by Rosie Clarke
‘I had a wonderful time this evening,’ he whispered. ‘Did you enjoy yourself, darling?’
He had called me darling! My throat contracted with emotion. He did care for me. He must! Oh, he must love me, because I couldn’t bear it now if he didn’t.
‘It was lovely,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘There’s no need.’ He touched my mouth with his forefinger, sending little shivers of pleasure all over me. ‘Just think of me before you go to sleep.’
‘I always do,’ I confessed impulsively, then blushed because it sounded so forward.
‘You’re so sweet, Emma. ‘Do you know how lovely you are?’
‘I’m not pretty,’ I denied, hanging my head. ‘I know I’m not.’
‘Sometimes you are beautiful,’ he said and sighed heavily. ‘We had better collect your mother or we shall be late. And if we sit here any longer I might forget to be a gentleman.’
I laughed, certain he was only teasing me. I was still laughing as I went into the cottage to fetch my mother. She and Gran gave each other a knowing look.
‘It seems you’ve enjoyed yourself,’ Gran said.
‘Oh, I have!’
‘We’d best get back,’ Mother said. ‘Harold will be looking at the clock and wondering.’
‘You can tell me all about it on Wednesday,’ my grandmother said, giving me a wicked look.
‘Of course I will.’ I kissed her. ‘Thanks, Gran. It wouldn’t have happened without you. I’m so happy.’
In the car Paul described the film to my mother word for word.
‘I’ve seen it before,’ he confessed as I questioned with my eyes. I could only remember bits. ‘It was well worth seeing again – wasn’t it?’ He winked at me.
‘Oh yes,’ I agreed, smothering a laugh.
‘I’m going to be in Cambridge for the rest of the week,’ Paul said as he dropped us outside our door. ‘But I’ll see you after church on Sunday.’
‘You must come to dinner this time,’ said Mother. ‘We call it dinner but I expect you say lunch?’
‘I call it a perfect opportunity,’ he replied with a teasing look in his eyes. ‘You are a terrific woman, Mrs Robinson. Emma is lucky to have such an understanding mother.’
‘You don’t have to flatter me, Paul,’ she murmured, amused but still liking him. ‘I’m entirely on your side – and Emma’s, of course.’
‘For which I shall be eternally grateful.’
He got out of the car and opened the door for her and then me.
‘Good night, Mrs Robinson. Until Sunday, Emma.’
‘Good night, Paul – and thank you.’
Later, when I was brushing my hair in front of the dressing table mirror, Mother entered, putting a finger to her lips.
‘Was it as exciting as you expected?’ she asked softly. ‘Keep your voice down, love. Your father is still up.’
I nodded, barely controlling my desire to blurt it all out.
‘It was wonderful. I’m so happy, Mum.’
‘Don’t get your hopes too high, love. I’ll try to persuade your father to let you see him on your own, but I can’t promise.’
‘It doesn’t matter. As long as he doesn’t find out what you did tonight. I don’t want you to be in trouble, Mum.’
‘Don’t worry about me.’ There was an odd, faraway expression in her eyes. ‘I’ve put up with Harold’s moods for years. I dare say I can manage for a bit longer.’
Overcome with sympathy and affection for her, I stood up and kissed her cheek.
‘I’m glad Mary is going to the social on Wednesday. I don’t want to be on our own with Richard Gillows all the time.’
‘Don’t let your father know you don’t like Richard just yet,’ she advised. ‘If things work out for you and Paul … but we mustn’t go too fast. You said yourself he wouldn’t be here long. If he’s serious, I’ll bring Harold round somehow – but it’s too soon to think about that. You mustn’t set your heart on him, love. He’s charming and I like him but … well, men don’t always mean everything they say.’
‘I know.’ I met her serious gaze steadily. ‘I like him a lot, Mum – but I know he must meet lots of girls prettier than me.’
‘You’re pretty enough,’ she said. ‘Who know what makes people fall in love? It isn’t just looks.’
‘No, I don’t suppose it is. Not always.’
Paul was so good-looking! He was everything I had ever dreamed of in the man I hoped to marry one day.
‘Well, we’ll see,’ she said. ‘Go to bed now. You’ve got to be up early tomorrow. Don’t oversleep or there will be no more trips to the cinema for either of us!’
I was up at my usual time. I had started to sort the newspapers the next morning when Sheila Tomms came into the shop.
‘Hello, Emma. Can I have a quarter of toffee pieces please?’
‘Yes, of course. Shall I break them up small for you?’
Sheila nodded. ‘I saw you last night.’ She pulled a mischievous face at me. ‘Who was that man? He’s really dishy – just like Clark Gable without the moustache.’
‘His name is Paul,’ I said, then put a finger to my lips. ‘Don’t say anything. My father might hear.’
‘Mum’s the word.’ She grinned at me. ‘Are you going to the social tomorrow?’
I nodded.
‘Might see you there then.’
‘Yes. We can have a proper chat there.’
‘Righto. I’m off. I’ll be late for work else.’
She went out. I watched her mount her bike and pedal off. Several men were passing on their cycles. Most of the railway workers went to the depot on bikes; it was a fair distance to the marshalling yards, which were vast and sometimes eerie and desolate, especially on a misty morning. I had been there with my grandfather a couple of times when I was small, and though I never ventured further than Gran’s these days, from the top of the bank just past her cottage it was possible to see part of the yards and the engines standing idle or being shunted around.
‘Who was that just now?’ Father asked as he came through from the back. ‘You were talking to someone.’
‘A girl I knew at school. Sheila Tomms.’
‘Oh, that one.’ He glared at me, clearly in one of his moods. ‘Common as muck and no better than she ought to be from what I hear.’
‘Sheila is all right.’ I was defensive. ‘Better than most.’
‘I don’t like you mixing with girls like that. She’ll get herself in trouble before she’s finished, the lads she hangs about with all the time. I wonder her father allows it. I’d soon put a stop to her little games.’
‘Her father is dead. And she’s going steady.’
‘He’s after what he can get. Or else he’s a fool. No man wants second-hand goods. You mind my words, girl. I might seem an old fool to you, but one day you’ll thank me. When a decent chap asks you a certain question, you will realize a girl’s reputation is worth something.’
I bent my head over the piles of papers, marking them with the numbers of the various houses and putting them into hessian rucksacks ready for the delivery boys, who would start arriving at any moment. My father had never spoken to me so openly before and it made me feel awkward.
Why was he suddenly beginning to talk to me as an adult? I suspected he had something particular on his mind. Was it possible that Mary Baker’s engagement had set him thinking? I’d believed he would resist all requests for me to go courting, but he seemed to be changing his mind.
He had mentioned a decent man. I knew he was very class conscious – was he flattered at the idea of me being asked out by a gentleman? Paul had gone out of his way to gain his good opinion. Perhaps my father liked the thought of his daughter marrying into a class above his own.
The idea made me smile inwardly. If only … if only my dreams would come true.
Wednesday was very warm for June. It was more like July or August, sticky, muggy heat with a hint of thunder in the air.<
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I wore a blue-and-white summer frock with a squared neckline and tight sleeves to the elbow. I had added a wide white leather belt and white shoes. My mother lent me a soft shawl to drape over my shoulders.
‘You look very nice,’ Richard said when he came to fetch us. He presented us both with a small bunch of flowers from his garden. ‘Are you ready then?’
Richard was dressed in his best suit with a white shirt and spotted tie. He looked smart, his hair slicked down with water and parted in the middle. I noticed some of the girls glancing enviously my way as we walked into the church hall.
I knew most of the people at the social. I had gone to school with several of the girls, and seen the men either in Father’s shop or the street. There were a few fresh faces but not many.
Mary and Joe came up to us almost at once, and after an exchange of greetings the two men went off to fetch some drinks: orangeade for the ladies and shandies for themselves.
The evening started with a Tombola and some party games, and then someone put a record on the gramophone and the dancing started.
I danced a two-step with Richard, then swopped partners with Mary for the fox-trot. When I looked for my mother, I was surprised to see her dancing with a rather nice-looking man who was probably a year or so younger than my father. He had thick brown hair, dark eyes and a cheerful manner.
‘This is Bert Fitch,’ Mother introduced us afterwards. ‘We used to know each other years ago.’
‘I went away to work,’ he explained. ‘I’ve just returned to March and taken a job as a crossing keeper – same as your grandfather, Emma. It’s not that I need to work; I’ve a nice bit put by for a rainy day, but I like something to do as a hobby. Not being married, you need to keep busy.’
Something passed between him and my mother at that moment. A look that made her blush and drop her gaze. I was curious, but Richard was asking me to dance again.
‘It’s the barn dance,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to miss that.’
I gave him my hand. The barn dance was fun. I’d always enjoyed this part of the evening, not that I’d been to many socials. My father had brought me and my mother a few times when I was younger, and last year, when Mother was unwell, he had allowed me to go with Mary and her father to the Christmas party.
The barn dance meant I got to dance with most of the men in the room. I smiled at them all, thoroughly enjoying myself, and was sorry when it ended.
I went to the cloakroom afterwards to tidy myself, and saw Sheila was there, putting on some fresh lipstick.
‘That’s a pretty colour.’
‘It’s a Tangee,’ she replied, showing me. ‘I bought it in Woolworth’s. It cost me a shilling – but it was worth it. I could have got a cheaper one, but this has a pretty case.’
‘It’s lovely,’ I agreed. ‘I wish I dare buy one, but my father won’t let me wear it.’
‘He needn’t know if you rub it off before you go in.’ She offered me the stick. ‘Go on, try it.’
‘I’d better not. We’re going home soon.’
‘Had a good time?’ She looked slightly envious. ‘You’re doing all right. Clark Gable at the pictures and now Richard Gillows. You’re a sly one, Emma.’
‘It was just coincidence.’ I blushed as she pulled a disbelieving face. ‘I didn’t want to come with Richard this evening, but my father arranged it.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Sheila looked thoughtful. ‘They drink together sometimes down the pub – did you know that?’
‘No. I knew he liked Richard, that’s all.’
‘You want to watch it,’ she advised. ‘Richard always had an eye to the main chance. He’ll get his feet under the table at your house if he can.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Everyone knows Harold Robinson must have a packet stashed away. Stands to reason: that shop is open all hours and he doesn’t spend much. The money must be sitting in the bank somewhere.’
‘You think Richard is interested in me because of the money?’
‘Not just because of that.’ She patted her hair in front of the misty mirror. ‘But it helps. He used to play around, but these days he’s not interested. I reckon he’s got marriage on his mind, Emma.’
‘Well, I haven’t! Not to him anyway.’
Sheila went into a fit of the giggles.
‘And there was me thinking you never had any fun.’ She winked at me. ‘You watch out, love. I wouldn’t marry Richard, even if he is a good-looking devil. You be careful of him. He likes his drink too much and can be mean when he’s had a few.’
I watched as she walked away, hips swaying. Sheila sounded as if she knew Richard well. Had she been out with him in the past? She had been with a lot of different men. My father hadn’t been making that up. In a small town that kind of behaviour soon led to gossip. Sheila probably wasn’t as innocent as she might be, but I liked her. I believed the warning about Richard Gillows had been given in good faith and without malice.
Later that evening, I lay in bed and thought about what Sheila had told me. It made me all the more certain that I was right to feel the way I did about Richard. His manner had become progressively more possessive throughout the evening. He was obviously beginning to think of me as his girl – but was he planning to ask me to marry him?
The thought sent a shudder down my spine. I didn’t even want to consider it. I couldn’t bear the idea of Richard kissing me the way Paul had. There was always a lingering smell of the railways about Richard, even when he was dressed up: grease or oil or burning. I wasn’t exactly sure what it was but I didn’t much like it.
Paul smelled like a wood after rain. I closed my eyes as I lay back against the pillows, remembering the way he had held me … the way I had wanted to melt into his arms, to surrender my whole self to him.
If I couldn’t have Paul I wouldn’t have anyone, I decided. I certainly wasn’t going to marry Richard. No one could force me to do that, not even my father. I would run away from home first!
But perhaps it was all imagination. Richard hadn’t said anything. He had paid me more attention these past few weeks, but that didn’t mean he wanted to marry me – did it?
Paul was in church that Sunday morning. He took my mother and me home afterwards and stayed for lunch, which was roast beef and lovely, light crispy Yorkshire pudding with lashings of gravy and vegetables.
Mother usually did the cooking and cleaning herself, but since her last illness, she’d had help in the house three mornings a week. On Sunday she left her helper to prepare everything for lunch, apart from the Yorkshire batter, which she made herself and left to stand in a cool place while we attended church.
‘That was delicious,’ Paul complimented her afterwards. ‘I’ve never had Yorkshire pudding like that before. The way my mother’s cook makes it, it’s always soggy and heavy.’
‘Greta is a good cook, I’ll say that for her.’ Father patted his stomach. ‘The trouble is, it tempts me to eat too much and I suffer for it later.’ He glared at my mother as if to blame her for his indigestion.
‘Harold is a martyr to his stomach,’ she said. ‘It’s a shame because he enjoys a good meal.’
‘My father is much the same,’ Paul said. ‘He swears by Carter’s pills. Have you tried them, sir?’
After the table had been cleared, I helped my mother to wash up in the kitchen. I could still hear the men’s voices but it was impossible to make out what they were saying. However, when I returned to the parlour they were drinking a glass of the brandy Paul had brought, and my father seemed to be in a mellow mood.
‘Paul has invited you to a concert in Cambridge next Saturday afternoon,’ he announced. ‘What do you say to that, Emma?’
‘A concert?’ I stared in surprise. ‘It sounds nice.’
‘It will do you good,’ Father said. ‘Improve your mind. Your mother is too busy to come with you, but you may go if you promise to behave yourself.’
‘Of course I shall, Father.’
My heart was racing. Was he really going to let me go alone? And on a Saturday afternoon, which was often our busiest day in the shop?
‘That’s settled, then,’ Paul said. ‘I shall call for you at one. My mother will be pleased to meet you, Emma. And to return the hospitality your parents have so kindly shown me.’
I was puzzled as I took him downstairs shortly afterwards.
‘Are we going to the concert with your mother?’
‘You’ll see.’ He gave me a mysterious look and kissed me briefly on the lips. ‘Just trust me, Emma. Trust me …’
Chapter Four
‘I’m going out with a special friend on Saturday,’ I explained to Mrs Henty that Wednesday afternoon. ‘I know I still owe you thirty-five shillings – but could I possibly wear the costume this weekend? I’ll bring it back afterwards and keep paying until I’ve settled in full.’
Mrs Henty hesitated. I knew she wouldn’t normally consider giving credit. She didn’t mind her customers paying weekly, but she always put the goods by until they were paid for. I was about to apologize for asking when she nodded and smiled at me.
‘Seeing as it’s you, Emma, of course you can take it. And you needn’t bring it back. I’ll trust you for the money.’
‘I’ll pay five shillings on Saturday,’ I promised. ‘This is very good of you, Mrs Henty. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to do something for you.’
‘You could always come and work for me. I would be willing to pay you fifteen shillings a week – more when you’d learned the trade.’
‘I wish I could.’ I must have sounded wistful, because she looked at me with sympathy. ‘Father wouldn’t let me, of course.’
‘You’re too useful to him,’ she said and smiled. ‘Wait a few minutes. I’ll pack the costume for you.’
Mother was surprised when I showed her the costume later.
‘I thought you still owed nearly two pounds on that?’
‘Thirty-five shillings. I’ve promised to pay five shillings a week from now on.’