The Forget-Me-Not Summer (32 page)

‘True,' Avril agreed. ‘But kids don't seem to feel the cold. I remember being indifferent to it when it meant playing in the snow.'

Miranda chuckled. ‘I know what you mean. And Steve says we should be grateful, because apparently the weather's just the same on the Continent and that means no planes can take off, not ours nor the Luftwaffe. They're still calling this the phoney war, but if you ask me it's a blessing from heaven for us. It's giving us time to arm ourselves for what is to come. If the weather eases in February, which is only a few days off, then I bet there'll be floods and all sorts. Still, Steve says the weather has given us a breathing space and I reckon he's right.'

Both girls began to move towards the rear of the vehicle as the ting of the bell proclaimed their stop was approaching, and as they stepped from the comparative shelter into the teeth of the storm Miranda grabbed her friend's arm and spoke directly into her ear. ‘You're out at the same time as me for once – because of the weather, I imagine – so why don't we do a flick? We might as well make the most of the opportunity because once it begins to warm up your shifts will return to normal. What do you say?'

‘Good idea,' Avril said. ‘Gary's taking me to the cinema at the weekend but he won't want to see a romance. He's more for action films – Errol Flynn, Douglas Fairbanks, that sort of thing.'

As she spoke they had turned into Russell Street and now they did their best to hurry along the frosted pavements, clattering up the metal stair at speed since they made a point of spreading salt on each step before they left for work in the morning.

Once in the kitchen Miranda unfolded the newspaper she had bought earlier, spread it out on the table and decided that they would enjoy seeing John Barrymore
and Mary Astor in
Midnight
, because, as Avril remarked, it was bound to be a romance and she felt that they could both go for something really lovey-dovey. Avril had begun to take her coat off, then hesitated. ‘It's not far to the cinema where
Midnight
is showing; we can walk there easily, so let's go out straight away. We can buy ourselves some sweets to suck during the performance, and if we hurry we won't miss more than a few minutes of the main feature.'

Miranda looked rather wistfully round the kitchen but agreed with her friend that the sooner they left the sooner they would be in the warmth of the cinema. Accordingly they clattered down the stairs once more and were shortly handing over their money and being shown to their seats by an elderly usherette. She was a friendly and garrulous woman and told them that they were bound to enjoy the film. She herself would be watching it tonight for about the tenth time, since it was the end of the week and tomorrow a new film would be showing. ‘It's grand seeing all the stars for free,' she confided, flashing her torch along the almost empty rows of seats. ‘Sit where you like, gairls, there ain't no one goin' to check tickets on such a night. Come far, have you?'

‘Not far,' Miranda replied. She took off her damp coat and spread it out on the seat next to the one she had chosen. ‘Aha, it's the newsreel, I see; we're earlier than we thought.'

‘Thank goodness,' Avril muttered as the usherette moved away. ‘I know Scousers are friendly but I were afraid she were goin' to plonk down in the seat next to mine, and talk all the way through the newsreel.'

Miranda chuckled, wriggling back into her seat and suddenly conscious of how tired she was. On the screen, pictures came and went. Men making battleships in a large factory up in Scotland somewhere, a warehouse blaze in the London suburbs caused by a carelessly dropped match, a number of Boy Scouts on their bicycles riding through the city streets as the new age messengers who would take the place of the members of the forces who had previously done such work.

Miranda could feel her eyelids beginning to droop as the commentator talked on. ‘America may not have entered the war yet, but her citizens are working hard to show they are on our side; these women are making up food parcels for our troops . . .' The picture on the screen showed women in turbans and overalls at long benches, packing biscuits, chocolate and other foodstuffs into small brown boxes. Others were in factories, making aeroplane parts, whilst their sisters joined concert parties to raise money for their cousins across the sea.

Miranda tried to fight the desire to fall asleep and was jerked suddenly awake by Avril's voice. ‘Gee whizz, ain't she just the prettiest thing you've ever seen?' Avril said. ‘All that fantastic hair . . .' Miranda's eyes shot open. The screen was flickering, about to change, but she still managed to glimpse the woman to whom her friend had referred. Miranda rose in her seat like a rocket when you light the blue touch paper. She clutched Avril's arm so hard that her friend gave a protesting squeak. ‘What's up, chuck?' she said.

But Miranda cut across her. ‘It's my mother!' she shouted. ‘Oh, won't somebody stop the film, wind it back? I was almost asleep, I just caught the merest
glimpse . . . oh, Avril, did it give names, addresses, anything like that?'

But the newsreel had come to an end, the curtains swished across and their erstwhile friend came waddling slowly down the stairs at the back of the circle with a tray of sweets and ice creams round her neck. A few customers left their seats and, producing their money, went across to the usherette.

Avril, meanwhile, positively gawped at her friend. ‘Wharron earth's got into you, Miranda?' she said plaintively. ‘What do you mean, it's your mother? I thought you said she were dead . . . and anyway it couldn't possibly be your mam, because the feller talkin' was in America – well, I think he was – so what makes you think . . .'

Miranda gave a moan. ‘Oh, Avril, don't you ever
listen
?' she demanded. ‘Other people said my mother must be dead after it was discovered that the ship she had sailed on had been lost in a storm. But I never believed it, never, never, never! We were close, Arabella and I, so I was always sure that had she been drowned I would have known it in my bones and given up all hope. But I never did – give up hope, I mean – and now I'm certain sure that she's alive. Oh, how can I bear to sit through the main feature and the B film before I can see the newsreel again?' She had stood up when the newsreel was coming to a close but now she sat down with a thump and turned appealingly to Avril. ‘Will you come with me to the manager's office to ask him to rerun the newsreel straight away? It's most awfully important that I have proof of Arabella's being alive, and of where she is at the moment. You say the women in the newsreel were Americans.
Well, the authorities would have to let me go to America if I explained. America's a neutral country, isn't it? Oh, surely they'll let me go on one of those ships that Steve told me about? They're taking airmen who want to become pilots over to the States so that they can be trained in a no war zone. If I swore I'd work my passage in some way . . .'

Avril cut across what she clearly regarded as her friend's ramblings. ‘For God's sake, chuck, don't talk such rubbish!' she urged. ‘Even if it was your mother you saw on the newsreel – and I don't think it was because I'd looked at you seconds earlier and you had your perishin' eyes shut – the authorities ain't likely to ship you halfway across the world on what would probably turn out to be a wild goose chase. And why do you want to go to her, anyway? If you're right and the woman on the screen really is your mam, then why hasn't she come home, or at least tried to get in touch? Look at you, straining at the leash to get to her, so why couldn't she have done the same? Dropped you a line, or even bought a passage and come back to Liverpool before the war started? What I mean is, I can't imagine any reason for her not contacting you and getting things straightened out. Can you?'

Miranda had tried not to think about the quarrel between herself and her mother for many months, but now it came into her mind as clearly as though it had happened yesterday. She felt her cheeks grow warm and tears rose to her eyes. ‘Well, we did have an awful row the evening before she disappeared,' she admitted, and realised, with some surprise, that apart from Steve she had never mentioned the row to anyone. She had been
too ashamed, because in her secret soul she had believed the quarrel might have been the cause of Arabella's disappearance. In fact her rage and blame-laying on that last evening might have been the straw which had broken the camel's back.

But Avril was shaking her head. ‘No, no; it would have taken more than that to send her flying off to America,' she said. ‘All mothers and daughters have barneys from time to time, but they don't go off without a word and never contact each other again. As for asking the manager to rewind the film, I wouldn't try it if I were you 'cos you'd be settin' yourself up for a dusty answer. I reckon if we just stay in our seats – hey up, the curtains are drawing back and the fire screen's rolled up – then you can see the newsreel through again. But if you really didn't see the bit about the American women giving concert parties to raise money for the war effort, then what makes you think one of them girls was your mam?'

Miranda hesitated. It sounded so daft to say that her mother's wonderful mass of curling primrose-coloured hair had been unmistakable, but now that Avril mentioned it she realised she had scarcely had time to focus on the woman's face before the picture was replaced with another. She knew that it would not do to admit this to her friend, however, and said briefly that she had recognised Arabella's glorious hair.

But now the usherette had reached the end of their row and was eyeing them curiously. Plainly she had seen Miranda leaping to her feet, probably heard the shouts as well. Miranda, blushing, opened her little purse and produced some coins. ‘Two wafers, please,' she said humbly, ‘and a packet of peanuts.'

It was snowing steadily by the time they left the cinema and both girls pulled their mufflers up over their mouths and linked arms as they hurried along the snow-covered pavements. It was impossible to exchange conversation under such conditions, but as soon as they were back in the flat with the kettle on the primus stove, Avril turned to her friend. ‘Well? Are you satisfied now? I suppose you're still sure it was your mother and not just an extremely pretty blonde? Only if I'm honest, Miranda, that woman only looked about twenty, or thirty at the most.' She giggled. ‘Unless gettin' away from you took twenty years off her age!'

Miranda sniffed. ‘I shall ignore that remark,' she said loftily. ‘My mother married at sixteen and had me at seventeen, or so she always claimed. But remember, the commentator said she was with a concert party, so she would have been wearing stage make-up. It can take years off you, can that.'

Avril shrugged. ‘Have it your way, queen. Your mam is alive and well and living in America and I'm tellin' you straight that there's no way you're going to get there until the war's over. Even if America do decide to join in the war they won't let young women go to and fro across the Atlantic like they did in peacetime. Why don't you write? Only I'm not sure to whom.'

‘That's why I want to go over myself,' Miranda said impatiently. ‘As for why my mother hasn't written to me, I have a theory . . .'

Avril sighed. ‘You can tell me all about it whilst I make the tea and cut some bread and butter. And you can get out them jam tarts I made yesterday. It was just our luck that they'd closed the café because of there bein' almost
no customers, but we'll make the best of what we've got. Go on then, what's your theory?'

Miranda wondered how best to explain to Avril the sequence of events which had led her to believe that her mother must have lost her memory. Now that she came to think about it she realised that she had never told it from beginning to end, as though it was just a story. She knew she must have let fall bits and pieces to her flatmate, but had never told her the events in sequence. Now she really must do so if she was to gain Avril's belief. ‘Well, I told you that she'd disappeared during the night,' she began. ‘Next day everyone was very concerned – the scuffers as well – and at first they tried to find Arabella, tried very hard. There were advertisements in the press and notices down by the docks asking if anyone had seen her. But we got absolutely nowhere, and of course I couldn't stay in our beautiful house in Sycamore Avenue – I had no money for the rent for a start – so I was forced to move in with Aunt Vi and my cousin Beth. As the weeks passed I suppose folk forgot; then one night I was woken by somebody shaking my shoulder . . .'

Miranda told the whole story of her sleepwalking, and presently she finished off with Missie's revelation that she had seen a woman in a long white gown being dragged down towards the docks by two members of the crew of the ship which was later wrecked with the loss of all hands. When she finished she looked enquiringly at Avril, who whistled softly beneath her breath. ‘Cor, that's a story and a half,' her friend said appreciatively. ‘And do you mean that sleepwalkin' can be inherited, like blue eyes or freckles?' She gave a snort of
amusement. ‘Pity you inherited sleepwalking and not long golden curls!'

‘Shut up, you horrible girl,' Miranda said, unable to prevent herself from smiling. ‘So you see, if I'm right and Arabella really was sleepwalking and was kidnapped by Captain Hogg and his merry men, then I should think it's quite possible that she has lost her memory. If she knew who she was, she'd know about me, and I'm sure she'd be desperate to get in touch. As you said, mothers and daughters may fight and disagree, but underneath there's a huge well of love. So I'm sure if Arabella could have written or even telephoned she would have done so. But if she's forgotten everything since the ship went down . . .'

‘How dreadful it must have been, having to swim to the nearest land when she must have known there are sharks in tropical waters,' Avril said with feeling. ‘She's a real heroine; no wonder you want to find her and claim her as your mother. But I'm tellin' you, queen, you won't do it until the war's over. Oh, you can write, probably put advertisements in American papers asking Arabella Lovage to get in touch, but if she's lost her memory . . .'