Down an English Lane

by Margaret Thornton

  And yet there had been that look that had passed between them. What had it meant? She doubted that she would ever know. She flung herself down in an armchair, biting her lips and blinking hard. No, no, no! She was not going to give way to tears again. Her mother might well come upstairs at any moment, and she must find her acting perfectly normally. As she had said, there were things she had to sort out for next week for the return to school; books, pens and pencils and so on, and her school uniform. There was no use in sitting here moping, or dreaming of what might have been… She sighed deeply, then stood up with an air of resolution and climbed the second flight of stairs which led to the attic.

  Her room was at the back – the one she had chosen when they had first moved in – and from the high vantage point she could see over the rooftops of the houses which lay at the back of the High Street, and over to the distant hills. Not too far distant, though. The ruins of Middleburgh Castle were only a couple of miles away, on top of one of the nearer hills. Down below she could see the silver stream rippling through the meadows, a tributary of the river which ran through the dale. And just visible above a clump of trees, the tall chimney stacks of Tremaine House where the squire and his family had always lived…and where Bruce lived at the moment.

  Had it been foolish of her, she wondered, to agree so readily to go on a ramble with him? But it might have seemed churlish to refuse, to say that she was too busy, especially as the invitation had been given to her friends as well. She was determined, however, that she would keep her distance from Bruce. She would walk with Audrey, and Doris, if she was able to go with them, and allow Bruce and Timothy to have some time together. Tim, she knew, hero-worshipped the young pilot who had served in the latter years of the war and had – thank God – come back safe and sound. If Bruce wanted to speak to her personally, then he would have to make the opportunity to do so. And if he didn’t…then she would know that the look that had passed between them had meant very little to him. Bruce was just a good friend, and that was how she would make herself think of him.

  The day started well with everyone in high spirits. They met outside the Rectory gate; Maisie, Audrey and Timothy, and Bruce and his collie dog, Prince. They were to meet Doris, who fortunately could be spared for a few hours, at her farm gate, just up the lane behind the church.

  They took the short cut through the churchyard to the small gate at the back. The warm summer weather was still continuing, but now, with the start of September, the sun was lower in the sky, shining more directly into their eyes and seeming more powerful than it had at the height of summer, although the long shadows cast by the gravestones across the grass and the path told that autumn was not far away.

  In the lane which led to the Nixons’ farm the blackberries hung in the bramble hedges, purple-ripe and glistening; deep red hawthorn berries too, and large juicy rose-hips, loved by the birds. ‘But dangerous for us to eat,’ Maisie remembered that Doris had warned them, the ‘townies’ from Leeds, when they had first arrived. She had been their tutor in many aspects of country lore. So unschooled had they been, she and Audrey, that they had scarcely been able to tell an oak tree from an ash; or differentiate between cows and bulls, she recalled, much to Doris’s amusement.

  It had been during the same week of the year as it was now that they had taken their first walk along this very lane. Now, as then, the outer leaves on the trees were yellowing, the start of the time of year known in the country as ‘back-end’. ‘It’s feeling a bit back-endish…’ was a phrase often heard on the lips of country folk. It was the time of year when the farmers had to be prepared for anything. The mellow sunny days might last a while and give an Indian summer, or the autumn rain might start and continue in a deluge, filling the rivers and streams and even overflowing to flood the fields.

  As they climbed the first stile, Prince bounding over ahead of them all, they could see Doris waving to them from the farm gate.

  ‘Glad you could make it,’ said Bruce, when they drew near to her, ‘although it’s quite a busy time on the farm now, isn’t it?’

  ‘All seasons are busy, one way or another,’ replied Doris. She was already an experienced farmhand, just as willing and able as her brother, Ted – so Ada, her mother, had admitted to Maisie – and Joe, who had recently left the RAF to resume his work on the farm again. ‘Ted and Joe are getting the last of the hay into t’ barn.’ In the nearest fields they could see the tripods holding the pyramids of pale yellow hay, and at the back a barn door stood open revealing the hay stacked high inside.

  ‘Our Ted and Joe did a fair bit of grumbling, mind,’ said Doris, ‘’cause me mam was letting me go, but she said it could count as me half-day; I usually have it on Saturday, y’see. But I dare say she’ll let me have Saturday off an’ all. I’ve been helping her with the cheese-making this morning, and that’s summat that our Ted and Joe are no good at. Aye, it’s a busy time sure enough. There’s potatoes and root crops to be gathered, and the last of the apples and pears. I’ll have to get stuck in again tomorrer, but it’s nice to have a bit of freedom… Where are we going then?’

  ‘Oh, up to the castle, I think, if everybody agrees,’ said Bruce. ‘I intended going up there with Christine on Sunday, but we didn’t get any further than the waterfall. It was such a nice day, so we just sat and took our ease.’

  It was the first time he had mentioned Christine, and no one made any comment, except to agree that they would climb up to the castle ruins. I bet she didn’t want to walk so far, that Christine, Maisie thought to herself. She didn’t look as though she was well suited to a country life.

  Their path took them through a little wood, no more than a copse, where oak and sycamore trees grew closely together. On the fringes grew the mountain ash, making a vivid splash of colour with their bright red berries and feathery pale green leaves against the dark shadows in the middle of the coppice.

  Then they were at the waterfall, not a huge cascading torrent but a much more gentle splashing and tumbling of foaming water over peat brown rocks and boulders. As they had done many times before, they crossed the river by the stepping stones, knowing just which ones to choose to avoid getting their feet wet. Prince did not care about wet feet. He bounded ahead and arrived on the opposite bank before any of them, shaking himself and wagging his tail and panting; laughing at them it seemed as he watched them tread much more carefully than he had done across the glistening stones.

  The moorland ahead of them was brown with bracken and the heather which had almost finished its flowering. Here and there, though, there was still a patch of purple, sheltered by an outcrop of rock, and the golden gorse bushes added a touch of brightness to the dark-hued landscape. Dull and sombre it might appear in the dark shades of early autumn, but Maisie had learned to love the moorland in each and every season of the year.

  Now, walking on her own for a while as they took the path across the moor, she found pleasure, as always, in the scene around her; the criss-cross pattern of drystone walls separating the further fields and the lazy, seemingly motionless, sheep grazing on the distant hills. She could hear the rippling sound of the waterfall and the river they had crossed, the far distant hoot of a train, although from here no railway line was visible, and the lone cry of a moorland bird – Bruce had once told her it was a curlew – wheeling high above.

  She felt the wind more keenly on her face as they climbed higher although the sun was still shining. But the clouds were no longer still as they had been an hour or so ago; they were racing across the sky and the approaching ones were edged with grey.

  ‘D’you think it’s going to rain,’ said Audrey, hurrying to catch up with her.

  ‘I don’t know; I hope not,’ replied Maisie. ‘I’m not really prepared for it, are you? I’ve got a headscarf and my cardigan, but not a proper coat. It didn’t look as though we would need one.’

  ‘No, nor have I,’ said Audrey. ‘Aren’t we silly? You’d think with living in the country for so long that we would remem
ber how quickly the weather can change. But it was such a lovely day earlier on. I bet Doris has come well prepared though.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Doris. She had been walking behind with Bruce and Timothy, and now they all stood together in a little group. ‘Come prepared for the rain? Is that what you mean? You bet I have. I’ve got me waterproof jacket in here.’ She patted the haversack on her back. ‘Be prepared, that’s my motto, like the Boy Scouts.’ She laughed. ‘Haven’t you got any raincoats?’ They shook their heads. ‘Oh dear; you’re still a couple of town mice, aren’t you?’

  ‘’Fraid so,’ said Maisie, with a shrug. ‘What about you boys? But I don’t suppose a drop of rain will worry you, will it?’

  ‘My jacket’s waterproof,’ said Timothy precisely.

  ‘And so is mine,’ said Bruce. ‘But let’s look on the bright side, eh? The clouds are still quite high in the sky. Come on, best foot forward everyone; we’ll soon be at the top…’

  The view, when they reached the ruins of Middleburgh Castle was well worth the climb. There was Middlebeck, nestling in the valley and the silver ribbon of the river. They could make out the tower of the church, the roof and tall chimneys of Bruce’s home and Doris’s squat grey farmhouse.

  ‘Shall we eat our picnic?’ said Doris, who was always hungry. ‘Come on, before it rains,’ she giggled.

  ‘Don’t keep saying that!’ said Audrey, glancing anxiously at the sky. ‘You’ll make it rain… Actually, I think the sky’s clearing a bit…’

  ‘Wishful thinking,’ said Doris, through a mouthful of bread. She was already seated on a rock with her coat as a cushion, tucking into a ham sandwich and taking a gulp from a bottle of Tizer. The rest of them made themselves comfortable and took out the provisions they had brought.

  ‘Tim and I haven’t got very much,’ said Audrey. ‘Only a packet of crisps each and an apple. Mum’s expecting us back before tea.’

  ‘Nor have I,’ said Maisie. ‘Only some of me mum’s gingerbread and a bottle of lemonade; Mum made that as well.’ She lifted the bottle to her lips and took a drink. ‘Mmm…that’s good. Here, would you like some?’ She wiped the mouth of the bottle and handed it to Audrey. ‘Have a swig, you and Tim. It’ll be all right; I haven’t got a deadly disease.’

  Audrey looked doubtful, but she took the bottle, wiping it again with a clean handkerchief before she took a gulp. ‘Mmm…it’s delicious,’ she agreed. ‘You have some, Tim. Wipe the top first…’ They drank with such relish that Maisie feared there might be none left for her, but it was a large bottle.

  ‘What about you, Bruce?’ she asked, rather shyly, when she had had another drink. ‘Would you like some? And… haven’t you brought anything to eat?’ He was sitting staring out at the distant landscape.

  He shook his head. ‘No; I’ve had quite a decent lunch, and Mother will be cooking a meal this evening.’ He patted his stomach and grinned. ‘I have to keep fit, you know. Can’t afford to put on any extra weight in my job. But I’ll have a taste of your lemonade, please, if you don’t mind, Maisie.’

  ‘Have what’s left,’ she told him. She tried not to watch him too obviously as he tilted the bottle. He was wearing an open-necked shirt and his Adam’s apple moved visibly in his brown throat as he gulped at the remaining liquid.

  ‘Nectar for the gods,’ he said, smiling at her as he handed back the empty bottle. ‘Oh no…’ He glanced heavenwards and held out his arm. ‘I do believe… Yes, it’s raining.’

  ‘Well what did you expect?’ retorted Doris. ‘I told you so.’

  ‘Perhaps it will only be a shower,’ said Audrey hopefully.

  Bruce grimaced. ‘I’m afraid we’re in for a real downpour.’ He stood looking thoughtfully up at the sky. ‘“Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day…”’ he murmured.

  ‘“And make me travel forth without my cloak,”’ added Maisie quietly, finishing the quotation that she knew. He looked at her and smiled, and once again the glance that they exchanged was full of meaning, or so it seemed to Maisie.

  ‘What the heck are you on about?’ asked Doris.

  ‘It’s a poem…’ said Maisie. ‘I remember hearing it at school.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ said Doris. ‘We’re going to be caught in a flippin’ rainstorm, and you two stand around babbling poetry! Come on, let’s get going before we all get soaked.’

  Quickly they gathered up their belongings, clothed themselves as adequately as they were able and set off on the trek back to civilisation. The journey down took far less time than the upward one as they hurried and stumbled along the moorland path, over the bridge – instead of the treacherous stepping stones – alongside the river and through the wood, back to the lane near Nixons’ farm. By this time the five of them, and Prince, too, were drenched; but as they stood at the farm gate they laughed, able to see the funny side of it.

  ‘Ta-ra,’ called Doris, dashing in through the gate. ‘See you sometime, folks. Thanks for inviting me…’ She ran off with a cheery wave.

  ‘You’d better come home with me,’ said Bruce to the other three, ‘then you can have a rub down and my mother will make you a warm drink. We don’t want anyone catching a chill.’

  ‘We’ll be OK,’ said Audrey. ‘Actually, Mum might be rather worried about us.’

  ‘Then phone her from our house,’ said Bruce, ‘and you too, Maisie, and let them know you’re back safe and sound.’ Audrey and Maisie looked at one another and nodded. They didn’t need much persuading.

  Maisie laughed. ‘We look like a couple of drowned rats,’ she said. The rain was still pelting down. It had got worse as they had made their descent and now it was a deluge.

  ‘Come on then; let’s run for it,’ said Bruce. The four of them and the dog raced up the lane to Tremaine House.

  Mrs Tremaine, neat and tidy as always in her pleated skirt and pale blue twin-set, was full of concern. The girls went to the bathroom and dried themselves with her big fluffy towels, then she lent them each a cardigan to replace their sodden ones. Then they sat by the Aga stove in the kitchen, with Bruce and Tim, feeling the comforting warmth and enjoying a cup of milky cocoa.

  ‘I’ve rung your mothers, all of you,’ said Rebecca Tremaine, coming to join them, ‘and I’ll ask Archie to run you home in a little while.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Tremaine,’ said Maisie, and the other two nodded their thanks, but nobody seemed to want to talk very much.

  Maisie was wanting to ask Bruce when he would be returning to his camp, but she felt too shy to do so in front of everyone. It was Rebecca who told them he would be returning in three days’ time. ‘And we hope you will all be able to come to Bruce’s twenty-first celebration,’ she told them. ‘His father and I are planning to have a party for all the family and friends. It will be sometime near the end of November, we’re not quite sure when, but you will all be receiving invitations.’

  ‘It will depend on when – and if – I can get leave, Mother,’ said Bruce. He did not sound all that excited about it, thought Maisie. In fact it seemed as though he did not like the idea at all.

  ‘Oh, surely, for your twenty-first, dear…’ said Rebecca. ‘An important event like that. They’re sure to let you have leave.’

  ‘There’s nothing sure at all in the RAF,’ said Bruce. But that was the end of the discussion because Archie Tremaine came in at that moment from the fields, clad in his gumboots and oilskin coat. He agreed readily to take the three of them back home.

  There had been no chance for her to say a special goodbye to Bruce, Maisie reflected later that evening. Neither had she had an opportunity to talk to him properly all day, but that had been her own decision, to keep her distance unless he chose to speak to her on her own. He had not done so, not that there had really been any opportunity…

  Don’t kid yourself, you silly idiot… Once again she gave herself a severe talking to. Bruce had a girlfriend, a grown-up one, and she, Maisie, would have to try and forget him. The glances
that they had exchanged had probably meant…nothing at all. As for the twenty-first birthday party, Maisie had a strange feeling that it might never take place; at least, not if Bruce had anything to do with it.

  Chapter Eight

  Christine Myerscough was in a reflective mood as she sat on the train which was taking her from Lincoln back to Bradford, the city of her birth. ‘I’ll show them,’ she told herself. ‘I’ll show them all that I can be somebody, a real somebody, not just a mill worker or an office girl. I’m on the way; I’m going to get there, and I shall surprise everyone…’

  At least she had taken the first few steps; she had pulled herself up by her bootstraps, as the saying went. She was determined that there would be no more Lumm Lane or White Abbey Road for her; no more poverty or squalor or the depravity she had seen in her early years. No more of the shady and sordid goings on that had forced her, at the age of ten, to go and live with her maternal grandmother rather than suffer any longer the immorality of her own home. What she had told Bruce Tremaine, that her parents had both been killed in a car crash, had been a lie. Myrtle and Fred Myerscough were both still very much alive and kicking. It had been a lie that was necessary, though, to assist her in her upward climb.

  All the same it did not do to be too complacent. She still had not got the coveted ring upon her finger, but she hoped, once she had found a little place of her own, that it would not be very long before she achieved her aim; to marry Bruce, the squire’s son from Tremaine House. She had been a little surprised and disappointed to discover that he was not the sole heir to the property and land, but that the inheritance would be shared between Bruce and his two sisters, whom, as yet, she had not had the pleasure of meeting. All the same, beggars could not be choosers, and he was well worth cultivating; besides, she was really very fond of him. She knew that his parents were worth more than a bob or two, as Yorkshire folk said; neither did Bruce ever seem to be short of a bit of brass to spend. No; there would be no more scrimping and scratching around to make ends meet for Christine Myerscough, no more saving up like mad for the occasional treat or coveted item of clothing. But she knew that she had to play her cards right. And the first step, once she arrived back in Bradford, was to find a flat, or at least a couple of rooms where she could be on her own.