by June Francis
Betty stared out of the window, and as soon as she saw the van park on the other side of the road in the shadow of the cathedral, she went downstairs. Jared and Maggie got out and Betty skipped across the road, wearing pants with the bottoms rolled up and a thick Aran sweater, that Emma had knitted her, over a pink blouse.
‘I have a letter for you,’ she said, brushing Jared under the chin with it.
He snatched it from her, gazed at the address on the envelope and grinned. He placed it in his overcoat pocket. ‘I hope you’re not going to be too overcrowded with our Maggie’s stuff, Betty.’
‘It’s only temporary, so I think I can cope,’ she said, hugging herself. ‘How long, Jared, before the rest of the lovely dosh comes through?’
‘Not much longer,’ replied her cousin, going round to the back of the van and opening the doors. ‘Come on, you two, I’m not lugging all this upstairs myself.’
Maggie, who had lost some of her bounce since her mother’s sudden death, hurried to help him. He locked the van and followed the two girls across the road, carrying an almost brand-new Voice of Music ‘Playtime’ record player that had been Maggie’s Christmas present from him and Dorothy, and a cardboard box of records. The player had been meant to cheer her up but it had only partially succeeded. Hopefully, living with Betty would do the trick.
They were all feeling the loss of their mother, but it had been worse for Maggie, because she had been the closest to Elsie. It came as a relief to hear the girls twittering like a couple of birds as they went upstairs ahead of him.
Only when he entered the bedsit did he gather that they were talking about the jukebox that had come straight from America, and had pride of place in Betty’s favourite snack bar. Apparently there was also the promise of watching the students from the university jousting with mops this coming Saturday to raise money for the hospitals.
He didn’t linger because he wanted to read the letter from Emma, so he said, ‘Ta-ra,’ and left the two girls to sort things out and returned to the van. He slit open the envelope and read what Emma had to say. It was brief and to the point. How can I meet you, if I don’t know where you are?
He smiled faintly and dropped the letter on the other seat, started the engine and drove off, whistling ‘No Other Love Have I’, which had been a hit for Perry Como the previous year. Once he’d had a word with Dorothy, he would go to the post office and send a telegram to Emma.
Emma was reading about meat and bacon coming off the ration at the end of July and felt even more cheerful than she had done earlier. Her eyes skipped the next article to the news that hundreds had fainted at the queen’s garden party in Sydney. She glanced through the window at her rain-soaked garden and tried to imagine such heat, but couldn’t.
The door knocker sounded and she got up and went to see who was there. Perhaps it would be Jared? But it was the telegraph boy and her heart flipped over. ‘Telegram for you, Miss Booth,’ he said, holding out a yellowish envelope to her.
She took a thruppence from her pocket and handed it over, thanking him. This, despite her belief that telegrams were generally bad news. She went into the kitchen, tearing open the envelope and extracting the sheet of paper inside.
Meet me Saturday 20th in the Walker Art Gallery at two o’clock in front of your father’s painting, love Jared.
So she was going to have to go to him, thought Emma with a twist of the lips. Yet, how could she refuse when he had chosen a place in Liverpool that she longed to return to? He had still not given her an address, so he must be trusting her to turn up. She began to think about what she should wear for her date with him. If only it had been summer, then she could have worn something light and feminine, with lots of material in the skirt and a shiny, black patent leather belt to cinch in her waist. Instead, she decided on slacks and sweater and her thick winter coat, woolly hat and gloves. The next two days seemed to drag by. It was a relief when Saturday dawned and she was able to set out for Liverpool.
Jared had arrived at the meeting place too early, impatient to see Emma. He feared that perhaps she might not come after all. He need not have worried, because she turned up at ten to two, sensibly clad. He felt a rush of love and moved towards her, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. ‘Hello, you,’ he said.
‘Hello, yourself,’ she said, returning the pressure of his fingers.
He brushed his lips against hers and then they both turned and gazed at her father’s painting of the ships on the Mersey. ‘You do realise that it was your dad who really brought us together,’ said Jared. ‘If he hadn’t stayed in Liverpool and eventually married Aunt Lizzie, we would never have met.’
‘I see what you mean,’ said Emma. ‘When I look at this picture, I see what was important to him. He loved this city,’ she said.
Jared turned to her. ‘And how do you feel about it?’
‘It’s where I was born,’ she murmured. ‘Can we go down to the river?’
He smiled. ‘If that’s what you want. It’ll make it easier for me to bring up an idea of our Dot’s.’
‘And what is that?’ asked Emma.
His dark eyes were serious as he brought her close to him, not caring about the other two people in the gallery, who glanced their way. ‘You do still want us to spend the rest of our lives together?’
‘Aye, and I know that will mean us being where your work is.’
Relief spread across Jared’s face and he brushed his lips against hers, before taking her hand once more and leading her downstairs. They paused a moment on the steps, flanked by the statues of Raphael and Michelangelo, and gazed across at the Wellington Monument and St George’s Hall, and then down past the Mersey Tunnel and the roofs of the buildings of the city’s business centre towards the river, where the Liver birds could plainly be seen. Then he said, ‘Come on, I’ve a lot to tell you, and hopefully, you’ll agree that our Dorothy’s idea is a good one.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
June 1954
Emma stood, white-laced elbow against white-taffeta elbow, with Dorothy on the upper deck of the ship, gazing over the Mersey as the evening sun reflected off the surface of the water. They were taking a breather from dancing in the saloon below. She could hear the strains of ‘That’s Amore’, made famous by Dean Martin, being sung by Michelangelo Gianelli. He had a voice as seductive as the famous Hollywood star. Mr Gianelli and his wife, Nellie, were musically talented and just as friendly and caring as Betty and Maggie had insisted they were. Emma felt that it was a shame that Jared’s mother had never got round to meeting them; she felt certain knowing them would have enriched her life.
Dorothy glanced at Emma and there was a dreamy expression in her eyes. ‘Isn’t it a perfect evening? Aren’t you glad that I persuaded you and Jared to have a double wedding and then the evening do here on the Royal Iris? I know it cost more than a bob or two, but what’s money for, if it isn’t to spend and get pleasure out of it?’
‘It’s been lovely,’ said Emma fervently, ‘and it’s a real pleasure sharing mine and Jared’s special day with you and Billy.’
‘I feel the same,’ said Dorothy. ‘And to think that there was a time when I wasn’t even sure I liked Billy, but eventually I realised he was one of the good guys and I could trust him. I wasn’t sure whether he had a romantic bone in his body at first, but his Valentine’s Day card persuaded me that maybe, given a push, he could make the right gestures.’
Emma chuckled, remembering Dorothy telling her that Billy had written on her Valentine card: O my darling, do not falter, quickly lead me to the altar. But she had made him wait, because just like Emma, Dorothy had set her heart, not only on a June wedding, but a cruise on the Mersey.
There was also the fact that their new home would not be ready until summer. Emma thought back to that day in February when she had met Jared at the art gallery. Instead of taking the bus, they had walked down Dale Street and Water Street, passing beneath the overhead railway and eventually ending up at the Prince’s La
nding Stage. On the way, he had told her that he’d gone into partnership with his boss and bought land on the outskirts of Formby village along the coast, approximately fifteen miles north of Liverpool. There they planned to build a dozen semi-detached houses and two detached ones for sale. Jared had it in mind that one of the detached ones could be for him and Emma, and the other for his sister and Billy.
‘You wouldn’t be far from the shops and a church, Emma,’ he’d said in an attempt to reassure her that it wouldn’t be that much different in its way from her own village. ‘We’d also be close to the sea and the pinewoods, and there’s a railway station with a direct line to Liverpool, so you’d be able to see Betty as often as you liked.’
She had remained silent for several minutes, thinking that she had never expected him to build them a house. Then Jared had added, in a slightly worried voice that caused her to believe that he felt he needed to throw an ace on the table, ‘You don’t have to sell your cottage, you know. We could have a damp course put in and build an extension on at the back and you could rent it out.’
So for the moment she still owned her cottage up north. Just how long she would hang on to it, she did not know. She heard footsteps behind her and recognised them. Turning, she saw her husband standing there. Their eyes met and he stretched out his hand. ‘They’re playing our tune,’ he said.
As Jared took her in his arms and whirled her round, causing the hem of her white lace gown to brush the deck, Emma could hear the strains of ‘It Had to Be You’ and they both began to sing.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Readers often ask where I get my ideas from and I often answer that it can be from what someone has said, or something I’ve read, or often it can come from research and real-life experiences. What fiction writers do is ask What if? and let their imagination take over.
During the past year I’ve been tracing my ancestry, a fascinating and addictive hobby. When I was growing up in Liverpool it was still part of Lancashire, not the separate entity known as Merseyside. I discovered that the further one goes back, the more ancestors one has, and I possess more than one set of great-great-grandparents and so on, who came from what is known as Lancashire today. During the hard times of Queen Victoria’s reign, several of my ancestors came south and settled in Liverpool. For which I am grateful. If they had not, I wouldn’t be here to tell this tale.
This story is set in one of my favourite eras, the Fifties, and I thought, what if my heroine, Emma Booth, living in a village in the Clitheroe area, discovers that she has a half-sister living in Liverpool?
Some readers might recognise that village as Whalley. I have stood on the spot in the lovely old parish church where my great-great-grandparents were married and spent several hours in Clitheroe library. For those who know the area so much better than I do, I ask that you forgive me any errors I might have made, and remember that these characters bear no resemblance to anyone living or dead.
Warmest wishes,
June Francis
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ALSO BY JUNE FRANCIS
‘Played out with flair and passion … Terrific!’
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‘All the atmosphere and colour that romance fans have come to expect’
Liverpool Echo
‘Real people. Real emotions … June Francis is good at evoking the reality of life in wartime’
Historical Novels Review
About the Author
JUNE FRANCIS’S maiden name was Nelson, and although she can’t lay claim to the famous Lord Admiral, she can boast of at least six mariners in her ancestry who came from far and wide. June’s mother worked in service and her tales of the old days have inspired several of June’s thirty published novels.
By June Francis
Flowers on the Mersey
Friends and Lovers
Step by Step
A Place to Call Home
A Dream to Share
Look for the Silver Lining
When the Clouds Go Rolling By
Tilly’s Story
Sunshine and Showers
It Had to Be You
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
13 Charlotte Mews
London W1T 4EJ
www.allisonandbusby.com
First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2011.
This ebook edition published by Allison & Busby in 2012.
Copyright © 2011 by JUNE FRANCIS
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication
other than those clearly in the public domain
are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1177–2
