Time Goes By

by Margaret Thornton

  It was a joyful occasion, with the toast to the happy couple drunk in champagne.

  ‘To Kathy and Tim …’ The chorus of good wishes echoed around the room, and tears welled up in Albert’s eyes – a rare sight – as he gazed lovingly at the daughter who meant so much to him.

  The couple departed for their honeymoon in Scarborough, a train journey from coast to coast as they, as yet, had no motor car. Tim had a driving licence, as he drove his firm’s van, but they knew they would have to wait a little while before they could afford a vehicle of their own.

  It was Kathy’s first visit to the Yorkshire seaside resort, although Tim had been a couple of times with his parents when he was a child and he assured Kathy that she would love the place.

  And so she did. In some ways it was like Blackpool – busy and bustling at this time of the year, and it also had its fair share of amusement arcades, ice cream and hot dog kiosks and ‘Kiss me quick’ hats. She had to admit, though, that Scarborough had a beauty of its own that Blackpool lacked.

  They stayed at a small hotel near to the Spa Bridge. Kathy was captivated by the view from the bridge, across the wide expanse of the bay to the busy harbour. There the fishing boats were unloaded, and beyond was the huddle of fishermen’s cottages on the steep slope of Castle Hill. And on the horizon the ruins of the old castle were silhouetted against the blue of the summer sky.

  Kathy would have loved the place wherever it happened to be, because she was with Tim, who was now her beloved husband. She had felt a little apprehensive about the honeymoon and all that it entailed. Their love had not yet reached its fulfilment, partly because the opportunity had not arisen. They were both a teeny bit old-fashioned about such things. The time and the place had to be right; besides, they knew that their respective parents would not have approved of them anticipating the wedding date.

  She soon realised that Tim was as concerned as she was about the matter. They were good friends and companions, though, as well as being very much in love, and they knew that all would be well. Very soon they discovered that they were as attuned physically as they were in every other way.

  After a gloriously happy week it was time to go back and settle into their new little home. They knew that they were very fortunate. They were getting off to a very good start, far better than that of many young couples embarking on married life. They had saved up themselves for a deposit on a terraced house, and both sets of relatives – Tim’s parents and Kathy’s father, aunt and uncle – had contributed as well. The house was quite small, but it had a little garden at the front and also at the rear. It was only five minutes’ walk away from Holmleigh, and not too far, either, from Tim’s place of work.

  Kathy intended to carry on working at the hotel, with Tim’s wholehearted agreement. The majority of young wives went out to work now, as well as running the home, but Tim had promised to help his wife as much as he could. Kathy, remembering his efforts at school, reminded him that he was not much good at handiwork! Between them, though, they had made quite a good job of wallpapering their bedroom and the living room.

  It was an ideally happy marriage with scarcely a wrong word to mar their contentment. As a young married couple Kathy and Tim were a part of what soon was to be called ‘the Swinging Sixties’. As a popular song of the era said, the times were a-changing. The Fifties had started off with a period of austerity, when food was still rationed. But by the end of the decade Britain was again finding its way in the world and it was regarded by many as ‘the best of times’.

  The Sixties came in with an explosion of colour, sound and vitality. Kathy knew she must buy a miniskirt to be in the fashion. The new tights, too, instead of nylon stockings, were essential to wear with the short skirts. And a maxi-coat, almost floor length, and knee-high boots to compensate in winter for the cold around one’s thighs. She had her hair cut shorter, and tried to make it less curly with backcombing and lacquer, whilst Tim grew his hair longer …

  They listened to the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan on records and on the radio and television. And they actually saw the Beatles live at a performance they gave at Blackpool’s ABC Theatre.

  They watched Six–Five Special, Juke Box Jury, Steptoe and Son and Morecambe and Wise on the television; and went to the cinema to see kitchen sink dramas such as Alfie, A Taste of Honey and Saturday Night and Sunday Morning.

  They both wanted to start a family, though, to complete their happiness. They were delighted when their first child, Sarah, was born in 1965, followed in 1967 by Christopher; and so were the doting grandparents. Winifred was, in fact, a great-aunt, but as near as could be to a grandparent. She had always regarded Kathy as the daughter she had never had.

  Kathy stopped working at the hotel when the children came along; that was to say, she no longer went in each day, as had been her custom, to help out wherever she could with the waitressing or general duties. She continued to help with the bookkeeping, although she could foresee a time in the not-too-distant future when her father and aunt might decide to retire.

  The hotel and boarding house trade was gradually changing; it was necessary to keep up with modern trends to run a successful establishment. There were some regular visitors who still came year after year, but many had dropped away. Holidays abroad were now very tempting and, in many cases, just as affordable as staying in Britain. In this way, too, the Sixties was a time of change.

  It was in the early spring of 1970 that Winifred told Kathy of their intentions.

  ‘Your dad and I have decided it’s time to sell up,’ she said. ‘Guests are wanting so much more these days. A bar, for instance, because they would like to be able to order drinks – alcoholic ones, I mean – with their meals. It’s not that your dad and I are against that, but it would mean applying for a licence, and then paying extra bar staff. And there’s another thing … A lot of the hotels now have gone over to what they call “en suite” facilities.’ Kathy knew what that meant: a private bathroom or shower – or both – and a toilet attached to the bedroom.

  Winifred shook her head. ‘That would be no end of an upheaval for us, but if we stayed much longer we would have to do it. Times have certainly changed, Kathy. In the old days it was a jug and bowl in each room. Mind you, that was jolly hard work carrying water up the stairs every day …’

  ‘And a “gazunder” underneath the bed,’ laughed Kathy. ‘I remember that up in the attic rooms.’

  Winifred smiled. ‘Yes, but it wasn’t often that we had guests sleeping up there. We put in the required number of toilets, one on each landing, and a bathroom on each landing too, and washbasins in every room. It used to be quite acceptable – the norm, in fact – but folks seem to want a bath every day now instead of once a week.’

  Kathy nodded. ‘Yes, that’s true …’ So did she and Tim and the children, but she guessed her aunt still stuck to the tradition of bath night on a Friday. Winifred was always very clean and tidy, though, and still quite modern in her outlook in many ways.

  ‘Anyway, we’ve decided to put Holmleigh up for sale,’ Winifred went on. ‘It would be best to let the new owners do any renovations they want in their own way.’

  ‘And they’ll be getting a place with a very good reputation,’ said Kathy loyally.

  ‘Yes, I must admit that’s true,’ said Winifred. ‘And it’s time for us to have a change – and a rest. I’m seventy now, so is Jeff, and your dad is sixty-five. It’ll be a big upheaval for us and no doubt it’ll take some getting used to. Do you know, I have lived in this house all my life, and so has Albert, apart from his time in the army, of course, and you were born here, Kathy …’ Her aunt looked pensive for a moment.

  ‘So … where will you retire to?’ asked Kathy. ‘You’ll want to stay in Blackpool, I suppose?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Winifred. ‘I’m a true “sandgrown ’un”. I don’t think I could live anywhere else now. Jeff and I rather fancy living in Bispham. We’re going to look for a semi-detached house, not to
o far away from the sea. We’ll have time to walk on the cliffs and ride on the trams! Things we never have time to do now. And your dad will be coming with us. We’ve talked it over with him and he agrees it’s the best thing to do. We get along very well, the three of us. And if we get a large enough house he can have his own rooms. A sitting room as well as a bedroom, I mean; then he can be private when he wants to be.’

  They did not have much difficulty in selling the property. A youngish couple from Blackburn, who seemed to be ‘not without a bit of brass’ as Albert put it, bought Holmleigh. They said they would carry on as usual with the visitors who were booked in for that summer, then start the alterations they required when the season came to an end. Albert, Winifred and Jeff found a house that suited them all on an avenue leading off the promenade, in the area known as Little Bispham.

  In 1971 Kathy and Tim and their two children moved to a larger house, a semi-detached, not too far – but not too near – to that of their relatives. Tim was doing well at work and had been made a partner in the firm. On the strength of this they had bought their first motor car, a second-hand Morris that was roomy enough for a family of four. Sarah, aged six, was now at school, and Christopher would very soon be starting; he already went to a playgroup a few mornings a week.

  Kathy now had more time to herself. She had continued with her story writing and was determined not to give up despite the inevitable rejections. Sally, whose friendship still meant a great deal to her, had insisted that she must keep on trying. It was a great day when, in the autumn of 1971, her first children’s story was published by the magazine People’s Friend. That was only the beginning. By the summer of 1972 her stories, both for adults and for children, were to be found in several of the women’s magazines.

  ‘I knew you would do it!’ Sally told her delightedly. ‘I knew when you were in my class that you had a talent for storytelling.’ And Kathy knew that it was thanks to Sally and to teachers who came later for fostering her love of literature, without which she would not have been able to express herself so well.

  And no one was more proud of Kathy than her father when her first serial story was published. ‘That’s my girl,’ he said. ‘I always knew you were a clever lass. My goodness! An authoress in the family. Just wait till I tell them all at the club and at church!’

  Kathy was touched at her father’s pride in her. She had seldom known him to be so excited about anything. The father and daughter were good friends now, something that at one time she could never have imagined. They all settled down to what seemed to be a period of stability, all of them well contented with the lives they were leading.

  Chapter Twenty

  It was in 1972 that Albert’s health started to fail. He had two minor heart attacks and was warned to take things easy.

  ‘I’ve done nowt else but take it easy ever since I retired,’ he grumbled, showing a little of the tetchiness that at one time had been typical of him. ‘I don’t see how I can do much less than I’m doing now.’

  Albert had not settled too well into retirement, although he had thought it was what he wanted. He still rose early every morning from force of habit. Then he bought a newspaper from the local shop, and after reading it he took a leisurely walk along the cliff top, if the weather was fine. He found then, for the rest of the day, that he had too much time on his hands. He still played darts, he watched Blackpool’s football team – now, sadly, relegated – on a Saturday afternoon, and carried on with his church duties each Sunday.

  His grandchildren were a source of delight to him. He had to admit, though, to a feeling of self-reproach as he realised that he was finding much more pleasure in their company than he had in that of his daughter at a similar age. He knew that this had been entirely his own fault, and he hoped that he had made it up to Kathy in later years. Indeed, he and his daughter were closer now than they had been at any time.

  There was still a void in his life, though, after so many years in the cut and thrust of hotel life. Kathy discussed her fears about him with her aunt one afternoon when she called to see her. Winifred was on her own as Albert had gone to the bowling green. He didn’t play himself but he liked to watch the team from his ‘local’.

  ‘Dad’s not himself,’ she said. ‘At least, he’s not the same person that we’ve all come to know and love. You remember we said how much he had improved? And I’ve been getting on with him much better than I did when I was a little girl.’

  ‘Yes, it’s since you had your accident, dear,’ said Winifred. ‘He realised then how much he loved you. He always did, you know, but he found it difficult to show it.’

  ‘I was so pleased about the change in him,’ Kathy went on. ‘But now it seems to me as though he’s going back to how he used to be. You know – those bouts of moodiness and silence. Sometimes I think he has something on his mind.’

  Kathy thought then that her aunt gave her an odd look, as though there was something that she knew, but wasn’t divulging it. ‘Oh, I think he just gets a bit fed up sometimes,’ Winifred replied. ‘Retirement has not been quite what he expected. He’s been so active all his life that he can’t adjust to all this freedom. And those heart attacks he had scared him quite a lot.’

  ‘He appears to have recovered from them, though,’ said Kathy. ‘He looks quite well in himself … but I still have the feeling that there’s something troubling him.’

  ‘He’s probably just concerned about his health,’ replied Winifred, a trifle too quickly. ‘We are inclined to be, you know, as we get older and we find we can’t do everything that we used to do.’

  ‘Well, I’ve really come to invite you all to come to tea on Sunday,’ said Kathy. ‘You and Jeff and my dad. That might cheer him up a bit. I know how much he likes to see the children …’

  But the tea party did not take place. It was on the Thursday prior to the planned event that Albert had another heart attack. Winifred knew at once that this one was much more severe. It was now September, 1973, over a year since the two minor ones he had suffered. She called an ambulance and he was taken to hospital without any delay. Kathy and Tim were informed and they, too, rushed to the hospital. All the family spent an anxious evening awaiting news of him. Eventually they went home to rest, knowing there was nothing else they could do but leave him in the capable hands of the doctor and nurses.

  He had recovered a little by the following day when Winifred and Jeff went to see him again in his private room. He stretched out his hand towards Winifred and she took hold of it. He looked imploringly at her and he began to speak in an urgent manner.

  ‘When’s our Kathy coming?’ he asked. ‘I want to see her …’ It was clearly an effort to speak. He was short of breath and his voice was husky and weak. ‘There’s summat … summat I’ve got to say to her …’

  ‘Kathy will be here very soon,’ his sister told him. ‘But … leave it be, Albert. It’s too late now.’ She had a good idea what it was that Albert might want to tell his daughter. Kathy had been quite right when she had said that her father appeared to have something on his mind. She, Winifred, had noticed it as well. ‘Just concentrate on getting better, there’s a good lad,’ she told him. ‘Things are best left as they are.’

  Albert shook his head regretfully. ‘I’m done for, Winnie. I know that, and I know I’ve not been fair to the lass … I should’ve told her.’

  ‘Leave it, Albert,’ she said again. ‘It would be for the best.’ She stooped to kiss his pale cheek and he closed his eyes. It was obvious that he was exhausted and he said nothing more. He appeared to be sleeping, so they decided after a while that there was no point in them staying any longer.

  ‘We’re going now, Albert,’ said Winifred, just in case he could hear her. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow, Jeff and me. Goodbye, dear. God bless …’

  ‘He’s not good at all, is he?’ she whispered to Jeff as they made their way out of the hospital.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, my dear,’ said Jeff, ‘but he’s in good hands.
All we can do is trust, and say our prayers.’

  ‘I’m worried about Kathy,’ said Winifred. ‘I’m bothered, Jeff, about what he might say.’

  ‘I think he’s too weak to say much at all,’ replied Jeff. He kissed her cheek. ‘Don’t worry, darling. He probably wants to tell Kathy that he loves her, that’s all.’

  Kathy and Tim went to see her father later that afternoon. He was awake again but looked very frail and ill. He reached out a hand to his daughter. ‘Kathy … Kathy love, come here … I want to tell you summat.’

  She moved closer and took hold of his hand. ‘What is it, Dad?’

  ‘I’ve not been a good dad to you … I should have told you … I know I should … but I couldn’t do it. But I always loved you, Kathy … I loved you, so much …’

  ‘I know that, Dad,’ she replied. ‘I always knew. You’re worried that you didn’t tell me so, aren’t you? But I always knew that you loved me.’ She leant over to kiss his papery cheek. At that moment his head lolled sideways and his hand dropped away from hers. She knew that he had gone.

  ‘Tim, Tim … call the nurse!’ she cried. ‘But I think it’s too late. Oh dear! I think my dad has … gone!’

  Kathy was filled with a deep sadness at the death of her father. She could not have said, truthfully, that she was heartbroken. She reflected that she might well have been more grief-stricken if it had been her aunt who had died. She had always felt much closer to Winifred, who had been everything to her that a mother might have been. However, this was her father, and she knew he had done his best, according to his lights, especially of late. She recalled how, when she was a child, he had seemed remote at times and uninterested in her, but she knew he had been coping with his resentment and bitterness at the death of her mother. Following her accident, however, he had been much more approachable and caring, and this had awakened in her a strong affection for him. She had had a premonition, though, that he would not ‘make old bones’ as the saying went, so his death had not been too much of a shock to her.