Time Goes By

by Margaret Thornton

  ‘So what do you tell them?’ asked Sally.

  ‘Well, I just waffle on about us trying to get as many through as we can. But I try to explain that the secondary schools today are all geared up to what is best for the individual child. And that the secondary modern schools in this area have a very good reputation, and that they’re more suited to those who are – what shall we say? – less academically gifted.’

  ‘And do you think they believe you?’

  ‘The more sensible ones do,’ Brian replied. ‘In some ways, you know, it’s very damning to judge a child at the age of eleven. There are so many who turn out to be what we call late developers.’

  ‘They get another chance, though, at thirteen, don’t they?’ enquired Sally.

  ‘In theory, yes.’ It was Phil who answered. ‘But many don’t take it. They get settled into their school and make new friends, and they possibly don’t think it’s worth the effort.’

  ‘Do we have to talk shop?’ asked Mavis, from the back seat. ‘As far as I’m concerned I’ve done enough talking about it all for one day. I thought we were going out for a bit of relaxation, to get away from school, to say nothing of a boring husband!’

  ‘Well, you married him!’ countered Eileen. ‘It’s a bit late to say that now, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do they say? Marry in haste, repent at leisure?’ remarked Mavis. ‘Well, I certainly did that.’

  ‘Didn’t he mind you coming with us tonight?’ asked Eileen.

  ‘He doesn’t know, does he? Not that he’d care. So long as he can listen to Take It From Here and he’s got a good thriller to read, Raymond’s not bothered what I get up to.’

  Sally was listening with some amusement. The rest of the staff had heard it all before and had learnt to take Mavis’s remarks with a pinch of salt. She was a buxom blonde, always ready for a laugh and a joke, a real tonic in the staffroom. She had been married to Raymond for five years, but they had no children. Sally guessed that, in spite of her banter, the couple were quite happily married. And that, contrary to her appearance – she looked more like a barmaid than a teacher – and her seeming nonchalance, Mavis was a surprisingly good teacher. Certainly her class of eight-and nine-year-olds thought the world of her.

  It was inevitable, despite Mavis’s complaints, that they should talk ‘shop’. For the most part it was almost the only thing that they all had in common. They sat in the bar lounge of the Carlton Hotel, the ten of them clustered around two small tables. Sally, who was sitting facing the window, watched the familiar cream and green tramcars, lit up now that darkness had fallen, rattling past on the tramlines on the other side of the wide promenade. And beyond that, the inky blackness of the sea.

  They had decided to have a ‘kitty’, which was the fairest way of paying for the drinks. It would certainly not be right for the men to pay for them all. Brian and Alan were both married, but they joked that their wives had signed their permits for tonight. Sally sipped at her gin and lime and felt contented. Evenings such as this, when she could let her hair down and enjoy herself, had become all too rare. She had settled into rather a rut, although it was one of her own choosing, staying at home in the evenings with her parents, listening to the radio or reading the wide variety of books that she either bought or borrowed from the library. During the winter months she had been attending an evening class for French conversation. She knew the usual schoolgirl French, common to most grammar school pupils, and had decided it would be a good idea to learn to converse in the language. It was questionable, though, whether she would ever get to use the skill. At the moment she was contemplating a trip to Brittany during the long summer holiday, but would it be much fun on her own, she wondered? And would she be brave enough to go alone?

  The shop talk had been exhausted and the little group around Sally’s table – herself, Phil, Alan and two of the young women from the infant staff – were now discussing Blackpool’s football team. They all, it seemed, were keen supporters. Sally went occasionally to the Bloomfield Road ground when her father – quite rarely – was able to get time off from the shop.

  ‘Who are they playing on Saturday?’ she asked. ‘It’s ages since I went to a match.’

  ‘They’re playing Preston North End. What you might call a local derby.’ Phil leant closer to her. ‘Would you like to come along with me?’ he asked. He was not exactly whispering, but his voice was low enough for the others not to hear. She wondered, though, why he was being so careful that the remark should not be overheard. ‘I shall be going on my own,’ he told her. ‘I usually go with a friend, but he’s away this weekend.’

  ‘Yes, I should love to go. Thanks, Phil,’ she replied. ‘I’d better dig out my scarf, then I’ll look like a real supporter.’

  At a quarter to eleven they were all ready to call it a day. Phil dropped Brian off, then Mavis and Eileen, leaving Sally till last. She knew he had gone quite a long way round. He stopped outside her home.

  ‘I’ll see you on Saturday, then, Sal,’ he said. ‘I’ll call for you … Is half past one OK, then we can get near the front? You’ll be all right on the Kop, will you? That’s where I usually go.’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘That’s where I stand when I go with my dad. But I’ll see you tomorrow at school, won’t I?’

  ‘Yes …’ he smiled. ‘But it’s just in case I don’t have a chance to talk to you.’

  She laughed to herself. ‘Yes, I understand, Phil,’ she said, still wondering why it needed to be such a big secret. ‘Saturday, then. I’ll look forward to it.’

  ‘So will I,’ he replied. He leant towards her and kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Goodnight, Sally. It’s been great this evening … After the meeting, I mean. I’ve really enjoyed it.’

  ‘So have I, Phil … We must do it again sometime, perhaps just you and me,’ she said, very daringly. She reached for the door handle, but he jumped up and went round to open it for her.

  ‘See you, Sally …’ he said, watching her as she went up the path. She turned to wave when she got to the front door; he was still standing by the car.

  It’s only a football match, she pondered, but at least it was a start. But she would quite like it if it should turn out to be a start to something more.

  Winifred was pleased to see that her brother was a good deal more animated than usual after their visit to Kathy’s school and their talk to Miss Roberts. She wondered, indeed, if it could be Kathy’s teacher who had brought about this change in Albert. She had noticed that he had listened keenly to what the teacher had to say and had talked quite freely to her, unlike the way he often behaved with a young woman he scarcely knew.

  ‘That was a very satisfactory evening,’ he remarked, when they arrived home. Kathy was in bed. They had left her in the charge of their next-door neighbour, Mrs Walsh, who was very fond of the little girl and she had seen her into bed at her usual time.

  ‘Will you stay and have a cup of tea with us, Mrs Walsh?’ asked Winifred.

  ‘No, thanks all the same,’ replied the lady. ‘I’ll get back if you don’t mind. I don’t want to miss Twenty Questions. Your Kathy’s been as good as gold; of course, she always is. What a little treasure she is. I expect you got a good report from her teacher, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, she’s doing nicely, Mrs Walsh,’ replied Winifred. ‘Thanks very much for looking after her.’

  ‘I’ll make the tea just for you and me, then, Winnie,’ said Albert, going into the kitchen. Another unusual happening; he normally ensconced himself in an armchair with his pipe and the newspaper whenever he came in from somewhere. She thought she could even hear him humming!

  ‘I’m pleased with our Kathy, aren’t you?’ he said, when they were settled down with their tea and chocolate digestive biscuits. ‘I know she’s not exactly the brain of Britain, not quite as clever as some of the kids in the class, but what does it matter? She said herself in that little composition she wrote – well, her teacher called it a story, but they were al
ways compositions when I was at school – she said she’d be working in the hotel when she grew up, so I’m glad she’s looking forward to that.’

  ‘Before she becomes a famous authoress!’ answered Winifred, with a twinkle in her eye.

  ‘Aye, well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?’ said Albert. ‘But she does seem to have a flair for writing, doesn’t she? And that painting on the wall that she’d done of the sands and Blackpool Tower, I thought that was really good.’

  ‘She works hard, and that’s the important thing,’ said Winifred. ‘And I don’t think she’s any trouble in class. Well, we wouldn’t expect her to be, would we? And she likes her teacher, which is always a good sign; and I rather think Miss Roberts is quite fond of Kathy too … Nice lass, that Miss Roberts, isn’t she?’ she asked, trying to sound quite nonchalant.

  ‘Yes, a very sensible young woman,’ replied Albert. ‘Aye, she’s got her head screwed on the right way, has that lass. She’s a pretty young woman, an’ all. I don’t remember there being teachers like that when I was at school.’ He chuckled. ‘Most of ’em were right old battleaxes from what I recall.’

  ‘Yes, they seem to be a different breed now, that’s true,’ agreed his sister. ‘Of course, when we were children everyone over the age of twenty or so looked old to us, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yes, maybe you’re right … How old do you think she might be, that Miss Roberts?’ Albert asked casually.

  ‘Oh, not all that young,’ answered Winifred. ‘Young compared with us, of course. Well, compared with me, I mean. I should imagine she’s turned thirty, maybe a bit more. I wonder why she’s not married? She’s a very attractive young lady. Maybe she lost somebody in the war; she’s about that age.’

  ‘Yes, happen so,’ said Albert. ‘Not that it’s anything to do with us.’ He remained thoughtful, though, and Winifred could detect a gentleness in his eyes and a trace of a smile on his lips. She didn’t dare to hint, though, even jokingly, that he might be smitten with Miss Roberts. If she did he would land on her like a ton of bricks. Besides, she was harbouring secret little thoughts of her own. She was looking forward to the next rehearsal at the drama group more than she had done for ages; and it was not just the challenge of getting to grips with a new play.

  They both told Kathy the next morning that they were very pleased with her progress and that Miss Roberts had said she was doing well. ‘She’s a very nice young lady,’ her father said. ‘I reckon you’ve struck lucky getting into her class, Kathy.’

  ‘Yes, we all like her,’ said Kathy. ‘She’s called Sally. Timothy Fielding saw it on one of her books. It’s a nice name, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, very nice,’ agreed Albert, pleased that he could now put a name to the young lady who had impressed him so much. He had thought he was off women for good and all, but now he realised that it might not be so. What the dickens he could do about it, though, he had no idea.

  There was almost a capacity crowd at Bloomfield Road on Saturday afternoon. Watching the weekly football match – either the first team or the reserves – was something that Albert liked to do on his own. He was an ardent supporter, but not by any means a shouter. He could feel the excitement inside himself, the suspense whenever the match was nearing an end and it looked as though ‘the ’Pool’ might lose or draw, and the release of tension when they finally managed to score. He heard the deafening roar of the crowd around him, the cheers, whistles and the raucous noise of the rattles, but Albert greeted each goal in silence; that was his way. Occasionally he had gone with mates of his from the darts team, but he could never bellow out his enthusiasm as they did, and he found that this, somehow, embarrassed him. He wore his orange and white scarf every week, as true supporters did, but not without a feeling of self-consciousness.

  He felt the crowd surging around him now on Spion Kop, pressing against him from the back and sides as he leant against the crush barrier. There had been an accident there a while ago when a crush barrier gave way, but one tried not to think about that. It was turning out to be quite a good match, with Stanley Matthews on top form. Nothing electrifying, though, and the score was one-all at half-time.

  The crowd relaxed and began to chat together after the whistle was blown, but it seemed to Albert that he was inconspicuous; nobody tried to engage him in conversation. He looked around him … then he felt himself give a start of surprise as he noticed, a few yards to his right, the young woman who had been occupying his thoughts for the last few days. It was Miss Roberts – Sally, as he was allowing himself to think of her – looking most attractive with a little orange bobble hat perched on top of her silvery-blonde hair, and an orange and white scarf wound round her neck. She, too, must be a supporter, then. She was smiling up into the face of the young man who was standing next to her. Albert felt a stab of disappointment and almost anger. He might have known, though, that she would have a boyfriend; she was such a personable young lady. He looked again, more closely; she hadn’t noticed him and he didn’t think he wanted her to. The fellow looked familiar. Albert had only seen him once or twice before but he knew he was a teacher at the same school. Mr Grantley, he thought he was called, the chap who taught PE and games.

  He watched them surreptitiously throughout the interval. It seemed to him that they were good mates, but possibly nothing more than that. They didn’t appear to be at all ‘lovey-dovey’, and he told himself that it was only to be expected that two members of the same staff should attend a football match together.

  Blackpool scored again in the second half, making it a win for the home team, the result they had hoped for. Albert hung back, but still kept an eye on the couple as they left the ground. They were not holding hands or linking arms or anything else to show that they were any more than good friends. He was thoughtful as he stood in the long bus queue on Central Drive and remained in a contemplative mood all the way back to North Shore.

  ‘Was it a good match?’ asked his sister.

  ‘Yes, not so bad,’ he replied. ‘We won at any rate, so I suppose you can’t ask for more. A bit slow off the mark, though, some of ’em.’

  ‘Well, your tea’s ready,’ said Winifred. ‘I’ve made a meat and potato pie. I thought you’d be a bit starved, standing outside all afternoon. Come on now, Kathy love. Let’s get our meal while it’s nice and hot.’

  ‘You’ll never guess who I saw at the match this afternoon,’ said Albert as they tucked into their meal. He smiled confidingly at his daughter.

  ‘Who, Daddy?’ she asked.

  ‘Your teacher, Miss Roberts. She had an orange scarf and hat on as well. I didn’t know she supported Blackpool, did you?’

  ‘No, I don’t know much about her, really,’ answered Kathy. ‘Except that I like her. Well, we all like her. I know she’s not married, because she’s a Miss, isn’t she, not a Mrs?’

  ‘Was she on her own?’ asked Winifred, watching her brother closely.

  ‘No … she was with that fellow that teaches games at Kathy’s school. Mr Grantley … That’s his name, isn’t it, Kathy?’

  ‘Yes, we don’t see him much ’cause he’s a junior teacher. I’ve seen Miss Roberts get into his car, though, sometimes,’ said Kathy. ‘Timothy Fielding says that perhaps he’s her boyfriend.’

  ‘That Timothy Fielding seems to know an awful lot,’ smiled Winifred. ‘I expect they’re just friends, though, with them teaching at the same school.’ She looked reassuringly at her brother as she made the remark.

  ‘Yes … that’s what I thought,’ he replied.

  It was later in the evening after Kathy had gone to bed that Winifred decided to broach the subject with her brother, about the thing she knew was on his mind; but she knew she had to be tactful.

  ‘You’ve taken rather a liking to that teacher of Kathy’s, haven’t you, Albert?’ she began. ‘I can tell by the way you talk about her. Well, I can’t say I blame you; she seems a lovely lass.’

  He did not jump down her throat. She felt that he was pleased
she had mentioned it. For his part, he was glad to confide in her, to get it off his chest and talk about this unusual and unsought feeling that had hit him like a bombshell.

  ‘Yes … I must confess I’m rather smitten.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘Ridiculous, isn’t it? You know me, what I’m usually like with women. There’s never been anyone since Barbara. I’ve never wanted anybody else.’

  ‘But time goes by, Albert,’ she told him. ‘A lot of time has passed since you lost Barbara, and it’s all “water under the bridge”, as they say.’

  ‘But what on earth have I got to appeal to a nice young woman like that? I’m in my mid-forties, set in my ways. A bit of a grump, I know, at times, and I’m not educated like she is. Anyway, how could I possibly ask her out? I don’t even know her, do I, not really?’

  ‘You’re still quite a good-looking chap, Albert,’ said his sister. ‘Don’t run yourself down. And it’s about time you started looking positively at life, instead of being so negative. Maybe you don’t know her very well, but everything has to start somewhere.’ She was thinking of how she had met Jeff Bancroft, quite out of the blue. ‘And you don’t need to speak in a broad accent, you know. I think you put it on at times for effect.’

  ‘Aye, I reckon I do,’ he laughed. ‘I daresay I could be as posh as the next man if I made the effort.’

  ‘Well, think about it,’ said Winifred. ‘You never know. Something might turn up. There might well be an opportunity for you to do something about it.’

  Sally had enjoyed Phil’s company at the football match. They found, as they chatted easily together during the times when they were not watching the game, that they had quite a lot in common, more than she had realised. They liked the same sort of films. Sally was surprised that Phil liked musicals, and he was equally surprised that she enjoyed cowboy films. And they both read detective stories – Ngaio Marsh, Margery Allingham and Conan Doyle, as well as Agatha Christie – and some of the ‘easier to digest’ Victorian novelists. She was, therefore, somewhat taken aback and disappointed, too, when Phil brought the car to a halt outside her house and said, ‘Cheerio then, Sally. It’s been great, hasn’t it? See you on Monday, then.’