Mill Town Girl

by Audrey Reimann

  ‘I want you to come and live with me, love.’ Aunt Carrie’s voice was wheedling. ‘You’d not want for money if you came to live with me. I’d give you money. You’d not have to go away, anywhere.’

  Rose tried to disguise the look of horror that she knew her face showed. She didn’t mean to hurt her but how could her aunt ever dream that she’d leave her mum and dad and the Wells Road house to live with her? She said, ‘I’m going to college. When I’ve finished I’ll be a teacher. Then I’m going to give half my wages to Dad so he and Mum can start to enjoy themselves.’

  ‘Enjoy themselves?’ Aunt Carrie’s voice was high pitched again. ‘They’ve done nothing but enjoy themselves all their lives.’

  Evidently she was outraged at the suggestion that Mum and Dad could need more than they had. Rose must get her to understand. ‘Yes. Dad hates the insurance company. He’s always hated the work. He says he likes doing things with his hands, making things, building. He built our house, he told us. He says we girls are never to do something we don’t like. He says we can hold our heads up if we can earn our own livings, doing what we want to do,’ she said emphatically.

  ‘They’ve given you big ideas.’

  Aunt Carrie was no longer trying to win her round. She was her usual cynical self and Rose was relieved to see the severe look return to her aunt’s face. She didn’t know how to deal with her aunt when she was trying to be pleasant.

  A heap of letters was waiting for her on the hall table when Carrie returned to the Temperance Hotel. ‘Put them on my table in the sitting room, Maggie,’ she said to Mrs Bettley. ‘I’ll go up and unpack. Will you make me a pot of tea?’

  Maggie scuttled off, nodding in agreement, glad that she was back, no doubt. Maggie Bettley was a good worker. She’d looked after the place very well Carrie noticed as she went upstairs; the stairs had been polished, brass doorknobs gleamed.

  Carrie closed her bedroom door, put her case on the bed and began to empty it, hanging her good dresses up and dropping the used clothes into her linen basket. Oh, it had been a lovely holiday, just herself and Rose. How proud she was of Rose. What a ladylike manner her daughter had.

  Rose was the nicest girl in the whole of Macclesfield, Carrie thought. These days you see girls no older than Rose, hanging about street corners with lads. There’d be trouble before long with Brenda Gallimore’s girls. They painted themselves up like actresses. The whole town talked about them.

  It had been a wrench sending Rose off in a taxi at the station and jealousy struck again when she saw Rose’s eagerness to get back to the family and tell them all about the holiday. She hadn’t wanted to send her back and find herself alone again, feeling lost. Carrie dropped the lid down on the empty case and snapped the locks to, chiding herself for foolishness as she did so. Here she was, a woman of forty-two, a woman who had always taken charge, feeling sorry for herself because she’d had a lovely holiday and it was over.

  She should count her blessings she told herself as she poured water into the china bowl and began to wash. ‘Count your blessings,’ her father used to say. Mind, that wasn’t one of his own sayings, it was from a hymn. She began to hum it as she lathered her soap in the cool, soft water; the words ringing around in her head. ‘When upon life’s billows you are tempest-tossed, when you are discouraged thinking all is lost . . .’

  She wasn’t discouraged. And she hadn’t lost everything. In some ways her life was better. For one thing, her eyesight was improving. It was strange how she’d always been short-sighted and now, the optician told her, she was going long-sighted. He said that in time both faults might even compensate one another. One day she might have perfect eyesight.

  ‘Count your many blessings, name them one by one . . .’

  There were her savings and her property. She’d enough money to last her out and enough to leave Rose provided for. Then there was her health. She was as strong as a horse, always had been, so that now she didn’t look as old as most middle-aged women. In fact, she suspected, the years were being kind to her looks, such as they were. She’d never been a beauty of the conventional chocolate box or film-star type but here she was, unwrinkled, straight-backed and no sign of a thickening waist.

  She peered at her face in the glass above her washstand. No wrinkles and her teeth white and straight, none missing. Her hair, a bit faded now, more auburn than red, was thick and soft, not dry and grey like most women of over forty.

  ‘And it will surprise you what the Lord has done.’

  She left the water for the girl to empty and began to dry herself and rub Glymiel jelly into her hands to keep them soft. She massaged her feet and legs with Pond’s cold cream to keep them from going dry. It was supposed to be face cream but she had some expensive stuff for her complexion. She put on clean underwear and a spotted silk afternoon-dress, slid her feet into the glacé kid shoes, which matched the lace collar on the dress. She then fastened her pearl necklace.

  Tomorrow she would not go to chapel. She would go to the service at St Michael’s instead. It would have seemed like heresy to Father but she was becoming more tolerant these days. She had been to St Michael’s once or twice – to the Service of Remembrance, when they’d asked the Choral Society to sing, and to sing duets with Douglas McGregor at their Harvest and Carol services.

  There were some occasions when a bit of pomp and show didn’t go amiss. It was nice to put your best hat on so you’d look as good as anyone, to put two half-crowns on the plate with a bit of a gesture, to have some of them as thought of themselves as top-drawer – coming up to talk to you outside, afterwards.

  ‘Count your many blessings, name them one by one.’

  To be honest, that wasn’t the only reason she sometimes missed chapel. The truth was that Cecil Ratcliffe was becoming a problem. Ever since his wife died he’d been paying her a lot of attention. He deferred to her, hanging on to her every word, agreeing with her opinions. Most people thought him an imposing man with his height, good looks and silver hair; a presence. She didn’t.

  He’d bought a Humber saloon car; a big black shiny one with the palest fawn leather inside. Nobody went in for displays of wealth at the chapel but he justified it by saying that, with all the claims on his time, the town council, the shop, his good works and his preaching duties, it was essential. He was the only person she knew who had a car. He looked important behind the wheel, even a bit arrogant and aloof. Many a woman would think him quite a catch. There were a few widows and some ageing spinsters at chapel who acted silly whenever he talked to them.

  Maybe it was because she didn’t welcome his attentions that she seemed to have inspired them. Some men were like that, she’d noticed; a slight from a woman was seen as a challenge. He’d begun to find excuses to come to Waters Green; accompanying visiting preachers who were to stay overnight at the Temperance Hotel. Twice he’d given her a lift home after a service. He’d said he was offering to drive her because it was raining and he’d given some of the others a lift as well, but she knew what he was after.

  ‘And it will surprise you what the lord has done.’

  He’d bring himself to ask her, she just knew he would, as soon as his wife had been dead a year. Cecil Ratcliffe would start in earnest then and the thought worried her. Though why should it? She was forty-two, Cecil Ratcliffe was nearly sixty. He’d not expect anything – anything carnal at his age. It would be a marriage of – of – what did he expect? Not money for she’d outlive him. Companionship? He’d not been good company to his wife. He had a daughter, but she’d caused a lot of scandal by ‘upping and off’ as soon as her poor mother was laid to rest. What did he want?

  He was an alderman. That would be it. He’d want someone at his side for all the banquets. She could picture their photographs in the Macclesfield Times: Alderman and Mrs Cecil Ratcliffe. Oh, no.

  No. No. There was something about him. Something about his buttery voice that she had never taken to. Voices were important. She liked to hear a man with a
deep, resonant voice. Cecil’s sounded wrong; as if he’d tried to iron out his original speech and ended up with something that sounded empty and affected. And, though he was good-looking, there was something posturing about him. There were times when she had, to her discredit, wondered if he were a secret drinker for his face went florid when he got excited.

  Oh, it was wicked of her to think badly of him. After all, he did good. He did a lot of good for no reward on the board of guardians of the girls’ borstal. The reformatory they called it. He helped rescue those bad girls; he preached to them. He was well thought of, held in high regard in Macclesfield where he knew everyone and knew everything that was going on.

  She went downstairs and sat at her octagonal table in the window. And there it was. A letter. Irish postmark, so he’d posted it before he’d come to Macclesfield. Before she’d fled to Southport out of his way, frightened of seeing him, knowing she’d not be able to act normally in front of everyone.

  Her heart was thudding as she slit the envelope. It was the sight of his bold, careless handwriting again that started it off, she was sure.

  Darling Carrie,

  I shall ask you this but once and never again. I am not a man who will pursue a cause when all is lost but I am sure that you have not lost your love for me. I have only ever loved one woman in my life – you; come with me to Canada – you and my Rose. We can be married here. I need you. I want you and I believe that when we meet next week you will say the words I long to hear. Our boat sails from Liverpool on the twentieth of July.

  Why did her heart go thundering? She was middle aged. She was past all that. Women in middle age didn’t think about men and love. And why were the tears pouring down her cheeks? Why was she having to fight with herself? Why did she long to throw her clothes back into that case and run, run like the wind to him? The boat went tomorrow. There was time . . .

  It was crazy. Impossible. How could he think that she would give up everything, come clean about their sin, tell Rose, leave Macclesfield, her position, her livelihood?

  She snatched the handkerchief from her dress pocket and pressed it hard against her eyes. Maggie Bettley might come in at any minute.

  He must be mad to write such things. And she must be mad even to read them. She folded the letter with shaking hands and replaced it in the envelope. She would take it up later and put it in the ebony box.

  Rose, when she arrived home, was met with a bombardment of news and excited gabbling as soon as the taxi had set her down.

  Mary, normally so quiet and calm, pulled her by the arm into the living room the minute the front door was closed. ‘Mum and Dad have gone shopping. They’ll be back soon,’ she said, then, as if trying to get the words in before Viv could take over. ‘Uncle Patrick went back yesterday. He was disappointed you weren’t here, Rose.’

  ‘He’s good fun,’ Viv butted in. ‘He’s very handsome. He looks like Dad, only he’s bigger.’

  ‘And older . . .’ Mary added.

  ‘Not much older,’ Viv said. ‘And he speaks American.’

  ‘Canadian!’

  ‘It sounds like American, anyway,’ Viv raced on. ‘He says he’s been to “Tronta” when he means Toronto.’ She let go of Mary’s other hand and began to dance around the room. ‘And he’s been to Hollywood, Rose. He says if we go and visit him he’ll take us to see where the “movies” are made.’

  Mary was laughing, trying to say something without spoiling Viv’s performance. ‘He brought presents for us all,’ she managed to say while Viv stopped tripping about and rushed to the cupboard.

  Mary carried on, carefully reciting the list, ‘Fur hats for Mum and Dad.’

  ‘And fur ear-muffs!’ Viv squealed.

  Rose found herself swept along with the gaiety of it all. ‘A fur hat? For Dad?’ she said. ‘Ear-muffs? What are they?’

  ‘Yes!’ Viv pulled a large parcel from the depths of the cupboard and pushed it into Rose’s hands. ‘And wooden dolls for us!’

  Rose looked incredulous. ‘We’re too old for dolls.’

  ‘They are lovely,’ Mary said. ‘More like ornaments or keepsakes. Open yours!’

  Rose tore at the paper. It was a carved wooden doll with jointed arms and legs, a delicately painted china head and masses of curled fair hair. ‘Fancy him buying us dolls,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t he know we’re grown-up?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mary answered. ‘He does. He bought us writing sets last Christmas. He said he couldn’t resist buying three beautiful dolls for three beautiful young girls.’ She brought her own doll from its hiding-place behind the curtains. ‘See,’ she said, cradling it as if it were a baby. ‘I’ve made clothes for mine and Viv’s.’

  ‘Uncle Patrick sounds nice,’ Rose said.

  ‘He is. He went to the antique shop and bought something for Aunt Carrie,’ Vivienne told her eagerly.

  ‘Guess what it is,’ Mary said.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Vivienne delved under the table and brought out a large flat parcel that was wrapped in brown paper. ‘We hid everything to surprise you,’ she explained as she struggled to untie the string. ‘Close your eyes!’

  Rose closed them tight, hearing Vivienne prop a picture against the wall.

  ‘Open your eyes!’ Vivienne cried.

  ‘Golly!’ Rose stared at it, astonished. The pictures he’d sent to them over the years were of snow-capped mountains and deep green forests. This was a big painting in glowing colours. The great canvas was filled with beautiful, half-dressed nymphs and gods. Apollo, it said underneath, was the god who held the reins of a chariot drawn by restless, eager white horses that were charging towards the sun, whilst veiled Aurora, the rosy-fingered goddess of dawn, held open the Gates of Morning.

  ‘What will she think of that?’ Mary was saying.

  ‘She has no room on her walls.’

  ‘And she only likes landscapes and still lifes,’ Viv added.

  ‘I think she’ll love it,’ Rose told them. ‘She’s quite a romantic old thing, underneath.’

  Mary carried the bag Aunt Carrie had bought her up the stairs to Rose’s bedroom. Viv followed them, still chattering. ‘We had a party. In Alan McGregor’s garden. Our Uncle Patrick is Alan’s godfather you know.’

  Mary dumped the bag on the counterpane and began to help Rose unpack.

  ‘There was dancing at night, Rose,’ Viv went on, ignoring them in their task, bobbing her face in front of Rose’s at every turn, making them laugh and have to push her aside. ‘It was a party. A lovely singing and dancing party. In Alan’s drawing room.’

  Rose began to wish she had been there, or that at least they could have waited until she returned. She took out the little packages and handed them to Mary and Viv.

  Mary opened hers, smiled shyly and kissed her big sister on the cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely. I need a brooch to go with my new blouse.’

  Viv hadn’t even opened hers but was tugging at Rose’s arm to get her attention again. ‘You should have seen Dad and Uncle Patrick doing the Irish jig,’ she went on. ‘And I danced the veleta with Alan McGregor – and the sailor’s hornpipe on my own . . .’

  ‘And all the men sang.’

  ‘Ooh, it was spiffing.’

  Chapter Eleven

  A year later Douglas sat on the wooden bench in front of the Swan. There were ten minutes to go before opening time – just enough time to read Patrick Kennedy’s letter before he pushed back the heavy oak door. The market square was sunny and the stall-holders were doing a brisk trade this warm June morning.

  He slit open the envelope. ‘Dear Douglas and Alan,’ the letter began, ‘Congratulations, Alan, on getting a place at medical school. I’m sure you will enjoy every minute of university life. But what will your poor old Pa do, with you gone to Edinburgh?’

  Douglas smiled to himself. He was going to enjoy himself too. In the courtyard at the back of the Swan stood a new car – a red Lanchester. A couple of stables had been k
nocked into one to make a garage. Motoring was going to be his new pastime.

  He looked absently across the bright, busy stalls. He had not found a motoring companion yet but there were one or two single ladies of his acquaintance . . . He must not give any of them ideas but it would be nice to have someone to take for a country drive and afternoon tea.

  He went back to the letter. ‘John wants to buy a small farm, probably in Calgary. John, as no doubt he’ll have told you, has marriage in mind and we have decided to go our separate ways. I think it is time I put down some roots and will look for a place in Vancouver. We have travelled all over Canada in the last few years and a journey by C.P.R. would seem like home from home to you, Douglas. There are so many places with Scottish names: Fraser Valley, Craigellachie, Banff, Fort William. I hope I can show it to you some day.’

  There followed another two pages of Patrick’s description of a motoring trip he and John had taken through the Rockies and then . . . A smile crossed Douglas’s face as he read the last paragraph. ‘I sent a five-page piece of writing to one of the big newspapers in Vancouver, and – would you believe it – they paid for it and asked me for more. I was paid more for an evening’s relaxation than I have ever earned in a week’s hard work. I’m going to send some articles to the other big dailies to see if the first was a flash in the pan. Who knows? This might be the start of a new way of life.’

  Douglas was pleased for him. Patrick had always had a gift for communicating. He replaced the letter in its envelope and put it in his breast pocket. He’d show it to Alan later.

  Across the bustling square he saw Miss Shrigley and Rose talking to Nat Cooper. Rose Kennedy, red-haired and beautiful, was a girl unconscious of her charms. Douglas smiled, seeing her attracting the glances of all who passed by, unaware of their interest, deep in conversation with Nat. She had grown up in the last year; she was tall, not unlike her aunt in build.

  They were all growing up and Alan would be leaving home in a few weeks’ time. Douglas was proud of Alan’s achievement in passing the examinations. He wanted to mark it in some way but Alan hated fuss.