Down an English Lane (35 page)

Archie was just as shocked and dumbfounded as Rebecca was by the revelations. ‘Aye, it’s a rum do and no mistake,’ he commented, when he returned from running Myrtle to the station on the Wednesday morning. ‘And you reckon she might be a prostitute? I can’t really see that.’

‘I think that is what she was hinting at,’ said Rebecca. ‘But what I can’t get over is the girl deceiving us like that. When all’s said and done they are her parents, no matter what they might have done. It was a wicked thing to do, to tell us they were dead.’

‘Oh well, I dare say Christine had her reasons,’ replied Archie, still unwilling even now to criticise his daughter-in-law. ‘I only hope it doesn’t harm their marriage. They seemed to be getting on very well.’

‘Mmm…yes, of course,’ said Rebecca. ‘They’ll just have to sort things out, won’t they? It’ll put the cat among the pigeons, though, that’s for sure.’ But her hopes for the outcome of this crisis were not the same as her husband’s.

Wednesday afternoon was the only time during the week that ‘Alma’s Fashions’, the shop at which Christine worked, was closed, apart, of course, from all day Sunday. Wednesday was the day when she tidied around and set her little home to rights, and the day on which Bruce tried to get home a little earlier. She would cook a more special meal than usual, then they would go out to the village pub and have a few drinks.

Their house, just off the main street, was only five minutes’ walk from her place of work. It was situated in a secluded little area named Cherry Tree Close. Cherry trees, which in the springtime were a mass of pinkish-white blossoms, lined the pavements. Even now, in the height of summer, they were a pleasant sight with their slender trunks and browny-gold leaves, through which the sun cast dappled shadows on the grass verges.

Altogether, this was an agreeable place in which to live, thought Christine, as she stood at her lounge window, adjusting the curtains of floral chintz and replacing the ornaments she had dusted; her gran’s vase, a cut-glass ashtray, and a posy bowl of china
flowers. She was in one of her happier moods that day. She was enjoying working with Alma Copeland in the shop; the woman, some ten years older than herself, was fast becoming a friend as well as her employer. Christine felt, if she played her cards right, that she might before long be offered a partnership in the business, or at least a share of the profits, rather than a weekly wage. One of the perks of working there was that she was able to buy garments at a reduced rate. Only that morning, with Alma’s permission, she had put aside for herself one of the prettiest of their range of summer dresses, which she would pay for at the weekend. Another reason for Christine’s feeling of elation was that she had managed to wriggle out of the visit to Middlebeck the previous weekend, and Bruce would not be pestering her to go there for another month at least. At the moment she was trying to persuade him to take her on a holiday to the south coast. Torquay appeared to be a very nice place from what she had seen in the brochures; an elegant and refined sort of resort; they called it the English Riviera. She felt that Bruce was showing more interest now; she could usually get him round to her way of thinking if she used her most persuasive charms.

She stood still for a few moments, smiling to herself, lost in her reverie. Then she saw a woman coming up the garden path. She gave a start, and the posy bowl slipped out of her fingers and landed on the carpet. Unconsciously, she noticed that one of the
flower heads had broken off – hell and damnation! She had paid quite a lot for that piece of china – but there was no time to worry about it now. The woman coming up the path was…her mother! She dodged back behind the curtain, but it was too late; Myrtle had seen her and was raising her hand in greeting. There was nothing she could do. But would she really have pretended there was nobody at home if her mother had not seen her? she wondered.

Trying desperately to compose herself, she went to the door where her mother was waiting. She knew there was no point in being rude to her and telling her to go away, that she wasn’t welcome. She just hoped that Myrtle would say what she had to say and then go, before Bruce returned home. Oh hell, no! That was not very likely; he would be coming home early today. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

‘Hello…’ she said. ‘This is a surprise.’ Her fixed smile did not hold any warmth, neither did her mother’s.

‘Surprise?’ repeated Myrtle. ‘From what I gather it’s more of a bloody great shock than a surprise! It certainly was to your mother-in-law when I turned up on her doorstep. She thought I was pushing up the daisies, didn’t she, me and your dad? Well, that’s what I’ve come to tell you… Aren’t you going to ask me in?’

‘Yes, come in,’ said Christine automatically. Oh, damn and blast and bloody hell! This was
dreadful. She must have been to Tremaine House… How else could her mother have found her whereabouts except by seeking out the Tremaines? She was desperately trying to think what she had said. Middlebeck…yes, she had probably mentioned Middlebeck, and her mother, who was no fool, had sorted the rest out for herself. Well, the cat was out of the bag now, and even if Myrtle went away again before Bruce returned there was no way she would he able to prevent him from learning the truth.

Her mother followed her into the lounge and they both sat down on the pink plush armchairs. Myrtle was all in black, Christine noticed, and her eyes looked sad and vacant.

‘Your father’s dead,’ she said suddenly, without any preamble. ‘So what you told them posh in-laws of yours is partly true now; that’s one of us gone…’

Christine felt herself blanch and a spasm of remorse grabbed at her. ‘Oh no!’ she gasped. ‘That’s dreadful! I know it was wrong, what I said, but I thought it was for the best. I didn’t mean to… How did it happen, my dad…?’

‘Road accident,’ said Myrtle, ‘a head-on collision; he was killed outright, or so I believe. The police came to tell me on Saturday night. The funeral’s on Friday, if you want to come. You’ll please yerself, of course, you always do, but if you want to show your respects…’ She gave a cynical laugh. ‘That’s a joke, isn’t it? You never had any
respect for him while he was alive, did you? Nor for me, neither, so I can’t expect you to show any now.’

‘Don’t be like that, please…Mum,’ said Christine. For the first time for years she felt genuine tears of regret filling her eyes. ‘I am sorry, really I am… But you know as well as I do that we drifted apart ages ago, and I wanted to make a fresh start, that was all.’

‘And so you have, haven’t you?’ Myrtle nodded. ‘You’ve done very well for yerself, our Chrissie. I’m very impressed with your in-laws. She’s a bit lah-di-dah, mind, but she’s a kind-hearted woman, and that Archie’s as nice a chap as you could wish to meet. Treated me like royalty, they did. I even stayed the night with them. What d’you think about that, eh? You wouldn’t find him, the squire, treating folk as though they’re summat the cat’s dragged in. He’s a proper gentleman.’

‘Yes, so he is,’ agreed Christine. ‘He’s been very kind to me.’

‘And she hasn’t, I take it? Well, if the lady of the manor has been less than welcoming to you it’s no more than you deserve. Happen she can see you for what you are; there’s no flies on Rebecca Tremaine, I’m sure o’ that. Well, she won’t be very delighted with you now, will she, trying to pull the wool over their eyes, the way you’ve done.’

‘I wanted them to think that I came from a nice respectable background…’

‘Respectable, eh? You know what? I think that
woman would have admired you more if you’d told the truth, well, some of it at any rate. Did you really think you could fool her that you were out o’ t’ top drawer? That’s the difference between you and me, Chrissie. I don’t pretend to be what I’m not. Oh aye, I’ve tried to better meself and climb a bit higher up the ladder, y’might say. I like having nice clothes and a nice home to live in, same as other folks have. OK, yer father’s been inside a few times, and I’ve earned me money in a way you don’t approve of. But I’ve never lied about meself. I can’t say that folk respect me – happen they don’t – but at least I know that some of ’em genuinely like me. Maybe I don’t look up to folks as I should, but I don’t look down on ’em neither.’

Myrtle was silent for a few moments and so was Christine. She did not know how to answer; all that her mother was saying was painfully true. ‘If this marriage of yours is what you want,’ she went on, ‘then I’m glad for you. If it continues to be what you want, of course. How is your husband going to react when he finds out about the lies you’ve told? I reckon he must have been a gullible young fool in the first place, not to see what you were up to.’

‘He’s not a fool!’ retorted Christine. ‘He’s very trusting, though, I must admit.’ At least he used to be, she thought; too trusting; but she was not so sure that he was always taken in by her now. ‘But I didn’t really mean to deceive him, or his parents. We fell in love, Bruce and me; we really love one
another. And I wanted it to work out, that’s all.’

‘And so you tricked him into an early marriage by pretending you were up the duff, is that it?’

‘How did you…? I wasn’t! All I told you when I came to see you was that we were getting married. If you imagine that Bruce had to marry me, then you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’ve told you; he loves me…’

‘Shut up, Chrissie,’ said her mother, not unkindly. ‘I can read you like a book. Well, he sounds worth hanging on to, this fellow of yours. I just hope it keeps fine for you. Am I going to meet him then? Are you expecting him home soon? I can smell summat good cooking in the oven.’

‘It’s a chicken,’ Christine replied tonelessly. ‘He comes home early on a Wednesday.’ She had decided that she must bow to the inevitable. Her mother was not showing any sign of departing and she could not throw her bodily out of the door. Even if she did go, there was no way she could stop Bruce from finding out. She might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, she supposed… ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked meekly. ‘I’m sorry; I should have asked you sooner…’

‘Better late then never,’ said her mother. ‘Thank you, Christine; that would be lovely.’

And that was how Bruce found them when he arrived home some twenty minutes later, sipping tea from the best china cups as though they were bosom pals.

‘Hello, darling,’ he called as he opened the front door. ‘Something smells good…’ He stopped dead on the threshold of the lounge. ‘Oh… I’m sorry; I didn’t realise you had company… How do you do?’ He held out his hand to the woman who was a stranger to him, but Christine could tell from his half smile, half frown that he was puzzled. ‘I don’t think I have had the pleasure…’ he said.

‘Bruce,’ said his wife. ‘This is my mother…’

‘Your…mother?’ He let go of the woman’s hand, but he was still looking at her intently. ‘Yes; I can see… But I don’t understand… I thought… You told me…’

‘Yes, you thought I was dead, didn’t you, lad?’ said Myrtle, ‘and my husband an’ all. Well, as you can see, I’m very much alive and kicking, but my husband died last weekend; killed in a road accident. So I’ve come to tell our Chrissie. Such a job I had to find her, though, but I got here in the end, thanks to your mam and dad. She’ll have a lot of explaining to do, won’t she?’ She nodded towards Christine. ‘But you’d perhaps better leave it till later. I’m sure she had her reasons.’

Christine did not know whether she was being sincere, or just vindictive. What she was most aware of was Bruce’s look of horror, not aimed at her mother but at her, Christine.

‘Mrs Myerscough…’ he began. ‘It is Mrs Myerscough, is it?’

‘Yes, that’s right, but I’d rather you called me Myrtle.’

‘Very well then… Myrtle.’ He smiled uncertainly at her, then almost collapsed into the opposite armchair. ‘I am very sorry to hear about your husband; what a dreadful shock it must have been for you… This has been a great shock to me, as you can see, but at least I am glad to see that my wife…’ he gave her a withering glance, ‘has made you welcome now. You are, indeed, very welcome here. Have you come all the way from Yorkshire today?’

‘Yes, I have… I went up to Middlebeck yesterday, to find out what I could. I knew your father was the squire, you see. Christine told me that bit.’

‘Yes, I can imagine…’ said Bruce thoughtfully.

‘Anyway, your parents very kindly invited me to stay the night; lovely folk they are, Bruce. So I set off again this morning, and I’ll get a train back from Lincoln in a little while. There’s one in the early evening, I’ve been told.’

‘So how did you get up here?’

‘On the bus. I was lucky enough to just catch one. I don’t suppose they run very frequently.’

‘You’re right; they don’t. But don’t worry… Myrtle; I will run you back to Lincoln in the car. But before that you are going to stay and have a meal with Christine and me. She always cooks something special on a Wednesday, don’t you?’ Again, the look he gave her held no sympathy or affection. ‘There will be plenty to go round; isn’t that right, Christine?’

‘Yes,’ she said briefly. ‘I’ll go and see to the vegetables, if you will excuse me.’

‘Thank you very much, Bruce,’ she heard her mother say, as she gladly made her escape. ‘You are a very kind young man. I can quite see why Christine was so taken with you…’