by Maureen Lee
It was the perfect beginning to what would be a perfect weekend, Jeannie thought, and a thrill of pure happiness coursed through her.
Later though, the evening was rather spoilt by yet another row between her father and Max over why the Flowers didn’t have a television. Everyone at school had one, why not them?
‘If we can’t afford it, I’ll get a job; do a paper round, work in the fields at weekends,’ Max said desperately when everyone transferred to the parlour, a dark, bleak room where the piano was. It was full of big, old-fashioned furniture that had belonged to their grandmother who had died long before the children were born. The wireless was switched on – her mother wanted to listen to a play.
‘There’s no way you’re getting a job,’ Tom said bluntly. ‘You’ve got enough to do with your school work, so you can get plenty of O and A levels and go to university. Anyway, whether we could afford it or not, I don’t hold with all these new-fangled devices. We didn’t have washing machines and refrigerators in my day, and we’re not having a television either. We’re quite happy as we are.’
‘I’m not.’ Max scowled. ‘There’s sport on Saturday afternoons – right now there’s tennis from Wimbledon. And I’m sure Mum would prefer to watch a play rather than just listen.’
‘I’m perfectly happy with the wireless,’ Rose cried.
Gerald glanced up from his comic. ‘You told Marlene Gray’s mum you’d love a telly.’
‘No, I didn’t, love.’ Rose looked flustered. ‘You must have misheard me.’ It was rare she disagreed with anything her husband said.
Tom folded his arms. ‘Your mother’s play’s just started and she’d appreciate some quiet. From now on, there’ll be no more talk of televisions. That’s my final word on the matter.’
‘The oracle has spoken,’ Max said sarcastically, though he flinched when his father turned angrily on him.
‘For that, there’s no fête for you tomorrow. You can just stay in and get on with your homework.’
‘I’d no intention of going to the stupid fête,’ Max muttered.
Jeannie gasped. The fête would be ruined if Max wasn’t there. Then her father proceeded to ruin Sunday as well, telling Max, if that was the way he felt, he needn’t come with them to New Brighton, either.
Max replied that was fine with him, he didn’t care.
Rita McDowd always felt as if she lived at the other end of the world, not just the other end of Disraeli Terrace, when she compared Jeannie Flowers’ life to her own. Jeannie was everything Rita longed to be herself; pretty, clever, liked by everybody, with a proper mam and dad, and two very presentable brothers.
They were the same age, Rita and Jeannie, and in the same class at school, but there the similarity ended. Rita was plain, anything but clever, and although she had a dad somewhere, he’d left home ten years before, leaving behind a two-year-old son, a baby daughter, and a wife who’d been only half-alive ever since.
Sadie McDowd managed to keep body and soul together, and her children fed with a combination of state benefits and a job as a kitchen assistant in the village school. There was a time when the family would have been thrown out of their house when Kevin McDowd, a ploughman, left, but modern technology meant that nowadays farms could manage with only a fraction of the old workforce. The farmer no longer needed so many houses for his employees and a few were rented out. Sadie and her children were allowed to stay, though she was often behind with the rent.
The McDowds were Catholics, the only Irish family in the small, self-contained village where everyone knew everyone else’s business, including the fact that Sadie’s house was a tip and Sean, her son, was bound to end up in jail one day soon. As for Rita, she was a peculiar little thing, not exactly appealing, with curtains of mousy brown hair and enormous, soulful eyes.
On Friday night, Rita stood with her hand on the gate of number ten and tried to pluck up the courage to go in. If Jeannie or her mother came to the door, it would be all right, but Mr Flowers would turn her away, and Max would look at her as if she were a piece of dirt.
She wanted to ask Jeannie, the only person she regarded as a friend, if she could help on the stall she was manning with her mother at tomorrow’s fête, otherwise there was no point in going. She hadn’t any money.
Rita stared for ages at the Flowers’ front window, with its neat curtains and bowl of pink and cream roses, but in the end her nerve failed her. She returned home, wretchedly miserable, dragging her feet along the dusty road. The sun was setting behind the white houses, and the air was heavy with the fragrant scent of roses. Everyone in Disraeli Terrace took great pride in their gardens – except the occupants of number one. The McDowds’ land, front and back, was an expanse of coarse grass. Every month or so, their farmer-landlord sent a man with a scythe to keep it down.
When Rita went in, the kitchen was fuggy with smoke and her mam was sitting at the table with a cigarette in her mouth, which was how she’d been when Rita went out, and how she was most of the time when she was home. Sadie McDowd was lost in dreams of the past and had long ago given up on the present. The house looked as if a hurricane had swept through it, tipping everything out of place, leaving it to gather dust.
Sadie’s frequently expressed wish was to return to County Clare where she was born. She’d been happy in Ireland, but the effort required in getting back was quite beyond her. It took her all her time to get as far as the school where she worked. As for Mass, no buses ran through Ailsham on Sundays, and the station was too far to walk to, so neither Sadie or her children had been for years. The feeling of guilt only made her feel worse. She’d turned her back on God. He was no longer watching out for her.
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mam?’ Rita enquired.
‘I wouldn’t mind, luv,’ Sadie replied listlessly.
Rita put water to boil in a pan on the ancient electric stove. When she looked for cups, she discovered every dish they owned was dirty, heaped in a pile in the sink, smelling horribly.
‘I’m nearly out of fags,’ her mother announced in a flat voice.
‘You can’t have smoked a hundred since Tuesday, Mam!’ Rita gasped. On Tuesday, Sadie collected the Family Allowance from the Post Office and bought a week’s supply of ciggies.
‘I must’ve, mustn’t I, if they’ve nearly all gone?’
Being Friday, there’d be no money left – the school paid wages monthly – and none expected till the Family Allowance was due again. The weekend would be worse than most, Rita thought gloomily, with her mother hardly speaking, her nerves in rags, fingers twitching endlessly for a cigarette.
The water boiled. Rita washed two cups, made the tea, poured it, and sat at the table opposite her mother.
It was hard to believe that Sadie wasn’t much older than Rose Flowers, ten houses and a whole world away. There were photographs around of Sadie, taken before she left Ireland, showing a sparkling young woman with fine, dark eyes, a cascade of black wavy hair, and a lovely smile. Nowadays, Sadie hardly ever smiled, her black hair was thin and greasy, and the sparkle had long gone. All that remained were the fine eyes, the same colour as Sean’s, the blue so dark they were almost navy, dull and listless in her ravaged face.
‘Why did me dad leave home?’ Rita enquired. It was a question she asked regularly. She liked to be told exactly why her life had gone the opposite way to Jeannie’s, veered so wildly off course.
Sadie blinked tiredly. ‘Aren’t you always asking me that? And haven’t I told you a million times already? He didn’t want to be stuck in Ailsham working for an Englishman, did he?’
‘Why not?’ Rita persisted. It seemed a poor excuse for leaving your wife and children.
‘Because your dad was a musician, that’s why,’ her mother replied, as Rita knew she would. ‘He could play the fiddle like a dream and sing like an angel, though he’d never had a single lesson in his life. He was a natural and the handsomest man that ever lived. We only came to Liverpool on our way to America – Hollywood
–where he was going to make his fortune in the pictures.’ She sighed and reached for the Woodbines. ‘Ships still sailed, despite there being a war on, but they weren’t exactly regular. While we were waiting, the money began to run out. Then I found I was expecting our Sean and your dad had to find a job. All he knew was music and farmwork, so we ended up here, though it was only supposed to be temporary.’
‘You still haven’t said why he left,’ Rita pointed out.
‘Indeed, I have.’
‘No, you haven’t, Mam. Why did he leave us – you and me and our Sean?’
‘You already know, girl. He took off a second time to make his fortune and promised to come back a rich man. Instead, he never came back at all.’ The dark eyes glittered with anguish. ‘He broke me heart, did Kevin McDowd.’
The mention of riches and fortunes always cheered Rita up a little, reminding her that had things gone differently, she might be living in a Hollywood mansion and not be envious of a soul – certainly not Jeannie Flowers in her little house at the other end of Disraeli Terrace.
The stalls were on three sides of the green, the trestle tables gaily decorated with bunting. Hoop-la, a coconut shy, and a treasure hunt were just a few of the many attractions on offer, and there was a fortune teller with a crystal ball in her own little tent. Among the events shown on the duplicated programme, on sale for threepence, were field sports for children and adults, a baby show, an exhibition of country dancing, and a battle between the scouts and guides as to who would be the first to light a camp fire and boil a kettle. An all-girl accordion band from Ormskirk would provide the grand finale.
The flowers and vegetables were on show in a marquee and, by the time the fête began, Tom Flowers’ tomatoes and marrows bore blue rosettes indicating they’d each won a first prize. He marched around the green in the brilliant sunshine, looking for his wife, hands clasped importantly behind his back, accompanied by Colonel Max, who had retired from the Army at the end of the war.
Both men were in their fifties, but Tom, with his straight back and dignified bearing, looked much younger. He had strong, weatherbeaten features, a full head of brown wavy hair, and wore a brown tweed suit and an impeccably ironed cream shirt with a striped tie.
In contrast, the colonel was untidily dressed in a linen suit as crumpled as his cheerful, smiling face. A frayed straw hat with a tartan band covered his completely bald head.
‘Ah! Here’s your good lady, Tom!’ The colonel stopped in front of the white elephant stall, where a wide assortment of interesting items were for sale. ‘Busy, I see.’
‘I like to see the wife kept occupied, sir.’ Tom grinned while they waited for several customers to make their purchases and depart.
Rose blushed. She looked lovely in her next-to-best frock, which was pale green, with a broderie anglaise collar. ‘Good afternoon, Colonel. Would you like to buy something? It’s all in a good cause.’ The proceeds of the fête went to a different charity every year.
‘Don’t moider the colonel, Rose,’ Tom said brusquely. ‘He doesn’t want to be bothered with other people’s rubbish.’
‘It’s not rubbish, Dad! Some of the things are quite smart. Look at this! Mum said it’s a smoking jacket. It’s in perfect condition.’ Jeannie held up a maroon velvet jacket with frogging down the front. ‘And there’s some lovely handbags and loads of jewellery, though I don’t suppose it’s real. I’d buy this bead bangle, ’cept I need the rest of my money to have my fortune told.’ The compact and manicure set she’d hankered after had been bought and were safely in Rose’s shopping bag.
‘That’s exactly what I wanted,’ Colonel Corbett boomed.
‘What, the bangle?’
‘No, Jeannie, the jacket. And I’ll have the bangle too. Why not!’ He winked. ‘I’ll wear it next time I go dancing. How much do I owe you, Rose?’
‘A florin for the jacket, threepence for the bangle. But are you sure, Colonel . . . ?’
‘Quite sure, Rose, though, on reflection, I think the bangle would suit a narrower wrist than mine – your Jeannie’s, for instance. Here’s half a crown. It doesn’t matter about the change.’
‘Thank you, Colonel!’ Jeannie breathed when he handed her the bangle with a little, courteous bow. She slipped it on to her wrist. ‘Isn’t he lovely?’ she said when the two men walked away.
Rose laughed. ‘You’ll never guess where that smoking jacket came from! Mrs Denning, the colonel’s housekeeper, brought it round. She said he never wore it.’
‘Perhaps we’ll get it back next year! Oh, hello, Rita!’
Rita McDowd stood in front of the stall in the grubby, washed-out summer frock she always wore that was much too short. There was a look of longing on her peaky face as she stared at the biscuit tin full of cheap jewellery. ‘Hello,’ she muttered. ‘I thought you might like a hand.’
‘No, thank you, Rita. Mum and I can manage on our own, but thank you for asking.’
‘Actually,’ Rose said kindly, ‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea and one of my own fairy cakes, even though I’ll have to pay for it. Rita can stand in my place, can’t you, dear?’
‘If you like, Mrs Flowers.’
‘I’d like it very much, Rita. I’d love a little break.’
Rose left and Rita came behind the stall. She always felt very conscious of how insignificant she was next to Jeannie, who was tall for eleven and outstandingly pretty. She had thick, wavy, light brown hair – like the Jeannie in the song – creamy skin with a sheen of pearl, a straight nose, and wide pink lips that always seemed to be curved in a slight smile. Her eyes were the colour of bluebells and they regarded people calmly and directly, full of trust, as if she couldn’t conceive of anyone being horrid. It meant that people never were. No one would dream of saying anything unpleasant to Jeannie Flowers and seeing a feeling of hurt cloud those innocent blue eyes. She seemed wise beyond her years, never giggly or silly like some girls.
‘Have you been busy?’ Rita asked.
‘Very, but it’s gone off a bit now.’ Jeannie turned away when a customer approached. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Bonnington. Yes, they’re lovely handbags, aren’t they? Only sixpence each. Most are real leather, so Mum says. No, I don’t know where they came from, but I’m sure it was somewhere respectable.’
‘It’s not that, dear. I just don’t want to come face to face with someone I know when I’m carrying their old bag. I don’t think I’ll bother, but I’ll take that gold evening purse for my little granddaughter. She’ll enjoy playing with it.’
‘That’ll be threepence, Mrs Bonnington.’
Rita’s eyes grew round when Jeannie put the three-penny-bit in a bowl full of coins, most of them silver. There were also a few folded ten shilling and pound notes. She’d never seen so much money before.
The white elephant stall was one of the most popular, being the source of some remarkable bargains. Over the next hour, the girls were besieged with customers, many of them strangers with Liverpool accents, very different to the soft Lancashire burr of Ailsham.
One Liverpool couple bought two handbags, a blue teddy bear, a pile of comics, and a pair of glass candlesticks.
‘How much is that lot, luv?’ The man had kind eyes and a warm smile.
‘Three and sixpence.’
‘That’s cheap at the price. Have you got change of a pound?’
‘Yes.’ Rita carefully counted out the change and the couple went away, well satisfied with their purchases.
Jeannie was busy serving someone else and Rita felt herself go hot, then cold, as she crumpled the note in her hand into a tight ball. She’d never stolen anything in her life before, but when she thought of what she could do with a whole pound, the temptation was too hard to resist.
Mam would love some jewellery, a string of pearls, even if they weren’t real, and that long white scarf with a fringe was the sort of thing that would appeal to Sean. There was a handbag that Jeannie said had been made out of a real crocodile she wouldn’t mind for he
rself. Most importantly, she’d buy cigarettes, forty, to see Mam through the weekend, and say she’d won the treasure hunt to explain where the money had come from.
First, she’d have to change the note. It would look suspicious, handing Jeannie a pound.
‘I promised to buy Mam some ciggies,’ she said. ‘I’d better get them now, in case the shop shuts. I won’t be a minute.’
‘OK, Rita, but hurry. The baby show will soon be over and there’ll be a rush. I wonder why Mum’s taking so long?’
Rita sped towards the shops on the far side of the green. The Oak Tree pub was doing a roaring trade, the tables outside packed and drinkers lounging on the grass.
‘I don’t sell cigarettes to under-eighteens,’ Mrs Harker said curtly when Rita asked for forty Woodbines.
‘Oh, let her have them,’ Mr Harker put in. ‘We know who they’re for, and it’s not Rita, is it, girl?’
Rita mutely shook her head. Minutes later, she raced back to the stall, perspiration pouring down the inside of her arms, and felt horribly guilty when she found Mrs Flowers had bought the girls a cup of tea and a fairy cake each.
‘It’s by way of an apology,’ she said. ‘I should have come back ages ago, but I could see you both coping admirably. I’ve had a lovely afternoon lazing in the marquee with my friends.’
‘I’d like to buy some things to take home,’ Rita mumbled.
‘Help yourself, dear.’
The crocodile handbag had been sold in her absence, but there was a big red plastic shoulder bag that Rita liked almost as much and it had its own purse. She put the pearls and the scarf inside, and the remainder of the money, nearly seventeen shillings, in the purse.
For the rest of the afternoon, Rita felt unusually happy. She kept imagining the way Mam’s face would light up when she saw her present, not to mention the money and the ciggies. Sean’s reaction to the scarf was more doubtful. It depended what sort of mood he was in.
