Outside, she was caught up in the atmosphere of the fair and forgot her brush with Danny. Waves of music came to her over the noise of the crowds. It was funny how she didn’t like merry-making yet she could never resist the May Fair, the smell of roasting meat on the spit, the tunes coming from all directions, the laughter of children.
Standing in front of the skittle alley, the swing boats riding high with their shrieking occupants behind her, a boxing booth next door with a crowd of young lads daring each other, she was all at once overcome with a longing to be carefree. Sometimes it hit her like this, like a weakness, and she let her desires control her imagination. She wanted all at once to have her own child by the hand, have her own man beside her, swing into the air, waste money on side-shows and rides, and kick away the traces of her conforming, non-conformist life.
‘Miss Shrigley!’
The spell was broken. Old Mrs Gallimore was waving to her, trying to reach her through the crush. Carrie went towards her.
‘Can yer come? Our Brenda’s time’s come,’ Mrs Gallimore jabbered anxiously.
‘Have you sent for Martha?’ Carrie asked calmly.
‘Haven’t you heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘Martha Cooper was widdered this afternoon,’ Mrs Gallimore went on. ‘It’s all over the town. Her husband had a seizure and dropped dead on’t spot. There’s nobody else can deliver a baby proper-like. Will yer come?’
‘Yes.’ Carrie gave Mrs Gallimore a gentle push in the direction of the Hundred and Eight steps. ‘Get back to your Brenda. Tell her I’m on my way. I’ll fetch my things.’
While Brenda was labouring, old Mrs Gallimore told Carrie all she knew about the death of Jack Cooper. Young Nat, who had been injured and was lame, would have to run the farm with the help of his mother. The boy was only about fourteen years of age. Things would be hard for Martha Cooper for the next few years. The expectant mothers would not see much of Martha for a while.
It was two o’clock in the morning before Brenda Gallimore had been delivered of twin girls. Later, when she returned to the Temperance Hotel in the early hours, Carrie had come to a decision.
He’d not deny it like his brother was doing. Not him. Not Patrick Kennedy. In the sideboard cupboard was an ebony box inlaid with ivory. In it were her writing things. She could take his address from the last letter he’d sent to Danny. They always left them on the mantelshelf at Wells Road.
He would have to say it, in writing. She must have it recognised for her own satisfaction. He was the only person in the world, beside herself, to whom the facts of Rose’s birth mattered.
She went to her desk, spread a piece of deckle-edged note-paper out on her blotting pad, dipped the J-nibbed pen into the little china inkwell and, in the large sprawling hand she had never been able to reduce to a neat copperplate, she wrote.
‘Dear Patrick,’ she began, ‘You will be surprised to hear from me after so long. Here are a few snapshots of me and our daughter, Rose.’
Chapter Eight
Alan’s old playroom had been converted into a study and Rose, now an eleven-year-old schoolgirl, sat on the cushioned window seat that ran round the square bay. Her hair had been tortured into plaits and she fiddled with the green satin ribbons where they lay on her shoulder. The rain drove relentlessly against the leaded window panes and the April garden was sodden and dreary.
‘When do you sit the scholarship?’ Alan asked.
Rose wanted to laugh at his bony wrists sticking out from his new school jacket. She wondered when he was going to stop growing. He was nearly as tall as his father and he wasn’t fourteen yet.
She threw the pigtail back and smiled. ‘Next week. I’m dreading it,’ she told him. ‘I’m sure I’ll never pass the thing and Aunt Carrie’ll be mortified.’
Alan placed his armchair in front of her and stretched out his long legs. ‘If you don’t get to Macclesfield High will you be very disappointed?’
‘Yes. I think I’ll die. I want to go. Though it was Aunt Carrie’s idea that I try. Mum and Dad wouldn’t mind if I went to the Catholic secondary.’ Rose looked down at her wrinkled black stockings and began to hitch them up, pinching and pulling at the thick black cotton. ‘It’s the Latin I’m weak on,’ she said. ‘Please, Alan. Test me on the accusative, will you?’
‘You’re all right on it. We went through it again yesterday,’ he said. ‘You’ll pass the Latin. Easily.’
She glared at him. ‘It’s all right for you. You did it at school. Aunt Carrie had to pay for a tutor for me.’
He gave her his oh-dear-me face, the one he made to tease her. Rose stuck her tongue out at him quickly before starting to giggle as she always did.
‘Your Aunt Carrie’ll want her money’s worth,’ he said. ‘Is she just as bossy with Mary and Vivienne?’
‘No.’ Rose thought it a funny idea that Mary and Vivienne might be made to do anything. ‘They’re a bit slow. I don’t think they’ll ever learn much. Vivienne can only just read and she’s been at school for three years.’
‘Just because you’re a little brain-box it doesn’t mean that they’re daft,’ Alan said. ‘You could help them.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean that they’re backward,’ she replied hastily. ‘It’s just that, me being the eldest, my aunt seems to expect me to do everything.’
‘Does she still boss your mother and father about?’ Alan asked.
‘I once asked why they let her do it,’ Rose said.
‘What did they say?’
‘Mum said, “She can’t help it, she’s had a hard life”, and Dad just laughed and said, “Don’t let her worry you, my darling. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”.’ Rose threw her arms outwards in a dramatic gesture as she spoke, making him smile with her.
‘Maybe she was jilted or something,’ Alan said before adding, ‘I don’t think anyone would dare jilt your aunt, do you?’
‘I can’t imagine anyone daring to ask her for anything, never mind her hand in marriage.’ Her face went serious for a second. ‘Dad shouldn’t say things like that. It’s not kind. Aunt Carrie really loves us all.’
‘She’s keen for you to pass the scholarship, isn’t she?’ Alan said.
‘Yes. That’s odd too because if I get to the High School I’ll be making a lot of new friends. Aunt Carrie hates it if I talk about people she doesn’t know. She always says “Why do you bother with them?” I don’t know why she never invites Mary and Viv. Every Sunday afternoon she comes for me after her Sunday school.’
There were some bullseyes on the table. Alan reached over and threw one to Rose. Her hand shot out and she caught it whilst hardly stopping for breath. ‘Where does she take you?’
She was trying to articulate her words with the handicap of a mouthful of bullseye. ‘We go trailing through the cemetery so she can see who’s put fresh flowers on the graves. Then we walk round the swings. And they’re padlocked on Sundays! Then we go to her hotel for an hour before she takes me home.’
She didn’t bother to tell Alan but Aunt Carrie’s bedroom was lovely, and sometimes she’d beg her aunt to allow her to play in there and use all the things on her dressing table: the Yardley’s lavender, the Oatine cleansing cream, the Grossmith face powder and the talcum powder in a box with painted ostrich feathers round the rim. Rose loved the smell of Aunt Carrie’s bedroom and the feel of Aunt Carrie’s silky soft hand in her own as they walked home again. Aunt Carrie was a very strange woman.
‘Perhaps she wishes she’d got children of her own,’ Alan said.
‘Perhaps,’ she agreed noisily. ‘But I don’t want to talk any more about Aunt Carrie. It’s wrong to talk about people behind their backs. Help me with the Latin, Alan. Please!’
The Kennedys’ house was sparsely furnished. The floors were covered in linoleum with a pattern of orange and brown squares against a dun-coloured background. The living room had a thick rag mat in front of the fire, two armchairs with railed sides, an unpolished table an
d six Windsor chairs.
There was a front room, where Aunt Carrie kept a piano and a grandfather clock, both securely locked. In this room stood two leatherette armchairs and a whatnot. The front room had a carpet, grey and brown with a patterned border, and a framed photograph of a white building in Canberra, sent by Uncle Patrick, over the fireplace.
The room was opened at Christmas and on special occasions, as on the day the results were announced.
Rose was up early. There were two letters on the mat. One was a buff, official envelope addressed to her and the other, with the Canadian stamp, was from Uncle Patrick.
She tore open the buff envelope and read; ‘You have been awarded the Open Scholarship to Macclesfield High School. Please indicate, by letter, if you intend to accept the place, which entitles you to free tuition for a maximum of seven years.’
There was more but Rose’s eyes kept returning to those first few magic words. ‘Mum! Dad! I’ve won it,’ she almost screamed. ‘I’ll go round and tell Alan.’
She would never forget that day. Alan’s father shook her hand and congratulated her. ‘You’ve done well, lass,’ he said. ‘You’ll go on now to great things. I’ve no doubt.’
Nan Tansley beamed, blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes with a large blue handkerchief. ‘Eeh, Rose. You’re a right clever girl,’ she said, over and over.
Alan, for the first time in his life, lifted her off her feet and hugged her. ‘I knew you’d get it,’ he said, looking as pleased as if he’d done it himself. ‘Just think, Rose. There are only three scholarship places for the whole town and you’ve won one. I’m proud of you.’
But it was Aunt Carrie’s face that was, in a way, the best part. After she told Alan, Rose went down to Waters Green to break the news. She ran all the way, eager to see Aunt Carrie’s eyes light up with pleasure, for they were close in a funny, arm’s length kind of way and she knew how much it would mean to her aunt.
Aunt Carrie was in the market, buying fruit from one of the stalls, when Rose spotted her. She slipped in between her aunt and a young woman who was buying, and pulled at the sleeve of Aunt Carrie’s tweed costume. Aunt Carrie wouldn’t want to be told here, ‘in front of folks’ as she’d likely say, so Rose said eagerly, ‘I’ve something to tell you, Aunt Carrie. Something really big, really wonderful. Have you finished shopping?’
‘Rose, love! You gave me a start,’ Aunt Carrie said in the voice that was meant to sound stern, but Rose knew was hiding fondness and indulgence for her favourite niece. ‘Whatever’s up?’
Rose tugged eagerly at her aunt, carried her shopping basket and urged her steps towards the Temperance Hotel. As soon as they had put the basket down on the kitchen table Rose took her aunt’s hands in hers and impulsively, though she knew Aunt Carrie liked to keep her distance, planted a great smacking kiss on the soft skin of her aunt’s cheek. ‘I’ve passed it!’ she said, excitement making her gabble. ‘The scholarship, Aunt Carrie! I’ve passed it.’
She stepped back and watched, in amazement and wonder, two great tears roll down Aunt Carrie’s cheeks. Then she saw her aunt fumble in her costume pocket for a handkerchief, remove her glasses and rub furiously. She watched the mighty nose-blowing that followed and, finally, she laughed out loud as a smile spread across Aunt Carrie’s face; a smile as proud as if she had passed the scholarship herself.
Aunt Carrie took her into town and opened a savings account for her, with three guineas in it. Then, as if that were not enough, bought her a leather satchel and took her to the cycle shop and bought her a bicycle – a lovely, black-painted bicycle with a basket on the front and a flat metal carrier on the back.
‘You’ll be able to ride home for your dinner, on that,’ Aunt Carrie said. ‘You’ll never be able to stomach school meals.’
There was a shiny new bell on the handlebars and it rang true and clear. There wouldn’t be a girl in Macclesfield so well blessed.
Rose rode the bicycle home to show to Dad when he came in for his dinner and, after the whole family had ridden it up and down Wells Road in turn, Dad sat at the table to read out Uncle Patrick’s letter.
Uncle Patrick was moving on again, by Canadian Pacific to Quebec:
‘The train is enormous,’ Dad read, ‘bigger than any you’ve ever seen. It is almost a quarter of a mile long with an eight-wheeled engine like a great iron monster that towers above the platform. Each wheel is taller than a man and the driver has to clamber up six steps to reach it.’
What an adventurous life Dad’s brother led, Rose thought as Dad turned the pages over and continued, ‘Steamers on the estuary of the St Lawrence . . . the great grey citadel that is Quebec . . .’ Uncle Patrick always finished by asking for their news, asking for snapshots of the family, enclosing pictures of him and John McGregor, Alan’s uncle.
What would high school be like? She’d read about girls’ boarding schools, where they had midnight feasts and tuck boxes and played lacrosse and tennis. Macclesfield High taught hockey and tennis. Macclesfield High was a day school and therefore not as grand as those she’d read about but the fees were high, the entrance exam was tough and it was recognised as the best school for miles around. High-school girls walked to school or came in by train from the country. Everyone in town recognised their distinctive uniform of navy blue and gold. Rose knew she’d love wearing hers but when the clothing list arrived by post, she and Mum read it with amazement and horror.
‘We’ll never be able to get all this, Mum,’ Rose breathed as her eyes ran down the long catalogue of necessities. ‘I have to have three of everything: dresses, gymslips, blouses and cardigans.’
Mum was silent.
‘And a velour hat, a Panama, winter coat, summer blazer, and a gabardine,’ Rose’s eyes were like saucers. ‘A tennis skirt, hockey skirt, dancing slip, hockey stick and tennis racquet, satchel, pencil box, purse, black shoes, sandals, plimsolls, dancing shoes. They even tell you what kind of stockings and knickers to buy.’ She sat down with a bump, on to the wooden armchair.
‘Are there really people in the world who can afford to buy all those things? All new? All at once?’ Rose read it again. ‘What will we do?’ she asked. ‘You can’t spend so much. And look. It says here that I have to go to the school next week to be measured for them. So we can’t make do with buying just one of everything. And you’ll not be able to make a coat, will you?’
Rose couldn’t bear to see the look of disappointment on Mum’s face. She swallowed hard and fought back her tears. ‘I’ll go to the Catholic senior, Mum,’ she said. ‘I really don’t care which I go to.’
Mum gave her a great big hug and, when she spoke, her voice sounded as if it were about to crack. ‘Don’t get upset. Wait until I’ve spoken to Aunt Carrie.’
Aunt Carrie paid for everything, even the Cash’s name tapes.
There were times, once she was actually there, when Rose wished she’d gone to an ordinary school. For here all the girls were rich, or so it seemed to her. Their parents paid fees. Only three scholarships were awarded every year and the scholars were treated differently.
It seemed to Rose that scholarship girls were despised because they didn’t live in grand houses, with parents who were important people. The girls always asked ‘What does your father do?’ as soon as they met a new girl and Rose, who was so proud of Dad, the best insurance salesman the County Insurance had ever had, had to endure their puzzled expressions and undecided air when she answered them.
Her worst moment came right at the start, on the first day when she put up her hand in class and before she could think, heard herself saying, ‘Please, Sister . . .’
The girls didn’t even try to hide their mirth. She felt a burning wave of colour spread over her cheeks when even the form mistress began to laugh.
It was even worse for the other scholarship girls. One of them had no father, the other’s was a labourer.
It was a whole year before she lost the feeling that she was a girl apart and found her
self becoming popular; found that the teachers liked her for her intelligence and the girls for her ability at games. Swots were looked down upon but if you could score more goals than anyone else on the hockey field, even at centre half, and had once taken the tennis coach to three sets you were revered.
She made one particular friend, Norah Blackford, another scholarship girl. Norah vied with Rose for top marks but otherwise they appeared to have little in common. Norah had a solemn, interesting face, a square, unathletic body, hair of dull blonde and was the most observant character Rose had ever met. Norah was poor but she had pride and a deadly determination never to be scorned. Norah always found a cutting answer to a spiteful remark, and found it as soon as it was uttered. Rose always found them too late.
The only thing Norah never spoke about was her absent father. Norah lived with her mother, a hard-working woman who worked long hours in a mill. Like Aunt Carrie, Mrs Blackford did not encourage Norah’s friendships but, unlike Aunt Carrie, she was never rude or overbearing.
‘It’s hell being thirteen, isn’t it?’ Rose said as she and Norah ploughed through the park on their way home from school. They always took a short cut through the trees and shrubbery behind the tennis courts.
‘Can’t say it’s bothering me,’ Norah answered slowly. ‘Do you want a game of tennis tonight? Here?’
‘Could do. I’ll meet you after tea. Say six o’clock?’
‘Six o’clock,’ replied Norah dryly.
‘You are an ass, Norah,’ Rose giggled. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘Have you any money?’
‘Three ha’pence. Have you?’
‘No.’
‘We’ll climb over the wall then. The park keeper’s always half asleep when you want to pay.’ Rose changed her satchel to the other shoulder. ‘I have to be back for seven. Aunt Carrie’s a bit tricky sometimes. She thinks it’s immoral.’
‘What is?’
‘Showing your legs in public,’ Rose laughed. ‘She thinks that the sight of a bit of leg will drive men silly. I don’t care if men go silly, do you Norah?’
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