Mill Town Girl

by Audrey Reimann

  ‘Why, Rose. I didn’t hear you come in, love,’ she said, smiling. ‘Happy birthday.’

  ‘I – I only just got here,’ Rose said.

  Aunt Carrie didn’t seem to have noticed her confusion.

  ‘Come on then, love. Come upstairs. I’ve a present for you. Bring us a tray of tea, Maggie.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Shrigley,’ Maggie said.

  Rose followed Aunt Carrie through the hall. The letters were gone. Upstairs, there was no sign that anyone had been in the room, no tea-tray, no disturbance of the cushions, nothing. It was as if she had imagined it, Rose thought, were it not for the fact that in the pocket of Aunt Carrie’s light wool dress she could see the outline of the envelope she, Rose, had held in her hands a few moments ago; the one from Uncle Patrick.

  Aunt Carrie closed the door and handed Rose a parcel and an envelope. ‘Here you are,’ she said. Rose’s fingers were shaking. She hoped Aunt Carrie would think it was excitement that made them awkward as she pulled the string away from the little package.

  It was a watch, a pretty, rectangular wristwatch in gold. It had black numerals and hands and a band of woven gold threads with a paler gold, Greek key design along its length. It fastened with a clever clasp.

  ‘Thank you. It’s lovely,’ she said.

  ‘Open the card.’

  Rose slit the envelope and took out a little card, silvery embossing with satin violets arranged in its centre. The card itself was delicately scented. Inside, folded, was a cheque. Rose opened it out. ‘Pay to the Bearer the Sum of One Hundred Pounds,’ it said. She was speechless.

  Aunt Carrie asked, ‘Well?’

  Rose sat down with a bump on to the nearest chair. What a lot of money. She was rich. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said.

  ‘Say nothing, lass. Take it to the bank and put it in your account. If you want to leave college you needn’t worry about money.’

  ‘Oh, thank you.’ Rose took her aunt’s hand in hers, stood up and kissed her cheek. ‘I’m going to carry on at college for now, Aunt Carrie, but – thanks.’

  She left the Temperance Hotel before twelve, so that she could get to the bank, she told Aunt Carrie. But she needed to think, to puzzle out what was going on. Aunt Carrie was hiding the fact that she was getting letters from Uncle Patrick and telling nobody about her intention of marrying Cecil Ratcliffe in the New Year.

  Tonight though she would forget all about war and trouble and the thing Aunt Carrie was planning to do in 1940. Once she’d telephoned Alan she, Mary and Vivienne were going to the Picturedrome to see Swingtime, with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.

  After she’d been to the bank, Rose walked down Chestergate and turned into the side lane where the Macclesfield Times office was.

  Rose’s school friend Norah Blackford was a junior reporter there and would be finishing for the weekend about now. She pushed open the door and entered the tiny office. Behind a counter, which divided the room into two narrow strips of space, Norah sat, slamming stamps on to a stack of letters. She looked exactly as she had when she was a schoolgirl; fair, solid and serious. ‘Nearly done,’ she said. ‘You’re early.’

  ‘I thought we could go to the Milk Bar first, then up to Wells Road,’ Rose said. ‘Are you the last one here?’

  ‘Yes. Stick these down for me.’ Norah pushed a heap of envelopes over to her and Rose sat on the counter and began to work her way through them.

  She grimaced at the fishy taste of the glue. ‘Do you like being a reporter, Norah?’ Rose asked her friend. ‘Will you join up if war’s declared?’

  ‘I don’t think they’ll take me. I’ve got asthma,’ Norah smiled her slow smile. ‘But I like my job. It’s appealing to nosey types like me.’

  Rose smiled. ‘Why?’ she said. ‘What do you know that we can’t ferret out for ourselves?’

  Norah went quiet for a moment. ‘I’ve not been told to keep it quiet,’ she said, ‘so I don’t suppose it matters but . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Put the bolt on the door, will you?’ Norah said, serious again. Rose did so and gave Norah an enquiring look. ‘Do you want to see the old papers? In the cellar?’ Norah asked, all in a rush.

  ‘Do you keep them?’

  ‘Yes,’ Norah answered. ‘They go back fifty years. I found out all about my father by looking through.’

  ‘I thought he was dead, Norah. You never said . . .’

  ‘My mother won’t talk about him,’ she said. ‘I wanted to see what I could find out.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t know if I ought to tell you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, there’s something about your family in the same paper.’

  ‘Oh, Norah. You have to tell me. I have to know now,’ Rose said.

  Norah opened the door and let her into the office. ‘Mind your clothes,’ she said. ‘It’s full of dust and cobwebs.’ She opened a second door, felt with her hand along the wall for the switch and led the way down a flight of stone stairs.

  A deep cellar went beneath both the outer office and the inner, editor’s room. The layout was the same as above except that, below, there were no doors and the walls were lined, floor to ceiling in both rooms with strong oak shelves stacked with newspapers and labelled with their dates.

  The two rooms were lit, dimly, by electric lights that hung on twisted and knotted flex low down, at about waist height. ‘I’d be scared to come down here alone, Norah,’ Rose said, recoiling from the musty, airless atmosphere.

  Norah swung the light until she found what she was looking for. ‘Don’t be scared,’ she said. ‘It looks a bit of a muddle but they’re all in order. Here they are.’ She turned, with a pile of old papers in her arms. ‘There are no mice or anything. Sure you want to see them?’

  ‘Yes.’ Of course she wanted to see them. ‘Shall I carry some?’

  She took some of the papers and went ahead up the stairs to the outer office again. Norah followed and quickly found what she was looking for. She opened an old yellowed paper out on to the counter.

  ‘Look.’

  Rose glanced at the date – 21 January 1921. ‘Safebreakers get fifteen-year sentences,’ the headline said. Rose read the report. ‘Three local men were sentenced at Chester this week to terms of imprisonment totalling forty-five years for their part in the robbery at the Regional Bank last October.’ She looked at Norah. ‘It doesn’t mention a Blackford,’ she said.

  ‘Mother went back to her maiden name and moved to Macclesfield from Gawton where they’d lived before,’ Norah explained. ‘The name on my birth certificate is the name of the – the ringleader.’

  ‘When were you born?’ Rose asked.

  ‘January the twenty-first.’

  ‘So your mother was having you at the same time your father was being jailed?’

  ‘Yes. I’d never have known if I hadn’t found my birth certificate and searched through these papers and old court records.’

  ‘When did he come out of prison?’

  ‘He didn’t. He died there.’

  ‘Oh, Norah!’ Rose didn’t know what to say. Norah didn’t look particularly upset. ‘Does it make any difference to you?’ she asked at last.

  ‘It’s better knowing. I always knew there was something. I think children do, don’t you?’

  ‘I expect so. Though I think every family has something to hide,’ Rose agreed.

  ‘Look,’ Norah said, pushing another paper forward. ‘It’s on the centre page.’

  Rose felt shaky now. She would much rather have walked away, out into the fresh spring sunshine, away from dusty cellars, old newspapers and family secrets. But she could not help herself. Nervously she glanced at Norah before opening it. It seemed to leap off the page at her. ‘Patrick Kennedy sent to Strangeways.’

  She read on, underneath, ‘Deceiving Miss Caroline Shrigley, Macclesfield hotel-keeper led Patrick Kennedy, a jobbing builder, to five years’ penal servitude for fraud and deception.
Kennedy, an undischarged bankrupt, defrauded Miss Shrigley of her home and life savings when he persuaded her to purchase the building company which he declared was his own property in September last.

  ‘Miss Shrigley sold the Temperance Hotel in Macclesfield’s Market Square, and gave the proceeds to Kennedy in return for promissory notes giving her title to the unfinished houses. The accused, however, had no title to the properties. There were outstanding loans on these and other properties and an unanswered charge of bankruptcy in Ireland. The court granted the said Miss Shrigley title to the properties when creditors were paid.’

  ‘I never knew,’ Rose whispered. She folded the paper with shaking hands. ‘Dad never told me.’

  ‘They don’t want us to know,’ Norah blurted. ‘I’m sorry if it has upset you.’

  ‘It hasn’t.’ Rose was defensive. She was upset, but she wouldn’t show it.

  ‘You’re as white as death.’

  ‘It hasn’t sunk in, Norah,’ Rose said.

  ‘Let’s put these papers back.’ Norah began to collect and fold the papers. ‘We can talk about it outside if you want to – or perhaps you’d rather . . .’

  ‘I’d rather not.’ Rose brushed her hands with her handkerchief, as if to take away the feel of the paper. ‘Let’s get out of here. I’ll have a milkshake and sandwich and then go home. I don’t know what to think.’

  They left the office and sat for an hour in the Milk Bar, drinking banana-flavour milkshakes and talking to friends, but Rose could remember little of the rest of the afternoon. All the time she was acting normally the questions were going round in her mind but she knew that she could not ask her parents for an explanation this time.

  The newspaper could not have lied. If Mum and Dad had hidden from them for all these years the skeleton in the family cupboard, and if that skeleton was the fact that Uncle Patrick, their hero, had cheated Aunt Carrie out of her savings, then they would not want her to uncover the truth.

  Why, she would only have been . . . No, Mum had not given birth to her at the time. She was not born until May 1921. Uncle Patrick was sent to prison almost four months before her own birth. So Mum and Dad must have run away to Ireland before all this took place.

  Why had Aunt Carrie given him the money? Was she foolhardy in those days? Did she expect to make a fortune from the deal? They were not the actions of the Aunt Carrie she knew. Aunt Carrie today would never be induced to sell her hotel to give money to anyone. Would she? But wasn’t she going to do that very thing again if she married Cecil Ratcliffe?

  Today she’d seen a letter from Uncle Patrick addressed to Aunt Carrie. Why would he write to the woman who had sent him to prison? Was it something to do with the houses? Or the Temperance Hotel? Did Uncle Patrick still have some kind of share in the property? Did Uncle Patrick own anything here? Their own house? Dad and his brother had built it but now Dad paid rent for it. Had Aunt Carrie been obliged to tell Uncle Patrick that she was planning to sell the Temperance Hotel?

  There was a connection somewhere that she was failing to make. She could not think straight and logically no matter how she looked at it. No matter how she tried to reconstruct the events of the past she could not find, in spite of all she already knew, the link between the Aunt Carrie of yesterday that the old newspaper had revealed and the efficient business woman she now was. It was like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing.

  Finally Rose made herself stop trying to guess what had happened. It was all past. But now she understood what Mum meant about Aunt Carrie having had a hard life. For the life of her she could not see why Dad was not as tolerant.

  She got through the rest of the day and nobody noticed a difference in her. Then at last, tea was over and she could think of nothing but the fact that she would talk to Alan soon.

  Outside the Majestic cinema she left the others to queue for the tickets while she made an excuse. ‘I’ll go to the sweetshop for a bag of Palm toffee,’ she said before running up Mill Street to the telephone kiosk in the market place.

  And she was there, a purse full of pennies and threepenny bits to hand, dialling the operator. ‘Please put four pence in the box.’

  She was through.

  ‘Hello. Hello. Rose?’

  ‘Alan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a pause before he spoke again. ‘Rose, will you? Will you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes!’ Tears of happiness were filling up in her eyes, making the booth, the numbers, everything blurry before them.

  ‘I can’t get to Macclesfield to see you – not for months.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she told him.

  ‘To me it does.’

  ‘I’ll write,’ she said.

  ‘Can you come here? To Edinburgh?’

  Could she? She’d have to deceive everyone. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Think about it.’

  Aunt Carrie would be horrified. If she went she couldn’t tell Mum and Dad, for they would not want to lie to Aunt Carrie. ‘When would you want me to come?’

  ‘I’m going to Kent for eight weeks. I’ll be back at the end of July. Try to come. I’ll only have two or three days and the journey takes a day each way.’

  ‘Where will I stay?’

  ‘Mrs Forsyth – my flatmate’s mother – will put you up. Will you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes!’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Honestly, Alan. I’ll be there.’

  ‘Shall I send money for the fare?’

  ‘I’ve got money.’ There was another silence, when it seemed neither of them could think of anything to say.

  ‘Rose?’ Alan said. ‘I’m longing to see you.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Write to me?’

  ‘Every day.’

  Rose put the telephone back on its rest and ran like the wind, back down Mill Street, to find Mary, Viv and Norah waiting outside the Majestic for her, the queue gone.

  ‘Hurry up, Rose,’ Norah called.

  ‘We’ll miss the beginning,’ Vivienne said crossly as she came to a halt.

  ‘Where are the sweets?’ Mary asked.

  ‘I couldn’t get any. I was talking to someone.’ It wasn’t a lie and she was not going to tell anyone her lovely secret. Rose took her sisters’ arms. ‘Sorry! Come on. The big picture won’t have started.’

  They squeezed along the row to their seats whispering ‘Sorries’ as they went. They had missed the cartoon and the trailer. The newsreel was about to start.

  A hush fell immediately the Pathé News cockerel began its crowing. And there he was, with his wicked eyes and small moustache, wild look and hysterical voice, the masses of German soldiers goose-stepping and ‘sieg-heiling’ for him. It sent a shiver down Rose’s back; it was hypnotic watching him rage and the whole auditorium felt it, sighs escaping from hundreds of lips as the screen image cut away into news of familiar, home events.

  Alan waited on Waverley Station in Edinburgh for the train. He liked the hustle, the air of expectancy, the great engines heaving away, porters laden with luggage moving quickly amongst the crowd.

  Today every train from Manchester and London was filled with troops or drafted men on their way to training camps. And he was part of the frenzied world of imminent war. He would soon be uniformed and serving. He had no doubts now, only fears; only fears that he would not live up to it. It was only a matter of weeks. All the members of the university squadron were waiting for the call.

  ‘The train now approaching Platform 1 is the ten-thirty from Manchester Exchange,’ the announcer said as the train came, steaming slowly towards the platform.

  Over the heads of the crowd Alan saw her; her flaming hair flying in the breeze, the navy-blue pillbox hat held firmly in place with a gloved hand. The very sight of her was like an electric charge to him and, as he pushed his way through the crowd, he had to remind himself not to alarm her with a great display of affection.

  He stood before her. God, she was beautiful. ‘Let
me take your luggage,’ he said, reaching for her zipper-bag. ‘Was it a good journey?’

  She smiled back, a little shyly, he thought.

  ‘Yes. I loved it.’

  ‘Did your mother and father see you off?’ He wanted to take her hand but thought it better to wait.

  ‘I didn’t tell them I was coming to Edinburgh,’ she answered, shouting a bit, to let him hear above the noise of the crowd.

  Alan was surprised. ‘Why not?’ he asked.

  ‘I said I was going to Manchester. To my digs. To see to things.’ She was looking to him for reassurance. She didn’t like lying.

  ‘Would they have minded?’ he asked.

  ‘Mum and Dad wouldn’t. But Aunt Carrie might have asked where I was.’ She laughed here. ‘I’m still under her thumb, aren’t I?’ she said. ‘Come on, Alan. Don’t stand there staring as if I’ve come from Mars. Which way do we go?’

  He led the way up the station approach. The pavements were too crowded to walk side by side and he turned every few yards to check that she was still there and to look at her.

  ‘Soon be there,’ he said. ‘It’s just up the hill.’

  So, she was prepared to mislead her family. That put a different complexion on her being here and raised his hopes again. Then he reminded himself not to move too fast. Apart from her agreeing to come she had given no indication that she was interested in anything other than his friendship. Her letters were long and confidential but in them she steered short of anything ambiguous. She could be writing to a school friend for all he read between the lines.

  She was at his side again, at the top of the rise, looking towards Princes Street and the gardens. ‘What a city, Alan,’ she said. ‘You never told me it was beautiful.’

  ‘Wait until you see it from the Forsyths’ flat. You can see for miles,’ he answered, taking her hand now. She didn’t take it away.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked. ‘Have you anything planned?’

  ‘I’m taking you to the theatre tonight,’ he told her, ‘with Martin, my flatmate, and his latest girlfriend. Afterwards we’ll dine at the Cafe Royal, then back to the flat.’