The only person Lily could really call a friend was her next door neighbour, Kate Smedley. Kate was a few years younger than Lily and, so far, was childless. She worked part-time at a local greengrocer’s shop and her husband, like Lily’s menfolk, worked at the woollen mill.
‘I’ll cut your hair for you,’ she said one day when Lily was complaining that she could no longer manage it herself. ‘You’ve got nice hair, Lily. It’s a shame to scrape it back like that. It looks as though it would curl if you would let it.’ Lily remembered a time when she had been proud of her shining dark hair with its natural wave, and Davey had admired it, too. ‘What about next Saturday afternoon?’ said her friend. ‘I expect your fellers’ll be going to t’ football match, won’t they, like my Fred? So we’d have the house to ourselves. That is if you would like me to?’
‘Of course I would,’ said Lily. ‘That’s real kind of you, Kate. Your hair always looks lovely.’ Kate’s fair hair was worn in a page-boy style which almost reached her shoulders. It looked as though it might need constant attention, but there never seemed to be a hair out of place.
‘Me mam cuts it for me,’ said Kate. ‘She always has done, ever since I was a kid. An’ I’ve got a special shampoo that I got from Woolie’s. It makes it all nice and soft and easy to manage. There’s a drop left in t’ bottle so I’ll let you have it. Next Saturday then, at your place? You could come to me, but you don’t want to be going out with wet hair.’
‘Er…yes, all right then,’ said Lily. If they got started early they would have finished before Sid and Percy got back. Sid would not be best pleased to walk in on a hairdressing session, although the chances were he would not be rude to Kate. He had an eye for a pretty woman, but Lily knew that she no longer fell into that category. Nor did she care what Sid thought about her, but she wanted to look attractive again, if that were possible, for her own sake and for Maisie’s. ‘I’ll wash it meself, first, shall I?’ she said. ‘Then you can cut it, and set it up for me, if you like.’
‘I’ll do me best,’ said Kate. ‘When I’ve done you’ll look just like Betty Grable. Oh no, she’s a blonde, isn’t she? Well, Paulette Goddard then, or somebody. Anyroad, you’ll look just like a film star.’
So the following Saturday afternoon Lily washed her hair thoroughly, over the kitchen sink, with Kate’s Vinolia shampoo, then Kate set it into curls with kirby grips, all over her head. She sat close to the fire to let it dry whilst Kate, making herself at home in the kitchen, made a cup of tea for both of them.
‘How are things?’ asked Kate, as they drank their tea. ‘Still the same, is it, between you and Sid?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ replied Lily. ‘Well, that’s not true; I’m not really afraid so, because I just don’t care. He leaves me alone, and that suits me fine. I cook his meals and wash his clothes an’ everything, and the lad’s as well; what else can I do?’ She shrugged. ‘We’re still husband and wife, I suppose, but it’s only in name. But there’s nowt I can do about my rotten marriage, so I just keep meself to meself. I look after the kiddies, an’ I’ve got me cleaning jobs which gets me out of the house. Not much of a life, I know; but I’m going to see my Maisie soon, up in north Yorkshire. I’ve made up me mind this time; I’m really going to make an effort and go.’
‘Then just make sure that you do,’ said Kate. ‘It’d do you no end of good, and she’d be thrilled to bits to see you… About your Sid, though; don’t you think he might be…well…finding his pleasures elsewhere, if you know what I mean?’
‘Oh, I know what you mean all right,’ replied Lily. ‘Aye, most probably he is, but why should I care? He means nowt to me; neither him nor his lad…’ She stopped, realising that she had said enough. She had confided in Kate to a certain extent, but her friend did not know the whole of the story.
After ordering her to clear off and take the kids with her, on the night that she had attacked Percy, Sid had subsequently changed his mind and demanded that she should stay in Armley. To her immense relief, however, since that night he had not attempted to come near her. After spending a couple of nights in his bed, as near to the edge as she could move away from him, she had decided to take a bold step. She moved into the room that the two youngsters occupied, and slept in the bed vacated by Maisie. She had half expected ructions from Sid, but he had made no comment whatsoever. He had scarcely spoken to her from that day to this, save to issue orders or hurl abuse at her, or to tell her, when he felt inclined, that he was going out. Percy, too, ignored her, but that was only what she had expected.
She knew it was no sort of a life that she was living. Indeed, she was not living, in the true sense of the word, only existing from day to day. But she felt freer in her mind now that she was not suffering from her husband’s physical torments, and it was a relief to know that her daughter was far away from the clutches of her devilish step-brother. Lily had begun to hope, although it seemed a forlorn hope at the moment, that one day this wearisome existence of hers would come to an end and, even though the country was now at war, better times might lie ahead for her and the children.
Kate knew nothing of how Percy had abused her daughter. Lily was too ashamed to admit this to anyone. All Kate knew was that Sid had hit her, Lily, the night before Maisie’s departure – the evidence had been there only too clearly, in her bruises and swollen eye – and that Lily had finally decided that she would put up with no more and had vacated his bed. She felt that what Kate had suggested was true; Sid had found someone else to give him what he wanted. If he cleared off then it would suit her just fine. But Sid, she guessed, wanted both the cake and the ha’penny.
Kate went home in a little while, not wanting to be still there when the men arrived back, and she had her husband’s tea to get ready. As far as Lily knew, the two of them, Fred and Kate Smedley, had a reasonable enough marriage. At least the young woman did not complain, only that she would like a child and that none, alas, was forthcoming.
When her hair had dried Lily pulled out the kirby grips, then she brushed and combed it into gentle waves which curled attractively – at least, she thought they did – over her forehead and ears. She actually smiled at her reflection in the mirror over the sideboard. She looked, now, more like the woman she had been when she was married to her beloved Davey. She sighed. One thing was certain; Sid would not notice her changed appearance. And, even if he did, he would not make any comment.
Before Lily had had a chance to find out about the times of the trains to north Yorkshire, or had decided on which day she would go, she had a visitor.
On the following Monday afternoon, soon after she had returned from one of her cleaning jobs, she opened the door to see a middle-aged woman standing there. She looked familiar. Lily was trying to recall who she was, whether it was, in fact, someone that she ought to know, when the woman spoke.
‘Mrs Jackson? You are Maisie’s mother, aren’t you? I’ve seen you with her at school now and again, although she used to be known as Nellie, didn’t she…?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Lily, suddenly remembering who this woman was. ‘She’s called Maisie now, though – that’s what she liked to be called – and, yes, I’m her mother. But I’m not Mrs Jackson, not any more. I’m Mrs Bragg.’
‘Oh dear! I’m sorry; I didn’t know that.’ The woman looked flustered at her mistake, although it was an understandable one to make.
‘There’s no reason why you should know, is there?’ said Lily, smiling at her. ‘You’re Audrey’s mother, aren’t you? My little girl and yours have got quite friendly, I’ve heard, since they went up to Middlebeck.’
‘I believe they have… Yes, I’m Mrs Dennison…’
Lily recalled how she had first seen her outside the school, saying goodbye to a little fair-haired girl who had been in tears. Lily had taken her to be the child’s grandmother, but she had learned, in letters from Maisie, that the woman was, in fact, her mother. Moreover, Maisie and the tearful girl, Audrey, had since then become close
friends. They were in the same class in the school in Middlebeck and lived very near to one another. Lily had seen Mrs Dennison once or twice when she had been out on her cleaning jobs. She lived in one of the semis in an avenue where Lily worked, but this was the first time they had spoken together.
‘I was wondering, Mrs…er…Bragg, if you were thinking of going to see your little girl?’ asked Mrs Dennison. ‘I’ve been ill, you see, so I’ve not been able to go yet. But now I really must make the effort because I’ve just heard that she’s been moved to a new place.’
‘Yes, actually I am thinking of going…’ Lily suddenly remembered her manners. ‘Come in, Mrs Dennison,’ she said. ‘How rude of me to keep you standing on the doorstep…’ At the same time she was hoping frantically that the living room was not too untidy, although since taking herself and the children in hand, she had been trying to do the same with her house. She could do little about its shabbiness, but she could, at least, make more effort to keep it reasonably clean and tidy.
And so Mrs Dennison, seeing Lily’s home for the first time, entered a room where a cheerful fire, surrounded by a sturdy fireguard, was burning in the shiny black range. A few clothes were airing on a clothes horse, but there were no longer rows of greyish nappies drying, as there had been in the past. Two blonde-haired children were playing together on the rag hearth rug, building towers of wooden bricks and then knocking them down again with squeals of glee.
‘Hello,’ said Mrs Dennison, smiling at them. ‘That’s a good game, isn’t it? And what are your names?’
‘I’m Joanie an’ he’s Jimmy,’ said the girl, pointing unceremoniously at her brother before continuing with the game.
‘Not too noisy, now,’ said Lily, hoping they would take notice of her. ‘This lady and I want to have a chat. Do sit down, Mrs Dennison…’ She hastily moved a newspaper and two toy cars from the armchair which sagged the least and the woman sat down.
She did not look at her surroundings – at the threadbare carpet and the faded wallpaper and the ragged net curtains, clean because they had recently been washed and ‘dolly-blued’, but rather holey – for which Lily was very relieved. She seemed, in fact, to be occupied with her own thoughts. Glancing at her more closely Lily could see that she was not as old as she at first appeared to be. In her mid-fifties, Lily surmised – she could not be much more than that to be Audrey’s mother, unless the child had been adopted? – although one could take her, at a first glance, to be well into her sixties.
She looked pale, too; an unhealthy paleness, not one just caused by the lack of sunshine, and rather weary. Her clothing did nothing to relieve her pallor. Her coat was an unbecoming dark brown, as was her hat, with the brim pulled low over her forehead. It was obvious, however, that both items, as well as her shining brown leather brogues, were expensive. No jumble sale or second-hand clothing for Mrs Dennison, mused Lily, and probably not for Audrey either. She recalled that the girl had been dressed, on that September morning, as though she was going to a party, whereas all the other children had been clothed in their usual school attire.
‘Now, Mrs Dennison,’ said Lily, sitting down in the opposite chair, the one in which the springs had almost gone. ‘You were telling me about Audrey. What were you saying? That she had been moved to a new place…? I’m Lily, by the way. That’s what I like to be called, not…Mrs Bragg.’
‘And I’m Edith…’ The older woman smiled a little, and when she did so she appeared to shed a few years. ‘I’d be pleased if you would call me Edith. When you get older you find that fewer and fewer people use your Christian name. Of course, I don’t like too much familiarity. Younger people should show respect… However, as I was saying, it appears that my Audrey has now gone to live at the rectory, with a Mrs Patience Fairchild and her husband; he’s the rector, of course. It was the lady, Mrs Fairchild, who wrote to tell me. She sounds a lovely person, and I believe your daughter, Maisie, is already living there?’
‘So she is,’ replied Lily. ‘Yes, she’s very happy there. But she hasn’t said anything in her letters about Audrey being there.’
‘I gather it’s only just happened,’ said Mrs Dennison. ‘I don’t know a great deal about it, except that they all thought it was for the best that Audrey should move. Apparently the lady she was living with, Miss Thomson, was elderly and not really able to cope with an evacuee… Oh dear! I do so hate that word! And I do hope my little Audrey wasn’t unhappy there or ill-treated. We hated sending her away, Alf and me, but we thought it was the best thing to do, especially as we knew that I had to go into hospital. Oh dear, oh dear! It has worried me so much, and now that I’ve heard that they’ve moved her…’ She looked at Lily appealingly, her pale blue eyes starting to brim over with tears.
‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ said Lily. ‘If she had been unhappy she would have said so, wouldn’t she?’
‘I don’t know. She might not have wanted to worry me. She knew I wasn’t well, although we didn’t tell her everything…’
‘But I’m sure my Maisie would have said summat…er…something. She tells me all the news, and she said they’re having a real good time up there in Middlebeck, her and Audrey, and two other girls they’ve met. They’ve joined the Brownies at the church, and they like their teacher at school. And I get sick of hearing about how wonderful this Mrs Fairchild is.’ She laughed. ‘Aunty Patience, Maisie calls her. So if your Audrey has gone to live there, then everything’s fine, isn’t it? Try not to worry about her.’
Edith Dennison nodded, a little unsurely. ‘Yes, you’re right. But I shan’t be satisfied until I’ve seen her for myself and I’ve found out what’s really behind this move. I’m thinking of going next Saturday if there’s a through train to Middlebeck. Well, even if I have to change trains, I’ll still have to go. I’ve left it too long.’
‘And so have I,’ said Lily decidedly. ‘Far too long…’ She felt guilty; she hadn’t got the legitimate excuse that she had been ill as had the other woman. ‘Listen…Edith; I’ll find out about the trains, shall I? It’ll save you the trouble. Then we’ll go together up to Middlebeck, how about that? Of course I shall have to take these two scallywags with me…’
‘Yes, of course you will,’ said Edith. ‘I’m sure their big sister will be pleased to see them. Good as gold, aren’t they, bless them?’
Lily took a deep breath and hid a wry smile. ‘They’re not so bad, sometimes,’ she replied. ‘They have their moments.’
‘Don’t they all?’ said Edith, fondly. ‘Alf and I regret at times that Audrey is an only child. We would have liked to have more children, but it wasn’t to be. We’d been married for nine years before Audrey came along. We’d given up hope because I was forty-five. And then…well, there she was. It seemed like a miracle. But of course I was too old to have any more. You have to count your blessings, though, don’t you, Lily? I always try to tell myself that.’
‘Yes…I suppose you do,’ said Lily.
The following Saturday morning the two women, with Joanie and Jimmy, met at the bus stop in Armley as they had arranged, to catch a bus to City Square. They were to board a train soon after eight-thirty, one that would take them through the moorland and the dales, northwards to the little town of Middlebeck.
The late November morning was chilly and misty, so the children were bundled up like Eskimos in woollen coats, hats and mufflers. They were so excited, though, at the idea of going on a ‘puffer train’, as Jimmy called them, that they did not appear to be feeling the cold. Lily was, however. It seemed to seep into her very bones and she guessed it would be colder the further north they went. She had an extra jumper on underneath her red coat, which she had been determined to wear, but she had decided against the patent leather shoes and silk stockings, opting instead for her comfy flat shoes and thick lisle stockings to keep out the cold.
Edith was clad in the brown coat and hat she had worn the other day, but with a fox fur around her shoulders. This attracted curious looks from the children
, until Edith invited them to stroke it.
‘What is it?’ asked Joanie. ‘Is it real?’
‘Will it bite?’ asked Jimmy.
‘No,’ laughed Edith. ‘It won’t hurt you. It’s a fox; at least it was, once upon a time…’ She didn’t go into any more detail and the children seemed satisfied at that.
They were behaving very well that morning and Lily felt quite proud of them, for almost the first time in their lives. Not since they had been babies had she felt so much affection for them. She had the old pushchair with her, the one she had used when Maisie was a baby, which was rather worse for wear by now. Jimmy still rode in it when he was tired. That was when he usually started whining, and Lily did not know how far they might have to walk to the rectory when they left the train at Middlebeck station.
Mrs Fairchild had written – not to Lily, but to Mrs Dennison as it was she who had written to tell her of the proposed visit – to say that she would meet them off the train when they arrived, which should, all being well, be soon after ten-thirty.
The journey was not a long one. The place where the girls were now living was in the same county, but in the north rather than the west riding. Yorkshire was the largest county in England, as Lily remembered being told, with some pride, in school geography lessons. It was often referred to, also, as ‘God’s own county’, although it was possible, thought Lily, that inhabitants of Lancashire or Westmorland, for instance, might say the same about their county.
Lily was Yorkshire born and bred, and proud of it, although she had not seen a great deal of the county apart from the environs of Leeds and Bradford. A long time ago she had visited the lovely little village of Grassington, in Wharfedale, where Davey had been born and had lived until coming to Leeds to work. She had been to Scarborough, too, and she had fond memories of the lively seaside resort on the east coast where she and Davey and Maisie had once spent such a happy holiday. But she had never visited the part of Yorkshire for which they were now bound. She had heard that parts of the county, away from the grime of the industrial cities and mill towns, had some of the loveliest scenery of anywhere in England.
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