by June Francis
Emma waited for her to go on, but when Betty did not continue, she said, ‘Would you like to see a photograph of my grandparents? I’ve one of my mother, too.’
Betty nodded.
Emma took the photos out of her bag and slid them across the table. Betty picked them up and scrutinised them. ‘I think your granddad has an interesting face. I’d like to draw him.’
Emma’s eyes lit up with pleasure. ‘That would be really nice. Keep the photograph. I’ve others of him at home. He had a lot of sadness in his life but he never let it get him down. He had a good sense of humour. The last time we had a night out, we saw a Fred Astaire musical. Granddad loved singing and dancing.’
Betty smiled. ‘I like musicals. Gene Kelly’s on in An American in Paris at the Majestic cinema and there’s a matinee this afternoon.’
Before Emma could comment, the waitress appeared with their order. The letter, the card and the photographs were set aside whilst they drank their tea and ate their scones. Emma could not help comparing them to her own feather-light ones. These scones were fine, and if people were prepared to pay for them, then perhaps she should put a couple of chairs and a table out front when the weather was good. She looked forward to seeing Dougie later and discussing the subject with him.
When they had finished eating and drinking, Betty said, ‘My elder cousin Dorothy said that Picturegoer gave An American in Paris a really good write-up.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you fancy going to the pictures? The cinema is only about a twenty-minute walk away.’
Emma hesitated. ‘I did plan on seeing someone else whilst I was in Liverpool.’
‘Oh!’ Betty’s face fell. ‘Best forget about it, then.’
Emma thought, who was the more important, Dougie or Betty? She would never have met him if she hadn’t been desperate to get to know her half-sister. ‘No, if you say it’s not too much of a walk, then we could go and see what time the film finishes. I’m not meeting my friend until quarter to five.’
Betty said, ‘I didn’t realise that you had friends in Liverpool.’
‘He’s the policeman who helped me to find you.’
‘So you became friends because of me,’ said Betty, grinning. ‘Is he tall, dark and handsome?’
Emma laughed. ‘He’s certainly tall, but he’s fair and blue-eyed. I’ll pay the bill and we’ll go.’
As they took a short cut through Lime Street station and then up the back of the Empire Theatre into London Road, Emma asked how Betty’s cousins had felt about their mother marrying again.
‘Jared had already left to do his national service when the wedding took place. I’m sure my aunt wouldn’t have married Uncle Teddy if Jared had still been at home. Trouble was that he couldn’t put it off any longer as he had finished his apprenticeship.’ Betty sighed. ‘The day your letter came, one for my aunt also arrived from him. His regiment is being sent to Korea,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It was news that his mother, his sisters and I have been dreading.’
‘When will he be leaving England?’
‘Next month.’
‘What is he like? Does he have your red hair?’ asked Emma.
Betty shook her head. ‘He’s tallish, has dark-brown hair and is attractive to look at more than conventionally handsome. I’ll bring some photographs next time we meet. He’s clever, too, and can make me laugh. He followed his dad into the building trade. My uncle had his own little business until he took ill, and then there was just no money and Jared had to go and work for someone else so he could finish his apprenticeship. He served his time as a plasterer but he can do other jobs to do with building.’
‘He sounds a very useful man to have around,’ said Emma, thinking of her leaking roof.
‘He is! Jared attended the Liverpool School of Art as part of his studies for his City & Guilds examinations,’ said Betty earnestly. ‘That’s when I started thinking that perhaps I could go there, too.’
Emma smiled. ‘If you’re that keen, you should go.’
‘Easier said than done, because my aunt is against it,’ said Betty, frowning. ‘But I’m determined to have a go, even if it means that I have to have an ordinary job to earn money and go to night school when I’m older.’
‘That’s the ticket,’ said Emma encouragingly. ‘Tell me what else you’re interested in besides art and musicals. What subjects do you enjoy at school and what about your girl cousins? What are they like?’
‘I like geography and I wish I could be better at French. I’d like to go to Paris one day and see the paintings in the Louvre,’ said Betty with enthusiasm.
‘Is that why you want to see An American in Paris?’ teased Emma.
Betty said, ‘You’re quick off the mark, aren’t you? Gene Kelly is an artist in the film, so it’s not just that I want to see it because of the Parisian background and the singing and dancing.’
‘Well, let’s hope that we get to see it and it finishes in time for me to meet my policeman,’ said Emma.
‘Yes, let’s hope,’ said Betty, linking her arm through Emma’s. ‘I do like you. I wish we could have met years ago.’
‘Me too,’ said Emma, touched by Betty’s words. ‘I’m sure you and my granddad would have got on.’
‘Do you like living in a village?’ asked Betty.
‘It’s all I’ve ever known.’
‘Are people different in a village?’
‘I presume you mean different from townies, and that’s something I can’t really answer because I’ve never lived in a town,’ said Emma. ‘I have a friend whose mother thinks Liverpool is sin city.’
Betty looked taken aback. ‘I’ve never thought it was that bad, although I suppose there is a fair amount of crime, just as there is in most ports and big cities. Occasionally you read in the Echo about robberies and fights on the streets, caused by gangs of youths or men. Mum used to say that none of us are perfect.’
Emma said, ‘My granddad often said that we’ve all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God, so we shouldn’t judge people.’
‘I suppose judging people is something that all people do, though,’ said Betty.
‘In a village most people know each other and are interested in what’s going on in each others’ lives,’ said Emma.
‘But that happens in neighbourhoods in cities,’ said Betty. ‘My aunt worries about what the neighbours think.’
‘My mother ran away to Liverpool, but not because she’d done anything wrong. I never knew about it until recently, but I bet it was the talk of the village at the time.’
‘Why did she run away?’
‘Because she wanted to go on the stage, and eventually she did,’ said Emma, smiling. She changed the subject. ‘So how far is this picture house?’
They had already passed the TJ Hughes store, so Betty said, ‘Not far now.’
Shortly after, they had bought their tickets and were seated in the auditorium of the Majesty cinema. The lights dimmed and the opening title and credits came up on the screen. They had missed the B-movie but both were soon caught up in the foot-tapping music of Gershwin, and, although the film had what Emma thought of as its darker moments, Betty was obviously enjoying every minute.
When they came out of the cinema, they were both humming ‘Our Love is Here to Stay’. It was only when they reached London Road and there was a clock on a wall outside a shop that Betty said, ‘Gosh, look at the time!’
Emma saw that the hands stood at twenty to five. ‘I’m going to have to go!’ she cried, breaking into a run.
‘When will we meet again?’ asked Betty eagerly, keeping up with her.
Emma glanced at her. ‘I can’t afford to come too often.’
‘What about the first week in June?’ suggested Betty. ‘It’s half-term. We could meet during the week.’
‘OK!’ said Emma. ‘Write to me and let me know which day and the time and meeting place.’
‘Will do,’ said Betty, slowing her pace. ‘See you then.’
Emma raised a ha
nd in acknowledgement and put on a spurt. She had arranged to meet Dougie in Lime Street, only when she arrived outside the railway station, there was no sign of him. Her heart was thudding in her chest with her dash along London Road and she felt an acute disappointment because he was not there. She could only think that he must have got fed up of waiting for her and gone. What must he think of her? He had every right to be angry. Emma had always prided herself on her punctuality. Now, due to her being late, she might never see him again. She could have wept.
CHAPTER NINE
‘You’re really going to go through with this?’ asked Lila, watching Emma place a notice in the front window of the cottage.
‘Why not? It’s worth a try.’ Emma was not going to confess to having the collywobbles about this venture.
‘The weather forecast isn’t good,’ said Lila tentatively.
‘That’s why I haven’t put a table and chairs outside. It said showers, which means that people from the towns and cities will be hoping for spells of sunshine and head for the seaside or the countryside. Some are bound to come and visit the abbey over this Whit bank holiday weekend. I want to be prepared. The food won’t go to waste because what’s over will feed me for a few days.’
Lila shook her head. ‘Mam thinks you’re mad. She said you’re young enough and bright enough to train to be a nurse.’
Emma’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Why should I do that? I already have qualifications in bookkeeping. Besides, in my opinion, nurses are born, not made. It was enough for me to cope with looking after Gran when she was seriously ill and dying by inches. It isn’t where my gifts lie.’
‘You are fortunate,’ said Lila. ‘Some of us can’t pick and choose what we want to do with our lives. Mam decided for me. She said that I didn’t have much of a brain and could earn reasonable money at the mill, so she pushed me into that job.’
‘That’s a terrible thing to say to a daughter,’ said Emma indignantly. ‘You never told me that at the time, and no wonder. I think not only is it insulting those who work in the mill, but she hasn’t given you a good opinion of yourself. Most people can succeed at a whole host of different jobs, if they get the opportunity and the right training. Anyway, you should put yourself forward to be a nurse. I’m sure coping with your dad must be good training.’
‘I did suggest it at one time but Mam said I hadn’t the patience. Anyway, I don’t want to be a nurse now. Besides, we’re talking about you, not me,’ said Lila. ‘Do you really think you’re going to make a profit serving teas?’
Emma shrugged. ‘I feel I’ve got to give it a try. Besides, I’m not as desperate as I was for money earlier in the year. I’ve another client. The money isn’t marvellous, because I didn’t like charging her too much, but at least it’s regular.’
‘Who is it this time?’
‘A little old lady in Clitheroe. Her brother died suddenly and she wants to keep on the sweet shop which he owned. She’s always done most of the serving behind the counter anyway, whilst he had another job. Fortunately for me he did all the paperwork and she doesn’t have a head for figures.’ Emma frowned. ‘Which, when you think of it, is all wrong. There must be lots of women who are good at arithmetic, so in any business or family both men and women should know what’s what when it comes to balancing the books.’
‘Mam has control of the money in our house,’ said Lila, twirling a strand of light-brown hair around a finger. ‘She had to when Dad was away fighting in the war. I reckon most arguments between husbands and wives are over money. Most men don’t want their wives knowing what they earn. You’re lucky, Emma, having control over your own money.’
‘I just wish I had more of it to have control of,’ said Emma with a wry smile as she went outside to check if her notice was straight.
It looked quite professional and she felt proud of her handiwork. Perhaps she had inherited some of her father’s artistic talent after all. She had embellished the wording with sprays of blackberries and strawberries advertising both jams available to have with locally made cream on her home-made scones. She had also made a pan of Lancashire hotpot using breast of lamb. She thought of Dougie and wished he could see her now. She had sent him a letter, apologising for being late for their meeting in Liverpool. She had not heard back from him and was disappointed.
‘Right, then,’ said Lila, clapping her hands together as she came up behind Emma. ‘I’ll have a cup of tea and one of your scones with strawberry jam and cream. And I’ll tell you what, Em, I’ll take a chair and the card table outside and hopefully it’ll encourage trade.’
Emma chuckled. ‘Good idea, but what if you get caught in a shower?’
‘I’ll come back inside. I suppose what you really need is a wrought iron table with a big umbrella,’ said Lila thoughtfully. ‘Ones just like you see in posters of Torquay or Rhyl at railway stations.’
‘Perhaps one day I will have huge striped umbrellas and wrought iron tables,’ said Emma, her brown eyes sparkling. ‘But right now you sit outside and enjoy the fresh air and I’ll serve you there, miss, but I’m not charging you. You’re my friend.’
Lila shook her head at her. ‘Now you’re being daft. You’re doing this to make money. I can afford to pay for a scone and a cup of tea. What are friends for if not to be a proper support? I think your prices are very reasonable.’
Emma flushed. ‘I’ve based them on prices I saw in Lyons café in Liverpool and a tea shop in Clitheroe.’
‘I see,’ said Lila, picking up a chair and taking it outside.
As Emma put on the kettle, she thought how pleasant it would be to just sit outside and watch the world go by. She liked watching people and was interested in what made them tick. Remembering her stolen bag, she frowned, thinking about what it was that turned some people into thieves, wife beaters and murderers, and others, like Dougie, to become policemen. She wondered if he ever got scared when he came up against a violent criminal. She sighed. Would she ever see him again? It was too late to write to him about her being in Liverpool this coming Wednesday. Betty was meeting her off the train. Maybe on Tuesday she would write and tell him that she’d taken his advice and was turning her house into a tea shop.
By the end of the day, Emma’s hopes of her venture being truly launched successfully were dashed. Several of the villagers had called in to encourage her and have a chat, but only one other, besides Lila, had sat down and paid for a cup of tea and a scone. There had been no day trippers at all. As she sat with Tibby at her feet and a bowl of hotpot and a couple of scones on the table in front of her, she felt full of gloom.
She hardly slept that night, filled with indecision about whether it was worth trying again tomorrow. Dawn came early, around four-thirty, so she got up, let the cat out, and went for a walk along the river. The birds were madly twittering in the trees and she saw a water vole and a kingfisher and the sight lifted her spirits. The air had a slight chill to it, but the sky hinted that the day might turn out fine. Her walk had done her good and she felt more hopeful. When she arrived back at the house, she decided to make a fresh batch of scones before breakfast and go to early communion for a change.
There were no hymns and she missed having a good sing with the congregation at the later service. She prayed for Betty, wondering whether she went to church. If she did, Emma could imagine her singing her head off, belting forth such hymns as ‘Hills of the North, Rejoice’. It was one of Emma’s favourites, although it was an Advent hymn, so wrong for this time of the year. ‘Come Down, O Love Divine’ was more appropriate for Whitsuntide.
She decided to make puff pastry and put a crust on the hotpot and turn it into a pie. It was just after twelve, and while she was listening to Two-Way Family Favourites, which linked servicemen stationed in Germany with those at home, a husband and wife entered her front room. They told Emma that they were from Manchester and that the sun had woken them early and so they had set out in their Morris Minor for a walk on the fells and then had decided to come and have a look
at the ruined abbey. They had already done a four-hour stint on the hills and were thirsty and very hungry. They wanted something more substantial than scones and tea and their eyes lit up when she mentioned her hotpot pie. They scoffed it in no time at all and also ate a couple of scones each and left a generous tip. She wanted to ask them to recommend her to their friends but didn’t have the nerve, so she just thanked them and waved them off as they drove away.
For the next hour she was convinced that visitors to the abbey and walkers would call in, but, except for a lone woman dressed in tweeds who was from down south and doing a tour of northern ruined abbeys and castles, there was no one else. Not even Lila dropped by, so Emma shared the remains of the hotpot with the cat and told herself that it really was early days yet. The whole of the summer stretched before her, and, pray God, business would improve. She reminded herself that there was still tomorrow which was bank holiday Monday.
She rose early again the following day and decided to make lentil soup and Chorley cakes, knowing the latter would keep in a sealed tin for several days if she had no customers. She was delighted when, about eleven, one solitary cyclist called in, wanting a sandwich. She could only offer him egg or crumbly white Lancashire cheese with her home-made chutney. The chutney brought forth the question whether she had a jar to sell. Taken by surprise, she offered him one of her remaining two jars and he gave her a florin for it, saying it was the best he had ever tasted. When he had left, she danced round the kitchen. Such frivolous behaviour was brought under control when Lila entered, via the garden, and asked how business was going.
Emma smiled. ‘I’ve just sold a jar of my home-made chutney.’
‘Good for you. Dad likes chutney.’ Lila sat down and yawned.
‘Late night?’ asked Emma.
Lila gave a wry smile. ‘A disturbed one. Mam did an extra shift at the hospital. They had trouble with one of the patients going completely crackers. Dad had a bad night, too, with his leg giving him gyp and he wasn’t pleased with the lunch I made him either. Mam’s off today and is resting in bed, so I thought I’d get away.’ Lila yawned again. ‘What have you got to eat? Anything nice?’
