Mill Town Girl

by Audrey Reimann

  Rose’s face fell. ‘No,’ she said with a hard little laugh. ‘She’s never had a good word to say about anyone as long as I can remember. We’re a burden to her.’

  ‘You were once close. What’s gone wrong?’ She didn’t answer. He glanced at her. She looked as if she were longing to pour out her heart to him as she used to do when she was young. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘tell me.’

  ‘She gets on better with Mary and Viv now,’ she began. ‘It’s odd. I thought they’d never hit it off. I thought there would be ructions, especially with Viv.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She hasn’t been hard on her, yet.’

  ‘What about Mary?’

  ‘Mary’s got a job at the mill, sewing. She’s got a happy nature. She cooks and bakes in her spare time. And she’s got Viv.’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Oh, Alan. I wish I could tell you everything.’ She hesitated then rushed out with, ‘Did you know that she’s going to marry Cecil Ratcliffe?’

  ‘No.’ The thought of Rose’s aunt marrying anyone seemed ridiculous to Alan. She didn’t need a husband; least of all a man he privately thought shifty and untrustworthy.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ he asked. ‘Do you like him?’

  ‘Lord, no.’ She was indignant. ‘He’s the most obnoxious man I’ve ever met.’

  ‘What’s she thinking of? She doesn’t need a provider or anything. She can’t love him.’ He had to look ahead as the traffic was heavy.

  ‘She got angry when Viv asked.’

  ‘What did she say?’ He could not imagine what the woman was thinking of, bringing a man like that into the girls’ lives.

  ‘She snapped her head off. She said it was nothing to do with us. She said we’ll marry and go away and leave her.’

  ‘And will you?’ he asked quickly, suddenly afraid that she may have met someone else.

  ‘I won’t,’ she said.

  Relieved at her vehemence, he laughed softly and reached for her hand. ‘I bet you will. You’ll marry and have half a dozen children when the war’s over.’

  ‘I don’t think I will.’ She spoke quietly and he heard the quick leap of pain in her voice. ‘I can’t have children, Alan.’

  He remembered the last time she had pronounced on reproductive facts and wanted to smile but he knew that she was quite serious. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I’ve never . . .’ She stopped speaking and blushed. ‘Well, only four times,’ she said.

  He saw he would have to draw it out of her. ‘Look, Rose. I’m halfway to being a doctor. You can tell me anything.’ She seemed about to reply so he added, ‘You’ve always told me your troubles. I know everything else about you.’

  ‘You remember when I was fifteen. When I told you . . .’ She picked up her gloves twisted them.

  He would have to try a professional manner with her. ‘We’re talking about your periods, Rose. They’re not regular, is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked relieved once she had begun. ‘I used to pretend. When I was at school I used to sit out of gym every month, to be like the other girls. But I didn’t need to. I only had mine once a year. Once a year since I was fifteen.’

  ‘Have you spoken to your doctor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said I was perfectly normal in every other way and that he didn’t want to tamper with my glands. He said I’m to see him again after I’m married. He said it was unusual.’

  It was unusual, but not unknown. Practically every lecture from any doctor he’d ever heard had stories to tell of women patients who were convinced that they were made quite differently from the rest.

  ‘It doesn’t mean you’ll never have a child but you may have a long wait. Sometimes it rights itself after a first baby. Anyway, there is a lot of research being done. I’m sure you’ll be all right.’ He grinned at her. ‘I’ve learned a lot since I washed your knee, haven’t I?’

  ‘Fancy remembering that.’ She laughed with him now.

  ‘Put my scarf round your hair. I’m going to put my foot down,’ he said. He moved the advance lever and accelerated. The Riley leaped forward. Rose braced her feet against the dashboard shelf and held on to the leather door strap. ‘You’re not scared are you?’ he shouted above the engine and wind noise.

  ‘No! It’s terrific! Go faster!’

  ‘Ever been in an aeroplane?’

  ‘No. This is only the second time I’ve been in a car.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Six o’clock was striking as they followed the tramlines through Piccadilly and Deansgate. Alan parked the Riley behind a line of cars. ‘Let’s have tea at the Kardomah. We’ll have a meal after the opera.’

  The cafe was crowded with soldiers and their girls, and they had to wait in line for a table. Alan reached for her hand. Happiness flooded through Rose while she looked into his face and listened to the chattering voices behind them as they reached the top of the queue and were led to a table.

  The tea came in a silver teapot and they ordered sandwiches and toasted teacakes. She felt happy and confident here. She was not going to think any more about Aunt Carrie. Here she was in the city with the man she loved. She wanted him to see her as adult and capable.

  ‘What’s it about? La Traviata?’ she asked as she poured the tea.

  ‘It’s Alexander Dumas’s story; ‘The Lady of the Camellias’. About a courtesan, Violetta,’ Alan began.

  Rose interrupted, ‘What is a courtesan, exactly?’

  ‘She’s a kept woman. Not a prostitute. I suppose you’d say she was the mistress – the mistress of a man of the court – a man of rank.’

  Rose blushed. She wished she had half the sophistication of Pamela and Sylvia. They’d have known what a courtesan was. They’d never have made fools of themselves by asking. She could have kicked herself for not even looking the word up. She’d come across it many a time, in books.

  ‘What does La Traviata translate as?’ she asked.

  ‘It comes from the verb traviare – to lead astray. The feminine form,’ Alan told her. ‘The sinner, I suppose, would be the nearest.’

  ‘Of course. I should have known that.’ Rose felt more foolish than ever. What on earth would he think of her? He’d think she was stupid, she was sure. She finished her teacake and began to rearrange the dishes, to pour more tea. She glanced at Alan. He had not noticed her confusion but was beginning to relate the story for her.

  She hardly heard a word he said, so entranced was she just to be there, listening to him. He had filled out, grown broader. His face was tanned and had a rugged look that was new. His brown eyes were lively and amused as he looked into hers and a smile kept breaking over his face every time he paused for breath between the tragic scenes of the story.

  ‘And as she dies, the opera ends,’ he said at last. He brought a cigarette case out of his pocket, lit a cigarette for himself and grinned at her. ‘You’ll love it. The music’s wonderful and we’ve got seats near the front.’

  They were three rows from the front. Rose sank into the red plush seat and watched the opera house filling up. There were uniforms and afternoon dresses amongst the taffeta gowns and evening suits and Rose tried to memorise every detail of the evening, to tell to her sisters. Then the violins tuned up, the lights dimmed and the conductor bowed to the audience before they began to play the first slow notes of the overture.

  For two hours there was no war, no blackout, and, as the tragedy unfolded before them, the audience seemed to hold its breath at one moment and break into a riot of applause the next. Rose held on to Alan, a tight knot in her throat at the beautiful Violetta’s grief.

  She was spellbound with the gaiety of the ballroom scene and cast down by the terrible confrontation between Violetta and her lover, Alfredo.

  Rose was living it with them, at one with audience and performers alike. At last, when Violetta crumpled to the floor and the final emphatic notes died a
way there was silence, as if nobody could break the spell, before a storm of clapping and cheering filled the theatre.

  Her hands were sore. It was a relief to see the company lined up and know that Violetta had been acting. She’d remember all this – how the people stamped and clapped, bringing them back time after time – and how strange it felt to adjust to the cold, black Manchester night when their heads were ringing with music.

  A corner table was reserved for them at a smart little restaurant and a French waiter took her jacket as if it had been fur. There were candles and flowers on the table, and white wine in a yellow bottle, wrapped in a snowy napkin. And Alan, treating her as if she were something precious, looked her as if he were as besotted as she was. What a wonderful day it had been.

  When they drove back into Macclesfield Alan parked the car behind the town hall, where they would not be seen. The air was fresh here, cool and clean after the city. The square, in full, brilliant moonlight, was empty, silent, like a black and white photograph. The distant mountain range was not visible and Alan, the church and square the only reality for Rose.

  ‘It was the most wonderful night of my life,’ she sighed. ‘Thank you for taking me.’ The outline of his profile, strong against the pale silver of the wall, gave her the same, familiar jump of pleasure. ‘I’ll never forget tonight.’

  Alan’s arm was across her shoulder and he drew her close. ‘When I’m away, will you think of me?’ he said.

  ‘I always think of you,’ she said in a low, serious voice. ‘I think about you every day of my life. I always have.’ Then his mouth was on hers and her mouth and her body were leaping in response to the taste of his kisses and the hands that caressed her. She had never been kissed like this before. It left her shaking and breathless and a look, a movement was all it took for them to fall into one another’s arms. She wanted time to stand still for them, wanted Alan’s arms round her for ever, wanted to hear him saying her name, as now he was doing.

  ‘Rose. Oh Rose. I want you.’

  Then his hands were under her coat, sliding over the blue bodice of her dress, making her weak, making her seek his mouth, hungrily, letting her tongue move against his until he pulled away from her and held her by the shoulders and looked hard into her widened eyes and watched her as she lay back against the seat, her breath coming fast.

  ‘We must stop,’ he said. ‘Come on. I’ll walk to the steps with you.’

  They stood on the steps at the corner of Waters Green, formal now in case Aunt Carrie was watching from her sitting room window.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Alan said. ‘Wait for me after early mass. We’ll drive into the hills. I’ve something important to tell you.’ And he was gone, loping with an easy stride up the steps.

  Rose heard the Riley’s engine jerk into life as she went down the entry, heard the soft rumble of tyres over the cobblestones as she turned the handle of the back door and found Aunt Carrie sitting by the fire in the darkened kitchen.

  ‘Were you waiting up for me?’ Rose asked gently. ‘You needn’t have. You could have gone to bed.’ She hoped the note of apology was evident to her aunt. She longed, suddenly, to share the spilling happiness of her day with Aunt Carrie, all at once sorry about the gulf that lay between them, the unspoken words. She could bear it now, if Aunt Carrie wanted to talk. ‘Shall I make you a cup of tea? Or cocoa?’

  Aunt Carrie came quickly across the dark room. The dying firelight was behind her and Rose could not see her aunt’s expression. She was unprepared for the slap. She felt a sharp pain in her ear as the force of it sent her reeling, crashing into the corner of the table.

  ‘Get out of my sight!’ Aunt Carrie’s voice was high and hysterical. ‘You’re behaving like a cheap little harlot! I saw you! I saw you making a display of yourself in the market place.’

  She raised her arm again. Rose dropped to the floor in terror. She had never been struck in anger. Panic made her slide along the floor, out of reach. The pain in her ear was spreading down into her neck and shoulder. ‘We weren’t doing anything wrong,’ she said through her tears. ‘He kissed me. That’s all.’

  ‘All? That’s all, is it? Well, there’s to be no more of it. Do you hear me?’ She dropped her arm and turned to stand over Rose’s sobbing form and it seemed to Rose that there was hatred in every word. ‘You think you can go and confess it all, don’t you? Say a few Hail Marys and forget?’ She spat out the words. ‘You’ll learn, my girl! But don’t bring your shame to me when it’s got a bonnet on and its fine Catholic father’s nowhere to be found!’

  ‘Don’t. Please don’t!’ Rose put her hands to her ears to shut out her aunt’s words with the dreadful interpretation of what she had seen ringing through them. ‘It’s not like that,’ she wept. ‘I love him, Aunt Carrie. I love him.’

  ‘Love? See how far that’ll take you.’

  Rose felt the scorn and rage as another physical assault. She knew now that Aunt Carrie would never understand an emotion she couldn’t feel. She stayed, crouching on the floor until Aunt Carrie left the room, until she heard her aunt’s tread on the stairs and the creaking of boards overhead. Then Rose pulled herself wearily to her feet and into the scullery, where she ran cold water over her shaking fingers and tried to scoop it into her open hands and cool her burning face. Then, weary and dejected, she climbed the stairs to the room where Mary and Vivienne slept, untroubled.

  Rose lay wakeful and afraid, for the last few hours before dawn. When light crept into the room she quietly took pencil and paper and left a note for her sisters. ‘Tell Aunt Carrie I’m going to see Pamela from the Bank. She’s asked me to spend the day with her. I’ll be back before dark. Rose.’

  Now she was being forced into deceit, but there was nothing for it. She would have to live here for the time being. She had nowhere else to go. But she vowed to herself that she would never let her aunt treat her like that again. She would ask for nothing, tell her nothing. She had tried to love her aunt, she’d felt ashamed of herself for not feeling any affection for her, but now she didn’t care.

  She’d not tell Alan. He had plenty to worry him without her troubles.

  St Alban’s church, where Chestergate met Chester Road and the shops alternated with town houses, was gaunt and smoke-blackened. It was set a little way back from the road and a little lower, so that it appeared much smaller and plainer than it was.

  It was a beautiful church. Stained-glass windows, small and high, depicting the Stations of the Cross ran, six each side down its length, giving an impression of great height, as did the towering stone columns supporting the roof and painted ceilings. There were twelve columns either side of the aisle and, at their bases, carved oak doors opened into high-fronted pews. At the top of the nave, the great window cast a rainbow of light on the high altar where Father Church said the mass.

  Alan did not see Rose immediately but the flicker of anxiety was stilled when he saw her follow four nuns to the altar rail. He knew she had to bear her aunt’s disapproval every time she came to church and he loved her the more for her endurance.

  She waited for him outside, dressed in a light-grey coat. She had removed the lace square she’d worn in church over hair that was a blazing halo against the plain clothes. Love and desire for her leaped in him as he walked towards her.

  ‘The car’s round the corner,’ he said quietly when he reached her side. ‘I’ll be there in a minute. I want a word with Father Church.’

  He stood at the church gate and watched her graceful walk as she rounded the corner. ‘Can I see you tonight, Father?’ he said when the last parishioner had shaken the hand of the young priest.

  ‘Of course, Alan.’ The priest’s Irish lilt was more pronounced when he spoke to the young people of the parish and Alan sensed the warmth behind Father Church’s quiet smile. ‘Come to the presbytery after nine, will you? We’ll be able to talk then.’ He chuckled and fell into step with Alan the few paces to the Chester Road entrance. ‘She’s a lovely girl, our Rose. You’re a
lucky man.’

  ‘How do you know, Father?’ Alan asked, pleased at the priest’s perception. Perhaps the father had seen something he’d missed, for he was not at all certain that Rose felt as he did, though he’d known, last night, that she wanted him.

  ‘It’s as plain as the nose on your face, boy. To one who’s lookin’ . . .’ The priest’s hand fell on Alan’s shoulder. ‘Why, she can’t take her pretty eyes off you.’

  ‘Thanks, Father.’

  Alan, hope rising in his heart, ran to the car, opened the door and dropped into the driving seat. ‘I put the hood up in case it’s cold. Are you comfortable?’ he asked. She had taken off the grey coat and he saw that she wore a skirt of fawn check with a pretty crimson jumper. It was the first time he’d seen her wear make-up and the bright lipstick made her skin look pale and her teeth when she smiled were like white porcelain.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  Alan pressed the starter. The Riley sprang into life. He had taken out the side windows so that he could lean out and give hand signals and he waved some cyclists on before replying. ‘We’re going over the moors. Nan Tansley’s made up a picnic basket for us.’ He impulsively took her hand for a moment. ‘We’ll eat beside the river in the Goyt Valley. I want us to be all alone. I’ve something important to tell you.’

  ‘Lovely.’ She turned the dark-blue gaze on to him. There was reserve there, in those blue depths and yet he saw the fire beneath that had burned for him a few hours ago.

  They drove through the quiet town, over the bridge behind the cattle market and began the climb to Derbyshire, Alan stealing glances at her, watching the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the clinging jumper, the angle of her face as she watched the passing scene, smiling when she caught him looking, pleased at his attention.

  He stopped at the top of the hill where a stone wall separated tilled fields from the wild, rock-strewn moorland that lay ahead. The whole of Macclesfield lay spread out below them like the view from a cockpit. The sun was warm on their backs and the scent of peaty heather drifted in the silent air.