Down an English Lane

by Margaret Thornton

  ‘Aye, so they did. We’ll sing that tonight, if that’s OK with you? And I have one or two others in mind… We’ll get together with my mother, shall we, later tonight and see what we can sort out? It makes a nice change to sing duets instead of solos, and it’s a wee while since I had someone to partner me. Cheerio then, Maisie; see you later…’

  Who else had he sung with? she wondered as, once more, she started to unpack her belongings. And did he sing at other times and in other places, as well as to entertain the guests at the hotel? In a church choir, maybe, or an amateur operatic group? She knew so very little about him…

  They discovered that they both liked the songs of Ivor Novello and Jerome Kern, and they tried a few later that evening; much later, in fact, when most of the guests had left the lounge or were having a last drink at the bar at the other end of the room. Maisie sang the melody line most of the time, whilst Andy harmonised above or below her. She soon realised he was quite an expert musician. He could read music perfectly, having learned to play the piano as a child, he informed her; whereas she, Maisie, had acquired her knowledge by degrees, mainly through her involvement with the church choir. Jeanette accompanied them most proficiently and was generous with her praise.

  ‘Your voices blend beautifully,’ she told them. ‘Anyone would think you’d been singing together for ages. Well done, Maisie…and you too, Andy,’ she laughed. ‘It makes a nice change, though, to hear a different voice.’

  ‘Very well, then; Ivor Novello tomorrow night, after the Scottish dancing, and Jerome Kern on Friday. Is that OK with you, Maisie?’ asked Andy.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, that’s fine with me…’ She was feeling quite dazed and more than a little tired. It had been a long and exhausting day – but then most of them were – but pleasantly so. She knew it was time for her to retire to bed. She drank the remainder of her fruit juice, then she stood up. ‘If you’ll excuse me I really must go now. I have a few things to sort out before the excursion tomorrow. Thank you for playing for us, Jeanette… And thank you too, Andy; I’ve enjoyed it.’

  ‘Goodnight, my dear,’ said Jeanette. ‘I’m sure you must be very tired. Sleep well; see you tomorrow…’

  ‘Yes…goodnight, Maisie, and thank you too,’ said Andy.

  She smiled at them and left. It was not quite true that she had things to sort out for the following day. All was in order, but she knew that she must get to bed now and try to sleep. Her head was buzzing with tunes and full of jumbled impressions of the day and, most of all, of thoughts of Andy. They were getting on well together, she and Andy, she mused as she lay down between the crisp white sheets. They had decided to sing ‘Waltz of my Heart’ and ‘Fold Your Wings’ by Ivor Novello the following night. She was glad that ‘We’ll Gather Lilacs’ had not been mentioned… In a surprisingly short time her mind closed down and she slept until the morning.

  The weather during the last week of June was not nearly as sunny as the first week of the month had been. Their views of the Trossachs and Loch Katrine were somewhat obscured by the low-lying mist and drizzle. But the passengers, on the whole, were cheerful, taking the weather in their stride as they knew they had to do in Scotland. It was unusual to go a full week without rain.

  And so they enjoyed even more the comforting warmth of the hotel in the evenings; the good food and pleasant company and the masterly entertainment by the singers and dancers.

  Maisie’s and Andy’s duets were received with great enthusiasm. ‘You make a lovely couple,’ several of the coach passengers told her confidingly. One of them, a middle-aged spinsterish lady, surprised her by asking, in a whisper, when she returned to her seat, ‘Is there something between you and that young Andy, my dear? Is he your young man?’

  ‘Oh no,’ replied Maisie, feeling her cheeks turn a little red. ‘Nothing like that. I only met him a few weeks ago. We just decided it might be nice to sing together, that’s all.’

  ‘Mmm, I see…’ the curious lady replied. ‘If you say so, dear; but you’re a bonny lass and he’s a lovely young man.’ She smiled coyly at Maisie, who just laughed and shook her head.

  That was on the last night after she and Andy had sung the Jerome Kern songs, ‘I’m Old-fashioned’ and ‘The Folks who live on the Hill’, both chosen because of their appeal to a rather mature audience.

  Then, later on, Maisie sang her solo, ‘How are Things in Glocca Morra?’… ‘with apologies, ladies and gentlemen, for choosing a song that is not Scottish, but Irish, simply because it happens to be one of my favourites.’

  She followed it with ‘Wish upon a Star’ from one of her all-time favourite films, Pinocchio.

  If she wished upon a star would her wishes come true? she wondered, when she was home again at the end of the tour. Andy had once again kissed her lightly on the cheek and said, ‘See you in three weeks’ time, Maisie? And you’ll be thinking up some fresh songs, eh?’

  ‘Yes, Andy, I will…’ she had replied.

  Once again her mind was full of the memories of her three days at the Cameron Hotel. Whilst she was there she felt joyful, filled with an exhilaration for life and kindliness towards the world at large, and especially to her coach passengers. She knew only too well the reason she felt that way, but she was trying to warn herself to be sensible, to proceed with caution. She had been careful not to smile too effusively at Andy, or to allow her eyes to linger too long when he looked at her in a tender way when they sang together. It was the way all duettists glanced at one another when they were singing a song full of sentiment and passion. It didn’t mean there was anything special between them…did it?

  Had she imagined, though, the look he cast in her direction when he sang, on his own, the Jerome Kern song, ‘The Way You Look Tonight’, one that they had both agreed was one of their favourites?

  She had felt, indeed, that she had looked her best that night, in her full-skirted summer dress of pale green with a dazzling white collar, and with her dark hair freshly shampooed to bring out the highlights. Her mirror had told her that she was attractive – it wasn’t conceited to think that way, was it? – as she had applied her coral lipstick and a touch of green eye-shadow to her eyelids. She had needed no face powder as the summer sun – on the days that it had decided to shine – had brought a rosy bloom to her cheeks.

  She was cautious, though, possibly too cautious, about wearing her heart on her sleeve. She knew she had been guilty of doing so before, over Bruce. Others had noticed how she felt; Anne and Audrey and her mother… And she suspected that Christine, also, had guessed at her feelings for the man she was going to marry; that was why the young woman had been so cool and unfriendly towards her. But had Bruce himself known of her feelings, she wondered? No matter, though; Bruce was in the past. She had fallen in love with Andy now; she was sure after her second meeting with him that it was so. But it was up to the man to make the first move in what was known as the mating game, and the girl must wait for him to do so. That, she had always been told, was what nice respectable girls did…and so she would wait and hope.

  There were other matters, however, to occupy her mind. In five weeks’ time it would be Anne Mellodey’s wedding, and Maisie had made arrangements to have the week prior to that at home, first in Leeds and then in Middlebeck. Sheila, the other courier, would do the London tour that week.

  She and Anne had visited Schofield’s store in Leeds ages ago, soon after Anne had told her about the engagement, and had chosen their dresses; an elegant bridal gown of ivory silk brocade, and a bridesmaid’s dress of pale blue silken taffeta.

  There remained just one more visit to Scotland, in the middle of July, before the early August wedding. By that time the trees would be in full leaf – spring, and therefore summer, came somewhat later north of the border – and the hedgerows burgeoning with blossom. Maisie found herself looking forward to it with an intensity she had not known before.

  Andy asked her to go out with him that week. On the Friday morning, Maisie’s free day, they set
out soon after breakfast, taking the road northwards. They travelled beyond the Trossachs to Loch Tay, and then onwards to Loch Tummel and Loch Rannoch, his red MG Midget eating up the miles.

  ‘I remember singing about these places at school,’ said Maisie. ‘Loch Tummel and Loch Rannoch… How does it go? I don’t think I’ve heard you sing that one, Andy.’

  ‘Aye, “The Road to the Isles”,’ he nodded. ‘I could include that one tonight.’ He started to sing…

  ‘Sure by Tummel and Loch Rannoch and Loch Aber I will go,

  By heather tracks wi’ heaven in their wiles;

  If it’s thinkin’ in your inner hairt there’s braggarts in my step,

  You’ve never felt the tangle o’ the isles…’

  Maisie joined in the last line with him thinking that never in her life had she felt quite so happy.

  They stopped for a midday picnic by the shores of Loch Tummel. ‘They call this Queen’s View,’ he told her, ‘because Queen Victoria was so impressed by the view that they named it after her.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine why,’ replied Maisie. ‘It really is breathtaking.’

  The mountains were higher here, the tops obscured by a capping of cloud, but the lower slopes already purpling with the first blooming of the heather. ‘The Heather on the Hill’…she mused. She had sung about it and now she was seeing it for real.

  They picnicked on chicken sandwiches, meat pie, crisp apples and shortbread, with a mellow white wine to add the finishing touch. ‘Just one wee glass for me, though,’ he said. ‘I must get you back safely.’

  He talked to her of his plans, one day, to own more than just the one hotel; a cluster of Cameron hotels, say four or five, stretching from Edinburgh to as far northwards as Dundee and westwards towards Oban. But it was only a pipe dream. Besides, his father was still in control and that was the way Andy wanted it to continue at the moment. Maisie listened and they chatted together easily, but she said nothing of her own dreams. How could she?

  When they had finished their meal he leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips, just once. ‘Thank you, Maisie,’ he said. ‘You are a lovely girl, and a great companion… But we must awa’,’ he laughed, springing to his feet. ‘Duty calls and my colleagues will be baying for my blood if I’m no’ back by three-thairty. There’s a banquet to prepare…’

  They packed the basket and travelling rug into the back of the car and set off back to Callander. For the rest of the day Maisie thought about that kiss, so fleeting that there had not been a chance for her to respond to it, to kiss him back… But it was a kiss all the same.

  When they said goodbye the following day he kissed her on the cheek, as he had done before. But that was because Bob was there, she told herself, and all the coach passengers. Andy, as she did, realised the wisdom in being circumspect.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  At nine-thirty on Saturday morning – Saturday, the fifth of August, Anne and Roger’s wedding day – there was a queue as always at Arthur’s Place. The confectioner’s shop had been in existence for many years, before being known by its new name, and was still as popular as ever. Arthur Rawcliffe’s home-baked bread, cakes and pies had a well deserved reputation in Middlebeck and Lowerbeck and queues formed especially early on a Saturday, and on Wednesday too, those being market days in the little town.

  The restaurant which had now been open for more than three months was flourishing as well. As Arthur and Lily, and Flo and Harry, had hoped, it had proved to be a popular rendezvous for shoppers taking mid-morning tea or coffee, and also for lunchtime meals. They had done a few evening functions, too, but these required advance notice; and today, of course, it would be their very first wedding. The shop part of the business would stay open only until eleven o’clock, the customers having been given due warning of this, and the café would be closed all morning whilst the room was prepared for the wedding breakfast, a three-course meal for thirty guests, at one-thirty.

  Lily paused for a moment after serving one of their regular customers with a freshly-baked loaf, still warm from the oven, wrapped in tissue paper, and an assortment of ‘fancies’ which she had put into one of their special cardboard boxes with ‘Arthur’s Place’ printed on the top.

  ‘Yes, it’s a lovely day, isn’t it, Mrs Harrison? Like you say, real bride’s weather. You’re coming to the church, are you, to watch them come out? Yes, I know it’s right on dinnertime, but even so I think there’ll be a good crowd there… Yes, Anne has been at the school for a good while, ever since the start of the war; a very popular teacher… No, we don’t know him quite as well, but from all accounts he has made quite an impact there. You have to speak as you find, don’t you, and I must say Mr Ellison has done very well for my two children… Ta-ra then…’

  Arthur’s Place was almost opposite the market square and Lily, as she stood looking out of the window for a moment, had a good view of the crowds of people – women in the main – thronging the stalls, buying their fruit and vegetables, cheese and eggs and farm produce, sweets and sixpenny toys for the children. It was a scene she never tired of watching; the market was such a happy friendly place.

  The road that ran between the market and the shops on the opposite side was always extra busy on a Saturday morning. There was a Belisha beacon with a flashing orange light a few yards away from the confectioner’s shop, which was supposed to make it easier for pedestrians, but special care was still needed when crossing the road. Children in particular were always being warned to ‘Look both ways’; the number of cars on the road had increased dramatically since the end of the war.

  Lily noticed a familiar figure coming away from the market stalls. It was Miss Thomson, ‘Old Amelia’, with a shopping basket over one arm and her other hand clutching a big black handbag. She was dressed in her tweed coat and felt hat although the day was already quite warm; but it was possible that she felt the cold keenly. She looked very frail; Lily had thought so for a while. She walked with a stoop, her head looking down at the pavement rather than ahead at the approaching traffic. A couple of cars passed whilst the old lady stood uncertainly at the kerbside; she was attempting to cross, it appeared, some yards away from the Belisha beacon. Why wasn’t anyone trying to help her, thought Lily? Because nobody had noticed her; they were all engrossed in their own affairs. Lily decided she would go herself and assist the old lady. She came out from behind the counter.

  ‘Excuse me…’ she said edging round the small queue of people. ‘I won’t be a minute. I must go and help Miss Thomson to get across the road.’

  At that moment a small green car appeared from the direction of the station and the lower end of the High Street. It was not travelling quickly at all – Lily was relieved, later, that she was able to swear to that – but Miss Thomson was either tired of waiting or, more than likely, had not seen it… Whatever the reason, she stepped off the kerb before Lily had a chance to reach her, right into the path of the oncoming vehicle. There was a sickening thud and then a screech of brakes as the bonnet of the car made contact with her small figure. The next moment Miss Thomson was lying spreadeagled on the road, her spectacles askew and shattered, her shopping basket on its side, spilling out apples and oranges and a small cabbage.

  Lily gave a cry. ‘Oh no, no…’ and the folk on the pavement, only too well aware now of what had happened, gasped in horror. At the same moment the driver’s door of the little green car opened, and Charity Foster got out. Her face was white and she was already trembling with shock and fright.

  ‘I couldn’t stop! There wasn’t time; I couldn’t do anything… She stepped right in front of me, so suddenly. The poor old lady… Oh no… Oh dear God! It’s Miss Thomson…’

  Lily hurried to Miss Foster’s side and put her arm around her. ‘I saw what happened; I saw it all. You didn’t have time to stop. She stepped right in front of the wheels, like you said. Oh dear, are you all right? No, you’re not, are you?’ Miss Foster was trembling visibly now and beginning to sob, tea
rs of shock, no doubt, for nobody had ever seen the previous headmistress lose control. She was such a sensible, level-headed person, always knowing how to cope in an emergency; but this one, it seemed, was too much for her. She was no spring chicken herself, thought Lily.

  The figure on the ground was motionless and one of the few men on the scene knelt at her side. He put his head to her chest and felt at her wrist.

  ‘I can’t hear her heart, and I can’t feel ’owt neither, but I can’t be sure…’

  ‘For God’s sake, somebody get an ambulance,’ cried another man. ‘And don’t move the old lady; best not to touch her. Let the ambulance men do it.’

  A woman had already gone into the nearest shop, a newsagent’s, and an ambulance and the police had been called. By this time quite a crowd had gathered and the traffic from both directions was at a standstill.

  ‘I think she’s dead, isn’t she?’ whispered Charity Foster. ‘Look at her…she’s not moving at all. Oh…oh dear, oh God, whatever have I done? People are always telling me that I drive too fast…’

  ‘Shh…!’ Lily admonished her. ‘You mustn’t say that!’ Miss Foster was speaking in a quiet voice, almost inaudible with the shock, and no one except Lily could have heard what she said; but Lily realised the danger there might be in admitting to anything at all. ‘Listen to me, Miss Foster… You were not driving fast at all; I can vouch for that. And when the police arrive, which they will, you must not even hint at what you have just said to me. She stepped out right in front of the car, and all these people will say so as well.’

  ‘The police…’ murmured Charity. ‘Oh dear, I don’t think I can stand it…’