Miss Carter's War

by Sheila Hancock

  Tony gasped in mock horror.

  ‘Well, that’s shocking. You probably can’t drive at all. You just seduced the examiner, whereas I—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, actually, so did I. He was a big butch marine, who taught me to drive trucks. Irresistible.’

  So it was that Gladys came into their lives. She was chubby and pea green. Marguerite had already seen her in the local garage. She was a convertible Morris 1000 and she was beautiful. They christened her Gladys to stop her getting above herself.

  Marguerite had looked up the few cars in production, becoming quite expert on motor engineering in the process. In the showroom, she asked the slick young salesman, ‘What is the petrol consumption?’

  Looking at Tony, the salesman replied, ‘About 36 miles per gallon, sir.’

  She tried again.

  ‘And the top speed?’

  ‘It can do a staggering 65 miles per hour, sir.’

  ‘What about the 60 seconds’ acceleration?’

  ‘Oh, an amazing 52 seconds, sir.’

  Marguerite let rip.

  ‘It may have escaped your notice, but I am wearing a skirt. And my anatomy differs from yours in the chest area. I am not a sir – I am a madam.’

  The man was genuinely taken aback, fearful of losing a sale.

  ‘I am so sorry. . . . The seats are very comfy, miss.’

  Marguerite was now in schoolmistress mode.

  ‘No, not miss – madam, to you, if you don’t mind. Call me madam.’

  Tony started humming ‘You’re Just In Love.’ To which she snapped, ‘And you can shut up too, you – you – man.’

  Now feeling fairly stupid, Marguerite could not be bothered to quibble over the fact that the hire purchase agreement had to be in the man’s name, even though the car would be jointly owned. But she gave Tony no choice as to who drove the car out of the garage. She took the exit through the narrow doorway like a demented kangaroo.

  ‘Watch it – madam,’ gulped Tony.

  ‘Shut up, I’ve passed my test.’

  ‘Yes, but only by using female wiles – madam.’

  She cycles unsteadily, balancing the basket of washing on her handlebars. The Haricots Verts whistle and laugh as she approaches the checkpoint. She slides her skirt up her thighs. They signal that they want to search her, assuming she doesn’t understand German. She leaps off the bike, bends down exhibiting her cleavage as she places the basket on the ground, and raises her arms, presenting her body for examination. The soldier lasciviously feels her all over, commenting lewdly to his colleague. When he has finished, she winks at him and puts the basket back on the bike, cycling away as fast as she can, lest he remember to look inside it. Back in the village she strips off and pours a bucket of cold water from the well over herself, before taking the radio out from the linen, and arranging for a parachute drop of weapons the next day.

  The car made life much easier for Marguerite. On their Good Food jaunts, long journeys on a motorbike, especially in bad weather, could be miserable. Marguerite could hardly stand when they arrived at their destinations, and it was difficult to appear respectable at dinner in the more elegant dining rooms after her hair had been blown around and often rained on, and any frock crushed into the saddle bag had come out not looking its best.

  They decided on a long first trip to run-in the car’s engine. They ventured onto the terrifying new M1 motorway that led to the north of England. The windscreen became black with pulverised insects, confused by the invasion of their territories. With the roof down, the weather having at last cheered up, singing away to Tony’s state-of-the-art transistor wireless all the pop songs that poor Miss Fryer despised, they had the time of their lives, once they got over the size of the road.

  The hotel they chose for the initiation of Gladys was on the edge of Lake Ullswater in the Lake District. It turned out to be a good choice. It had been opened by a young ex-Spitfire pilot Francis Coulson, who had used his demob pay to buy some saucepans, arriving in 1947 at a virtually derelict house. He set about turning it into what he called a Country House Hotel. Joined a few years later by a businessman, Brian Sack, who became his lover, they created a place to restore the soul. Marguerite and Tony sensed there was no need to perform their usual married-couple charade. Francis and Brian were indifferent to their status.

  Marguerite had long since stopped thinking of Tony as a sexual partner, but the next morning, in the four-poster bed, gazing through the swagged curtains to the view beyond, supping on champagne provided by Francis, and with the memory of that desperate kiss on the CND march, she could not help but speculate about being there with a true lover. They chatted affectionately about the view and the sticky toffee pudding but soon ran out of small talk.

  There was an uneasy silence, then Tony got out of the bed and stood looking down at her.

  ‘You need a man. It should be easy enough for you to find one. You’ve got lovely lallies and gorgeous long willets.’

  ‘I presume that’s a compliment, is it?’

  ‘Yes, you’re beautiful. Any omi would give his eye teeth for you.’

  ‘Well, I much prefer you to a man with missing teeth.’

  ‘Don’t be flippant. I mean it. It’s not right.’

  Tony sat on the window seat with his back to her.

  After a long pause he said, ‘We’re weird. You know that, don’t you?’

  Marguerite laughed.

  ‘What’s brought this on?’

  ‘Seeing those two old poofs together, so full of love. They have a proper relationship. We don’t. I go off and have my sordid little adventures and you have nothing.’

  She still did not mention Jimmy, as what had happened, or had not happened, on the march would be unlikely to satisfy Tony’s ambition for her.

  ‘I have you.’

  ‘Which bit of me? Who the hell am I?’

  ‘Oh don’t go all existential on me.’

  ‘No, truly, Mags. I’m such a phoney. Look at me. All my left-wing ranting about the working classes, and here I am, like all the middle-class Marxists that I despise, sitting in a luxury hotel, stuffing myself with gourmet food and drinking champagne for breakfast. And pretending to be married. When I am queer. And where does that leave you?’

  ‘Oh shut up, Tony. We’re fine.’

  ‘No we’re bloody not.’

  Marguerite knew that when Tony got into one of his self-hating states of mind, there was little she could do to talk him out of it. She needed to be practical.

  ‘Tony, I have an idea. It’s not too much of a detour to go home via Oldham. Why not go there and let me meet your parents?’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘You said you didn’t know who you were. Why not go back and remind yourself? You know it cheers you up to see them. And I would love to meet them.’

  ‘But they don’t know—’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll not tell any secrets. You can trust me. I’m just one of your colleagues at work.’

  ‘They’ll have a heart attack if we just turn up, especially in a car. I shouldn’t think one’s ever been down our road.’

  ‘Let’s stay another night here, and send them a telegram.’

  ‘They’ll think I’ve died when the telegraph boy turns up.’

  ‘Well, it’ll be a nice surprise to find out you haven’t.’

  Tony knelt back on the bed and kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘Thank you, my darling. You’re right. I would like them to meet the love of my life.’

  ‘I suspect you haven’t found him yet. But that’s sweet of you.’

  ‘I meant Gladys.’

  When they left, Brian and Francis saw them off. They blushed with pride, and Francis babbled denials when Marguerite said how wonderful the hotel was.

  Brian smiled at Francis.

  ‘It’s that man. He’s a genius.’

  ‘No no,’ said Francis. ‘It’s him, the old fool.’ And he kissed him on the cheek.
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  Brian drew away, looking around.

  ‘Careful, my love.’

  As they drove off, waving to Brian and Francis, Marguerite felt angry.

  ‘They have achieved so much together. It’s unfair that they should be made to feel ashamed.’

  ‘Life is,’ Tony muttered. ‘Unfair, I mean. As you’re about to see.’

  Chapter 18

  Tony was uncharacteristically quiet on the drive to Oldham. There was sweat on his upper lip and he gripped the steering wheel unnecessarily hard.

  ‘Tony, let’s stop and take the roof off then we can enjoy the scenery.’

  The landscape of the Dales was eerie in the misty morning. Great sweeping curves, broken by drystone walls and the occasional, often ruined, grey building, although some of the old weavers’ cottages with their long upper windows were still in use. Here and there was a large grand house created from the money made from wool, cotton and coal. ‘Rich bastards,’ was Tony’s only comment. They drove through towns thrown up around mills and coalmines, where the workers lived far less luxuriously.

  Marguerite had never seen a town like Oldham. Rows and rows of red-brick, tiny, back-to-back houses, black with the soot that belched from factory chimneys, and opening straight onto cobbled roads. No gardens, no colour, no cheer. No life.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ whispered Marguerite, as they stopped at the end of one of the identical streets on a steep hill, deserted apart from a woman on her knees scrubbing the narrow pavement in front of her house.

  ‘At work,’ answered Tony. ‘That’s all people do here. Work. Apart of course from drink and gamble. Every other corner is an illegal betting shop, or a pub serving drinks after hours. It’s a great life, I tell you. You’d love it.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘I couldn’t wait to bloody leave.’

  ‘What are we doing sitting here?’

  Tony explained that his parents wouldn’t yet be home from the local cotton mill where they still worked long hours in their late fifties.

  ‘He won’t take a penny from me, the stubborn old fool. He’d rather starve. She won’t want you to see her before she’s had a chance to smarten up.’

  As they sat in the car, the scene in front of them gradually changed. Children started running home from school or walking hand in hand with their grannies. They began playing in the streets; hopscotch, marbles, ball and, of course, football. One little girl started vigorously revolving a hula hoop around her skinny hips. Then, a crescending noise heralded the approach of a crowd of chattering men and women, clack-clacking up the road in wooden clogs. As they watched them Tony told her the footwear was not only cheap but suitable for the wet and oily floors in the mill, although some went barefoot, and some men shirtless, to help cope with the eighty-degree heat and humidity necessary for the weaving of the cotton. Few wore the masks provided to protect them from the clouds of dust and fluff, or the earmuffs to help lessen the horrendous rattle of the machinery.

  ‘Everyone can lip-read. It would be a good place to come if you were deaf,’ said Tony. ‘Mind you, you might get cancer of the lung from the air in there.’

  Despite this gloomy description, the scene now unfolding was one of cheerful animation. People laughed, and gossiped, played with the children, and the grey setting was made colourful by the women’s bright cotton overalls and headscarves. Some of the young women stood in groups, arms around each other, others sat on the doorsteps and kerbs smoking a cigarette and enjoying the late-day hazy sun.

  ‘Poor sods, what a place,’ muttered Tony.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Marguerite. ‘It looks beautiful now. It just needed the people.’

  ‘OK,’ said Tony. ‘Hold tight. Here goes.’ He started the engine and drove slowly out of the shadows.

  As Gladys wove her way up the road, everyone stopped and stared. A couple of men cleared the way for the car, and the women shepherded the children onto the pavement, and held them protectively. Then an elderly woman, in a black dress with a shawl round her shoulders, shouted, ‘Eeup, it’s tha’ li’l booger Tony Stansfield, ent it? In a bloody car.’

  Now the fearful mood turned to one of incredulity. Eight or nine surrounded the car, bringing it to a halt. Children clambered into the back, and everyone cheered, and shook his hand. The royal family could not have had a more ecstatic welcome.

  Several of the women gabbled happily to Marguerite, but she was finding it difficult to understand the accent. Tony was having no such difficulty, having lapsed into the vernacular.

  ‘It’s gradely ter see y’all.’

  He parked Gladys at the kerb, warned the children not to touch the handbrake, and got out. Taking Marguerite’s hand, he weaved his way through the excited little crowd, greeting most of the adults by name, and the children as ‘flower’ or ‘sweetheart’. Marguerite was moved by their obvious affection for Tony, and their seeming delight that, as several patting him on his back acknowledged, he had become ‘reet posh’ or ‘a proper swankpot’ with ‘a fancy car an’ all’.

  Tony led Marguerite to a house in front of which stood an awkward-looking couple, who in contrast to the overalls, aprons, flat caps and curlers of their neighbours, were very definitely in their Sunday Best. The man, tall, grey-haired, with Tony’s good looks, in a shiny black suit, with waistcoat but no tie and laced-up boots, shook him formally by the hand.

  ‘Ello, son, glad yer ’ere. Yer mam’s been mithering me to death since yer telegram.’

  Tony leant down and kissed his small, frail-looking mother on the forehead.

  ‘Hello, Mam, you look a bobby dazzler in that frock.’

  ‘It’s only an old utility thing.’ She cast an anxious glance at Marguerite.

  ‘It’s lovely, Mrs Stansfield. Really lovely.’ Marguerite felt a ripple pass through the onlookers and was aware her voice sounded out of place.

  ‘This is Marguerite. Marguerite, my mum and dad, Ethel and Bert.’

  More handshaking.

  ‘Reet, cum in t’ house,’ Bert said, before shouting, ‘Oi you, gerroff that car or I’ll gie yer a bunch of fives.’

  The children squealed and after some banter he closed the front door on them.

  It led directly into a small dark room with a sofa, and armchair with protective antimacassars. As she and Tony hesitated on the threshold, Marguerite noticed numerous pictures on the walls, and knick-knacks on the mantelpiece, photos of royalty, a studio photo of Tony as a child, religious icons, mementoes of Blackpool, a faded photo of his father in a uniform, a sepia wedding photo.

  Tony’s father was about to open a door when Ethel told him, ‘Dad, we’re in ’ere. I’ll mash some tea and we’ll sup it in t’ parlour.’

  ‘Oh la-di-da,’ laughed Tony.

  ‘Excuse me, could I use the toilet,’ asked Marguerite.

  There was an embarrassed pause.

  ‘She means the lavvy, Mam. I’ll take her.’

  Tony led Marguerite through the adjoining room, which had a big black stove, and table and chairs, and then through a tiny room with an old-fashioned sink and mangle, and finally into a yard at the back.

  ‘There it is, in all its glory,’ said Tony.

  He showed her to the corner of the cracked paving and lifted the latch on a wooden door. Inside, across the wall, was a wooden box-like fixture, topped by a well-scrubbed lid with a hole in the middle.

  ‘I used to sit in here for hours as a kid. Only place I could get a bit of peace. The neighbours had to thump on the door. It’s shared by four families. I give you fair warning, Mags. Don’t ask for a bath. It’ll be a tin thing in front of the stove.’

  ‘Good Lord, Tony – in this day and age?’

  ‘I know, I know,’ and he shook his head in disgust. ‘Bit different from Ullswater, eh?’

  When they returned, Bert was seated uncomfortably in the stiff armchair, and Tony and Marguerite were told to ‘perch on’t couch’. Ethel brought in a tray of tea poured into pretty china cups.

/>   ‘Blimey, Mam. We are privileged. I ’aven’t seen those since Granddad’s funeral. It’s usually a pint pot.’

  ‘Well, this is a special occasion. Meeting your lass for the first time. I’m sorry if the house is a bit of a midden, but I couldn’t risk taking time off.’

  Bert interrupted, ‘There ’ent the demand for cotton no more. They’re laying people off and the bastard owners are bringing in foreigners to work cheap. They’ll do nights an’ all. Mind you, they’re good workers, them. And we have a laff. Pakis mainly.’

  Tony went to protest but Marguerite nudged him. Instead he said, ‘Do you meet outside the mill? At the pub?’

  ‘No, son. They live up Glodwich way. Got their own religion and all that. And that funny food. Stinks, it does. Not for me, thank you. I prefer fish and chips.’

  Turning to Marguerite Bert said, ‘You know what Oldham’s famous for, Marguerite?’

  ‘Apart from your son – no.’

  ‘Chips. We invented ’em, yer know. Aye, that’s our claim to fame.’

  Ethel interrupted, ‘And weaving. We’re good at that too, Dad. Or were. Don’t think it’ll last much longer.’

  Bert pulled a face at her.

  ‘Now, Mother, we mustn’t be all mardy in front of this bonny lass. I’m sweating cobs here. I’m going to get out of these keks, now you’ve seen how posh I am, Margaret, and my lad and I’ll go down to the pub and get kaylied, while you ladies get the tea ready. Eh, son?’

  It didn’t sound like the ideal outing for Tony, but he nodded bravely.

  In their absence it was easier for Marguerite to get to know Ethel. The tea was a local speciality called Rag Pudding, minced meat and onions and potato inside a suet crust wrapped in a cotton rag. This was boiling happily in a large pot on top of the stove, so there was little to do. Marguerite resolved, without betraying Tony’s secret, to somehow put a stop to any unrealistic expectations on Ethel’s part.

  When she said shyly, ‘You are a really lovely lass. My boy is very lucky,’ Marguerite replied, ‘Yes. We get on very well. We have a lot in common.’