One Week in August

by Margaret Thornton

  Olive and Nancy, whom she had known for several years, did seem to take her seriously right from the start and were glad of her help. There were thirty-two guests that week, which was as many as the house could comfortably hold. The larger rooms were occupied by families and, where necessary, extra camp beds were used.

  The first task was to set the tables for two, three, four or five. Lilian tried to give each group a separate table, as far as possible. Each table was covered with a white damask cloth, which was supposed to last for the week. This, alas, was not always possible, depending on the eating habits, especially of the children, but the tablecloths could be turned over to use the other side. Each guest had a white napkin in a silver ring, which they were supposed to put back at the end of the meal, a nicety that was often ignored. The silver cutlery had been in use for years but, fortunately, stayed shiny and clean for quite a while. The table mats depicted fruit and flowers and added a bright and colourful touch to the room as did the floor-length red curtains, a new addition since Lilian was in charge. It was a large and airy dining room with enough room to move about between the tables, and a partition separated it from the smaller lounge at the back. The view from the windows was not as interesting as that from the sea-front hotels – a row of identical houses on the other side of the road – but the guests were usually too busy talking or eating to notice.

  Janice had, until now, only popped into the dining room from time to time. She almost – but not quite – gasped on entering the room full of people, all looking forward to the first meal of their stay. She took a deep breath and stepped forward, smiling brightly, to greet her first guests. She and the other two waitresses had their own row of tables to serve. Olive and Nancy had said how much easier it would be now, with an extra pair of hands.

  The evening meal consisted of three courses. This was another of Lilian’s innovations. When her mother was in charge there had been only two, but that was in the days when lunch – always known as midday dinner – was served, with high tea in the early evening. They were not given a choice of menu, such as was usual in the more prestigious hotels, but they were very rarely disappointed in the fare and there were few complaints. Children who were fussy eaters could generally be catered for, Lilian did her best to satisfy everyone’s needs.

  The first course that evening was tomato soup. Janice was soon to discover that soup was the trickiest of the starters to serve without mishap. It was piping hot, in a large tureen which was wheeled into the dining room on a trolley together with the soup bowls. The waitresses ladled it out then carried it very carefully to each guest, serving each one from behind their right shoulder, as Janice had been informed. Her heart was in her mouth, but she managed to do her first serving without any spills. They waited until everyone had finished before removing the bowls. In the meantime they stacked the trolley again with the items for the main course.

  Several of the guests remarked on how tasty the soup was. Janice did not inform them, of course, that it was not home-made. This was one instance in which Lilian, in company with many of her fellow hotel owners, cheated a little. The soup was a powdered substance which was made in several varieties – tomato, chicken, mushroom, oxtail – and was delivered in large tins. All that was required was the addition of boiling water but it was really very palatable.

  The main course, the chicken, was served on hot plates. Lilian always made sure that the plates were warm – there was nothing worse than eating your meal from a cold plate. Slices of white breast meat were served, with a little brown from the legs and thighs for each person with rather smaller portions for the children. There were a couple of roast potatoes on each plate as well, but there were more for those with larger appetites in a tureen, which also held carrots and brussel sprouts. The tureen was placed in the centre of the table for the guests to help themselves. When Florrie had been in charge the whole meal had been dished out on to the plates, but Lilian had decided that this was a far more genteel way of serving – it was what one should do in a private hotel! In the posher hotels, of course, everything was served out by the waitresses – or waiters – from a large silver salver, but there was certainly no time to do that. Janice, Olive and Nancy did, however, go round with dishes of bread sauce, apple sauce and gravy for those who required the extra touches.

  This course would take longer to eat and Janice sat down, to take a breather, on a kitchen stool.

  ‘Come on now, don’t say you’re tired already, are you, luv?’ said Nancy jokingly.

  ‘No, I’m not tired,’ replied Janice, smiling back at her. It was true, she wasn’t tired. ‘Just a bit … bewildered. But I’m enjoying it.’

  ‘You’re doing splendidly!’ said Olive.

  But there was little time to rest. The dinner plates had to be collected and the refuse – although there wasn’t much – disposed of before the dessert course was served. It was apple crumble that evening – home-made – although Lilian had used Bird’s custard from a tin. Who didn’t?

  Tea was served following the meal, in the adjoining lounge, most guests, being from the north of England, preferred tea to coffee. They served themselves to this from a side table, whilst the workers started on the mountain of pots to be washed. Not for much longer, though. Lilian had already chosen and ordered the dishwasher, which would be delivered and installed towards the end of the week.

  Not all the guests stayed for the cup of tea. Many of them preferred to go out again and make the most of the sunshine, if there was any, or to take a stroll along the nearby promenade before the daylight faded. Some may have booked for a second house at one of the theatres and would have to walk the mile or so into the town.

  After they had helped with the washing-up Nancy and Olive went home. They saw little enough of their husbands and families at the height of the season and took advantage of the leisure time they had. Lilian’s family dined as and when they were able, sometimes before the visitors had eaten, sometimes afterwards, depending on the meal and the circumstances. Lilian made sure that they did not go short themselves and ate the same choice food as their guests.

  Janice now, of course, was part of the staff, but Lilian had always made time for her husband and children to eat their meal in a civilized and unhurried manner. Alec did a full-time job outside of the home, and Janice and Ian were ready for a good meal after a day at school.

  It was turned half past eight that evening before Lilian and Janice had cleared away. Alec and Ian were not expected to help with the chores. Lilian thanked her daughter for the hard work she had done that day.

  ‘It isn’t really what I wanted you to do, love,’ she told her. ‘I would rather you made the most of your holiday instead of working here every hour that God sends. You must make sure you have time to see your friends. You will have a day off, of course, same as the others. And if you want to go out one evening …’

  ‘We’ll see, Mum,’ replied Janice. ‘Kath and Jean said they were going to the Winter Gardens tonight. I said I might meet them there if we’d finished in time. But it’s too late now, and I’m not bothered anyway.’

  ‘There you are you see! It means you can’t go out …’

  ‘But what about you, Mum? And you and Dad? You hardly ever go out, do you?’

  ‘Oh, it’s different for us, and we’re used to it. We get out more in the winter. But I want you to be able to enjoy yourself.’

  ‘I am enjoying myself, honestly. And when I want to go out somewhere, I’ll tell you. But just now I’m quite happy here, and I’m earning some money, aren’t I?’

  ‘Very well, dear. If you say so …’ But Lilian wondered how long Janice would continue to look upon her job as a novelty, which was what she appeared to be doing at the moment?

  THREE

  ‘Only a few more days and we’ll be on the train to Blackpool,’ said Valerie Horrocks to her friend, Cissie. They were walking home together at the end of their day’s work at Walker’s woollen mill. ‘Are you looking forward to it?’


  ‘I’ll say I am,’ replied Cissie Foster, ‘after the carry-on I had persuading Mam and Dad to let me go. Anyone’d think I was a kid of fourteen, not nineteen going on twenty. It’s alright for you, your parents let you do as you like.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. They like to know where I’m going and who I’m going with, but they’re not so bad, all things considered …’

  Cissie and Valerie lived in the same street in the west Yorkshire town of Halifax, and were both employed at one of the smaller woollen mills there, owned by Joshua Walker and Sons. The two girls had long been friends, attending the same schools and leaving at the same time at the age of fifteen. Valerie was undoubtedly the brainier of the two, as they were both aware, but it had never made any difference to their friendship. It did mean, though, that they were employed in different capacities at the mill. Valerie worked in the office having started as a junior who made the tea and ran errands, but she was now an accounts clerk, dealing with invoices and letters to clients. She had gone to night school to learn the necessary skills of shorthand and typing.

  Cissie worked in the ‘burling and mending’ room, having progressed to this after a time in the weaving shed. This job, dealing with the imperfections in the finished cloth – pulling knots and slubs through to the back of the cloth and mending broken threads and loose ends – was much more to her liking than the noisy clatter of the looms in the weaving shed.

  Both of the girls’ families had been employed at the mill for generations, the women as well as the men, fitting their working hours around caring for the needs of their families. Children had been destined to enter the mill on leaving school, just as their forefathers had done. Boys occasionally acquired scholarships and went on to further their education, but this was unheard of for girls of working-class families. A word from a relative who already worked there was enough to procure a relation a steady job. This was particularly so in smaller mills such as Walker’s. It was a close-knit community and the workers were treated well.

  There remained a distinction, however, between the bosses and the workforce, and, to a lesser degree, between the mill girls and the office girls. The latter were often regarded as being toffee-nosed, whether this was true or not; and the derogatory comment, ‘She’s only a mill girl,’ was sometimes heard. But after the Second World War there was more of a feeling of equality, and Val and Cissie were both contented in their allotted places.

  ‘And what about your Walter?’ Val asked now. ‘You’re lucky he’s letting you off the leash next week, aren’t you?’

  ‘He’s not my Walter!’ retorted Cissie. ‘We’re not engaged or owt like that, much as our parents would like us to be. I’ve not made up my mind, and I’m not going to be influenced by Mam and Dad. I know he’s got a good job and he’s steady and reliable. And trustworthy, they think, if only they knew! He’s OK about me going away with you, though, because he’s off cycling in the Dales with some of his mates.’

  Walter Clarkson was in his mid-twenties, a few years older than Cissie. He worked as an overlooker in the same mill, in charge of several looms, and was looked upon by the girls as a ‘sobersides’. They all assumed that he would marry Cissie Foster, as they’d been going together for a couple of years.

  ‘Mam and Dad and Walter’s mam and dad, they’re all off to Bridlington next week. They wanted Walter and me to go with them, same as we did last year, but both of us had other ideas. Like I said, he’s going cycling.’

  ‘What did you mean, Cissie, when you said “If only they knew”? Isn’t Walter the model of virtue that your parents think he is?’

  ‘Is he heck as like!’ replied Cissie. ‘I’ve had many a tussle with him. He wants me to, you know … go the whole way,’ she added in a whisper. ‘But I won’t! Mam and Dad would have a fit, and so would his parents. I’ve been brought up to believe that you don’t do that till you’re married. Well, we all have, haven’t we? Anyway, I don’t want to. I don’t feel like that about him.’

  Val was surprised, to say the least. Walter Clarkson of all people! ‘No, you’re right, Cissie,’ she said indignantly. ‘I wouldn’t either, not with anybody. Not that I’ve been tempted.’ Val had had one or two casual boyfriends, but she had not met anyone whom she felt might be the right one for her.

  They had reached the street where they both lived, a row of terraced houses sloping up from the bottom of the valley. ‘Ta-ra, Val,’ said Cissie, arriving at her door and taking out her key. ‘See you tomorrer … At teatime, I mean. I’ve an early start in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, see you Cissie,’ said Val. She hurried along to her home at the other end of the street. Her mother would be preparing their meal, which they always called their tea, although it was more like a dinner.

  Sally Horrocks, Val’s mother, no longer worked at the mill, although she had done so at one time, since being a young girl. Her two sons were married and had moved away to other parts of Yorkshire. Her husband, Bert, worked at Walker’s mill as a supervisor in the packing department. There were only the three of them at home now. Valerie, as the youngest child and the only daughter had always been especially loved and cherished, but never spoilt.

  Val opened the door, calling out, ‘Hello, Mum, I’m back. There’s a good smell, and I’m starving!’

  ‘Aye, it’s steak and kidney pie,’ said her mother, appearing from the kitchen. She was a short plump woman and her round rosy-cheeked face was always cheerful. ‘Sit yerself down, luv, and we’ll have a cup of tea while we’re waiting for yer dad.’ Bert finished work at six o’clock and would be home in half an hour or so. ‘Now then, what sort of a day have you had …?’

  Cissie’s welcome when she arrived home was not as warm as Valerie’s.

  ‘Is that you, our Cissie?’ called her mother Hannah, when she heard the door open and close again. ‘Get yerself in here and peel these spuds for me. I’m all behind what with one thing and another, an’ yer dad’ll be wanting his tea as soon as he gets in.’

  ‘Give us a minute, Mam,’ said Cissie. ‘I’ll just have to go to the lav and wash me hands. I’ve been working all day you know.’

  ‘An’ I’ve not exactly been idle either,’ retorted her mother. ‘You seem to think I do nowt because I’m at home all day. I work just as hard as I did in t’mill, washing and cleaning and cooking and tidying up after you. Get a move on now. We’re havin’ chips tonight with a nice bit of lamb’s liver I got from t’butchers.’

  Cissie sighed as she went upstairs to the bathroom. These houses, though small, did have a tiny bathroom and toilet combined, as well as an outside WC in the yard at the back. They were mostly privately owned, both the Horrocks family and the Fosters owned their own property, which put them a cut above their neighbours, who still paid rent – according to Hannah Foster at any rate, who was rather a snob despite her humble upbringing. Cissie, in truth, couldn’t wait to get away from home, but she was damned if she was going to settle for Walter Clarkson despite her parents’ wishes.

  Her mother turned round from the stove when Cissie entered the kitchen. She was a small sharp-featured woman with an almost permanently disgruntled expression on her face, at least when she was at home. She smiled, though, when she was in the company of friends, especially the Clarksons, whom they had met at the church they all attended. Millie Clarkson had persuaded Hannah to join the Mothers’ Union, and Hannah’s husband, Joseph, was a sidesman along with Archie Clarkson. The four of them were what might be termed pillars of the church. Walter sang in the choir, and Cissie went along most Sundays because she really had no choice in the matter.

  ‘Have you seen Walter today?’ asked Hannah.

  ‘No, Mam, I haven’t,’ replied Cissie. ‘Is there any reason why I should?’

  ‘Don’t take that tone with me, young lady! Every reason, I would say, when you’re gadding off to Blackpool next week without him.’

  ‘And what is he doing, eh? He’s going away with his mates. I need a change, Mam, and no doubt he feels t
he same. It’s our business any road; it’s got nowt to do with you and Dad.’

  ‘Don’t you be so cheeky! You’re not too big to get a good hiding!’

  I’d like to see her try! seethed Cissie, her hands in water, scrubbing the mud off the potatoes. There was silence for a few minutes, then her mother started up again.

  ‘I’m still not happy about you going off to Blackpool with Valerie …’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with Val?’

  ‘Nothing really, I suppose,’ said her mother grudgingly. ‘She’s a nice enough lass, but she never sets foot inside a church, does she?’

  Cissie didn’t answer that. If she did she would be tempted to say too much about hypocrites and people who pretended to be ‘holier than thou’.

  ‘Val’s a good friend,’ was all she said. ‘You don’t need to worry about us. And there’s nothing wrong with Blackpool neither. It’s no different from Scarborough or Filey.’ She didn’t mention Bridlington where her parents were going. Cissie thought it was a deadly place.

  ‘You’d be better going to Brid with your dad and me and the Clarksons. But we’ve said you can go to Blackpool, so that’s that, I suppose. It’s all them dance halls, the Winter Gardens and t’Tower Ballroom. And all them bars and pubs. I’ve heard of such goings-on in Blackpool.’

  ‘Have you ever been?’

  ‘Aye, once, and that was enough for me. I prefer to stick to Yorkshire. You know where you are wi’ Yorkshire folk …’

  Cissie gave an inward sigh. Her mother had such a cock-eyed way of looking at things. Cissie couldn’t wait to go dancing at the famous Tower or the Winter Gardens. And then there was the Pleasure Beach, and three piers, and all those cinemas and theatres. She and Val would have a whale of a time …

  Janice had enjoyed her first week’s work as a waitress. Her mother wondered if it was just a novelty to her at the moment and that she might tire of the routine before long. But Janice felt sure she would not do so. At the end of the first week she had received a nice amount in tips from the guests. They had appreciated her friendliness towards them and her courtesy as she served them. Some of them knew she was the daughter of the proprietor, Mrs Butler, but Janice did not tell them unless they asked. She wanted to be regarded in the same way as Olive and Nancy.