Springtime at Hope Hall

by Pam Rhodes

  The payment had been for £492, and it was dated two days ago. Shocked, Carol traced back earlier movements on the account. He was right about the cost of the central heating boiler a few weeks before. That was £672 – a large bill, as he had said. What he hadn’t said, though, was that he had been paying significant amounts, probably all those work bonuses he said weren’t as much as he’d hoped, into that account for more than a year: £472 the month before, £539 before that, over £700 on one occasion. Her eyes widened with disbelief as she read the final total: £5,365.47. They had more than £5,000 in that account, and he was lying about it. Why?

  Still gripping the receipts, she sat down heavily on the bed. She knew why that money was there. She knew what he was saving for. He’d told her often enough how it was his passion to get that old bike of his repaired and restored to its former glory. His eyes lit up as he talked about how he’d like to enter it into one of the big vintage bike rallies so that everyone could see what a wonderful piece of engineering it really was. This money was for his old banger. Her old banger was never going to get a look in.

  Her fingers stiff with fury, she stuffed all the papers back into the folder. She knew she should challenge him with it. She knew she should demand an explanation. But she was so angry, she feared the words would come out wrong. No, she thought, slipping the folder into its hiding place behind his suits in the wardrobe. She would bide her time. She had to plan this carefully and get it right.

  Chapter 4

  Gary wasn’t quite certain where to go as he ushered the twins through the main entrance of Hope Hall at five o’clock that Tuesday evening. That is, until they stepped into the foyer and heard excited squeals coming from beyond the glass door partition. Any nerves Toby and Max had felt on the way to their first Beavers’ meeting were soon forgotten as they tugged their dad towards the fun.

  What they saw when they got inside could have been described as bedlam, until a closer look clearly showed it wasn’t. Boys between the ages of six and eight years old, all wearing bright turquoise sweatshirts, were deeply engrossed in a complicated team game of tag played under the watchful eye of what seemed to be about half a dozen leaders. One of them, a thirty-something man dressed in a smart Scout uniform, walked across to welcome the newcomers.

  Looking down at the boys, he smiled. “Hi, I’m Andy – and I can see you’re the twins we’re expecting, but which one of you is Toby and which one is Max?”

  After introductions all round, Andy sent the boys off with another Scout, who was probably in his late teens, before turning to Gary.

  “Let’s see how they get on this evening as a trial, and whether they think Beavers is for them. Then, if you’d like to sign them up as members, I can give you the forms to take home so that you can bring back everything they need when they come next week.” “What about the uniforms? Do they need those next week too?” “You can buy the sweatshirts here. We’ve always got a supply. Again, leave that until next time, just to be certain they really want to join.”

  Gary laughed. “Not much doubt about that. Look at them! Toby can often be quite shy, but from the way he’s running around and shrieking his head off, I think he’s definitely planning to stay.”

  “Right, well, feel free to stay yourself and watch what goes on. There’s a coffee machine in the foyer, if you fancy that – parents sometimes stay out there, or sit in a corner of the hall, whatever works best for you.”

  “I’ll stay here for a while and then perhaps get a coffee later. Thanks, Andy.”

  Watching from the sidelines, it didn’t take long for Gary to recognize that joining Beavers was going to be a perfect outlet for his lively twin sons. Several of the boys in their class at school had already joined, because their sixth birthdays were a little earlier than Max and Toby’s. The moment the twins’ birthday was behind them, they nagged incessantly to be able to go along too. Karen never got back from work until after seven, which didn’t matter because, as a freelance graphic designer, he worked at home with the aim of fitting his working hours around the boys’ timetable. After Karen set off for work before seven each morning, Gary would get the boys ready to leave for school at half past eight, and then would be standing at the school gate at half past three to bring them home again. Their arrangement wouldn’t suit every family, but they made it work for them. When the boys came along almost immediately after they’d first considered having children, they had been faced with a dilemma. Karen was the main breadwinner. Her knowledge and experience at the sharp end of the IT industry was specialist and sought after. Her salary was three times as much as Gary could ever earn from his design work, but they were a couple, partners in all family decisions. So when Karen said that she’d like to take up the opportunity of going back to work a year after the twins were born, Gary immediately stepped into the role of house parent.

  Privately Gary had worried that he would feel under-valued, alienated from using his undoubted artistic skills, cut off from adult company during the working day, but in the end, none of that mattered when he thought about the needs of his sons. From the moment he first set eyes on the boys, he’d adored them. They lit up his life and made sense of everything. He didn’t mind getting up in the night. He’d tackle dirty nappies and piles of washing in his own haphazard way. He even managed to cobble together some sort of evening meal to share with Karen when she eventually arrived home, drained and exhausted. During weekdays, they barely saw each other in daylight, and often got through several days without her having the energy or opportunity for anything more than the most basic of conversations. At the weekends, once the boys had been organized with cereal and their favourite television programme downstairs, Gary and Karen were sometimes lucky enough to grab an early morning cuddle, when they’d kiss and talk, and decide that life wouldn’t always be like this. They loved each other. They were a team. Their family life might seem odd to others, but they felt it was worth the sacrifice in order to be able to provide everything they wanted for their family.

  After watching the Beavers for a while, Gary quietly slipped out of the double doors into the foyer, thinking that a cup of coffee sounded like an excellent idea. On one side, there were three parents, obviously good friends, chatting over coffee cups as they sat around a table, while another couple of fathers were standing in the far corner having an animated conversation about some sport or other. Feeling a bit of an intruder, Gary went over to the coffee machine, which was much more sophisticated than he had imagined. There were two racks of buttons offering variations on the coffee theme – more than Gary thought could ever be needed. What he wanted was a simple coffee with a dash of milk. Among all the buttons, there didn’t seem to be one that offered just that.

  “If you want a white coffee, you have to push the button for a black Americano,” said a voice at his shoulder. “Then you can add as many little pots of milk as you like. They’re on the top of the machine in that basket.”

  Gary turned to see a woman in jeans and a huge winter jumper, with her long fair hair scraped back into a low ponytail.

  “These gadgets fox me,” he admitted with a wry grin. “All I want is a straightforward cup of coffee.”

  “Me too. It’s taken me ages to work out how to do that. It always seems to want to add sugar, even though I haven’t asked for it.” “Oh, I don’t want sugar either. Do I have to do anything to stop it?”

  The woman stepped forward to check that he was pressing the right buttons, then they waited together until they were both able to walk across to a table with the coffee they’d each chosen.

  “Claire,” she said, holding out her hand. “Mother of Josh, who’s just mad about Beavers.”

  “Gary, father of twin boys, Toby and Max. This is their first night.”

  “They’ll love it.”

  “I can see they already do. How long has Josh been coming?” “About a year now. He was a bit of a late starter really, but he loved it straight away. He’s always heartbroken whenever the meetings
stop over the holidays, even this last one when there was all the fun of Christmas going on.”

  “I never got involved with anything like this when I was a kid. What do they do? Is it mostly just playing games?”

  “Oh, it’s definitely fun, but they do all sorts of things – lots of arty stuff, painting and building structures. Then they sing songs, listen to stories, have parties, go on outings. And what I really like is that they learn about helping others, not just near home but across the world too. In fact, they’ve got us all saving printer cartridges, stamps and tin cans at the moment, because they can be recycled to raise money for projects they’re supporting.”

  “It used to be Bob-a-Job week, didn’t it, years ago?” mused Gary. “That’s how they did their fund-raising. I don’t suppose knocking on doors would be considered safe these days.”

  “What was a ‘bob’? An old shilling, wasn’t it? I wonder what that would be worth now?”

  He laughed. “More like a pound, I should think. How about you? Were you ever a Brownie?”

  “Was I a Brownie!” she exclaimed. “Not just a Brownie, but a Sixer! And I had an armful of badges to prove it.”

  Gary grinned. “So, not just a Brownie, but a boss Brownie?”

  She straightened up with pride. “A boss maybe, but never bossy. That would have been against the Brownie Promise:

  I promise that I will do my best:

  To be true to myself and develop my beliefs,

  To serve the Queen and my community,

  To help other people

  And keep the Brownie Guide Law.”

  “I can’t believe you still remember it after all this time. And what was the Brownie Guide Law?”

  “‘A Brownie Guide thinks of others before herself and does a good turn every day!’” remembered Claire, a note of triumph in her voice.

  Gary nodded approval. “That’s character-building stuff all right!”

  Claire giggled at the thought. “I don’t know what went wrong then. What happened to all those good Brownie intentions?”

  “Life, work, marriage, kids…”

  They looked at each other then, both surprised by the way in which the tone of their conversation had subtly changed.

  “Anyway,” said Gary, “what time do they finish? They won’t be long, will they?”

  “Any time now,” she replied, getting up from her chair. “I usually wait for Josh over by the door.”

  Gary didn’t follow immediately, but took his time to finish his coffee just before the doors burst open to allow a noisy gaggle of Beavers to stream out. Getting Toby and Max into their jackets was quite a challenge, as the pair of them were too excited to concentrate on anything except telling their dad every detail of how wonderful it had been.

  Once they were finally ready, Gary glanced across the room to say goodbye to Claire, just as she looked over at him with the same idea.

  “See you next week,” she called.

  “Definitely – and thanks again for your help in taming the coffee machine.”

  And with a wave, they gathered their respective offspring and headed towards the car park.

  There had never been large numbers of participants in the Knit and Natter Club, but the organizer, Elaine Clarke, really didn’t mind. She would have been quite happy if only one other person turned up to share her passion, providing they had a real love for needlework of any kind. Betty and Doris always imagined that, in her younger days, Elaine must have been a hippie, because of her long hair – once auburn, now a dusty shade of strawberry blonde – along with her flowing embroidered tops, and her skirts decorated with Inca patterns.

  “She told me once that she studied textiles,” said Betty, as she and Doris got out their handiwork that afternoon, “but I don’t think she ever worked for anyone but herself. I don’t suppose that weaving loom of hers is quite what you find in textile factories these days.”

  “Oh, I hope she doesn’t just go on about weaving rugs and wall hangings again this week. I keep telling her my eyes really aren’t good enough for all that tapestry work she likes so much,” complained Doris. “I enjoy knitting. I can do that with my eyes closed, So let’s hope she just leaves me to get on with this matinee jacket for baby Charlie. I’ve only got one more sleeve to do. How are you getting on?”

  Betty held up the brightly coloured square that she was crocheting. “This is my fourth square this week. I’ve made so many now that I don’t think there can be any babies left in Africa without a blanket to warm them up on cold nights.”

  The two women worked in silence for a while, not looking at their flying fingers but scanning the group around them in an apparently casual way.

  Suddenly, Betty’s elbow nudged Doris, and their heads drew together so that they could speak without being heard.

  “That Joan doesn’t look well, does she?”

  “Quite a high colour, don’t you think? What can have caused that, I wonder?”

  “She swore to me that she’d stopped drinking gin. She promised,” hissed Betty.

  “I know,” agreed Doris. “And with all those medicines she has to take… Well, she’s a fool to herself.”

  “Did we ought to have a word, do you think? Ida said we should.”

  “Well, Ida would. Ida feels she has the right to an opinion on everybody and everything.”

  “The trouble with Ida is that she can be so domineering.”

  “Oh yes, she’s always thought she’s a cut above the rest of us.”

  “I’m surprised she’s not here today. She doesn’t usually miss the chance of a good gossip, a cuppa and one of Maggie’s cakes.”

  “I think she’s still taking umbrage because we all said we’d go to the armchair exercise and sing-along dance class tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Well, if she doesn’t want to go,” sniffed Betty, “that’s fine by me, but I do resent her laying down the law to the rest of us.”

  “She’s so insensitive… and, dare I say, even quite spiteful at times? I hate people who gossip. I really can’t stand it.”

  Just at that moment, Kath came in from her office through the side door of the hall, with Maggie at her side. They stopped for a while just inside the door, taking in the scene in front of them.

  “Do you know,” hissed Maggie, “those Knit and Natter ladies haven’t got a good word to say about each other.”

  Kath smiled in agreement. “And Elaine doesn’t seem to notice at all. I sometimes think she lives on a different planet to the rest of us.”

  “Cloud cuckoo land, do you mean?” chuckled Maggie. “You know, that sounds like a rather nice place to be.”

  They glanced back then towards the stage end of the hall, where another group of mostly elderly people, the Down Memory Lane club members, were huddled in twos and threes, poring over pictures of the town in years gone by, with the help of Jean, the dementia care therapist who ran the club.

  “Does anyone remember this big shop with double windows that used to be just opposite the town clock in the High Street?” Jean asked, holding up a photograph so that everyone could see.

  “Liquorice sticks.” Bill Cartwright’s rheumy eyes were gazing into the distance as he spoke.

  “What – those long black liquorice sticks, do you mean?”

  Bill turned to stare at Jean, his expression blank.

  Jean tried again. “Or do you remember the liquorice wheels that used to have a bobbly pink sweet in the middle of them?”

  “I liked those,” injected Ruby, a frail, wispy-haired lady who was sitting in a wheelchair. “And spaceships. And cherry lips. They used to stick to my teeth.”

  Suddenly she threw her head back with peals of laughter, her parted lips revealing the smooth edges of bright red gums. “They’d be all right now. I’ve got no teeth left for them to stick to.”

  “Liquorice sticks,” repeated Bill. “Like wood.”

  “Oh, I remember those!” joined in Celia, clapping her hands with excitement. “Liquorice r
oots! They tasted awful. My nan said I should suck the flavour out of them because it would keep me regular.”

  “Did it?” asked Bill.

  Celia’s face clouded over with concentration. “I don’t know.”

  “Cod liver oil kept you regular,” added Bill. “It made me sick though.”

  Jean leaned down to pull a photograph out of her folder. “And here’s a picture of Mr Brown who owned that shop. Do any of you remember this gentleman?”

  Celia reached over to take the photo, laying it on the table between her and Bill so that they could look at it together.

  “He had a shop,” she said at last.

  “What sort of shop? Do you remember?”

  “Liquorice sticks,” said Bill.

  “I think you’re right, Bill. He probably did sell those medicinal liquorice roots, and lots of other pills and potions. Can you remember what kind of shop Mr Brown owned?”

  Bill’s face was expressionless again.

  The small lady in the wheelchair was bobbing up and down with excitement. “Iron tonic. My mum had lots of bottles of that. She’d send me down to Mr Brown to buy them, and if I had a ha’penny left over, she let me buy some spaceships next door.”

  “So what kind of shop was this, Ruby?”

  The palm of Celia’s hand thumped down on the table. “The chemist! It was the chemist shop!”

  “Well done, Celia. Well done, all of you. Now, can you remember what other things Mr Brown might have sold in his chemist shop?”

  “Ribbons,” said Ruby, her eyes narrowing as she tried to recall. “Combs. Moth balls.”

  “Liquorice sticks,” said Bill.