by Jenny Holmes
‘And I’m sure I can get hold of spare sheets and pillow cases,’ Norma promised. ‘I know there’s a rug tucked away in the cupboard under the stairs at home, too. Between us we’ll be able to smarten the place up no end.’
‘I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.’ Cynthia would have been happy to move in without any home comforts but then she saw a snag that obviously hadn’t occurred to Millicent.
‘So you’ll say yes?’ Millicent prompted.
‘If it’s up to me – yes. But what will Uncle William say?’
‘Ah, my precious landlord.’
‘Yes, there is that,’ Norma admitted cautiously. ‘Are you allowed to share the place with another lodger?’
Millicent raised her eyebrows and spread the palms of her hands upwards. ‘Who would tell him, pray?’
‘Ah!’ Norma laughed. Trust Millicent to see a rule and break it.
‘Oh.’ Cynthia managed to put to the back of her mind what her uncle would do if he found out. The lure of leaving home and setting up for herself was too strong to resist. If she moved in with Millicent, she would never have to ask permission to go out with Wilf or explain her actions to anyone ever again. She would be free to follow wherever her heart led.
‘Well?’ Millicent asked.
‘Yes please,’ Cynthia decided with a broad smile. ‘I’d like to move in here just as soon as I can.’
The days following saw Cynthia, Millicent and Norma laying dust sheets on the floor and climbing up and down stepladders each evening, paintbrushes in hand. They enlisted Dusty Miller from number 8 to repair some broken skirting board and Chalky White to fetch and carry a small, beer-stained table from the yard at the back of the Green Cross.
‘Nobody will miss this,’ the barman promised as he carried it up the stairs of number 10. ‘We were waiting for the rag and bone man to come and collect it, in any case.’
A bed and mattress were found and thoroughly fumigated on the cobbles outside, and a chair and washstand were provided, courtesy of the friendly dressmakers at Jubilee.
On the Thursday night, the three women stood back to view the fruits of their labours.
‘It’s a shame about the cracks in the ceiling.’ Norma’s face was speckled with white paint as she gave the room a final inspection. ‘I’ve done my best to cover them up but they still show.’
‘We’ve all done the best we can.’ Millicent closed her paint tin with a satisfied sigh.
‘It’s champion!’ Cynthia insisted that no palace could have pleased her more. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’
‘Likewise.’ Millicent acknowledged that Cynthia’s offer to help with the rent was more than enough. ‘I’ll get a new key cut tomorrow then you can move in over the weekend if that suits you.’
Before that there was another day at the switchboards and afterwards, for Millicent and Cynthia at least, an hour and a half of Health and Beauty torture at Ruth’s hands.
‘And stretch, and twist, and relax!’ Millicent mimicked the instructions after the Friday-evening class, when she and Cynthia were getting changed. ‘Blimey, am I the only one who aches from head to foot?’
‘No!’ a bunch of exhausted shop girls, housewives and bank clerks chorused. But the complaints were good tempered and soon the invigorated members of the League went their separate ways.
Ruth was on the steps of the Assembly Rooms, checking her wristwatch when Millicent and Cynthia emerged. ‘Do you two mind if I walk home with you?’ she asked when she noticed them. ‘We’ve just missed the half-eight bus into town.’
‘Feel free,’ Millicent answered, giving Cynthia a hidden nudge. ‘Just so long as you steer clear of anything to do with work.’
‘I promise.’ Off duty and sportily dressed in pale grey cardigan and slacks, Ruth gave off an altogether more relaxed air. She crossed the road with them on to Overcliffe Common, chatting about the latest royal scandal – notably the report in the Express that Wallis Simpson was heading for a divorce.
‘Her second,’ Ruth reminded them. ‘I’ve got nothing against being divorced – don’t get me wrong. How could I? But marrying the wrong man once is one thing. Doing it twice is another matter. What was it that Oscar Wilde said about the difference between misfortune and carelessness?’
As usual Millicent took an unconventional line. ‘I say, give the woman a chance. For all we know, Wally may be just what King Edward needs.’
‘For what?’ Ruth asked sharply. ‘For cruising off the Dalmatian coast and listening to American jazz bands?’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Millicent argued. ‘You wouldn’t say no to sailing on the royal yacht, would you, Cynthia?’
Ruth turned to Cynthia with a sympathetic smile and a word of advice. ‘Don’t let Millicent lead you astray, do you hear?’
‘You’re not the first to warn me about that.’ Cynthia smiled back. ‘Anyway, far from leading me off the straight and narrow, Millicent has taken me under her wing and I’m grateful.’
‘Was she behind your visit to Sylvia’s Salon?’ Ruth wanted to know. She’d noticed a big change in their young recruit in the few weeks since she’d started work, not least the new haircut that framed her heart-shaped face and accentuated her high cheekbones. There was no doubt about it – Cynthia was growing up in leaps and bounds.
‘As a matter of fact, yes.’ The change of style had drawn compliments from Wilf and criticism from Cynthia’s mother – a true measure of the improvement if ever there was one.
‘Is Clare Bell still working there?’ Ruth enquired, stepping to one side as two girls on roller skates sped up behind them, followed by a smaller girl on a tricycle.
‘Yes – why?’ Millicent asked, aware that Ruth was intent on steering the conversation in a particular direction.
‘Nothing. I was just wondering. I was sorry when she stopped coming to classes, that’s all.’
‘We all were,’ Cynthia said.
‘It was a real chance for her to make new friends and keep that figure of hers in shape.’
Ruth’s heavy-handed concentration on Clare bothered Millicent but it was proving difficult to bring her to the point. ‘She has a lot on her plate, what with her new job at the salon.’
‘I expect she has.’
‘Clare is in charge of answering the telephone and making appointments, keeping them up to date with the latest magazines, and so on. And she must look her best at all times.’
‘As must we all,’ Ruth said primly. They were nearing the top of Ada Street – the point where they would split off. They stopped and there was a pause before she spoke again. ‘Millicent, were you friendly with Clare when you were at school?’
‘At Lowtown Juniors – yes. That’s to say, I knew her but not very well. She didn’t join in much. In fact, I doubt that she had many true friends.’
Ruth cast a sideways glance at Cynthia. ‘No one to take her under their wing – then or now?’
‘No. What are you getting at?’
Ruth frowned, afraid to upset Cynthia by her plain speaking but deciding to plough ahead anyway. ‘I’m wondering – would Clare listen to advice from you about Phyllis Parr?’
Millicent and Cynthia glanced at each other in surprise.
‘Why?’ Millicent asked, sharp as a tack. ‘What have you heard?’
‘I feel duty bound to tell you that Phyllis is not what she seems,’ Ruth confided. ‘I’ve known of her for a long time. We lived not far from each other in Lancashire where, not to put too fine a point on it, she was prosecuted for keeping a brothel.’
Ruth’s frankness took Millicent aback but she quickly regained her presence of mind and was careful not to incriminate herself or Norma for listening in at work. ‘It’s not the first time we’ve heard about Mrs Parr’s murky goings-on,’ she assured Ruth. ‘Norma’s beau, Douglas Greenwood, is a policeman. He knows about her and her links with Sidney Hall – you know who I mean?’
Ruth nodded. ‘I’ve heard of him. And I didn’t like what I
heard.’
‘We did try to warn Clare, but she wouldn’t listen.’
‘And now it’s too late?’ Ruth considered for a while then gave a tight-lipped nod. ‘It’s a sorry state of affairs. I’d have expected better of Clare.’
‘It’s easy for us to think that,’ Millicent reminded her. ‘But I’m a firm believer that we shouldn’t judge.’
‘It’s hard not to.’ Ruth’s opinion was tied up with her own history but Millicent and Cynthia didn’t need to know the details: that she’d divorced her husband, Arthur Ridley, after discovering that he’d been a regular frequenter of premises in Bolton run by Phyllis Parr and her then-partner, a Dutchman who went by the name of Max Van Buren. ‘Girls like Clare come to a crossroads where they get the chance to say no before it’s too late. It’s just a question of will-power.’
‘No,’ Millicent insisted with great conviction. ‘More often than not they’re drawn in and tricked by men who promise them the world and ply them with drink then sell them off to the highest bidder. That’s how it happens. And once it’s done, there’s no way back.’
Ruth breathed in deeply before conceding the argument. ‘We agree that it’s a nasty business. And I hope you see that I meant well by mentioning it.’
‘Yes, ta, we understand.’ Millicent said a stiff goodbye then she and Cynthia crossed the road. ‘I might have known,’ she muttered angrily.
‘Known what?’
‘That Ruth would hold a low opinion of Clare. You heard what she said. She sees her as weak willed. It’s what so-called respectable people the world over think without stopping to put themselves in the victim’s shoes.’
Cynthia nodded and tried to work out her own attitude.
‘They don’t consider, “There but for the grace of God”,’ Millicent went on.
‘I do feel sorry for Clare,’ Cynthia admitted. ‘I can’t bear to think about what’s happened to her and what her life will be like from now on.’
If Cynthia had expected tearful protests from her mother over her decision to move into Heaton Yard, she was proved wrong.
In fact, the parting of ways was low key, with Ellis expressing no opinion whatsoever and Beryl trying to force a promise out of Cynthia that she would build bridges with her Uncle William in the near future.
‘We know what he’s like,’ she reminded her. ‘He flies off the handle every now and then. Give him time to calm down then pop out there on a visit. Take him a packet of rich tea biscuits and put things right over a cup of tea.’
Cynthia bit her tongue. Being nice to Uncle William was bad enough, but the idea of coming face to face with cocksure Bert and having to listen to him crow made her vow silently to keep well away from Moor View.
She stood, suitcase in hand, and studied her mother’s faded looks – the grey, expressionless eyes wrinkled at the corners, the lined forehead and the mouth turned down in perpetual disappointment. ‘I won’t be far away,’ she promised.
‘You know where we are,’ Beryl said.
Like acquaintances who part without a handshake and have little intention of keeping in touch, they said their lame goodbyes on the Saturday afternoon and Cynthia’s heart was sore as she lugged her brown cardboard case up the street, trudging along Ghyll Road and up Ada Street on a grey day that threatened rain. She was still too inexperienced to understand what made her mother so cold and her father an invisible presence in a corner, only seeing things from her own perspective and freeing herself from the bonds of family with every step she took.
Millicent spotted Cynthia carrying her case across the yard and rushed out to greet her. ‘There you are!’ she exclaimed, taking the heavy case from her and bundling her up the steps into the house. The wireless played American jazz music, the kettle was on and a dressmaker’s pattern was laid out on the kitchen table. ‘I’ll leave your case here at the foot of the stairs. Come in and have a cuppa before you unpack. I’m busy making a blouse for work. You can buy some material and borrow the pattern when I’m finished with it. My machine is yours whenever you want it.’
Millicent’s whirlwind energy blew through Cynthia like several gusts of fresh air and by teatime, to the background noise of ragtime music and the whir of Millicent’s sewing machine down below, she’d unpacked her belongings and settled into her room. By seven o’clock she was spruced up and ready to go out and meet Wilf.
‘Tell him I say he’s a lucky man.’ Millicent looked up from her sewing as Cynthia presented herself for inspection, wearing a new primrose-yellow dress, ruched at the waist and covered in small pink rosebuds. ‘You’re fresh as a daisy.’
‘It must be all that stretching and twirling on a Friday night that’s doing me good.’
‘No – we’re all born with it.’ Millicent gave a regretful sigh as she compared her situation with Cynthia’s. ‘But there’s no getting back your shine once life rubs it off, I’m sorry to say.’
Life and the way you choose to live it, she realized. The men you meet and fall in love with along the way, the rules you choose to break.
Cynthia smiled and was gone, leaving Millicent to reflect on what she now saw as wasted years. She watched her young friend cross the yard and disappear down the ginnel.
Running in her eagerness to meet Wilf, Cynthia almost threw herself into his arms when she reached Canal Road and saw him waiting for her outside the Victory. He was leaning against the wall, next to a queue for the ticket office that snaked down the wide steps and along the street.
Embracing her and holding her tight, he lifted her off her feet and spun her round. They overbalanced and laughed, ignored onlookers and quickly decided to skip the flicks and go for a walk instead.
‘There’s blue sky.’ Wilf pointed to a patch between white clouds. ‘Anyway, we can always nip into a pub if it starts to rain.’
So they walked on into town, arms around each other’s waists, ignoring a soft drizzle that began to fall until Wilf noticed that Cynthia was getting wet and he took off his jacket to drape it around her shoulders.
‘Shall we?’ He nodded his head towards the entrance to the King’s Head.
‘Let’s,’ she agreed.
They went in and she sat in a booth in the far corner while Wilf ordered their drinks at the bar. She saw herself reflected in one of the etched mirrors – her damp hair curling against her cheeks, Wilf’s blazer hanging loose from her shoulders. Despite the smoky atmosphere, she looked alive, as if her whole body was singing with joy, her eyes dancing with pleasure.
‘Just what the doctor ordered,’ Wilf quipped as he slid a glass of sherry across the table and sat down beside her. ‘Is this your favourite tipple?’
‘I don’t really have one,’ she confessed. ‘I don’t come into pubs much. My mum and dad are strict Methodists.’
‘So what did they think about you moving in with Millicent Jones?’ Stick to safe subjects and keep your hands on the table where they can’t get up to mischief, he reminded himself, though Cynthia’s beauty knocked the socks off him every time he looked at her.
‘They didn’t say much. I don’t think they really minded – one way or another.’ Two sips of the sweet drink had already loosened her tongue. ‘We’re not one of those families that sticks together through thick and thin – there are no brothers and sisters, just me.’
‘I’m the youngest of two. I have a sister called Maude,’ he remarked. ‘She’s a nurse at the King Edward’s.’
Though she hadn’t planned it, a confession tumbled out. ‘I know – I saw her.’
Then there was a rush of whens and wheres, followed by why. ‘It’s silly, I know. But when I saw Maude in your kitchen at the lodge, I jumped to the wrong conclusion.’
A grin spread across his face. ‘You went all the way out there and all the way back again without telling me?’
‘Yes, I wanted to let you know about Mr Oldroyd selling the estate. Don’t laugh – it’s serious.’
‘And you thought … that is, you imagined …’
‘Maude? Oh, I say!’
‘I said, don’t laugh.’ Cynthia nudged him with her elbow, her face flushed.
The grin grew wider as he dipped his head and looked up from under brows that were several shades darker than his fair, thick hair. ‘You know what they say about the green-eyed monster.’
‘I wasn’t jealous. I was shocked; I didn’t know what to think.’
‘Jealous,’ he insisted, moving closer and taking her hand.
‘All right then – yes, a little bit.’
‘Because you care about me?’
‘Yes.’
Wilf gave a quiet noise that sounded like ‘hmm’ – nothing else.
A new crowd came in through the door – men and women fresh from attempts to contact the spirit world in the nearby church. Upturned glasses had moved jerkily across a board and spelt out names of the dead and now here they were, eager to empty their heads of ghosts.
‘Well, I care about you too,’ Wilf told Cynthia, taking hold of the lapels of his jacket to draw her near and staring intently at her. ‘I think you’re the best thing that could happen to a chap like me.’
‘You do?’
‘I do.’ He let go of the jacket and sat back, reaching out for his pint glass without lifting it to his lips. ‘Listen, it’s true I was in danger of going off the rails before I met you – I’m the first to admit it. I mean, I was saving up to get married until Adelaide upped and left me. Then afterwards, I blew all the money on gee-gees and the dogs. I didn’t care – what was the point of anything?’
Cynthia gazed at him without interrupting, aware that he was showing a side of himself that she’d never seen before.
‘I wasn’t listening to anybody and it soon reached the point where Maude and Mum gave up on me. There were quite a few girls after Adelaide but they didn’t mean anything. I just went out at the weekend and drowned my sorrows, reached rock bottom.’
‘She broke your heart.’
‘No.’
‘No?’