Mill Town Girl

by Audrey Reimann

  They had not had a celebration since Patrick Kennedy came over from Canada last year. That had been a spontaneous event but this time he would have to organise it in advance yet make it appear casual.

  He waved to Rose and to Nat Cooper. Every Saturday Nat left his cart and stabled the horse round the back of the Swan. The young farmer made a day of Saturdays after his morning milk-round, driving his horse and cart back up to Rainow Farm late on, after he’d spent the evening at a cinema or whatever it was he got up to. Douglas went inside to get the bar ready as Nat Cooper who, badly injured some years ago, came limping across the square. At twenty-four, he was sandy haired and oddly shy in spite of his big smile and deep country voice.

  Macclesfield market square, a cobbled rectangle, was the best part of half an acre Douglas supposed, if you counted the Town Hall and Sparrow Park. Sparrow Park was a small, grassy area behind the stalls that had a spectacular view. Then there was the Hundred and Eight steps – a medieval, cobbled stairway that linked Sparrow Park to Waters Green far down below. Beyond Waters Green the hills rose steeply up to Derbyshire.

  Nat bought pipe tobacco for the weekdays, matches and a packet of Craven ‘A’ at the tiny tobacconist’s next door to the Swan. Girls liked you to buy them cigarettes and once he’d had a few pints to get himself talking he was going to ask the girl who worked at Lipton’s to go to the pictures with him tonight.

  The bar was filling up when he arrived and Nat watched Mona Siddall as she served. Her movements were fast and accurate and she kept the men in place with a sharp word when they tried to order out of turn. She’d a lot about her, had Mona Siddall, he thought. A farmer could do with a wife like that but it was no good thinking that way. He’d liked Rose Kennedy for so long that he’d wait a bit longer, until he either plucked up the courage to ask her out when she was old enough, maybe next year, or saw her courting someone else.

  ‘Hello, Nat,’ Douglas greeted him. ‘Do you want a drink?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I saw you talking to our Rose,’ Douglas said. ‘She’s a bonny lass.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ Nat answered. ‘She’s got all the heads turning.’

  Douglas grinned. He looked at Nat across the bar. ‘Beer?’

  ‘Please,’ Nat replied.

  ‘Aye. She’s a bonny lass,’ Douglas continued. ‘Haven’t you found yourself a lassie, Nat?’

  ‘I don’t meet that many,’ Nat hedged. He’d never tell Douglas or anyone else that he’d been in love with Rose Kennedy since she was a fourteen-year-old kid. He’d run the farm since his father died, and was twenty-one when he first noticed her, cycling to the high school every morning, her satchel slung over her shoulder, pretty face peering under the brimmed velour hat of navy blue. He’d been annoyed with himself, been a little ashamed of himself, for falling for a schoolgirl.

  She’d been full of fun. She brought a carrot or an apple for Dobbin every morning and the big horse got to know and wouldn’t pass the end of Wells Road without a bit of shouting when she wasn’t there. And Nat hadn’t told her to stop; he never told her that horses were creatures of habit and that Dobbin still stopped in his tracks whenever he saw her. He’d got as bad as the horse; looking for her, thinking a day without sight of her worse than a field of weeds.

  Sometimes, if she walked to school, she’d climb up beside him on the milk cart, taking the reins, and he’d watch her face light up with pleasure at Dobbin’s clopping pace through the quiet morning streets. It had been a while since that had happened though.

  ‘Alan’s going to university in September,’ Douglas said. ‘Did you know?’

  ‘Aye,’ Nat smiled back. ‘What are you goin’ to do with yourself, eh?’ he asked. ‘You’ll miss ’im.’

  ‘I’ve plenty to do,’ Douglas said. ‘I’ve bought a car. I’ve got the choir. I’ll be all right.’ He leaned over the counter and lowered his voice. ‘I want your advice, Nat,’ he began.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Douglas slid a foaming pint of best bitter over the counter. ‘I want to give a party for Alan,’ he told him. ‘You’ll understand the problem,’ he said. ‘I can’t let him think it’s being held in his honour.’

  ‘Eeh,’ Nat smiled, ‘I dunna know how to organise ’em. I’ve never bin to a party. A proper party, like.’

  ‘You’re twenty-four,’ Douglas said. ‘It’s time you had a bit of fun.’

  ‘I ’ave a bit o’ fun, Douggie,’ Nat said, ‘but I’ve never been asked to a party.’

  ‘Alan’s not to know I’m giving it for him. He wouldn’t want the fuss. How can I get round it?’

  Nat took a deep draught of the ale. ‘Say it’s for the end of ’is schooldays. For ’im and ’is friends.’ He took another drink before continuing. ‘If you asked me, I’d say, tell ’is friends’ mothers and dads and get ’em all involved in it.’

  He drained the glass and placed it on the counter. ‘There’s a few of ’em from his school going off to university, isn’t there?’

  ‘Aye,’ Douglas said. He refilled Nat’s pint mug.

  Nat wanted to get a couple of pints down quickly. ‘Why don’t yer hire a band?’ he went on, warming to his idea. ‘Yer could open them French winders on to t’veranda and roll yer carpets oop.’

  ‘I’ll put coloured lights in the trees if we get the weather . . .’

  ‘If you ’ave yer party afore t’next moon you’ll be all reet for weather,’ Nat said solemnly. ‘There’ll be no more rain until t’moon shifts round.’

  Douglas lifted his eyebrows to question Nat’s weather forecasting.

  ‘I’m like me Dad was. Never far out. And if yer don’t shurrup,’ Nat said, ‘yer game’ll be oop. Your Alan’s just gone past t’winder.’

  ‘Keep him talking then,’ Douglas said. ‘While I make out the list. Alan can look after the bar. If it’s to be before the moon goes round I’ve no time to waste.’

  Douglas went into the back parlour to make his plans. He took pencil and paper from the dresser and began to list the people he’d ask. He would invite some of the people from the Macclesfield Choral Society. It would be a Scottish party with a mix of young and old. He’d hire the town’s best band. They could play for the dancing on the veranda he’d had built across the back of the house. They could play the latest swing tunes for the young ones and accompany the choral singers between dances.

  On the night of the party Alan stood on the veranda and looked over the grass to where his friends were gathered in colourful groups around the tables, laughing and talking.

  The weather was perfect; the sun had gone down, leaving an indigo velvet night that was warm and sweet scented. The garden looked magical, lit by lamps that were strung in the trees. Lanterns set on tables and swung from the trees and from the canopy of the wide, wooden veranda.

  The girls brought to mind bright butterflies, fluttering their hands whenever a remark amused them; flattering the men with their attention. Most of the men, like himself, wore flannels with sports jackets. Some wore cricket-club blazers and all had crisp white shirts that shone under the lights. Most of them, Alan noticed wryly, were sure of themselves with the girls who clustered round them.

  He wished he were like his friends, confident and assured. He didn’t lack confidence in other ways – or with most girls. But Rose wasn’t most girls. Rose was beautiful. She was charming. She was full of life. She was intelligent. In fact every man here tonight wanted her; he knew it. There was no earthly reason why she should look at him. She could take her pick of any of the handsome chaps who were surrounding her.

  Behind him the French windows had been flung back making drawing room and veranda one dancing area where at this moment a five-piece band was playing ‘Why Did She Fall for the Leader of the Band’. The music was being ignored by his friends in the garden, Alan noticed, though inside the house Danny and Jane Kennedy and some other couples were dancing.

  Over by the potted geraniums on the far corner of the veranda Alan watched V
ivienne Kennedy take Mary by the arm and attempt to teach her wide-eyed sister the intricacies of the quick-step. Vivienne’s feet were quick and light like the girl herself. She seemed to anticipate the beat whilst Mary’s big eyes moved from her sister’s feet to her own as if willing them to catch up with her vivacious partner’s.

  Nearby, their Aunt Carrie sat with Cecil Ratcliffe, sipping fruit cup. Alan passed her chair to tell the barman not to confuse the cold punch, which contained two bottles of good brandy, with the fruit cup Dad had ordered for the teetotal members of the Choral Society.

  As he went past them he amused himself with the thought that she might already have taken some of the strong punch unwittingly, for the normally uncommunicative Miss Shrigley, eyes fixed on Gerald’s sister, was saying to Ratcliffe, ‘Look at that girl’s dress! She wants her bottom smacking! She’s plastered with lipstick and eye-black.’

  A trestle table covered with a white damask cloth was set on the opposite corner to the one where the girls were dancing. Glasses and punchbowls were placed along the length of it with dishes of fruit and sweet almonds. Dad and Nan Tansley were at the moment checking with the catering people in the kitchen, ensuring that the sherry trifles were kept apart from the ones made just from crushed fruits.

  Alan went down the veranda steps towards Rose, Nat Cooper, Gerald and Gerald’s sister. Rose looked more beautiful than ever tonight, in a clinging, silvery dress that stopped just short of her ankles. He knew she had made it specially. He hoped he appeared unruffled but his heart came up into his throat every time he looked at her. Nowadays she was always surrounded by a crowd of admirers.

  He went across the grass to them and poked Nat’s arm in fun when he reached them. ‘Enjoying it?’ he asked.

  Nat looked uncomfortable in his new suit, with his sandy hair pasted down. His cheeks were bright pink. ‘Aye,’ he said, in his deep, slow voice. ‘This punch is right good stuff. It’s fair mekkin’ me talk.’

  Gerald’s sister, in a short green dress with a frilled hem, was ogling Alan. Her dark eyes fixed on his face.

  ‘Want a cocktail?’ he asked her.

  ‘Ooh, goody,’ she squealed. ‘I’d rather a Pimm’s, if you have it.’ Alan beckoned to one of the waiters. ‘What about you, Nat?’

  ‘Give us a beer, will yer?’ Nat said. ‘Ah’m not used to them fancy things.’

  ‘Rose?’ She was smiling at him now, as if relieved to see him there. His heart lurched again.

  ‘Is Aunt Carrie looking?’ she asked.

  Over his shoulder Alan saw that her aunt was talking with unusual animation to Cecil Ratcliffe. ‘Your aunt seems to be giving all her attention to a man, on the veranda,’ he answered with a smile.

  ‘Aunt Carrie? Talking to a man?’ Rose laughed softly.

  Alan moved closer and whispered into her ear, ‘I’ll bet Cecil Ratcliffe goes down on one knee at any moment.’

  Rose turned to look, narrowing her eyes. Alan said, ‘She looks as if she’d rather he didn’t but I don’t think she’ll notice what you’re drinking.’

  ‘Then I’ll have a Pimm’s as well. I’ll say it’s fruit cup.’

  Alan gave their orders to the waiter and turned back to Nat, trying not to show his annoyance when Gerald took hold of Rose’s elbow to say something to her. He knew that he didn’t stand a chance. Rose wouldn’t look twice at him. After all, he was the boy-next-door, not handsome. Much too ordinary for a girl like Rose. But Gerald wasn’t anything special either.

  Alan turned back to Nat. ‘How are you getting back, Nat?’ he asked. ‘Is Dad going to drive you to Rainow? Have you seen his car?’

  He tried not to keep glancing over Nat’s shoulder to see what Gerald was up to now. Gerald was always bragging about his being irresistible to the girls. It was not surprising, Alan thought sourly, if he held on to the girls the way he was doing with Rose.

  ‘No,’ Nat said. ‘I’ve left t’cart behind t’Swan. Dobbin’ll get me back.’

  ‘I’ll go with you. Help you with the milking. But I’m going to enjoy this party first.’ He nudged Nat again and said, as quietly as he could, ‘Ask Gerald’s sister to dance. She keeps giving you the glad eye.’

  ‘Eeh,’ Nat grumbled, blushing, ‘I canna do them fancy dances.’

  Alan saw that his friend was red-faced with embarrassment and, sorry that he’d been the cause of it, turned back to the group who were gathered in a laughing, chattering semi-circle around Gerald.

  Rose had fastened a corsage of flowers on to the shoulder of the silvery dress. Her long legs with their fine ankles were encased in pale silk stockings and on her feet she wore silver dancing shoes with a wide instep strap and all the time she laughed with Gerald her foot kept time to the music. Her hair, polished bronze under the lights, kept falling across her face and as she pushed it back with slender fingers her bare arm brushed against Gerald’s sleeve.

  Alan knew a surge of jealousy. She was his – not Gerald’s. Why was she smiling at Gerald? Why was she avoiding his eye? The band was starting to play the first few notes of ‘I’ve Got You under My Skin’.

  He couldn’t let Gerald take Rose on to the floor for this one. If he didn’t ask her first though, he might be too late: he’d never lacked courage. He moved quickly towards her.

  ‘Rose?’ His hand closed around her narrow wrist. ‘Come. Dance with me. On the veranda.’ And she was laughing and running with him before the music could start properly. He tugged her up the veranda’s wooden steps, stood before her and held out his arms – and suddenly he didn’t know – didn’t care – whether they were trying to foxtrot or tango to the music, for she was in his arms and his hands were shaking, holding her.

  But their feet fitted and her face was inches from his and he felt such a rush of longing for her that it was all he could do to remember that everyone was watching.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder . . .’ the music went. He must not give in to the urgent desire to kiss that wide, generous mouth that was mesmerising him as she spoke.

  ‘Will you miss us all, Alan?’ she was saying.

  He managed to make his voice sound normal. ‘I’ll be home at Christmas.’

  ‘Are you going to take up flying?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered. Someone indoors was singing the words. The smell of night-scented stock was heavy in the soft air. ‘Rose?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want to kiss you,’ he whispered. He felt the pressure of her fingers tightening around his; saw with delight that she had felt it too, for she had stopped the bright chatter and was looking into his eyes as the music ended and the band began to play ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’.

  She hummed along with the music, close to him. But others were crowding on to the veranda to dance and he knew she need not worry that Aunt Carrie’s warning looks would be directed towards her.

  ‘They asked me how I knew . . .’ She sang the words, careless of their effect on him; smiling into his eyes. Her breath was sweet and warm. He drew her closer, letting his hand rest on her bare shoulder.

  Her aunt went indoors. She and Dad were going to sing a duet next.

  Alan pulled Rose closer so that he could feel her body, long and slender against himself as the music swept along. Their feet were barely moving. His head was dizzy with the sight and the sound of her as the music came to an end.

  They began to play his favourite song. Nobody would see them if they danced round the corner, behind the big ferns. And she knew. Her feet were following his as he led her through the crowd. His heart was thumping. Her hand was warm in his. Now he held her in his arms, leaning against a wooden pillar.

  ‘When they begin . . . the Beguine . . .’ Her arms were around his neck, her fingers threading in and out of his hair . . . and his mouth was crushing down on her soft, open lips.

  Then she pulled away, blushing furiously and slid out of his arms to go back, before they were seen, into the throng of dancing couples on the veranda.

  Alan watc
hed her slip away; saw her go into the drawing room; saw her seek out her Aunt Carrie and stand by the haughty woman’s chair; watched her whisper something into her aunt’s ear; saw her aunt’s smile as she patted Rose’s hand.

  ‘Damn! Damn!’ he said under his breath. ‘I’ve scared her. She’ll never let me kiss her again.’ He tore a leaf from a giant fern and broke it angrily in his fingers.

  Carrie had wondered, when she awoke with a splitting headache on the morning after the garden party, if there had been something peculiar in the fruit cup. It had taken her breath away. It tasted very different from the squashes she always made from thinly sliced oranges and lemons. She’d put it down, the next day, to the fact that Douglas McGregor’s offering had been made with pineapple juice. It had had a metallic taste to it. The trifle, too, had tasted strange, as if it had almond essence soaked into the sponge at the bottom.

  A week had passed since then but it had given her a lot to think about. Today she was sitting in her private sitting room, as she usually did for an hour in the afternoons and still dwelling on it. She had never been to a party before, a party with singing and dancing. At first she’d been sure she was going to hate it. She’d only accepted because Jane and Danny and the girls were going.

  Still, she had sung well, better than she’d ever sung before. She and Douglas McGregor had been called back to do four encores. It was funny the way she and Douglas McGregor could sing together. They knew one another’s voices so well that all they needed was a score and a half-good accompanist and they could make any song sound good.

  Mostly they sang oratorios but last week after she’d sung ‘Early One Morning’, he’d asked her to sing ‘Who is Sylvia?’ as a duet. Then he’d sung ‘A Wand’ring Minstrel I’ and she’d sung ‘My Ain Folk’ every bit as well as Miss Nellie Melba used to, they’d said.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed herself so much. She couldn’t remember much about getting home, except that Cecil Ratcliffe had driven her back after the singing. She hadn’t spoken more than a couple of words in the car, she thought, and those rather curt.