by Maggie Joel
Far from being discouraged, Mr Lake had taken up a position outside the church hall from where he could observe the departure of the newlyweds at his leisure. He could also accost the bride’s older and as yet unmarried sister, Bertha.
Leaving the reception hard on the heels of the newly married Mr and Mrs Ronnie Booth as they had boarded a taxicab bound for Paddington Station and thence to Torquay, Bertha had walked straight into him.
‘Oh, beg your pardon,’ mumbled Bertha. Looking up she was surprised to see Mr Lake who, not half an hour earlier, had delivered the telegram.
‘Miss Flaxheed. It is Miss Flaxheed, I believe?’ replied Mr Lake, in a way that dared her to contradict him.
Mr Lake’s somewhat conceited and over-familiar manner made Bertha very much want to contradict him. She also had a suspicion that he had lurked about on this street corner so that he could get a last and lingering look at the young bride as she was whisked away on her honeymoon. Bertha bridled.
‘Yes it is. Now please excuse me, I am in a great hurry.’
Bertha was not in a hurry, great or otherwise, but it seemed prudent to give that impression. To substantiate her claim she thrust out an arm and made as if to stride purposefully onwards. But Mr Lake, who was a solid-looking man and tall besides, seemed in no particular hurry to stand aside and her departure was thus thwarted.
‘Perhaps you would care to accompany me on a picnic to Kew one Sunday afternoon, Miss Flaxheed?’ suggested Mr Lake.
This was such an astonishing thing for Mr Lake of the post office who must be well into his thirties, if not older, to say, that for a moment Bertha was dumbfounded.
‘The crocuses are quite delightful, you know, at this time of year and the greenhouses have all manner of orchids in bloom at the moment, from South America and the Asias and other such places, I believe,’ said Mr Lake. ‘Young ladies are partial to flowers in bloom,’ he added, as though he had read this fact somewhere and was determined to make the most of it.
Bertha was unmoved by this appeal to her femininity. She was, however, in a state of acute anxiety over the suggestion from an almost unknown man that she accompany him—alone?—on a picnic. To Kew.
A response was undoubtedly required and, to give herself time, she stepped back a little, the better to view Mr Lake.
He was certainly in his thirties, though perhaps not as close to forty as she had at first assumed. His face was clean-shaven and large, his nose proportionally vast and his neck not much narrower than his face. He wore the uniform of the post office counterman, which was a dark grey serge jacket and trousers, with a wing-collared shirt beneath, and a dark grey felt hat that he was now holding before him in two vast hands. He was easily six foot tall and Bertha experienced just a flicker of nervousness.
But his face was friendly enough, she decided. His eyes, though you couldn’t tell the colour at this time of the evening, nevertheless appeared friendly too. The post office, one supposed, would not employ someone who was not of good character. Besides, when he worked behind the counter he wore a sort of green visor on his head and a bottle-green apron tied around his waist and he used a pair of tweezers to tear off quantities of stamps. She didn’t equate that sort of thing with opium dens and white slave traders.
But why Mr Lake was now standing outside the church hall, accosting her with invitations to picnics at Kew on Sunday remained a mystery.
‘I believe I have an engagement this Sunday,’ she said at length. From this he was to infer that she was a young lady with options, that she was not at all impressed by his unwarranted proposition, and that he should most certainly consider this a refusal.
‘Well then, the following Sunday?’
Bertha turned to look rapidly from left to right to see who was within hailing distance should she need to call for assistance, and—of more immediate concern—who might be observing this exchange between herself, older and unmarried sister of the bride, and an employee of the post office.
But the wedding party had moved on so she turned back to Mr Lake. There were ink stains on the pads of his fingers and around the nails of his right hand, the stains a very faint blue as though he had made every attempt to scrub them clean. The stains and the scrubbing had an oddly comforting effect.
It occurred to Bertha that in two Sundays’ time her younger sister and her younger sister’s new husband would have returned from their honeymoon in Torquay and be living as man and wife in Ronnie’s home. Much to her own surprise Bertha found herself saying, ‘Yes, I believe I have no engagements the following Sunday.’
Accordingly, two Sundays hence, a mild and partly overcast day in early April, she had announced after lunch to her astonished father and her silently knitting mother that she was going to meet Mr Lake from the post office at the District Railway station and that she was going with him by means of a railway train to Kew Gardens, whereupon they would take a stroll in the Palm House and perhaps also the Orangery, and then partake of a light picnic tea prepared for that purpose by Mr Lake, and that she would return in time for supper.
And that is what she did. More or less.
The mild and partly overcast Sunday lunchtime promised to become an unseasonably warm and brilliantly blue-skied afternoon, and as she made her way a little breathlessly, in daringly high court shoes, to the railway station, Bertha was glad she had discarded her Gloria Swanson coat at the last minute. She wore instead her best dress—beige with an irregular hemline that rose almost to the knee on one side—and carried a natty Dorothy bag with tassels in grape that almost matched the aubergine of the second-best cloche hat that Baxter’s Millinery in the high street had to offer.
She would not think about that other time she had rushed to meet a young man on a Sunday afternoon.
It was better not to imagine how things might have been.
This morning Jemima had swept triumphantly into the house, Ronnie following sheepishly in her wake, to announce that they were returned from their honeymoon. Had, in fact, returned some days before but had been so preoccupied with home-making and other sundry marital duties that they had been unable to visit before now. When they had gone (less than an hour after they had arrived), Bertha had made her announcement about meeting Mr Lake.
She turned the corner and there, immediately outside the station booking office, was Mr Lake.
For a moment her courage almost failed her.
He stood, legs slightly apart, hands behind his back in the manner of a soldier standing at ease. He was dressed in a neat dark suit and collar and tie. The only concessions he had made to the Sunday afternoon were the brown shoes in place of his boots and the soft collar in place of the starchy wing collar. On his head was a soft grey hat and she silently thanked God that he had not worn a bowler. He was, when all was said and done, Mr Lake from the post office.
He hailed her with a wave of his hand and a ‘Hullo, Miss Flaxheed!’ and Bertha, alarmed that someone she knew would see her, hurried over to silence him. ‘A beautiful day for a picnic,’ he added loudly, reaching down and picking up a very small wicker picnic hamper.
Ought she to have brought something too? Bertha wondered in sudden horror. Was the arrangement that they would both provide their own picnics and here she was empty-handed so that she would either have to starve or ask to share Mr Lake’s? She decided to say nothing and see what transpired.
‘There’s an east-bound train in three and a half minutes,’ announced Mr Lake, taking a large gold fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and studying it with a satisfied frown.
I’m out with my father, thought Bertha, dismayed.
‘I have taken the liberty of purchasing our tickets,’ said Mr Lake, holding up the two tickets as proof of this liberty.
Bertha followed him onto the east-bound platform where they stood, side by side, close to the platform’s edge, and cast desperately about for something to say. The picnic? No, that was dangerous territory. The weather? Always safe but he had already beaten her to it. The pric
e of the tickets? He might think her grasping and miserly. Or careless and irresponsible. The train was late. There was still time to back out.
But she knew she would not back out; that was the one certainty. The embarrassment of turning and fleeing now, at this stage in the proceedings, would surely outweigh any embarrassment the rest of the afternoon could mete out.
She was here for the duration.
Mr Lake—surely he would ask her to use his Christian name?—pulled out his watch again and gave it a disapproving glance.
‘I understand this station used to be called Mill Hill Park,’ Bertha remarked. ‘I mean, before it was renamed Acton Town,’ she added, lest he should be in any doubt. And surely this was the most idiotic thing she—or indeed anyone—could have said. But really, what did it matter? Here she was, Bertha Flaxheed of Wells Lane, twenty-three years old, operator at the West Western Telephone Exchange, worrying about what Mr Lake of the post office thought of her conversation.
‘Oh? You’re a bit of a train buff, are you?’ replied Mr Lake, turning to her in some surprise and perhaps even approval. ‘I’m a big one for all forms of transportation myself, and communication—it’s the way forward, you know. What attracted me to the postal service in the first place. That and my old father,’ he added as the train arrived. And with this newly established interest in common, they sat in perfect silence the two stops to Turnham Green, changed platforms and caught the Richmond train to Kew Gardens.
As they left the station, crossed Kew Road and entered the gardens through Victoria Gate, the first black clouds began to gather and the sun dipped behind them. Bertha looked up at the sky and decided she could risk a comment about the weather.
‘I hope it doesn’t cloud over?’ she said, making it a question because she felt sure Mr Lake would hold some firm opinion on the matter.
‘I believe it already has,’ replied Mr Lake, keeping his eyes firmly on the path ahead, and Bertha felt foolish because obviously it had already clouded over, anyone could see that, and now he must think her a perfect idiot. She must be more definite in future. More alert.
Future? They were only going to be here for a couple of hours. Less if it rained.
‘I’ve never been to Kew before,’ she said, because she hadn’t and this was something he could not call into question.
‘Then you are in for a treat. Spring is always the best time to view the flowerbeds—the daffodils, the wisteria. Maybe early azalea and rhododendrons. Follow me!’ And he set off down another path with such long strides that Bertha had quite a job keeping up. I thought he said we would stroll, she thought to herself as they sped around the pond, whirled through the Rose Garden, dashed past the Azalea Garden and shot out into the Bamboo Garden, where Bertha had to pause to draw breath.
‘I need to sit down,’ she said, putting words to action and dropping herself and the Dorothy bag down onto the nearest wooden bench and resisting the temptation to pull off her shoes and rub her fast-blistering heels. She had an idea no man liked to see a lady pulling off her shoes and rubbing her blisters in public. She was beginning to realise she might possibly have worn the wrong shoes. However, it was too late to worry about such things and, as Mr Lake made to sit down beside her, she took the opportunity to enjoy the view.
They were sitting on Riverside Walk, their bench overlooking a tributary of the river. A signpost pointed towards the Herbarium, the Orangery and Kew Palace and Bridge, and in the other direction to Old Deer Park and Richmond. A large number of young, springtime couples strolled arm in arm along the river. The couples, she noticed, or at least the young men who formed one half of these couples, were dressed in light slacks and brightly coloured jerseys, or wide-legged Oxford bags. Some even wore plus-fours and tartan knee-length socks. Those who wore jackets wore them unbuttoned and showed a large quantity of jauntily coloured knitwear beneath. Aside from Mr Lake, there was not a single dark suit, fob watch, collar and tie or waistcoat to be seen.
Bertha sank lower on the bench lest someone should see them and take them for father and daughter. Why wasn’t he wearing a small, neat wristwatch? Why didn’t he at least undo his waistcoat?
It seemed inevitable that every passing couple must surely turn and stare and perhaps snigger but no, all the young people strolling past were far too engrossed in each other to notice the stuffy couple sitting silently on the bench staring at the river.
Mr Lake hitched up his trousers an inch, crossed his legs and moved the picnic basket, which was lying on the bench between them as a sort of barrier, one inch to the left and then one inch to the right.
‘And is that why you became an employee of the telephone exchange, Miss Flaxheed?’ he said, and for a moment Bertha was so baffled by this question that she offered no reply. Then she remembered the conversation about trains and communication.
‘Oh, no, I got a job there because my friend, Elsie Stephens, told me they were advertising. Elsie worked at Western Exchange at Kensington, and she transferred to West Western when it opened two years ago,’ Bertha explained. ‘I was working at the bakery in the high street before that. And before that at Hanson’s Shoes for Ladies in Ealing,’ she added, as though becoming a telephone operator was a natural progression.
Mr Lake nodded wisely and fell silent.
And was this to be the sum total of their conversation? Bertha wondered, panic-stricken. She ought to ask him why he was working at the post office yet this seemed impossible, like asking a vicar why he had become a vicar—you just didn’t. But she must say something.
‘And have you worked long at the post office, Mr Lake?’ she inquired, and on balance it seemed like a safe enough question: polite, not too intrusive, yet displaying a respectful interest in his affairs. She relaxed for a moment, not the least bit concerned with what answer he gave but relieved at having done her bit for the conversation.
‘Long enough,’ replied Mr Lake.
Surely he was going to say more than just that?
Then, ‘Shall we have tea?’ and Bertha nodded.
The small wicker basket was turned around, the buckles undone, the lid lifted and the first drops of rain began to fall. Mr Lake surveyed the contents of the picnic with a critical eye so that it occurred to Bertha someone had made it on his behalf.
The drops of rain quickened and became a fine spray that covered Mr Lake’s hat and collar and the sleeves of his coat in a shower of tiny glistening diamonds.
‘Sardine? Or ham and shrimp paste?’
‘Um...’ Bertha tried to think. ‘Sardine.’
She was carefully handed a square of soft white bread, the crusts cut off, containing between the slices a thick layer of mashed sardine.
‘Thank you,’ she said, waiting until Mr Lake had selected a sandwich for himself (ham and shrimp paste) and taken a bite. She took what she hoped was a dainty nibble and then, because this might look as though she disliked the look of the sandwich, and was being very rude, she took a second somewhat larger bite, and suddenly found her mouth quite full.
‘Well. This is very pleasant,’ declared Mr Lake, leaning back and dusting the raindrops from his left trouser leg.
‘Mmm.’ Bertha tried to swallow and nod at the same time.
They munched silently for a while, then Mr Lake delved into the basket and came out with two bottles and a little packet wrapped in brown paper.
‘Now, lemonade. And I have flapjacks, Bakewell tart or mother’s home-made gingerbread.’
Mother’s home-made? Did that mean his own mother had made it at home, or was it just a figure of speech? She couldn’t risk it.
‘The gingerbread, please.’
He smiled approvingly and handed her the packet from which she carefully selected a slice of moist, dark-gold gingerbread.
‘Mm, lovely,’ she said through a mouthful.
‘Yes. Although it’s really my Aunt Daisy’s recipe, and rumour has it she got it from a housekeeper who once worked in the kitchens at Windsor Castle.’
; ‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
The rain had eased off and just as Bertha was thinking of looking skywards and commenting on the fact, it came down again in a sudden flurry that blew straight in under her hat and wet her face.
‘The rain. Perhaps we’d better...?’ she suggested.
‘We’ll head for the Palm House,’ agreed Mr Lake, getting up, repacking the basket and offering her his arm in such haste that Bertha had to jump up and grab her bag. She was still clutching the partially eaten gingerbread and she had to transfer it swiftly to her other hand in order to take his arm.
They scurried along the path in the direction indicated by the signpost as the rain became heavier and began to drip down the back of Bertha’s neck. Really, it’s rather romantic, she thought, stepping into a puddle, and losing half her slice of gingerbread. Mr Lake strode rapidly, his breath growing louder and heavier, the wicker basket banging against his legs. The sleeve of his jacket was cold and damp beneath her hand.
Ahead loomed the vast iron and curved glass structure of the Palm House. It was certainly magnificent, particularly as the rain was now driving down on them and the Palm House seemed to offer the only shelter. Making for the entrance, they eventually drew to a halt, Mr Lake grabbing the door handle and gallantly standing aside to usher her in.
Bertha stood, catching her breath, aware of a rush of moist hot air that clogged her lungs as Mr Lake came in after her, closing the misted glass door and shaking the raindrops from his collar.
The glass of the Palm House was completely fogged up so that she could see nothing of the outside. A narrow gravel aisle led down the centre and fenced off on either side were vast green leaves and stalks and tendrils that thrust upwards in a way that was almost claustrophobic. Half a dozen other couples, in various states of dampness, also stood around shaking off the rain and steaming gently.
‘This is exactly why I am not a postman,’ announced Mr Lake in a loud voice. Bertha smiled painfully at one or two of the young people who had turned to regard them.