by Janet Tanner
“Are you all right, Mrs Hall?” he asked anxiously. “I didn’t dare come down. I thought they wouldn’t hurt you…”
She brought her face out of her hands with a jerk, looking at the wreckage all around her, the scattered tins and boxes, all awash in the water that had spilled from her pail, and the broken glass. Then she drew her breath in sharply.
“They swung on the cash railway!” she said, her eyes dark and brooding. “ They’ve broken the cash railway!”
NEXT MORNING, the men who had been caught leaving the shop were brought up before the magistrates and sentenced to seven days’ hard labour. Half the town were incensed by this, and the Smiths, fearing another attack, stayed only long enough to do an inventory on the stock left in the shop before getting on a train back to London, never to be seen in Hillsbridge again.
Charlotte, although shaken, would have defied James and insisted on going down to help them clean up the mess, but next morning her ankle was so swollen she could not get her shoe on, and she guessed she must have twisted it during the confrontation without even realizing it.
By the time she was able to hobble down the hill, the windows of the County Stores had been boarded up, and the flat above remained unoccupied. She stood on the pavement outside for a moment, and there was an ache of emptiness inside her. The loss of the cash railway had got through to her as nothing else had. Trivial, it might be, compared with the terrible things that were happening in France.
But for Charlotte, involvement in the war had begun.
BOOK TWO
Ted
Chapter Eight
One evening in early December, a concert party was in full swing on the rickety wooden stage in the Victoria Hall. Horace Parfitt, whose antics had kept the people of Hillsbridge entertained for twenty years and more, had already performed his country-yokel act in battered hat and smock, and been rewarded by enthusiastic cheers from the audience, and now Grace O’Halloran was charming them with a selection of music hall favourites, her sweet, clear voice carrying easily through the vaulted windows to the square below.
“She’s a cracker and no mistake!” Horace commented as he changed his smock for the Victorian lady’s evening dress he needed to wear for his next act. “ I’m surprised you haven’t been after her, young Ted me lad.”
Ted Hall laughed, but before he could reply, Stanley Bristow, who ran the concert party, had spoken for him.
“If I know you, you’re after her yourself, you wicked old goat! I heard about the extra practice you wanted to put into that turn you’re going to do with her. “A Hole In My Bucket”, indeed! It’s a hole in something else, if you ask me!”
“You’m jealous, Stanley. Jealous, that’s what you be!” Horace returned good-naturedly, and Ted chortled quietly to himself as he left them and crept out into the corridor that led around to the back of the stage. Horace and Stanley never stopped teasing one another. Their banter went on backstage at every concert party and every rehearsal, and occasionally Ted suspected there might a touch of irritation behind their chaff. But since Horace and Stanley had been together in concert parties since before he was born, he didn’t suppose it was likely to blow up now. Whatever their differences, the two men had certainly been right about one thing. Grace O’Halloran was a very attractive girl.
He climbed the steps to the stage and craned his neck to watch her. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t made a play for Grace. Besides her looks, being O’Halloran’s daughter, she had a sort of class about her—an aura of remoteness and self-assurance that made her different from any of the other girls he knew. But he was sure he could win her heart if he really tried. More than once she had looked at him in a way that had seemed to tell him so, her lips slightly parted, head tilted to one side, while her eyes narrowed tantalizingly behind the sweep of long lashes. But something had always held him back from taking up the invitation. Perhaps it was it was a secret fear that Grace, with her teasing ways, might discover that he was less experienced with women than he liked to pretend. But when she looked as delectable as she did this evening, he considered it a chance almost worth taking.
A burst of clapping interrupted his thoughts, and Ted realized that Grace had finished her turn.
“You’re on, sir,” she whispered as she passed him, and he tipped his black topper on to the back of his head, waiting for the pianist to bang out the introductory notes of ‘ Burlington Bertie’.
For twenty years, Stanley Bristow’s concert party had been the favourite entertainment in Hillsbridge. Not even the coming of the picture house had affected its popularity, and now that the proceeds were going to the war effort, the crowds flocked in more eagerly than ever. They cheered Ted’s ‘Burlington Bertie’just as they cheered all the acts, stamping their feet, whistling and calling for more, and Ted felt on top of the world. Nothing, not even the thrill of watching a horse win when you’d staked your last pound on it, could beat this intoxicating moment. He took his last bow and came off stage to find Grace watching him from the top of the steps.
“That was first-class, Ted,” she whispered, and her educated voice and the way she was looking at him stirred something inside him.
“Are you staying for a drink after the concert tonight?” he asked casually.
She looked at him through her lashes. “I might do.”
“I’ll have one ready for you then.”
“You take a lot for granted,” she said, but her eyes were still teasing, and, as she turned away to go into the ladies’ dressing-room, she brushed against him so that for a moment he felt the pressure of her breast on his arm.
That wasn’t accidental, he thought. The invitation was there, just as he’d known it would be. Excitement stirred, and he smiled to himself as he pushed open the door to the men’s dressing-room.
As the concert rolled on, Ted sat in the dressing-room smoking and thinking about the O’Hallorans. There were two daughters, although the younger one, Stella, was so plain it was difficult to realize that she was Grace’s sister. She’d come to the concert parties a few times, a round-faced girl, too plump to be attractive, with thick, reddish hair. Mrs O’Halloran, Hal’s wife, was a nervous woman who had met Hal when he was still a miner himself, and when he had studied and worked his way up to manager, she had been dragged along with him. Even Ted had noticed, when he had been to their grand house at the top of South Hill for a concert party rehearsal, how ill at ease she had seemed amongst the grandeur. But Grace, Grace was something different again. She’d been born to it, and it had enhanced all the charm, the flirtatiousness that would have been there anyway, making her twice as desirable.
And if he played his cards right, who knew what would happen? The concert party members always stayed behind afterwards for a drink, and when she was mellowed a little, perhaps he would ask if be could see her home. He might even get to kiss her …
At last it was over, even the finale that took the form of a wedding procession with Grace as the bride, and Stanley, who had directed it, as the groom. Then, back in the dressing-room, the men took welcome swigs from Horace Parfitt’s hip flask, while changing into their everyday clothes.
“There’s a bottle in the cupboard for when the ladies come to join us,” Stanley said, and Ted’s heart thudded with uncomfortable anticipation.
To steady his nerves, he lit another Gold Flake, but it was the last in the packet.
“I’ll have to run over to the Working Men’s Club for some more cigarettes, Stanley,” he said, crumpling the empty packet and throwing it into the waste bin. “I won’t be a minute.”
Stanley clicked his teeth disapprovingly.
“You smoke too much. You’ll ruin that good voice of yours,” he warned, but Ted ignored him, left the dressing-room and ran down the stone stairs to the street, taking them two at a time in his haste.
While the concert party had been in progress, the dank December air had thickened to fog. It clung in suffocating clouds around the street-lamps and swirled damply about
the town square. Ted picked his way between the folk who were steaming out of the doors of the Hall, calling a greeting here and there, but stopping to chat with no one. He crossed the square at a ran, turning up the collar of his jacket and heading for the subway that crossed beneath the railway lines, and in the fog he almost collided with someone who was standing in the narrow dip of pavement.
He muttered an apology, noticing to his surprise that it was a girl, but not a girl whom he immediately recognized. He wondered what she was doing, standing in the shadows at the entrance to the subway. She must be waiting for someone. But it was a rotten night, all the same, for a girl to be out on her own.
He went under the subway, crossed the main road, and walked along to the Working Men’s Club. As he opened the door, he was greeted by tobacco smoke, warmth and laughter, and the cheerful tinkle of the piano.
“It’s Ted Hall! Come on, Ted, give us a song!” someone called, above the general chit-chat and although he protested that he’d only called in for a packet of Gold Flake, Ted allowed himself to be steered towards the piano, where a pint mug was pushed into his hand, and the half-blind Welsh pianist tinkled expectantly, waiting for Ted to tell him what to play.
It would mean an extra ten minutes before he got back to Grace, Ted knew, but he decided not to worry about that. Better not seem too keen, he reasoned. He whispered something to the pianist, took a long drink from the foaming glass of bitter, and broke into the opening bars of ‘Little Grey Home in the West’.
It was almost a quarter of an hour later when Ted passed under the subway again on his way back to the Victoria Hall, and as he emerged from the tunnel, he was surprised to notice that the girl he’d almost collided with was still there. As she heard his footsteps, she moved out of the shadows, peering anxiously into the murky darkness, then shrank back again.
He looked at her curiously. From her appearance, it was clear she was no common woman waiting to be picked up. Her coat, high-buttoned at the neck, and her hat, pulled well down on to her upswept hair, suggested she was a very respectable girl.
Disturbed, Ted hesitated.
“Are you waiting for somebody?” he asked.
To his surprise, she shrank even further back into the shadows until her shoulders came into contact with the rough stone wall behind her, and regarded him with big, frightened eyes.
“It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, half-amused. “I’m only asking. If you’re waiting for somebody in the Hall, I could always tell them to hurry up for you.”
She shook her head silently and with a shrug he turned away. If that was the way she wanted it, he wasn’t going to bother himself unduly. But before he had gone more than a step, her voice arrested him.
“Please … just a minute.”
He turned again.
“Yeah?”
“You … you didn’t see a boy and girl the other side of the subway, did you? Coming along from the railway lines, or down by the river?”
He shook his head.
“No. It’s not courting weather.”
“No, but … I don’t know where they can be.”
He looked at her, puzzled. In the light of the street-lamp, he could see she was close to tears.
“Who is it you’re looking for?”
“My friend, Marjorie Downs. We went to the concert in the Hall—at least Marjorie and I did—and Billy, her young man, happened to be there. They went off out before the end. She said they wouldn’t be long—just go up the road to say goodnight—and she’d be back again. But I haven’t seen her since and I don’t know whether to wait for her or go on home, or what …”
“Oh, I’d go on home if I were you,” Ted said. The girl was so close to tears, Ted was beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable, and he was also impatient to be with Grace.
“Well, I would, only…” The girl broke off, pressing one small gloved hand over her mouth.
“Only what?”
“We came together. My father wouldn’t have let me come at all otherwise. And if I go home on my own …”
“Well, you can’t stay here all night,” Ted said matter-of-factly. “She’s forgotten all about you, I shouldn’t wonder. Go on home. She’ll be all right”
“Yes, I suppose so,” the girl said uncertainly. She took a step or two along the path into the thick swirling fog, and Ted felt a pang of something like irritation. Why did she have to look so vulnerable, damn it? If she chose to come to the concert with some flirty friend who buggered off and left her at the first opportunity, that was her funeral, surely, and nothing to do with him. Yet, as the fog closed in around her small figure, he found himself remembering how close she’d been to tears, and he called after her.
“Where do you live? Have you got far to go?”
“Eastlands. Waterley Lane.”
“Waterley Lane? Hey, wait a minute. That’s out in the wilds.”
“Yes, that’s why Marjorie and I came together. But I’ll be all right.” Her voice was tight now.
Ted swore softly to himself. The heck she’d be right! It was a terrible night—and late, too—for a girl to be out alone. And once past the church and the farm opposite, the road to Eastlands was just a lane, with hedges on both sides all the way.
“Look, perhaps you had better wait a bit longer for your friend,” he said, but she shook her head, a small quick movement that reminded him fleetingly of someone, although the impression came and went before he had time to think about it.
“No, you’re right I can’t stay here any longer. I’m late as it is, and my father is going to be furious.”
She turned again, walking away across the square in the direction of the church, and Ted made for the lights of the Hall and Grace, who would be wondering where he was. But at the foot of the steps he hesitated, the girl still very much on his mind. He looked around, but she had disappeared into the swirling fog, and he climbed a couple of the stone steps before stopping again.
Above him in the Hall, he could hear the sounds of merriment as the concert party rode out the wave of exhilarating success that came from a show well done. But to his own exasperation he found himself thinking about the strange girl walking, alone and frightened, along the deserted lane where the hedges grew out over the bank.
She wouldn’t come to any harm, he told himself. It was another half-an-hour before the pubs turned out. And there was no need for him to get involved. Why, he wasn’t even sure who she was! But the voice of conscience was louder than the voice of reason. Cursing her silently, he went back down the steps and crossed the square with quick strides. Damn girl, why did she have to get herself into a pickle like this tonight of all nights? He must be mad to bother about her with Grace waiting for him.
Although he broke into a trot, he was past the church before he saw her again. As the mist parted to reveal her small, hurrying figure, he called out to her, but she gave no sign of hearing, hastening her step if anything. As he drew level with her, he realized from the quick, defensive start she gave that his footsteps had frightened her into thinking she was being followed.
“Hey, steady up a bit!” he said.
“Oh, it’s you!” She was breathless with relief.
“Yes, it’s me. You can’t go gallivanting about on your own on a night like this. I’ll see you home.”
“Oh … oh, will you really?”
“Look, I’ve got sisters of my own. I’d like to think somebody’d do the same for them,” he said, but resentment at what he was missing with Grace made his tone sharp. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Rebecca Church. My father’s secretary of the Co-op.”
“Oh, him!” Ted said rudely, picturing the bewhiskered, overbearing man he’d seen about the town. “Well, he ought to make sure you’re better looked after.”
“He does look after me. He thought I’d be with Marjorie, I told you. And if you only knew the trouble I had getting out at all—and the trouble I’ll have getting out again …”
; “That’s all right then. I shouldn’t want to have to make a habit of this …”
She stopped walking and turned to look at him.
“You don’t have to see me home if it’s such a nuisance. I didn’t ask you to.”
Ted was immediately ashamed. It was, after all, his doing and not hers that he was walking along a foggy lane instead of enjoying himself in the dressing-rooms at the Victoria Hall.
“It’s all right,” he said, but still she faced him.
“I mean it. I don’t want to put you out. I’ll be all right on my own.” Her look of bewildered fear had been replaced by one of defiance and oddly enough it made her appear more vulnerable than ever.
“Come on, don’t be daft.” Ted said sharply. “I said I’d see you home, and I will.”
Without a word she turned and walked on, her head held high, her ridiculous hat bobbing, and he measured his step to hers. The lane began to slope upwards, gently at first and then more and more steeply, so that they had no breath left for talking, and Ted was glad. They reached the top of the hill and turned into an even narrower lane that was little more than a dirt track. The fog shifted slightly, and he saw a pair of houses, square and ugly behind large gardens.
“There’s my house—and Marjorie’s next door to it,” she said. “But don’t come any further. I’ll be all right now.”
“I’ll come to the door with you.”
“No. Please. I’ll be all right.” To his surprise, he noticed the frightened look was back on her face. “Thanks, anyway. Thanks very much.”
Then, before he could stop her, she had taken to her heels, running along the dirt track towards the house. He watched her go, bewildered by her behaviour and his own reaction to it, for just a moment he had felt he wanted to keep her with him a little longer. The cottage door opened before she reached it, and he had a brief impression of the large frame of the Co-operative Society secretary standing there, an oil lamp held high. Then the fog closed in again and only the dark outline of the houses was visible.