekends and evenings and give her a hand. So now the two sat on opposite sides of the kitchen table, packing the peeled onions into jars, adding vinegar, and sealing and labelling the jars ready to be ferried to the market on the stallholder's handcart.

Steve topped the jar he was filling with vinegar, closed
the lid and got up. ‘I'll put the kettle on; I reckon we deserve a cup of tea after so much hard work,' he said. ‘And just you remember, queen, who it is what's ruinin' his eyesight so's you can buy a dance dress; it's Steven Mickleborough, not Gerald Grimshaw.'

‘Well, I enjoy going around with Gerald because we talk about lots of things I'd never have heard of if he hadn't told me,' Miranda explained. ‘You're much more practical, Steve.' She chuckled. ‘You took me horse racing, and to the football matches, so now I'm an Everton supporter and I know a bit about racing as well. But Gerald's helped me to understand why we're liable to go to war quite soon, for instance.' She grinned at her old friend. ‘So you see, I value you both very highly, but in different ways. And Gerald will be off to university in a couple of years, so no doubt he'll lose interest in a little shorthand-typist and take up with an undergraduette, if that's what they call them.'

Steve sniffed. ‘Well, so long as you don't let him take you dancing, I suppose I can't grumble.'

‘Why don't you take me dancing yourself?' Miranda asked, knowing the answer full well. ‘I know I don't have a decent dress yet, but I'm sure I don't mind going to the Grafton or the Daulby Hall in my office skirt and jumper.'

Steve grinned but shook his head. ‘What, make a fool of myself in front of half Liverpool?' he said derisively. ‘I can't dance; me brother Ted, the one what's in the Navy, says he'll learn me next time he's ashore for more than a few days . . .'

‘
Teach
me, not learn me,' Miranda said instructively. ‘If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times.'

‘What does it matter? You nag on when I asks you to borrow me half a dollar, but you know full well what I mean,' Steve said crossly. ‘Stop tryin' to educate me, woman, or I'll forget meself and give you a clack round the ear. Oh, that reminds me, your horrible Aunt Vi stopped me as I was coming home from work yesterday and axed me why you'd not been to see them, nor you hadn't give them your new address. I lied in me teeth and telled her I didn't know and she give me a right glare, and nodded so hard that her chins wobbled. Then she said it weren't right, that woman keepin' you away from her kith and kin. She meant Mrs Grimshaw, of course. Then she said Beth wanted to know, because you cousins had always been fond of one another.' He pulled a face at Miranda. ‘How I kept meself from laughin' out loud I'll never know, but I just managed it. Anyhow, she puffed off, mutterin', but I thought I'd better warn you.'

‘Thanks, Steve, you're a real pal,' Miranda said gratefully. ‘But in a way Aunt Vi's right; she really ought to have my address, and I wouldn't mind Beth seeing my new place, especially since I've got a flat share, which means Beth can't expect to be taken in.'

Miranda had met Avril Donovan at her shorthand and typing classes. Avril was a very large girl indeed, both tall and broad, with flaxen hair cut in a shining bob and merry blue eyes. She had been brought up in children's homes since her parents had been killed in a road accident when she was thirteen, and she was living in a hostel, but as soon as Miranda mentioned that she was looking for a flat share Avril had begged to be allowed to see the flat and, if Miranda was agreeable, to share it on a month's trial. Very soon the two girls realised that
they were getting along famously, for Avril was an easy-going, hard-working girl, always willing to do more than her fair share of the work, since she was so grateful to Miranda for letting her live in the flat. To add to her other accomplishments, Avril was a good cook, having worked in a big bakery, so they took it in turns to prepare meals, and once they had had a small party, the guests being Steve, Julian and Gerald and, to make numbers even, one of the girls who worked with Avril at her clothing factory.

Very much to Miranda's surprise, Julian had liked Avril, and Miranda, who had secretly thought of him as rather a snob, had to change her mind. Avril was sweet, but she talked with a broad Liverpool accent and knew nothing of books, seeming almost proud of the fact that reading was a chore she had never really cared for, whereas Julian, who was working hard for his exams and hoping to go to university in the autumn, talked of things that had even Gerald mystified.

The party had been a great success but it had also cost a bit more than the girls expected. Since both of them were saving up, though for different reasons, they decided that parties would have to be rare events.

Very early in their relationship – in fact when Avril, sprawling across the kitchen table, had been writing a letter to one of her pals – Miranda had told her new friend all about her mother's mysterious disappearance. ‘So whilst I'm saving up for a dance dress, it'll come from Paddy's Market, the same as all my clothes have,' she had admitted. ‘Because what I'm really saving up for is my mother's return. I know she's not disappeared for ever, but I do think she may be in a similar condition
to that of the friend who lived in this flat before I took over. Missie was kidnapped . . .'

When the story was finished, Avril had nodded understandingly. ‘Of course, if your mother was kidnapped, like your pal Missie, and is now in a foreign country, she might well find it real hard to make folk believe her story, and lend her money to buy a passage home,' she had agreed. ‘But if you find out where she is and go over there with all your cash, you'll be able to rescue her. That's what you're hopin', ain't it?'

‘That's right,' Miranda had said after an appreciable pause. ‘The thing is, when she first disappeared I was frantically worried and cross, so that when people thought she'd just gone off with a man of her own free will I stopped thinking logically. You see, I – I wasn't a very good daughter to her, only I didn't realise it until quite recently. My friend Steve – you've met him – does all sorts for his mother, and never a word of complaint. I took it for granted that Arabella would do all the housework, even iron my clothes, and give me pocket money for doing nothing but grumble when things didn't go my way. She liked me to call her Arabella, by the way, instead of Mum.'

Avril, laughing, had said she understood. ‘I were real difficult at that age; I can't think how me mam stood me,' she had assured Miranda. ‘If she said black, I'd say white; if she said go, I'd say stay; and if she asked me to do something – shoppin' or givin' a hand wi' the cleanin' – I'd do me best to wriggle out of it somehow. But I'm sure your mam wouldn't have run off to escape from you, kiddo. So if that's what's botherin' you . . .'

‘Oh, it's not,' Miranda had said at once. ‘As I told you,
I'm ninety-nine per cent sure she was kidnapped. No, I'm a hundred per cent certain that it was Arabella Missie saw being dragged down to the docks. But whatever happened, I'm sure she's alive and well, though naturally I can't explain why she doesn't seem to have made any effort to come home . . . or perhaps I should say that her efforts haven't been successful.'

‘You mentioned memory loss, and the fact that she was probably sleepwalkin' at the time of her disappearance,' Avril had said thoughtfully. ‘Oh, I'm sure you're right and she'll turn up again sometime . . .' she had grinned at her friend, ‘and then I'll lose me lovely flat share and be cast out on the world. Or perhaps you'll let me have a shakedown in the livin' room until your mam sets you up like a queen in a proper house like the one you lived in before she disappeared.'

Now, however, Steve was handing her a steaming mug of tea and suggesting that they might take the jars of pickles along to the Great Homer Street market whilst there was still some daylight left. Miranda agreed that this was a good idea. ‘Avril's gone to have tea with a friend, so we've got the flat to ourselves until nine or ten this evening,' she said. ‘So when we've dumped the pickles, what do you say to fish and chips for supper?'

Steve agreed that this sounded good and the two set off, carrying the many jars of pickled onions down the stairs and stacking them on the borrowed handcart.

‘Good thing you've got a pal with plenty of muscles around,' Steve said, tapping his chest with a forefinger. ‘You'd of been hard put to it to get this thing over cobbles without cracking any of the jars, if I hadn't been with you.'

Miranda, heaving manfully at one of the handles, reminded him that Avril was pretty strong and that, at a pinch, she might have persuaded Gerald to give a hand, but as they reached the market and puffed to a halt beside Mrs Inchcombe's stall Steve made a derisive noise. ‘Oh, ha, ha, that's a likely one!' he said. ‘As you said yourself, earlier, Gerald is a good one to talk, but it's me that's good at doing.'

A lively argument might have developed, but at that moment the stallholder came out to greet them, and began to unload the handcart on to her stall. She was an enormously fat woman clad in a voluminous striped overall, with a thick scarf tied cornerwise over her hair, a muffler round her neck and large boots on her feet. She made admiring remarks about the onions, said they would all be sold within a week and waved them off with promises to take any more that they might produce, as soon as the ones that they had delivered were sold.

They were turning away from the stall, well satisfied, when Mrs Inchcombe called them back. ‘You'll want some cash to buy more onions and vinegar,' she said breathlessly. ‘Here's ten bob.' She chuckled richly. ‘Shows I trust you, so don't you go lerrin' me down, queen.'

Miranda pocketed the money gratefully and tucked her hand into Steve's arm. ‘When we get the money for the first lot of onions I'll share it with you,' she said. ‘And you're right, of course; Gerald's a good pal in many ways but I can't see him pickling onions whilst tears plop on to his hands.' She pointed to the brightly lit window of a baker and confectioner's shop. ‘Seeing as how I've got some money and it's a bit early for fish and chips,
I'll pop into Scott's and buy half a dozen sticky buns. We can have them as pudding after the fish and chips.'

Emerging from the shop, Miranda was unprepared when Steve suddenly shouted: ‘Race you to the next lamppost!'

‘Anyone would take us for a couple of kids,' she panted as they hurtled along the crowded pavement, causing a good few outraged shouts as they dodged folk hurrying along. They galloped into Russell Street, Miranda remarking that the run would have done them good after being shut up in the flat for most of the day, and saw a slim figure standing at the foot of the staircase which led to the flat. For one unbelieving moment Miranda thought it was Arabella, but the woman turned her head to smile, and even in the faint glow from the streetlamp she recognised Mrs Grimshaw. They stopped at the foot of the stairs and Miranda addressed her friend.

‘What's up, Mrs Grimshaw? I wasn't supposed to be coming out to Holmwood today, was I? I'm pretty sure I told you that Steve and I were going to pickle onions . . . but how rude I am! Do come up to the flat, and we can boil the kettle and have a couple of the buns I've just bought. How nice it is to have a visitor! But I'm afraid the whole place probably reeks of onions, though it won't be quite so bad in the sitting room as in the kitchen.'

Smiling, Mrs Grimshaw followed them up the flight and into the small flat. After the fresh air the kitchen did indeed smell strongly of onions and Steve flung all the windows wide, though they only remained so for a few moments since the cold was crippling. Then he carried the tea tray through into the living room, whilst Miranda
lit the lamp and Mrs Grimshaw arranged the buns on a pretty plate. She said nothing about her reason for calling on Miranda until the tea was poured and the buns handed round, but when she spoke her face was serious. ‘Miranda, my dear, have you ever heard of a typhoon?'