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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
It is 1945 and the charming market town of Middlebeck is thriving once more. For fifteen-year-old Maisie Jackson, life could not be better; school is going well, her best friend Audrey is a constant source of fun and Maisie's mum is finally free from the cruel clutches of her now ex-husband. Best of all, Bruce Tremaine, who Maisie had been corresponding with throughout the war, is due back any day now. With unfamiliar butterflies in her stomach as she daydreams of Bruce's arrival, Maisie tries to still her restless heart and can't help wondering if this is what it feels like to be in love. Her teenage euphoria doesn't last long, however, as when her sweetheart finally arrives, he has a 'friend' in tow - the beautiful and determined Christine Myerscough. Determined, that is, to make herself Bruce's wife. Feeling crushed and betrayed, Maisie throws herself into other aspects of her life and takes on new challenges in order to take her mind off her broken heart. She soon realises that her life needn't be confined to Middlebeck and there are many opportunities in the wide world for someone with her ambition. Having found her calling and proven herself a success, Maisie convinces herself she is over her young love. But has Bruce forgotten about her?
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Seitenzahl: 762
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
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Down an English Lane
MARGARET THORNTON
Dedication
For my friends and fellow members of the Romantic Novelists Association (RNA).
I am thankful for their friendship and advice over the years.
Contents
Chapter One
‘Maisie… Hey, Maisie Jackson, stop daydreaming and come and give us a hand with these sandwiches…’
Maisie glanced across the church hall towards her friend, Audrey Fairchild, who was calling to her through the kitchen serving hatch. She laughed. ‘OK; sorry, Audrey. I was miles away just then. Thinking about the concert tonight and hoping it’ll all go off all right. Especially my solo…’
‘Oh give over! You’ve sung on your own dozens of times. You’ll be fine, you know you will… Are you sure that’s all you were daydreaming about?’ Audrey’s blue eyes twinkled mischievously as she smiled – a very knowing smile – at her best friend.
‘Of course! And what else would I be thinking about?’ retorted Maisie. A secretive, little half smile played around her lips, but she was determined not to give anything away. After all, she was only fifteen years old – she kept trying to remind herself of this – and it was far too young to be imagining herself in love. At least, that was what everyone would say if they knew. But Maisie had felt this way about Bruce Tremaine for ages now, even before he had joined the RAF more than two years ago. And, as the old saying went, absence had made the heart grow fonder; Maisie’s heart at any rate. She did not know how Bruce felt about her, but he had written to her regularly all the while he had been away and she had written back. Friendly chatty letters had passed between the two of them, fortnightly at least, and that surely must mean that he did think something about her. But perhaps only as a friend…said the more commonsensical voice in her mind; a voice she immediately tried to quash.
Now, at the end of August, 1945, Bruce was coming home, just in time for the Victory concert which was to be held in St Bartholomew’s church hall that evening. Before that, in the afternoon, there was to be a teatime party for all the children in the little market town of Middlebeck. Maisie and Audrey, with their friend, Doris, from the farm, were now preparing for this event, assisting the ladies from the church congregation and the local Women’s Institute.
Maisie straightened the red checked cloth she had put over one of the tables and went into the kitchen at the rear of the hall to assist with the sandwich making. Audrey and Doris were working hard, Audrey buttering the bread – or, to be more correct, spreading the bread with margarine – which Doris then spread with salmon paste before cutting the slices into four triangular pieces. Ada Nixon, Doris’s mother, had expertly cut all the loaves into thin slices, none of the girls, as yet, being expert enough to be in charge of a bread knife.
‘We don’t want doorsteps,’ Ada had declared, ‘especially not on a special occasion like today. And sandwiches look much better – much more party like – when they’re cut in triangles.’
‘What can I do?’ asked Maisie. ‘I’ve put all the cloths on the tables, like your mum told me to do, Audrey. Corner-wise; they look classier like that, don’t you think, than putting them on straight?’
‘It’s only kids that’ll be eating off ’em,’ laughed Doris, ‘and they’re not going to bother what the cloths look like, or the sandwiches neither. Here, Maisie; you can take over from me for a while. We’ve nearly come to the end o’ t’ salmon paste. I’ll go and ask me mam if she wants us to start on t’ boiled ham.’
‘Very well then…’ Maisie took over with the salmon paste, made from tins of pink salmon – the red variety was too precious to use on sandwiches – mashed together with a knob of salad cream and soft breadcrumbs to make it go further.
Audrey cast a sideways glance at her friend. ‘I was only teasing, y’ know.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But you are looking forward to seeing Bruce again, aren’t you?’
Maisie nodded silently. ‘Mmm… Don’t say anything to anybody, will you, Audrey?’ she said in a low voice. ‘People would think I was silly, I know they would. They’d tell me I’m just a schoolgirl and that I’m not old enough to know what it’s all about. Being in love, I mean… Because I do love him, Audrey. I think I’ve loved him for ages.’
‘I shan’t tell anybody, don’t worry,’ said Audrey. ‘I can keep a secret.’
‘And it’s got to be a secret until I know how he feels… Oh, Audrey! I’ve got butterflies in my tummy already, thinking about tonight.’
‘Well, you would have anyway, with the concert,’ replied Audrey. ‘So have I! I know I’m not actually taking part on the stage, but I’m anxious that the kiddies should do their best and not get stage fright.’
‘I don’t think little ’uns do get stage fright,’ said Maisie. ‘They just like dressing up and showing off a bit. I know our Joanie’s really looking forward to it.’
‘Oh, Joanie’s a natural,’ said Audrey. ‘She learned her part straight away, ages before any of the others, and she’s really got herself into the part of Alice.’
The Sunday school children of St Bartholomew’s, including Joanie, Maisie’s nine-year-old sister, were to act scenes from Alice in Wonderland, which Patience Fairchild, the rector’s wife, had adapted from the book with the help of her daughter, Audrey; and it was Audrey who had been largely responsible for the production of the playlet. She was now a Sunday school teacher, and the enthusiasm she had brought to this task made it clear that the career she had planned for herself, that of an Infant teacher, would be an ideal choice. That was in the future, though, several years hence. Audrey still had her School Certificate year to do, then two years in the sixth form before she could apply for training college. So had Maisie, although she had no desire to become a teacher…
‘I’m glad our Joanie’s enjoying herself,’ Maisie said now. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing her performing on the stage. What about Jimmy? He’s not got a speaking part, has he?’
‘Oh no; he’s happy enough to be one of the playing cards, with the rest of the lads,’ replied Audrey. ‘He’s quite a comic though, your Jimmy; he has the others in fits of laughter.’
‘Yes, I’m sure he does,’ said Maisie dryly. ‘He acts the fool in school as well, from what Anne Mellodey tells me.’ Anne Mellodey had been Maisie and Audrey’s favourite teacher at the village school across the green, and now she had Jimmy Jackson in her class. ‘Never mind, he’ll maybe settle down eventually. I know he’s only mischievous, not real naughty, like he used to be when he was a little ’un.’
As far as settling into the school was concerned, however, and into their new life in the town of Middlebeck, Joanie and Jimmy had shown no difficulties at all. Their former life in Armley, in the city of Leeds, was now well and truly a thing of the past.
Maisie had been the first of the family to come and live in the town, high up in the northern Yorkshire Dales, as an evacuee at the start of the war. Her mother, Lily, and the two younger children, escaping from a brutal husband and a disastrous marriage, had followed a couple of years later. Now Lily ran a successful little draper’s shop on the High Street and her three children lived with her; Maisie, aged fifteen, and Joanie and Jimmy, who were nine and eight years old. The family were now known as Jackson, Lily having managed to get a divorce from her former husband, Sidney Bragg, on the grounds of cruelty. Jackson was the name of Maisie’s beloved father, Davey, who had died, to Lily’s great sorrow, when the little girl was four years old.
Maisie had been forced to grow up very quickly, first of all in Armley, trying to protect herself and her mother from the sadistic behaviour of Sidney Bragg and his son, Percy; and later, in Middlebeck, where she had stayed for a considerable time with the rector, the Reverend Luke Fairchild and his wife, Patience. She felt, sometimes, quite mature for her fifteen years, and she knew that people seeing her for the first time might think she was several years older than that.
Her thoughts were wandering again now to the coming evening, when she would put on her new dress to sing in the concert. She would feel very grown-up then, and she knew, too, that the colour and the style really suited her.
‘You look beautiful, our Maisie,’ her mother had said in a hushed voice, when she had tried on the finished dress. Tears had appeared momentarily in Lily’s eyes. ‘Your dad would’ve been real proud of you, love,’ she whispered.
It was not often that Maisie’s father was mentioned now, but she knew that her parents had been blissfully happy during the few years they had spent together until Davey Jackson’s untimely death. Lily’s subsequent marriage to Sidney Bragg had been a disastrous mistake, but not entirely unproductive, because out of it had come the ‘little ’uns’, Joanie and Jimmy, who were now developing into much more lovable children, belying the bad behaviour of their earlier years.
And now Lily had a man friend again; a much more suitable one this time, in Maisie’s eyes. Arthur Rawcliffe was due back in Middlebeck this weekend following his demob from the Army Catering Corps.
‘You’re miles away again, Maisie…’ teased Audrey. ‘But I’m not going to ask you what you’re thinking about this time.’
Maisie realised she had been staring into space, her knife poised over the now empty dish of salmon paste. ‘I wasn’t, actually,’ she replied. ‘I wasn’t thinking about…that.’ She would have said ‘him’, but Doris had just come back with a plateful of ham; and Doris, although she was a good friend, could not see into Maisie’s mind – nor did Maisie want her to – in the way that Audrey was able to do. ‘As a matter of fact, I was thinking about my new dress that I’m going to wear tonight.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Doris, ‘then you can tell us both about it… See here; this boiled ham, it’s special, like. It’s home-cured, from one of our own pigs, and me mam says it’s to be used sparingly. She’s cut it into dead thin slices, and she says we’ve to spread a bit of this pickle stuff on it to make it go further.’ She placed a jar of bright yellow, homemade piccalilli on the table.
Audrey pulled a face. ‘I don’t think the kiddies will be all that keen on the taste of pickles.’
‘No…well, maybe that’s the idea,’ laughed Doris. ‘The sandwiches that are left will be for the helpers’ tea afterwards. I know me mam’s rather partial to boiled ham and pickles.’ The boiled ham, indeed, looked and smelled very tempting; pink fragrant slices, moist and with not a trace of fat, were piled on the willow pattern plate.
‘Come on, girls; let’s get moving,’ said Doris. ‘You carry on buttering, Audrey; I’ll see to the ham, an’ you can spread a bit of this yellow stuff on it, Maisie… Now, tell us all about this dress of yours? What colour is it?’
‘It’s pink,’ said Maisie, ‘but not a pale pink; it’s a sort of deep coral colour.’
‘It’ll look lovely with your dark hair and brown eyes,’ commented Audrey.
‘An’ it’s a long dress, right down to my ankles. I’ve never had a long dress before,’ nor had any of them, ‘but Mum says we can always shorten it later, so I can get more wear out of it. She’s made it herself from a paper pattern. Mum’s got real good at this make-do-and-mend stuff lately; but this is proper new material, a sort of silky cotton. We’ve got it in blue and green an’ all in the shop, but the pink was my favourite. Anyway…it’s got wide shoulder straps and a squarish neckline, quite low…’ She demonstrated, placing her hands tentatively on the gentle swell of her breasts. ‘And a nipped-in waist and a full skirt.’
‘You mean…you’ll have bare shoulders?’ asked Audrey.
‘Yeah…sort of. Well, yes, I will. But there’s nothing wrong with that, Audrey; it’s for this special concert, isn’t it? And I’ll be able to wear it as a sun-dress later. I can always put a cardigan over it,’ she added. Audrey was looking a mite disapproving.
‘It sounds lovely,’ said Doris, looking a tiny bit envious, but not unduly so. She was a good-natured girl, quite contented with her life and work on the farm, and it was very rarely that one saw her disgruntled or unhappy. Maisie knew, though, that Doris and her mother were very seldom able to afford new clothes. They did not need them on the farm, and it was not often that they left its environs. But money, or the lack of it, was quite a problem, as Ada Nixon was a widow with her two sons and daughter all living at home. Pulling their weight, of course, on the family farm, but by no means well off.
Maisie felt a shade guilty; and conscious that she could be giving the impression that she was showing off, she decided to change the subject. ‘Yeah…it’s OK,’ she said nonchalantly, ‘but I’ll be glad when my solo’s over and done with, I can tell you. Are your brothers coming tonight, Doris?’
‘They both say they’re coming,’ replied Doris, ‘but I think our Ted’s only coming so as he can have a laugh at me doing my recitation, the rotten so-and-so!’
‘He won’t laugh,’ said Maisie indignantly. ‘Why should he? I bet he’ll be dead proud of you. What are you reciting?’
‘Ah, it’s a secret,’ said Doris. ‘You’ll have to wait and see. Actually…folks are supposed to laugh, ’cause it’s a funny poem, y’ see – a humorous one, I mean. But our Ted would kill himself laughing anyway, seeing me up on t’ stage.’
‘So there’s only me that won’t be on the stage tonight,’ said Audrey, sounding a little regretful. ‘Even our Tim’s going to do a piano solo. Mum’s managed to persuade him. She really wanted both of us, him and me, to do a duet, but I didn’t want to. I get real scared in front of an audience; anyway, I haven’t had much time to practise, with producing the play for the children and everything.’
‘We’ll have you up on the stage to take a bow, Audrey Fairchild,’ laughed Doris, ‘whether you’re scared or not. You’ve worked harder than any of us for this ’ere concert, training them kids. Gosh! I don’t know how you handle ’em. My Sunday school class are little devils! Oops…!’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘I mustn’t let yer mam hear me say that, Audrey.’
‘She’s too busy,’ laughed Audrey, glancing across the kitchen to where Patience Fairchild, the rector’s wife and Audrey’s mother through adoption, was occupied in adding the finishing touches to the large bowls of trifle; sprinkling the mock cream that covered them with tiny multi-coloured hundreds and thousands. ‘Mum’s not all stiff and starchy, though, even though she’s married to the rector. Neither is Dad for that matter. Of course you know that, don’t you, Doris? Actually, you’ve known them a lot longer than I have…’
Maisie noticed that her friend, Audrey, was looking a little pensive; not unhappy, but just thoughtful. A day such as this, of course, celebrating the end of the war in Japan as well as in Europe, must remind her forcibly of the losses she had suffered during the course of the war. The deaths of both her parents, her mother’s through illness, but her father’s as a result of the blackout in Leeds. But how heartening it was to hear Audrey referring to the rector and his wife, her adoptive parents, as Mum and Dad. It had been very hard for her at first, and for Timothy, their second adopted child, to get used to the names; but the arrival of baby John Septimus in the September of 1941 had made all the difference.
He was the natural child of Patience and Luke, the one they had never expected to have, coming as a great blessing after twelve years of marriage. As John grew from a baby to a toddler, and now to a sturdy little boy of almost four, learning as he developed to say ‘Mama’ and ‘Dada’, and then ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’, it had come naturally to Audrey and Tim, also, to start saying Mum and Dad.
Maisie looked across at Patience Fairchild, the woman who had taken her into her home and made her so very welcome in the September of 1939. Maisie had loved her very much; and she still did. Patience had been a substitute mother to her until the time that her own mother, Lily, had come to live in Middlebeck, and the two of them, Maisie and Patience, had become very close. She was still Aunty Patience to Maisie; she knew that that was how she would always think of her, although she called the rector Luke, as did most of the folk in the parish who knew him well.
In Maisie’s eyes Patience looked just the same, not a day older than she had six years ago, although she was now in her mid-forties. Her hair was a deep and glossy auburn, with just a few silvery wisps showing at the temples, and the bright blue of her eyes was the exact colour of the dress she was wearing; a blue background with white polka dots and finished off with a red belt. Patriotic colours, such as most of the women, both old and young, were sporting today.
Patience became aware of Maisie’s glance and she looked up, smiling at her enquiringly. ‘Yes, Maisie, love? Are you ready for another job to do?’
‘Yes, I think so, Aunty Patience. We’ve just about finished all the sandwiches. D’you want some help with these trifles?’
‘No, thank you, dear. They’re just about ready, and we’re not going to dish them out until the children have finished their sandwiches and cakes. Some of them might prefer to have just the red jelly… Is there something the matter, Maisie?’ Patience was looking at her concernedly. ‘You seem rather preoccupied.’
‘No…not really,’ replied Maisie. ‘There’s nothing the matter. I was just thinking that today, well, it’s a sad day, sort of, for some people, isn’t it, as well as us celebrating the end of the war. Audrey and Tim; it’s them I was thinking of, really. It’s sure to remind them of their parents… Of course I know that you and Luke are their mum and dad now, and that they’re very happy…’
‘I know exactly what you mean, my dear.’ Patience put an arm around her and gave her a quick hug. ‘You’re always a great girl for thinking things through, and, do you know, you and I always seem to think alike.’
‘Great minds, eh, Aunty Patience?’ smiled Maisie.
‘Of course! Yes, as you say, Audrey and Tim are sure to have memories today, but let’s hope that the pleasant ones outweigh the not so pleasant. Although none of us must ever forget… It’s a day of mixed feelings for a lot of folk; for your friend, Doris, as well. She’s always bright and cheerful, bless her, but there must be times when she thinks about her father… That tragedy all came about as a result of the war.’
Maisie nodded, remembering how Doris’s father, Walter Nixon, had been killed, not by enemy fire, but on a training exercise in his army camp in the south of England, by a stray bullet. He had not even needed to have joined up at all as he was over forty years of age and, moreover, he was a farmer in a reserved occupation.
‘Yes… Doris as well, of course,’ said Maisie thoughtfully.
‘But let’s not be down-hearted,’ whispered Patience in her ear. ‘Come along; let’s make sure that we’ve got everything ready. It won’t be long before the hordes descend on us.’
‘Audrey…’ she called to her daughter, ‘and you as well, Doris. I think the next job is to put a selection of sandwiches on big plates to put in the middle of the tables. Allow three sandwiches each…’
‘Supposing some take more than three?’ said Maisie. ‘I’m thinking about our Jimmy actually. He can be a greedy little pig when he gets going, and I can just see some poor little kid only getting one.’
‘Mmm…good point,’ agreed Patience. ‘But we’ll be circulating, won’t we, to make sure there’s fair play? And I suggest we don’t put the cakes out until the sandwiches have gone.’ She laughed. ‘That’s what my mother used to say when I was a little girl. “Bread and butter first, Patience, and then you can have your cake.” And I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘And you’ve never let us forget it either, Tim and me and little Johnny,’ said Audrey, with a sly grin at her.
‘No; children don’t change much over the years,’ said Patience, smiling, ‘nor do mothers’ words of wisdom… Now, girls, I’ll leave you to get on with that little job, and I’ll go and help Mrs Hollins and Mrs Spooner with the big jugs of orange squash. And there are some little sausage rolls that Mrs Campion has made. I think it would be a good idea to hand those round, then we can make sure that nobody takes more than one… Oh help! They’re beginning to arrive already, and we did say not till half past three…’
It was early for a teaparty – too soon after dinner, some had said – but it was necessary because the hall would need to be cleared afterwards and the chairs re-arranged ready for the evening concert. And whether the children had eaten a mid-day dinner or not, they all tucked in with gusto to the delectable treats on offer. The sandwiches and tiny sausage rolls, each one no more than a good mouthful, were soon demolished, and then it was time for the cakes to be handed round. Mouth-watering offerings, home-baked by the members of the Women’s Institute and the women of the St Bartholomew’s congregation: jam tarts; fairy cakes; iced buns decorated in white and blue, with a red cherry in the middle; chocolate clusters; and almond tarts and moist gingerbread for the children with a more sophisticated taste.
Maisie, going round from table to table, handing out cakes – ‘Just one each at first’ – was viewing the scene with great interest. The grown-up helpers were pretty much the same, plus one or two new ones, as she remembered from her early days in Middlebeck. Mrs Muriel Hollins, with her co-workers – her minions, as they were often referred to – Mrs Jessie Campion and Mrs Ivy Spooner were very much in evidence. At the start of the war they had been stalwart members of the WVS, as well as the WI, whose job it had been to organise the evacuation scheme in their town. They appeared very little different now, some six years later. Mrs Hollins was just a shade plumper, maybe, and certainly a shade bossier; although she was jovial today, rather than her usual bossy self, determined that the children should have a whale of a time.
‘Now then, tuck in and enjoy yourselves, boys and girls,’ she boomed at them. ‘Isn’t this fun? And how smart you all look today. I can see a lot of mothers have been busy on their sewing machines.’ Suddenly, she burst into song, to the amusement of many of the children who started to giggle behind their hands.
‘Red, white and blue; what does it mean to you?
Surely you’re proud; shout it aloud, Britons awake…’
But her rich contralto voice was really quite a joy to listen to. Maisie knew that Muriel Hollins, also, would be singing a solo at the concert that evening.
There was, indeed, an abundance of red, white and blue in the church hall, not only in the Union Jacks and the bunting and streamers strung across the room, but in the clothes of all the children and a goodly number of the adults. Maisie knew that her mother’s draper’s shop had run out of the special red, white and blue ribbon which they had ordered for the occasion. It now adorned the heads of the girls, both the big and the little ones, setting off all kinds of hairstyles: plaits and pony tails, bobbing ringlets and straight short hair finished off with a fringe.
There had been a run, as well, on the red-and-white, and blue-and-white gingham that Lily had in stock. The majority of the smaller girls wore gingham dresses, and there were several boys, too, wearing shirts of the same material. Others wore white shirts, many with red or blue bow ties.
The grown-ups, also, had risen to the occasion. The WVS ladies were not dressed in their usual green today, which they had proudly worn when occupied on their wartime duties. It would have been too hot for such clothing; besides, the war was over and it was time now for a bit of frivolity. Mrs Hollins wore red, not really a good choice for such a florid-faced lady, although it could be said that her dress matched her complexion. Maisie had never seen her so excited. Mrs Spooner wore a mid-blue dress with a white lace collar and a pretty white lace-edged apron; sensible attire for a sensible lady; and Mrs Campion looked like a stick of rock in vertical red, white and blue stripes.
Miss Amelia Thomson, the spinster lady who lived in the house across the green, opposite to the Rectory, was more soberly clad, as one might have expected. Her ankle-length dress was of navy-blue crêpe de Chine with tiny white spots, but she had actually trimmed it with an artificial red rose pinned discreetly to one side. The woman had mellowed considerably over the long years of the war, Maisie thought to herself, remembering the forbidding person whom she and Audrey had met on their first day in Middlebeck.
‘Maisie, Maisie…’ shouted a little piping voice, near to her elbow. ‘Cake for me…please,’ he added, as he knew he should. It was Johnny Fairchild, bouncing up and down with excitement, but being kept in check, more or less, by his adoptive brother, Timothy, who was sitting next to him. A couple of Tim’s friends seemed to be finding the child highly amusing; and Johnny, knowing he had a captive audience, was acting up for all he was worth. He was normally a very well-behaved little boy. It didn’t help, though, that Maisie’s mischievous brother, Jimmy, was also at the same table.
‘Yes, Johnny; which cake would you like?’ asked Maisie.
‘That ’un,’ said Johnny, laughing and pointing to an iced bun with a cherry on the top.
‘You mean, that one…please,’ said Maisie, frowning a little at him. ‘Say it properly, Johnny.’
‘Please can I have that cake, Maisie?’ he asked, more quietly, with a twinkle in his blue eyes, the legacy of both his mother and his father. Her heart leapt with a surge of affection for him. How like his mother he was with his shock of auburn curls and his winning smile; but you could see Luke there, too, in his finely drawn features. He would be a handsome lad when he grew up.
The rector was still a handsome man. Maisie could see him now, out of the corner of her eye, standing at the side of the room and smiling indulgently at his son, but not wanting to interfere. He would know it was unlikely that Johnny would get too much out of control. She gave him a quick meaningful grin and turned back to his son.
‘That’s better, Johnny. Take the paper case off the bun… That’s right. And you, Jimmy…’ She frowned at her brother. ‘Don’t encourage him to be silly. Now, think on! Be a good boy.’
‘What, me? I’m always good!’ replied Jimmy, to guffaws of laughter from the rest of the table.
‘Shh…’ she admonished them. ‘Mrs Hollins and Mrs Campion are coming round to see who wants some jelly and trifle. They won’t give it to silly boys and girls.’
Sure enough, the two women, Muriel Hollins in the lead bearing the trifle dish, and her second-in-command, Jessie Campion, following behind with the dish of jelly, were already doing the rounds. The lads fell quiet. Some of them had been in Mrs Hollins’s Sunday school class and knew her as something of a dragon.
Audrey appeared at Maisie’s side with a large jug. ‘Now, boys; who’s ready for some more orange squash?’ she asked.
‘Me, me, me!’ shouted Johnny, bouncing three times on his chair. Audrey scowled at him in a pseudo-stern manner, and he added, angelically, ‘I mean…can I have some, please, Audrey?’
She ruffled his ginger curls fondly before half filling his cup. ‘Good boy, Johnny. Just try and calm down, eh? If you get too excited Mummy might not let you stay up for the concert tonight.’ Johnny would be there, though, as she well knew, as there would be nobody left in the Rectory to look after him.
She poured the squash into the other cups that the boys were holding out, then put the jug down. ‘Do you know what this reminds me of?’ she said to Maisie. ‘All the kiddies sitting round the tables…’
Maisie nodded. ‘I can guess what you’re thinking about. The day we arrived in Middlebeck, eh? When we were poor homeless little evacuees…’ She gave a mock sniff of despair. ‘Oh dear, oh dear… But it all turned out OK, didn’t it?’
‘I know it’s not just the same, not really,’ Audrey went on. ‘We sat at long trestle tables, if I remember rightly…’
‘And we weren’t even here, were we?’ said Maisie. ‘We were in the Village Institute, not the church hall.’
‘Goodness, so we were. I’d forgotten that…’
‘And it was a sad time, wasn’t it, all of us feeling lost and bewildered, and wondering where we’d end up? And today’s a happy occasion.’
‘Yes…’ Audrey nodded thoughtfully. ‘It brings back memories, though, seeing the same people that were there then; Mrs Hollins and Mrs Campion…and Miss Thomson.’ She smiled reminiscently, shaking her head. ‘I was frightened to death of her at first, but really she was just a prim and proper old lady who wasn’t used to children. She’s quite nice to us all now, isn’t she?’
Maisie nodded, recalling that Audrey had spent a not very happy couple of months staying at Miss Thomson’s house across the green, until circumstances had changed and she had been moved to the Rectory to be with Maisie.
‘And I’ll never forget how you took care of me that first day, Maisie,’ Audrey continued. ‘I was a real misery, wasn’t I, weeping and wailing and making a fuss?’
‘You were homesick,’ said Maisie, ‘that’s all. None of us had ever been away from home before, without our parents. But as for me…well, it was more of an adventure, really.’ And a happy release, she recalled, from Sidney Bragg, her stepfather, and his loutish son, Percy.
‘Then we met Doris,’ said Audrey. ‘She was kind to us, wasn’t she?’
‘That was the next day at Sunday school,’ said Maisie, ‘when we were all put into Mrs Spooner’s class… And there were four of us at first,’ she added in a low voice, glancing towards Timothy.
‘I know; I hadn’t forgotten,’ said Audrey. ‘That’s why today is a little bit sad, as well as happy.’
Both girls were remembering Ivy Clegg, Tim’s sister; the two Clegg children had been amongst several evacuees from Hull. The four girls – Maisie, Audrey and Ivy, the evacuees, and Doris had formed a close foursome. Then, that first Christmas of the war, Ivy and Tim’s mother had taken her children back to Hull. It had been the time of the ‘phoney war’, but all too soon the bombing raids had started on the major cities. Ivy had been killed, along with her mother and father, and Timothy, injured, but the only one of the family to escape death, had been brought back to Middlebeck, where he had been fostered and then adopted by the rector and his wife.
Maisie smiled consolingly at her friend. ‘Cheer up, eh? Tim’s happy enough now, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, and so am I,’ replied Audrey. ‘You know I am. But memories are precious, too, aren’t they, Maisie? We can never forget…’
Audrey moved away to the next table with her jug of orange squash, and Mrs Hollins and her partner arrived to dish out the trifle.
‘Just jelly for Johnny, and for you, too, Jimmy,’ said Maisie in a motherly way. Lily, busy working in the shop, was not there to see to Jimmy. ‘We don’t want you being sick and missing the concert.’ The same applied, of course, to the rest of the children, but they were not her immediate concern. To her surprise both boys nodded in agreement.
‘I’m so full I could burst,’ said Jimmy.
‘Me too!’ piped Johnny. ‘I could burst, I could burst…’
‘Well, we mustn’t have that,’ said Mrs Hollins, laughing. ‘What a mess it would make…’
The dishes were soon scraped clean, and whilst the tables were being cleared and an army of ladies prepared themselves for the mammoth task of washing up, Mrs Hollins, a veritable Jack of all trades, seated herself at the piano.
‘Come along, boys and girls,’ she shouted. ‘Pull up your chairs and we’ll have a sing-song…’
And soon the roof of St Bartholomew’s church hall was almost raised from its rafters by the strains of, ‘Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run…’
Chapter Two
The stage in St Bartholomew’s church hall was used only rarely for concerts. If there were meetings of some importance then the rector and his spokesmen from the church council might sit up there, the better to command the attention of the audience. And during the recent elections the Parliamentary candidates from all three of the main parties – Conservative, Labour and Liberal – had used the stage as a rostrum. They had found themselves, however, addressing gatherings which could be described as ‘only fair to middling’. It had been regarded as a foregone conclusion that the Conservative candidate, a businessman from Leeds who had held the seat for years, would be returned once again. And so he was, but with a vastly reduced majority. And countless other seats, in all parts of the country, had been lost to the victorious Labour party.
‘Poor old Winston!’ was the cry on the lips of many people. ‘And after all he’s done for our country. What a shame…’ But politics were not openly discussed. What went on between the voter and the ballot box was strictly confidential. There would have been many more surprises if the folk of Middlebeck could have seen the crosses on the voting papers. As well as the ‘Poor old Winnie’ brigade, there were countless others who were thinking, if not saying outright, ‘It’s time for a change…well, maybe next time.’
But on this day politics was forgotten as the stage was being prepared for its proper purpose, that of putting on an entertainment. The red velvet curtains were somewhat faded and not used to a great deal of opening and closing – they must have been there since the first war, many folk remarked – but after a slight adjustment to the pulleys and runners they were soon in working order again. There were even a couple of spotlights which were rigged up for the infrequent concerts by able men from the church congregation.
There were two small cloakrooms to the right and left of the stage which served adequately as dressing rooms, one for the men and boys and the other for the women and girls. It was a tight squeeze in the women’s room, but everyone was in good humour and the feeling of excitement and anticipation was palpable.
‘You look lovely, Maisie,’ said Audrey, with not a trace of envy. ‘It’s a real glamorous dress, just like a film star’s.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Maisie. ‘You don’t think it’s too…well, daring, like? A bit too low at the front?’
‘No, of course it isn’t. I thought it might be when you described it, but it’s just right. It’s a gorgeous colour, and that coral lipstick you’re wearing matches it exactly.’
Maisie rubbed her lips together a little self consciously. ‘You don’t think it’s too bright? It was Mum’s idea, actually. She never really liked me wearing it before, but she said with me being on the stage it would give me a bit more colour.’ She did not need any artificial colour on her cheeks, however, as the excitement, tinged with nervousness, that she was feeling had heightened them to a rosy glow.
‘I’m dead nervous,’ she said, clutching at her stomach. ‘Talk about butterflies; it feels more like baby elephants doing a dance in my tummy! But at least I’m getting my solo over with quite early in the programme. I wouldn’t have wanted to wait till the second half.’
‘Good luck, anyway,’ said Audrey. ‘Oh no; you’re not supposed to say that, are you, when you’re going on the stage? You’re supposed to say “Break a leg”, aren’t you? But I think that sounds silly. Anyway, I know you’ll be just great.’
Patience popped her head round the door at that moment. ‘Choir members, would you make your way up to the stage, please? The concert is just about to start, after Luke has welcomed everybody.’
The men and women of St Bartholomew’s church choir, including Maisie and a few other girls of a similar age, assembled themselves in their correct order – sopranos, altos, tenors and two bass singers – behind the curtain, as the Reverend Luke Fairchild welcomed everyone to the Victory concert.
‘…and what a lot we have to celebrate and be thankful for this evening. So, on with the show, starting off with our own church choir.’
Applause broke out as soon as the curtains, somewhat hesitantly and jerkily, were drawn back to reveal the choir members, the men resplendent in dark suits with red bow ties, and the women in long dresses of varying styles. Rarely were they seen in such magnificence. Mr King, the elderly choir master and organist, but just as competent on the upright piano as the church organ, announced that the opening item would consist of songs by the well-loved Ivor Novello.
There were audible sighs of, ‘Aah, lovely…’ from some members of the audience, then the choir started to sing, ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’. After the opening chorus, one of the bass singers sang the verses and the audience joined in heartily with the choruses.
The sentiment of the song brought tears to a few eyes plus cheers and frenzied clapping, and this was only the start of the evening.
‘And that song, of course,’ said Mr King, when the applause had died down, ‘was written by Mr Novello in 1914, at the start of the last war. And it is just as applicable today. How happy we are that our boys have come home and that some of them are here tonight.’ He had to wait for another burst of clapping before his next announcement. ‘And now for some gentler numbers from the same great composer. Here is our very own Maisie Jackson to sing for you that lovely song from Perchance to Dream; ‘We’ll gather lilacs…’
Maisie stepped forward into the spotlight, and as she did so she felt the fluttering sensation inside her ease a little. Because there, in the second row, smiling encouragingly at her, was her mother, with her old friend Mrs Jenner, who owned the draper’s shop, sitting next to her. And Audrey and Doris were there in the wings, and the thought of them rooting for her gave her confidence. She started to sing, trying to remember all she had been taught about the correct way to breathe: deeply and from the diaphragm so that she did not lose control.
It was becoming a little easier as she went on. She was aware that her first few bars might have been a trifle wavery, but she started to gain in confidence as she heard her voice reaching the top notes quite easily without straining, soaring out into the hall over the heads of the audience. She was afraid to stare around too much at the rows of people in front of her in case she forgot her words – that would be dreadful, especially as she knew the song backwards and inside out with constant practising – but she could not resist taking a fleeting glance.
Bruce’s parents, Archie and Rebecca Tremaine, were plainly visible in the middle of the front row, just in front of her mother, as befitted their importance as the local squire and his wife. The title was largely a courtesy title afforded to Archie as the biggest landowner in the area. The Tremaines lived in the aptly named Tremaine House, and the land surrounding it included the Nixons’ farm where Doris lived with her mother and brothers. Archie and Rebecca were smiling at Maisie, but she knew it would be considered unprofessional to smile back. And so, after her eyes had lighted on them briefly she looked away again.
She could see that Bruce was not with them. She felt a tiny pang of disappointment, but then it would not be his style, she told herself, to take an important seat with his parents. He would be more likely to sit further back, perhaps with others of his own generation. That was if he knew anyone well enough. Bruce had been educated at a public school in North Yorkshire, and not at the local Grammar or Secondary school like most of his contemporaries in the town; and so had never had a chance to make close friends in his own neighbourhood; and for the last two years, of course, he had been away serving in the RAF.
The chorus about gathering lilacs in the spring was familiar now to many people, after being sung and played on the wireless countless times, following the production of the play in London’s West End earlier that year. And as she sang the familiar words Maisie caught her first glimpse of him.
He was sitting about halfway back on an end seat near to the aisle, leaning forward as though he wanted to get a better look at her. And even at that distance and in the dim light she could tell that he was smiling. His dark eyes were glowing with pleasure and delight…at being home again, no doubt, she told herself. She must not read too much into his smile, but it was so good to see it again. After letting her glance linger on him for only a few seconds she looked away again; she fixed her eyes on a point near the back of the room to enable her to focus her attention on her song.
But her thoughts still kept wandering back to Bruce. ‘And walk together down an English lane…’ The words assumed a greater significance as she recalled the first time she had met Bruce Tremaine…
She was an evacuee. It was only her second – no, her third – day in Middlebeck if she remembered rightly, and she had been exploring the countryside behind the church with Audrey. Then Doris, their new friend from the farm, had joined them, anxious to teach these city kids some of the lore of the country. And then Bruce had suddenly appeared on the scene, chasing after Prince, his boisterous collie dog, who had frightened Audrey, causing her to fall down and spill her blackberries…
Maisie realised now that she had started to fall in love with him, just a little bit, on that very first day, even though she was angry with him – or, rather, with his dog – for frightening her friend, and though she was only nine years old. He had seemed posh to Maisie, especially the way he talked. She had never met anyone like him, especially not a boy. She had not been keen on boys at all at that time, comparing every one that she met with her loathsome stepbrother, Percy. But she had soon realised that Bruce was different; he was kind and considerate and ever such good fun, and not the slightest bit snooty towards her and her friends, in spite of being a few years older and, moreover, the son of the squire.
Her song came to an end to ecstatic applause from the audience and shouts of ‘Well done, Maisie love…’ She was well known now in the little town of Middlebeck and popular with her own peer group. Feeling thankful that it was over, she gave a slight bow to acknowledge their ovation, then took her place amongst the other sopranos.
The choir then sang ‘Waltz of my Heart’ and ‘I can give you the Starlight’ from the musical The Dancing Years, with the audience, though unbidden, joining in with the more familiar words. The last song, ‘Rose of England’, was another one very appropriate to the occasion.
Muriel Hollins was the soloist this time, a majestic figure in midnight blue satin, with a white rose anchored to a spot just above her magnificent bosom, which rose and fell visibly with every breath she took. She had a rich and melodious contralto voice, which had been known to cause amusement amongst the choir boys at practices, when she insisted on demonstrating how a certain phrase should be sung. But the young boy choristers were not included in that night’s performance – Ivor Novello was not considered to be their forte – so there was no giggling. And certainly none from the members of the audience who, once again, were moved by the patriotic sentiments.
When the song had finished and they had taken a bow – well, two and three bows to be accurate – the ladies of the choir retreated to their dressing room to refresh themselves with drinks of orange squash. There were seats reserved for them in the hall so that they could watch the rest of the concert if they so wished; but Maisie chose to stay with Audrey to help her to get the children ready for their Alice in Wonderland scenes. The girls, that was, because the boys who were taking part were in the other dressing room, the male one, in the charge of a lad called Brian. He was Audrey’s co-producer, a sixth-former at the Grammar school in Lowerbeck, which complemented the school which Maisie and Audrey attended. Maisie believed that Brian Milner rather fancied her friend, but Audrey chose not to give too much away when it came to affairs of the heart, and she did not take kindly to teasing.
‘You were brilliant, honest you were,’ Audrey told her. ‘We felt real proud of you, didn’t we, Doris? Oh…where’s she gone?’ She turned round looking for their other friend. ‘Oh, there she is at the other mirror, doing her hair ready for her poem. She’s on soon.’
Maisie glanced across at Doris. She was not within hearing distance – there was quite a racket going on anyway – so she leaned towards Audrey. ‘He’s here!’ she whispered in her ear. ‘I’ve seen him; about halfway back, at the end of the row.’
‘Oh…! No wonder there’s such a gleam in your eye,’ replied Audrey. ‘Shall you go and say hello to him at the interval?’
‘I think I’ll wait till the end,’ said Maisie. ‘We’re only having a ten minute break, aren’t we, just to stretch our legs and so on? And I don’t want to appear too eager, you know; as though I can’t wait to see him.’
‘Which would be quite true…’ Audrey grinned slyly.
Maisie shrugged, aware that she was letting her feelings show too much, something she had been determined not to do. ‘Well…yes; it’s good to see him again,’ she said, with an air of nonchalance. Her cheeks felt hot and Audrey was looking at her knowingly.
‘Joanie…come over here, love,’ Maisie called to her sister, ‘and I’ll help you to fix your hair ribbons.’
‘Doesn’t she look just perfect in that dress?’ said Audrey, taking the hint from Maisie and changing the subject. ‘Just like the pictures of Alice in the books. Your mum’s been busy, hasn’t she, Joanie?’
Joanie nodded. ‘She’s done nothing but sew just lately, hasn’t she, Maisie? My dress, and Maisie’s an’ all.’
Joanie, as Alice in Wonderland, was wearing a mid-calf length dress of pale blue cotton, with puffed sleeves, a white collar and trimmings and a white apron tied around her waist. She had been growing her hair especially for the performance, and Maisie brushed it for her now. It was a pale golden colour, straight and shining, and fell to just below her shoulders. Her sister fastened it back with kirby grips, then secured the blue ribbon bows, one at each side of her forehead.
‘There now,’ she said, kissing her lightly on the cheek. ‘You’ll do. In fact, you look lovely.’ They were not, as a family, much given to a lot of hugging and kissing. But Maisie, over the years, had been amazed at the transformation of her once naughty, grubby, and not very likeable little sister, into this pretty, polite, and friendly nine-year-old girl. And Jimmy was shaping up quite nicely too.
‘Aw, give over, Maisie! Don’t be soppy,’ said Joanie; but she could not disguise her pleased smile. ‘Are we on soon, Audrey?’ she asked. ‘Have I time to go to the lav?’
Audrey laughed. ‘Yes; you’d better go. We’re on after Doris’s poem, and she’s next. You four girls who are being the playing cards, you’ve all been to the toilet, have you? Because you won’t be able to sit down when you’ve got these costumes on.’
The four girls nodded in unison, then Audrey and Maisie placed the large cards – the three and four of hearts, and the three and four of spades – over their heads. The numbers of the playing cards were painted on both the front and the back, and the cards were secured at the shoulders and sides with tapes. Audrey and her friend, Brian, with Maisie sometimes assisting them, had spent many evenings at the Rectory designing them.
Maisie shrieked with laughter when Doris turned round from the mirror. ‘Goodness, Doris, what a scream you look! You’ll bring the house down before you even start to speak.’
Doris’s flaxen hair was done up in two plaits which, somehow, she had made to stick out at an angle on either side of her head. Each plait was finished off with a bright pink bow, with a third bow on top of her head. Her cheeks were normally rosy, but she had heightened their colour with dabs of rouge like a Dutch doll. Her dress was of pink and white gingham, one that she had used to wear a couple of summers ago, but she – or her mother – had altered the bodice to fit her increasing bustline, and the shortness of the skirt did not matter. Layers of stiffened petticoats underneath made it stand out, revealing her shapely, rather plumpish, legs and her feet in white ankle socks.
‘I told you they were supposed to laugh,’ said Doris. ‘Oh heck! D’you think I’ve overdone it? I feel sick. Oh… Oh dear! I can’t go on…’
But Maisie and Audrey knew that it was mostly just banter. Doris would be fine once she got onto the stage.
‘’Course you can, don’t be daft,’ said Maisie, giving her a push. ‘Luke’s announcing you now. Go on; get a move on.’
Doris grimaced as she went through the door. ‘I still don’t know what she’s going to recite,’ said Maisie. ‘Come on, Audrey; let’s go to the front and listen, shall we?’
‘No; I’d better stay here and keep an eye on the children,’ said Audrey. ‘I can hear well enough from the side of the stage. You go…’
Maisie tiptoed out and stood by the side wall, not allowing her eyes to stray further back down the hall, but fixing them on the stage. The laughter and applause greeting Doris’s appearance was beginning to die down, and she grinned at them, all trace of nervousness, if there had ever been any, completely gone.
‘Matilda,’ she announced in a confident voice, ‘by Hilaire Belloc.’ And then, ghoulishly and leaning confidingly towards her audience, ‘Matilda, who told lies and was burned to death!’ She paused for effect, and some members of the audience responded with a reciprocal, ‘Aahh…’, knowing, from the girl’s appearance that this would be a poem to evoke laughter and not a feeling of horror.
Doris was a born actress, thought Maisie, as she watched her friend’s expressive face and meaningful gestures, but no one seemed to have realised it before. There had not been much opportunity for concerts and play-acting during the war years, such performances as there were having been held during daylight hours because of the blackout regulations.
As Doris finished the poem Maisie clapped till her hands were stinging and she gave a cheer, along with several others, as her friend bowed and grinned then left the stage.
It was time then for the last act before the interval, the scenes from Alice in Wonderland. Maisie stayed where she was. Joanie would not want her fussing over her again. She was still forcing her eyes to look straight in front and not allowing herself to turn round, but once the Mad Hatter’s tea party commenced she was thoroughly engrossed. Joanie was an enchanting Alice and word perfect too, and the boys who played the Mad Hatter, the March Hare and the Dormouse made the audience laugh, though not always in the right places. The Hatter’s top hat was a shade too large and kept falling over his eyes, and the Dormouse, a tiny little lad, kept waving to his mother in the third row.
In the next scene Maisie was relieved to see that Jimmy behaved himself very well. He was one of the playing-card gardeners, the two of spades, engaged in the task of painting the white roses red. Fortunately, he was concentrating on doing just that and not splashing the paint all over himself and his mates which, at one time, would have been a pleasant diversion for him. The card worn by the Queen of Hearts – a twelve-year-old girl who shouted, ‘Off with their heads!’ in a very imperious voice – had been drawn and painted expertly by Audrey. The whole performance, indeed, was a great credit to her and Brian and there were cries at the end for the producers to come onto the stage and take a bow.
Brian emerged from one dressing room and Audrey, rather more unwillingly, from the other. As they stood in the centre of the stage, smiling and bowing a little to acknowledge the applause, Brian took hold of her hand. Maisie saw the blush which crept over her friend’s cheeks, but she also noticed that her blue eyes were extra bright and sparkly as she turned to smile shyly at Brian and then at her mother and father, both standing proudly at the side of the piano.
‘Well done, everyone,’ said Luke. ‘Very well done indeed. And now we will have just a short ten-minute interval before we start the second half of our programme.’
When Audrey came down from the stage she was surrounded by folk who wanted to congratulate her on the children’s performances. Maisie could see that her friend was quite pink-cheeked with pleasure. This was her moment of glory and well deserved, too. Maisie added her own praise as well.
‘That was great, Audrey. I’m really proud of you. I’m amazed at the way you’ve got our Joanie to do her part; she was terrific.’
‘Yes, she was,’ agreed Audrey. ‘But I told you, she’s a natural. It had very little to do with me; she just seemed to know what to do.’
‘And all the others played their parts so well; it was obvious they were enjoying it.’
‘Well, that’s the most important thing at their age, isn’t it?’ Audrey laughed. ‘As for me, I shall enjoy the rest of the concert much more now that that’s over. Anyway, I’d better go and help the girls to get out of their costumes.’
‘No… I’ll do that,’ said Maisie quickly. ‘You stay and talk to these ladies.’ A few of Luke’s more elderly parishioners were smiling fondly at Audrey. She was very popular with them and had a pleasant manner which enabled her to associate with both the young and the old in her father’s congregation. Already she was becoming quite an asset to him.
‘Are you sure?’ said Audrey. It was clear that she was enjoying her triumph, in her own quiet way.
‘Of course I am,’ said Maisie. She grinned. ‘Off you go and chat to the old ladies,’ she added in a lower voice. ‘They’ll love it.’
Maisie was feeling, suddenly, rather nervous and shy at the thought of encountering Bruce again. Besides, she was all dolled up in her finery ready for the next appearance of the choir near the end of the programme. It would be better to wait until the end. Without a backward glance she went back into the dressing room to help the playing card girls with their costumes, and the Queen of Hearts, too, with her more elaborate regalia and cardboard crown. Joanie, though, wanted to stay in her Alice dress, minus the apron, and there was no reason why she should not do so. The children all hurried out to the seats reserved for them to watch the rest of the concert, and Maisie busied herself tidying up the costumes and props that had been used for the Alice scenes.
Audrey popped her head round the door. ‘Come on, Maisie. There are three seats at the end of a row near the front, so you and me and Doris can sit together.’
‘All right then,’ said Maisie, joining her friends just as the lights in the hall were dimmed. ‘I’ll have to leave you, though, before the choir goes on again.’
‘Our Timothy’ll be playing soon,’ whispered Audrey. ‘I knew you’d want to listen to him.’
‘Yes, of course I do,’ Maisie whispered back, as Luke stepped forward to announce the start of the second half.
The next act was a conjuror; quite a competent one. He was a middle-aged man who was also in the choir, and he had the audience suitably impressed with his yards and yards of silken handkerchiefs, his card tricks and the climax at the end, a rabbit in a top hat.
Maisie leaned close to her friend and whispered in her ear, under cover of the applause, ‘Did you…er, did you see Bruce in the interval?’
