Counting Chimneys: A novel of love, heartbreak and romance in 1960s Brighton (Brighton Girls Trilogy Book 2)

by Sandy Taylor

  ‘Oh, huge,’ said Stephen. ‘It has to be huge.’

  ‘If that’s what you want, darling, then it will be huge,’ Tristan replied, smiling at him.

  ‘It’s not going to happen, is it?’ said Stephen sadly.

  ‘It jolly well is,’ said Tristan. ‘If I have to drag it back branch by branch.’

  ‘My hero,’ said Stephen, smiling.

  ‘Always,’ said Tristan softly.

  We took a bus to the top of the Devil’s Dyke. It was so wild up there we could hardly stand up. A few brave sheep were snuffling around and even they were having a job keeping upright. The excitement I had felt on the way there had gone. This was mine and Ralph’s special place. This was where he told me he loved me, and this was where he asked me to marry him. I walked away from the others and looked out over the Downs. I breathed in the freezing cold air; it stung my lungs and made my eyes water. I missed him. I just missed him. I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Ghosts?’ said Tristan.

  I nodded.

  ‘Tell them that they’ve got the wrong girl. Tell them that, just for today, you are a child buying a Christmas tree.’

  I smiled and rested my head on his shoulder. ‘Sometimes I wish I was a child.’

  ‘We all do, my darling. We all do.’

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘Better?’

  I nodded. He put his arm around my shoulder and we walked back to the others.

  ‘I’m frozen’, said Stephen, ‘and there’s not a forest in sight.’

  ‘Let’s go in the café,’ said Polly. ‘At least it will be warm.’

  ‘Well it couldn’t be much colder,’ said Stephen, shivering.

  We ordered four steaming mugs of hot chocolate and sat by the window, looking out over the hills.

  ‘It’s beautiful up here,’ said Polly, cradling the hot mug in her hands.

  ‘This is where Ralph proposed to me,’ I said.

  ‘I thought you looked a bit sad,’ said Stephen. ‘Oh dear, this is all my fault. Shall we get back on the bus and go to Woolworths? I’m sure the trees there will be perfectly fine. I mean they must have come from a forest.’

  ‘I’ll be okay,’ I said. ‘We’ll jolly well find our own forest.’

  ‘Bravo,’ said Tristan.

  Polly asked the girl behind the counter if anyone was selling Christmas trees nearby.

  ‘There’s a farm at the bottom of the hill. Tony,’ she shouted. ‘What’s that farm down the hill called?’

  ‘Didn’t know there was one,’ came the response.

  ‘Yes, you do. It’s run by that weird bloke. He comes in here sometimes with that smelly black dog.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Sorry haven’t got a clue.’

  ‘It’s at the bottom of the hill,’ said the girl, turning back to Polly. ‘I think it’s called Toppings or Toppers or something like that, but I do know he sells Christmas trees. He’s a bit weird though.’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ said Polly.

  We finished our hot chocolates and started walking down the hill. The wind was bitingly cold, and we were freezing. We were seriously thinking about giving up when we saw a white house through the trees. We ran down the last bit of the hill to try and warm up. On the gate was a sign that said Tappers Farm.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Polly. ‘Now all we need is a forest.’

  Tristan knocked on the door. There was a lot of yelling and dog barking before it was opened by a very hairy man – like really hairy. Like you could hardly see him for hair. He peered at Tristan but didn’t speak.

  ‘You must be Mr Tappers,’ said Tristan.

  ‘Must I?’ said the hairy man, glaring at him.

  ‘The sign on the gate?’

  ‘What about the sign on the gate?’

  ‘Well, it says Tappers Farm. I just presumed.’

  ‘Well, you presumed wrong. What do you want? I ain’t got no eggs. Bloody rooster’s gay.’

  I could see Tristan struggling not to laugh, and the rest of us had to turn away. He cleared his throat. ‘We don’t want any eggs, sir but we were wondering…’ he said in his oh so refined voice.

  ‘Wonderin’ what?’ the man barked.

  ‘If you had any Christmas trees for sale.’

  ‘How many do you want?’

  ‘Just the one,’ said Tristan.

  ‘Round the back. Give me a shout when you find the one you want, and I’ll come and chop it down.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Tristan.

  Polly smiled her best smile at the hairy man. ‘Do you mind if we frolic a bit?’

  ‘You can levitate for all I care,’ said the man, going inside and slamming the door.

  We walked around the side of the house and there, stretching out in front of us, were hundreds of trees.

  ‘It’s a forest,’ shouted Stephen. ‘It’s a bloody forest.’

  We had the best time running through the trees trying to find the perfect one.

  ‘This one, Papa,’ I shouted.

  ‘This one, Mama,’ shouted Polly.

  ‘Frolic and sparkle, girls,’ shouted Stephen. ‘Frolic and sparkle.’

  It was fun being so silly. I smiled, thinking how much Mary would have loved it. At last we all decided on the tree we liked, and Tristan went back to the farmhouse.

  The man sawed through the tree with ease. ‘Where have you parked?’ he said.

  ‘We haven’t,’ said Polly.

  ‘We walked,’ I said.

  ‘Where do you live then?’ asked the man.

  ‘Just off the seafront,’ I said.

  ‘So how the hell are you going to get it home?’

  ‘We’re going to drag it,’ said Polly.

  He stared at us and then he said, ‘I’ve met some odd people in my time, but you beat the lot of them. You’ll be wantin’ a lift then?’

  ‘Well if you wouldn’t mind,’ said Polly. ‘We would be very obliged, and we will of course reimburse you for your trouble.’

  ‘You’ll do what?’ he asked, peering at her through bushy eyebrows.

  ‘Reimburse you, sir, for your trouble.’

  ‘We’ll give you some money,’ said Stephen.

  ‘Don’t want no money – just the five shillings for the tree. I’ll have to bring my dog. He don’t like being left on his own, and I have to warn you he smells bloody awful.’

  We all crammed into a dirty old truck with the very hairy man, who for all his gruffness had a kind heart and a dog that smelt like a dead body.

  52

  When we dragged the Christmas tree into Rose’s flat she immediately produced a cardboard box full of ancient decorations. ‘They’re at least thirty years old,’ she said. ‘But still good as new.’ The fact that they must have been brought out year after year made them all the more special. I wondered if perhaps, one Christmas long ago, little Selina had been entranced by the shiny baubles and sparkling tinsel.

  There was a roaring fire blazing away in the grate. We’d turned the main light off, and the room was gently glowing with the flickering of as many candles as we could find. Polly and I had worked all day in Rose’s kitchen churning out sausage rolls, sandwiches and prawn vol-au-vents, then we’d gone upstairs and dressed up to the nines. Polly looked amazing in a scarlet catsuit, and I wore a black and white Mary Quant-type dress.

  Stephen and Tristan looked wonderful in matching black velvet jackets and colourful cravats. They looked as if they had stepped out of another age, but it was Rose who had outdone us all. She was wearing a floor-length dress of the palest blue chiffon that swished as she moved. Diamond earrings hung from her ears, and silver bracelets circled her wrists. I thought that she looked beautiful. Like the young girl in the poster. I felt privileged to know her, and Polly was mesmerised by her. ‘She’s fabulous,’ she whispered.

  ‘Isn’t she though?’ I said.

  People began to arrive, muffled up in warm coats, fur boots and scarves. I couldn’t believe it when I saw my da
d walk through the door. I flung my arms around him. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Dad. How did Mum manage that?’

  ‘She didn’t have to. I’ve felt a bit on the outside of my kids’ lives lately. Clark is always with Emma, Rita is busy with Nigel and the baby, and you’ve made a new life for yourself. I wanted to see where you lived and meet your new friends.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I said, kissing his cheek. ‘You’ve just made my Christmas.’

  ‘Then I’m glad I came, love.’

  Mum and Aunty Brenda made straight for the fire, warming their hands and stamping their feet to get some warmth back into them. It was wonderful to have so many friends and family gathered together in one room. I felt blessed. As I looked around it struck me how different they all were. In age, in life experience and personalities, and yet they were all getting on as if they had known each other forever. I just felt so proud of them all.

  This time last year I could never have imagined this. I could never have imagined Mum, Dad and Aunty Brenda here in Oriental Place with Rose and the boys. I could never have imagined Carol and Polly giggling and chatting away, or Tom and Millie playing waiter and waitress to perfection. And then there was Matthew – my Matthew.

  Polly walked over to me. She was staring at Matthew with her mouth open. ‘Are you really telling me that you’re just friends? He’s gorgeous.’

  ‘I know he is,’ I said, making a face at her. ‘But he’s still just my friend.’

  ‘If you say so,’ she said, grinning.

  Rose played the piano and we sang all the old familiar carols at the tops of our voices. Matthew and I cuddled up on the pink chaise longue, drinking sweet wine and watching the lights from the candles and the tree reflected in the window. I lay my head on his shoulder and listened as Rose played the most beautiful melodies. Tom had his arm around Polly’s waist, and they were swaying gently to the music, and Mum and Dad were dancing cheek to cheek under the mistletoe.

  At the end of the evening Matthew and I stood on the front steps looking up at an ink-black sky, heavy with stars, twinkling above our heads. It was so still that you could hear the sound of the waves as they broke on the shore. I kissed Matthew goodbye and watched him walk down the road. I hadn’t been looking forward to this festive season. It should have been our first Christmas together – Ralph, Peggy and me – but as I stood there alone on this oh so silent of nights, I felt at peace, and I knew that I was going to be okay.

  That night Polly and I shared the bed.

  ‘I’m a bit squiffy,’ she said, snuggling down under the blankets, ‘but I had a great time.’

  ‘Did you like Carol?’

  ‘She’s a really nice girl. I think we’ll get on fine.’

  ‘I’m glad. Night night, Polly.’

  ‘Night,’ she said, yawning.

  I was just starting to drift off when she said…

  ‘Dottie?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Is Tom married?’

  ‘Tom?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, is he married?’

  ‘He’s as free as a bird,’ I said, smiling into the darkness. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just wondered.’

  Well I never saw that coming, and yet why not? Polly and Tom eh?

  The next day I waved a rather hungover Polly off on the train.

  ‘Have a lovely Christmas,’ I said, hugging her.

  ‘You too, Dottie. I’m so glad I came for a visit, because I can see how many people care for you, and I can stop worrying that you’re sitting all alone in your flat, sobbing your little heart out.’

  ‘Not any more,’ I said. smiling.

  I waved until the train was out of sight and walked home. It had been lovely having her here. I’d miss her.

  On Christmas morning Matthew came round to Oriental Place, then together we took the bus up to Mum and Dad’s. I gave Matthew a small watercolour of the Palace Pier that I’d found in a little shop in the Lanes, and he gave me a beautiful silver bracelet. I loved spending Christmas at home, surrounded by all the familiar things I’d grown up with. Paper chains were strung from wall to wall, and paper lanterns and bells hung from the ceiling. These were the same decorations that Mum brought out year after year. After dinner we watched the Queen’s speech on the telly and then caught the bus to Rita’s. Dad spent the whole journey moaning about having to take his shoes off in the house and having to go outside to smoke.

  He twisted round in his seat. ‘She’s got a shag carpet, Matthew,’ he said. ‘You'll have to take your shoes off as well.’

  ‘I don’t mind, Mr Perks,’ said Matthew, squeezing my hand.

  ‘Well I bloody do,’ said Dad.

  ‘Think yourself lucky you’ve got shoes to take off,’ said Mum. ‘When we were kids there were plenty who didn’t.’

  ‘You’re right, Maureen,’ said Dad. ‘I forget sometimes.’

  ‘And as for smoking outside, I don’t blame our Rita. She wants Miranda Louise to smell like a baby, not a roll-up in a nappy.’

  As it turned out we had a really lovely evening. Rita was charming to Matthew, so I could stop worrying about what might come out of her mouth next. Mum was in her element playing with Miranda Louise – who looked as pretty as a picture in a little red velvet dress – and Dad didn’t moan once about going outside for a fag. It was the most relaxed I’d ever felt in Rita’s company.

  The most surprising thing was how well Nigel and Matthew got on.

  After Mum and Dad had gone home, Rita and I were in the kitchen washing up, and we could hear Nigel and Matthew chatting away. We made coffees for all of us and took them into the front room.

  ‘Rita, did you know that Matthew is going to be a teacher?’ said Nigel.

  ‘Yes, Dottie told me.’

  ‘I always fancied myself as a teacher.’

  ‘You never told me,’ said Rita.

  ‘I never told anyone.’

  ‘So why didn’t you do it?’ I asked.

  ‘My dad had it all mapped out, and he’d decided that I was going to go into insurance the same as him.’

  ‘And you just went along with it?’ said Rita.

  ‘I know, not very brave, but I had never questioned my parents’ decisions. I was told that that was what I was going to do, and I did it.’

  ‘That is very sad,’ said Matthew. ‘Having a passion is a wonderful thing, and no one should take it away from you.’

  ‘Well it’s too late now, unless our numbers come up on the Premium Bonds.’

  Rita smiled at Nigel. ‘I think you would have made a great teacher.’

  ‘Really?’ said Nigel, looking surprised.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well there’s nothing I can do about it now. I suppose I should have fought for it.’

  ‘It’s not too late. What about night school?’ said Rita.

  ‘Wouldn’t you mind?’

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t mind. Not if that’s what you really want to do. Let’s look into it.’

  We said goodbye on the doorstep and just as we were going Rita whispered in my ear, ‘I think Matthew is lovely,’ then she actually kissed my cheek. ‘Happy Christmas, Dottie,’ she said.

  Blimey. Wonders will never cease, I thought.

  53

  Matthew and I saw the new year in quietly, on our own. This was the only new year that we would see in together, and we didn’t want to share it with anyone else. As the clocks struck midnight we opened the little window and listened to the eerie sounds of the foghorns from all the boats on the water and the sirens from the power station along the coast at Shoreham. Then the bells from all the churches in Brighton starting ringing out into the night, welcoming in 1970. The sixties were behind us, the decade that had held so many memories, of me and Mary, Ralph and Elton. It had been a time of growing up and a time of saying goodbye, and now it was gone. There was a finality about it that made me sad. Everything about the past made me sad; I couldn’t seem to make my peace with it. I didn’t want to live in the past, but it
felt like it kept dragging me back. I would never forget Mary, and I would always love Ralph, but I had to stop wanting what was gone.

  I had been kidding myself when I thought that a year with Matthew would be enough. He’d brought me to life; he’d made me believe in myself. When I was with him I felt safe and cared for. I was going to miss this gentle man. We were just friends, no one would get hurt – that’s what I’d told myself. I should have realised that true friendship is every bit as wonderful and precious as a love affair. In fact true friendship is probably the nearest thing to love that you can get.

  Our meetings became melancholy, our laughter tinged with sadness as the year crept onwards towards its inevitable end. We packed as much as we could into that final summer together. A small publishing house in Scotland published Matthew’s book, and we took a trip up there to see them. They were lovely, and they loved the book. The editor was a tiny bird-like woman called Fiona Morris.

  ‘I have been looking forward to meeting you for so long, Matthew,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘We think your book will do very well.’ She frowned. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking this but is your name really Matthew Smith?’

  ‘My African name is Oscu Kimbali.’

  ‘Why not use it?’

  Matthew smoothed back his hair. ‘I thought people would take me more seriously with an English name.’

  ‘Well thank you for your honesty, but I think this book deserves to have your real name on it. If I’d written a book as good as this, I would be proud to have my name on the cover.’ She shrugged. ‘That is only my opinion, but it’s not too late to change it.’

  Matthew looked at me. ‘What do you think, Dottie?’

  ‘I think you should be proud of your heritage, and your African name is part of who you are. You shouldn’t be afraid of what others think.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Matthew, ‘I would like that very much. Very much indeed.’

  ‘Would you like to see the cover?’

  Matthew nodded, and Fiona opened her desk drawer and handed him a folder. The picture was breathtaking. It showed the boy Simmi in the baobab tree, gazing into the distance at an orange sun setting behind a mountain. Matthew had tears in his eyes as he thanked her.