‘And that’s quite enough of that thank you,’ said Mrs Brown, banging down a dish of stewed apples so hard that they slopped over the edge and onto the tablecloth. ‘We won’t have any of that sort of smutty talk in this household.’
Bang! A jug of custard was also slammed down and slopped over.
‘I’ve never heard of such a thing. And you think you can come out with filth like that while we’re having our supper. Oh no lady, I don’t know what you do in America, but we don’t have that sort of thing here. I will not have that sort of talk in my house, if you don’t mind.’
She almost threw the spoonfuls of apple into the bowls and pushed them in front of us. I realised I had genuinely upset her.
‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Brown,’ I said contritely – she was a seriously scary woman – ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that where I come from we talk quite openly of …’
‘Enough!’
I shut up and concentrated on my apple and custard. There was much spooning and slurping, but otherwise a deadly silence. Then Mr Brown, bless him, pointed out that they had more important matters to discuss.
‘We’ll soon be saying goodbye to this house, then,’ he said.
Overshadowed by the dramatic events at Littlejohn’s had been the council meeting that Alan had been to cover. The plans for the bypass and new inner ring road had been approved.
‘Well, that’s it then,’ said Mr Brown. ‘Just as well we never got you that fancy kitchen you wanted.’
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Will it affect you?’
‘Whole street’s coming down.’
‘Oh gosh, really? Are you sure?’
‘This one and all of Watergate and Fisher Quay.’
‘Oh, but they’re lovely old buildings!’ I had passed and admired them on my way to work. They were an interesting collection of higgledy-piggledy timbered buildings, not a straight line to be seen. True, they were a bit dilapidated, but they were interesting and historic and beautiful, overlooking the river. They must have dated back centuries, and were a real part of the town’s heritage.
‘Get away with you!’ said Mr Brown scornfully, as Mrs Brown passed him a cup of tea. ‘The Quay’s been a right warren of slums ever since I was a lad. Terrible place, only good for rats and thieves. Best thing to pull it down. Pull the whole lot down as far as I’m concerned. Let’s have something new and clean in the town. Something modern.’
‘But this is your home! Where will you go?’
‘They told us we’ll get one of those new houses they’re building up at The Meadows. Nice-looking houses they are. They’re what I call proper houses. Nice and light with big windows. And they won’t have the water and rats flooding into the cellars every time there’s a bit of rain. They’ll be all new and modern, with a proper garden on the flat and all.’
‘What about you, Mrs Brown?’ I was trying hard to get back into her good books. ‘Won’t you miss this house?’
‘Not a bit. They can have it. I want a nice new house without damp in the walls, and cracked old cupboards and shelves that you can’t keep clean however hard you try. And no more blooming mice. And a front garden! Oooh, it’ll be lovely to have a front garden, not to walk straight in off the street with every Tom, Dick and Harry staring straight in your windows.
‘Mind you, I’ve brought my kids up in this house, so it’s got happy memories. But now I want some comfort and convenience in my old age. No, I won’t be sorry to leave here.’
I looked at the proposed plan as shown in The News. It showed the inner ring road sweeping over a new bridge and alongside the river. It looked familiar. Of course! That’s how the town used to be until just before I’d started on The News when they’d closed the original inner ring road, and pedestrianised it. The area alongside the river now had smart new bars and restaurants, and an arts centre. Funnily enough, they’d called it Fisher Quay. If only they’d kept some of the original buildings …
In my time we were desperate to hark back to the past, to hang on to anything old, however useless and dubious. But here the Browns were longing for the future. They seemed to think that everything could only get better, that the future was new and exciting, a great big present just waiting to be unwrapped.
And who was I to disillusion them?
Chapter Twelve
I was just on my way back to the office, dodging through the stalls of the midweek market, when I saw a familiar figure in her brown coat. Carol was struggling with a basket, a string bag full of vegetables, and a brown paper carrier bag as well. ‘Here, let me take one of those.’
‘Oh hello, Rosie. Thanks. I got a bit carried away, all these carrots and potatoes.’
I took the string bag from her. A little shower of soil fell to the ground. You don’t often see vegetables with soil on now, do you, unless you shop at the farmers’ market.
‘Libby not with you?’
‘No, she’s playing at a neighbour’s house so I thought I’d take the chance to dash into town. You been doing anything interesting?’
‘An exhibition at the town hall. Very boring.’
‘Can’t always be murders and shootings then. Bit too exciting that, if you ask me.’
‘Billy was brilliant, Carol, absolutely brilliant. So calm and brave. Littlejohn was so unpredictable, he could have done anything, but Billy really calmed him down. Weren’t you worried about him?’
‘No, because by the time I knew about it, it was over, wasn’t it? And he was all right. No point worrying over something that didn’t happen. Let’s just be thankful that little girl was safe and didn’t get hurt. Sad about the young lad though, but mind you, he sounded a bit of a rotter. Leading that girl on and walking out on her. Poor cow. I don’t know what I’d have done if Billy’d walked out on me. Still, it didn’t happen, so no point worrying about it. Look, I can manage from here, if you’ve got to get back to work.’
‘No, it’s all right. It’s a pretty quiet morning and they’re not expecting me back yet anyway.’
‘Fancy a cuppa?’
‘Why not?’
We walked companionably on, carrying the shopping between us, along the narrow street and down the hill into the low, dark, damp house. I glanced up at the garden.
‘Billy spent all yesterday evening fussing on with that old shed,’ said Carol, pushing open the door. ‘I think he’s wasting his time, it’s had it. Still, he might treat himself to a new one when we move.’
I tried to imagine Will getting excited over a shed. Tricky. Not quite as sexy as a wide-screen plasma TV.
In the kitchen – the mouldering smell of damp hit me as I walked in – Carol moved the kettle from the hearth and put it on the fire – on the actual coals. She gave them a quick poke and soon the coals were glowing and the kettle steaming.
‘Ugh! What’s that?’
A large bowl on the wooden draining board seemed to be full of swirling blood and raw flesh, with some very functional-looking tubes. Carol looked surprised. ‘Hearts, soaking for supper.’
‘Hearts? You’ll eat them?’
‘Yes, haven’t you ever had them? Got a bit of stuffing for them. Very tasty.’
She lifted the kettle off the coals, made the tea and put the pot down on the table. I sat down, with my back to the bowl with the hearts in. Despite the gloom, it was a cosy kitchen. There was a jug of daffodils on the windowsill, a brightly-coloured rug in front of the fire, and pretty patchwork cushions on the chairs.
On the arm of the chair next to the table, half hidden by a Sooty glove puppet, was a library book.
‘Oh, who’s reading Lucky Jim?’
‘Billy He’s really enjoying it. Says I’ll like it when he’s finished.’
‘It’s one of Will’s favourites.’
‘Tell me about this Will then,’ she said, pouring the tea.
‘Well, he’s very like Billy. Very like. Amazingly like.’
‘Are you going to get married?’
‘I don’t know. I’m
not sure he’s ready for it yet. Not to settle down.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Same age as Billy.’
Carol laughed.
‘Well that’s old enough. Billy and me have been married for eleven years.’
‘Yes, but it’s sort of different.’
‘Is he good to you?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Does he make you laugh?’
‘Often.’
‘Is he kind, generous?’
‘Very.’
‘And is he, you know, do you like him, does he make you go tingly all over?’
‘Oh yes, definitely!’
‘Then what are you waiting for, girl, snap him up!’
‘But what if he doesn’t want to be snapped up?’ I put my cup back in its saucer and looked at Carol. I really wanted to know the answer.
‘Oh men do. There’s not many men that’s happy on their own. They pretend they want to be roaring lads off with their mates, but really, they just want a family to look after. They want someone they can trust beside them. You know what they say, “Behind every great man is a woman”. Well, they need us. Useless without us.’
‘Where I come from, a lot of men don’t get married. Women neither. They might just live together for a while, sort of semi-detached.’
‘Oho, try before you buy, is it?’
‘No, not like that. It’s sort of more short-term. You can give each other lots of space.’
‘Space?’ Carol glanced around the crowded kitchen. ‘Space?’
‘Well, not thinking too far ahead. Lots of women choose not to have children. They have jobs, same jobs as the men.’
‘Someone’s got to look after the kids though, haven’t they? That’s why I’m going to work at the school. Fits in nicely. Don’t want my lot to be latch-key kids.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Anyway, you don’t want to be left on the shelf. If this Will is anything like Billy, what are you waiting for?’
‘I don’t know any more. I really don’t know. When I see him again …’ I imagined Will in front of me. But it was hard, as he kept getting confused with Billy. I shook my head to clear the vision.
‘Anyway, I’m going out with Phil tonight. Just to the pictures. Nothing, you know … just as a friend really.’
‘Ooh, what would your Will say about that? Still, what the eye don’t see, the heart don’t grieve over. You have a good time while you can. But he’s a nice lad, Phil, so don’t you go leading him on and breaking his heart.’
‘That is the last thing I want to do. It’s just a night out. But I’d better get back to work. Thanks for the tea.’
‘Any time. Enjoy yourself tonight.’ She was already wrapping her apron around her, ready to tackle that heap of vegetables and the bleeding hearts.
Phil had been looking at me knowingly all day and every now and then, despite myself, I’d feel quite excited. Well, excited is probably too strong a word, but anticipatory perhaps. And then I’d look at Billy and know that he was the only man I ever wanted, and that it was pointless to go out with anyone else. But it was better than sitting at home at the Browns’, watching the tiny black-and-white TV screen. So, when Phil came along to my desk to collect all my ready copy, and grinned shyly saying, ‘I’m ready to go now,’ I went along to the tiny awkward cloakroom and had a wash and cleaned my teeth and did my best with the make-up.
Feeling a bit fresher, if not exactly glammed up for a night on the razz, I came back to the newsroom.
‘Oh ho, so that’s the way it is then, is it?’ said Charlie the Chief Photographer as we walked out together. Billy looked up from his typewriter and gave me a strange look. Our eyes met, and for a moment, I thought he was going to ask what I was doing and try to stop me. He frowned, then forced a quick smile. ‘Enjoy the film,’ he said.
‘We shall!’ yelled Phil back at him and we manoeuvred our way down the chaotic narrow stairs.
Downstairs, outside on the pavement, he hesitated for a moment, a bit unsure. Not as unsure as I was. I mean I’d never been on a 1950s date. Come to that, not even my parents had been on a 1950s date. And I had never talked to my grandparents about dating …
‘I thought we’d get something to eat at the Odeon,’ said Phil.
‘Oh, can you eat there?’
‘Yes, they’ve got a café upstairs. It’s about the only place you can get food at this time of night. The Copper Kettle’s closed. Silvino has the back place open, but that’s full of kids.’
‘Right. The Odeon it is.’
The Odeon was a wonderful old cinema. All red plush and gold curly bits. Two huge staircases curved up on either side of the foyer. In the middle was a tiny little booth of a box office where Phil bought our tickets. The best in the house – 3/9 each, which isn’t even twenty pence in modern money. We went up one of the staircases – it felt terribly grand – and found ourselves in a café. One wall had windows overlooking the street and the other had windows that looked out over the auditorium, so you could sit there and eat and watch the film if you liked.
I was longing to eat something spicy or garlicky. Everything I’d eaten lately seemed to have been so bland. Some garlic ciabatta or a Thai green curry would have gone down a treat.
The menu offered poached egg on toast, scrambled egg on toast, cheese on toast, beans on toast, sardines on toast, mushrooms on toast, tomato soup, or ham sandwiches, cheese sandwiches, egg sandwiches. Right. No low-carb diet here then.
‘What are you having?’ I asked Phil.
‘Poached egg on toast for me.’
‘I’ll have the same please.’
‘And a pot of tea for two,’ said Phil to the middle-aged waitress in dusty black dress and white pinny.
I ate my poached egg, drank my tea and thought wistfully of our local curry house …
‘So how did you get to be a reporter then?’ asked Phil.
I told him about my A levels and the degree and the post-grad course.
‘You did a degree? Just to be a reporter? And then spent another year learning all about it?’ Phil was so astonished he had difficulty not spraying egg everywhere.
‘Well yes. It’s the usual way now.’
‘But you must have been twenty-two when you got your first job.’
‘Yes. Twenty-two and a half when I started on the Swaledale Courant’.
‘Blimey, I’d been working seven years by then. Eight if you count all the stuff I did when I was still at school.’
‘What, you were writing for The News when you were fifteen?’
‘Fourteen actually. Did sports reports, not that there was much sport on during the war. And I wrote pieces about the concerts and the fund-raising efforts until in the end old Mr Henfield was asking me to do things official like. There weren’t many people around. He was glad of anything really. So I just did what I could. Taught myself to type and learnt shorthand at evening classes.’
‘Have you been on The News ever since?’
‘Apart from national service, yes. I keep thinking I might go to Fleet Street, but I’m not sure. What I’d really like to do is go to Australia. All that sunshine would be wonderful.’
And he hadn’t even seen Neighbours.
Our eggs and toast finished, I realised Phil was waiting for me to be ‘mother’ and pour the tea.
‘You could make your name in Fleet Street,’ I said, passing him his tea.
‘Well, there was a chap in the army. He’s on the Express now. He says there’s a job there for me if I want it.’
‘Go for it!’
‘Do you think I should?’
‘Of course I do. A job in Fleet Street! No question. You’re young, single. You’re a good journalist. Have you anything to keep you here? Family?’
‘Well, there’s my parents, but I’ve got two sisters who live locally. They’re both married with kids so Mum and Dad wouldn’t be short of people to keep an eye on them.’
‘Do you want to be on The News
for ever?’
‘No. I mean I like it well enough, but there are other places, aren’t there? Other things to do? When I was in the army I met all sorts of different blokes, and here, well, here I just meet the people I’ve always known. Or who know the people I’ve always known. That’s why it was so great when you came here. You’re so different, from the other side of the world with different ideas, a different way of doing things. I really like that.’
Oh dear, he was beginning to look at me. Meaningfully. I wasn’t sure I could cope.
‘You’d love it in London,’ I said quickly. ‘All those new people, all those stories. And a real chance to make your name. You could be famous, get to cover all the big stories. And you could do it. You’re as good as any of the national people.’
‘Well, I could have a go. I know I’d be as good as my mate on the Express and he’s doing all right for himself.’
‘Well there you are then. Go for it. It could be great.’
‘It would, wouldn’t it?’ he grinned. ‘Well maybe I shall.’ He paid the bill – refusing my offer to go halves – and we went in to see the film.
It was Blackboard Jungle, and had music with Bill Haley.
‘Best be careful,’ said Phil, ‘when they showed this in some places the teddy boys started ripping the seats.’
‘Oh, a riot. Be a good story though wouldn’t it?’
He laughed as he led the way to the seats.
I was looking forward to seeing Blackboard Jungle. I remembered watching it at about two in the morning when I’d come in from a not very good party. That would have been tricky to explain to Phil … But when the film started it wasn’t Blackboard Jungle at all, but some feeble cowboy film. I was about to tell Phil we were in the wrong studio when I realised that this was the supporting film, the B movie.
There was an interval and we had an ice cream and then settled down for the main feature. When the titles rolled and the Bill Haley music blasted out, a group of kids near the front yelled and whistled and tried to bop a bit, but everyone else told them to ‘hush!’ and the usherette came down the aisles with a big torch and said loudly, ‘Any nonsense from you lot and you’re OUT,’ and they all settled down quietly again.
The Accidental Time Traveller Page 14
