When Kathy arrived home on that Friday afternoon in mid March her father was up a ladder papering the walls of one of the guest bedrooms, whilst her aunt was busy at a trestle table in the centre of the room putting paste onto the next length of paper.
‘Hello, dear,’ said her aunt when the little girl’s head appeared round the door. ‘Have you had a nice day at school?’ That was what she always asked, and as usual Kathy replied that yes, she had. She had never minded going to school, but it had been especially nice since she had been in Miss Roberts’ class.
‘Goodness, is it that time already?’ said her father. ‘I think it’s time for a cup of tea, Winnie. You go and put the kettle on, eh? Hello, Kathy love. Go and help your Aunty Win, there’s a good girl.’
Her dad was always saying that, and Kathy actually quite enjoyed helping out in the boarding house. When she was a tiny girl, before she started school, she had loved going round with her Aunty Nellie – not a real aunt, just a friend of Aunty Win – who came in once a week to ‘do’ the bedrooms. There were fifteen bedrooms on three floors, including two attic bedrooms. Kathy used to accompany her aunt with her own little dustpan and brush, and a duster, to help with the dusting and polishing. Aunty Nellie sometimes let her put a tiny amount of polish onto the surface of a dressing table, and then rub hard to make it all shiny and gleaming.
She helped Aunty Win, too, in the kitchen when she was making pies or fruit tarts. She had her own pastry cutters and rolling pin and could already make jam tarts that they were able to eat. She did not help very much, though, when her father was in charge of the kitchen; he was not quite as patient as her aunt. She realised, though, that at the moment she was only playing at helping. But Kathy also understood, with all the wisdom of her six – nearly seven – years, that this would eventually be her job of work. When the time came for her to leave school – a long time in the future – she knew that she would be expected to work in the family boarding house, or whatever they wanted to call it, just as Aunty Win and her father had taken over from her grandparents.
‘I’m coming, Aunty Win,’ she called. ‘I’m just taking my coat off, and I’ve got something to put away in my drawer. It’s a secret, you see.’
On the way home from school she had called in at the local newsagent’s shop and bought a small box of Milk Tray for Aunty Win for Mother’s Day. She had been saving up from her spending money each week until she had enough. She put the purple box and the card in her drawer underneath her knickers, vests and socks, then went down to the kitchen to join her aunt.
‘So what have you been doing at school this afternoon?’ Winifred asked her niece. ‘You don’t do much work on Friday afternoon, do you?’
In Winifred’s opinion they didn’t do much work at all in the infant classrooms of today. It all seemed to be painting or playing in the house, or messing about with sand and water, from what Katherine told her aunt. Not like it was in her day. She had been born in 1900 and when she started school at four years of age Queen Victoria had been dead for three years. Her photograph had hung in the school hall for many years, so Winifred’s parents had told her – they had both attended the same school – and then it had been replaced by one of Edward VII, her corpulent son. Winifred remembered his rather kindly face regarding them as they sang their morning hymns and recited their daily prayers.
She recalled, too, the rows of wooden desks where the children sat in formal rows – ‘Straight backs, boys and girls, no slouching’; the chalk and slates on which to write the letters of the alphabet; the map of the world on the classroom wall, with a goodly part of it coloured in red, showing the parts that belonged to the British Empire. She remembered a strict male teacher, too, with a long swishing cane; not that it was often used. The children of yesteryear knew they had to behave themselves; one look was usually enough.
Times had changed, she pondered, and not always for the best, although Kathy seemed to be getting on well since she went into that nice Miss Roberts’ class. There didn’t seem to be as much messing about, and she could now read very nicely from her book that told of the exploits of Janet and John.
‘No …’ replied Kathy, in answer to her aunt’s query. ‘Miss Roberts usually lets us do a jigsaw or read a book on Friday afternoon, while she does her register for the week. She has a lot of adding up to do, she says. But today we were making cards for—’ She suddenly stopped and put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh dear! It was meant to be a surprise. Pretend I didn’t say that, will you, Aunty Win?’
‘Of course, dear,’ smiled Winifred. ‘I didn’t actually catch what you said anyway.’
The child had given the game away already, though, talking about hiding something in her drawer. Mother’s Day, Winifred had thought to herself. That was one of the times when she felt most sorry for the little girl, not that Kathy ever seemed too worried about occasions such as those.
Winifred poured the tea into three mugs and added milk and sugar. ‘Now, Kathy,’ she said. ‘Do you think you could manage to carry this mug upstairs to your daddy? Be careful, mind, but I’ve not filled it too full. And there’s a custard cream biscuit for him. Pop it into your gymslip pocket, then you’ve got both hands free. Off you go now.’
Winifred loved the little girl more than she could say. She had tried to make it up to her for not having a mother, and she hoped and prayed that she had succeeded. She felt that she had, to a certain extent, although she realised it could never be quite the same. She had wondered if her brother might marry again, but he had been so distressed at losing his beloved Barbara that he had never, since that time, taken any interest at all in the opposite sex. He was a taciturn sort of man who did not show his feelings. Winifred was sure that he loved his little daughter very much, but he found it difficult to tell her so or even to show her much affection. Any cuddles and hugs, or comfort when she was upset, came from her aunt or grandparents. It was only natural that she should sometimes ask questions about her mother – all her schoolfriends had mothers – and she was always told that her mother had died when she was only a baby, but she must never forget that her mummy had loved her very much.
Albert never spoke of his wife. He had settled into a comfortable little rut. He worked his socks off in the hotel. He was a first-rate cook – or chef, as he liked to call himself – and there was nothing he would not tackle when there were any jobs to be done in the off season. His only means of recreation was to go to the pub two or three evenings a week – he was a member of the darts team – and he was also an ardent supporter of Blackpool’s football team. He was there every Saturday during the winter months, in his orange and white scarf, taking his place on Spion Kop. But Winifred could not imagine him ever cheering and yelling encouragement – or even booing! – as many enthusiastic supporters did. She guessed he was as silent there as he was in other aspects of his life. Blackpool was a First Division club and boasted of their most famous player, Stanley Matthews. Albert looked forward to the day when they might – when they would, he was sure – win the FA cup. He filled in his football coupon regularly. Winifred was not sure how much he allowed himself to bet, but he had never, as yet, had a substantial win, only the odd pound or two. They had to be quiet every Saturday evening after the six o’clock news when the football results were read out and Albert checked his coupon.
Winifred was looking forward to the start of the holiday season in a few weeks’ time. It would begin slowly, with visitors coming for the Easter weekend and the following week – they were already almost fully booked for that period – but then there would be a lull for several weeks until the Whitsuntide holiday. It was then that the season would start in earnest and would, hopefully, continue until almost the end of October.
Blackpool was beginning to make its name as the foremost resort in the north, maybe in the whole, of England. The town had gained more than it had lost during the Second World War. Many of its competitors on the south and east coasts had been forced to close down for the duration of
the war because of the threat of invasion or bombing. Admittedly, the curtailing of the Illuminations in the September of 1939 had affected the income of the Blackpool boarding house keepers and hoteliers. However, following on from that, many of these people were able to make up for their losses by accommodating RAF personnel who were training in the town. Over three-quarters of a million RAF recruits passed through the town during the war. There were also the child evacuees at the start of the conflict, but they did not all stay for very long; in fact, by 1940 the majority of them had returned home.
Later in the war there were American GIs stationed at the nearby bases at Weeton and Warton, and the Blackpool entertainment industry enjoyed a prosperity they had not seen since the end of the First World War.
The war had not deterred holidaymakers from visiting the resort, in spite of the wartime propaganda posters asking ‘Is Your Journey Really Necessary?’ Many families obviously thought it was still essential to take a holiday, and Blackpool was a relatively safe place in which to stay. The Whitsuntide holidays had been abandoned in 1940 by government decree, but the annual wakes holidays of the textile towns in Lancashire and Yorkshire recommenced in July and from then on Blackpool had never looked back.
The advent of rationing, rather than being a hindrance, had been quite a boon for the hotel keepers, and more especially for the boarding house landladies. They took charge of the visitors’ ration books, and this led to the change from the old system of lodging houses to that of full board. Winifred remembered only too well the old days, when visitors brought their own food, which was cooked for them by the boarding house staff. The visitors paid only for their lodgings and for services rendered, such as cooking, laundry, cleaning of shoes, and – in some lodging houses – the ‘use of the cruet’.
The system of ‘full board’ which had begun during the war years was now the norm. It consisted of cooked breakfast, midday dinner, and a ‘high tea’. In some residences, as at Holmleigh, supper was also served in the visitors’ lounge from nine o’clock in the evening.
In the previous year, 1949, the return of the Illuminations had marked a turning point from post-war austerity. The years of darkness and depression were over, exemplified by the return of the ‘Lights’. Blackpool had become the envy of many of its rivals. It was well and truly back in business, catering for a full cross section of the public, from the working classes to those who considered themselves to be the ‘elite’.
The hotel had become – almost – Winifred’s whole life, the focus of her existence and her ambition. She was proud of what they had achieved since the end of the war. They were coming to be known as one of the best of the small private hotels in Blackpool, with the same visitors returning year after year. She had never done any work outside of the boarding house. It had been taken for granted when she left school at the age of fourteen that she should work in the family business. That was in the year of 1914; the start of the Great War had coincided with the end of Winifred’s schooling.
It had been the height of the holiday season in Blackpool, but the initial disruption – when visitors trying to return home found that the trains had been commandeered for the fighting forces – proved to be of short duration. By mid August it was ‘business as usual’ in the resort. The holiday industry carried on and thrived throughout the First World War as, twenty years later, it was to do the same in the second conflict. It was an emotive issue, as to whether seaside holidays and leisure times, such as professional sport, should continue when the country was at war. The lists in the daily newspapers of deaths in action were becoming longer and more disturbing. But the ‘powers that be’ in Blackpool felt that it was good for morale that people should be encouraged to take holidays, as before. It was decided, however, that to continue with the Illuminations would be going too far, and so, despite their initial success, plans to make the Illuminations an annual event had to be cancelled, due to the outbreak of war.
And so the accommodation industry benefited, not only through the holidaymakers, but with the arrival of Belgian refugees, and then by the billeting of British troops. During the winter of 1914 to 1915 there were ten thousand servicemen billeted in the town, along with two thousand refugees.
The Leighs’ boarding house played its part in accommodating both the troops and the refugees. Winifred was fascinated and, at first, a little shy of these men who teased her good-humouredly. But as the war went on – with, regrettably, the loss of many of the soldiers they had known – she began to grow in confidence.
It was not until 1917, though, when she was seventeen years old, that she fell in love for the first – and what she believed was to be the last – time. Arthur Makepeace was a Blackpool boy; he was, in fact, almost the ‘boy next door’, living only a few doors away from the Leigh family. He was three years older than Winifred and had joined up, as soon as he was old enough, in 1915. After a few outings together, when he came home on leave, they had realised that there was a good deal more than friendship between them. They had vowed that, after the war was over, they would get married. Despite their age neither of their families had raised any objections. Many young couples were ‘plighting their troth’ in those uncertain days.
Arthur was granted leave in the early summer of 1918, then he returned to the battlefields of France. It was universally believed that the war was in its last stages and the young couple were looking forward to the time when they would be together for always.
Then, in the August of that year came the news that Winifred, deep down, had always been dreading. Arthur had been killed in one of the last offensives on the Western Front. It was his parents, of course, who had received the dreaded telegram, and they wept along with the girl who was to have become one of their family.
It was said that time was a great healer, and gradually Winifred picked up the pieces of her life and carried on with her duties in the boarding house. Like thousands of women of her age she had never married, had never even fallen in love again. She had settled down to a life of compromise. But there were compensations to be found: in her local church where she was a keen worker, and in the dramatic society – also attached to the church – where it was discovered that she was, surprisingly, quite a talented actress. And, above all, in her love for her little motherless niece.
Winifred was now fifty years of age and, by and large, she felt that life had not treated her too badly. She had missed out on marriage, though, and children of her own. And she still wondered, despite her quiet contentment with her life, what it would be like to experience the fulfilment of a happy marriage.
Chapter Three
‘That’s lovely, dear, really beautiful,’ said Winifred. She felt a tear come into her eye as Kathy proudly presented her, on Sunday morning, with the card she had made. ‘I love the flowers, such pretty colours. And this is your best writing; I can see that you’ve tried very hard.’
‘Miss Roberts said it had to be our very best, ’cause it was going home,’ said Kathy. ‘It says “Happy Mother’s Day”, and I know you’re not really my mum, but I couldn’t put “Happy Aunty’s Day”, could I? Because it isn’t. And Miss Roberts said it would be alright … And I’ve got you these as well, Aunty Win.’ She held out the small purple box she had been hiding behind her back.
‘Chocolates as well! And Milk Tray – my very favourites!’ exclaimed Winifred. She hugged the little girl and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Well, aren’t I lucky? That’s very kind of you, Kathy.’
She didn’t say, as she might have done, ‘You shouldn’t go spending your pocket money on me’, because she knew that it must have given the child pleasure to do so. She, Winifred, had always encouraged her to be generous and thoughtful for others; and she knew that Albert, despite his gruff manner, tried to teach her not to be selfish.
‘I shall enjoy these tonight while I’m listening to the Sunday Half Hour on the wireless,’ said Winifred.
‘All the class made a card,’ Kathy told her. ‘But Timothy Fielding made a
bit of a mess of his. He licked his bowl too much and it wouldn’t stick on, so I helped him to make another one.’
Winifred smiled. That boy’s name often cropped up in Katherine’s conversations. She gathered that he could be rather a pest in the classroom, but she suspected that Kathy had a soft spot for him.
‘He told me a joke,’ Kathy went on, ‘but I didn’t really understand it, Aunty Win, not all of it, though I told him I’d got it.’ She told her aunt the joke about the kangaroo and the sheep and the wooly jumper, frowning a little as she did so. ‘But a kangaroo and a sheep, they couldn’t have a baby one, could they? I didn’t know what he meant about crossing them, but I laughed because Tim expected me to.’
Winifred laughed too. ‘It’s just a joke, love,’ she said. ‘Quite a funny one actually.’ Oh dear! she thought, knowing that it would be her job, when the time came, to explain to her niece about the ‘facts of life’. And already, it seemed, she was beginning to question things. ‘No; a kangaroo and a sheep wouldn’t be able to … er … mate, to get together,’ she began. ‘It would have to be two kangaroos, a male and a female, or two sheep, a ram and a ewe, to … er … to make a baby kangaroo or a baby sheep. Just like you need a father and a mother, a man and a lady, to … er … produce a baby,’ she added tentatively.
But Kathy’s mind was already off onto another tack. ‘Baby sheep are called lambs,’ she said. ‘Everybody knows that. But Miss Roberts told us that baby kangaroos are called joeys. That’s funny, isn’t it? There’s a boy in our class called Joey, and everybody laughed when she said it. Did you know that, Aunty Win, that they’re called joeys?’
‘Yes, I believe so,’ replied Winifred, relieved that the subject had been changed. ‘Come along now; let’s have our breakfast. Bacon and egg this morning because it’s Sunday. I’ll keep your dad’s warm for him and fry him an egg when he comes down. He likes a bit of a lie-in on a Sunday, when he can.’
Time Goes By Page 2