by June Francis
It Had to Be You
JUNE FRANCIS
Dedicated to my husband John, whom I met in a Liverpool cinema in the Fifties and who much later joined Clayton Le Moors fell runners and introduced me to the beautiful Lancashire countryside.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
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About the Author
By June Francis
Copyright
PROLOGUE
January 1952
‘Granddad, I don’t think we should go to the pictures this evening,’ said Emma Booth, drawing aside the curtain and gazing out over the darkened garden. Earlier in the day the River Calder had frozen over and the fells were white with frost. As the sun dipped to the horizon, its dying rays glistened on the hoary pavement out front.
‘Why, lass?’ asked Harold Harrison.
‘Because it’s going to be really slippery outside and I don’t want you falling and breaking an arm or a leg. You’re not as young as you were.’
‘Just because thou’s only twenty-one and I’m in me eighties, lass, doesn’t mean I’m any more likely to do that than thee.’ He chuckled. ‘In fact, if I remember rightly, last time the river froze over and we got out the skates, I stayed on me feet and it was thee that went sliding along on thy bottom.’
Emma smiled. ‘That was different and it was a few years ago when Gran was still alive. She was partnering you, if I’m not mistaken.’
A shadow crossed Harold’s face and his chin dipped onto his chest and for several minutes he was silent. Then he jerked up his head and said, ‘I still want to go and see Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. I always come out wanting to sing and dance when I see one of their films.’
‘This one hasn’t got Ginger Rogers in it, Granddad. It’s Jane Powell, although she’s a good singer and can dance OK.’
‘No Ginger Rogers!’ He pursed his lips and then his wrinkled face relaxed into a smile. ‘I bet I still come out singing. After that performance of Life with Father at the church school a few days ago I need cheering up. The acting was good but there wasn’t one dramatic moment in it. I’ll put on me boots and I’ll be alreet, lass. I need cheering up and so do thee.’
Emma decided it was a waste of time arguing with him − and after all, the cinema was on the first floor above the Co-op, so they didn’t have far to go. She put the last dish away on the dresser and took off her apron.
‘OK. We’d best get ready, then, but make sure you’re well wrapped up.’
‘Stop fussing, lass. I’m not a three-year-old,’ said Harry, rubbing his hands together and grinning, obviously happy that he had got his way. He hurried over to where his coat, muffler and cap hung on the back door, humming a tune as he put them on.
It did not take Emma long to get ready, and after banking up the fire in the black-leaded range with some slack, she pulled the front door closed behind them. The air was so cold that it seemed to take bites out of her face and she clung to her granddad’s arm, not so much because she needed steadying, but to slow him down. If they took it easy they were less likely to fall. They arrived at the Co-op in one piece and were soon making their way upstairs and, in no time at all, were seated in front of the big screen.
The lights dimmed and Emma settled down to being taken out of herself, knowing that it would be just the same for the dear, old, white-haired gentleman beside her. Life had been tough since her grandmother had died five years ago. Still, there was little point in complaining. They were better off than many: her grandfather owned the cottage in which they lived, and with his pension and her small earnings, they could enjoy the occasional outing such as this one.
It was trying to snow when they emerged from the cinema a few hours later with a crowd of chattering, happy cinema-goers, but Emma knew that it would not dampen her granddad’s spirits.
‘Now, lass, that film didn’t lack dramatic moments,’ he crowed.
Before she could prevent him, he set off ahead of her, singing one of the hit songs from the film called ‘How Could You Believe Me When I Said I Loved You When You Know I’ve Been a Liar All My Life’. Then the rhythm seemed to get into his feet and he began dancing. She hurried after him, smiling as her ‘teenage’ grandfather capered along the road. Then suddenly her smile vanished because one of his legs slid from under him and he went flying, falling heavily. His head hit the kerbstone and by the time she reached him he was lying in the gutter.
Her heart thudded in her chest as she knelt beside him and realised that he had lost consciousness. ‘Granddad, Granddad,’ she cried, a sob in her voice as she gently lifted his head onto her lap.
‘I’ll go and get the doctor,’ said one of the cinema-goers and hurried off.
Emma remained where she was, scarcely aware of the cold, damp ground as she hugged the old man to her, tears trickling down her cheeks. In her head she could hear him saying, Now, lass, that was a dramatic moment!
CHAPTER ONE
Emma watched as snowflakes as large as halfpennies swirled down from a loaded grey-yellowish sky onto the coffin. Foolishly, she felt glad that she had dressed her granddad in his best Sunday worsted suit, vest, long johns, white shirt and waistcoat, as well as the plaid scarf and old tweed cap that had seldom been off his head. Visualising him clad in warm clothes had somehow helped her to cope with this moment, as his earthly remains were lowered into the cold earth.
Her friend Lila Ashcroft had understood but teased her, saying she was surprised that she hadn’t put in his favourite dancing clogs as well. Emma’s eyes had filled with tears, thinking that it was dancing that had finished off her last and dearest remaining relative. At least he had died happy, she thought, and hoped he was dancing in heaven.
The vicar’s voice broke into Emma’s thoughts as he intoned, ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto His glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby He is able to subdue all things to Himself.’
Emma brushed back the chestnut hair that fell to her shoulders beneath the baggy, black, hand-knitted beret as she bent to pick up a handful of soil and the tears rolled down her cold cheeks. She dropped the earth onto the coffin and thought back to the evening when her grandfather had died. He had never regained consciousness, so she had not been able to say a proper goodbye to him. She was going to miss him so much, but at least she could be thankful that he had been spared the lingering, painful illnesses suffered by his wife and only daughter.
‘You all right?’ asked Lila, slipping a hand through Emma’s arm.
Emma did not reply but took a handkerchief from
a pocket and mopped away her tears. She thanked the vicar and turned away from the graveside, thinking to return tomorrow on her own. She spoke to those who had come to support her and invited them back to the house for a cup of tea and a bite to eat. Then she walked on ahead with Lila towards the church gate. Once outside they quickened their pace.
‘So you’re all alone in the world now,’ said Lila, her fresh complexion flushed with cold. ‘That’s so sad.’
‘I don’t need reminding,’ said Emma, turning her coat collar up against the falling snow.
‘Sorry,’ said Lila meekly. ‘It’s just that I don’t know what to say.’
‘You could say nothing.’
‘Sorry.’
Emma sighed. ‘I’m sorry, too. I don’t mean to be rude but you’re lucky, you know. You’ve still got your mam and dad. I know your dad was crippled in the war but at least he’s still around.’
‘I know, but I wish I’d had grandparents as well. Yours were always so welcoming and your granddad was such a laugh. I wish Mam was not always at me dad when she gets home because of his model-making. It isn’t his fault he can’t get paid employment and has to occupy his time in some way − and he does get a war pension, so he’s not living off her the way she’d have you believe. She really goes on at him sometimes.’
‘I know.’ Emma heaved another sigh. ‘But it’s still better than having to live alone. I don’t know what I’m going to do without Granddad. The only fault I could find with him and Gran was that they would never talk to me about my dad. When I asked about him, she would just say that she’d hardly known him and he was dead and that was it.’
‘It’s hard, but at least you can remember your mam,’ said Lila.
‘Aye, but she didn’t talk about him either, and I was only five when she breathed her last – and I can’t say my memories of her are happy ones. Frankly, I felt that she resented me,’ murmured Emma. ‘But then she was really ill. I do remember from a photograph of her when she was young that she was lovely, but I’ve no idea what my dad looked like. There are no photos of him anywhere, not even on their wedding day.’ She sighed. ‘After Mam died, I used to try and eavesdrop on Granddad and Gran’s conversations to try and find out whether they talked about my parents when I wasn’t there, but they never did.’
‘Perhaps he was killed in the war,’ suggested Lila.
‘If he was, then he would have been alive when Mam died in ’36 and surely he would have come to the funeral.’
‘Perhaps something went wrong with their marriage.’
‘It’s a real mystery.’
‘If your grandparents never talked about him it could have meant that they didn’t approve of him,’ said Lila.
‘Aye, I suppose so, but I think it’s also possible he and Mam had a blazing row and he just walked out, never to return. She had a real tongue on her sometimes, didn’t want me bothering her when I wanted to be with her and have her tell me a story or to talk about Dad. She took after Gran. I certainly suffered from the sharp edge of Gran’s tongue when she was teaching me all she knew about bottling and baking and how to make a proper Lancashire hotpot. Yet I’d still have her back, because I know she loved me despite the way she’d slap my hand if I made a mistake.’
‘Mam and Dad might remember your dad,’ said Lila, pensively.
Emma shot a glance at her friend’s plump, pretty face. ‘I never thought of that. Would you ask them for me?’
‘Aye, I’ll do it when I get home.’
Suddenly, Emma became aware of voices to their rear and realised she and Lila had slowed their pace whilst talking and must hurry up. She needed to get the kettle on. She put on a spurt and instantly Lila protested that she couldn’t keep up with her.
‘Sorry, but the sooner we get there the sooner it’ll be over with,’ said Emma. ‘I’ve an awful lot to think about and do now that Granddad’s gone. Thank God, he encouraged me to take that correspondence course in bookkeeping, not that I’ve managed to pick up many clients; it’s been a full-time job looking after him and doing all that Gran used to do for the last five years. Still, everything has to change now.’
They arrived at the house and Emma put her hand through the letter box and drew out the key on the string and opened the front door. She ushered Lila inside. The front room had seldom been used since the death of her grandmother and, despite the fire burning in the grate, the air still felt chill. The dark, heavy oak furniture made the room appear even more gloomy on this winter’s day and Emma decided to light the candles in the candelabra that the old woman had bought at a house-clearing sale between the wars. The candelabra was of Georgian silver and, when she was eight years old, Emma had been given the job of polishing it weekly. It had always had pride of place on the dinner table every Sunday in her grandmother’s day, but unless Emma could find a way of improving her finances, then she would have to take it into Clitheroe and pawn it. It wasn’t as if it was a family heirloom, like the embroidered white cotton tablecloth with a crochet border. She would never part with that because it had been made by her great-grandmother Harrison and was only brought out on special occasions such as this one. She sighed, thinking that her grandfather had always enjoyed a good get-together.
At one end of the table Emma had set out crockery and cutlery, and the rest of the space was taken up with plates of sandwiches, pies, scones and cakes – the latter sweetened partially with grated carrot because sugar was still on the ration – all made by Emma, herself. The ingredients had been paid for from her granddad’s savings that had been hidden away in a metal box beneath a floorboard in his bedroom.
She hurried through into the shabby kitchen where it was much warmer. She put on the kettle, looking out at the garden. At the moment the hens were providing her with only a few eggs, and the only vegetables were bedraggled-looking sprouts that were swiftly being buried beneath the falling snow. At least all that whiteness outside was reflecting light back into the kitchen.
There was a knock on the front door.
‘I’ll go,’ called Lila.
In no time at all both rooms were crowded with those who well remembered both her grandparents from way back. Folk were told to help themselves to food and tea and Camp coffee. There were only a few men present because it was a working day, but those who were there could be heard discussing whether the weather meant that the football and horse racing would be cancelled. Most of the women had known Emma’s grandmother as a faithful member of the Women’s Institute and a reliable source of jams, scones and cakes and pickles for various fund-raising events. Several of them asked Emma if she would be leaving the village and seeking a job in nearby Clitheroe. She told them that she had made no plans concerning her future.
‘Delicious scones, Emma,’ said the vicar’s wife. ‘I never realised you had such a light touch with pastry.’
Emma flushed with pleasure. ‘Gran taught me.’
‘Then she taught you well.’
‘She not only taught me how to bake, but to preserve and bottle, knit, crochet, and make rugs. It was Granddad, though, who taught me how to play the piano and saw to it that I did a bookkeeping course.’
‘Then you’ll make some man a good wife one day,’ commented the vicar, who was standing at his wife’s shoulder.’
His words startled Emma because marriage was something she had not thought about with having to look after her granddad. She was glad that the vicar did not appear to expect a response from her. She had always been rather in awe of him, having had little to do with him over the years, aside from listening to his sermons on a Sunday and shaking his hand at the church door after the service. Even so, he’d been very supportive when it came to discussing the funeral arrangements, and she gave a half-smile before saying wryly, ‘I’ve no one in mind, so I’ll need to find more bookkeeping work in order to support myself.’
He smiled. ‘Well, if you need a character reference I will happily provide one for you. Your grandparents always spoke well of you and you
have proved yourself a loyal granddaughter.’
Strangely, instead of delighting her, his praise made Emma want to go out and do something wild and reckless. But she thanked him and was relieved when he moved away to talk to one of his other parishioners. Shortly after, her guests began to depart and she breathed a sigh when she waved the last one off before going into the kitchen, where she found Lila washing the dishes.
‘There’s no need for you to do that,’ protested Emma. ‘I can do it later. Let’s have another cup of tea and something to eat.’ She’d had the forethought to fill a couple of plates for the pair of them and had placed them on the dresser out of the way; otherwise, what with her having to talk to people and Lila keeping their cups filled, both might have had to forgo food altogether because the buffet had been consumed in no time at all.
They sat down at the table. ‘I’m going to have to go home soon,’ said Lila. ‘Mam wants me to prepare supper with her being at the hospital.’ She paused to finish off a sandwich. ‘By the way, did I tell you that she was sorry she couldn’t get away for the funeral?’
‘I didn’t expect her to be here. She has a job to do and bosses will only give you time off for funerals if it’s family. You could only be here because the mill’s closed down for the week.’
Lila’s smile faded. ‘I’m wondering if it’s the beginning of the end and I should start looking for another job. The home market for cotton goods is really slack at the moment and it’s not that good abroad either.’
Emma looked at her with concern. ‘But it has happened before and things have improved. Don’t you think they will this time?’
‘I feel as if there’s change in the air,’ said Lila gloomily. ‘There’s much more competition since India got its independence and is making its own stuff. And more fabrics are being made from taffeta and nylon these days.’
‘Well, let’s hope things buck up,’ said Emma in a bracing tone, placing another log on the fire. She thought about how the local newspaper had said that the cost of coal was going up by four pence a bag and she wondered how she would keep warm once her coal reserve and her logs ran out. She recalled her granddad telling her that when he’d first started work as a calico printer at the factory in Barrow, coal had been eight pence a hundredweight. Since the war, and what with a Labour government getting voted in, the miners’ wages had increased, and rightly so, but it meant the cost of living had gone up again. She wondered what this year would bring now that old Churchill was back as prime minister. She guessed that she was going to have to pray for an early spring.
