But tonight he must write to her.
‘Dear Rose,’ he began. ‘You asked me to write to you, so here goes. Medical School and Edinburgh is all I hoped for. The work is not a problem.’
He chewed the end of the pen for a moment and then continued. ‘Dad gave me money before I left, to pay for my flying. I didn’t expect it. As you know I have always worked in the Swan for my spending money so I was touched – and grateful. Anyway, I joined the University Air Squadron and last week flew solo.’
He put the pen down on the blotting paper for a few minutes and stared out of the window, thinking back. The squadron demanded as high a standard as the RAF and he had been impatient for his first flight. At last, after hours of theorising and hours of drill he was given his flying kit.
‘See if they fit,’ the instructor said. ‘Report to the hangar. We’re going up for half an hour.’
It was a clear, bright morning towards the end of October and the wind was a good south-westerly – perfect flying conditions.
Everything fitted and he ran, awkward in the boots, towards the airfield where the instructor waited in front of the hangar. Alan strapped himself into the rear cockpit, outwardly calm yet inwardly tense, as the propeller spun and they went bouncing over the grass.
Then there was nothing beneath the wheels and the ground was falling away. The wind stung his face as they soared upwards with the instructor shouting over the wind. ‘Stick forward – the nose dips.’ The ground appeared to rise to meet them. ‘Stick back – watch it rise.’ The wing tips lifted and dropped.
They circled the airport perimeter slowly, swaying a little when they turned from the wind and it felt as if no sooner had they got into the air than they were coming in to land. The instructor made a perfect landing.
Alan wondered if he would ever acquire such a skill but after only ten hours’ dual flying, when he expected to leave the aeroplane after another perfect landing, without warning the instructor said, ‘Get into the front seat and take her up. Look after her.’
There was no time for doubt or nervous tension and if he had been warned he might have suffered both. He sat in the front, opened the throttle and eased her into the lift-off. Then he was up in the crystal air, circling, glorying in the lonely freedom of flight and the machine like a living thing beneath his hands and feet.
He brought her in, flattening her, holding off until her tail came down and she touched the ground in a perfect three-point landing. The instructor smiled and said, ‘Not bad, not at all bad.’ He’d done it.
Martin Forsyth, his student friend and roommate, was waiting for him on the grass behind the low huts. He’d blown part of a legacy on his flying and a seven-year-old car. He sat, the hood rolled back, engine turning over, grinning as Alan swung himself over the door into his seat. ‘Good landing.’ Martin put the Riley into gear and headed for the camp gates.
‘Thanks,’ Alan answered. ‘Did you go solo?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does it call for a celebration?’
They sped towards the city on the wide, straight road from the airfield. ‘Cafe Royal?’ Martin asked, at the top of his voice. ‘Shall we ask the two nurses we met last week?’
‘The infirmary’s a bit out of the way,’ Alan said. ‘We’ll give the Ferguson girls a ring.’
He wouldn’t tell Rose about the girls, of course. He was not that much of a fool. He took up the pen again.
‘I’m bringing a crowd of friends down to Middlefield over the Christmas holidays. I hope to introduce them to you. We will return to Scotland for the New Year. They make much of Hogmanay and first-footing up here.’
He wished she were older; wished she might be with him; wished he wrote a better letter. ‘I hope everything is going well with you. I will see you when I come home.’
He didn’t know whether he should write ‘Love from Alan’ or just, baldly, ‘Alan’. In the end he put ‘Love to you and all the family, Alan’.
Rose was worried that she might inherit the short-sightedness that ran in the family for, when she pored over her books in the front room, away from the noise of the family, her eyes were held very close to the page.
Alan had gone to medical school in Edinburgh the autumn before and though she had had a letter from him and had seen him once or twice in the holidays she felt as if he had changed. He no longer shared his time with her but spent days with Nat Cooper at Rainow Farm or else he helped his father run the Swan.
Then, when she had been shopping in the market a few days before New Year, she had seen him walking towards her, a dark-haired girl at his side, and a wave of jealousy had swept through her, frightening her with its force, making her feel weak and angry.
She pretended not to see them as they made their way towards her but Alan saw her and called her over to be introduced. Rose did not even hear the girl’s name. She blushed and stammered an excuse for not wanting to talk, then she hid her burning face from him and walked away, knowing that she wanted Alan McGregor to herself; knowing that she’d never feel this kind of love for any other man.
She was seventeen and she knew she was attractive to the young men she met in the Milk Bar on Mill Street where she and her school chums gathered on Saturday afternoons. Many of these friends had brothers who contrived to be going her way when she came home from school. Alan’s friend Gerald made sheep’s eyes at her across the aisle in church and waylaid her afterwards on the pretext of discussing the problems of the geometry paper.
Rose would have none of it. She’d get her certificate and become a teacher. She knew she did not have great ambitions. She wanted to be a teacher for only two reasons; first, that she loved children, and second, so that she would be able both to support herself and be worthy of Mum and Dad’s faith in her.
There was an obstinate streak in Rose that would not allow her to be deflected, once she had set her mind to anything, and now she kept her aims in view. She’d go to college, she’d stand firm against Aunt Carrie’s opposition and she’d pray that the silly passion for Alan, which had grown from a childhood friendship, would not trouble her. And she hoped that Alan never guessed at her feelings.
Talk of impending war must not deter her. Mum and Dad tried to pretend that it wouldn’t happen but people were talking now about when, not if, the country would go to war. There had been a piece in the Daily Express about Air Raid Precautions; they had practised for air raids and men were being recruited as ARP wardens at £3 a week. Aunt Carrie said she had seen it all before, but Aunt Carrie always looked on the black side of life and was now, it seemed, eagerly awaiting Hitler’s next move.
It was a cold May evening only weeks before the big exam, and the fire she’d been allowed to light had not had time to heat the front room. Her hands were cold and her attention wandered from the textbook.
On top of the piano was a letter from Uncle Patrick. Such wonderful letters he wrote. Mum or Dad usually read them out. He had always been a paragon in Dad’s eyes and his letters were read and re-read. He was a respected journalist and often sent cuttings from the daily papers when he thought the article would interest them. She wondered if Dad had forgotten to read this one to them. Her concentration went so she pulled the pages from the envelope.
‘Dear Family,’ she read. He always called them that. ‘I want you to think very seriously about sending the girls to me. You cannot close your eyes to it. There is going to be another war in Europe. It will be far, far worse than the last one. Germany has rearmed. The Fuhrer is rounding up Jews, persecuting and murdering them. Every week I hear from our European correspondents and what I hear frightens me. There is a home here for all of you. Come quickly, before it is too late. If you two and Carrie won’t come, just send the girls.’
A shiver went through her. Dad wouldn’t send them away, surely? Were things really that bad? Was war coming? Would she be able to qualify as a teacher?
She heard Aunt Carrie’s voice coming through the thin walls.
‘Here it com
es,’ she cried. ‘Listen to the news, will you.’
The wireless’s battery needed charging and Rose heard the room fall silent. She could not make out what was said but evidently it was bad. Dad gave a low whistle of surprise. Rose dropped the letter from her cold fingers and went to join the others in the living room where they crowded round the set on the windowsill. Mum put her fingers to her lips as the last words died away.
‘Germany’s on the march! What did I tell you?’ Aunt Carrie clapped her hands together in horror but her eyes were alight behind the thick lenses. Her high-pitched voice rose. ‘Austria today! Czechoslovakia next! Then it’ll be our turn. He’ll not be satisfied till he rules Europe. It will be like the last time. A generation will be wiped out. All the young men will be killed.’
She saw Rose standing in the open doorway and a smile crossed her face. ‘You’ll not be able to go away with a war on,’ she said.
‘I’ll do whatever I like, Aunt Carrie.’ Rose shouted the words as if to change the air of foreboding. ‘I’ll do what I want to do, no matter what you say.’ She ran from the room and threw herself on to the bed as sobs of rage and fear overcame her. She wouldn’t go downstairs until Aunt Carrie had gone. Then she would ask Dad to explain Uncle Patrick’s remarks in his letter. The evenings, when Aunt Carrie wasn’t there and her sisters were in bed, were some of Rose’s most precious times. She, Mum and Dad would sit and talk, drinking cocoa and eating sandwiches around the fire.
She heard the front door slam with vicious force and heard Aunt Carrie’s sure tread as she made her way along Wells Road. Dad was the rock of their family. He was the only man in it but theirs had never been a household run as some such families were with lots of loose gossip. Dad would not have any of them speak unkindly of people. He was a man whose satisfaction came from his family life. He told them that after the Great War he’d had one aim; to lead a good life with a wife and family. Then he’d say that he could not have been better blessed than he was with them all.
Rose smiled to herself thinking about them. Dad and Mum were ideal partners. They always did everything together. From the first day they met they never spent a day apart. They did the shopping together, cooked the Sunday dinner side by side in the kitchen, giggling and laughing like a couple of newly-weds: not only had they never slept apart, they even went upstairs to bed together.
Dad liked to draw, to read, to make things with his hands. He was lovely company but he could be caustic. At times he was cynical about Aunt Carrie, pointing out ulterior motives or any falseness in Aunt Carrie’s assertions. Mum always stopped him with a quick, sweet word and then he’d laugh and say something that only he and Mum understood.
She must have fallen asleep and, when she awoke, it was dark and she heard the whisperings of her sisters in the next room. Mum and Dad were downstairs. She could hear their low, earnest voices. She would go down and ask them about Uncle Patrick’s letter. It was worrying her.
As she went into the living room, Mum gave a startled little jump, before saying, ‘You missed your supper, Rose. Shall I get something for you?’
‘Sit down, Mum.’ Rose closed the door behind her and went to sit on the rug at Dad’s feet. ‘I’ll wait for the cocoa.’ She asked Mum, ‘What was all that about in Uncle Patrick’s letter? Why didn’t you show this one to us?’
Dad put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed them. ‘We didn’t want you to be upset, love, with all that talk of war and emigrating.’
Rose said, ‘He said, “Send the girls to me”. You wouldn’t send us away without you, would you?’
‘He’s a deep feelin’ man, Rose,’ Dad said. ‘Your uncle thinks of you as his girls. He has no children. You are all – we are all, all of us – his family. He’s frightened for us.’
‘Have you written back? Have you told him we are going to stay here?’ She didn’t want Dad to consider, for one minute, sending them away. ‘It would be like . . . Like rats leaving a sinking ship, wouldn’t it? Running away?’
Dad said in a slow voice, ‘War isn’t glorious. It’s degrading and evil. It’s something the rest of the animal world has never sunk to.’
‘But man has always fought,’ Rose said. ‘You did, and our Uncle Patrick . . .’
Mum stood behind Dad’s chair, leaning over his shoulder and reaching out for his hand.
‘I know, love. We had to. We wanted to . . .’ Dad patted Mum’s hand to comfort her. ‘But I want to think that those things could never happen again. Especially to you young ones.’
‘Oh, Dad,’ Rose said. ‘I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t been rude to Aunt Carrie tonight.’
Mum stood straight and put her shoulders back. ‘I’ll go and make the cocoa,’ she said.
Rose got up and sat opposite Dad who leaned forward in the armchair and filled his pipe from a leather pouch, stuffing the tobacco into the bowl deftly. ‘What were you and Mum talking about? Before I came in?’ she asked.
Dad looked up from his pipe-filling and smiled. ‘Your Aunt Carrie.’
‘What about Aunt Carrie?’
‘I think there’ll be a wedding soon,’ he answered. ‘Your aunt is being talked about all over the town as the future wife of an alderman; as Mrs Cecil Ratcliffe.’
Rose stared at him. ‘It’s not true. It’s not!’ she said. ‘She couldn’t. She couldn’t marry him. He’s a – a snake.’
‘It’s not for us to criticise,’ Dad said. Dad now had that teasing look on his face. ‘If Aunt Carrie wants a man, then who better than that esteemed old . . .’
‘Dad!’ Rose stopped him there. Sometimes Dad went too far. ‘I know – I just know she won’t marry him.’
Mum came in with a plate of sandwiches. Rose turned to her and said, ‘Dad says Aunt Carrie wants to marry Cecil Ratcliffe.’
Mum shook her head. ‘She hasn’t said so, Danny.’ She gave Dad a look of warning.
‘She hasn’t said so, Jane. Not to you or me,’ Dad answered. ‘But everyone else has. Don’t forget I meet her chapel people and the townsfolk every day.’
Mum’s face was going pink and exasperated. ‘Danny! You know she wouldn’t. Why would she?’
‘What else is there for her?’ Dad asked, putting the match to the bowl of his pipe, drawing it over and over the surface while he sucked and puffed. Mum made a tutting noise before, half-smiling, she went back for the cocoa cups.
Rose pulled up a stool for the cups and sat on the fender, her arms around her knees. ‘I know she won’t marry Cecil Ratcliffe, Dad.’
‘There’s nowt so queer as folk, lass,’ Dad answered, trying to do the local accent, making her want to laugh. ‘How do you know?’
‘She couldn’t bear to touch him,’ Rose began. ‘She’s like me. We’re very alike. I know her. I can’t bear to touch some things; can’t stand certain smells; I’m revolted by some foods.’
Mum had come in with the cups and saucers. ‘You know that, don’t you, Mum?’ Rose said. ‘Aunt Carrie’s the same. I used to think I was odd, different. But now I think I know what’s right for me. I trust my instincts. If I sense that something doesn’t agree with me, it probably won’t. That’s true, isn’t it, Mum?’
‘Well,’ Mum handed the cup to her, ‘you always used to say, “If I eat that, I’ll be sick”, and if you did, you were.’
Rose passed a cup to Dad who was smiling fondly into her eager face. ‘Aunt Carrie’s like that,’ she said. ‘There are some people who have an – I don’t know – a kind of aura – an atmosphere about them. And with them you’re either repelled by it or drawn to them. And Cecil Ratcliffe’s atmosphere is horrible.’
Dad was trying not to laugh. ‘And what sort of aura has your Aunt Carrie got about her then?’ he asked. ‘A halo?’
They all laughed together at the thought, then Rose became serious again. ‘When I was little,’ she began, as soon as they were listening again, ‘well, let me explain. You know how the children used to play that game; they hold hands and make a circl
e around someone, then they call out “Who d’yer favour?”’
She saw Mum smile again, remembering. To Dad, who still didn’t understand some of the local dialect, she explained, ‘That means “Who do you look like?”’ Rose took her cup of cocoa and settled back on the fender. ‘I always used to copy their voices, to be the same as them. I’d shout out, at the top of my voice, “Me Antee Carr-ee!”, because I looked so like her.’
She expected Mum and Dad to be in stitches of laughter at her but they didn’t even smile. Perhaps they didn’t like to be told how she used to talk with the strong, North Country accent when she was at elementary school. ‘I’m glad I never really spoke like that, though,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you taught us to speak properly, Mum. It will be much better, for a teacher.’
Mum leaned over, ruffled her hair and smiled, pleased with the compliment. Rose hadn’t told them, as she had meant to do, that the second question the children chanted before they would release their little captive was ‘Who d’yer go with?’ and she always used to shout ‘Alan McGregor!’ The children, satisfied to have forced a confession of love, would squeal with delight, scatter, giggle and then take the victim into their circle before moving on to find another child to trap.
Dad sipped his cocoa, making soft, quick, slurpy noises. ‘The thing that worries me about it is that I believe Cecil Ratcliffe wants Carrie to sell the Temperance Hotel and put her money in with his.’
‘No, Danny,’ Mum interrupted him. ‘Carrie told me that he keeps hinting. He wants her to put her money in the bank. He wants her to give up the hotel and have an easier life.’
‘Jane,’ Dad said, ‘do you realise what will happen if she sells up and marries Cecil Ratcliffe? All her money, everything will go to him when she dies.’
Mum was getting quite cross and pink-faced. ‘But he’s old, Danny. He’ll die first. And Carrie would never let everything go like that.’
Mill Town Girl Page 19