The Midwives of Raglan Road

by Jenny Holmes

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A weak sun broke through the clouds as Hazel got out of bed and stood on tiptoe to peer out of her attic window on the day of her second planned drive with John. The slate roofs were white with frost.

  The fine weather was a good omen, she decided. She chose warm clothes – a Fair Isle sweater knitted by Rose teamed with her dark blue slacks – and took special care to brush her hair until it shone. She went downstairs, bracing herself for the inevitable cross-examination.

  ‘Where are you off to, as if I didn’t know?’ Jinny asked, her back to Hazel as she timed Robert’s two boiled eggs, ready for his return with his Sunday newspaper.

  ‘Nowhere special. John’s invited me out on another drive.’

  Hazel’s airy reply cut no ice with her mother. ‘I knew it. You should watch what you’re doing if you don’t want folk talking behind your back.’

  ‘Why would they?’ Reluctantly Hazel sat down to a slice of toast and marmalade, no doubt accompanied by a big dollop of her mother’s disapproval.

  ‘Because they will,’ Jinny said, turning and arching her eyebrows.

  ‘Well, let them.’ Hazel dug in her heels. ‘There won’t be a word of truth in what they say. My jaunts out into the countryside with John are open and above board.’

  That was it – a dead end. Neither would say more.

  Hazel pushed her plate away then hurried to put on her coat and hat, bumping into her father on her way out of the house.

  ‘What’s the rush?’ One glance at Hazel then at Jinny made Robert sense an atmosphere. ‘Never mind – your mother will fill me in. Have a nice time, wherever it is you’re going.’

  So Hazel was off-kilter when she set out up the empty street. As if my nerves weren’t bad enough already, she thought. Do I really know what I’m doing here? What if Mum’s right and there is more to it on both sides than a jaunt in John’s car?

  So what? the stubborn voice said. We’re both free agents. We’re not harming anyone.

  As on the previous occasion, John was waiting for her at the top of the street, seeming not to feel the cold in his sports jacket and open-necked shirt. He greeted her with a relaxed smile then moved quickly to open the car door. ‘You’ll soon warm up once I get the engine running,’ he predicted.

  See! In case anyone was peeking through their net curtains, Hazel cast a defiant glance out of the side window as the car set off. Open and above board.

  It was a morning of glorious blue skies, of sweeping, frosty hillsides and bare winter trees, of wide-open space and fresh air, accompanying them up hill and down dale, as the railway posters and guidebooks had it. They drove along winding byways that Hazel had never seen before then all of a sudden, in the distance, she saw a wondrous viaduct striding across a rugged valley with a train crossing. John stopped the car so they could watch the plume of smoke dissolve into the sky and the dark chain of carriages snake out of sight.

  Where would that train carry its passengers? she wondered. Perhaps north to Carlisle then on across the border to Edinburgh – a world opening up into mountains and medieval castles, away from the mills and factories.

  As they drove, John and Hazel chatted easily – him taking the lead to put her at her ease. ‘We won’t talk about the weather or Christmas,’ he promised.

  ‘Or work,’ Hazel added.

  ‘So what’s left? I know – I want to find out why I haven’t seen you at the jazz club for a week or two.’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’ A flutter of nerves made her turn to teasing him. ‘Anyway, a little bird tells me you didn’t miss me.’

  ‘Oho! So you’ve been keeping tabs on me.’

  She tossed her head then tutted. ‘I walked into that one, didn’t I? No, as a matter of fact it was Gladys – she doesn’t miss a trick.’

  ‘I’ll remember that in future. Hang on a second, I need to get out and open this gate.’

  But before John had time to put on the handbrake, Hazel was out of the car and opening the farmer’s gate that blocked the road and kept sheep off the moor top. The wind caught her silk scarf, tugging it free and sending it off, whirling and twirling across the heather. Now John leaped out and chased it down, stooping to pick it up off the ground then running back with it.

  ‘Here.’ He made her stand while he tied it around her neck.

  Then they drove on, over the top to Shawcross.

  ‘Are you ready for a pit stop?’ he suggested as he pulled up outside the Red Lion.

  Inside the pub, four or five weather-beaten men in worn jackets and moleskin trousers stood at the bar drinking pints of bitter, their backs to the newcomers. A black-and-white sheepdog dozed by the open fire.

  ‘Now then, John, long time no see.’ The barman smiled and reached across the bar to shake hands.

  ‘How are you, Fred? Hazel, this is my old pal, Alfred … Fred Jennings.’

  She too shook hands. ‘I’ve heard about you. You’re John’s fellow stamp collector.’

  ‘That’s right – philatelist and long-serving bowler to Yorkshire cricket’s star in the making. What’ll it be, Hazel?’

  ‘I’d like a Cinzano with lemonade, please.’ Responding to Fred’s lively manner, Hazel understood how the two young lads had got along, with fair-haired, lightweight Fred acting as a nippy foil to John’s sturdier, stronger athleticism.

  ‘I was handy with a cricket bat but I never had a hope of reaching John’s dizzy heights,’ Fred admitted. ‘Look at me now – pulling pints for these old reprobates.’

  His comment drew little reaction from the down-to-earth farming types nearby. One glanced in John and Hazel’s direction, muttered to his neighbour then carried on drinking.

  ‘Is John taking you on a tour of his old haunts?’ Fred asked, his curiosity making up for the others’ dour disinterest. Of course, news had reached Fred of Myra’s tragic death and he hoped with all his heart for better things for his old pal in future – especially since it had never seemed to Fred that Myra was quite the right one for John. Not that Fred had ever said this to his friend’s face – and never would, now that the poor girl had passed away. ‘I hope you’re not letting Hazel in on our guilty secrets,’ he said with a wink.

  ‘You speak for yourself,’ John bantered. ‘I was too busy skying a cricket ball to get up to no good.’

  Fred winked at Hazel. ‘If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.’

  As the two men launched into a string of reminiscences, Hazel sat contentedly on a bar stool, only half listening and taking in the rows of dull pewter jugs on a shelf behind the bar above bright advertisements for beer and cigarettes. She was aware now and then of Fred stealing glances at her mid-anecdote – looks that seemed to size her up as John’s new girl and end with a warm smile of approval. Apparently oblivious to the undercurrent, John enjoyed his walk down memory lane until at last he tapped his watch.

  ‘We’ll love you and leave you,’ he told Fred, explaining to Hazel that there was only an hour of daylight left. ‘We won’t have time to walk out to Dale Head today,’ he told her as they left the pub. ‘We could take a stroll through the churchyard instead.’

  So they walked arm in arm across the green then down a short lane leading to a lich-gate and through this into a mossy churchyard thronged with ancient gravestones. The stone church, with its round-arched Norman entrance and squat, square tower, overlooked the river and a steep bank beyond.

  ‘This whole churchyard will be covered in snowdrops in a few weeks’ time.’ John’s voice was low, hardly audible over the rush of water.

  Reading inscriptions on nearby graves, Hazel found one for a child – Sarah Winters aged eight – and next to it a smaller one for her sister, Lucy, who departed this life on 3 September 1823, aged just three years. There was an angel carved in stone watching over them both.

  ‘This is where my lot are buried.’ John took her to a quiet corner and showed her the Moxon family plot – his grandparents, Sarah and William, then Elizabeth, his moth
er, who died in her thirty-sixth year, resting alongside Thomas, his father, who had died aged fifty-two. Their white marble gravestone stood out from the more ancient memorials and was in the shape of a cross. The inscription read ‘In loving memory’ – plain and simple.

  ‘We buried Myra in St Luke’s churchyard,’ John reminded Hazel in a low voice.

  She felt her heart flutter. ‘I know. I’m sorry I didn’t come to the funeral.’

  ‘No, that’s all right, I understand. You’d have been welcome if it had been up to me, but we both know her mother would’ve kicked up a fuss.’

  ‘I am very sorry,’ Hazel said from the bottom of her heart. His mention of Myra’s name had built her a bridge that she felt bold enough to venture across. ‘Should you have liked to bury her here?’

  He answered slowly. ‘No. St Luke’s was the right place for her. It’s handy for her mother and father. And you know something – being married to Myra is already beginning to feel like a dream.’

  ‘Like it never happened?’ It shook her to think how quickly solid reality – a beautiful wife and a baby – shifted and faded.

  ‘It did happen – I know it did. I’m left with the pain of losing it – that’s how I know it was real.’ John stood in the corner of the graveyard in the gathering dusk as if suspended, lost in the moment, staring up at the black yew tree overhead. ‘But when I look back and try to grasp hold of it, I can’t.’

  ‘Give it time – perhaps you will.’ When the pain eased and memories re-emerged like snowdrops from the frozen earth. ‘You’ll remember the good times.’

  He nodded and seemed to come back from wherever he’d been. ‘I can talk like this to you. I know you’ll understand.’

  ‘Let’s walk on,’ she suggested quietly, retracing their steps through the lich-gate and finding an overgrown path along the riverbank. Crows rose from tall elms and flapped across the fields – the only movement in the sheltered landscape. After a while their way was blocked by brambles and she turned to see what they should do.

  John was close behind – near enough to reach out and lay his hand on her shoulder. He looked intently at her, silently questioning and searching for answers.

  She felt the weight of his hand and didn’t flinch from his gaze. He leaned forward until his face was a blur then he kissed her on the lips, softly at first then more strongly. Melting into the moment, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

  ‘You didn’t mind?’ John asked once he and Hazel had retraced their steps to the village green. He sounded unsure of himself and avoided looking Hazel in the eye as he held open the car door.

  For her the kiss had come out of the blue. It had been like no other she had ever experienced – slow and measured at first but then, as she’d flung caution to the winds, it had grown passionate. For what seemed like an age, she’d hardly known where she was or what she was doing. Coming out of it had been like floating up to the surface after a sudden plunge into a deep, dark pool.

  ‘No, I didn’t mind,’ she said now. Words couldn’t convey how she felt. Thrown off balance, overjoyed, fearful, uncertain – it was a mixture of all these.

  ‘You looked so … lovely,’ he explained. Again, the words didn’t do justice to his feelings. It was her eyes that had captivated him, he realized. Deepest blue, heavily lashed and shining.

  Her head began to clear – she took in the row of stone cottages bordering the village green, the sound of the car engine turning and choking into life – but the ground under her feet still didn’t feel solid and her world was transformed. John’s kiss had changed everything.

  John too was knocked off balance by the kiss. ‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ he admitted as they drove off. ‘I can’t shake off the feeling of wanting to say sorry.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For springing that on you. It was when you suddenly turned around – I couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘I didn’t mind – honestly.’ Hazel had found real delight in that moment when their lips had touched but the emotion had been so strong it had scared her. Then there was the eventual pulling back and letting go, returning along the overgrown path and trying to get back to normal when she was sure nothing was the same between them or would ever be again.

  John drove the car, staring straight ahead. He pointed out the sun sinking behind a rugged, dark horizon then the landmark viaduct crossing the valley, followed by details closer to hand – trails on the frosty verges made by foxes and the sight of a red kite soaring overhead.

  Hazel minded that he didn’t look at her. He seemed to grow tense, determined to keep the conversation neutral. What did she care about foxes and birds when all she really wanted was for him to kiss her again?

  The return to town put paid to that. Houses, street signs, traffic lights, other cars – these were familiar, belonging to the real world. By the time they reached Overcliffe Road, the conversation had dwindled almost to nothing.

  ‘I hope I’ve got you back in time for your tea,’ John said as they turned onto Raglan Road.

  ‘Plenty of time, ta. Why don’t you park outside your house? I’ll walk down the hill from here.’

  ‘Right you are.’ He pulled into the kerb, still without looking at her. He shouldn’t have acted on impulse, he thought. It had tipped him too far off balance and would lead who knew where. He should have taken things more slowly and worked out how Hazel was feeling first. Best to keep it neutral for now. ‘Have you enjoyed yourself?’

  ‘Yes, ta.’ Hazel had the strange sensation of being an excited child who had opened a birthday present only to find that there was nothing inside. The main thing was to stay polite, not to let her disappointment show.

  ‘I have too.’ Ever the gentleman, John opened Hazel’s door.

  As she stepped out onto the pavement and buttoned her coat, she glanced up towards the corner of the street and was dismayed to see two figures in Pennington’s shop doorway. In the yellow glare of the street lamp she recognized them straight away – it was Mabel with her rolled umbrella over her arm, dressed in her unmistakable brown coat and hat, presumably calling on Dorothy before they wended their way to the evening service at St Luke’s.

  The women must have heard the click of John’s car door. They glanced down the street just as Hazel stepped out of the car.

  ‘Uh-oh – looks like we’ve been caught red-handed.’ Wrong-footed by his erstwhile mother-in-law, John’s lame attempt at a joke struck the wrong note and he cursed himself the moment the words were out of his mouth.

  Hazel wilted under the force of Mabel and Dorothy’s glares. ‘Ta again,’ she told him hurriedly as she walked quickly down the street.

  Gladys came to Hazel’s house the following evening. She breezed in and demanded tea. ‘Hot and strong, please, Aunty Jinny. I’ve come to ask Uncle Robert to help us move our furniture into the flat in the New Year. Is he in?’

  ‘No, lucky for you. He’s playing in a darts match at the Green Cross.’ Jinny busied herself with kettle and teapot.

  ‘Why “lucky for me”?’

  ‘Ask Hazel.’

  ‘Because I haven’t plucked up the courage to tell him I’m moving out yet,’ Hazel admitted.

  Gladys tutted and offered advice without waiting to be asked. ‘Honesty is the best policy,’ she asserted glibly. ‘But then you always were a dark horse, Hazel.’

  ‘What? Why are you looking at me like that?’ Hazel coloured up under Gladys’s scrutiny.

  Her cousin sat down by the fire with legs primly crossed, enjoying the air of mystery that she’d brought into the conversation. ‘I could mention a certain name beginning with a “J”.’

  Jinny handed Gladys her cup of tea. ‘I take it we’re talking about Hazel’s car ride with John Moxon?’

  Hazel groaned inwardly. She could just imagine the train of events since Mabel and Dorothy had spotted her getting out of John’s car – Mabel trotting off to church and recounting what she’d seen to Berta and Doree
n, Dorothy stewing over it through the night. No doubt the witches’ coven had met up again today and stirred the cauldron, conjuring their wicked spell.

  ‘Spot on as usual, Aunty Jinny. How long were you going to keep it a secret from me, Hazel?’ Gladys’s arch reproach was meant to lighten the darkening mood but it had the opposite effect. Hazel looked pained, her mother angry. ‘Sorry,’ Gladys added quickly, ‘don’t mind me.’

  ‘Would you like a biscuit?’ Jinny thrust the open tin under Gladys’s nose.

  ‘No ta. Honestly, Hazel, it’s just me putting my big foot in it as usual.’

  ‘Exactly what have you heard?’ Hazel asked, a helpless moth drawn to the flame of gossip.

  Gladys hesitated and looked from one to the other. ‘I could give you the nice version from Marjorie Sykes or the nasty one—’

  ‘From Dorothy?’ Jinny guessed.

  The testy interruption made Gladys more apprehensive but she prattled on. ‘Marjorie first. Mum was in the bread shop first thing this morning when Marjorie happened to be singing Hazel’s praises to Violet Wheeler. You both know Violet – from Jubilee Dress Shop? It was “Hazel this” and “Hazel that”, Marjorie saying what a wonder you were at the clinic and how you were putting Mabel in her place and no mistake.’

  ‘Marjorie’s right – she is,’ Jinny said with a steely edge.

  ‘So she said she wouldn’t hear a word against you, Hazel. Dorothy could spread rumours all she liked about you and John – it didn’t dent her good opinion.’

  Hazel’s suppressed groan came out as a sigh. ‘What kind of rumours?’

  ‘Are you sure you want me to go on?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ The flame flickered, Hazel couldn’t resist.

  ‘That you and John were “carrying on” behind her back. That’s how Dorothy put it.’

  ‘What does she mean, “carrying on”?’ The silly expression suddenly infuriated Hazel and she rose to her own defence. ‘Am I skulking in dark alleyways, making secret assignations? No. I’m going out for a drive in the country with a friend, that’s all!’