by Jenny Holmes
‘For my wedding?’ Hazel grasped the implication and blushed.
‘Yes, but it seems there’s fat chance of that happening,’ Jinny went on, casting firm strokes of the iron across the crisp white cotton. ‘Between you, Gladys and Sylvia, who’d have thought that the youngest would be the first to trip down the aisle?’
The second Saturday in September – Sylvia’s wedding day – was a raw, rainy day with a blustery wind that gusted down from Brimstone Rocks and across Overcliffe Common to annoy the guests gathering in the porch of St Luke’s church. The women had to hold onto their hats while the men thrust their hands in their pockets and stamped their feet.
‘It’s nippy out here,’ Mabel Jackson, who was amongst the early birds, remarked to Sylvia’s mother, Ethel. Sylvia’s brothers, Dan and Eddie, stood sentinel at the church gates. ‘I’ll carry straight on inside if you don’t mind.’
Ethel didn’t mind at all. ‘It’s best to keep out of the wind. Rose is already in there with Mother,’ she informed their neighbour before going on to greet Eddie’s fiancée, Joan, followed by other family members, including Hazel, Jinny and Robert who were battling their way up the path.
Mabel, meanwhile, trundled on inside the church and found a seat between Dorothy Pennington and Marjorie Sykes in the pew directly behind Ada and Rose.
‘Ethel Drummond is looking her age,’ Mabel opined in a voice loud enough for people to hear.
‘Hush!’ Marjorie raised a warning finger, which Mabel ignored.
‘Let’s face it, she looks closer to sixty than fifty.’ Ethel might have had a new perm and got dressed up for the occasion of her daughter’s wedding, but you couldn’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, Mabel decided.
‘She has put on a bit of weight,’ Dorothy conceded.
On the pew in front, Ada bridled. She turned her head sharply and gave a curt greeting. ‘Hello, Mabel.’
‘How-do, Ada.’ Mabel was unabashed – after all, she only spoke the truth about Ada’s daughter-in-law.
‘Someone might have made a bit more effort.’ Staring straight ahead again, Ada exacted her revenge.
‘Mother!’ This time it was Rose who did the hushing.
But it was true – Mabel hadn’t even bothered to change out of her everyday dark brown coat and old cloche hat. She sat with a typically disgruntled air, crossing work-worn hands on her broad lap and casting a critical eye over the absence of church flowers and other sure signs that Sylvia’s marriage had been arranged in haste and would be repented at leisure.
‘Where are the groom’s family and friends, for a start?’ Mabel nudged Dorothy with her left elbow and rolled her eyes to indicate the empty pews on the other side of the church. ‘No guests on the groom’s side, and I hear there’s no organist and only one bridesmaid tripping down the aisle after the blushing bride,’ she muttered, this time to Marjorie on her right.
‘Luckily for them, Berta White was on hand to step in at the last minute to play the piano,’ Marjorie replied.
Fearing that her mother would turn round with another rejoinder, Rose glanced over her shoulder and was glad to spot Hazel come in out of the cold with her mother and father. She stood up and signalled for all three to join her and Ada in the front pew. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes!’ she murmured to Hazel, who looked fresh as the morning dew in her blue outfit.
Hazel squeezed her hand. ‘You too, Aunty Rose.’
Rose smiled and blushed. She’d dressed with care in a long cream skirt and loose-fitting cream jacket over a snow-white blouse fastened at the throat with a cameo brooch. Her hat’s wide brim was adorned with peach-coloured silk flowers.
‘Make sure there’s enough room for Ethel on the end there,’ Ada instructed. She sat upright as always, resplendent in a crimson velvet jacket and a straw hat bedecked with ostrich feathers. The hat had come out of its round box for weddings and christenings, funerals and Easter parades for as long as anyone in the family could remember.
‘Here she comes!’ Rose was the first to spot her sister-in-law plodding flat-footed down the aisle in her Sunday best of low-waisted green dress and jacket, topped off with a red felt hat with a narrow brim. Unflustered as ever, Ethel stopped to say hello to Mabel, Dorothy and Marjorie before sliding into the pew next to Robert.
All the guests had arrived, but as yet there was no sign of either the groom or the bride. Eventually, though, Berta took up her position at the upright piano and the vicar emerged from his vestry.
‘Now what’s the hold-up?’ Ada tapped her wristwatch.
‘Hush, Mum!’
Rose’s admonishment was drowned out by throat clearing and scuffling in the doorway, followed by the entrance of Eddie and Dan, one on either side of Norman as they frog-marched him down the aisle.
‘Like a condemned man on his way to the gallows,’ said Mabel, drawing another dark look from Ada.
The groom and groomsmen occupied the front pew across the aisle from the Prices and the Drummonds. Norman’s face was peaky under his slickly Brylcreemed hair. However, he looked smart enough in his pinstriped suit and striped tie.
‘I’ll tell you what, Dorothy, this is different to when your Myra tied the knot with John Moxon last year.’ Mabel’s commentary was still clearly audible. ‘They had all the trimmings – a big reception, three tiers to the wedding cake, a honeymoon in Blackpool …’
Seated directly in front of her rival for work, Hazel gave a small, irritated shake of her head. Surely for once in her life Mabel could keep her opinions to herself.
‘Take no notice,’ Rose advised quietly.
‘That’s right,’ Jinny agreed. ‘If Mabel knows she’s riled us, she’s won.’
So the family set their minds to waiting patiently amidst the coughs and rustling of hymn books and the increasingly nervous exchange of glances between Norman and his groomsmen until at last Berta looked out from behind her sheet music and at a signal from the vicar struck up the first loud chords of the Wedding March.
Here comes the bride, short, fat and wide – the mocking words from a childhood song ran unaccountably inside Hazel’s head. What was it that undermined the solemnity of the occasion for her? Was it Sylvia’s last-minute dramas of the night before or Hazel’s awareness of the rumour mill grinding out suggestions that Norman had been pressganged into the marriage? In any case, she had to fight for control by focusing on the slow progress down the aisle of Sylvia, Uncle Cyril and Gladys.
The sight transformed Hazel’s mood. The young bride was so beautiful in her borrowed gown that she took the onlookers’ breath away. The white satin of the bodice and long train gleamed in the subdued light that suffused the church and a gauzy, shoulder-length veil gave only a vague impression of Sylvia’s serious features beneath. Her hand trembled as she carried her bouquet of white carnations.
There was a low buzz of appreciation as, leaning on her father’s arm, Sylvia approached the altar and the Wedding March drew to a close. Gladys stood by, making no attempt to upstage the bride in her calf-length rosebud dress. She took the bouquet on cue then stepped onto the sidelines while Norman, still beset by jitters, took Cyril’s place in front of the vicar.
The words were spoken, the rings exchanged. Sylvia lifted her veil and the groom kissed his bride.
Hazel’s heart was full. She saw Aunty Rose pull out a handkerchief from her small velvet bag and dab her cheeks. On her other side, Jinny turned to Robert with a fond smile. The deed was done – Sylvia was married to Norman, for better or worse, and let no man put them asunder.
CHAPTER SIX
‘Hazel, are you awake?’ Robert called up the stairs on his way out to work on the following Monday morning. ‘The postman’s brought you a letter.’
‘Ta, Dad.’ It was seven o’clock and she was still in bed, mulling over what she would do that day to drum up more custom. When nothing new came to mind, she fixed on paying Betty Hollings another visit before knocking on Myra’s door with a reminder about getting herself t
o tomorrow’s clinic.
‘I’ve left it on the mantelpiece,’ he told her.
‘Rightio.’ She heard the door close and then there was silence for a while until the familiar sounds of her mother making her way along the landing and down the stairs prompted Hazel to get up too. She dressed quickly in navy blue slacks and a primrose-yellow jumper, ran a comb through her hair then joined Jinny in the kitchen.
‘About time too, lazy bones.’ Jinny scooped porridge from the pan into two bowls and set them down on the table. ‘Fetch the milk while you’re still on your feet.’
Hazel opened the door to bright sunshine and the sight of her neighbours setting off for work. Despite the drudgery that lay ahead, most exchanged cheery greetings then chatted as they walked in groups of five or six. The talk was of Saturday’s football match or of the latest flick showing at the Victory, or else of recent family matters such as ailments and fallings out.
‘Your Sylvia looked a picture on Saturday,’ Dorothy Pennington remarked as Hazel stooped to pick up the milk bottle from the top step. Dorothy, dressed in a faded overall and carpet slippers, was on her way to Newby’s to pick up a copy of the Daily Express. ‘And it was a good do at the Working Men’s Club afterwards.’
‘Yes, it all went very well,’ Hazel said with a smile. ‘By the way, how’s Myra getting along?’
‘Oh, you know …’ Dorothy’s sentence trailed away and ended in a shrug. ‘Myra makes mountains out of molehills.’
There was no time for anything else as Myra’s mother rejoined the flow of people moving down the hill onto Ghyll Road. Hazel took the milk inside and sat down for breakfast, only remembering about the letter when she was washing up and Jinny was putting on her hat and coat. Hurriedly she dried her hands then took the envelope from the mantelpiece, opening it to find a scrawled note with an illegible signature.
She squinted at the untidy handwriting. ‘I can hardly read it. Wait a minute – this must be from Dr Bell!’
‘What’s it say?’ Jinny’s tone suggested she was expecting bad news. ‘He hasn’t given you your marching orders, has he?’
‘No, Mum, it’s the opposite. He says here that there’s been a good response to the posters I put on display and a fair few women have signed up to be seen.’
‘Is that right?’
Hazel’s eyes were bright with excitement. ‘Yes. So he’s moved on from asking me to drum up custom for him – now he wants me to run the actual clinic. I’ll be on duty every Tuesday and Dr Bell will pay me for the privilege.’
The unexpected invitation filled Hazel with fresh hope and energy. This was more like it, she thought, a fixed point in the week where she could put her training to good use and be in touch with the very women she needed to meet.
‘How much?’ Jinny was on her way out of the house, thinking as usual that Hazel shouldn’t count her chickens before they were hatched.
‘Three shillings per clinic,’ Hazel said proudly.
Jinny nodded. ‘It’s a start,’ she conceded. And without any further word of encouragement she set off to catch the tram to Clifton Market.
Still in high spirits, Hazel altered her plans for the morning. First she would write an acceptance letter to Dr Bell, and then she could cycle to his practice on Westgate Road to drop the letter off. After that she would check in on Myra and, if there was still time before dinner, she would visit Betty in Nelson Yard.
Her very first port of call after writing her letter, however, was to pick up the newly refurbished bike from Baxter’s garage on the corner of Ghyll Road and Ada Street.
‘Philip Baxter let me use a corner of his workshop to take the bike to bits and bring it up to scratch,’ Hazel’s dad had explained. He’d been gone all day Sunday, fitting new brake pads and tyres, then replacing the old dynamo light and polishing the chrome spokes with wire-wool until they shone. ‘It’s as good as new,’ he’d reported to Hazel when he got home. ‘Ready for you to pick up whenever you like.’
So just before nine o’clock Hazel breezed down the hill, letter in pocket, hurrying to the workshop, hoping as she went that she hadn’t lost the skill of riding a bike. It was years since she’d tried, she realized, and she kept in mind her dad’s warnings about the busy traffic on the main roads into town.
‘Keep your eyes peeled, especially when you’re turning right,’ he’d advised. ‘Those bus drivers don’t care – they’d as soon run you over as look at you.’
Hazel practised in her imagination how she would signal to make a right turn then pull out into the centre of the road and it was only when she spotted the grey Ford parked a short way along from the bright yellow and red petrol pump that she remembered that Baxter’s was where John Moxon worked.
Should she mention Myra and get an up-to-date report on how his wife was doing? she wondered. Better play it by ear, she decided, before striding on.
The man himself emerged onto the pavement to serve petrol as Hazel arrived. Without noticing her, he wiped his hands on a piece of rag which he stuffed into his back pocket then unscrewed the petrol cap of the customer’s car.
He had his back to her, blocking her way. ‘Excuse me, please,’ Hazel said quietly. She had to repeat her request a second time before he heard her.
‘Sorry – I didn’t see you there,’ he apologized as he stood to one side.
Hazel inhaled petrol fumes from the car’s tank. She noticed a man in a trilby hat and tweed jacket leaning against the side of his car, taking in her appearance with undisguised relish. ‘I came to pick up my bike,’ she explained to John.
‘Oh, it’s yours, is it?’ Seemingly as embarrassed as Hazel, he waited for her to step past. ‘I saw it back there and wondered whose it was.’
‘Dad bought it second hand and did it up for me.’ Entering the workshop, Hazel saw Philip Baxter holed up in a small office to one side. Glancing up from his paperwork, the military-looking, moustachioed garage owner recognized Hazel then jerked his thumb towards the far corner.
Hazel hesitated. She was out of her element surrounded by car parts and stacks of tyres and was working out how to avoid the patches of black oil that had dripped from broken engines onto the concrete floor when she was overtaken by John, who had finished with his customer and obligingly fetched the bike for her, lifting it clear of the dirty floor and carrying it across.
‘Ta very much.’ Emboldened by the gesture, Hazel met his gaze and ploughed on. ‘I hope you don’t mind – I’m thinking of dropping in on Myra again.’
Setting the bike down on the pavement, John’s eyes narrowed. ‘When?’ he asked.
‘Later this morning, if that’s all right.’
‘She was still in bed when I left home; she said she wanted to take it easy.’
‘Bed is probably the best place for her,’ Hazel agreed. ‘But did she mention you taking an hour off work to bring her to the clinic tomorrow, by any chance?’
John shook his head. ‘Not a dicky bird. Do you think I should?’
‘I do,’ Hazel said firmly. ‘Don’t worry – it doesn’t mean Dr Bell and I will be jockeying to take Mabel’s place when the time comes. But it does mean we can keep an eye on her blood pressure and such like.’
‘What’s wrong with her blood pressure?’ Alarm registered on John’s even features as he compressed his lips and furrowed his brow.
‘It might be a bit higher than it ought to be.’ Not wanting to say too much before she’d examined Myra, Hazel underplayed the possible problem.
‘I knew it,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’m no expert but you just have to take one look at her to know.’
‘Know what?’
‘Something’s not right. She goes dizzy at the drop of a hat and she gets bad headaches. Her mother says she has to take it in her stride, it’s to be expected. The trouble is – Myra has never been able to stand up to Dorothy and she’s not about to start now.’
‘Bring Myra to the clinic,’ Hazel told him even more firmly than before.
�
��I will,’ he decided, glancing over his shoulder at his boss sitting hunched over his desk in his office. ‘Even if I lose an hour’s pay, it’ll be worth it for the peace of mind.’
An hour and a half later, after an unsteady bike ride along the cobbled streets to deliver her letter to Dr Bell on Westgate Road, Hazel cycled back to Raglan Road. She stopped outside number 80, leaned her bike against a lamp-post then knocked on Myra’s door. Getting no answer, she decided to call in at Pennington’s instead. So she entered the green-tiled fish and chip shop and waited at the back of the short queue until her turn came.
‘Next please!’ It was Henry Pennington who looked up at Hazel from behind the stainless-steel range. He was a skinny, small-featured man with thin grey hair and a dark, bushy moustache, dressed in a white cotton coat with a blue and white checked apron over the top. ‘Now then, stranger. What can I do for you?’
‘Cod and chips, please.’ Hazel watched him lift a battered fish from the hot fat, drain it then place it on a sheet of greaseproof paper. ‘I just knocked on Myra’s door but I didn’t get an answer,’ she remarked as casually as she could.
‘That’s funny.’ Henry put a portion of chips beside the fish then sprinkled salt and vinegar over the lot. ‘Myra’s taken to her bed but Dorothy decided to call in on her a few minutes ago. She’s still there as far as I know.’
And not answering the door, Hazel thought uneasily. She’d suspected at the time that one corner of the net curtain in the bedroom window might have twitched then settled; in which case it meant that Myra’s mother was standing guard and there was nothing she could do about it. ‘Tell Myra I was asking after her and I hope to see her at clinic tomorrow,’ she said as she paid her money, took her newspaper-wrapped parcel and departed.
Outside number 80, she put her fish and chip dinner in the basket of her bike then freewheeled down the hill. She would grab a bite to eat then pop into Nelson Yard to see Betty. After that she would come back home and read through some of her college textbooks to refresh her memory on the major symptoms to pick up on during each trimester of pregnancy. She wanted to be absolutely ready for her first clinic.