Now she remembered. She’d said that Gerald what’s-it’s sister wanted her bottom smacking, carrying on the way she did. It was right common the way she made a display of herself, hanging on to lads’ arms in public. ‘You’d think her mother would have sent her home in disgrace,’ she’d said to Cecil. ‘I would have,’ she’d said. ‘I’d have given her a good spanking.’
She’d gone straight to bed. She hadn’t asked him in for a cup of tea but, ever since, Cecil Ratcliffe seemed to think he had some kind of claim to her.
Carrie turned down the radio when she heard a rapping at the front door. Maggie would answer it, but she could not justify to herself her enjoyment of listening to the BBC. She had no idea why she should feel so guilty about it, or about enjoying the party. Perhaps it was her upbringing, being taught that simple, God-fearing pleasures were all that were permitted. With all that dance-band music nobody could call the wireless a simple pleasure.
Father would have been horrified at the thought that a private sitting room in the Temperance Hotel was filled with sound, afternoon and evening. For, these days, now Rose was nearly grown-up, she only went three or four nights a week to Wells Road and never at weekends.
Maggie’s footsteps were coming along the corridor, followed by a man’s. Carrie turned the set off. ‘Come in,’ she called.
It was Cecil Ratcliffe. ‘Er, I was wondering, Miss Shrigley,’ he began in the halting voice he only used for her benefit. When he preached he wasn’t hesitant. He was fluent, unctuous, when he preached.
‘Thank you, Maggie,’ Carrie said quickly. Then, to Cecil, ‘Come in. What is it?’
This was his fourth visit in a week. He’d driven her home from the party, then from chapel the next day. He’d called in on his half-day closing with a pair of shoes she’d ordered and now here he was again. ‘Did you want to see me in particular?’ she asked, smoothing down the pleats in her navy-blue dress with a sharp, impatient movement.
‘It’s the Sunday school anniversary and treat tomorrow.’
‘I know.’
‘Well, er, I was . . . I wondered if you’d do me the honour er – allow me to – er – the charabanc is not really the same . . .’
‘You want to take me in your car. Is that it?’ He was determined. She’d give him that. He’d had little encouragement but she’d known that once his year of mourning was up she’d be pestered by him. ‘All right.’
She found the hesitant manner irritating. But she knew that he was a little in awe of her. She would not for a minute let him think he was getting any nearer to his heart’s desire. But the charabanc was not the same as travelling in style. She was becoming quite fond of being chauffeured from the chapel. ‘Will you call for Mrs Tatton as well?’ she asked. ‘We can hardly drive up to Rainow in your motor car and let our superintendent’s wife ride with the children on the charabanc.’
‘Of course. And will you sing for us at the concert, Miss Shrigley?’ He placed his bowler hat on the small table at the side of his chair, nipped and lifted the creases of his trousers and seated himself.
Again his mannerisms annoyed her. Carrie went to the door and rang the bell for Maggie who answered the call immediately. ‘Bring a tea-tray, Mrs Bettley,’ she said. ‘With scones for Mr Ratcliffe.’
Maggie gave her what Carrie thought was a knowing look before she went off to the kitchen. Carrie hoped Maggie Bettley wasn’t going to start imagining things, or, Heaven forbid, hinting to the neighbours. She turned back into the room.
‘Will you sing for us?’ Cecil repeated.
‘You needn’t ask, Mr Ratcliffe,’ she answered sharply. ‘I always sing. It’s expected of me. It was my grandfather who built the chapel.’ Carrie pulled herself up to her full height and, since he was still seated, looked down at him, hoping to intimidate him.
‘What are you singing?’ he asked in that artificial voice.
‘I’m singing ‘What a Friend I Have in Jesus’.
‘Wonderful,’ Cecil exhaled as he said it. ‘And appropriate. After all, Miss Shrigley, we all ought to be aware, in these troubled times, of the very real presence of Our Lord.’ He looked at her with a hopeful half-smile. ‘Jesus comes to us in many . . .’
‘Yes, yes,’ Carrie interrupted. Any minute he’d be inviting her to join him in a quick burst of prayer. Prayer was never far from his lips. Yet she thought him insincere and sanctimonious.
‘And I shall lead the prayers,’ he said. ‘The anniversary is such an important day in the life of the chapel.’
Carrie stifled a desire to laugh at his pale blue eyes shining behind the gold-rimmed glasses he had recently affected. The old fool was trying to look ‘fetching’. His face was flushed bright pink with excitement, his thinning hair had been greased and spread carefully across the freckled baldness of his scalp. And he smelled of eau de Cologne. She couldn’t abide scented men.
‘Are you preaching on Sunday?’ She managed to make the enquiry sound polite. ‘Your name’s up on the board.’
It was the wrong thing to say. He beamed back at her, evidently flattered by her interest. ‘I am, Miss Shrigley. And may I say that before another year is out I venture to hope that . . . er . . . that the board at chapel will give notice that . . .’
Maggie Bettley saved her from more embarrassment by tapping with the toe of her shoe on the sitting room door. Carrie meant to tell her about that. She’d done it before. Old retainer or not she would not allow Maggie Bettley to become over-familiar. Carrie opened the door but did not take the tray from her hands.
‘Put it on the table, Mrs Bettley,’ she said with studied politeness. ‘And wait in here until Mr Ratcliffe has finished.’ She looked into Cecil’s disappointed face and said, ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I have an appointment at three o’clock.’
Cecil Ratcliffe leaped to his feet.
‘No, no,’ Carrie said. ‘Don’t apologise. Enjoy your tea. My fault, my fault entirely.’
She left him to Mrs Bettley and went to her bedroom. That would teach him. Though she knew that by the time he drove away from the hotel Cecil Ratcliffe would have convinced himself that she was even more desirable as the future Mrs Ratcliffe. He needed a wife who could act high-handed. He’d hinted as much.
She sat, a little way back from the window, waiting to see him depart, asking herself how she could rebuff his advances. He would ask her, outright, soon. He’d gone all around the subject – telling her that when he remarried his wife would be respected and looked up to. She’d have every comfort money could buy. She’d have an important position in the town. He’d even said that he’d expect his future wife to give up any interest, any business, of her own. He’d said his wife would have servants to help her run his home. And a nice big house he’d got. He didn’t live above the shop.
She heard the slam of his car door and waited until she heard the engine start before looking out to see the Humber turning up Churchwallgate.
Why hadn’t she simply told him not to make a fool of himself –told him she had no wish to marry? Was it because she was prepared to think about it? Was she afraid of living and dying an old maid? Ought she to consider it? Was she too fastidious?
She’d try to imagine herself as an alderman’s wife – the mayor’s wife even. Yes, that was better. If only she didn’t have to imagine Cecil Ratcliffe beside her. She went to her wash stand and scrubbed her hands with the scented soap to take away the sticky feeling.
The following day dawned grey and overcast. Carrie had thought it over. She would make it clear to Cecil that she did not want his affection. When he came for her she would sit in the back of the car and let Mrs Tatton take the front passenger seat.
She looked as far into the distance as she could see from her bedroom window. With those heavy grey clouds it would certainly be wet in the hills at Rainow. She went downstairs, in her black dress, to supervise the serving of breakfasts and to write out the bills for the guests who were leaving.
She w
as in a shocking temper. There were times when she couldn’t bear to be crossed; times when nothing would give her more satisfaction than to swipe her tormentor across the face; times when the very thought of Cecil Ratcliffe brought out the worst in her.
She had her work cut out to finish in time. There were orders to be given to Maggie Bettley and the bedroom girls, the grocery order to be made out, for there was no work done on Sundays and a lot of preparation went into that.
At last she was satisfied that the women had everything under control and she went upstairs to change her clothes. She chose a grey suit and an ecru silk blouse, to match the sky and her mood. She would wear her flat, lace-up shoes with it.
As she was pulling on the hat that matched her blouse, a brimmed style that dipped over to one side and flattered the shape of her face, she heard the Humber draw up. She went quickly downstairs and answered the door herself.
‘Oh. You’re ready, Miss Shrigley,’ Cecil Ratcliffe said as she went out and closed the door behind her. He looked disappointed, as if he’d been hoping to be asked in. But she wasn’t going to spend any time alone with him.
She walked in front of him towards the car, Cecil’s long feet snapping behind and around her in a smart five-four time as he tried to reach the front passenger door ahead of her.
‘Where’s Mrs Tatton?’ Carrie peered into the back seat of the saloon. It was empty but for a cardboard shoebox. ‘Are we picking her up next?’ This was a setback. Now she’d have to chat to him.
‘Er, I believe that dear Mrs Tatton is indisposed.’
Carrie let him settle her into the front, stiffening as he fussed over a travelling rug, which he tried to tuck around her legs. ‘I don’t need that,’ she said sharply. ‘Come along. We don’t want to arrive after the others.’
He looked conspicuous – as if he were making even more of an effort to please her. He wore a check plus-four suit and a flat cap – the sort she always referred to in a disparaging manner as a ratting-cap. He should stick to dark colours and bowler hats, not dress up like a country squire. He was only an alderman.
‘Very well. All set then?’
He smirked all over his reddening face before pressing the starter button with a flourish. He seemed in an excited mood – missing the Buxton Road turning.
‘Which way are we going?’ she asked. ‘You’ve gone the wrong way.’
‘Miss Shrigley,’ he began, turning his head to stare.
Carrie kept her eyes looking straight ahead.
‘Miss Shrigley, what do you think?’
‘What?’
‘They’ve cancelled the picnic. The field at Rainow is too wet.’
Anger rose in her. Her voice went high. If he were not behind the wheel of the car she’d have hit him. ‘Then why didn’t you say so, Cecil Ratcliffe? Are we going to the chapel hall?’
‘No.’
‘Where then?’
‘I’ve got you all to myself. Until we go to the concert. I’m going to take you to Chester.’
He’d tricked her. ‘You’ll take me right back!’ she blazed. ‘How dare you!’ She snatched the travelling rug off her lap and threw it on to the rear seat. ‘Turn this car round.’
He kept on driving. He made no move to indicate a turn but spoke in that sermonising way, his skinny hands jerking up and down on and off the wheel. ‘I believe the good Lord is directing me, Miss Shrigley,’ he said. ‘In all my actions I am guided from above.’
‘And the good Lord is directing you to Chester, is he?’ Carrie raged.
‘Just as He directed you, when you told me to wait for your answer,’ he replied.
Carrie was shocked. Had she said that? That he must wait for her answer? To what? What had been the question? She could hazard a guess. ‘I? Told you to wait?’ she said. ‘I don’t believe you. When?’
‘At Douglas McGregor’s. Last week.’ Cecil Ratcliffe looked sure of himself. ‘We’ll be back in time for the concert,’ he said. ‘Have no fear, Miss Shrigley.’
‘Don’t you lay a finger on me, Cecil. Don’t so much as lay a finger on me,’ Carrie said before she could think of something cutting.
‘Unless you wish it, my dear,’ he said. He was pleased with himself. ‘Do I understand that we are now on first-name terms, Caroline?’
‘You understand no such thing. Turn this car round!’
They had passed the shops and were approaching the edge of the town, where the houses were spaced farther apart. Ahead, on the left, was a small wood. Cecil Ratcliffe slowed down and turned in. Carrie saw a narrow pathway leading into the heart of the wood, between beech trees whose heavy branches overhung the way. He pulled the car to a halt and let the engine stop.
Carrie faced him. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘are you turning back or what?’
To her horror Cecil Ratcliffe leaned across and, flushed pink with excitement, placed one thin hand round the back of her head and drew her to himself as if to kiss her. At the same time he clutched at her left hand and squeezed it so hard she thought it would snap.
‘Oh, oh, Miss Shrigley,’ he breathed. ‘Let me . . . Only let me . . .’
Furious, she wrenched her hand away and with strength she never knew she possessed, hit him full force across the face. His head struck the window before he righted himself by clutching wildly at the steering wheel and pulling himself upright.
She felt, as she had on the other two occasions when she hit someone in temper, a sudden wave of shame and remorse; not for having responded to his vile approach with anger, but because she had acted on impulse and her impulse had been of such violence.
This feeling was immediately followed by one of satisfaction when she saw the expression, a hangdog expression, on Cecil Ratcliffe’s face. She tugged at the handle and the car door flew open. Carrie got out of the car quickly and then, with great dignity, picked up her handbag and started to walk back down the path, her head held high.
She heard him get out, heard his feet stumbling along behind her. She would not look back. She was not in the least afraid of him.
‘Miss Shrigley. I deserved that.’ He caught up with her. ‘Stop. Please stop,’ he said.
Carrie stopped. She didn’t know what to make of it but her anger had gone. ‘Whatever got into you?’ she demanded. ‘Have you taken to drink? Taken leave of your senses?’
‘Hit me!’ he said urgently. ‘I asked for it. I beg you, Miss Shrigley. Caroline. Hit me again! As hard as you like!’
She looked him straight in the face though she now felt sorry for the man. Then to her astonishment, he smiled, and it seemed to Carrie that he was not apologising but that, in some way, he had enjoyed it. She must be imagining it. How could a man enjoy being struck and scolded by a woman?
‘If I ever do a thing like that again, Miss Shrigley, then please, I beg you . . .’ Here he broke off and looked longingly into her face. ‘There are times, my dear, when a man needs – er – needs to be put in his place.’
‘What do you mean “Put in your place”?’ Carrie snapped. ‘If you ever do a thing like that again, Cecil Ratcliffe, I’ll horsewhip you!’
She had never said a thing like that before. It wasn’t an expression she’d ever used, though she heard it said. But it had the desired effect.
He made another tremendous effort to control himself; straightening up, swallowing nervously and finally half bowing to her.
‘Will you allow me to make amends?’ he said. ‘I have taken the liberty of reserving a table for lunch at the Blossoms Hotel in Chester. In the back of the car I have a gift, a small token of my regard.’
Before he could start to pontificate Carrie cut him short. ‘Don’t make a fool of yourself,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to crawl. I’ll go to Chester with you. I can’t very well go back home now.’
He ran, almost leaped, she thought, back to the Humber, held open the door and once she was seated got in and reached over to the back seat for the shoebox. ‘Here you are,’ he said, handing it to her.
‘I know that your birthday is around the time of the anniversary.’
It was a pair of court shoes, good quality leather; navy blue-and-white lattice-work uppers and a navy-blue heel. They were her size, made by the best shoemaker. She didn’t know what had possessed him, thinking she’d accept a gift like this.
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why did you think I’d let you buy shoes for me?’
‘You buy your shoes from my shop. I’ve had them in stock for a time. Won’t you accept them?’
He’d apparently not seen anything untoward in his actions for he went on, as if he’d not seen her hesitation. ‘There is much, much more I could do for you, if you would allow it.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Oh, nothing improper. Nothing like that.’ He was smirking now. ‘What I meant was that I am in a position to be of help to you, my dear, in your business.’
‘I have managed my business without any help up to now, Cecil Ratcliffe. I am not a novice, you know.’
‘I know. I know,’ he said smoothly. ‘But there may come a time, should you want anything . . . perhaps want to buy anything. A word in the right ear, at the right time, could save you a lot of money and aggravation.’
There was nothing he could do to help her in her business affairs, but he obviously thought he could and that she should be pleased to hear him say so. ‘All right, Cecil,’ she said. ‘That’s enough of that sort of talk. Now start the car and let us go to Chester.’
He wasn’t going to be a problem after all. If ever he started pawing her again he’d know what to expect. She could deal with Cecil Ratcliffe and his nonsense and it could turn out to be very enjoyable, receiving gifts, being driven about in the lap of luxury.
Chapter Twelve
Alan had decided not to get serious about girls. He would not forgo flirtations or the enjoyment of feminine company but until he qualified he would take these pleasures lightly. He had years of study ahead of him and there was only one girl he would ever consider seriously, and she was too young, too far away and, as far as he could tell, she was not interested in him as anything other than a friend.
Mill Town Girl Page 18
