Well, then, all of a sudden came a bombshell. One evening when Lilian was out with a friend of hers at the pictures, or so Mrs Parkin thought, there were voices at the door and in came Lilian, radiant, with Robert Stead at her side. Mr Parkin had gone out for one of his rare drinks, and Mrs Parkin was alone. It was summer, and she was sitting in the front room, looking out at the flowers. She gazed at Robert Stead in astonishment. He had been a tiresome carrotty teenager for so long that she was astounded to see him as a young man, quite tall, quite good-looking now that his hair was brushed and he was out of his overalls and clad in a handsome pullover and some decent dark slacks.
“You remember Bob, mother,” said Lilian rather impatiently.
Mrs Parkin gasped.
“Robert Stead, Mrs Parkin,” announced the young man. “I was hoping to see Mr Parkin but I can tell you instead, can’t I. Lilian and I have decided to get married, so we’d like to get engaged now.”
Mrs Parkin gave a dumbfounded gurgle.
“I shall be out of my apprenticeship next year,” went on Robert. “I’ve been saving quite a while, and there’s hope of some rooms in Back Rayburn Street—of course, we’ll put our names down for a Council House, but what a hope!”
Mrs Parkin continued to gape.
“Well, I’ll leave you to think it over, Mrs Parkin,” said Robert cheerfully.
He kissed Lilian in a determined and somehow accustomed way, thought Mrs Parkin mournfully, and strode out.
“Now, mother, love, don’t take on,” said Lilian, kissing her. “It can’t have come as a surprise to you, really.”
“Yes, it has,” wept Mrs Parkin. “Of course, love, it may be just a passing fancy, you know.”
“Nonsense!” said Lilian robustly. “We were reported twice about it, before we left school.”
“Reported for what?” cried Mrs Parkin, horrified.
“Oh, just talking alone in the library,” returned Lilian, cool.
“I hope there’s nothing wrong!” gasped Mrs Parkin.
“Of course not, mother,” said Lilian angrily. “We’re not the permissive sort.”
The sound of Mr Parkin’s key in the front latch was heard.
“Well, go up to bed, Lily, love,” implored Mrs Parkin. “Here’s your father.”
“Will you tell him, or shall I?” pressed Lilian. “Or Bob could come back if I asked him—”
“I’ll tell your father.”
“He won’t need much telling, I think,” said Lilian, laughing as she slipped away upstairs.
Mrs Parkin groaned.
“What on earth’s the matter?” cried Mr Parkin, alarmed by his wife’s tearstained face.
“Oh, Ted! Here’s Lilian and that Bob next door wanting to get engaged.”
“Tell me summat new,” said Mr Parkin, sitting down to remove his shoes.
“Did you—know?”
“Let’s say I’ve seen it coming.”
“Oh, Ted!”
“What’s the fuss about? He’s a good lad, she’s known him long enough to know whether she likes him, by next year he’ll be a tradesman with a skill in his fingers, I reckon they love each other. You couldn’t wish for better in-laws than the Steads.”
At first Mrs Parkin’s disappointment at the engagement was, let’s face it, acute. But—perhaps it was odd, perhaps it was just human nature—she revived considerably when she found that Mrs Stead was disappointed too.
“Really, you might think Mrs Stead thought our Lilian not good enough for their Robert,” she said indignantly to her husband.
“I expect she does. Very natural,” rejoined Ted.
“Our Lilian! Not good enough for that rough red-haired chap!”
“Bob’s as dear to his parents as Lilian is to hers.”
“Well! If Mrs Stead is trying to break up their engagement, she can think again, that’s all!” fulminated Mrs Parkin. “Our Lily! So good and beautiful! They’re promised! She’s given him her heart! Let Mrs Stead just try, that’s all! I’ll see to that, I can tell you!”
“I’m sure you’re right, love,” murmured Ted.
The affianced year passed; Robert came out of his apprenticeship and got himself quite a good job. How Mrs Parkin managed to boast about this job to her circle of friends, while continuing to regard Bob with all the contempt due from a mother-in-law, it is difficult to say. But she did. That is, until the wedding was actually in sight, when she suddenly found herself, not exactly opposed, but slightly hung up, about the arrangements by a coolness—it was no more, but she felt it—on Mrs Stead’s part. The wedding reception was to be held in the Sunday school, with catering from the Fleece at so much a head.
“My daughter and her husband will be coming from London. I hope that is—all right,” murmured Mrs Stead.
“Of course,” said Mrs Parkin. “Our John Edward and Alison and the new baby will be coming down from Glasgow. We want our families about us at these times.”
“Indeed, yes. But we must not—overburden—your list of guests unduly.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that!” said Mrs Parkin robustly. “Ted will be equal to anything of that kind, I assure you.”
She respected the Steads’ consideration in this respect, but found its manner a bit chilly. Why not speak straight out?
Then Mrs Stead seemed not to want to have beer or port or any drink of that kind to be served at the reception. Mrs Parkin’s eyes opened as wide as saucers. “Oh, but we must,” she said. Ted agreed with her and the point was settled. But the Steads were cool.
However, the minister agreed to perform the ceremony, the banns were put in, the bridesmaids—a cousin on each side and a couple of tiny tots from colleagues and friends—selected. A friend of Lilian’s, a considerable seamstress, promised to make the wedding garments. She was a joyful girl who liked clothes to be “with it”. Mrs Stead smiled at the styles chosen affably, but not with warmth. On the evening when a consultation had revealed this coolness, Lilian was observed to be looking downhearted; she even had tears in her eyes.
“What’s the matter, love?” enquired Mrs Parkin tenderly, putting an arm round her daughter’s shoulders. “It is Bob?”
“No, no. It’s never Bob,” said Lilian, weeping. “It’s just I’m a bit worried about the wedding.”
The truth was that while Lilian loved her mother heartily and knew her goodness and kindness of heart, she was not blind to her defects. Mrs Parkin’s voice was often loud, her manner was sometimes abrupt and off-putting—she spoke her mind, as she often said—and her taste in colours was garish. Mrs Stead on the other hand was almost too quiet and retiring. If there was to be some awful clash about the wedding! Bob, who loved his mother dearly, would be upset… Oh dear!
“I don’t think Mrs Stead likes those sleeves,” wept Lilian.
“If you don’t want those sleeves, love, you shan’t have them,” said Mrs Parkin emphatically. “I’ll run round and tell Doreen. I’ll take it on myself. I’ll say I find, on thinking it over, you know, I don’t like them.”
“Will you, mother?” murmured Lilian gratefully between sniffles.
The sleeves were altered.
When this incident was told to Ted, he mused a while, then said:
“Where are you getting your gear for the wedding, then, Lena? Eh?”
Mrs Parkin named a bustling establishment. “I haven’t got round to it yet, with one thing and another,” she said, “I must go tomorrow.”
“I think you’d better go to Madam Darcy,” said Ted.
“What!”
“Aye. Why not? She’s a good sort.”
“She’s an old flame of yours, I know that, in her young days before she got so smart. But nowadays! The price, Ted! The cost! Madam Darcy! She’s the best shop in town.”
“I’ll bet Mrs Stead’ll go there.”
“Well—”
“You’ve no need to worry, Lil love,” Mrs Parkin told her daughter, who, working every day, was not easily available for shoppin
g. “I’ve got the most lovely pink outfit at Madam Darcy’s.”
Pink! Lilian could have screamed, moaned, but settled for a laugh. Pink was a beautiful shade, discreetly handled. But her mother’s views on pink! The outfit—horrid word—would be loud and awful. Well, all right, it’ll be awful, said Lilian staunchly. Mrs Steed will be inexpensive and elegant, and poor old Mum will be costly and awful. The Steads and the Parkins have got to learn to put up with each other—Dad and Mr Stead manage well enough, choose how, and we’ve got to do the same. She faced the agony she would endure at the wedding, and fought it down, and said nothing about it to anybody, just kept it in her heart rather warmly. As the wedding approached, she looked a trifle pale—which was natural—but she had never looked more beautiful.
“Our Lil’s a lovely lass,” said Mrs Parkin, tender.
“She’s growing up,” said Mr Parkin with satisfaction.
“And what have you two fathers been nattering about, down at the Fleece together? I never heard of such a thing!” Mrs Parkin rallied him, laughing. “I thought his lordship never went to a pub, ha ha!”
“Now, mother,” said Ted. “James Stead is a very fine fellow in his quiet way, and I enjoy talking to him.”
“But what do you find to talk about?”
“Oh, just a quiet natter,” said Ted mildly.
The wedding day arrived. There was the usual fuss and flutter. Mum ran about from floor to floor. Would the flowers come? Would old auntie turn up in time? (John Edward and family had arrived the night before.) The taxis! The taxis! They would be late! No, they were here, but mum and auntie were not ready! Yes, they were. Alison tucked them in. Where was Dad’s buttonhole? Oh, he was wearing it. Where was the second baby bridesmaid? The first adult bridesmaid’s dress was too tight round the waist. Scissors were used on a gusset. The second baby arrived crying, but recovered. Dad and Lilian set off too early—this was Lilian’s fault. Bob had said the night before: “Don’t keep me waiting, Lil. I couldn’t bear it.” So they arrived at the chapel early. But what did it matter? There was a bustle of people in the porch. Bridesmaids and their mammas; John Edward, Alison, Baby; the headmaster, one or two other belated guests; Mr and Mrs Stead, Mrs Parkin and auntie.
“Well, you two ladies certainly harmonise most beautifully,” said the headmaster. “A delightful picture.”
Lilian, looking at Bob’s mother and her own, almost fainted with astonishment. Mrs Stead, pale and slim, with beautifully groomed white hair, was deliciously elegant in palest pink. Mrs Parkin, glowing and bosomy, looked vividly handsome in deep dark rich rose. As the headmaster said, they harmonised. Their pinks were in the same “range” of colour. They made a delightful picture together.
“More by good luck than management, I’m afraid,” boomed Mrs Parkin happily. “I just fell in love with this at…”
“It shows we have the same kind of taste basically,” said Mrs Stead in her light pretty voice, not listening.
They went off together into the chapel, smiling.
“Daddy,” said Lilian faintly. She put her hand within his arm and looked up at him.
He smiled down, squeezed her hand and gave her the biggest wink she had ever seen on a human face.
The wedding march sounded and they paced down the aisle together.
Removal
1971
“Well, here we are then,” said Mrs Thorpe in a tone of doom, proffering one of those official, close-typed, long-paragraphed letters which strike fear to the heart of the ordinary housewife. “This is what they’re offering me. A high-rise flat, believe it or not.”
“Where is it?” faltered her employer, diffident about this matter, so important to her housekeeper.
“Ninth floor, Rutland Court. Fancy me living in a Court! But why Rutland? It’s a very un-Yorkshire name, is that. Rutland, indeed!”
“It may be an improvement on your present home,” suggested Miss Ellis.
Mrs Thorpe lived in the middle of a terrace facing the long blank wall of a mill. The house was still sturdy, but having been built some hundred and twenty years, it lacked indoor sanitation and other amenities.
“I’ve lived there all my married life and some years after,” growled Mrs Thorpe. “I don’t want to change. Of course,” she added, almost killing herself in the attempt to be fair, “Rutland is convenient for the bus, I don’t deny. But what’s the sense of this new road they’re building? Knocking everything down! Do you see any sense in it?”
“Well, not much. When shall you inspect the Rutland flat?”
“This afternoon. If I don’t like it I shan’t accept it, choose what they say.”
“May I come with you?”
“Why not? Though you don’t know much about housing,” said Mrs Thorpe frankly.
The caretaker of Rutland Court, who met them in the foyer, proved to be an active kindly man in his late thirties. He explained the mysteries of doors and lifts and keys.
“You’ve got a telephone here, I see,” said Mrs Thorpe, advancing towards the box.
“It’s not installed yet,” said the caretaker hastily.
Mrs Thorpe snorted.
They ascended to the ninth floor.
“How beautifully clean!” exclaimed Miss Ellis, enjoying the white walls.
“The walls are clean but the floor isn’t,” said Mrs Thorpe.
“That’s easily remedied,” said the caretaker.
“What a superb view!” exclaimed Miss Ellis, gazing out of the large windows while Mrs Thorpe inspected the rooms.
The whole of Hudley lay on the sloping hillside below them; the cars and vans and buses seemed toylike and harmless from this height, their colours bright in the sunshine, with little coloured toy people skipping about safely between them. In the distance, across the valley, rose Awe Hill, on the crest of which a beacon pan had been erected in the days of Queen Elizabeth I, to warn the town of the coming of the Armada. Miss Ellis mentioned this.
“It didn’t come, though,” said Mrs Thorpe at her side, with satisfaction. “The kitchen isn’t bad,” she added, “and the bathroom is really rather sweet—neat, I mean,” she substituted hastily.
The caretaker beamed.
“But of course,” went on Mrs Thorpe, feeling, it was clear, she had been too easily pleased: “that narrow shelf over the electric radiator, I don’t like that. My cats won’t like that, for sure.”
“Cats!” exclaimed the caretaker in horror. “You can’t keep pets here, missis.”
“My cats are made of china,” Mrs Thorpe told him haughtily.
“Oh, well—that’s different. China cats’d fit on that shelf nicely. Give it a homely look, like.”
“Bingo wouldn’t. He’s too big. His tail would hang over.”
“Put him on top of the Telly, love.”
“Bingo doesn’t like the Telly. He scorns it.”
“Fancy saying a pot cat scorns T.V.,” murmured the caretaker to Miss Ellis, as Mrs Thorpe inspected the bathroom once again.
“I think that was meant as a joke,” hazarded Miss Ellis.
“I wondered at the time, but I didn’t feel I knew her well enough to risk a laugh. Have you known her long?”
“About twenty-five years,” replied Miss Ellis, offhand.
The caretaker nodded and seemed pleased.
Two days later Mrs Thorpe burst in with Miss Ellis’s breakfast tray, beaming.
“I’ve done it!” she announced.
“What?”
“I signed for the flat.”
“I’m sure you’ve been wise.”
“You don’t think it was kind of cold and unhomely?”
“There’s nothing in it yet to make it homely.”
“That’s right. It’ll be all right—”
“—when you get your cats in.”
They laughed together.
A period of some tension and anxiety followed. Papers had to be signed, fittings chosen. A few rails and hooks were necessary—but it appeared permi
ssion had to be asked before the sacred walls could be subjected to such invasions.
“I don’t know what this country’s coming to, really. If you’ve to ask permission to put up a rail! Upon my word!”
The great difficulty was the divan. The Hudley furniture shops abounded in divans, but they all had three seats.
“But what is your objection to a three-seater, Mrs Thorpe?” pleaded Miss Ellis.
“It won’t go in! Well, it would but there wouldn’t be room for two chairs as well. And people will drop in, you know.”
However, all of a sudden the tide turned. Mrs. Thorpe was a member of a large and flourishing family, and had the crowd of friends her staunch and generous nature deserved. Every one of these relatives and friends turned up to help in the removal. A sister found a two-seater divan! (“The shop was having a sale, and she saw a lot of people going in.”) Another sister helped to choose and measure carpets. A niece made and hung matching curtains. A great-nephew arrived with tools to put up hooks and rails. (“He’s quite handy with his hands, is our Thomas, though he’s at University really.”)
Gifts poured in. From a biscuit barrel to a broom, from matching soap to an electric kettle, from cushions to a bedside lamp.
More Tales of the West Riding Page 17