Down an English Lane (3 page)

She ruffled his ginger curls fondly before half filling his cup. ‘Good boy, Johnny. Just try and calm down, eh? If you get too excited Mummy might not let you stay up for the concert tonight.’ Johnny would be there, though, as she well knew, as there would be nobody left in the Rectory to look after him.

She poured the squash into the other cups that the boys were holding out, then put the jug down. ‘Do you know what this reminds me of?’ she said to Maisie. ‘All the kiddies sitting round the tables…’

Maisie nodded. ‘I can guess what you’re thinking about. The day we arrived in Middlebeck, eh? When we were poor homeless little evacuees…’ She gave a mock sniff of despair. ‘Oh dear, oh dear… But it all turned out OK, didn’t it?’

‘I know it’s not just the same, not really,’ Audrey went on. ‘We sat at long trestle tables, if I remember rightly…’

‘And we weren’t even here, were we?’ said Maisie. ‘We were in the Village Institute, not the church hall.’

‘Goodness, so we were. I’d forgotten that…’

‘And it was a sad time, wasn’t it, all of us feeling lost and bewildered, and wondering where we’d end up? And today’s a happy occasion.’

‘Yes…’ Audrey nodded thoughtfully. ‘It brings back memories, though, seeing the same people that were there then; Mrs Hollins and Mrs Campion…and Miss Thomson.’ She smiled reminiscently, shaking her
head. ‘I was frightened to death of her at first, but really she was just a prim and proper old lady who wasn’t used to children. She’s quite nice to us all now, isn’t she?’

Maisie nodded, recalling that Audrey had spent a not very happy couple of months staying at Miss Thomson’s house across the green, until circumstances had changed and she had been moved to the Rectory to be with Maisie.

‘And I’ll never forget how you took care of me that first day, Maisie,’ Audrey continued. ‘I was a real misery, wasn’t I, weeping and wailing and making a fuss?’

‘You were homesick,’ said Maisie, ‘that’s all. None of us had ever been away from home before, without our parents. But as for me…well, it was more of an adventure, really.’ And a happy release, she recalled, from Sidney Bragg, her stepfather, and his loutish son, Percy.

‘Then we met Doris,’ said Audrey. ‘She was kind to us, wasn’t she?’

‘That was the next day at Sunday school,’ said Maisie, ‘when we were all put into Mrs Spooner’s class… And there were four of us at first,’ she added in a low voice, glancing towards Timothy.

‘I know; I hadn’t forgotten,’ said Audrey. ‘That’s why today is a little bit sad, as well as happy.’

Both girls were remembering Ivy Clegg, Tim’s sister; the two Clegg children had been amongst several evacuees from Hull. The four girls – Maisie,
Audrey and Ivy, the evacuees, and Doris had formed a close foursome. Then, that first Christmas of the war, Ivy and Tim’s mother had taken her children back to Hull. It had been the time of the ‘phoney war’, but all too soon the bombing raids had started on the major cities. Ivy had been killed, along with her mother and father, and Timothy, injured, but the only one of the family to escape death, had been brought back to Middlebeck, where he had been fostered and then adopted by the rector and his wife.

Maisie smiled consolingly at her friend. ‘Cheer up, eh? Tim’s happy enough now, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, and so am I,’ replied Audrey. ‘You know I am. But memories are precious, too, aren’t they, Maisie? We can never forget…’

Audrey moved away to the next table with her jug of orange squash, and Mrs Hollins and her partner arrived to dish out the trifle.

‘Just jelly for Johnny, and for you, too, Jimmy,’ said Maisie in a motherly way. Lily, busy working in the shop, was not there to see to Jimmy. ‘We don’t want you being sick and missing the concert.’ The same applied, of course, to the rest of the children, but they were not her immediate concern. To her surprise both boys nodded in agreement.

‘I’m so full I could burst,’ said Jimmy.

‘Me too!’ piped Johnny. ‘I could burst, I could burst…’

‘Well, we mustn’t have that,’ said Mrs Hollins,
laughing. ‘What a mess it would make…’

The dishes were soon scraped clean, and whilst the tables were being cleared and an army of ladies prepared themselves for the mammoth task of washing up, Mrs Hollins, a veritable Jack of all trades, seated herself at the piano.

‘Come along, boys and girls,’ she shouted. ‘Pull up your chairs and we’ll have a sing-song…’

And soon the roof of St Bartholomew’s church hall was almost raised from its rafters by the strains of, ‘
Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run
…’

Chapter Two

T
he stage in St Bartholomew’s church hall was used only rarely for concerts. If there were meetings of some importance then the rector and his spokesmen from the church council might sit up there, the better to command the attention of the audience. And during the recent elections the Parliamentary candidates from all three of the main parties – Conservative, Labour and Liberal – had used the stage as a rostrum. They had found themselves, however, addressing gatherings which could be described as ‘only fair to middling’. It had been regarded as a foregone conclusion that the Conservative candidate, a businessman from Leeds who had held the seat for years, would be returned once again. And so he was, but with a vastly reduced majority. And countless other seats, in all parts of the country, had been lost to the victorious Labour party.

‘Poor old Winston!’ was the cry on the lips of many people. ‘And after all he’s done for our country. What a shame…’ But politics were not openly discussed. What went on between the voter and the ballot box was strictly confidential. There would have been many more surprises if the folk of Middlebeck could have seen the crosses on the voting papers. As well as the ‘Poor old Winnie’ brigade, there were countless others who were thinking, if not saying outright, ‘It’s time for a change…well, maybe next time.’

But on this day politics was forgotten as the stage was being prepared for its proper purpose, that of putting on an entertainment. The red velvet curtains were somewhat faded and not used to a great deal of opening and closing – they must have been there since the first war, many folk remarked – but after a slight adjustment to the pulleys and runners they were soon in working order again. There were even a couple of spotlights which were rigged up for the infrequent concerts by able men from the church congregation.

There were two small cloakrooms to the right and left of the stage which served adequately as dressing rooms, one for the men and boys and the other for the women and girls. It was a tight squeeze in the women’s room, but everyone was in good humour and the feeling of excitement and anticipation was palpable.

‘You look lovely, Maisie,’ said Audrey, with not a
trace of envy. ‘It’s a real glamorous dress, just like a film star’s.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Maisie. ‘You don’t think it’s too…well, daring, like? A bit too low at the front?’

‘No, of course it isn’t. I thought it might be when you described it, but it’s just right. It’s a gorgeous colour, and that coral lipstick you’re wearing matches it exactly.’

Maisie rubbed her lips together a little self consciously. ‘You don’t think it’s too bright? It was Mum’s idea, actually. She never really liked me wearing it before, but she said with me being on the stage it would give me a bit more colour.’ She did not need any artificial colour on her cheeks, however, as the excitement, tinged with nervousness, that she was feeling had heightened them to a rosy glow.

‘I’m dead nervous,’ she said, clutching at her stomach. ‘Talk about butterflies; it feels more like baby elephants doing a dance in my tummy! But at least I’m getting my solo over with quite early in the programme. I wouldn’t have wanted to wait till the second half.’

‘Good luck, anyway,’ said Audrey. ‘Oh no; you’re not supposed to say that, are you, when you’re going on the stage? You’re supposed to say “Break a leg”, aren’t you? But I think that sounds silly. Anyway, I know you’ll be just great.’

Patience popped her head round the door at that moment. ‘Choir members, would you make
your way up to the stage, please? The concert is just about to start, after Luke has welcomed everybody.’

The men and women of St Bartholomew’s church choir, including Maisie and a few other girls of a similar age, assembled themselves in their correct order – sopranos, altos, tenors and two bass singers – behind the curtain, as the Reverend Luke Fairchild welcomed everyone to the Victory concert.

‘…and what a lot we have to celebrate and be thankful for this evening. So, on with the show, starting off with our own church choir.’

Applause broke out as soon as the curtains, somewhat hesitantly and jerkily, were drawn back to reveal the choir members, the men resplendent in dark suits with red bow ties, and the women in long dresses of varying styles. Rarely were they seen in such magnificence. Mr King, the elderly choir master and organist, but just as competent on the upright piano as the church organ, announced that the opening item would consist of songs by the well-loved Ivor Novello.

There were audible sighs of, ‘Aah, lovely…’ from some members of the audience, then the choir started to sing, ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’. After the opening chorus, one of the bass singers sang the verses and the audience joined in heartily with the choruses.

The sentiment of the song brought tears to a few
eyes plus cheers and frenzied clapping, and this was only the start of the evening.

‘And that song, of course,’ said Mr King, when the applause had died down, ‘was written by Mr Novello in 1914, at the start of the last war. And it is just as applicable today. How happy we are that our boys have come home and that some of them are here tonight.’ He had to wait for another burst of clapping before his next announcement. ‘And now for some gentler numbers from the same great composer. Here is our very own Maisie Jackson to sing for you that lovely song from
Perchance to Dream
; ‘We’ll gather lilacs…’

Maisie stepped forward into the spotlight, and as she did so she felt the fluttering sensation inside her ease a little. Because there, in the second row, smiling encouragingly at her, was her mother, with her old friend Mrs Jenner, who owned the draper’s shop, sitting next to her. And Audrey and Doris were there in the wings, and the thought of them rooting for her gave her confidence. She started to sing, trying to remember all she had been taught about the correct way to breathe: deeply and from the diaphragm so that she did not lose control.

It was becoming a little easier as she went on. She was aware that her first few bars might have been a trifle wavery, but she started to gain in confidence as she heard her voice reaching the top notes quite easily without straining, soaring out into the hall over the heads of the audience. She was afraid to
stare around too much at the rows of people in front of her in case she forgot her words – that would be dreadful, especially as she knew the song backwards and inside out with constant practising – but she could not resist taking a fleeting glance.

Bruce’s parents, Archie and Rebecca Tremaine, were plainly visible in the middle of the front row, just in front of her mother, as befitted their importance as the local squire and his wife. The title was largely a courtesy title afforded to Archie as the biggest landowner in the area. The Tremaines lived in the aptly named Tremaine House, and the land surrounding it included the Nixons’ farm where Doris lived with her mother and brothers. Archie and Rebecca were smiling at Maisie, but she knew it would be considered unprofessional to smile back. And so, after her eyes had lighted on them briefly she looked away again.

She could see that Bruce was not with them. She felt a tiny pang of disappointment, but then it would not be his style, she told herself, to take an important seat with his parents. He would be more likely to sit further back, perhaps with others of his own generation. That was if he knew anyone well enough. Bruce had been educated at a public school in North Yorkshire, and not at the local Grammar or Secondary school like most of his contemporaries in the town; and so had never had a chance to make close friends in his own neighbourhood; and for the last two years, of
course, he had been away serving in the RAF.

The chorus about gathering lilacs in the spring was familiar now to many people, after being sung and played on the wireless countless times, following the production of the play in London’s West End earlier that year. And as she sang the familiar words Maisie caught her first glimpse of him.

He was sitting about halfway back on an end seat near to the aisle, leaning forward as though he wanted to get a better look at her. And even at that distance and in the dim light she could tell that he was smiling. His dark eyes were glowing with pleasure and delight…at being home again, no doubt, she told herself. She must not read too much into his smile, but it was so good to see it again. After letting her glance linger on him for only a few seconds she looked away again; she fixed her eyes on a point near the back of the room to enable her to focus her attention on her song.

But her thoughts still kept wandering back to Bruce. ‘And walk together down an English lane…’ The words assumed a greater significance as she recalled the first time she had met Bruce Tremaine…

She was an evacuee. It was only her second – no, her third – day in Middlebeck if she remembered rightly, and she had been exploring the countryside behind the church with Audrey. Then Doris, their new friend from the farm, had joined them, anxious
to teach these city kids some of the lore of the country. And then Bruce had suddenly appeared on the scene, chasing after Prince, his boisterous collie dog, who had frightened Audrey, causing her to fall down and spill her blackberries…

Maisie realised now that she had started to fall in love with him, just a little bit, on that very first day, even though she was angry with him – or, rather, with his dog – for frightening her friend, and though she was only nine years old. He had seemed posh to Maisie, especially the way he talked. She had never met anyone like him, especially not a boy. She had not been keen on boys at all at that time, comparing every one that she met with her loathsome stepbrother, Percy. But she had soon realised that Bruce was different; he was kind and considerate and ever such good fun, and not the slightest bit snooty towards her and her friends, in spite of being a few years older and, moreover, the son of the squire.

Her song came to an end to ecstatic applause from the audience and shouts of ‘Well done, Maisie love…’ She was well known now in the little town of Middlebeck and popular with her own peer group. Feeling thankful that it was over, she gave a slight bow to acknowledge their ovation, then took her place amongst the other sopranos.

The choir then sang ‘Waltz of my Heart’ and ‘I can give you the Starlight’ from the musical
The Dancing Years,
with the audience, though
unbidden, joining in with the more familiar words. The last song, ‘Rose of England’, was another one very appropriate to the occasion.

Muriel Hollins was the soloist this time, a majestic figure in midnight blue satin, with a white rose anchored to a spot just above her magnificent bosom, which rose and fell visibly with every breath she took. She had a rich and melodious contralto voice, which had been known to cause amusement amongst the choir boys at practices, when she insisted on demonstrating how a certain phrase should be sung. But the young boy choristers were not included in that night’s performance – Ivor Novello was not considered to be their forte – so there was no giggling. And certainly none from the members of the audience who, once again, were moved by the patriotic sentiments.

When the song had finished and they had taken a bow – well, two and three bows to be accurate – the ladies of the choir retreated to their dressing room to refresh themselves with drinks of orange squash. There were seats reserved for them in the hall so that they could watch the rest of the concert if they so wished; but Maisie chose to stay with Audrey to help her to get the children ready for their
Alice in Wonderland
scenes. The girls, that was, because the boys who were taking part were in the other dressing room, the male one, in the charge of a lad called Brian. He was Audrey’s co-producer, a sixth-former at the Grammar school in
Lowerbeck, which complemented the school which Maisie and Audrey attended. Maisie believed that Brian Milner rather fancied her friend, but Audrey chose not to give too much away when it came to affairs of the heart, and she did not take kindly to teasing.

‘You were brilliant, honest you were,’ Audrey told her. ‘We felt real proud of you, didn’t we, Doris? Oh…where’s she gone?’ She turned round looking for their other friend. ‘Oh, there she is at the other mirror, doing her hair ready for her poem. She’s on soon.’

Maisie glanced across at Doris. She was not within hearing distance – there was quite a racket going on anyway – so she leaned towards Audrey. ‘He’s here!’ she whispered in her ear. ‘I’ve seen him; about halfway back, at the end of the row.’

‘Oh…! No wonder there’s such a gleam in your eye,’ replied Audrey. ‘Shall you go and say hello to him at the interval?’

‘I think I’ll wait till the end,’ said Maisie. ‘We’re only having a ten minute break, aren’t we, just to stretch our legs and so on? And I don’t want to appear too eager, you know; as though I can’t wait to see him.’

‘Which would be quite true…’ Audrey grinned slyly.

Maisie shrugged, aware that she was letting her feelings show too much, something she had been determined not to do. ‘Well…yes; it’s good to see
him again,’ she said, with an air of nonchalance. Her cheeks felt hot and Audrey was looking at her knowingly.