by Jenny Holmes
Brenda tried to brush the doubt away with a breezy response. ‘It’s a woman’s prerogative, isn’t it?’ She glanced again at Grace’s reflection. ‘But you’re not serious, are you?’
‘No. Yes. I don’t know.’ Caught in a helpless whirl of emotions, Grace was on the verge of tears. Part of the problem was that she’d known Bill for so long – they’d grown up together in Burnside and been playmates, fishing for tiddlers in the beck or climbing trees in the copse at the back of the pub. Romance had only come into the picture at the age of fourteen or fifteen, once they’d started attending village hops and beetle drives at the Institute. In fact, she could remember the exact moment when everything had changed – she and Bill had been dancing a Scottish reel and he had caught her around the waist and swung her off her feet. She’d landed breathless and laughing then looked straight into his eyes. His arm had still been around her waist, their lips had almost touched.
‘Don’t worry. Everyone gets the jitters on their wedding day,’ Brenda assured her. ‘I know I would.’
‘It’s only natural,’ Una agreed. She picked up the bridal headdress from the glass-topped dressing table: a velvet band festooned with white silk flowers that would perch beautifully on top of Grace’s upswept hair. There would be no veil since clothing coupons hadn’t run to the purchase of the necessary length of gauzy fabric. It had been hard enough to scrape together the points for the dress material itself – she, Brenda and Joyce had added their coupons to Grace’s, which wasn’t strictly in accordance with wartime rationing rules but who would be mean enough to snitch on them for an occasion like a wedding? The bridesmaids’ dresses had proved more of a problem, which had eventually been solved by an under-the-counter acquisition of twelve yards of white parachute silk. Una and Brenda had dyed it lilac in a big vat on the hostel stove, then spent many hours cutting and stitching in their spare time after hay had been made, eggs gathered, pigs fed and cows milked.
‘But do I love him?’ Grace’s plaintive question filled the small room.
Brenda frowned as she took in the cross-stitched pictures of poppies above Grace’s bed. Wherever she cast her gaze, the plain whitewashed walls displayed examples of a younger Grace’s craft skills – pressed flowers and clover leaves in small frames beneath an intricate marquetry picture of a sailing ship. The iron bedstead was covered by a patchwork quilt, the starched pillow cases were edged with daisy embroidery. What a leap it would be from this old-fashioned, nun-like space to married life with Bill Mostyn. ‘Of course you do,’ she faltered.
‘Why? Why do I love him?’
Una stepped into the silent breach. ‘Because you’ll always be able to rely on Bill. You can trust him and know that he won’t let you down.’
Brenda nudged her with her elbow and tutted. ‘Hush – Grace isn’t thinking of buying a second-hand car!’
‘No – you have to be able to rely on the man you marry.’ Una defended her opinion with flushed cheeks. That was the thing about her Angelo – though he was an Italian prisoner of war presently working hundreds of miles away in the Greenock docks, she would trust him with her life.
‘I do know that,’ Grace agreed. ‘I’m not saying that Bill is unreliable. I’m only trying to get clear in my mind the reasons why I said yes to marrying him.’
‘Because he’s the best-looking man in Burnside?’ Brenda chipped in. ‘Call me shallow, but that would be good enough reason for me.’
‘Because he’s kind,’ Una added, using her own elbow against Brenda hard enough to knock her to one side. Trust Brenda to put her foot in it by calling to mind the time last winter when she had set her own cap at Bill.
Her fellow bridesmaid was not to be put off. ‘And he drives a nice car and owns the whole of Mostyn Tractor Repair Company now that his old man has kicked the bucket.’
Grace put up her hands in surrender. ‘All right, you win,’ she said with a sigh. It was time to dismiss her doubts and pull herself together, to go through with what she’d promised. ‘That’s enough about how I’m feeling. What about you two?’
‘Nervous as a kitten,’ Una confessed.
‘Tip-top,’ Brenda contradicted. ‘Who wouldn’t be? The bride is beautiful, the sun has come out and the church bells are starting to ring.’
As she spoke, a loud peal of bells woke up the slumbering main street. It coincided with the arrival of twenty Land Girls in the back of a lorry borrowed from the Canadian Air Force base on Penny Lane. They piled out on to the pavement in breeches and jumpers, felt hats tilted at jaunty angles – Kathleen Hirst and Elsie Walker among them. Kathleen spotted Una at Grace’s bedroom window and waved up at her. Elsie stayed in the lorry to hand down rakes and pitchforks to the waiting gang.
‘The guard of honour has arrived,’ Una reported to Brenda and Grace. She spotted Joyce handing out white buttonholes to Jean Fox and the two new girls, Doreen Wells and Poppy Gledhill.
‘Oh, Lord!’ Grace drew a deep breath. ‘I mustn’t be late. Brenda, lend me a hand with my make-up. Una, are my stocking seams straight? These shoes feel much too tight. I’m sure I’ve gone and bought the wrong size.’
The groom had decided to leave his car at home and walk arm in arm with his mother the short distance from their house at the bottom end of the main street to St Michael’s in the centre of the village. There they would meet his best man, Jack Hudson. Jack and he would escort Edith down the aisle to the empty front pew on the groom’s side. Jack would sit with her to keep her company while Bill waited at the altar.
He heard the familiar click of the garden gate shutting behind them as they set off and the sound of his steel-tipped heels clipping the pavement. His mother leaned lightly on his arm.
Edith Mostyn had taken a long time to dress, even though she’d chosen her outfit weeks before – a slim-fitting grey linen suit with a heathery tinge that would sit well alongside the bridesmaid’s lilac dresses. Bill’s mother cared about such things. Her blouse was made of deep purple silk to match the shallow-brimmed hat perched to one side of her head. A delicate black veil hung over the brim to cover half of her face.
‘How do I look?’ she’d asked before they set off.
‘Champion,’ he’d told her in the reassuring tone his father would have used.
And now here they were, walking up the street under fresh green lime trees and silver birches, recognizing every crack in the pavement and every moss-covered stone in the wall. They passed the first of two street lamps and a pothole in the road where Neville Thomson’s cart had come to grief a week before – the wooden axle had broken and the cart’s load of horse muck had spilled across the road. It had stayed there for two whole days, causing a terrible stink, until Maurice Baxendale had loaded it into the back of his van and driven it away.
Bill’s mother gripped his arm a little tighter as they reached the second lamp post and spied the Land Girls gathered outside the church. As the local Land Army representative she was anxious for the girls to be on best behaviour throughout the day. She needn’t have worried, for the moment they spotted the groom and his mother approaching the church, they formed straight lines to either side of the path and raised their pitchforks and rakes to make a ceremonial arch. Edith gave a stiff smile as she processed beneath it.
The bells rang loud and clear as Bill and his mother shook hands with Jack in the church porch. The best man was bursting with pride in his chief petty officer’s uniform, resplendent with braided cuffs, with his white cap worn low on his forehead. He winked at Bill as they entered the church. Heads turned. The women assessed Edith’s outfit while the men waited impatiently for things to get under way. At the front of the church on the bride’s side, Edgar sat and stared straight ahead, his emotions unexpectedly stirred by the pealing bells and the solemn face of the vicar taking his place with Bill at the altar. Now they must wait for the bride.
In spite of the last-minute rush, Grace stood ready in the pub yard before the bells fell silent. Una and Brenda fussed at her dress and
adjusted their own headdresses – smaller, less elaborate versions of the one Grace was wearing – while Joyce dashed across the road to hand the bride her bouquet.
‘Your posies are waiting for you in the porch,’ she muttered hastily to the bridesmaids before hurrying back to take up her position among the ranked Land Girls.
Grace looked around for her father, of whom she’d seen neither hide nor hair all morning. Where on earth was he?
‘Wait here. I’ll go and find him.’ Interpreting Grace’s anxious glance and knowing that Cliff Kershaw wasn’t in the house, Una ran towards the forge and discovered him there, his jowly face mottled from the build-up of nerves, his celluloid collar buttoned tight around his neck, watch chain looped across his broad chest over a brown three-piece suit. ‘Hurry up – Grace is waiting for you,’ she told him.
He glanced around at the tools of his blacksmithing trade – bellows against the wall, empty furnace door hanging open, leather apron slung across the anvil, hammers of varying sizes suspended from iron hooks – and seemed to draw comfort from them. ‘I don’t know why a wedding has to come with all this faff,’ he muttered in a voice thickened by cigarette smoke, alcohol and old age. ‘Especially when there’s a war on.’
‘The “faff” is what it’s all about, Mr Kershaw.’ Una smiled and squeezed the old man’s arm then led him out of the smithy. ‘There’s Grace – now, doesn’t she look lovely?’
‘The spitting image of her mother on her wedding day,’ he mumbled, too low to be heard. Struck by the similarity, he strode ahead to join his daughter.
Strains of organ music issued from the church as Grace took her father’s arm and the bridal party crossed the empty street. Joyce, Kathleen, Elsie and the rest formed the arch for a second time.
‘Rightio, here we go!’ Brenda murmured as Grace and her father paused nervously in the porch. She signalled their arrival to the usher, Maurice Baxendale, who passed the information to his brother, Bob, waiting by the organ pipes, who in turn prompted Esther Liddell.
Bill cleared his throat and cast a look of panic in Jack’s direction. He saw his mother with her chin tilted upwards, swallowing hard and already fighting back tears. Then, inside the porch, he glimpsed a woman in a white dress next to a stocky, balding figure. It was Grace and Cliff. The wedding was about to start.
As the organist struck up the ‘Wedding March’, Grace held her bouquet at chest height like a shield and breathed in the fusty smell of dust rising in the summer heat. She turned to her father and smiled.
CHAPTER TWO
‘I’ll let you all in on a little secret.’ Jack Hudson’s best man’s speech drew to a close. He’d listed Bill’s good points – his generosity towards his pals (he’d never, in all the years Jack had known him, missed paying for his round of drinks in the Blacksmith’s Arms), his decent and fair way of conducting business (everyone knew they wouldn’t be over-charged or short-changed when Bill Mostyn mended your tractor), his willingness to shoulder sole responsibility for the firm after the recent sad death of his father (a gentle nod at this point towards Edith, who acknowledged the respectful reference with another stiff smile). ‘In spite of all the nice things I’ve listed,’ Jack concluded from the head of the long table running down the centre of the Institute hall, ‘and this is a big “but” – Bill is a devil for being the first under the shower after a Saturday-afternoon football match. He may be a gentleman on the pitch – no foul tackles when the ref’s back is turned – but if Bill finds himself at the back of the queue for a shower in the changing room afterwards, he won’t think twice about shoulder-charging his way to the front. He sends bars of soap, loofahs and what have you flying in his rush to get there.’
‘That’s right!’ The Baxendale brothers banged the table. ‘He does it every time.’
‘You hear that, Mr White – the Institute needs more showers.’ Neville Thomson from Brigg Farm added his raucous twopenn’orth. ‘The two we have aren’t anywhere near enough. And the water’s always cold by the time I get there.’
Arnold White leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on his sons’ shoulders. ‘I don’t hear these two boys complaining.’
‘That’s because Donald and Les always shoot straight off home after a match. They can have a shower at your house any day of the week.’ Maurice followed young Neville in putting his head above the parapet. Old man White was a fast-talking, hard-headed farmer who resented any hint of criticism. And the fact was that he, along with the Fosters of Hawkshead Manor, had control of the Institute purse strings.
Though it was the natural choice of venue for wedding receptions, Saturday-night hops and Christmas pantomimes, the fifty-year-old Village Institute building was showing its age. Limewash flaked from its walls and the leaking central-heating pipes left rusty puddles on the wooden floor. The red velvet curtains across stage and windows were faded, the room was still lit by gaslight and, more to the point, the changing-room facilities were definitely below par.
‘I’ll put it on the agenda for the next committee meeting,’ Arnold grunted as he thrust his weight forward and the front legs of his chair thudded down. The fifty-eight-year-old widower gave off an air of prosperity in his dark, double-breasted suit and expensive silk tie. ‘But there’s a good deal of costly plumbing involved in that sort of thing, so don’t build up your hopes.’
Jack tapped the table with the end of his knife to restore order. ‘You’re sorry I brought it up, eh, Bill?’
‘Yes, move on,’ the groom prompted with a good-natured grin. ‘But I’ll thank you not to let on about any of my other bad habits.’
‘You mean leaving the toilet seat up and the lid off the tin of boot polish, shying away from spiders in the bath …’ Jack counted off sly examples on his fingers.
‘Hush, Grace doesn’t need to know any of this until after her honeymoon, poor love.’ Joyce’s intervention drew smiles from everyone.
‘Anyway, taking a shower isn’t a crime.’ Brenda spoke from her seat next to Una near the top of the table. ‘In fact, in my opinion a man can’t be too keen on personal hygiene – especially not at close quarters, if you know what I mean.’
She raised an eyebrow at the innuendo, which was greeted with a laugh and a few suppressed giggles.
‘Move on, Jack,’ Bill urged again. He clasped Grace’s hand reassuringly. These speeches took some getting through, though the bride’s father’s had been mercifully short and sweet, ending in a toast, and Bill had restricted his own to the obligatory thanks to bridesmaids and ushers followed by more deeply felt compliments to Grace. Now, once Jack had stumbled to the end of the speechifying, the room could be cleared to allow a four-piece band to set up their instruments and the dancing would begin.
‘How do you think the day went?’ Grace was anxious to hear Joyce’s answer as they sat together in a quiet corner of the bar. It was early evening, after the band at the Institute had packed up and left, prompting the remaining wedding guests to repair to the Blacksmith’s Arms. The pub door was open and late sun streamed into the low-ceilinged, oak-panelled room.
Joyce, who had changed out of her uniform into a summer dress of green printed cotton, squeezed Grace’s hand. ‘Swimmingly. It couldn’t have gone better.’
Grace’s mind flew back over the day’s events – the solemn march up the aisle with her father; Bill’s pale, serious face as he’d made his vows; the new Land Girl, Doreen Wells, jumping high in the air outside the church to catch the bride’s bouquet. ‘What about the speeches?’
‘All tickety-boo,’ Joyce insisted. She glanced towards the bar to see Grace’s father at home behind his row of beer pumps – jacket off, sleeves rolled up, serving with a genial smile. Edgar was there too, looking relaxed as he pushed pint glasses over the counter towards Bill, Jack and Maurice. ‘I’m glad your dad made mention of Edgar. It showed everyone how proud he is of him.’
‘Yes, Edgar’s come on a long way since Christmas.’ Grace stared fondly at her brother. ‘I have
n’t had much time to talk to him, though. And before we know it he’ll be back in action and I’ll have to start worrying about him all over again.’
‘I noticed the two White brothers squirm when your dad praised him.’
Grace scanned the room for the White contingent and spotted them in a snug alcove next to the inglenook. Arnold and his two sons had been joined by a late arrival in the shape of Donald and Les’s sister, Hettie, who had stepped into her mother’s shoes after Mary White’s death ten years earlier. Hettie White was now in her mid thirties, the oldest of the three siblings and a force to be reckoned with; a handsome woman with strong, symmetrical features and a sweep of almost black hair lifted back from her high, wide forehead into a fashionable chignon. ‘Why – what did Dad say to offend them?’
‘It wasn’t so much what he said as the long sideways look he gave them. Donald’s got himself a bad name for avoiding conscription a couple of times.’
Living away from the Land Girls’ hostel, Grace sometimes missed such gossip. ‘Oh, on what grounds?’
‘The first time around it was because he claimed he had polio as a child.’
‘And did he?’
Joyce shrugged. ‘More recently it was because he told them he was a Quaker and a pacifist.’
Grace raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘But the Whites are Catholics.’
‘You and I know that but the authorities didn’t cotton on, so they accepted his excuses and made him join the Home Guard instead. It’s a safe enough bet – everyone knows there’s not much call for buckets of sand and stirrup pumps in this neck of the woods.’
Grace nodded thoughtfully. ‘It can only be a matter of time before Les gets his call-up papers, though. What is he now – twenty-one or twenty-two?’
Joyce shrugged her shoulders. ‘Something like that. Meanwhile, rumour has it that Brenda has got her eye on him so the poor boy had better watch out.’