Mill Town Girl

by Audrey Reimann

  Alan turned away. ‘I’m going there,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll never make it,’ she called after him over the distance of the pavement. ‘The snow. Nat Cooper’s not been down with the milk since Boxing Day – and it’s the tenth of January.’

  The woman was out of her mind. Did she think he didn’t know what day it was? ‘I’ll get there,’ he assured her as he reached the car.

  ‘They’re snowed in in the hills. Cut off,’ she called.

  ‘Then I’ll have to dig her out, won’t I?’ Alan started the engine.

  He put chains around the Riley’s wheels and headed out towards the Buxton Road from where he would turn towards Manchester and the easier, trodden route to Rainow. And all the time asking himself, why was Rose at Nat’s? Surely Nat hadn’t enticed her away from him? He knew he would have been posted ‘Missing, presumed killed’, but she would have known he’d return. Wouldn’t she? What were they all hiding from him? The staff at the Regional Bank, Pamela Tannenbaum, Carrie Shrigley?

  He turned off Manchester Road, put his foot on the accelerator, double de-clutched and felt the Riley slide easily into second gear for the climb up to Rainow.

  Rose fed the baby and went down to the kitchen. It was eight-thirty in the morning of the tenth of January. She was going to help Martha in the dairy. The cows were milking well. Sixty gallons a day had to be dealt with. Nat had not been able to cut a way through to the road yet. The land-girls, the evacuees from the cottage, she and Martha had been working non-stop to use up the milk that was left after the animals had been fed to capacity.

  There were cheeses in the five iron presses and a dozen more in makeshift containers – cans with tops and bottoms removed – wrapped in muslin and weighted down under planks of wood and half-hundredweight blocks of iron, bricks and sacks of stones.

  There was a barrel of salted butter and four pillowcases half-full of cottage cheese. The cottage cheese was a mistake in Martha’s opinion. Today they were going to make another, a big Cheshire cheese, and scald a gallon of cream.

  Rose put on a white apron over the slacks and jumper she had taken to wearing. She left the kitchen and went outside to gaze for a moment over the meadow. The sun was dazzling off the crisp whiteness of the field, which sloped gently down to a stream. It was still running, a black gash that ran along the dip before the land rose up again towards the road.

  She could see Nat. He had cut a path, almost as far as the road. Martha came to stand beside her. ‘He’s nearly there,’ she remarked.

  ‘Will he be able to get the milk out this afternoon?’ Rose asked.

  ‘If it doesn’t snow again.’

  Rose looked up at the glaring blue of the cloudless sky. ‘It looks clear enough.’

  ‘He’s going to lead Dobbin down there, pulling the sledge. Then he’ll carry the churns to the road and the horse will pull them down the hill to the smithy. The smith’s got a cart. We’ll borrow that until we can get ours out of the yard and down the lane.’ Martha tied a clean apron on top of her floral one as she spoke. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Yes. The baby’s asleep. I can hear him from the dairy if he cries.’

  They went into the whitewashed dairy where the cheeses and butter were made. The floor was of scrubbed stone, the walls white as snow and all around the room slate shelves held the flat dishes of cream and slabs of butter they had prepared.

  Rose loved it all. She liked fleeting the cream with a flat skimmer and churning it until it ‘came’. She enjoyed working and squodging it until all the buttermilk was out and it could be salted and shaped with the wooden ‘butter hands’ into shining, yellow slabs. But most of all she liked to make cheese. She was becoming quite expert she thought as she scrubbed her hands and went to inspect the vat.

  Martha had stirred in the starter an hour before breakfast and now the curd was perfect, like a pale, yellow jelly that filled the deep vat.

  It looked solid but she knew that when the knives went in, sliding around and under, and she had cut the curd gently and carefully into little cubes, the whey would run. She cut it. The little pieces were floating now. She slipped her hands into the warm liquid, felt the slithering softness of the curd, spread her fingers and began to move it gently. In another ten minutes she would drain it and hang the curd in the large square of boiled muslin she had prepared.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Martha said. Rose turned her head to see Martha peering through the window at the meadow. ‘It’s Nat,’ she answered.

  ‘Who’s with him?’

  Rose stopped stirring and went to stand beside Martha, hands dripping wet with whey. Nat was talking to a man. He was pointing in their direction, waving, shouting something.

  Rose’s heartbeat increased. The man was tall. He had a long, loping stride. He was coming across the snow-deep meadow, hands in the pockets of a leather jacket. It was a leather flying-jacket. She ran outside, heart racing, hands clapped to her mouth to stop herself from crying out if it wasn’t him. If it wasn’t? It was. It was him. ‘Alan!’ she screamed.

  He stopped and put out his arms to her. ‘Rose!’

  Then they were running towards one another, stumbling and falling through the snow, crying and laughing at the same time until they were in each other’s arms and his mouth was on hers and her hands were fastened at the back of his neck, holding him so that she would never ever again lose the feel of his face against her own.

  At last he held her and looked into her eyes. ‘Oh, Rose. Oh, Rose. You don’t know how much I’ve missed you,’ he said.

  ‘And I you,’ she answered. There were tears of joy running down her flushed cheeks. She brushed them away with her hands then took his hands in her own.

  ‘Come. Come into the house,’ she said, tugging him after her as she went, fast and eager towards the farm.

  He followed her into the kitchen.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Give me your coat.’ She unfastened the clasp and helped him out of the jacket, helped him remove his shoes then eagerly, not saying a word more, began to pull him towards the stairs.

  Outside the bedroom door she stopped and turned to look at him. He was one step below her and their faces were level.

  ‘Can you bear a surprise?’ she asked in a whisper.

  ‘Yes.’ He grinned at her. ‘What?’

  She opened the bedroom door and led him inside. Then, so as not to miss a second, she never took her eyes off his face as he looked from her to the cradle.

  He went white, then red. His eyes first registered surprise, then amazement and, lastly, he let go of her hand and went towards the cradle. ‘Ours?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’ He looked at her tenderly. ‘Oh, Rose! When did . . . ?’

  ‘The seventeenth of December. His name’s going to be Alan, if you agree.’

  Alan knelt by the cradle and gently lifted his child. ‘Oh, God,’ he whispered as tears poured unchecked down his thin, strained face. ‘I never . . . never in my wildest dreams, expected anything like this.’

  She went to him. She put her arms around his waist and pressed her warm cheek against his wet face. ‘You are home, my darling,’ she said. ‘You will never know just how much I love you.’

  She could feel in his body, see by the set of him that he needed her love and her strength. He would recover from his ordeal with her at his side. ‘I think we’d better get married now, don’t you?’ she said.

  They sat for an hour in the bedroom, watching their son and talking, holding hands and embracing, as if afraid to let an unfilled second pass. They wanted to lie together in love but knew that this was not the place nor the time for it and that they would have to contain themselves.

  But he could not stop himself from holding her, from taking her into his arms and, feeling her full, warm body responding to his every movement, having to fight back the desire that threatened to overtake him. He pulled himself up and looked down at his beautiful wife to be who lay, flushed and aroused, on the
bed beside him. ‘I want us to be married,’ he said, ‘before we make love again. What about you?’

  ‘If every time we do we start another baby, I think it would be more – more seemly,’ Rose answered.

  The ill-humoured person that had been his alter-ego for so long evaporated in her nearness. He laughed softly at her. ‘Get up, then, you hussy!’ he said. ‘Fasten your clothing. Go downstairs and help Martha with her cheeses. I’ll watch our son for half an hour, then I’ll help Nat.’

  He lay there, after she had gone, looking at his son, remembering Rose’s sweetness and knowing that from this moment on he needed nothing so much as he needed this little family he had created. He wanted to feast his eyes on them, wanted to watch their every movement, hear their every sound. Then he slept, a deep contented sleep, until Rose woke him at three o’clock in the afternoon.

  ‘Do you want something to eat, darling?’ she asked. ‘I’ve made something for you.’

  He was wide awake in seconds. The months of hiding had made him wary. Then he saw her face and again relief and love washed over him. He stood up and took her in his arms. ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ he said. ‘Give me some food and I’ll deliver the milk in Macclesfield for Nat.’

  ‘Shall I come too?’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘You stay here, with the baby: I’ll be back later, when I’ve seen Father Church and your aunt. I want to get our wedding arranged.’

  He went downstairs and ate the meal she had prepared for him. She sat watching him, waiting for his murmurs of approval at every mouthful. It delighted him to see her eagerness to please.

  When he put down his knife and fork he took her in his arms again before asking her to bring his outdoor clothes. Then he went outside and carried the churns through the field with Nat. They wedged them into the Riley and he returned, the hood down, in the bitter cold, to Macclesfield.

  After the milk was delivered to the bottling plant and the empty churns were in place in the car he set off for the presbytery where Father Church told him that, if they could get a special licence, he would marry them in nine days’ time, on Saturday the nineteenth of January.

  Alan thanked him and went immediately to the Temperance Hotel. He was shown into the kitchen by Vivienne and Mary who talked non-stop until their aunt came downstairs.

  He was astonished at the change in Carrie Shrigley. She was eager now for them to marry. She chatted in a slightly frenzied way as if she were nervous. Perhaps she wanted to make amends. He had never seen her like this before.

  ‘Sit down, Alan,’ she fussed as soon as he had followed her upstairs and been shown into her sitting room. ‘I’ll get Mrs Bettley to send some tea up.’

  He sat and gazed around the room until she returned. It was a peculiar room. Rose had told him about it and now he saw for himself the furniture that looked as if it should be in a king’s palace; ornate, gilded and glazed. There were lighter patches on the walls where pictures once hung and china cabinets, empty of all but her less valuable ornaments.

  ‘Here we are,’ she said brightly as she followed the woman into the room. ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  As soon as the door closed behind the woman who brought the tray he came straight to the point. ‘I have arranged the wedding for Saturday the nineteenth,’ he told her. ‘You will have to sign consent forms.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ she answered. ‘Now, then. We’ll have the wedding breakfast here. I’ll have the dresses made.’

  ‘You have no objections, then?’ He frowned and looked at her closely. He had been prepared for a contest of wills.

  ‘None at all,’ she said. ‘I’m pleased. For both of you. You have a lovely son.’

  He thought she was on the brink of a nervous collapse but she was not the kind of woman who collapsed under strain. And she looked well. She looked years younger without the thick glasses. Her hair was rich in colour and shining with health and her pale complexion glowed.

  ‘I’ll sign them and take them up myself, at once. I’ll get some dried fruit at the same time. I’ll start on the cake tonight.’

  He stood up to leave.

  ‘Will you fly again?’ she asked as she took him to the door.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I may be invalided out.’

  ‘Shall you be sorry?’ She had taken hold of his arm as if he needed help to negotiate the stairs.

  ‘If I am, then I’ll go back to my studies,’ he said. ‘We – Rose, the baby and I will live in Edinburgh until I am qualified.’

  ‘You’ll leave Macclesfield?’

  She seemed to be taking it quite well. He’d expected an outburst of temper at the news that she could be parted from Rose.

  ‘Until I’m a doctor. Then I’ll come back and try to get into obstetrics.’ They were at the front door now.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked. ‘Obstetrics?’

  ‘Delivering babies, that kind of thing,’ he answered with a smile.

  ‘Oh, that?’ she said with what he could have sworn was a rather superior air. ‘You don’t need to be a doctor to do that, you know.’

  He left her and returned to the farm where they all sat around the fire and talked until supper. It was good to be here, amongst his friends. He felt himself warming, relaxing in their presence.

  After supper they went up to the bedroom. It was cosy and warm up there. Rose had made a fire in the little iron fireplace and, in its flickering light, he felt a great contentment and peace come over him as he watched her. The baby suckled contentedly and she smiled over the infant’s head while he related the afternoon’s events to her.

  ‘She seems eager now,’ Alan said after speaking of her aunt’s co-operation. ‘She is going to make arrangements for the reception. She’s making the cake tonight, she said.’

  ‘She’s been wonderful about everything,’ Rose answered.

  ‘She says she is going to have your dress made. She knows your size. And she wants Vivienne and Mary as bridesmaids.’

  ‘The baby has made a big difference to her,’ Rose said. ‘Yet she’s lost us all now. Mary and Vivienne have left home. Did you know?’

  ‘Yes. I saw Mary and Vivienne. They were at your aunt’s. Mary will get the day off for the wedding. And Vivienne will be there. She’s dancing in Macclesfield until February.’

  Rose lifted the baby and put him to the other breast. When he was settled comfortably she said, ‘Have you been able to speak to your father yet?’

  ‘No. Dad should be docking in Leith tomorrow night.’

  ‘I wish I could be with you when you speak to him.’

  ‘Well, sorry, love. You and the baby must stay here. I won’t have you going to town with him yet. There’s going to be more snow, Nat says.’

  ‘What will we do with the baby on the wedding day?’ Rose asked. ‘Take him to the church?’

  ‘No. Your aunt’s lodgers are going to watch him.’

  The baby had fallen asleep at her breast. Rose placed him against her shoulder and fastened the front of her woolly nightdress. ‘What time’s the service?’ she asked.

  ‘Twelve midday. We’ll be back here at four.’

  ‘Am I to walk down the aisle? All that?’ she said.

  Alan had thought of that. ‘I’m going to ask Dad to give you away,’ he said. ‘You can’t come down on your aunt’s arm. It would look silly.’

  ‘That will be lovely. If he can get here.’ Rose put the sleeping baby into the cradle and turned to him. ‘You are in my bed,’ she said.

  ‘Shove up.’

  They slept soundly, wrapped round one another in the narrow bed that was piled almost to the height of the sloping ceiling with goose-down quilts and a deep feather mattress. The child must have been contented too, Alan thought, when he opened his eyes at six and found that Rose was feeding him the first feed of the day.

  He dressed and went outside to help Nat clear a path through the drifts that had blocked the yard and the lane. N
ow Nat could take the milk to Macclesfield on the cart and Alan could put the hood of the car up and drive to the town in comfort.

  After talking to Carrie Shrigley about the arrangements he went to invite Rose’s friends Sylvia, Pamela and Norah to the wedding. Then, that done, he made his way up to his home in Lincoln Drive to see Nan Tansley and to ring his father.

  Nan Tansley was her old self, fussing and making much of him. He let her indulge herself for half an hour, sitting back, basking in her admiration and attention. Then he went to the telephone. This time there was a delay in getting through to Edinburgh and the line was bad, crackling and whistling in his ear.

  ‘Is Second Engineer Douglas McGregor there?’ he shouted.

  ‘Speaking.’ It was the voice he knew.

  ‘Dad! Is that you?’

  ‘Alan!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, wonderful to hear you, son! I knew you’d made it home. They sent a message to the ship.’

  Alan grinned into the mouthpiece. ‘Did you celebrate?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye. We had an extra ration that night.’

  ‘Then get your crew together for another one tonight.’

  ‘All right. What is it? When’s the wedding?’

  ‘A week on Saturday – the nineteenth. And, Dad . . . ?

  ‘Yes?’

  He held his breath before speaking, quickly and eagerly. ‘You are a grandfather. I’ve got a son.’

  There was a silence. He could picture Dad’s face, then the familiar, rich voice came clearly across the miles. ‘Oh, son. Congratulations. I’m lost for words.’

  ‘Will you be able to get leave, for the wedding?’ Alan asked. ‘I am dying to see you. To show the baby to you.’

  ‘I’m coming home on the Friday – the eighteenth. I’ll come by train.’

  ‘Where’s the car?’ Alan thought Dad would have driven up there.

  ‘In the garage at home. You could have been using it. And Alan?’

  ‘Yes?’ he answered.