by Rachel Malik
At the Belmont, Rene sank gratefully into the smoky dark. A film was just ending, a young woman standing on the deck of a great ship, looking out to sea, anguish in her eyes. She crosses to the other side of the deck and looks down, not at the glassy water but at the busy quay – for the ship hasn’t left harbour yet. There she stands, poised between port and starboard, till the great ship honks. The woman drops her bag, rushes down the ramp and through the crowd, runs to a man, his arms outstretched. The music told her this was happy.
The next picture started. Rene stretched out and settled more deeply into her seat, only half-aware of the antics on the screen. If her life and Alan’s were a film, it wouldn’t be a comedy, she thought, more of a ‘women’s picture’. The marriage a series of struggles and disappointments, she would be on the brink of something and then, out of nowhere, a terrible accident would leave her hovering between life and death. He would take a solemn oath never to gamble again and she would wake up in a white hospital. He would squeeze her hand, and she would smile, his reward. A new start.
The next picture was better, a western: a great train of covered wagons travelling west. There were plenty of dangers – snakes and Indians and fast-running rivers – but it was a small price to pay for a better life. Joan Bennett was the heroine, with her new dark hair and a no-nonsense manner. She had dyed it for another film, but Rene had read in Picturegoer that Miss Bennett enjoyed her life much more as a brunette. She liked Joan Bennett. Vicky had written a film for her, Look Away Now!
In Vicky’s film, Joan witnessed a horrible murder and had to go into hiding. She had cut her own hair, dyed it dark and disappeared. She couldn’t remember what happened at the end, except that Joan escaped. Scenario by Mona Verity. For Vicky was no longer an actress, her face had disappeared. Now it was only her name on the screen – script by, story by, Vicky’s stories, Mona’s words – to Rene this was just more magic.
But the next picture had started and she was losing track. This was the one that had been playing when she arrived – she recognized the girl. It seemed to take an age, but finally the girl reached the quay where her ship was waiting, with its far horizon. She strode up the steep ramp, brisk and assured. Rene stood up. The girl took a deep breath, walked across the deck and looked out to sea – how wide, how possible, her cue. Rene turned away from the screen and strode up the aisle, came blinking into the light.
‘I love the ending, don’t you?’ the usherette said. ‘So romantic.’
Rene didn’t answer.
It was only four o’clock when she came out of the cinema. She didn’t want to go back yet, Bertha would be annoyed.
So she wandered about the streets. Everything seemed very loud, very bright. Eventually she found herself at the entrance of the indoor market. Her head was like tangled wool. Sweet-bitter: she spied the stall where she’d bought the cufflinks that Alan had sold, the milk bar with the high stools where she had brought Jessie and Stevie. Next to the milk bar was a new stall, a table, covered with oilcloth and a banner tied around it: WOMEN’S LAND ARMY. There were two girls talking to another girl, older, sitting behind the table. The two girls were giggly, silly, the type Rene had no patience with these days. They were in light summer dresses, the kind she used to wear. The Land Army girl was wearing a smart green V-neck jersey over a shirt and matching green tie. She’d taken off her felt hat – her only concession to the heat – and it sat beside her on the table, still part of her uniform. The girls giggled and Rene walked past – she felt pushed out. She walked down to the end of the market, past the stall that had the pies Alan liked. Then she turned and walked back up the aisle. The Land Army girl was on her own now; she looked up and smiled.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
Rene hovered, uncertain, strings beginning to pull.
‘You’d be doing me a favour really. I’m dying for one. Go on, sit down, I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t worry, I won’t try and recruit you.’
The girl jumped to her feet on the instant, leaving her felt hat behind on the table. She was wearing what she and Lily used to call bicycles and Bertha called bloomers. They looked pretty silly but the girl didn’t seem to mind.
‘Can I help you, er, miss?’
She had finally reached the end of the post-office queue, and now here she was, standing at the counter, looking at the man through blotchy glass. Gradually, as if someone was turning up the wireless, she became aware of the noise behind her.
‘Miles away,’ he said, half under his breath, but Rene’s quick hearing caught him and she smiled ruefully.
‘Sorry. Just stamps.’
Letters posted, Rene treated herself to a bun and a pot of tea, did some bits of travel shopping and managed to miss the bus. The next one wasn’t for an hour and a half.
She’d still be back at Starlight by the end of the afternoon, but she didn’t want Elsie to have any reason to wonder or worry. Then she remembered that Miss Troughton and Miss Lyle had a telephone, the only people on Sheepdrove to do so. She found a box and gave the address to the operator.
‘Lambourn 8274?’
She felt nervous all of a sudden and shy.
‘Oh, Miss Troughton?’
‘Yes. Who’s speaking, please?’
‘This is Rene Hargreaves. I work with Miss Boston at Starlight.’
‘Oh, hello. Yes?’
Perhaps Miss Troughton was wondering where she was.
‘I hope you don’t mind. The thing is I’m in Newbury and I’ve missed my bus. I won’t be back till quite a bit later. I wonder if you could …’
‘You’d like me to pop along and tell her.’ Miss Troughton was quite at ease. ‘Of course I can. I’ll step out just now. What time shall I tell her that you’ll be back?’
‘Half past five, maybe quarter to six. Thank you.’
‘No trouble at all. If you don’t mind me saying so, I think it’s such a shame about the farm.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Rene said.
Rene sat at the back of the bus going home. She tried to look through the steamed-up window; thinking of Elsie at Starlight, she wondered if Miss Troughton had knocked on the front door or climbed over the gate into the yard.
She found Elsie waiting for her, quite excited. ‘Miss Troughton came with your message, how kind.’ So she was pleased then. That evening they took a break from the sorting and the lists: they listened to a concert and played Patience after – it was the first time in weeks. And Elsie seemed less far away and Rene was less fearful of what it might mean to take her somewhere else, to dig her up. ‘I want to leave now, Rene, as soon as we can. I don’t want to wait for the Townsends’ (Phil was keeping his distance). And then they were back to their sorting and packing and eating chicken and more chicken. ‘We are eating chicken recklessly,’ declared Elsie, and even Smoke and Missy grew sick of it. Miss Troughton and Miss Lyle were delighted to take a dozen chickens. They also took Pickwick. Elsie warned them about his bad temper, but they were not to be daunted. ‘We have a goat,’ said Miss Lyle, and no one could say fairer than that. The two ladies insisted on giving her £10 for Pickwick, which paid for all the trains and more besides. ‘That’s the first time he’s ever helped with a journey,’ Elsie said, and they laughed together for the first time in ages. Smoke was too old to come with them, Elsie said, and it was Rene who tentatively suggested they offer him to Colonel Pinkie. ‘He’s a bit like me, isn’t he?’ the sunset colonel said, making the joke Rene didn’t quite dare to. He bought the wireless too and paid well over the odds. They could take Missy with them though. A cat could be put in a basket, fitted in, accommodated; besides, she was a Starlight cat, a link, Rene thought. For Rene wasn’t light about moving on either. She had settled here and time ran thick. Elsie and Starlight had given her years of memories.
* * *
The station was crowded and full of uniforms.
There was far more than they could possibly eat and the children were confused by the profusion. Jessie had peeked inside
the greaseproof packets and seen that some of the sandwiches had paste: warm, fishy, delicious. There were apples and shortbread, there were even cherry lemons in a crumpled, airy paper bag and, as a special treat, Rene had bought ginger beer in the kiosk by the platform. They were early of course. Jessie and Stevie took it in turns to gallop little Mikey down the platform on his reins. Though he tottered and staggered he was getting pretty fast. He was squawking and far too excited, but Rene didn’t have the heart to stop them.
She found a compartment where there was just one passenger – a smart elderly lady – and Rene asked haltingly if she would be kind enough to keep an eye on Jessie and Stevie. The old lady looked rather fiercely down her long nose at them, as if her nostrils might smoke, but if she was a dragon, she was a friendly one. Certainly, certainly, she said, where were they going?
She was travelling a good deal further. A sensible idea to get the children out of the city; she was sure that they were very well-behaved children. ‘We’re very well behaved,’ said Jessie, eager to be helpful, ‘aren’t we, Mum?’ Rene settled Jessie and Stevie at the two window seats and tried to tidy up the bags and jackets. Mikey was really struggling now and she had to put him down on the floor; he made a lunge for the door and fell heavily. For a moment he was quiet, then he started to howl. Rene scooped him up and got a tight grip on his kicking legs; in reply he started pulling at her hat and her hair. His cheek was hot and soft against hers, tears trickled down their faces, and she licked at them, trying to make him smile.
The children had a piece of paper with Granny’s address, just in case there was a problem with the train.
‘What kind of problem?’ asked Jessie.
‘There won’t be. It’s for just in case.’
‘What kind of problem?’ said Stevie.
‘Mum said there won’t be,’ said Jessie, helpfully.
‘Oh,’ said Stevie, still looking confused.
Rene wanted to laugh, just for a moment – weren’t they funny, weren’t they clever? She was full of pride, but the words wouldn’t come and she kept licking at Mikey’s tears.
‘Why’s he crying?’ asked Stevie.
‘Because he knows you’re thirsty,’ Rene said, leaning forward and pressing Mikey’s wet face against Stevie’s. But Stevie didn’t like this, and roughly rubbed his own face dry. There was still too much time.
‘Mum, what about the bottles?’
Rene had promised to open them once they were settled on the train, and had brought a bottle opener with her for this very purpose. Nothing had been forgotten or left to chance.
Inside her head words gushed, like the cool fizzing of the overflowing bottle, but they died on her lips. All around them, it seemed, energy was pulsing, but it was waiting too, everyone was waiting. A pair of shrill girls clattered up and down the platform, peering in at the windows of the train, looking for someone. A whistle went somewhere, far up the other end of the station.
‘Mum, Mum, you must get off now. The train will go.’
‘That’s not our train, dear,’ said the dragon, kindly, ‘our train doesn’t go till quarter past, you’ve a few minutes yet.’
But Jessie wouldn’t settle.
‘I think you should get off now. Please, Mum.’
‘Get off, get off. Time to go,’ said Stevie.
On the platform, she waved Mikey’s pudgy hand for him.
‘Come on, Mikey, wave bye-bye.’
Again she licked at tears. Her and Mikey’s faces were slippery, stinging.
The doors slammed and the whistle went and she waved Mikey’s pudgy hand for him. ‘Say bye, Mikey … say bye-bye.’
And then she was standing outside Bertha’s house again, and Bertha on her doorstep. Her arms reached out to take Mikey.
Bertha thinks that I need a bit of a change.
And then back home to scrub the house and leave the letter for Alan. She had written it last night, everything explained, so tidy, except that it was burning in her pocket: I’m not sure how long I’ll be away but I will write again.
* * *
It was the first time they had ever been in a car together, and they were squashed apart by the luggage and the sharp angles of Missy’s basket.
Once she got in the car, Rene didn’t look back, she didn’t wish to trespass. Elsie looked – how couldn’t she – and saw for the last time the square house with its scrimping windows. In the porch were a white space and a hook where the photograph had been. Elsie kept looking, she didn’t blink. There was the gate, off-kilter, with the hard, dry tracks beneath, the wallflowers growing high and wild over the hedge. She looked back till they reached the end of Sheepdrove and the taxi turned away from the Townsend place. It was only then that she turned away and came to face forward. Her eyes were full of tears, but in her mind was a picture of Rene: the first time she had seen her, sitting on the bench in the porch. She held the image in her eyes like a charm.
Moving On
* * *
8.
Peripatetic
The pig is a friend, the cattle’s breath
Mingles with mine in the still lanes;
I wear it willingly like a cloak
To shelter me from your curious gaze.
R. S. Thomas, ‘The Hill Farmer Speaks’, Collected Poems 1945–1990
At Heathwater, Cumberland, 1943–7
PLAN YOUR FUTURE, SAVE WITH A PLAN. I Know Where I’m Going!
‘All the way from Berkshire? That’s near London, isn’t it? Why d’you come so far?’
The woman sounded suspicious, or that was how it felt.
‘I used to live … in Manchester,’ Rene said.
‘Oh. Well, I don’t know … cities, places like that.’
Rene thought everything had been settled by letter, but now it seemed there was another test.
‘But you know farming?’
‘Yes, we know farming.’
Rene did the talking, by agreement. She was good at reassuring echoes.
‘We’re farm workers.’
This was the formula they’d decided on, not so far from the truth of before. No deliberate deception; CARELESS TALK.
‘I don’t want to talk about Starlight,’ Elsie had said.
‘We don’t have to.’
‘I wouldn’t like to have to explain.’
So Elsie sat quietly and wondered about Mrs Parks’s hair: so red; she’d never seen anyone with hair that colour before.
All reasonable work considered. They were taken on till the end of the summer – better than nothing. Muriel Parks was from Yorkshire, and perhaps there was something in Rene’s voice – neighbour if not friend – that recalled a familiar antipathy.
They got a cottage: two rooms, one bed, tiny and filthy, but it was independent accommodation.
The journey to London had been dreadful, squashed tight in a corridor all the way from Reading, and Rene trying and failing to cheer Elsie up.
IS YOUR JOURNEY REALLY NECESSARY?
Coming into Paddington there had been a shrieking complication of tracks, blackened buildings bearing down, gaps like sudden ghosts between. Then they had to travel halfway across London to catch the other train. Rene had kept this part of the journey to herself till they reached Paddington, and Elsie didn’t thank her for it. As they criss-crossed the city, she said nothing, keeping her attention entirely on Missy, who was sulking in her basket. She hated the thought of another train journey, ever so much longer.
In the event, the northern train was half empty and Elsie sank with relief into the seat by the window.
FOOD, FUEL AND MUNITIONS MUST COME FIRST.
Rene couldn’t lead Elsie into the unknown, but Cumberland wasn’t exactly somewhere she knew. Leo had worked up at a big hotel on Windermere the summer after Dad died; Bertha and her mum had gone to visit him. It was better than nothing. Rene thought she’d be grateful for landmarks, but she hadn’t realized that the names of places could be so painful. You could change for Manchester anywher
e, or so it seemed, and worse was the slew of other names, part of the unexpected stuffing of her old life. The whiskery guard’s voice rang out unexpectedly clear and the train beat them out, over and over: Nelson, Blacko, Foulridge, Coppull, Ribble Valley, Nether Valley, Bolton-le-Sands. And there were so many stations.
She had settled them on the train and waved goodbye, but the children were waiting for her on the platforms now. Usually it was just a glimpse in a waiting room: a girl with big eyes and neatly tied hair peering at her through the murky glass. But once she saw the three of them quite distinctly on the platform opposite, sitting on a bench, the two older ones flanking Mikey. And then another train came in, blocking her view, and she forced herself to focus on Elsie, whose nose was now pressed to the other window, totally absorbed, the journey to London for the moment quite forgotten.
LET US GO FORWARD TOGETHER.
At the end of the summer, Muriel asked them to stay on till the spring, and she was glad to have them: both her husband and son were fighting, and though the news was improving no one knew when the men would return. They made an odd pair, but no one could say they didn’t pull their weight: they’d done up the cottage and Elsie had worked wonders with Muriel’s garden.
For Rene and Elsie, there was little more than relief at first, but it was good hard work and they did well with the sheep and the long distances, often together, sometimes apart. They liked the dark scarring rocks, the sudden falls and streams; they liked the houses beside the lake that seemed to eye each other sidelong, so cool and white. In time, they even learnt to see the smirks and rages in the faces of the tors. At Heathwater, field, hedge and farm stretched out comfortably, like a cat enjoying the sun. Parks Farm occupied 150 acres of mainly flat and verdant grassland; lucky land – no wonder the sheep skipped, danced and multiplied. Rene saw it through Elsie’s eyes: so different. The comparison was there, faint and melancholic: no dreamy, still chalk pools; no dry field paths among the grasses. But there was also much to like, most of all their Sunday walks and occasionally rides (from somewhere Muriel found them two old bicycles, suitable only for ladies of twenty years ago, so heavy and sedate). At a brisk pace, and if they set out early, they could make Coniston Water by midday. A longer journey, by bus, for Rene to get to the Regal in Ulverston, but she still tried to go every week.
