The Love of a Lifetime

by Mary Fitzgerald

  “Has Elizabeth been helping you with the milking?”

  He shook his head. “No. Old Lowe turned out, but he was no use. His arthritis is worse than ever.” He looked up at Mother who was bustling about with the teapot, keeping an ear on the conversation. “That bugger will have to go, Mother. He’s worse than useless.”

  “Careful, William. Make sure he’s got enough to live on before you turn him out. We wouldn’t like to be talked about in the village.”

  Billy snorted. “Don’t worry about him, Mother. He’s been putting money away for years. Anyway, George and Ivy will take care of him.” Herbert’s son, George, hadn’t gone into farming and had a steady income from the pit. And it wasn’t as if Herbert lived in one of our farm cottages. He’d moved into his own rented place years ago. His army pension paid for that.

  But all this didn’t solve my problem of Elizabeth’s whereabouts. I was thinking about going upstairs and waking her up when Mother said, with maybe a note of triumph in her voice, “Elizabeth has gone to see her father in Liverpool, today. She went on the first train.” As I looked up in surprise, she added, “Were you looking for her?”

  “No. Not particularly,” I said, and returning to my breakfast carefully spread bramble jelly on a piece of bread.

  Fred had made a sandwich with his rasher and bread and was folding it into his mouth. “Well, are you coming?”

  Perhaps I’d made too much of that kiss. Maybe it meant nothing to her and that she’d kiss anyone and probably had. My mind whirled in a froth of angry speculation and I could feel my give-away cheeks beginning to burn. “Right,” I said making my mind up and nodding to Fred. “I’m for going.”

  Did I imagine Mother’s little sigh of relief? Probably. I was becoming fanciful in my eagerness to have Elizabeth as my girl in the face of Mother’s obvious dismay. Our Billy showed no relief or any other sort of emotion. He was quiet today, seeming subdued and exhausted, but he did ask if I needed money. Even when I shook my head, he put a hand in his back pocket and peeled off a couple of notes from the roll he habitually kept there. “You can’t be a scrounger,” he said. “Make sure you buy Fred’s uncle a drink and take one of our cheeses for the auntie.” There was no bravado about this gesture, it was his way. He had been head of the family since Father had died and though only two years older than me, had made sure that I was never short

  When I came downstairs ten minutes later with my corduroy breeches, plimsolls and wash things in a bag, he had wandered back into the yard. Fred had run home to tell his parents that we were going and get his things. We were meeting at the railway station, so I had a few minutes to spare.

  “Have a good time,” called Mother from the pantry.

  “I will,” I called back but I didn’t go in to kiss her goodbye. I was angry for reasons I wasn’t entirely sure about and, spoilt boy that I was, hated the feeling that I was no longer her special pet.

  Billy was leaning against the door of the byre. Inside, one of the cows was bellowing and he was standing ready to assist the calving.

  “Another one?” I asked.

  “No. Same beast. I thought she’d be ready sooner.”

  So he’d been up all night on a fruitless exercise. No wonder he looked badly. Mind you, night calving was always happening, so he should have been used to it.

  “I’m off, then,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said absently. The lowing was getting more urgent so he lifted the latch and went into the byre, concentrating entirely now on the cow. She was one of our best big milkers, a bony black and white Friesian and would have cost a packet to replace if anything went wrong. As it happened, that cow delivered a fine heifer, just after I’d gone and Billy was well pleased.

  The mountains worked their usual magic on me and I’m ashamed to say that I was such a shallow young man, that I almost forgot about Elizabeth. Fred and I climbed the Tryfans, struggling at one or two places with overhanging rock and unsure footholds, but youth and determination were on our side. I wonder now at how daring we were. Nobody had taught us how to climb and as for safety equipment, well, we had none. I suppose it wouldn’t be allowed today but those were less regulated times and if we had fallen, no-one would have been surprised or looked for blame. Life wasn’t cheap but sudden death seemed less of a stranger. Could that have been the result of the Great War when so many young men died and nearly every family had an empty place at table? Perhaps. I don’t know. All I know is that on that fine summer day we didn’t concern ourselves with mortality.

  “I could spend my entire life up here,” said Fred happily. He had grown into a hefty young man. Not as tall as me, but over six foot and strong with it. We had been friends all our lives and I felt as close to him as I felt to our Billy.

  “Oh yes? And how would you eat?”

  He laughed and stretched out on the rocky ground beneath us. “I know,” he said, “but I’m going to make sure that I come up here as often as possible. I never want to spend too many months away from these hills.”

  I felt the same. Even though I was planning university, I couldn’t see further than three years of study and then back to the village. The idea of travel, or even living elsewhere, had never occurred to me. I thought I was going to be a teacher, or perhaps a solicitor at the very most. But my life would be lived in the environs of the village or the town.

  Fred wasn’t planning university. We’d left school together, on the same day and while I was hanging about waiting for the college term to begin, he was apprenticed to the auctioneer, Watson and had already started work. He would do well, I knew that.

  “I’m leaving Watson’s,” he said suddenly as we sat looking at the panorama of mountain peaks around us.

  “What?” I was astonished.

  “I’m leaving,” he repeated. “I’ve joined the Police.” He sat up and got out a packet of cigarettes. He offered me one and I took it eagerly, sharing his match. Smoking had become one of my worse habits over the last year. That is, if you didn’t count drinking.

  “Watson’s is boring. I want a bit of excitement.”

  I couldn’t understand him. What excitement did old Fairbrother, our local bobby encounter? The odd drunk making a nuisance of himself at closing time, arguments over ready cash at the market and the occasional lost cat or dog. Nothing more than that.

  I looked at Fred with amazement. Surely he wouldn’t want a life like that, traipsing about country villages and being separate, not one of the gang. I was positive that I had to put him off, make sure that this was no life for him, but before I could speak, Fred jumped in. “I’m going to London, I’ve joined the Metropolitan Police.” He laughed. “That should be pretty exciting.”

  Well, I couldn’t doubt that and I began to feel a new respect for my pal. Here I’d been thinking that I was the only one in the village with aspirations for advancement and Fred was beating me to it. I even felt a bit jealous. My enrolment at the University in Liverpool was certainly not so ground-breaking, now that Fred was off to London.

  “We’ll keep in touch; holidays, you know. And I’m coming home for as many weekends as I can.” He ground out his cigarette on a rock before tossing it away. “My parents are all for it, now that I’ve explained the pay and all. It’s secure, you know. Job for life.”

  That was the thing, in those days. A job for life was so important when so many people were on the dole.

  We didn’t talk much on the way down, but that evening, sitting over pint jars in the smoky pub, he asked me about my plans.

  “Well, the university first. Our Billy’s going to pay. He said he would. I’m going to do English. That’ll get me a job anywhere.” Of course, it would have done then, but now when I think back, I had such low expectations. I couldn’t see further than the village school. What a duffer I was.

  “And then you’ll get married and stay on at the farm, or close to?”

  “Yes,” I said and a picture came into my head of Elizabeth and me sitting beside a fire, reading
together and Mother and our Billy close by.

  “Elizabeth and I have kissed,” I said tentatively. “She’s going to be my girl.” Maybe Fred wasn’t surprised or maybe I didn’t notice a look or a gesture that would have told me different. All he did was nod slowly and stare into his pint of beer.

  “That’s good,” he said.

  We went home on the train on the Monday afternoon and parted at the station, Fred striding off to his parents’ house in the village to continue getting ready for the great move to London, and me, hurrying home the quick way across the fields, eager to pick up on my burgeoning romance.

  I was stopped on the route by old Fairbrother of all people who was standing mournfully under the big ash tree staring at the fields ahead.

  “Hullo, lad,” he said. “What are you up to?”

  “I’m going home, across the fields,” I said and added rudely, “What d’you think?”

  “Watch your lip,” he growled, but as ever his bark was worse than his bite and he pulled out a cigarette and lit it with difficulty whilst trying to juggle with his helmet, which he had tucked under his arm. I was surprised to see him out here, this wasn’t his usual beat.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  He gave me long look. “You haven’t heard then,” he said and sighed when I shook my head.

  “I’ve been away. In Snowdonia.”

  “Ah. Well you won’t have heard then.”

  “No,” I repeated wearily. This was typical of Constable Fairbrother. Couldn’t bring himself to the point.

  “It’s Mary Phoenix. She’s run off.”

  I was surprised. “Where?” I asked foolishly and the constable wasn’t slow to give me a shake of the head and a deep draw at his Woodbine.

  “Who knows?” he said, “but she was last seen on your land. I’ve asked your brother and Mrs Wilde, but they don’t know nothing.”

  “Well, neither do I,” I said and continued on my way.

  By the time I reached the farm, the weather had broken. Rain poured relentlessly from a leaden sky and a cool east wind had set in, whistling under the rugs in the hall and threatening to blow out the pilot light on the new boiler. The kitchen was dark and gloomy and being only four o’clock in the afternoon, the lamps hadn’t been lit. Mother was feeding bits of stick and kindling into the range when I came in and looked up at me with an exasperated expression.

  “Hello, Richard, love,” she said before turning back to her task, “did you have a nice time?”

  “Yes,” said, “where is everybody?”

  “Oh, they’ll be in for their tea in a minute.”

  I threw myself anxiously into my seat at the table when a voice from the rocker in the corner caused me to look round. “You look remarkably well, Dick. The fresh air’s done you good.”

  It was Marian, sitting forward in the chair with her small neat feet side by side beneath her. Not one for lolling, our Marian. She didn’t get up and give me a kiss, she wasn’t affectionate in that way but she did smile at me. I was glad she was there, she would take Mother’s mind off me and the chatter between her and Mother would allow me to talk and look at Elizabeth in peace.

  “I met constable Fairbrother on my way home,” I said, “he says Mary Phoenix has run away.”

  “What a surprise!” said Marian, with a sniff. “That girl is nothing but a slut. She’s gone off with some man, mark my words.”

  “Oh, don’t say that, Marian,” said Mother. “She is family, after all.”

  Marian and Mother were somewhat estranged these days, not such good pals as they had once been. I didn’t know why. Maybe it was because Marion was unhappy in her marriage, although I didn’t know that then, or maybe it was because she was jealous of Elizabeth.

  Marian lived a few miles away, with Albert Baker in their place in the town. They had moved on from the flat above the shop and now had a house in the best area, a large Edwardian villa with too many empty rooms and an enormous garden. We went there on Boxing Day for our dinner and Mother had sat on an upright chair, refusing to relax. I watched as she discretely turned over the plates to examine the maker’s name and looked for the silver mark on the cutlery and I was surprised. This was not like her; she had never cared much for material wealth, preferring people’s goodness to their possessions. But somehow she seemed to resent Marian doing so well for herself and becoming a ‘lady’ when Billy and I and Elizabeth, were still farming folk.

  Albert was doing well, had just bought another shop and had joined the Chamber of Commerce. The only thing that was unsettling was a rumour that Fred had told me in strictest confidence. Albert had a fancy woman. It was well known in the town, apparently. I didn’t know whether to believe him. Albert was such a jolly fellow, polite and seemingly most affectionate with Marian and she was still not thirty and not bad looking. Our Marian was worth ten of most women in the town. It was a secret I didn’t tell. If it had been true, Billy would have killed him. He might have killed him only for the rumour.

  I went upstairs to my room and quickly dropped my overnight bag. I didn’t want to talk to Mother or particularly Marian for that matter, but I couldn’t wait to see Elizabeth and ran back into the kitchen after giving my hands the briefest wash in the bathroom. Would she give me a special look that would confirm our new relationship or would she pretend that nothing was different and wait until we were on our own to show me how she felt? I fancied the latter; she was always discrete. I paced restlessly about the kitchen as Mother got the tea ready, keeping an eye on the yard through the window, waiting for her to come in. When at last I saw her, hurrying across the cobbles, head down against the driving rain, my heart gave a huge lurch. I rapped on the window with a shaking fist to grab her attention and it seemed that she’d heard it for she stopped her running. But then as I started to wave. I saw that she wasn’t looking at me. She had turned her head and was talking over her shoulder to Billy who was coming along behind her.

  The window was all steaming up and I had to scrub my hand against it to get a clear view, but I could see that she was laughing at something he’d said and looking as full of life and happiness as I’d ever seen her.

  “What d’you think of the news?” said Marian. She had got up from the rocking chair and was laying the table, quite roughly I realised, as each cup was rattled into its saucer and a teaspoon plonked noisily beside it. I turned round to look at her, puzzled. What news?

  “Never mind that now,” said Mother and brought a tray of scones straight from the oven and put them on a trivet beside the teapot. I can smell the hot buttery aroma of Mother’s sultana scones now and my mouth waters. I could never resist them and darted from my place by the window to snatch one from the tray. Marian and Mother both said, “Don’t, Richard,” at the same time, but it was too late. The hot scone had gone in a twinkling and I was reaching for another. Mother swiped at my hand with the tea towel, but it was a half hearted business. She seemed to have her mind on something else and when I glanced guiltily at Marian, expecting her to grumble at me too, she turned her face away.

  The door burst open and Elizabeth and Billy came into the kitchen, panting from running through the rain and filling the kitchen with a sharp waft of wet air and wet animals. They were still laughing from whatever the joke had been in the yard and I was suddenly sick with nerves. How would she greet me? Would she say or do anything that would show the others how we felt about each other? At that moment I prayed that she wouldn’t. The embarrassment would have been too much because, after all, I was a very callow youth. So, in a way I was glad that when she saw me, the laugh faded from her face and was replaced by a look of caution and concern. She gave me a brief ‘hello’ and went over to the sink to wash her hands.

  No such shyness from my brother though. “Hello, Dick,” said Billy giving me a punch on the arm. “Have a good time?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Splendid.”

  “Well,” he said, “I’m glad of that, because you missed the excitement here.” He was bub
bling over with something, I didn’t know what, or why his mood had improved from Saturday morning. I looked from face to face wondering what on earth he was talking about. His was pleased and open, happy that he had some good news to impart. Mother had turned back to the stove and was busy with the kettle. Did I fancy that her back was resolutely stiff or have I imagined it?

  Marian had come to sit at her old seat at the table where she gazed at her hands as she smoothed them against the skirt of her Macclesfield silk dress. When she looked up, I was suddenly struck by how like Father she’d grown. Her hair had been shingled, and was brown and stiff like his had been and her face was similarly square and firm. She didn’t seem to share Billy’s excitement. Indeed she looked as though she was in a temper.

  “Well, what?” I wanted all this, whatever it was, over, so that I could have a chance to talk to Elizabeth and find out what she really felt about us. “Did one of the Shires win a prize?”

  “No, duffer,” Billy crowed, coming to sit in his place at the head of the table and holding up his cup for Mother to fill. “Can’t you guess? It’s me. Me and Elizabeth. We’re engaged!” and he pointed with his cup towards Elizabeth and called, “Show him. Show him the ring!”

  I wonder how I must have looked. Did I blush? Or did the colour drain from my face? My memory concentrates on how I felt and even now my stomach churns as I write about that afternoon. You see, I was only a boy, a boy in love and stupid in the ways of the world. I could only gape at him, trying to take in his words and to understand their meaning. Had I misheard? Could it be that he was engaged to someone else, some other girl from the village. Mary Phoenix, perhaps? But even as those doubts circled in my head I knew that I’d heard right and when finally I turned my head to gaze at Elizabeth and saw her flicker her eyes down and a slight flush come into her cheek, I experienced the worst feeling of all. Betrayal.