Down an English Lane

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Down an English Lane Page 30

by Margaret Thornton


  ‘Hello…’ she said. ‘This is a surprise.’ Her fixed smile did not hold any warmth, neither did her mother’s.

  ‘Surprise?’ repeated Myrtle. ‘From what I gather it’s more of a bloody great shock than a surprise! It certainly was to your mother-in-law when I turned up on her doorstep. She thought I was pushing up the daisies, didn’t she, me and your dad? Well, that’s what I’ve come to tell you… Aren’t you going to ask me in?’

  ‘Yes, come in,’ said Christine automatically. Oh, damn and blast and bloody hell! This was dreadful. She must have been to Tremaine House… How else could her mother have found her whereabouts except by seeking out the Tremaines? She was desperately trying to think what she had said. Middlebeck…yes, she had probably mentioned Middlebeck, and her mother, who was no fool, had sorted the rest out for herself. Well, the cat was out of the bag now, and even if Myrtle went away again before Bruce returned there was no way she would he able to prevent him from learning the truth.

  Her mother followed her into the lounge and they both sat down on the pink plush armchairs. Myrtle was all in black, Christine noticed, and her eyes looked sad and vacant.

  ‘Your father’s dead,’ she said suddenly, without any preamble. ‘So what you told them posh in-laws of yours is partly true now; that’s one of us gone…’

  Christine felt herself blanch and a spasm of remorse grabbed at her. ‘Oh no!’ she gasped. ‘That’s dreadful! I know it was wrong, what I said, but I thought it was for the best. I didn’t mean to… How did it happen, my dad…?’

  ‘Road accident,’ said Myrtle, ‘a head-on collision; he was killed outright, or so I believe. The police came to tell me on Saturday night. The funeral’s on Friday, if you want to come. You’ll please yerself, of course, you always do, but if you want to show your respects…’ She gave a cynical laugh. ‘That’s a joke, isn’t it? You never had any respect for him while he was alive, did you? Nor for me, neither, so I can’t expect you to show any now.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, please…Mum,’ said Christine. For the first time for years she felt genuine tears of regret filling her eyes. ‘I am sorry, really I am… But you know as well as I do that we drifted apart ages ago, and I wanted to make a fresh start, that was all.’

  ‘And so you have, haven’t you?’ Myrtle nodded. ‘You’ve done very well for yerself, our Chrissie. I’m very impressed with your in-laws. She’s a bit lah-di-dah, mind, but she’s a kind-hearted woman, and that Archie’s as nice a chap as you could wish to meet. Treated me like royalty, they did. I even stayed the night with them. What d’you think about that, eh? You wouldn’t find him, the squire, treating folk as though they’re summat the cat’s dragged in. He’s a proper gentleman.’

  ‘Yes, so he is,’ agreed Christine. ‘He’s been very kind to me.’

  ‘And she hasn’t, I take it? Well, if the lady of the manor has been less than welcoming to you it’s no more than you deserve. Happen she can see you for what you are; there’s no flies on Rebecca Tremaine, I’m sure o’ that. Well, she won’t be very delighted with you now, will she, trying to pull the wool over their eyes, the way you’ve done.’

  ‘I wanted them to think that I came from a nice respectable background…’

  ‘Respectable, eh? You know what? I think that woman would have admired you more if you’d told the truth, well, some of it at any rate. Did you really think you could fool her that you were out o’ t’ top drawer? That’s the difference between you and me, Chrissie. I don’t pretend to be what I’m not. Oh aye, I’ve tried to better meself and climb a bit higher up the ladder, y’might say. I like having nice clothes and a nice home to live in, same as other folks have. OK, yer father’s been inside a few times, and I’ve earned me money in a way you don’t approve of. But I’ve never lied about meself. I can’t say that folk respect me – happen they don’t – but at least I know that some of ’em genuinely like me. Maybe I don’t look up to folks as I should, but I don’t look down on ’em neither.’

  Myrtle was silent for a few moments and so was Christine. She did not know how to answer; all that her mother was saying was painfully true. ‘If this marriage of yours is what you want,’ she went on, ‘then I’m glad for you. If it continues to be what you want, of course. How is your husband going to react when he finds out about the lies you’ve told? I reckon he must have been a gullible young fool in the first place, not to see what you were up to.’

  ‘He’s not a fool!’ retorted Christine. ‘He’s very trusting, though, I must admit.’ At least he used to be, she thought; too trusting; but she was not so sure that he was always taken in by her now. ‘But I didn’t really mean to deceive him, or his parents. We fell in love, Bruce and me; we really love one another. And I wanted it to work out, that’s all.’

  ‘And so you tricked him into an early marriage by pretending you were up the duff, is that it?’

  ‘How did you…? I wasn’t! All I told you when I came to see you was that we were getting married. If you imagine that Bruce had to marry me, then you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’ve told you; he loves me…’

  ‘Shut up, Chrissie,’ said her mother, not unkindly. ‘I can read you like a book. Well, he sounds worth hanging on to, this fellow of yours. I just hope it keeps fine for you. Am I going to meet him then? Are you expecting him home soon? I can smell summat good cooking in the oven.’

  ‘It’s a chicken,’ Christine replied tonelessly. ‘He comes home early on a Wednesday.’ She had decided that she must bow to the inevitable. Her mother was not showing any sign of departing and she could not throw her bodily out of the door. Even if she did go, there was no way she could stop Bruce from finding out. She might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, she supposed… ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked meekly. ‘I’m sorry; I should have asked you sooner…’

  ‘Better late then never,’ said her mother. ‘Thank you, Christine; that would be lovely.’

  And that was how Bruce found them when he arrived home some twenty minutes later, sipping tea from the best china cups as though they were bosom pals.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ he called as he opened the front door. ‘Something smells good…’ He stopped dead on the threshold of the lounge. ‘Oh… I’m sorry; I didn’t realise you had company… How do you do?’ He held out his hand to the woman who was a stranger to him, but Christine could tell from his half smile, half frown that he was puzzled. ‘I don’t think I have had the pleasure…’ he said.

  ‘Bruce,’ said his wife. ‘This is my mother…’

  ‘Your…mother?’ He let go of the woman’s hand, but he was still looking at her intently. ‘Yes; I can see… But I don’t understand… I thought… You told me…’

  ‘Yes, you thought I was dead, didn’t you, lad?’ said Myrtle, ‘and my husband an’ all. Well, as you can see, I’m very much alive and kicking, but my husband died last weekend; killed in a road accident. So I’ve come to tell our Chrissie. Such a job I had to find her, though, but I got here in the end, thanks to your mam and dad. She’ll have a lot of explaining to do, won’t she?’ She nodded towards Christine. ‘But you’d perhaps better leave it till later. I’m sure she had her reasons.’

  Christine did not know whether she was being sincere, or just vindictive. What she was most aware of was Bruce’s look of horror, not aimed at her mother but at her, Christine.

  ‘Mrs Myerscough…’ he began. ‘It is Mrs Myerscough, is it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, but I’d rather you called me Myrtle.’

  ‘Very well then… Myrtle.’ He smiled uncertainly at her, then almost collapsed into the opposite armchair. ‘I am very sorry to hear about your husband; what a dreadful shock it must have been for you… This has been a great shock to me, as you can see, but at least I am glad to see that my wife…’ he gave her a withering glance, ‘has made you welcome now. You are, indeed, very welcome here. Have you come all the way from Yorkshire today?’

  ‘Yes, I have… I went up to Middlebeck yesterday
, to find out what I could. I knew your father was the squire, you see. Christine told me that bit.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine…’ said Bruce thoughtfully.

  ‘Anyway, your parents very kindly invited me to stay the night; lovely folk they are, Bruce. So I set off again this morning, and I’ll get a train back from Lincoln in a little while. There’s one in the early evening, I’ve been told.’

  ‘So how did you get up here?’

  ‘On the bus. I was lucky enough to just catch one. I don’t suppose they run very frequently.’

  ‘You’re right; they don’t. But don’t worry… Myrtle; I will run you back to Lincoln in the car. But before that you are going to stay and have a meal with Christine and me. She always cooks something special on a Wednesday, don’t you?’ Again, the look he gave her held no sympathy or affection. ‘There will be plenty to go round; isn’t that right, Christine?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said briefly. ‘I’ll go and see to the vegetables, if you will excuse me.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Bruce,’ she heard her mother say, as she gladly made her escape. ‘You are a very kind young man. I can quite see why Christine was so taken with you…’

  ‘But why, Christine, why did you lie to me?’ Bruce asked repeatedly that evening when he had returned from taking her mother to Lincoln station. ‘It wasn’t just a white lie, either. It was downright wicked to tell me that your parents were dead.’

  ‘One thing led to another, Bruce, and when I’d said it I couldn’t go back. I didn’t want you to think badly of me. I wanted you to think I was from a nice respectable background. I knew your father was somebody important and well thought of…’

  ‘Yes, you knew my father was the squire and so you decided to latch on to me? I can see it all now.’

  ‘No, no… It wasn’t like that at all. I loved you, Bruce. I still love you; you know I do…’

  ‘And so you deceived me time and time again? That’s a strange kind of love, Christine. Telling me you were only twenty when you were twenty-two, and then pretending you were pregnant… Oh yes, I came to my senses about that little ruse a while ago, and I have a pretty good idea as well about why you are not getting pregnant now. But this lie about your parents is the worst of all. How could you imagine I would think badly of you because of what your parents had done? You are not responsible for their actions. I understand that you had a good upbringing with your grandmother? I’m sure she didn’t encourage you to cheat and lie.’

  ‘I wanted something better,’ she answered sullenly. ‘You have no idea what it was like, living in a hovel like I did, with an outside lav and a zinc bath in the kitchen, and wearing clothes bought from a jumble sale. And I was determined not to go the way my parents had gone to get a bit of extra money; stealing and living off immoral earnings.’

  ‘What you have done is just as bad, Christine; in fact, in my view it is worse. At least your mother has her own code of honesty. She told me something of her life, and that of your father. Not everything, I don’t suppose, but I can read between the lines. And I can understand, I suppose, why you broke away from them. But you should have told me, right at the start, at least some of the truth. I feel now that I will never trust you again.’

  ‘Bruce, please don’t say that…’

  But for the next two days he scarcely spoke to her.

  ‘Your father’s funeral is tomorrow,’ he said the next day. ‘You will be going, I take it? I think you should.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I almost promised that I would.’

  ‘Then try and keep your word, for once in your life.’

  ‘Would you…would you care to go with me, Bruce?’ she asked tentatively.

  ‘No.’ His reply was curt. ‘You will have to do this on your own.’

  He did at least run her to the station on Friday morning; the funeral was to take place in the afternoon. She hoped that by the time she came back on Saturday she might be able to work round to a reconciliation with him.

  But when she returned home, after spending Friday night in a small hotel near the centre of Bradford, she found that Bruce was not there. He had left a note…

  ‘Dear Christine, I think it might be as well if we parted company for a while. As I have told you, I feel that I can no longer trust you. I wonder, in fact, if I ever really knew you at all. I will be staying in staff quarters at the camp. For the time being, you may remain in the house. Bruce.’

  She screwed up the letter, holding it in a tight ball in her hand. She felt tears of anger and frustration, and of sadness, too, come into her eyes. She had lost him; she supposed she had known all along that Bruce was a man of high principles. Whatever was she going to do now?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Maisie took off her tweed coat, unzipped her fleecy-lined boots, then slipped her feet into her court shoes. She was rather fed-up by now with the snow, which had lingered well into February; but it seemed, at last, that a thaw might be setting in. She had slushed her way through icy puddles on the walk from the tram stop and it looked now as though it was beginning to rain. One good downpour might clear it away properly, until the next time. You could never be sure of the weather in Yorkshire or of how long the winter might last.

  It had felt odd at first to be back in Leeds, the town of her birth. She had been in two minds at first whether or not to accept Henry Galloway’s offer of the managership of the office in the Headrow. But her common sense had told her it was too good an opportunity to miss. She was still a few months away from her twentieth birthday, and here she was, the youngest manageress by far in the string of offices that were springing up in the cities of Yorkshire and Lancashire. In addition to York and Leeds, the first two to be opened, there were now branches of Galaxy Travel in Bradford, Sheffield, Manchester and Liverpool.

  She had been determined not to live anywhere near Armley as the place held too many unhappy memories for her. She had been fortunate, however, to find a small two-roomed flat, with a kitchenette and shared bathroom, at Woodhouse, near to the moor and not far from the university buildings. She had been living there ever since she had moved to the Leeds branch the previous year, in the summer of 1949.

  ‘You mean to say you will be living on your own?’ her mother had asked, in some trepidation. ‘I’m not sure that that’s a good idea, Maisie love.’ Her mother had been happy enough – once she had got over the fact that her daughter was leaving home to work in a travel agency in York – about her lodging with Jean Bolton, Jean Mullins as she was now, and her husband in their guest house. Lily remembered Jean – Miss Bolton – as a teacher at Middlebeck School, so she was sure that Maisie could come to no harm there.

  ‘It’s an excellent idea, Mum,’ Maisie had assured her. She had already procured the flat on a previous visit to Leeds and only told her mother about it when the deal was signed and settled. ‘I’m a big girl now, you know, in charge of an office – what do you think about that then? – and it’s time I had my own place. It’s only small, but in a year or two I might be able to afford somewhere bigger.’

  ‘Don’t try to run before you can walk, Maisie,’ her mother had said. ‘But I must admit that I’m proud of you. I had my doubts when you said you wanted to leave school – well, you know I was dead against it – but I realise now it was probably for the best. I know you’re happy and you’re doing what you want to do. You must be careful, though, living on your own…’

  Looking after herself had not, at first, been as easy as Maisie had blithely imagined, after living in digs with everything provided for her, for two years. Doing her own cooking and cleaning, washing and ironing, had been a rude awakening, although, thankfully, the flat had the luxury of central heating. From an antiquated coke boiler, to be sure, but at least it functioned and was taken care of by the man who owned the property. Her flat was at the very top of the Victorian house, up several flights of steep stairs, but once she had got used to living on her own she had come to enjoy it.

  Thank goodness the off
ice was centrally heated, too, she thought, wriggling her cold toes and warming her hands on the radiator. The warmth was just coming through, as she had switched it on when she arrived. She was always the first to arrive, to unlock and to make sure all was ready for the early clients. She had two assistants working with her; Barry, a trainee who was sixteen and had not long left school, and a mature woman, Olwen, who worked part-time, usually in the afternoons. Maisie had felt embarrassed at first, being in charge of someone who was so much older, but Olwen did not mind at all. She was only working for the extra money, she told Maisie, and had no intention of making a career of it. She showed keen interest, though, in her work, as did most people who were employed in travel agencies. It was fascinating work, dealing with far-away places and helping people to plan their journeys and their holidays. Next year, 1951, Henry Galloway planned to introduce European coach tours for the very first time, and he hoped, eventually, to branch out into their own tours incorporating air travel.

  He had proved to be a great inspiration to Maisie, ever since she had set foot in his shop on that chilly December day in 1946. She had learned about all aspects of the business, mainly as a booking clerk at first. Then, during the winter months, Trixie Galloway had taken her on the ‘recces’ that she did to holiday resorts all over Britain; preliminary visits to hotels that had been recommended to them, to see whether they came up to the standard expected by Galaxy Travel and by their clients. Good food, plentiful and well-cooked; comfortable bedrooms with running water; an adequate number of bathrooms and WCs for the use of guests; and a comfortable lounge area where the guests could relax, if they so wished, of an evening. Bournemouth, Torquay, Eastbourne, Brighton, Llandudno…places which had only been a spot on a map to her before, or a coloured picture in a brochure, she had visited all these and more during her time with Galaxy.

  They ran conducted tours of the city, too, for visitors who were spending a few days, maybe, in York, and wished to learn more of its history. Maisie had been entranced by the place ever since the school visit, which had been the start of it all. It was a great joy to her to be actually living there; to explore the little cobbled streets and alleyways and discover hidden squares that she had never found before. She never tired of visiting the Minster, and the Castle Museum and Railway Museum, all with their atmosphere of a long bygone age.

 

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