Down an English Lane

by Margaret Thornton

  The local populace appeared to kow-tow to both of them, as they did to the rector, the Reverend Luke Fairchild. Now there was a man – a very handsome man, Christine had noted – whose eyes seemed to be looking right into your soul. Visits to the North Riding of Yorkshire would be kept to a minimum, she decided, once she had got Bruce where she wanted him.

  She met him off the train at Foster Square station on Saturday afternoon; he had spent the first night of his forty-eight hour leave in Middlebeck with his parents. He greeted her rapturously, kissing her quite passionately as they stood near the platform barrier, something he had seemed self-conscious about doing in public even for a long time after they had first met. They took the trolleybus up to her flat on Manningham Lane.

  ‘I’m dying to show you where I live, darling,’ she told him. ‘I couldn’t believe my luck in being offered a flat so quickly. Of course, it’s thanks to Bill Gascoyne, Sadie’s father. He recommended me to his colleague. He told him I was a nice respectable girl,’ she laughed. ‘That’s what he was looking for.

  ‘By the way, talking of Sadie, she and her fiancé, Roland, are getting married quite soon.’ Christine had received a letter telling her of her friend’s plans not long after the conversation with Sadie’s mother. ‘Soon after Christmas if they can arrange it in time. Mrs Gascoyne thought that a spring wedding would be nice, but they’ve decided they don’t want to wait so long. You can’t blame them, can you, darling?’ She squeezed Bruce’s arm and gave him an extra loving glance, as they sat close together on the upper deck of the trolleybus. It would not do any harm, she decided, to turn his mind towards the thought of weddings.

  ‘No, of course not; absolutely,’ he replied.

  ‘And she wants me to be her bridesmaid. Well, not just me; Daphne and Vera, our other two friends as well, but I’m to be the chief one. They’re both still in the Land Army, down in Worcestershire, but they should be coming back soon.’

  ‘That’s nice for you, darling,’ he replied. ‘Roland – he’s the army captain, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Sadie’s at the same camp as he is, near Aldershot. But she’s being demobbed soon, and then, when they get married, they are going to move into married quarters. She’s getting really excited about it, them being together for good.’

  ‘Yes, I should imagine she is…’ He turned to smile at her, and it seemed as though he was just about to say something else when Christine realised they were nearly at their stop. Damn and blast it! She had felt sure he had been going to say something significant, but the moment would have to wait. She stood up hurriedly. ‘Come on, Bruce; we’re there. Hurry up or he’ll go past the stop.’

  They dashed down the steps and jumped off the bus. The ironmonger’s shop over which Christine’s flat was situated was almost opposite the bus stop, on the other side of the road. Her private entrance was at the back, down a little alleyway. She led the way through the stockroom, filled to capacity with cooking, household and garden utensils, and up the flight of stairs, through a small lobby and into the living room.

  It was a largish room, adequately and quite comfortably furnished, with a sofa and easy chair, a sideboard – rather a monstrosity with curlicued carvings and a large mirror at the back – a small gate-legged table which folded down when not in use, and two ‘utility’ dining chairs. Christine had been glad of the furniture, having none of her own, save one or two small items which she had taken with her to remind her of her grandmother. She had kept a bevelled mirror which hung on a chain, which was now hanging over the tiled fireplace. She had used it whenever she was combing her hair or applying her make-up, ever since she had been interested in such things. She had also kept Gran’s footstool with a petit-point floral design, somewhat worn away by the old lady’s feet, and her octagonal walnut sewing table. This had been her grandmother’s pride and joy, but it now stood in a corner, rarely used, as Christine herself was not much of a sewer. On top of it stood a garish vase on which was painted a childish design of a cottage and trees in vivid shades of orange, yellow and green. It had been designed by someone called Clarice Cliff and Christine had hung on to it because it had been one of the last presents that her grandfather had bought for his wife, and much treasured by the old lady. Personally, Christine thought it was hideous, but she was not without a sentimental streak and her gran had loved it.

  The rest of her grandmother’s furniture, shabby and old-fashioned, had been bought for just a few pounds by the family who had moved into the house. They had been grateful, and Christine had been only too happy to shake the dust of White Abbey Road from off her feet and to move on to the far more respectable district of Heaton.

  She felt very much at home now in her flat – her own little place – even though the premises themselves and the furniture were only on loan. As well as Gran’s bits and pieces, she had brightened it up with gaily coloured cushions and a red hearth rug, which Barbara Gascoyne had very kindly given her. And she had purchased, for a song, in Bradford Market Hall, a cut glass fruit bowl, only slightly damaged, which now stood in pride of place in the centre of the sideboard. It would not be long, she told herself, before she would be able to buy the real thing, not damaged goods. Her home would be filled with china figurines, cut glass and silverware, such as she had seen in the homes of her friends, and in particular in Tremaine House.

  ‘So…this is it,’ she said, flinging her arms wide. ‘What do you think, darling? Do you like it?’

  ‘Yes…it looks very bright and cheerful. Much better than I expected.’ Bruce sounded surprised.

  ‘You surely didn’t think I would settle for any old flat, did you? I’m quite pleased with this one, for the time being. Of course, I don’t really know how long I will be staying here, do I?’ She glanced at Bruce, but he was taking off his greatcoat – he was still in uniform – and looking around for somewhere to put his kit-bag.

  ‘Where shall I put these?’ he asked.

  ‘What? Oh, sling them in here for now.’ She flung open the bedroom door a trifle irritably. ‘Put your coat on the bed, then I’ll hang it in the wardrobe later, and you can unpack your things.’

  ‘I haven’t brought much,’ he said. ‘Just…er, pyjamas, and a toothbrush. And… I’ve brought my sleeping bag as well. I didn’t really know… I wasn’t sure, you see…’ He glanced at the bed, a double one, covered with a green silken eiderdown. ‘I thought I might be sleeping on the floor, but I noticed you’ve got a nice big sofa. I’ll be fine on there.’

  ‘Just as you wish.’ She gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘But honestly, Bruce, did you really think I’d let you sleep on the floor?’ She was aware that she was sounding just as crabby as she was feeling. And for no good reason, she told herself. After all, what did she expect? She knew that Bruce had to be cajoled and led along, step by step. Casting off her ill humour, she smiled at him determinedly and put a hand on his arm. ‘Come along, darling. Let’s go and sit down and you can tell me all your news…’

  They did not talk very much when they sat down on the settee. Bruce wrapped his arms around her and they kissed longingly and passionately for several moments. His hands strayed over her body, but Christine guessed that he would go so far and no further, as he had always done in the past, even though they were, for the very first time, in a place where there was complete solitude. Where they could not be disturbed by an irate farmer, or a lowing cow or yapping dog, or made self-conscious by wakeful parents in an upstairs bedroom. These had been the anxieties, even though they had never actually materialised, that had kept Bruce from consummating fully his love and desire for Christine; that and the ingrained feeling he had that it was wrong to behave in such a way outside of marriage.

  She was not surprised, therefore, when he drew their lovemaking to a halt. ‘Sorry, darling,’ he muttered. ‘I got carried away, but you are so lovely, and I do love you so very much…’ His brown eyes gazed into hers so pleadingly that she knew she would be able, at that moment, to encourage him to
go further. But she decided that the time was not yet ripe. They had all evening – and all night – and she wanted it to be perfect, with no regrets, or even half regrets, on Bruce’s part.

  ‘I know you do, darling,’ she said, ‘and I love you too…’ She eased herself away from him, then took hold of his hand. ‘Now, tell me what you have been doing. How are your mother and father? And what’s going on in sleepy little Middlebeck?’

  As she had thought he would, he started to tell her of the arrangements for his coming-of-age party; the guest list, and the catering, and the three-piece band that would play for dancing. She was pleased to see that he did not sound enthusiastic about it.

  ‘And…that’s what you want, is it?’ she asked.

  ‘No, no I don’t! I keep telling Mother that I don’t want a big fuss, but she won’t listen. Most of the people there will be my parents’ friends… But I don’t want any of my mates from the camp to be invited, or my school friends; I’ve lost touch with most of them anyway. Just so long as you are there, Chrissie, that’s all I want.’

  ‘Oh dear! Couldn’t you ask your mother to cancel it before it’s too late? I’m sure she would understand, wouldn’t she, if you said that you and I just wanted a quiet celebration on our own…’

  ‘You don’t know my mother like I do,’ said Bruce grimly. ‘Once she sets her mind on something she hates to let go. I don’t want her to be disappointed. Besides, I should imagine she’s sent out the invitations by now…’ He was deep in thought for a moment, then he said, ‘Unless we were to make it a double celebration. It’s all the fuss just for me that I don’t fancy…’ Christine’s heart leapt. Was he going to suggest that it could be an engagement party as well? She would go along with that, even with his provincial friends and his domineering mother if she had a ring on her finger. And that would be one in the eye for that evacuee girl, Maisie Jackson, wouldn’t it?

  ‘What do you mean, darling?’ she asked innocently.

  ‘Well, it’s your twenty-first soon after mine, isn’t it? You said your birthday is on the fifteenth of December, didn’t you? Well, what could be better? A double celebration. You haven’t any relations of your own to give you a party, have you? I know my mother would be delighted if we were to share one. Now why didn’t I think of it before? And you could invite your own friends, of course…’

  Christine’s heart had plummeted right to the soles of her feet. She had let him go on talking whilst she desperately thought of what to say. This was worse than ever. But she realised that it was time to come clean and tell him the truth. She would not be twenty-one in December as Bruce imagined. She would be twenty-three. ‘Steady on, Bruce,’ she began, shaking her head. ‘I can’t…’

  She hadn’t intended telling him just yet, but he would have to find out before they were married; it would need to be on the marriage certificate. ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you. You see, I can’t…’

  ‘What? Why can’t you?’ He smiled disarmingly at her. ‘I’ve told you; Mother won’t mind.’

  ‘I can’t…because I won’t be twenty-one. I’ll be…twenty-three. I had my twenty-first two years ago… There was no party or anything,’ she went on as he stared at her dumbfoundedly. ‘I was in the WAAF, wasn’t I? On manoeuvres, if I remember rightly.’

  ‘But…why on earth didn’t you tell me?’ He shook his head in a bewildered manner. Then, ‘Why did you lie to me, Christine?’ he asked more sternly.

  ‘Because… I liked you, straight away, as soon as I met you. And I didn’t want to frighten you off by saying I was older than you.’

  ‘Good grief! It’s only two years.’

  ‘All the same, I didn’t want to lose you. You see, I realised that I loved you, and I didn’t want you to think badly of me. And then it just went on and on, and I couldn’t tell you. I’m sorry…’ She looked at him with what she hoped was a pensive, remorseful kind of smile. ‘Sorry, darling. Do you forgive me?’

  He smiled back at her a little sadly. ‘Of course I do. But… Christine, you won’t ever lie to me again, will you?’

  ‘No, of course I won’t,’ she said hurriedly. ‘But…it was only a little lie, wasn’t it? It didn’t matter very much. More of a white lie really. But I know it was very silly…’

  ‘It mattered because it was an untruth,’ said Bruce, still rather solemnly. ‘Big or little it was still a lie. I want to know that I can trust you. You won’t do it again, will you, Chrissie, not about anything?’

  ‘No; I’ve just told you I won’t,’ she replied, a knot of tension tightening up inside her as she recalled the other lies she had told him. ‘Please don’t make a fuss about it, darling. Like you say, it’s only two years. I was just being silly, thinking you might mind about that… Now, you sit and look at the newspaper while I go and make us a meal. I thought it would be nicer for us to dine here than to go out…’ She kissed him lightheartedly on the forehead and escaped into the small kitchen which led off the living room. It would be best, she decided, not to mention the twenty-first party again for the moment. It had caused enough trouble already.

  She was determined to test her culinary skills to the utmost to show Bruce what she was capable of doing. More often than not, when she was on her own, she opened a tin or had something on toast, but she knew she could be quite proficient – her gran had told her so – when she put her mind to it.

  The obliging butcher, on the same row as the ironmonger’s shop, had cut her two middle-loin lamb chops which she intended to grill with tomatoes and mushrooms. Tomatoes were still hard to come by, but she had managed to get two extra large ones from the greengrocer’s. She would make chips – that was easy enough and did away with the need for gravy – and open a tin of peas, as the garden variety, she found, needed a great deal of boiling if they were not to have the consistency of bullets. Her greatest problem was making sure that everything was ready, to serve up nice and hot, all at the same time.

  She had made the dessert that morning. It was a trifle; sponge cake covered with custard, jelly and a precious tin of peaches, finished off with mock cream sprinkled with hundreds and thousands. She had even bought a bottle of wine; here again, the owner of the nearby off-licence shop had been just as helpful as the butcher and the greengrocer; Christine was already a popular young woman amongst the local tradesmen. The wine merchant had advised her that a red wine was considered to be correct with lamb, and he had chosen for her a bottle which he assured her was smooth and palatable and not too expensive.

  But what about wine glasses? She had been in a quandary about that. Gran had never possessed any, and although there was sufficient crockery, and cooking utensils, too, for her use in the flat, there were no niceties such as glasses. But the ironmonger himself, Mr Hardacre, had come to her rescue when she had gone to him in a panic, having left it too late to take a trip to the Woolie’s store in Bradford. He had unearthed a dusty box from the top shelf of his stockroom, containing six wine glasses, plain but functional, and had sold them to her at a knock-down price.

  She left the kitchen door open whilst she prepared the meal, so that she could call to Bruce and, hopefully, jolly him along into a more relaxed frame of mind. She knew he was displeased with her, but it was such a little thing to make a fuss about, surely? However, she was beginning to realise what a stickler he was for honesty and truthfulness. She supposed she had known that all along, but this was the first time that she had been put to the test…and found wanting. She felt her stomach muscles tighten with anxiety again at the memory of the other untruths she had told him, but she persuaded herself that there was no way – no way at all – that he could ever find out about her past history or, rather, that of her family. Once they were married she would make sure that they settled somewhere far, far away from Bradford. Never again would she have any contact with her shameful parents.

  ‘Are you OK, darling?’ she called out to him. ‘Would you like a cup of tea while I get the meal ready?’

  ‘No, than
k you,’ he replied, smiling at her over the top of the Daily Express. ‘It might spoil my appetite, and it smells delicious, whatever it is you’re cooking.’

  So far, so good, she thought, checking the state of the chops under the grill of the antiquated gas cooker; he seemed to be coming round. It was time to add the tomatoes and mushrooms to the grill pan, then lower the chip basket into the heated fat. There was a splutter and fizz as she did so, which told her that the fat was hot enough, thank goodness; get it too hot and it was likely to set alight, something she was scared of doing.

  Oh crikey! She suddenly realised that she had forgotten to set the table, although she had found earlier, in a kitchen drawer, a white damask cloth, fortunately clean and laundered, and with only a spot or two of iron mould, and two serviettes to match. There were table mats too, with a hunting scene that had only partly worn away, and knives, forks and spoons; not silver or even EPNS, but still quite serviceable.

  ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ said Bruce, as he saw her dash across to open the gate-legged table. ‘Here, give those to me and I’ll set the table,’ he grinned. ‘My mother has brought me up properly, you know. I’m not one of those men who want waiting on hand and foot, neither is my father.’

  ‘You surprise me,’ said Christine. ‘I thought you would have had a housekeeper and butler and maids and all that, before the war, I mean.’

  ‘Good heavens, no!’ he laughed. ‘We’ve never been in that league. We had a housekeeper of sorts at one time. She helped my mother with the cooking and cleaning, but that was ages ago, before the war started. Domestic servants are getting hard to come by these days. Mother still has someone to help her clean, but over the war years she got used to doing a lot of it herself, and she’s a splendid cook. My father helps with little jobs around the home, and so do I when I’m there. I’ve told you before, the Tremaines are not nobility, not even what you might call landed gentry…’ He had set the table very proficiently whilst he had been talking. ‘Now, is that all? Is there anything else I can do?’