‘I want to leave now,’ Mary said, ‘before I fail. I could work in a shop, or one of the mills.’
‘I don’t want you to work in a mill,’ Rose told her. ‘You are too young.’
‘Well, a shop then. The Co-op’s looking for girls.’
Vivienne piped up, ‘Do you still write to Alan?’
‘Yes. He’s hoping to get leave over New Year. I heard from him yesterday.’
‘Ooh,’ Mary sighed. ‘I do think Alan is handsome.’
‘What’s that?’ Rose jumped to her feet. There was somebody at the front door.
‘What?’ Mary dropped one of the paper lanterns.
‘Someone’s at the door. We must be showing a light,’ Rose said.
Mary and Viv stood behind her as she opened the door a little way and peered into the pitch blackness, at first not able to adjust her eyes to the uniformed figure.
‘Miss Kennedy?’
She recognised the police sergeant’s voice and widened the door so that the light from the hall fell on his face. He didn’t smile. He had the air of one who is trying to show sympathy and Rose clutched at her sisters’ hands in sudden fear.
‘Mum and Dad are out,’ she said.
He seemed to hesitate. ‘I’m afraid I have bad news. May I talk to you inside?’
They stood back, pressing themselves against the wall to let him walk ahead into the front room.
‘I’ll not sit down, miss. Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to have to break it to you like this. There was an accident. Tonight. In Mill Street . . .’
Rose felt the blood drain from her face. She felt herself go faint as he spoke. ‘They were killed outright. It was a heavy truck. The brakes failed. Your mother and father have been taken to the mortuary.’
Afterwards she tried to remember their reactions but all that returned was the cold feeling of unreality. She did not remember putting on her coat. She must have told Mary and Vivienne to stay at home. She remembered following the sergeant to the single-storey brick building that was set apart from the magnificent infirmary.
She remembered walking behind him, following the lowered torchlight beam and she remembered, afterwards, how she had chattered, the words tumbling nervously as she tried to sound cheerful – how dreadful she’d been – as if it couldn’t possibly be true if she behaved normally – lest the policeman saw the terror that had gripped her when he said, ‘I’m sorry Miss Kennedy, but I have to ask you to accompany me to the mortuary,. It’s your duty, as the eldest, to identify your parents.’
It was impossible to believe that they were here. An hour ago Dad had knocked out his pipe and put on his tweed overcoat and leather gloves. ‘Don’t let the fire out, sweetheart,’ he’d said. ‘We’ll be back before nine.’
Everything was waiting for them at home; the presents were round the tree. In the kitchen the stuffed chicken was in its tin, mince pies were cooling on a tea-towel. Mary and Viv had prepared the vegetables; they were set out in the saucepans ready for Mum to cook tomorrow. How could they be here, so far from home, lying on raised slabs, draped in purple sheets, white and still?
‘Yes. It’s them,’ she whispered. The man held her elbow to steady her but Rose dared not let him see her tears. She pulled her arm away and ran from the faintly-lit room, sobbing and stumbling as she fled back to the house.
Carrie was told just after it happened. She was taking a hotpot out of the oven. It was hard to see if it was done, the light was so bad. There was only a single bulb under a white metal shade; the shutters were closed and the blackout curtains drawn. The girl who came in every night to serve the new lodgers – two ministry men – for whom she cooked in the evenings, said, ‘I think that was the door, Miss Shrigley.’
‘You’d best go and answer it then,’ Carrie answered. ‘And don’t waste time.’
She placed the deep brown pie-dish on to the scrubbed table and closed the oven door before turning to see that the girl was back, an ARP warden behind her. She knew, before he spoke, that something awful had happened. She never showed a chink of light so . . .
‘Miss Shrigley?’
‘Who is it?’ she almost cried. It wasn’t Rose, surely. She was coming back from Manchester tonight. ‘Who’s dead?’
‘Your sister. And her husband. They were killed on Mill Street, just half an hour ago. Run over by an army lorry.’
A wave of horror mingled with relief swept over her at his words. Thank God it wasn’t Rose. The warden was still talking, his voice coming across a great distance. She clutched at the edge of the table.
‘A lorry. The blackout. They wouldn’t have known a thing . . .’
It was a moment or two before she found her voice again. ‘Thank you for coming. You can go now,’ she said. She turned to the girl. ‘Finish off for me. I’ll get my coat.’
Outside it was pitch black. There was no moon yet she managed to walk as quickly as she would in broad daylight. She had a pencil torch but she knew every paving stone, every step of the way. All the panicking feelings, which, she thought, over the years she had conquered, rose up in her as she went. What would she do? She didn’t think she was capable of looking after three girls. If it had been only Rose who needed her she’d manage. How could she bring up the other two?
She had stopped going round to Wells Road in the evenings, with the excuse that it was madness to go out in the blackout. She’d expected Jane and Danny to protest. After all she had been their main support all their lives. Jane had always needed her sister’s guiding hand. They had depended on her. Danny had never earned a big wage.
Since the war started she had taken to visiting Jane in the afternoons. But there had been no incentive, without Rose, and she had been unable to put up with the other two, especially Vivienne. Jane and Danny had spoiled them, letting them get away with far more than they or she had ever allowed with Rose. And now Jane and Danny were dead. She couldn’t help but think they had been careless. They’d done everything together from the day they’d met. It was just like them to die together.
‘Oh, God. Forgive me,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t mean it. I’ve never been able to face death and devastation. I can’t deal with this.’ She was almost there and she waited for a few minutes, leaning against a wall in the darkness, saying a prayer. ‘Dear Lord,’ she said under her breath, ‘let me do Thy will. Send Thy guiding hand to me. Make me capable and fearless; Strong in Thy sight. Thy will be done. Amen.’
She felt better. Now she knew what she must do. She must be what they would expect of her; be as she had been when Jane was young; a solid, capable woman. She must not let them see her doubts and weaknesses. If there was a job to be done, she’d do it. No ifs and buts. With the good Lord’s help, remembering her own father’s strictures, she’d have to manage. She opened the door to find Rose waiting for her. She could hear Mary and Vivienne crying in the living room.
Carrie took off her coat and hat in silence and went ahead of the sobbing Rose into the living room where Mary and Vivienne were huddled together in the big chair with wooden rails. Each had an arm across her sister’s shoulder and their eyes were red and swollen.
‘Stop it,’ she ordered. ‘Stop crying. Pull yourselves together.’ They looked up at her, desolation in their faces. What else could she say to them?
‘Three big girls? Crying? I looked after your mother when we were left orphans. She was a lot younger than you.’ Carrie hoped to give them courage by her example but the girls were looking at her as if they hated her. ‘There’s a war going on and a lot more’ll die before it’s over,’ she said.
‘Oh, please God,’ Rose was crying hysterically now, wringing her hands. ‘Please let me wake up. Let it be a nightmare.’
‘It’s not a nightmare.’ Inside, Carrie was in turmoil. But whatever she said seemed to increase their agitation. She made another effort to assume control. ‘We’ll have to work something out. I can’t think what to do when you three are carrying on like this.’
&
nbsp; ‘Don’t you care?’ Rose’s voice seemed to be coming from another person. ‘Mum and Dad are dead! They’re lying there. Dead!’ She dropped on to her knees on the hearthrug and put her arms around her sisters’ legs, sobs tearing through her. ‘I don’t know how to live. I don’t know what I’ll do without them.’
Carrie flinched at the despair in Rose’s voice. She made a move towards the weeping girls but drew back. It was vital she didn’t lose control of herself. ‘I’ll make the arrangements,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to let your dad’s brother know. I’ll send it by cable but he’ll not get here.’ Then she added, ‘You’ll have to leave that college, Rose.’
Vivienne gave her a look of pure loathing and began to cry louder.
‘Don’t talk about arrangements,’ Mary begged. ‘Please. Don’t.’
‘Your dad won’t have provided for you,’ Carrie added. ‘There’ll be nothing in the bank.’
‘We’ll manage, Aunt Carrie,’ Mary wailed.
‘Manage? Manage?’ Carrie’s control was going. ‘What on, Miss Clever?’ Her voice was high and harsh. It was no good letting them think they could get along by themselves. She’d make that plain right from the start. ‘You’ll all come and live with me,’ she said.
The cemetery was half a mile from their house in Wells Road and the day of the funeral clear, with a brittle frost. Rose had been trying all day to steel herself; though she quivered inside from the strain as she followed the back of Aunt Carrie along one of the narrow gravel paths.
Father Church led the straggling procession to the Catholic section of Macclesfield’s burial ground. The sun sparkled off granite chippings and lit upon white china flowers under glass domes as they trod on crunching feet. She had got through the requiem mass at St Alban’s. It had been followed by a short service in the Catholic chapel of the cemetery. It all felt unreal; a few prayers, a few words, nothing to confuse or upset mourners from other religions; tiny vases of snowdrops the only adornment. Could the lives of the most wonderful mum and dad anyone had ever had end this way?
Aunt Carrie’s black-coated back obscured the way ahead, delaying the shock until she halted, moved to the right and revealed the horror of newly dug red soil heaped beside the yawning grave, of the waiting priest, the two polished coffins.
Mary and Vivienne were crying, their loud sobs breaking the still air as they faced each other and clung together, comforted in shared misery. Aunt Carrie’s expression was grim.
Rose had no one now. She began to shake convulsively. Her arms would not stay at her sides and she pressed black-gloved hands against her thighs to steady them, making her rigid and attentive as the priest intoned, ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .’
From the crush of neighbours and friends who stood respectfully apart, Alan moved to Rose’s side. She had not seen him. The faces opposite were a blur but, as she felt his strong arm around her shoulders, she sagged against him with relief. She heard her aunt’s quick intake of breath but did not pull herself away.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she whispered.
Purple satin ribbons were tied to the coffins’ brass handles and one of them slid into the waiting ground as she watched. Rose reached for Alan’s hand and gripped it as the hard lump in her throat pressed against her windpipe, stopping her from crying, from dropping to the icy ground and weeping until she was spent.
‘Will you be all right, Rose?’ Alan spoke softly. She heard the anxiety in his voice. ‘I don’t want to leave you. But I have to go back tonight.’
‘Yes,’ she managed to say.
‘If you need anything,’ he said, ‘go to the Swan. Speak to Dad. He’ll tell me.’
She felt tears coming hot to her eyes, wanted all at once to bury her face in Alan’s chest and cry herself out. She fought again for control, fought back the terrible gulping sounds that were coming from deep inside.
‘I’ll be all right,’ she said, strangling her grief. ‘Just hold me, until it’s over.’
Four days after the funeral, an hour before Aunt Carrie would arrive from the Temperance Hotel, Rose sat at the breakfast table, Dad’s open cash box before her. Aunt Carrie had been right about the money. There was none. But money or its absence had never troubled their parents.
‘There’s enough to go round,’ Dad used to say and when he sold a big policy there was money for the treats Aunt Carrie disapproved of; dancing shoes for Vivienne, the rough-textured crash linen and embroidery silks in shimmering colours for Mary and money for Rose’s books and her digs in Manchester.
They’d never felt poor even though Aunt Carrie would sniff and say that a fool and his money were soon parted. ‘The day of reckoning will come,’ she’d say, ‘then you’ll not see hide nor hair of your priests and nuns when you’ve nothing to put on the plate.’
But Father Church and the nuns were there. They came to offer comfort and arrange the burial. ‘We have to leave Wells Road.’ Rose closed the rent book, Penny Bank book and Co-op dividend card.
Mary and Vivienne looked at her expectantly. ‘I’m going to work in the factory,’ Mary said. ‘They’re training girls as machinists, making silk parachutes.’
‘So’m I,’ Vivienne added. ‘I’m nearly fifteen.’
‘We’ll give you our wages – and if you get a job as well we’ll stay here,’ Mary said, as if it settled the matter. ‘We can pay the rent.’
‘Aunt Carrie says the landlord won’t pass the tenancy to us,’ Rose told them. She shuddered, remembering all that was said last night. How did you tell your sisters that they had to leave the only home they’d ever known, the house they’d been born in?
‘Who is the landlord?’ Mary took the rent book and studied the cover. ‘Who are Wells Management? I thought Dad built the houses in Wells Road.’
‘He did, but not for himself. He built them with Uncle Patrick and they had to sell. They sold them to the company we rent it from.’
‘Aunt Carrie could ask them if we can have it,’ Vivienne said. ‘They’d not say no to her would they?’
Rose did not tell her sisters that Aunt Carrie owned, had always, it seemed, owned, their house. ‘She says she’s asked them and they want us out.’ She gathered up the books and placed them in the metal cash box. She was filled with pity now; pity for Mum and Dad who had worked so hard to give them a happy home; pity for her sisters who must leave that home. Remembering last night though, she had no pity for Aunt Carrie.
‘Aunt Carrie’s not our mother,’ Mary said.
‘She’s our guardian. And we have to do as she says,’ Rose answered.
‘She could live here with us.’ Vivienne sounded resentful.
‘We’re to move into the Temperance Hotel. We will have to sell the furniture and everything,’ Rose told them firmly. It was no good giving them hope. ‘It’s no good arguing. There’s no other way.’
‘There’s no room in her hotel,’ Mary said. ‘It’s full.’
‘We’re to have the spare attic bedroom.’
‘Does it have to be Aunt Carrie? Do we have to listen to her nasty tongue all day long?’ Vivienne asked plaintively. ‘Will I still get my dancing lessons?’
‘I’ll pay for your lessons when I get a job.’ Rose held out a hand to Viv. ‘I’m seeing the manager at the Regional Bank this afternoon. They’re taking girls on now their men have gone.’
‘Sister Theresa says it’s wicked to hate people, even the enemy,’ Mary said. ‘I told her that Aunt Carrie hates everyone, especially Catholics.’
‘Don’t talk like that.’ Rose stood up and began to collect the plates. ‘Go upstairs, make the beds and tidy up. I’ll clean the grate and wash the dishes.’
‘We could go to St Alban’s and live with the nuns, couldn’t we?’ Viv asked. ‘I’d sooner that than live with Aunt Carrie.’
‘She’d never let us go there,’ Rose told them, ‘but we’ll get away from her as soon as we can. When I’m twenty-one and the war’s over I’ll rent a house and we’ll all live in it. I�
�ll take care of you.’
She had tried to tell them the truth but things had been said last night that her sisters must never know. She felt no anger, more an aching pain, recalling her confrontation with Aunt Carrie the previous evening, when her sisters were asleep.
Rose had gone into the kitchen to tidy away the supper things. Mary and Vivienne had gone early to bed. Rose, too, wanted to sleep. She was bone-tired but she had first to talk about their future with Aunt Carrie who was at that moment sitting by the fire in the living room, waiting for her.
Rose put her head round the kitchen door. ‘I’m putting some cocoa on,’ she said. ‘Don’t get up, Aunt Carrie. It won’t take a minute.’ Aunt Carrie sat in the armchair, her face expressionless.
Rose put the dishes away slowly. She wanted time alone, to think, to decide what was best for her sisters. For herself she would not plan. It would be enough if she got the job at the bank and could maintain the roof over their heads. She’d prayed for strength and a mass had been said. Keeping going was as much as she could hope for.
She felt old. Two weeks ago her hopes and fears were all for Alan’s safety. Now she must think and fear for her sisters as well. Would there be enough money coming in from a bank clerk’s wages? Would Mary earn much at the Co-operative? Would Vivienne be able to contemplate a life without her dancing and her dreams of fame?
She hoped her aunt was not going to be difficult. Aunt Carrie came to the house every day to make reference to the near future when they would all live together. The three of them could not think of living with Aunt Carrie and, eventually perhaps, with her and Cecil Ratcliffe. Surely Aunt Carrie would see that it was out of the question.
She tried to think of the best way to say what was in her mind. She placed the cocoa and biscuits on a tray, squared her shoulders for what she expected would be a battle of wills between them and went into the living room. ‘I’ll have to sort things out, won’t I?’ she said as she put the tray on the table, assuming an air of stating a fact rather than asking a question.
Mill Town Girl Page 23