‘Yes… I will,’ agreed Sadie. She had only been told of the hastily arranged marriage a few days previously and had said that she needed time to think about her friend’s request that she should be a bridesmaid; well, a sort of bridesmaid. ‘And Roland will be able to stay an extra day, that is if you are still sure that you want him to be a witness as well?’
‘Yes, we’re sure.’ Christine nodded. ‘We’re very grateful to you both for agreeing to do it, but there’s no one else, really, that we could ask…’ She paused, aware of Sadie’s silence, and realised that her remark was not very tactful. ‘Well, you know what I mean, don’t you?’ she went on. ‘Of course I would want you to be my bridesmaid. We decided that long ago, didn’t we, you and me? I don’t want Roland to think we are just making use of him, but under the circumstances Bruce can’t ask any of his mates to stand for him.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Sadie. ‘Hasn’t he any friends at the camp? Somebody that he flew with during the war?’
‘I’m sure he has friends, although I haven’t met any of them yet. I know one of his best mates was killed… No; we agreed that it should be as quiet as possible, and the less people who know about it the better. They’ll all find out soon enough.’
‘I’m still rather unhappy about what you are doing, Chrissie,’ said Sadie. ‘This isn’t exactly going to endear you to your in-laws, is it? And you don’t want to cause a rift between Bruce and his parents, do you?’
‘Oh, that won’t happen. His mother thinks the sun shines out of his…his behind, to put it politely! They might be upset for a little while, but they’ll get over it. I’ve told you; I couldn’t face all the fuss and palaver up there in Middlebeck. It isn’t as if we’ll ever go to live up there. It’ll be goodbye to Middlebeck and to Bradford.’
‘Christine…are you pregnant?’ asked Sadie, as though the idea had just that moment occurred to her. Christine smiled; she was surprised her friend had not asked her the question before now. She nodded.
‘That’s what I’ve told Bruce,’ she answered. Sadie looked at her searchingly.
‘But…are you, really? This isn’t a trick, is it, to get him to the altar? Well, not the altar; to get the ring on your finger, I mean?’
‘Now why ever should I do that?’ asked Christine in wide-eyed innocence. ‘Bruce and I are engaged, and we would have been getting married later in the year. We’ve just had to put it forward a few months, that’s all. Bruce doesn’t want to tell his folks about the baby, though, not yet. We’ll have to wait and see how things work out.’
‘I see…’ said Sadie, raising her eyebrows and regarding her a mite distrustfully. ‘And has it been decided, now, where you are going to live? Has Bruce been able to get married quarters?’
‘Oh yes, of course. Quite a nice flat, from what he tells me. But we’re hoping it might be only a temporary measure. He wants us to have our own house as soon as we can. There are a few quaint little villages near to the camp, and Bruce has just bought a car – a Ford Prefect, only a couple of years old – so he will be able to get around more easily.’
‘He is able to drive then?’
‘Of course! Bruce has piloted a plane, so driving a car is child’s play to him. Yes; his father taught him to drive years ago.’
‘I thought you were dead against living in quaint little villages,’ Sadie remarked, with what Christine thought was a touch of asperity. ‘You’ve had enough to say about Middlebeck, and it sounds a lovely place to me. You don’t want to end up in the back of beyond with only what you call “country bumpkins” for company.’
‘Oh, we’ll be very near to Lincoln,’ said Christine, ‘and Nottingham’s not all that far away. Besides, I shall be with Bruce, won’t I? And that’s what we want, just to be together, him and me.’
‘And the baby…’ Sadie reminded her.
‘Well yes, of course…eventually. But that’s a good while off yet. Don’t tell anyone about it, will you, Sadie? I mean, we won’t be broadcasting the fact that that is why we are getting married.’
‘My lips are sealed,’ replied Sadie. ‘But you can’t blame people if they draw their own conclusions.’
‘Don’t sound so disapproving,’ said Christine, aware that she did not have her friend’s wholehearted support. ‘You must know what it’s like. I’m sure you do, you and Roland. We love one another very much, Bruce and me. That’s why…it happened.’
Sadie smiled. ‘I don’t disapprove; not about that, at any rate. Yes, I do know what it’s like… But I hope everything works out all right for you.’ She looked around the flat where the two young women had spent many companionable hours together. ‘So you’ve told Mr Hardacre that you’re leaving here, have you? And you’ve given in your notice at the mill?’
‘Yes, to both questions,’ said Christine. ‘It’ll be a whole new way of life for me, living in Lincolnshire.’ The biggest regret she had was about leaving Sadie behind. She was not entirely without finer feelings and she knew that her friend was genuinely concerned for her. ‘I won’t forget you, though,’ she told her. ‘I shall miss you, Sadie; we’ve had some good times together. And I’ll still be your bridesmaid in February, that’s if you still want me.’
‘Of course I do…’
‘Well, that’s OK then. I know it’ll be a grand affair…not like mine. But we’re going to try and make ours as much like a proper wedding as we can, but without all the fuss. I’ve ordered some little sprays of flowers for you and me and buttonholes for the men. And Bruce has booked a meal for the four of us at a nice place on the road to Bingley.’
‘Will Bruce be wearing his uniform?’ asked Sadie. ‘I could ask Roland to wear his as well. They are both still serving officers, aren’t they?’
‘So they are…’ agreed Christine. And if she felt a pang of regret that no one else would be there to see them, it was only a fleeting thought.
There was one person Christine decided she must see before she married Bruce, not because she particularly wanted to see her or even considered it to be her duty to do so; but because she wanted her to see how little Christine Myerscough, raised in the worst area of Bradford, had bettered herself and moved up in the world.
It was on New Year’s Eve that she took the trolleybus up Manningham Lane towards the suburb of Shipley, alighting at the stop near to the ‘Ring o’ Bells’. Her mother, she recalled, worked there as a barmaid or, rather, had used to do so. She had not heard anything about Myrtle’s doings recently, neither had she bothered to try and find out. The pub was closed, however, as it was mid-afternoon, so she made her way to the semi-detached house, only a few minutes’ walk from the pub, which was now the home of Fred and Myrtle Myerscough. When they had left Lumm Lane they had lived in a small cottage-type property, then moved to their present house in the early years of the war. Christine had visited them there only a couple of times, the last one being just before she joined the WAAF.
She opened the gate with the sunray design, which denoted that the house was fairly modern, dating from the early Thirties. She noticed that the green front door with the fanlight of coloured glass, also in a sunburst design, was glossy with new paint and the chromium-plated letter box and handle gleamed with recent polishing. No one could ever say that Myrtle was a slut, at least not so far as the cleanliness of her home was concerned. She had always prided herself on keeping a well scrubbed doorstep and shining windows, even when she had lived in one of the meanest streets in Bradford; one characteristic, possibly the only one, that she had inherited from her mother, Christine’s beloved gran.
The door opened a few moments after Christine’s knock. Her mother, clad in a red satin dressing gown stood there, staring at her with, at first, little sense of recognition. Then, ‘Chrissie…’ she said. ‘Well, I never!’ Her silver-grey eyes, so like Christine’s own, lit up for a few seconds with what seemed to be a smile of welcome, but then, just as quickly, they changed. Her expression and her voice were quite hostile as she said, ‘And
to what do we owe this honour, may I ask? God knows how many years and we see neither hide nor hair of you, and then you turn up on the doorstep…’
‘Like a bad penny, Mother,’ said Christine, determined not to be cowed. ‘Aren’t you going to say you’re pleased to see me?’
‘You’d best come in, I suppose,’ said Myrtle. ‘It’s been so long I hardly recognised you. You look older, Christine, a lot older than when I last saw you. Is the world not treating you well?’
‘Very well, as a matter of fact,’ answered Christine, feeling hurt and cross. ‘Actually, I’ve got some news for you. Stupendous news…’ How dare her mother say she was looking old? It was not true; it was just that it had been…several years. And during those years it seemed to Christine that her mother had scarcely aged at all. Her hair was still the same blonde colour, too brassy and obviously dyed, but immaculately set and waved; her make-up was perfectly applied on a face that showed no hint of lines or crow’s feet; and her dressing gown, clearly an expensive one, was tightly belted around a curvaceous, but still quite slim, figure.
‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ said Myrtle. ‘Come in then, into the lounge, and you can tell me all about it, if you’ve a mind to…whatever it is.’
Christine followed her into the front room, which her mother called the lounge – Myrtle was a great one for the niceties – and sat down on a large red plush armchair. Everything in the room was red, of slightly differing, though complementary, tones; a cherry red three-piece suite, dark red velveteen curtains, and a red carpet, the same design as the one in the hallway, with a pattern of yellow and brown leaves. The display cabinet in the corner held an assortment of china cups and saucers decorated with red and gold roses, china figurines, and various silver – or EPNS – items. It all suggested that a fair amount of money was coming into the house, one way or another. Christine had to admit to herself that the room was cosy, with a coal fire burning brightly in the tiled hearth.
She looked appraisingly at her mother, sitting opposite her. ‘Have I interrupted something?’ she asked. ‘Are you expecting a visitor? Or maybe one has just left?’ Or is still here, she thought to herself.
Myrtle returned her level glance without any sign of discomfiture or annoyance. ‘As a matter of fact, I have just been taking a bath,’ she replied. ‘We’ve got a bit of a do on tonight at the Ring o’ Bells with it being New Year’s Eve. And I’m expecting Fred – your father,’ she added pointedly. ‘He’ll be home in a couple of hours if he makes good time.’
‘Still long distance lorry driving, is he?’ asked Christine.
‘Yes,’ said Myrtle abruptly. ‘He’s away a lot, but he gets well paid.’ She didn’t mention the sidelines, but Christine guessed that he would have done his share of the racketeering that had gone on during the war years with the black market. ‘He’ll be coming with me tonight to celebrate the New Year… It’s a pity you can’t join us, Chrissie,’ she added. It was clear, though, that she did not want her daughter there; it was doubtful that anyone knew of Christine’s existence.
‘Thanks all the same,’ she said. ‘It’s nice of you to invite me…’ She paused for a moment before saying, ‘but I’m far too busy. I’m getting married, you see…very soon.’
‘You’re getting married?’ Myrtle regarded her suspiciously. ‘That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?’
‘No, not at all,’ said Christine. ‘Anyway, you wouldn’t know about that, would you? I know I haven’t been to see you – I have been doing my bit towards winning the war – but you haven’t bothered to find out what I’ve been doing for the last few years, have you? Actually, I’ve done very well for myself. My fiancé was a pilot during the war – he’s still an officer in the RAF as a matter of fact – and he’s the son of a squire. They own acres of land up in North Yorkshire.’
Myrtle was still looking as though she did not quite believe it. ‘Where, exactly?’ she asked.
‘Oh, I don’t suppose you will have heard of it. A little place called Middlebeck up in the northern dales. His father is the chief landowner in the area.’
‘I see… And what is his name, this flying officer of yours?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ replied Christine. She realised, possibly too late, that the less her mother knew about it the better it might be. She couldn’t divulge the name of the family in case Myrtle tried to dig them out; the Tremaines were under the impression that she was an orphan. She might have said too much already, but she had been unable to resist doing a bit of boasting. ‘You don’t need to know,’ she went on, ‘because I intend to make a fresh start, far away from Yorkshire. I doubt if our paths will cross again. You and my father have shown me all too clearly that you prefer to live your lives without me…in a way of which I can’t approve. So now – well – I have my own life to live…with a man who means everything to me.’
‘And what has he been told about us then, about me and your father, your disreputable parents?’
‘As much as he needs to know,’ Christine replied, shrugging vaguely. ‘We don’t talk much about what has happened in the past. It’s the future that’s important.’
‘Yes… I see,’ said Myrtle again. ‘And I suppose you’re having a big posh wedding, are you, up in… Middlebeck, did you say?’
‘No, we’re not. It’s a Register Office wedding; just a very quiet affair. That’s the way we both want it to be.’
Myrtle nodded, then a knowing smile spread across her face. ‘Mmm…so you’re up the duff, are you?’ Christine cringed. Her mother’s tone of voice had become more refined over the years, but she still came out with crude expressions that revealed her true background. She did not answer yes or no. ‘I might have guessed you would jump to that conclusion,’ she said, smiling at her mother in a superior manner. ‘Some of us do have other things on our minds apart from sex.’
‘Then I take it that that’s a yes,’ said Myrtle, grinning. She was not one to take offence. ‘I can read you like a book, our Chrissie.’ Christine, in spite of herself, felt a momentary pang of what could be affection at the possessive form of address. ‘OK then, we’ll be going our separate ways,’ her mother continued, ‘but there’s no reason why we shouldn’t have a toast to the future.’ She stood up and went over to the display cabinet, the top half of which pulled down to show an array of bottles and glasses. ‘What’s your tipple? Whisky, brandy, or what about a gin and lime?’
‘Yes…gin and lime will be fine, thank you,’ said Christine, surprised and rather taken aback at her mother’s gesture. She hadn’t intended to get involved in any sort of social etiquette.
Myrtle handed her a crystal glass of her chosen drink, topped with a piece of lemon. ‘Well, here’s to you then, Christine,’ she said. ‘And…to a happy marriage. I hope it brings you all that you desire.’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, noticing the shrewd expression in her mother’s eyes. ‘I’m sure that it will.’
She did not stay long after that, declining to stay and wait for her father’s return, as Myrtle suggested. What would be the point? He might be another hour at least, and she had already stayed longer than she had intended. They said goodbye without a kiss or even a handshake, but each of them was aware of something very close to regret in the other one’s glance.
Myrtle watched the young woman from behind the lace curtains as she hurried away down the avenue towards the main road. That girl is far more like me than she realises, she said to herself, and she did not mean just in looks. There was a ruthless streak in her daughter, a desire to get what she wanted, whatever the cost. I hope she finds the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, she thought. She, Myrtle, had not yet done so.
Chapter Fourteen
It was an assorted group of people who met together on the evening of the second of January for the New Year party at the Nixons’ farmhouse. Several of the guests were strangers to Maisie. She had met Irene, Joe’s fiancée, several times, but it was the first time she had encountered the young woman�
�s parents, Mr and Mrs Hindle, the farmer and his wife from Lowerbeck. Another farming couple was there as well, the aptly named Mr and Mrs Tiller from a farm on the northern side of the dale, who had been friendly with Ada Nixon since long before her husband’s death.
Audrey and Brian were there as friends of Doris, and she, Maisie, had been invited this time as Ted’s girlfriend. Doris did not have a boyfriend, but Maisie noticed that she was talking quite animatedly to one of the Polish immigrants. Ted had told Maisie several weeks ago about their imminent arrival, and they had made their appearance in Middlebeck a couple of weeks later; a young man by the name of Ivan Delinsky – he was the one who was talking to Doris – and a rather older man, mid-thirties or so, Maisie surmised, who was called Stefan Chevesky. It was kind of Mrs Nixon to invite them to the party, she thought; but folks on the whole had been very welcoming to these strangers who had come into their midst. ‘Displaced persons’ was the name for these refugees who had fled from the Communist regime, not only in Poland, but in several of the eastern European countries. It was an unfriendly, derogatory name for such men – there were, it seemed, far more men than women – who were seeking a peaceful existence after the tyranny of the war years.
Archie and Rebecca Tremaine, as was only to be expected – they were a kindly compassionate couple – had offered them accommodation at Tremaine House, and the two men were employed on the land owned by the squire and on the Nixons’ farm.
The only two guests who had not yet arrived were, in fact, the Tremaines.
‘I wonder what’s keeping Archie and Rebecca?’ said Ada, glancing at the wooden clock on the mantelshelf, which read ten minutes to nine. ‘It’s not like them to be late, and I’m sure they would have let me know if they weren’t coming for some reason. Have you any idea, Stefan?’ She turned to the elder of the two men, who was talking to Anne Mellodey. ‘Mr and Mrs Tremaine; they will be coming, will they?’
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