True Love Ways
(Midchester Memories)
Copyright © Sally Quilford 2011
Cover Image © Sergeyryzhenko | Dreamstime.com
True Love Ways
Chapter One
1945
“I'm sorry to do this, Peg, but it's not safe for Meredith to live with you.” Sheila bundled a sleepy twelve-year-old Meredith into her thick duffle coat. “You're coming to live with me and Uncle Norman for a while, darling. You'll have lots of other children to play with in Sheffield.”
“She's got children to play with here,” said Peg. “Don't take her, Sheila.” There was something pathetic in Peg's voice. It was many years before Meredith recognised it as the fear of loneliness.
Sheila turned to her sister, and her expression softened. “I know it's not your fault, love. You just can't help yourself when it comes to murder. But it's not safe for Meredith. You must see that.”
“Are you saying you don't trust me around her?”
“As I said, it's not your fault.”
Peg put a hand on Meredith’s shoulder, gently brushing back a wisp of strawberry blonde hair that covered the child’s green eyes. “You be good for your Aunty Sheila and Uncle Norman. Promise you won't forget your old Aunty Peg.”
Meredith threw her arms around her aunt. “I won't. I've had the best time ever with you, hunting murderers.” Sheila pursed her lips, and made a small ‘pft’ sound. “You will let me know who murdered Colonel Trefusis, won't you, Aunty Peg?”
“I don't think that will be necessary,” said Sheila. “I'll write to you and let you know how she's doing, Peg.” Sheila kissed her sister. “I do love you, you know that, dear. But we promised Mary we'd take care of her.”
“I've never done anything less, Sheila, but it isn't always possible to shield children from horror. Surely the Blitz taught us that.” The two women were silent for a moment. As young as she was, Meredith knew they were remembering the beautiful sister they'd lost during the early years of the war. They turned with tearstained eyes to the child who was made in her image.
“She'll have a stable home with me and Norman.”
“I know.”
After one last hug from Aunty Peg, Meredith followed Sheila down the garden path and into Uncle Norman's waiting car. She pressed her face against the window, trying to get a last glimpse of Aunty Peg and the cottage. Both were lost in the darkness.
1959
It wouldn’t be too bad if there were not so many changes, thought Meredith, as she hauled her suitcase over the footbridge at Stockport station. It would be even better if the porters weren’t all busy helping other passengers. She had about five minutes to get to platform four and catch the Midchester train, otherwise she'd have to wait another hour. If only Aunty Sheila hadn't insisted on her packing so much.
“Aunty Sheila, it's June. I can't see I'll need that many sweaters.” Meredith had removed five sweaters, leaving only her favourite green one.
“You never know, dear,” Aunty Sheila had said, putting the sweaters back in the suitcase. “I've known it snow in June.”
It was one of those things people always said, but which, as far as Meredith knew was not true. Perhaps, she thought idly as she lugged her suitcase up the next set of steps, it had snowed in June once, about a thousand years ago, and the story had just continued through the generations, so that everyone believed they'd seen snow in summertime. As she daydreamed, her suitcase caught on a step, and the force flung the lid open, discarding sweaters and more personal items down the steps.
“Oh Damn!”
A man who had been walking behind Meredith stopped, and started picking up items. “Here,” he said. “Let me help you.” He was about thirty-five, tall, with fair hair and blue eyes. Very handsome in a clean cut way that was rare amongst all the teddy boys and James Dean clones that filled the streets of Britain in the late nineteen fifties.
“Thanks, really there's no need to...” She became flustered when he picked up one of her bras. Not least because she suddenly noticed he was wearing a dog collar. “Sorry about the bad language, vicar,” she said. She mentally filed him as unavailable, which she had to admit made him seem even more attractive than ever.
“Don't worry. You should hear me when I catch my finger in the door.” He handed Meredith her things, and she bundled them into the suitcase, and pressed the lid shut. He held it down for her whilst she fastened the lock.
“Are you expecting bad weather?” he asked. “With all those sweaters I mean.”
“No, but my Aunty Sheila is.” Meredith grimaced.
“Oh yes, well, Aunty Sheilas tend to know about these things.”
“Don't tell me you've got one.”
“I have, but she's called Gloria.”
Meredith smiled. “She probably loves you very much though, hence all the fussing. Oh, I'm going to miss the train.”
“Which one are you catching?”
“Midchester.”
“Me too,” he said, picking up her suitcase. “So let me help you. I'll go ahead and make sure it doesn't leave.”
Without waiting for an answer, he walked ahead with long strides. From behind he looked like a panther on the prowl, and it occurred to Meredith that there must be something in the bible about vicars not being so attractive.
If she secretly hoped he would sit near to her on the train, she was to be disappointed. He kindly helped her to her carriage, putting her suitcase up onto the rack, then smiled his goodbye and disappeared into the crowds at the lower end of the train. She settled back, and thought about poor Aunty Peg.
They had been sitting around Uncle Norman's hospital bed when the news came. Aunty Sheila had rushed home from work, picked up some letters, then dashed straight to the hospital.
“Aunty Peg has broken her ankle,” said Sheila, reading from the letter. “She says not to worry. She's got a nurse in. But I should go to her. If only Uncle Norman...” She looked at her husband with the mixture of sympathy and irritation that only Sheila could manage. “You would pick this week to have your gall bladder out,” she said.
“Sorry, Sheila,” he said.
“I'll go and stay with her,” said Meredith. “I don't start my job at the new school till September.”
“No, that's not necessary, Meredith.” Sheila pursed her lips in the manner that was almost a trademark.
“Aunty Sheila, I'm a grown up now. I can take care of myself. And Aunty Peg won't be doing much sleuthing with a broken ankle.”
Sheila sniffed. “I wouldn't put it past her.”
“Let her go, Sheila,” said Norman. Uncle Norman did not stand up to his wife very often. He liked a quiet life. Strangely enough when he did, Sheila seldom argued.
“Very well, but don't go getting involved in any mysteries. How Aunty Peg hasn't got herself murdered by now, I don't know.”
So here I am, thought Meredith, a wave of excitement passing over her. On her way to see Aunty Peg for the first time in fourteen years. She had missed her more than she ever admitted to Sheila. Aunty Peg wrote, but unfortunately when Meredith was a child, Sheila got hold of the letters first, so by the time Meredith read them, all the juicy bits were struck out with thick black ink. She had held them up to the light, but to no avail. After a while, Aunty Peg must have realised her letters were being censored, so they had become shorter, and full of less exciting news, until the past few years when they had all but ceased. Meredith felt sad to think that the bond she had once had with her aunt was broken. She hoped that the next couple of months would go some way to rebuilding it.
The carriage began to fill up. There was a middle aged man in his fifties, with a quiet scholarly air about him. She had the feeling she had seen him before, but could not rememb
er where. It did not surprise her that he wore a dog collar. He was with a woman in her mid-forties. A real looker, as Uncle Norman would say. She had blonde hair, and was dressed elegantly in a blue silk dress, wearing a white scarf, covered in strawberries around her neck. They seemed to be with another woman, who was rather less elegant. She wore a thick grey coat of which Aunty Sheila would have approved, but which was unsuitable for the humid weather. Her short dark brown hair, under a mustard coloured scarf, was clean, but lank. The woman in the strawberry scarf could have taught her a lot about sex appeal.
“Of course,” the drab woman was saying as they entered the carriage, “you'll have your own way of doing things, Mrs. Mortimer.”
“I'm quite happy to leave the housekeeping to you, Edith. At least until we move on to Peter's new parish. I'm not much of a housewife, as I warned Peter before we married. That was when he told me what a wonder you are.” She looked with fondness at the middle-aged vicar. The woman called Edith did too. “And do call me Clarice.” Clarice smiled in a way that took in everyone in the vicinity, even those not in her small group.
They were followed into the carriage by two boys and a girl. The boys were Teddy boys, each wearing a dark suit with a long coat, drainpipe trousers, and suede shoes with thick crepe soles. Their hair was slicked back, with a quiff at the front. From what Meredith could make out, one was called Jimmy and the other Bert. The girl was called Betty. Like Clarice she was blonde, but the girl's hair owed more to a bottle. It was styled in the way made famous by Marylin Monroe, and it seemed clear that Miss Monroe was Betty's heroine. She wore a tight striped top, with a black pencil skirt and dangerously high heels. The look was slightly spoiled by a ladder in the top of her stocking.
“I hope you've brought something proper to wear for strawberry picking, Betty,” said Jimmy.
“I've got my jeans,” said Betty, touching up her blood red lipstick.
“Good, because we don't want a repeat of last time, when your stilettos got caught in the mud.”
“We should have left her there,” said Bert.
“Hey, you don't talk about my girl like that,” said Jimmy. He pulled a flick knife out of his pocket. Everyone in the carriage held their breath, whilst he sat there opening and closing it for the next five minutes. His eyes gleamed as he looked around, clearly content with the effect he was having on them all.
The final arrival in the carriage was an elderly man. He took the window seat opposite Meredith.
“Sorry, Miss,” he said, stretching out his legs so that Meredith had to pull hers in. “Got shot in the war. Can't bend this knee at all.” His voice boomed out in the carriage. Meredith pegged him as being ex-military.
“Was that the Boar War, granddad?” asked Bert, sniggering.
“No, it was the Great War,” said the old man. “Some of us have had to fight for others freedom to wear stupid clothes.”
“Hey...” Jimmy sat forward. He still held the flick knife, though the blade was tucked away.
“That's enough, Jimmy.” The voice came from the doorway. Meredith looked up to see the young vicar who had helped her with her suitcase.
“Oh, hello, Drew,” said Jimmy, quickly putting the knife into his pocket. “What you doing on this train?”
“On my way to Midchester, like you.”
“You're not checking up on me are you?”
“Not everything in life is about you, Jimmy.” The man called Drew smiled. Meredith wondered how difficult it would be to become a born again Christian. “I'm going there on church business.”
At that, the older vicar, Reverend Mortimer stiffened. “Are you the Reverend Andrew Cunningham by any chance?” he asked.
“Yes, that's right.”
“Peter Mortimer.” Mortimer held out his hand. “Vicar of this parish. Well, Midchester parish, at least.”
“Ah, it's you I'm coming to see. Nice to meet you, Peter.” The two men shook hands.
“We don't hold with vicars using their first names in Midchester,” said Edith, sniffing loudly. “It doesn't instil respect. I daresay you're one of those progressive types, letting this young man call you Drew.”
“Guilty as charged,” said Drew. “The church is becoming irrelevant in this day and age. It's up to us to make it relevant again.”
Clarice looked at Drew with obvious appreciation, as did Meredith and young Betty.
“Drew is brilliant,” said Betty. “He's kept Jimmy out of trouble.” She looked proud, though what there was about the menacing Jimmy to be proud of, Meredith was at a loss to understand.
“I'd like a chat with you, Drew,” said Peter Mortimer. “Perhaps we could go along to the buffet car. You don't mind, do you, darling?”
“Not at all,” said Clarice. “Edith and I can have more time to get to know each other.” Meredith noticed an underlying tone in Clarice's voice, suggesting that it was not high on her list of priorities. Not that she blamed her. Edith clearly had no sense of humour. She reminded Meredith of an early Christian martyr. It would no doubt be the happiest day of Edith’s life if she were burned at the stake for her beliefs. As the two men left, Clarice said to Edith, “It was so good of you to come and meet us at Stockport.”
“I had shopping to do, so I thought I'd wait till you and Reverend Mortimer got back. Was the cruise nice?”
“Oh yes, it was wonderful.”
“Lots of dancing and drinking, I shouldn't doubt.” Edith looked horrified and hopeful at the same time.
Clarice laughed. It was a deep, throaty laugh, and caught the attention of both Jimmy and Bert. Despite the fact she was at least twenty years older than the boys, they were not averse to her charms. “Yes, Edith,” said Clarice, winking. “Lots of dancing, drinking. Not to mention all the fornication.”
Edith harrumphed and Meredith looked resolutely out of the window until she trusted herself not to laugh.
After a short time, Reverend Mortimer and Drew returned. The Reverend took his seat, whilst Drew stood resting against the door. There were no others seats for him to take in the carriage. They discussed commonplace parish issues, like sermons and the best way to help parishioners.
“Are you travelling far?” It took a moment for Meredith to realise that the old soldier opposite was speaking to her.
“I'm getting off at Midchester. What about you?”
“Hereford. I'm going home. I've just been to a family funeral in Newcastle. Haven't seen my brothers since nineteen fourteen, just before we all went off to war.”
“It must have been nice seeing them all again.”
“Oh yes. I married a Hereford girl, you see, and we made our home there. I was in the police force until ten years ago.”
“Really. You must have had some interesting cases. Murders and things.”
“Not that I can talk about,” said the old man, clamping his lips together.
“No, of course not.” Meredith felt chastened.
“I mean, I can't give proper details, such as when, where or who.”
“Of course, I understand.”
“Unless it’s a famous case. Out there in the public eye, as it were. There's a lot go unsolved. Of course we always know who did it, but it's getting the evidence. Like I knew all along that this man had murdered his wife, but he had a solid alibi. Straight and upright sort of man, too. That's why he got away with it. No doubt he's married again now, and maybe she'll meet a sticky end. Another one we fancied the housemaid for it, but there was no motive. We think the old girl said she was going to leave the maid something in her will, and the girl thought she'd done it, then got a bit impatient. Children are the worst though.”
“What? Murderers?” It seemed unlikely to Meredith.
“Oh yes. Evil little blighters some of them. We never had children, my wife and I. That's because I saw too much. I said to her, 'Myrtle, if we have kids, they'll stab us in our beds'.”
Meredith had a moment's sympathy for poor childless Myrtle. “But what makes you think that?
” she asked the old man. “Children are so innocent.”
“Don't you believe it.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Knew a case once – no names, no pack drill mind you. One parent confessed and hanged for killing the other parent. But I knew it was the child. Evil little so-and-so. Had a way of looking at you.”
“What became of the child?” asked Meredith.
“Lord knows. Sent off to live with some relatives, looking innocent as a babe in arms.”
“Well let's hope they never killed again.”
“Don't you believe it, miss. Someone kills once, they go and do it again. Like one case, a teenager stabbed a dozen people before we caught him. Then he went and escaped. For all we know he could be killing still.”
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