One Week in August

by Margaret Thornton

  In the middle of that week the dishwasher was installed, and when Lilian had got accustomed to its workings it was found to be a great boon, cutting down considerably on their work load.

  ‘You must take your time off, same as the others,’ Lilian told her daughter. ‘Get out and spend some of that money you’re earning. It won’t be long before you’re away at college, so make the most of your freedom while you can.’

  Janice knew, though, that students did have a certain amount of freedom as well as the time spent in lectures. She had spoken to a few who seemed to spend a good deal of their time drinking and partying, but she did not tell her mother that.

  ‘Yes, OK, Mum,’ she said. ‘I’ve said I’ll meet some of the girls at the Winter Gardens on Saturday. We finish earlier, now that we’ve got the dishwasher, don’t we? I bet you wonder how you managed without it.’

  ‘Yes, so I do,’ agreed Lilian. ‘It has to be stacked properly, of course, and I like to wash the mucky pans in the sink, like I always did. But it’s certainly money well spent.’

  Janice had learnt a good deal more about the running of the hotel that week. Although her mother had not expected her to do so she had popped into the kitchen most afternoons to see what was being prepared for the evening meal. She helped with some of the work involved as she was at a loose end with her friends working, and tired of taking solitary walks along the prom. Besides, she wanted to learn more about the art of cooking. She knew that her mother had always been more lenient with her than were some mothers. She had not been expected to help very much in the house, except for keeping her own room tidy. When she was away at uni she would have to fend for herself more than she been used to doing.

  Janice found that the menu her mother had planned was varied and interesting. She had always known that the family, by and large, ate the same food as the guests, but she had not paid much attention to the preparation. Meat was more plentiful now. It was incredible to think that food rationing had only ended the previous year in 1954, nine years after the end of the war. Food stuffs had gradually become more accessible over the last few years, and meat was no longer the luxury it had once been.

  Whilst her grandmother was in charge of the boarding house the food had been well cooked, plentiful and wholesome. Lancashire hot-pot, shepherd’s pie, liver and onions, sausage and mash, and fish and chips. Meals such as these had been the standard fare, and they had always been well received. It had been a two-course meal, the main course followed by a pudding such as spotted dick, jam roly-poly, rice or sago pudding, apple pie and custard, tinned fruit and ice cream.

  Lilian now served three courses, with a different starter each evening. She had attended night-school classes during the last two winters to learn about more adventurous and popular dishes of the present time. She watched cookery programmes, too, on the television, where chefs such as Philip Harben and Marguerite Patten entertained viewers with their skill and dexterity of hand.

  Lilian’s starters included pâté with fingers of toast, prawn cocktail, melon, grapefruit segments or a half grapefruit decorated with a maraschino cherry, or the ever popular soup. Some of Jessie’s traditional meals were still served; Lancashire hot-pot or fish and chips, for instance. It was always fish on a Friday, to appease any guests who might be Catholics. The fish man called in his van once a week with cod or haddock fresh from the docks at Fleetwood, further up the Fylde coast, which Lilian served battered or coated in breadcrumbs. Then there was Coronation chicken – breasts of chicken in a white sauce, with mushrooms and onions, and a touch of curry powder, a dish made popular at the time of the Coronation two years before as a tribute to Britain’s links with the commonwealth countries, scampi and chips, quiche Lorraine, steak Diane … And her gran would never have dreamt of serving baked ham with pineapple, of all things! Frozen peas, too, were a great time saver, instead of the laborious shelling of pea pods, and a crinkly cutter made ordinary chips look very professional.

  Lilian had done away with the more stodgy puddings beloved of her mother. Her home-made fruit pies were served with cream instead of custard. She served lemon meringue pie (admittedly from a packet!), sherry trifle, fresh strawberries with ice-cream, meringue nests with fruit and piped cream, and cheese and biscuits as an alternative to the sweet dishes.

  Janice was full of admiration for her mother’s expertise, especially as she was largely self-taught. A thought passed through her mind … Who needed a degree from a university when one had a talent such as this?

  FOUR

  Walker’s mill closed down during the second week in August each year, when all the workforce took their annual holiday. Many of them went to the popular seaside resorts in Yorkshire like Scarborough, Filey, Bridlington or Whitby, whilst others travelled further afield across the Pennines into Lancashire, to Blackpool, Southport or Morecambe.

  It was not unusual to come across a neighbour from the same street, or someone who worked in the same weaving shed, when walking along the promenade. Many of the workers were creatures of habit, returning to the same resort year after year.

  For Valerie and Cissie, though, it was quite an adventure to be going to Blackpool. Cissie had never been there, and Val had been taken there as a little girl with her parents and had only dim recollections of the place. They were both up at the crack of dawn on the Saturday morning, and their cases, packed and ready the night before, stood in the hallway whilst they waited for a taxi to take them to the railway station. A luxury for both the girls but a necessary one as neither of the families owned a car, and the buses would be crowded.

  Cissie’s parents were taking little notice of her; they were busy preparing for their holiday with their friends, the Clarksons. That family did own a car, and Hannah and Joe Foster were waiting for the large black Hillman to arrive at their door. Cissie’s taxi arrived first, and whilst her father carried her suitcase out her mother placed a perfunctory kiss, more of a peck, on her cheek.

  ‘Now remember what I’ve told you,’ she said. ‘Behave yerself in Blackpool and don’t go getting up to any mischief.’

  ‘No, Mam,’ answered Cissie. She couldn’t wait to get away. Her father wasn’t too bad, but he usually took the line of least resistance and went along with whatever his wife dictated.

  ‘Have a nice time, lass,’ said Joe Foster. He pushed a ten shilling note into her hand, after making sure that his wife had gone back inside. ‘Here’s a bit of extra spending money for you. Don’t say owt to yer mam, mind.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she said, quite touched by his gesture. She kissed his cheek, then they were off up the street to collect Valerie.

  Val came out of the house with her parents when she saw the taxi arrive. Sally and Bert Horrocks were splashing out this year and going on a coach tour to the Cotswolds, which would be a complete change for them after their usual seaside holidays, and for which they had been saving up all year. They both gave Val a hug and said ‘Have a good time’, without any warnings about behaving herself.

  ‘Well, we’re off, Cissie,’ she said, sitting down next to her friend. ‘Isn’t it exciting? Mum and Dad are getting excited, too about their trip. They set off tomorrow. I hope they have a great time, ’cause they deserve it.’

  ‘At least mine have shut up about me not going away with them,’ said Cissie. ‘I’m jolly glad to see the back of them for a week, and Walter an’ all … although Dad’s not so bad,’ she added. ‘Anyway, I’m going to forget about ’em all.’

  They arrived at the station with plenty of time to spare for the midmorning train. It was a good job they had done so as there was a long queue at the ticket office stretching quite a way out of the station and along the cobbled street. There were young people such as themselves, and they spotted one or two familiar faces from the mill. There were families with excited children running around with buckets and spades, and more sedate couples waiting patiently.

  The queue was quickly dealt with, and it wasn’t too long before the train, which had st
arted off in Bradford, arrived. The platform was crowded, but fortunately not everyone was waiting for that train. Val and Cissie managed to find a seat together, although many of the seats were already occupied. An obliging man heaved their cases on to the rack above their heads, then they settled down to enjoy the journey.

  It was a through train bound for Blackpool North Station. As it was almost a three-hour journey both girls had brought sandwiches. Cissie had made her own with cheese and some left-over corned beef. Val’s mother had bought boiled ham from the market to make sure her daughter had a tasty packed lunch, and she had added a packet of crisps and two wrapped chocolate biscuits which Val would share later with her friend.

  The journey did not seem to take long as they chatted about their plans for the week ahead and, from time to time, looked out of the window at the passing scenery. When away from the crowded houses and mill chimneys of their native town they were soon travelling through the Pennine hills. There was a dramatic change in the landscape. Sheep grazed on the lonely stretches of moorland, and here and there was a greystone farm tucked away in the valley. Streams flowed down the hills, the water from which had once supplied the cottage industry which was the start of the woollen trade. This home industry, the livelihood of families working in their own little houses, had come to an end with the introduction of machinery and the building of the huge mills. The streams, flowing into the rivers and reservoirs, now served the vast urban population of the towns and cities.

  Val and Cissie were leaving all that behind them for a week. The train crossed the border into Lancashire, the home of the cotton industry. They ate their packed lunch as they travelled through the mill towns of Burnley and Accrington, where the mill chimneys were just as prolific as they had been in Yorkshire. When they had passed though Preston they knew it would not be long before their journey came to an end.

  ‘We must look out for Blackpool Tower,’ said Val, as the train left Kirkham station. Luckily their seats were on the side of the train from where they would have a good view of the famous landmark. They could hear other people near to them talking about it, especially the children, who were having a game to see who could be the first to spot the tower.

  When they had passed the next range of low hills there was a cry of ‘There it is!’ Just at the same time Val had spotted the structure of ironwork, looking no larger than a tall finger at that distance, pointing up into the sky.

  ‘Hurrah! Hurrah!’ the children were calling, jumping up and down on their seats, despite the remonstrations from their parents.

  They alighted from the train at North station, the end of the line.

  ‘Gosh! I don’t want to carry this very far,’ said Cissie as they struggled along the platform with their heavy cases. ‘We’d best get a taxi, hadn’t we?’

  ‘I don’t think we’ve any choice,’ agreed Val.

  On the station forecourt there were young lads touting for custom for their parents’ boarding houses. But Val and Cissie had already booked their holiday at the Florabunda Private Hotel, proprietor, Mrs Lilian Butler. They had seen the advert in the holiday guide, and it seemed to be just what they required, promising a homely welcome to young and old, and the price was reasonable, too. There was a line of taxis waiting and a long queue of people as well. But in a few moments they had scrambled aboard a black cab and were on their way.

  ‘I’ll give you a hand with the bedrooms today,’ said Janice to her mother on Saturday morning. ‘I’m going out tonight, you know, so I’ll do what I can to help out now.’

  ‘There’s really no need, love,’ Lilian replied. ‘It’s time you went out; you haven’t had a night out for ages. I’m glad you’re going to meet your friends. And we’re getting through in record time, aren’t we, with this magic dishwasher? You don’t need to help out this morning. Olive and Nancy are here, and we always manage.’

  ‘But an extra pair of hands makes all the difference,’ said Janice. ‘Anyway, what else would I be doing? I’m tired of walking to the pier and back, and I don’t intend to do any studying when I’ve no need to. No, I’ll get my pinny on, same as you. Let’s get cracking, Mum.’

  Janice knew that it was jolly hard work on a Saturday morning, no matter what her mother said. All the beds to be stripped and made up again, and the rooms to be left ship shape. Most guests were considerate, but others left the room in a chaotic state. Towels flung around, grimy washbasins, dressing tables with spillages of face powder and lotions, and messy tissues all over the place.

  The majority of the visitors would arrive in the afternoon. Lilian’s husband, Alec, would help out then as well – he did not go out to work on a Saturday – giving the arrivals a hand with their suitcases; and Janice, at her own request, was given the job of showing some of them to their rooms.

  The family snatched a quick lunch of soup and sandwiches at midday, and planned to have an early evening meal before the visitors were served. Lilian, Alec and Janice had started their meal at the kitchen table when Ian came dashing in.

  ‘Am I late, Mum? Soree …’ This was his usual cry, but Lilian was very tolerant.

  ‘Yes, but never mind. Just wash your hands and come and join us. Had a good time, have you?’

  ‘Yeah, great,’ he replied, turning on the tap at the kitchen sink. He had been on the beach playing five-a-side football with his pals. ‘There’s more room on the sands on Saturday, with the visitors going home. And nobody to shout at us for getting in their way.’ The beach at Blackpool was never referred to as such but was always called ‘the sands’.

  ‘Come on then, Morty,’ called Alec to his son. ‘Come and grab a butty before we’ve eaten ’em all. And I think there’s a drop of soup left, isn’t there, Lil?’

  Ian was football mad, like most of the lads – and some of the girls, too – in Blackpool. Morty was the name given to the player Stan Mortensen, Ian’s idol, renowned for his lightning speed and superb heading of the ball. Then there was the one and only Stanley Matthews, the international wizard. The Blackpool team had won the FA Cup in 1953 and this had been a talking point in the town ever since. Ian couldn’t wait for the football season to start again at the Bloomfield Road ground. He had gone along most Saturdays with his dad, but would soon be old enough to go with his mates.

  Lilian was proud of her two children. She watched them quietly now as they sat at the table chatting to one another. There was six years difference in their ages but Janice was always interested in listening to her young brother. Lilian knew that Ian would miss her when she went off to university, as would they all. They were not very much alike in looks, apart from a certain family resemblance. Ian was dark-haired, like his father, whereas Janice was fair, like her mother, although Lilian’s hair was now grey at the temples. They both had brown eyes, though, like Alec. Lilian’s were blue, but the brown strain was so often dominant in the children of such couples.

  She considered she was a very fortunate woman. A good husband, two lovely children, attractive-looking – although that didn’t matter too much – as well as being clever. Ian had passed his eleven plus exam and would be starting at the grammar school in September. And as well as all that she had a job that she enjoyed very much. What else could a woman wish for?

  The taxi drew up in the middle of a street at a three-storeyed building with a small attic window, one amongst similar-looking houses on either side. But to Val and Cissie this house appeared very welcoming, more so than some of the others. The stone window sills were edged in white with what they had heard their mothers refer to as a donkey stone, a finishing touch that many housewives did not bother with nowadays. There was a gaily striped red and white awning above the window to keep the sun off the wooden bench below, although there was no one sitting there at the moment. Above the door was a brightly painted sign which read ‘Florabunda Private Hotel’, decorated with a border of roses.

  The driver carried their cases up the short path to the door, which opened immediately. ‘Ta-ra, you two,’ s
aid the taxi driver. ‘Enjoy yourselves now. P’raps I’ll see you again next week, you’ve got my number.’

  A pleasant-looking woman, whom they guessed was Mrs Butler, stood on the threshold. She was a middle-aged person, though young-looking, with short fairish hair just turning grey, bright blue eyes and a welcoming smile.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I think you must be Miss Horrocks and Miss Foster, though I’m only guessing?’

  ‘So we are,’ replied Val, ‘but that sounds very formal. I’m Val and this is my friend Cissie. We’re from Halifax.’

  ‘Come along in then. I’m Lilian Butler, and this is my husband, Alec. He’ll carry your cases up for you. And this is my daughter, Janice. She’ll show you to your room.’

  The husband was a slim dark-haired man who smiled cheerfully as he said hello to them. ‘Second floor, is it, Lilian?’ he said. ‘Righty-ho then, off we go.’

  The girl called Janice smiled at them too and said, ‘Hello, nice to meet you,’ in a gentle voice that sounded rather posh to their ears. She was similar in looks to her mother, though a little taller and a little slimmer, and her fair hair was longer, waving softly around her neck.

  ‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.’

  There were three flights of steepish steps up to the second floor. The carpet looked new. It was dark red with a gold leaf pattern, toning well with the cream and gold embossed wallpaper. The dark oak bannister rail and the spindles were highly polished, and there was a pleasant aroma of furniture polish and a very faint smell of cooking, but not the cabbagey smell such as there might be in some guest houses.