Mill Town Girl

by Audrey Reimann

  ‘You’ll never guess who’s here in Scotland?’

  He had no idea who it could be. He didn’t know any of Dad’s colleagues. ‘Who?’ he asked.

  ‘Patrick Kennedy.’

  ‘Good heavens. He got the job of correspondent then?’

  ‘He’s covering the activities of the Canadian troops. For a syndicate of American and Canadian newspapers.’

  It would be like old times for Dad, having his old naval friend with him. ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘He’s coming to Edinburgh tonight,’ Dad answered. ‘By the way, who’s giving Rose away?’

  ‘I thought – you,’ Alan said.

  ‘Delighted. But, wouldn’t it be nice if Patrick Kennedy could do it? He is her father’s brother, her only male relative.’

  Alan thought for a moment. ‘What about the feud? Between him and Rose’s aunt?’ he said.

  His father’s voice went stern. ‘It’s time it was ended,’ he said. ‘It’s time they buried the hatchet. It has gone on far too long. And it’s Rose’s big day.’

  ‘I agree,’ Alan said. ‘Will you ask him then?’

  ‘Yes. You’d better not say anything to Rose in case he can’t. Or won’t.’

  ‘All right. I’ll see you a week on Friday. I’ll spend the night with you at Lincoln Drive.’ He laughed now as he added, ‘Anyway, it’s traditional not to see the bride on the eve of the wedding. We’ll have a stag night.’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Patrick Kennedy alighted from the staff car into the market square with a feeling of trepidation. He told himself that it was ridiculous to feel this way.

  In the capital cities of Canada, America and the British Isles he was recognised. He counted as his friends politicians, broadcasters and news editors. So why should this little town of Macclesfield make him feel like a recalcitrant schoolboy whose past misdeeds had caught up with him?

  He smiled as he realised that perhaps, though a simplification, that was the truth behind the feeling that had come over him the moment he had stepped on to the cobbled square.

  He had not travelled down to Macclesfield with Douglas who had caught an early morning train to Manchester. Douglas would be here already. Patrick had set off the previous day and had been driven to Cheshire in an army staff car, part of a convoy, by a young woman of the WAAC. A Canadian Army major and a British Army lieutenant of a guards regiment had been his travelling companions.

  The journey had taken eighteen hours. There had been long delays in the Borders though high Shap Fell on the Carlisle to Kendal route had been cleared of snow. However, they reached Macclesfield before the afternoon light went and, tired of sitting, he asked the girl to drop him off in the market place.

  All the buildings and the sidewalks, as he now called them, were layered with snow. It had been cleared from the cobblestones and piled, packed snow and ice like a low wall, along the margins of the narrow streets. Nothing much had changed he noticed as he made his way up Chestergate and along the Chester Road; except the faces. He did not recognise a soul.

  He stuck his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat and started to walk to Lincoln Drive. He made a wry face as he went. Had it been a foolish thing to do to come here? Would his presence upset the family? He would not hurt them for the world but, again, the prospect of at last setting eyes on his daughter was driving him on. Rose would never know how much she meant to him but, his heart quickening, he thought he would not want to upset Carrie.

  The icy little breeze was stinging his face as he walked, faster now, towards Douglas’s house.

  Perhaps it was all arranged. Alan would have let Rose know that he was at her disposal. He told himself that if Douglas’s proposal that he give the bride away came to naught he would not waste his time here. He would cover the story of Canadian troops in the town. Either way, he had to be back in Scotland before Tuesday. The empty staff car was to pick him up early on Sunday morning for his return to Edinburgh.

  Alan met him at the door of the house in Lincoln Drive and shook his hand warmly. ‘Come in, Patrick,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you. Dad’s at the Swan. He’ll be home in half an hour.’

  Patrick went ahead into the drawing room where a fire blazed and a tray of drinks was set on the low, wheeled table.

  ‘Help yourself to a drink. We’ll have something to eat later, when we get back.’ Alan pointed to the decanters. ‘I’ll take your bag up.’

  Patrick poured himself a Scotch and walked over to the window. He could see, beyond the garden, the row of houses that he and Danny had built.

  Alan came back into the room. ‘How does it feel to be back? And looking at your own handiwork?’ he asked.

  Patrick said, ‘I see Danny’s house is empty.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alan said, coming to stand beside him, ‘Rose’s aunt has refused to re-let it. But I think she’ll have to do so. They are requisitioning empty houses for the homeless people from the cities.’

  Patrick raised his eyebrows. ‘Isn’t she going to live there herself?’

  ‘No. Whatever made you think that?’

  ‘She’s going to marry isn’t she? I’d have thought it an ideal house for them.’

  ‘Marry? Oh, you mean the – the arrangement with Ratcliffe?’ Alan smiled now. ‘No. I’m afraid old Cecil got more than he bargained for. Miss Shrigley almost killed him when she found out–’ Alan put his glass down on the windowsill and turned towards the door. ‘Here’s Dad,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you both all the scandal about Rose’s aunt on our way up to Rainow.’

  ‘Rainow?’

  ‘Yes. We’ll drive up there, to see Rose and show off my son.’ Alan went from the room to open the front door to Douglas as a smile of welcome and anticipation lit up the strong, rugged features of Patrick Kennedy.

  Rose was in the kitchen, washing the little woollen matinee jackets and the baby’s bonnets when they arrived. She looked out, at the familiar sound of Alan’s car winding its slow way up the lane towards the farm. She heard him pull up in the yard and had just folded the tiny garments inside a towel, to remove the water, when three tall figures passed the kitchen window.

  The door opened and Alan came in, smiling the smile of pride in possession that came so readily to him now. He was followed by his father who looked younger and very imposing in the navy-blue uniform of Coastal Command. Alan’s father was followed by a man tall, broad, tanned and – oh, it was Patrick Kennedy! She recognised him in an instant. He was just like the photographs and had the very same expression her own dad used to have.

  All this registered on her in the few seconds it took for them to enter the kitchen and close the back door behind them. They filled the low-ceilinged kitchen. It seemed full of enormous, hearty masculinity. Then they were all talking at once and she was quite flustered, not knowing which one to shake hands with, which to kiss on the cheek, until, laughing at the confusion, Alan put an arm around her shoulder and they ushered the two men, Douglas and Patrick, into the warm, cosy living room to greet Martha and Nat.

  Martha was delighted to see them. ‘Eeh, Douglas! And this must be Patrick Kennedy.’ She clapped her little hands together. ‘Put the kettle on, Rose. I’ll soon have a nice bit of supper on the table.’

  Then they were all talking, admiring the baby, asking and answering questions until the supper was eaten and they could sit at the fireside and make the arrangements for the following day.

  He was nice. Rose had been stealing glances at him all through the supper but found herself unable to confront the fact that he was her real father. It made her feel shaky, self-conscious and nervous to imagine it. She had asked herself, in the last weeks, if Patrick Kennedy even knew that he had a daughter. Could Carrie and her mum and dad have deceived him? But she sensed, the moment their eyes had met, that he knew she was his. She knew that he had wanted to see her for, politely and without overt sign, he had been feasting his eyes on her all the evening.

  He was looking at her now. ‘Do you think
I might ask you to show me around, Rose?’ Patrick asked. ‘Will you put your coat on and walk up the hill with me?’

  She nodded, left the room and went into the hall. There she took down her tweed coat, reached up to the shelf for the woollen Fair Isle beret and gloves she had knitted, wound a knitted scarf around her neck and pushed her feet into the high, zippered suede boots that Alan had given to her.

  He was waiting in the living room, dressed in a greatcoat of khaki serge. She followed him out into the white, cold stillness of the January night and they walked, side by side in silence, to the top of the hill from where they could see in the distance the city of Manchester. It would have been an ideal night for a raid, as light and clear as day under the high full moon. Tonight all was quiet.

  They stood at the summit and looked out on the panorama of mountains and valleys and it was as if he were uncertain of how to begin. ‘Rose,’ he said at last. ‘I am very glad to be here.’ She reached for his hand and held it, without looking at him.

  ‘Do you think I should give you away tomorrow? Stand in for my brother?’ he asked, sounding unsure and diffident.

  She hadn’t known that it had even been suggested and all at once she knew that this would make everything perfect and right. Tears came to her eyes.

  ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please do.’

  ‘Rose?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let me look at you.’

  He had a lovely voice and there was such a deep sounding sorrow in it that, as she turned her head towards him, tears began to fall slowly down her cheeks. ‘I know,’ she said softly, trying to whisper, trying to choke back her sorrow. ‘I know who you are.’

  She saw tears, like her own, leap to his eyes. He put out his arms and she went into them, burying her face against his chest, as she cried. Then the great dam of feeling she had been suppressing since Mum and Dad were killed burst in her heart and she found that tears were pouring down her face and from her throat came a terrible, grief-stricken cry. ‘Forgive me. Forgive me. I can’t help it.’

  He held her there until her sobs lessened, rocking her and making soothing sounds. ‘Who told you, my child?’ he asked gently, holding her close against him. ‘Was it – was it your mother? Have I made you unhappy?’

  Her shoulders were shaking but she lifted her tearful face to him and found that she was smiling and weeping at the same moment. ‘No. Oh, no. I can’t tell you how wrong you are. I am so – so very happy.’

  He held her back from himself and now she saw the look of happiness on his face as she said, ‘I am crying for you. For you and Carrie.’

  ‘For me and Carrie? But why?’

  ‘Why were you – why were you both so unforgiving?’ she said.

  There was a silence as he considered her words but his eyes were full of regret when at length he replied. ‘I loved her, Rose. I have never stopped loving her.’

  Then she was crying again. ‘Then tell her. Tell her that you love her. Carrie, my poor, darling Carrie. She has never had anyone. Nobody has ever – ever loved her.’

  His arms tightened around her and she heard the break in his voice. ‘If only . . . If only she would listen.’ Then he laid his cheek against the top of her head and they stood, still and silent until at last he released her. ‘Come, child,’ he said. ‘We can’t know what might have been. Tomorrow is your morning. It belongs to you and Alan. You start a new day, a new life.’

  He held her hand as they went back to the farm, every so often him looking at her. ‘My little Rose,’ he kept saying, making her smile at the look on his face; the proud way he said it.

  Before they reached the house she told him, ‘Alan doesn’t know yet that you are my father. Or that I am Carrie’s daughter.’

  ‘Will you tell him? Do you want to?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘When I am ready. I will tell him when we have left Macclesfield. My sisters would be upset.’

  ‘You are a good girl,’ he said at last. ‘You will do what is right.’

  ‘And you?’ she asked. ‘Will you do what is right?’

  He laughed now. ‘And what might that be?’

  She stopped in her tracks and looked at him sternly. ‘You must do the honourable thing! You must marry my mother.’

  The day of the wedding dawned bright and bitterly cold. There would be snow later. Vivienne and Mary had stayed overnight at the Temperance Hotel and were downstairs in the kitchen, laying the breakfast table.

  Upstairs in her room, Carrie looked out over the yard, over the backs of the houses of Churchwall Street. She had been awake for hours, gripped by a strong feeling of growing excitement. Four times in the night she had put on her bedside light, looked at the little travelling alarm clock and seen her wedding outfit hanging over the door of her wardrobe.

  Outside, the sky was cloudless though more snow had come in the night, coating roofs and the tops of walls. Inside, the air in the room seemed stuffy, though she had hung fresh lavender bags in her wardrobe. The sharp, sweet scent of the flowers she normally found invigorating began to irritate her.

  She pushed up the window and the cold air seared her throat. She slammed the sash down quickly. Her watch said nine o’clock. The wedding was at twelve. She went down to the kitchen where a fire blazed in the high fireplace. Mary and Vivienne were at the table. ‘Well, are you two getting excited?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. What time will Rose be here?’ Mary wanted to know.

  Carrie felt her own excitement growing again. ‘They are arriving at half-past eleven,’ she said. ‘Rose and the baby, Nat and Martha Cooper.’ It would be a close thing. What if their taxi was late? What if there had been a lot more snow and they couldn’t get through? She tried to give an impression of composure. It wouldn’t do to get the girls into a state.

  ‘Pour the tea, Vivienne,’ she said. ‘And you, Mary, get the plates out of the warming oven.’

  Mary got up from the table and went to the fireplace for the pot-holder that was hanging on the bar of polished steel above the ovens. She brought three plates to the table. Carrie took a dish of scrambled eggs from the hotplate over the fire and brought it to the table. ‘Martha gave me a dozen eggs,’ she explained. ‘So eat up.’

  She began to dish them out before explaining the routine. ‘I go off in the taxi that brought them here. I go to the church with Nat and Martha,’ she said. ‘And you two and Rose wait here for Douglas McGregor. He’s taking you in his car.’

  ‘Our dresses are lovely,’ Mary said. ‘Thank you. They fit perfectly.’

  Mrs Singer had made them presents of silk dress lengths, two in sky-blue crepe de chine for the girls and a silvery-grey moiré silk for Rose. They had come back from the dressmaker’s only yesterday. Mary’s and Vivienne’s dresses had tucking in a lattice effect on the bodices and the wrists of the long sleeves. The shoulders were wide and lightly padded and the sleeve heads had little scalloped caps to them. They had tried them on last night with the matching pillbox hats that were festooned with tiny, spotted veils.

  Carrie hoped the church was warm for it was to be a long service with a nuptial mass. It would be quite a spectacle, even though it was not a grand, white wedding. The Roman Catholics knew how to make the most of an impressive occasion. She hoped Father Church would be wearing his robes and not the black soutane he wore every day.

  ‘I know Rose will love her dress,’ Vivienne said. ‘And the flowers. They are all in the hall. Did you see them?’

  ‘No. I’ll look after breakfast,’ Carrie answered. Rose’s dress was long with a skirt that trumpeted out around the ankles. It was plain, cut on the cross and decorated, from the right shoulder to the left of the lower hem with a swirl of artificial flowers that came from France, the dressmaker said. The flowers were exquisite, made from velvet in shiny grey, violet and blue. The stalks and leaves were of green satin. Carrie felt butterflies jumping in her stomach but was brought down to earth when Vivienne said, ‘It’s a pity Rose and Alan won’t be going to
watch the concert and go to the dance tonight.’

  ‘Is that what you two are doing?’ Carrie asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Vivienne went on, unconcerned by Carrie’s startled question. ‘After the reception Mary is going to watch my show.’

  It had become ‘my show’ Carrie noticed, since only last week when she had been declaring herself to be one of the troupe. ‘Then we’re going to the Stanley Hall. Dancing,’ she said importantly.

  ‘You’ll be tired out,’ Carrie protested. She didn’t know what else to say. She had once been to the Stanley Hall when a dance was in progress. She had gone to deliver some leaflets about war bonds to Mrs Venables at the Conservative Club in their room adjacent to the main hall. It had been mayhem in there at the dancing: hundreds of feet pounding, thick smoke, a solid wall of jazz music. The Canadian lads had a band like the American ones you saw at the pictures. To her horror she had seen three couples, including Flo Gallimore and a soldier, jitterbugging in the corner nearest the door.

  It was dreadful. It had been a respectable hall before the war. Now she was afraid for Mary and Vivienne. ‘You don’t know what you’ll pick up in a place like that,’ she said.

  They started to giggle and she shot them a severe look. ‘Fleas, nits, germs,’ she added. ‘All those people. You don’t know where they’ve been.’

  ‘Oh, Aunt Carrie!’ They had finished their breakfast and Vivienne was gathering the plates into a pile. ‘You are so old-fashioned.’

  Mary began to help her. ‘Have you heard Rae Parker’s band playing ‘In the Mood’ Viv?’ She looked at Carrie. ‘You should see Viv dancing to that one,’ she said.

  ‘I hope you girls aren’t doing anything daft,’ Carrie cautioned.

  Vivienne stopped clearing the table and looked straight into her eyes. ‘If you mean that we might go the same way as Rose – then the answer’s no,’ she said. Then as if she felt she had been unfair to Rose she added, ‘I’m not saying that Rose did wrong . . .’

  ‘But we won’t, will we, Viv?’ Mary finished.

  ‘No.’ Vivienne straightened up. She had that obstinate look about her. ‘As soon as I’m famous,’ she said, ‘Mary is going to be my – my . . .’ she looked at Mary. ‘What do you call it Mary? When a film star has someone to do everything for her. What’s she called, the girl who does everything?’