It was worrying. Not funny. ‘You aren’t making this up, are you, Viv?’
‘No!’
‘No! She’s not, Rose,’ Mary was quietly insistent. ‘We can’t tell anyone. We can’t tell Aunt Carrie. But he makes us feel on edge. We’re scared of him.’
‘You must tell Aunt Carrie not to leave you alone with him.’
‘I can’t!’
‘Neither can I,’ Mary said.
‘I’ll try to speak to her,’ Rose said. ‘But she won’t believe me.’
‘Let’s go up to bed,’ Mary said. ‘We can talk up there and we’ll not be around when they come in.’
‘All right,’ Rose agreed. ‘You go ahead. I’ll make some cocoa and bring it up.’
When her sisters went upstairs Rose wondered how she was going to tell Aunt Carrie that her sisters were being frightened by Cecil Ratcliffe. Aunt Carrie would make a terrible scene. She’d give them all the third degree, Cecil Ratcliffe too. And then there would be no peace in the house.
Perhaps it would be best if she told Mary and Viv to keep right out of his way. After all, Cecil Ratcliffe might imagine that he had to bring about a closeness, an understanding between himself and the three of them. He might be trying to worm his way into their favour and merely being clumsy and inept about it.
The presbytery, a three-storey house, was the first in a long row of stone-faced terraced properties adjoining the churchyard of St Alban’s. Alan rang the doorbell and was admitted into the gloomy passageway by Father Church who led the way into his plain, tidy little study at the back of the house.
‘Come in, my boy,’ he said, closing the door behind them. ‘Sit down.’
Alan remained standing. He was not in the mood for talk of the parish. He wanted to have it all settled, and soon. ‘Father, I want to marry Rose Kennedy,’ he said in a voice that sounded, even to him, unnecessarily abrupt. ‘She’s underage and her aunt’s no friend of the church.’
‘You’ve spoken then? She’ll have you?’ The priest’s face broke into a smile. ‘Congratulations, me boy. You don’t want to wait until she’s older, I take it?’
‘In the eyes of God she’s my wife already, Father.’ He was relieved now, to tell the priest and he watched his face for signs of reproach.
Father Church’s hand fell on to his shoulder. ‘And what about babies? There’ll be children comin’ and you not married. Is that it?’
‘No, Father. Rose can’t have children. Not yet. She may need an operation. We’ve no fears that way. But we want to marry. Will you marry us when we’ve got her aunt’s permission?’
‘Oh, I will that. Sit down, Alan. Will her aunt agree? Rose being so young.’
‘Rose is going to speak to her,’ Alan told him before adding, by way of explanation, ‘she didn’t want me to ask Miss Shrigley.’
Father Church leaned against the leather back of his chair in silence for a fraction too long. Did the priest know something he didn’t? He felt the knot tighten in his stomach. ‘What is it, Father? There’s something behind her aunt’s antagonism isn’t there? Something beyond intolerance? She’ll not give her consent, will she?’
‘I think she’ll not.’
Alan got to his feet and spoke angrily. He had no time to beat about the bush. ‘I’ve told you what we’ve done. In the eyes of God we are married. I want us to marry in the church.’ He hesitated before lowering his voice and looking hard into Father Church’s eyes. ‘I may not survive the fighting, Father. I tell you, though I am under an oath of secrecy, that I am joining an active unit on Wednesday.’
Father Church looked at him steadily. ‘Shall I go to see her?’ he asked. ‘Miss Shrigley might sign the forms, if I ask her.’
Alan shook his head. ‘I don’t think she’d agree. Thank you for offering,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask Rose to apply to the court if I have to.’ He would ask Dad to tell him the whole story tonight.
When he got home he found that Nan Tansley had left supper ready for them: the table set and the oven on low. Nan, in her sixties now, had gone to her room. She would not consider retirement and Alan and Dad were content for her to stay. She was indispensable. Tonight she had laid places for them on the low, wheeled table at the living room fireside.
There was a letter from Patrick, propped against the clock over the fireplace. Beside the clock was Dad’s cousin John McGregor’s wedding photograph. In it the bride, a woman of about thirty, smart in a long, high-necked gown and holding a bouquet, was posed between the two men who were standing, straight, unsmiling and formal. It reminded Alan of a Victorian wedding.
The letter read, ‘Dear Douglas and Alan, You must wonder what is happening here as it is so long since you heard from me. I am waiting to hear where I will be sent since I applied for, and was given, the job of correspondent. Apparently forty-nine, my age now, is too old to be made war correspondent but I am not over the hill yet. I shall not be sent to cover the fighting in Europe but there is every chance that I will land up in Scotland to cover troop activities in Britain. So we may meet again, Douglas, on those bonny banks. You will be aware of course that I am not allowed to say more. If I am sent, I’ll contact you by telephone and arrange a reunion.’
Alan put the letter back in the envelope. It was the first they had received for months; a miracle really, that it had got here at all. It would be marvellous to see his godfather again. But he wondered if it would come about. Dad was going God knows where and he would be on active service.
Dad came in at eight, and when they had done justice to Nan’s stew and dumplings and eaten all the homemade cakes on the stand, Alan got to his feet and stood with his back to the fireplace.
‘Pour us a couple of whiskies, Dad,’ he said. ‘We’ve something to drink to.’
Dad went obediently to the cabinet, poured two whiskies into cut-glass tumblers and placed them on the high marble mantelshelf. ‘What is it?’ he asked with smiling curiosity.
‘I’ve asked Rose to marry me,’ Alan announced. He’d meant to put a serious expression on his face but a broad smile of happiness could not be held back. ‘And she’s accepted.’ He watched Dad’s face and saw with delight the look of pleasure in his father’s eyes.
‘That’s wonderful news, Alan,’ Dad said. He put a hand out. Alan grasped it. ‘I couldn’t be more pleased. She’s a bonny girl. You’ve loved her for years, haven’t you?’
‘How did you know that?’ Alan grinned. ‘I only asked her today.’
‘Aye. But ye’ve been thinking that way for long enough.’
‘You are right,’ Alan answered. ‘But I didn’t think she was thinking the same way. Until today.’
‘Here’s to your marriage.’ Dad clinked glasses and they both drank. ‘Ye’d better bring her here tomorrow, Alan,’ Dad said. ‘We’ll celebrate with champagne.’
Alan put down the glass and spoke thoughtfully. ‘Rose doesn’t want me to tell her aunt but she needs her consent, being under age,’ he said. ‘I’ve spoken to the priest and he says Miss Shrigley won’t give it.’
Dad looked serious now. ‘He may be right, Alan.’
‘What’s behind it?’
‘Sit down, son,’ Dad said. ‘Pour yourself another glass. I’ll tell you all I know.’
It took Dad an hour to tell him everything he knew of the time when Rose’s parents ran away to Ireland, leaving Carrie Shrigley to face Patrick Kennedy, his own godfather, in open court.
When he had finished it seemed to Alan as if an old quarrel had been kept alive. ‘How can the events of the past, between Miss Shrigley and Patrick Kennedy, have any relevance to Rose and me?’ he asked at last. ‘Rose is only her niece. What possible reason could she have for preventing her from marrying?’
‘I don’t know, Alan,’ Dad said. ‘At the time it was a terrible business. It was a foolish thing that Patrick did but he was more foolish than wicked. I had the feeling that it could have been avoided. I always felt, though I don’t know why, that Carrie Shrigley was as much to b
lame as he was. For it was not at all like her to be reckless and it was not at all like Patrick to go like a lamb to the slaughter. He put up no defence against her.’
Alan had listened carefully. ‘Rose knows nothing of this,’ he said. ‘They have kept it from her and her sisters.’
‘It’s not something they would boast about, son.’
‘All the same, if it were me I think I’d rather have known.’ He was thoughtful for a few seconds longer. ‘What do you think I should do?’ he asked at last. ‘I can’t tell Rose that my godfather was a swindler.’
‘He wasn’t.’ Dad spoke sharply. ‘He’s one of the finest men I’ve ever met. I’ll never think otherwise.’
‘All right. I’m sorry I used the term. I’ve certainly never thought he was crooked.’ He puzzled over it for a few moments longer. It explained what he saw as Miss Shrigley’s bitterness, but he could not see how it would affect her attitude towards Rose.
Dad said, ‘You’ll have to wait. ‘Rose will be twenty next summer, won’t she?’
‘Yes. But I think we should apply to the court. Get a special licence. I’ve told Rose so,’ Alan said. ‘The balloon’s gone up. I don’t know when I’ll be home. I want it all ready so we can marry immediately.’
Dad said, ‘Your mother and I were married on one of my leaves in the last war. But then, in Scotland ye can marry at sixteen.’ He got up from the chintz-covered settee and went to the corner cupboard where the family treasures were kept, brought out a little square box and handed it to Alan. ‘Your mother’s ring,’ he said. ‘Give it to Rose.’
Tears glistened in Dad’s eyes when Alan opened the box and carefully withdrew the circle of gold with its cluster of diamonds. It was a good ring. Alan was sure it represented many a week’s catch of fish for Dad would have been a poor fisherman when he bought it.
‘Thanks, Dad. She’ll love it,’ Alan said. ‘I’ll give it to her tomorrow. I’ll bring her here in the evening after she’s finished work. We’ll celebrate.’
Half an hour later, in bed, Alan lay on his back, remembering Rose and their loving and thoughts of her sent such a wave of longing through him that he knew he’d not be able to close his eyes until he saw her again.
And yet, it was morning and the alarm at his bedside startling him out of sleep. Six o’clock. He was meeting Nat at seven, in the square.
His running feet echoed through the empty streets. He reached the market place just as the milk cart turned the corner from Mill Street. Nat slowed and Alan climbed up and took the reins from him. ‘Was that your last call?’ he asked.
‘Aye. I don’t have such a big round now. I sell most of it to the bottling plant at the Co-op. Head for Rainow. Mam’s got us breakfasts waiting.’
Alan flicked the reins across old Dobbin’s flanks and the horse, eager to return to his paddock, jingled his harness as he broke into a lively trot. ‘Did you take the barmaid out on Saturday?’ Alan asked.
A slow grin spread over Nat’s ruddy face. ‘Yep! She’s all right is Mona,’ he answered. ‘I’ve asked her to keep next Saturday free.’
Alan laughed. ‘You’ll be settling down soon. Will you?’
‘I dunna know about that. What about you?’
They were climbing the road out of Macclesfield, the road he and Rose had taken yesterday. In half a mile he would make a left turn and leave the main road, still climbing to the lowest of the Pennine foothills where Rainow Farm snuggled between soft meadowland and the hillier reaches of low mountain slopes. Already the clean air was singing through him.
‘I’ve asked Rose to marry me,’ he said. ‘And she said yes.’
Dobbin needed no more urging. They turned the corner on to the hawthorn-hedged lanes. The carthorse knew he was on the homeward stretch and the cart rattled over the stony road that led, another half-mile up the hill, to the farm. Alan had to raise his voice to be heard against the noise of the empty churns, which were lifting and banging together. Nat was quiet.
The road, steeper now, wound sharply right and Alan held on to the wooden seat as Dobbin rounded the corner and made the turn through the narrow gate. ‘He never makes a mistake, does he?’ Alan said. ‘I hold my breath when he turns in. There’s only an inch or two of clearance.’
‘They never forget,’ Nat called back.
Alan could see, over the tops of the dry-stone walls, the fields and woods. There was something reassuring and unchanging about this farm. Meadows and coppices followed the lie of the land. The back of the house faced the down slope of an ancient meadow, where a stream divided it from the old road and the woods. From the farmhouse kitchen Ma Cooper would have been watching their approach. The front door and tiny flower garden faced the hill. Alan had never known the front door to be used. The living room and kitchen were at the back where a long flagged terrace, edged with a stone wall, ran the length of the house from the cobbled, enclosed yard into which they had now pulled up.
Nat climbed down and unhitched the cart while Alan held on to the horse’s bridle. As soon as he’d done Nat said, in a voice that sounded almost nonchalant, ‘Don’t say anything to Mam. Don’t say owt about – about you getting engaged to Rose Kennedy – will yer?’
Alan was not fooled by Nat’s air of unconcern. He looked quickly at Nat’s reddening face.
‘She’ll only start on at me,’ Nat explained.
Alan felt a quick rush of sympathy. His news had affected his friend. He’d thought, when he first spoke, that Nat had been shaken by his announcement. He had not thought that Nat was touchy about his single state. How insensitive he’d been, boasting about his good fortune. He’d have played it down if he’d had any tact. ‘I’ll say nothing,’ he promised and added, ‘Anyway we have to get her aunt’s consent. I’d rather it wasn’t talked about until we get that settled.’
‘Hang Dobbin’s harness up and put him in’t paddock will yer?’ Nat said. ‘I’ll scald the churns. Tell Mam I’m ready for me breakfast.’
When Dobbin was released, Alan crossed the yard that was bounded by the house, shippen, stone barn and dairy. He passed under the stone archway that linked the dairy and house and saw Ma Cooper waiting for him with outstretched hands.
Alan bent and kissed her rosy, unlined cheek. She was tiny, plump and lively and full, even in her advancing years, of an energy that outstripped everyone.
‘Eeh, Alan. Come in love,’ she said. ‘Eeh. It’s good to see you. Come on. Take your boots off. I won’t have mud on my kitchen floor. Leave ’em under the bench by the wall. It’s not raining.’
He obeyed, smiling, and followed her into the long, low, beamed kitchen where everything gleamed and shone. Every surface; dresser, table, wooden mantelshelf and windowsill was covered first with a thick plain cloth and topped with a starched, lace-edged and embroidered cover. The cooking range, black-leaded and polished, was on the far, narrow wall and took up its whole width. There was a small window above the deep white sink, hung halfway down with a muslin curtain, and, at the side of the sink, an iron water-pump, rubbed and polished until the cast iron shone like steel. The wooden draining board was scrubbed daily until it was as white as bleached bone and not a crumb or speck sullied the red quarry-tiled floor.
Ma Cooper beamed at them both when at last they were seated. ‘I picked some mushrooms this morning,’ she said. ‘Do you want some with your ham?’
She had already filled the big plate with fried eggs and thick ham, fried bread and kidneys. ‘Just a few, Ma,’ he said as she placed a heaped ladle of wide flat field mushrooms on to his plate. ‘Give the rest to Nat. He’s always hungry.’
Nat came in now, and grinned as Alan went on. ‘You ought to ease up a bit, Ma. You still keep everything spotless don’t you?’ He knew she loved to be praised, he loved to see her face light up in response to the appreciation she seldom got from Nat.
‘I’ll ease off when Nat fetches a bride home.’ She nudged Alan with a conspiratorial chuckle and cocked her head towards Nat. ‘He goes a-courting ev
ery Saturday but he’s never brought her home yet.’
‘I have a different one every week, Mam. I keep tellin’ yer,’ Nat replied crossly.
‘You don’t,’ she cried happily. ‘I know what you’re like. You’re close. Like your father was.’ Her ready laugh pealed through the kitchen. ‘You’ll fetch a wife here soon. I know you will. Eeh! I’m that eager. I’d love a nice girl to keep me company. And grandchildren.’
‘You’ll have a long wait, Mam.’ Nat, evidently irritated by his mother’s talk, handed Alan an earthenware half-pint mug of tea. ‘Get that down yer and we’ll put the cows out. I can’t listen to much more of Mam’s nonsense.’
Alan was enjoying himself. Ragging Nat was irresistible. ‘Have you still got all your baby things, Ma?’ he asked, keeping a straight face. ‘All those pretty clothes you’ve kept?’
It was difficult to keep the straight face when Nat was groaning and rolling his eyes heavenwards.
‘Eeh. I have that. I get them out every spring and wash and starch them, Alan,’ Ma answered eagerly. ‘Do you want me to fetch them down and show you?’ She wiped her small hands on the pinafore and untied the knot that lay over her round stomach.
‘I’ll see them later. When the work’s done,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the sight of them will spur Nat on.’ He glanced at his friend’s crestfallen face and could not hold back from laughing at Nat’s look of horror at the prospect of looking over the tiny garments.
Nat left the table and went to the door, jerking his head for Alan to follow. ‘You want to give ’em to a museum, Mam,’ he called over his shoulder as they sat on the kitchen step pulling on their boots. Then as they rounded the corner of the house, out of sight of his mother, Nat gave Alan a playful shove, sending him helpless with laughter over the low stone wall of the dairy. ‘Yer great gowk!’ Nat said. ‘She’ll have the flaming lot out when we go back in. We’ll have the whole ruddy family history an’ all. How her great grandmother put the lace on the daft caps.’
Mill Town Girl Page 29
