Scarborough Ball (Scarborough Fair Book 2)

by Margarita Morris

  “Right,” said Rose despondently.

  “Cheer up,” said Sophie. “Anyone can see he’s only interested in you. Don’t worry about her. Her bark is worse than her bite.”

  Rose wasn’t so sure about that.

  ~~~

  In the following weeks Rose did her best to steer clear of Scarlett. Sophie, Clare and Evie rallied around her and told her that she’d done nothing wrong. They thought it was brilliant that she’d stood up to Scarlett and they told her as tactfully as they could that they thought Dan had made a terrible mistake in going anywhere near that cow. The only person Rose couldn’t talk to about it was Dan himself. If she so much as broached the subject he shut down and went quiet on her. In the end she gave up. What was the point? If she worried too much about it then it could drive a wedge between them and Scarlett would have won.

  Finally it was the Friday before the October half-term holiday. A whole week of not having to set the alarm and get up early. What bliss! Rose stuffed her copy of The Great Gatsby into her bag, a bit of not-so-light reading for the holiday, and ran down the stairs to the entrance hall where Dan was waiting for her. They linked hands and headed towards the bike sheds. Beside her, Dan was silent, staring at the ground. He was gnawing his lower lip with his top teeth, always a sign that he had something on his mind. She hoped it wasn’t anything to do with Scarlett. Or mysterious motorcyclists.

  “Cheer up,” she said. “We’ve got a whole week off.”

  Dan sighed, running his hand through his hair. “It’s not going to be much of a holiday for me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dad’s trial is starting on Monday,” he said. “In York Crown Court. Mum’s insisting that we go along.”

  “Oh,” said Rose, trying not to sound too disappointed. She had been looking forward to spending a bit of time with just the two of them. She didn’t intend to spend the whole week with her nose stuck in a book. “The trial won’t last all week will it?”

  Dan shrugged. “No idea. I hope not. Can’t stand Dad’s lawyer. The guy’s a jerk.” Dan unchained his bike.

  As they walked to the bus stop, Rose tried to inject a note of optimism into the situation. “The judge shouldn’t be too hard on your dad,” she said. “I mean, the real criminal behind the drug smuggling business was Max.” She hated saying his name out loud, as if saying it might conjure him back into existence. She wished she could be certain that he’d drowned, even though it was a horrible thing to wish someone dead.

  “It’s a trial by jury,” said Dan, “so they’ll decide if he’s guilty or not. The judge just gets to pass the sentence.”

  Rose took hold of his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Call me,” she said, “and let me know how it goes.”

  Dan nodded, looking glum. He clearly didn’t think his dad stood much of a chance. The bus arrived then and Rose gave him a quick kiss before climbing aboard. She waved to him as the bus pulled away from the kerb, wishing there was something she could do to cheer him up.

  “So what are your plans for half-term?” asked Andrea over dinner that evening. “I expect you’ve got lots of studying to do,” she added as if she expected Rose to have her head in a text book every day and any hint of a social life was out of the question.

  “I’ve got a bit of reading,” said Rose. “Shouldn’t take all week though.”

  “Yes, well, don’t leave it until the last minute.”

  Rose was saved from responding by the ringing of the telephone. She jumped up to answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Is that Rose?” asked a well-spoken male voice that Rose recognised immediately.

  “Yes, hello Uncle David, how are you?” She’d got into the habit of calling him Uncle David even though he was really her great-uncle, but calling him Great-Uncle sounded ridiculously old-fashioned.

  “Oh, I’m as well as can be expected at my age.”

  “That’s good. Did you want to speak to Mum?” Andrea was mouthing who is it? at her. Rose tried to ignore her.

  “No, actually it was you I was hoping to speak to. I wanted to let you know that I’ve had those reels of film digitised. The company has sent me a DVD. I thought you might like to come round and watch it sometime.”

  It wasn’t a difficult choice to make. With Dan going to be at his dad’s trial, Rose jumped at the chance. “I’d love to. Will Monday be all right? It’s half-term.”

  “Splendid,” said David. “I shall bake a cake.”

  “Great,” said Rose. “See you then.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I first met Billy in the summer of 1923 when we were both nineteen. It was July the fourteenth, a Saturday, and would have been my brother Frank’s twenty-third birthday if he hadn’t lied about his age and signed up to fight in the war. Six weeks shy of his eighteenth birthday he managed to convince the recruitment officer that he was old enough to join up and two months later he was dead, killed in France. He’d wanted to see the world but all he saw was a muddy field and a German shell.

  I wanted to remember Frank in the place where we had spent our happiest times, so I walked down to the rocks at the far end of the South Bay, near to the spa buildings where concerts and dances were held. As children we used to spend hours hunting in the rock pools for crabs which we would take home in a bucket and proudly show to our father. He would look at our meagre catch and nod and say that we had it in us to be excellent fishermen. When we had gone to bed he would take the bucket down to the beach and release the crabs back out into the wild.

  It was a hot day and I slipped off my shoes and stockings and rolled up the waist of my skirt so that I could wade through the rock pools close to the water’s edge. Oh Frank, I thought, we had been so carefree as children, ignorant of the horrors of war that would shatter our lives. The tide was coming in but I didn’t pay it too much attention. I had grown up on this coastline and thought I knew how to predict the behaviour of the sea. I had never been afraid of the water, indeed I saw it as my friend. I clambered further along the rocks, away from a couple of children fishing for crabs. The sight of them brought back such vivid memories that tears blurred my vision. Suddenly a wave crashed against a rock, sending spray into the air. I swayed, trying not to fall over. I couldn’t see where I was putting my feet and stepped on a jagged crag. I yelped in pain, then lost my balance and toppled into a rock pool, soaking my skirt and drenching my shoes and stockings which were in my hand. I had cut my foot on the sharp rock and the water in the rock pool started to turn pink. I tried to stand but the cut stung in the salt water and I winced. Then a pair of strong hands grabbed me under the arms and I felt myself being lifted into the air as another wave crashed against my legs.

  “It’s all right,” said a male voice in my ear. “I’ve got you.” But then he began to lose his balance and before we knew what was happening he fell backwards, taking me with him. Now we were both thoroughly drenched. I turned round to look at my would-be rescuer. A young man, about my own age, was sitting on the rock, his trousers soaked. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I seem to have made matters worse.”

  “Not at all,” I laughed, holding out my hand to him. We scrambled to our feet just as another wave threatened to submerge us.

  “Billy Drinkwater, at your service,” he said, still holding my hand.

  “Lilian Fairbright,” I said. “Very pleased to meet you, Mr Drinkwater.”

  “Please, call me Billy.” He smiled at me.

  “Then you must call me Lilian.”

  After that we made our way carefully back up the beach towards an old Victorian shelter with a bench. What a sight we must have looked. With my skirt stained dark from the water, sand and seaweed stuck to my legs, and my hair hanging in damp strands around my face, I was like a bedraggled mermaid. My companion had not fared much better. His trousers were dripping and his socks and shoes were soaked. He hadn’t taken them off before leaping to my assistance. But his fair hair still looked nice, and I noticed his blue eyes.<
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  “You’ve hurt your foot,” he said, as we reached the shelter and I sat down on the bench. “Let me bandage it for you.” Before I could say anything he pulled a spotless handkerchief from his pocket and, kneeling on the floor, carefully wrapped my injured foot. “That should help until you can get a proper dressing on it,” he said.

  “But it will ruin your handkerchief,” I said, alarmed at the bright red blood staining the white cloth.

  “That doesn’t matter.” He gave me a smile full of warmth. “I’m glad I was here to help. I was filming the tide,” he explained, pointing to a box-shaped object that he had, fortunately, left on the bench in the shelter. “I saw you on the rocks and thought you hadn’t noticed how quickly the tide was coming in.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry you’ve had so much trouble for my sake. I should have been more careful. Your shoes are soaked.”

  “They’ll dry out.”

  “Yes, but the salt water will mark them. You should polish them as soon as you get home, to try and preserve the colour of the leather.” Whether it was relief at having escaped drowning or the thrill of being rescued by such a handsome chap, I found myself over-excited and talking too much.

  “I’ll do as you suggest,” he said, sitting down next to me.

  “You said you were filming the tide, not just photographing it,” I said, keen to keep the conversation going for as long as possible. I pointed at the box on the bench. “Is that a camera for taking moving pictures?”

  “Yes,” he said, his face lighting up. “Let me show you.” We sat together on the bench and he talked enthusiastically about how he had inherited the camera from his father. It was an old French model from before the turn of the century. There were much better ones available now, but he couldn’t afford them. But one day, he said, he was going to travel the world and make films of important events. He mentioned a company called British Pathé that I had never heard of, and how they made newsreels for cinemas. He said that film was the future of journalism, that one day the moving image would be more important than the printed page. I laughed at this, not quite believing him, but he spoke with such passion and knowledge that it was impossible not to be swept up in his dream of bringing the world onto the screen through the power of film.

  “But enough about me,” he said, putting the camera back on the bench. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “There’s not a lot to say,” I said, blushing.

  “Oh, I don’t believe that. What about your family? Do you live locally?”

  Even though I’d only just met him, I felt more at ease with Billy than with anyone since Frank. So I found myself telling him that today would have been Frank’s birthday if he hadn’t gone off to war, and how I lived in a fisherman’s cottage close to the harbour with Mother and Aunt Ellie because Father had been killed when the Germans bombarded Scarborough from their warships.

  “I’m so sorry about your father and brother,” said Billy. “My father survived the war, only to die of the Spanish flu in 1919.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. A virulent strain of flu had swept across the country in the wake of the war, killing many people. As if the German shells had not inflicted enough damage on the population.

  “Any brothers or sisters?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No. It’s just me and Mother now.”

  We talked for so long, that first day, that my skirt dried off in the warm air, turning crisp with the salt water.

  “What time is it?” I asked, suddenly aware that I had stayed out far longer than I had intended.

  “Five o’clock,” said Billy, glancing at his watch.

  “I have to go home,” I said, struggling to fit my bandaged foot into my shoe. I couldn’t very well put my stockings back on with Billy there. “Mother will be wondering where I am.”

  “Let me walk you.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t put you to any more trouble,” I said, even though deep down I wanted nothing more than for him to walk me home.

  “It’s no trouble,” he said. “Besides, I’d like to.”

  “Well, in that case...”

  We walked along the promenade towards the harbour, suddenly shy with each other. When we arrived at the lane leading to the cottage where I lived with Mother and Aunt Ellie, we stopped. There were so many questions I wanted to ask him. Where do you live? Where do you work? Do you often go down to the beach to film the tide? Can I see you again? But in those days it wasn’t right and proper for a young woman to ask questions like that of a man she had only just met.

  “Tomorrow is Sunday,” said Billy.

  “Yes,” I said, a little too eagerly.

  “Well, I was wondering if you’d like to, I mean if you haven’t got any other plans, whether you’d like to go for a walk in Peasholm Park?”

  My heart thudded with joy but I tried to keep my voice calm and level. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

  “Shall I meet you here at two o’clock then?”

  “All right,” I said, feeling my insides melt.

  ~~~

  At two o’clock the next day Billy met me at the end of the lane as promised

  “Hello, Lilian,” he said, offering me his arm.

  “Hello, Billy,” I said, smiling at him. He was wearing a different pair of trousers from yesterday, but the same pair of shoes which I hoped had dried out thoroughly.

  “How’s your foot?” he asked.

  “Much better, thanks.” I slipped my arm through his and we set off in the direction of Peasholm Park, the Edwardian pleasure garden by the North Bay. I had taken extra care over my appearance, deliberately choosing a dress that I hoped wasn’t too outdated. The previous evening I had washed my hair in the tub in front of the kitchen stove and it hung in waves over my shoulders. I felt extremely happy to be walking in the company of such a good-looking young man.

  On the way to Peasholm Park Billy told me that he was the projectionist in the newly opened Futurist cinema on the sea-front. I thought that was a wonderfully glamorous place to work.

  “It must be so exciting to be able to watch all those films,” I said.

  “Actually,” said Billy, “Mr Thompson, the cinema manager, is looking for someone to work in the box office because the lady who works there now is leaving next week to get married. Would you be interested in applying for the job?”

  “I’d love to work there,” I said, quite taken aback. “That is, if Mr Thompson thinks I’m suitable.” Until then I’d only had small part-time jobs in shops. The idea of working at the cinema was far more appealing. Especially if Billy was the projectionist.

  “Let me arrange an interview for you,” said Billy. “I’m sure Mr Thompson will find you more than suitable for the role.”

  By then we had arrived at the park entrance and started to follow the path that wound around the lake. I shall never forget that first summer visit to Peasholm Park with Billy. The flower beds were ablaze with reds and yellows and pinks, birds sang overhead, and the sunlight sparkled on the lake where families of ducks and geese bobbed on the water. Billy suggested we hire a rowing boat. I sat back in the stern, watching the way his blond hair glinted in the sun and noticing the fair hairs on his forearms as he pulled on the oars. I was deliriously happy. After we had returned the boat to the landing dock, we crossed over the oriental bridge to the island in the middle of the lake and climbed the hill to the Chinese pagoda. It was there, hidden from view by the trees, that Billy first took my hands in his and kissed me on the lips. It was a magical moment and my insides danced with joy.

  “I hope you don’t mind me doing that,” said Billy. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you ever since I saw you fall into the water yesterday.”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t mind at all.”

  He kissed me again and I kissed him back, but then we heard a crowd of children running up the hill and we broke apart, laughing.

  As promised, Billy arranged for me to have an interview at the Fut
urist with Mr Thompson, and the next Wednesday I arrived at the cinema in my best blouse and skirt, having sewn one of the buttons back on that morning, and was ushered into Mr Thompson’s office. I thought he would ask about my education and what jobs I had done, but he seemed more interested in whether I would be attractive enough to work in the box office. He looked me over appraisingly and said, “Hmm, you’ll do nicely.” I felt myself blushing under his scrutiny, but I was glad to be offered the job and happy at the thought of working in the same place as Billy. Selling tickets was not difficult and I soon got the hang of it. A real perk of the job was being able to slip into the auditorium after selling the last ticket and watch the film. But the best perk was knowing that Billy was upstairs and that I would see him as soon as the film was over.

  ~~~

  It was in December 1923, the day after Theodore Franklin came to the Futurist, that Billy and I returned to Peasholm Park. Billy wanted to capture the winter park on camera and he wanted me to be in the film. I dressed warmly in my hat and coat and we set off for the park, Billy carrying the camera in its faded leather case. He had shown me how to access the viewfinder by lifting the leather flaps and which buttons to press, but I was afraid to use the camera in case I damaged it. It was such an antique and I knew how much it meant to him. We walked along Queen’s Parade, a street of terraced houses overlooking the North Bay, and then turned into Peasholm Road. Back then hardly anyone owned a car and the roads were mostly empty, so it gave me quite a turn when a motor car came zooming down the hill. I had been about to step out but Billy grabbed hold of my arm and pulled me back to safety. The vehicle was a gleaming black model with large wheels and, despite the chilliness of the season, the roof was down. The car slowed a tiny fraction at the bottom of the hill and as it swung into Royal Albert Drive I recognised the driver.

  “Oh look,” I said. “It’s Mr Franklin at the wheel.”