Down Daisy Street (20 page)
‘How interesting,’ Kathy said, trying to sound as if she really believed her own words. Actually, she thought it almost as boring as Mr Philpott himself, but I suppose that’s the sort of dead end job a dead end man ends up in, she thought, carrying the saucepan full of potatoes across to the fire. ‘You’re going to be busy if you have to learn all the major routes by heart, Mr Philpott. How long do you think it will take you?’
She glanced at the lodger as she spoke and saw he was looking gratified. ‘It may take rather a long time, Miss Kathy,’ he said eagerly. ‘But I truly believe it will be worth my while. There’s – there’s the possibility of a promotion coming up and – and there’s just a chance I might be considered. I’m a steady sort of chap, reliable an’ that, even if I ain’t as pushy as some of the younger fellers. So – so . . .’
‘I’m going to be a train driver when I grow up,’ Billy announced. ‘I’m going to drive the great big ’spress trains what goes to London an’ – an’ Scotland and that. And I’m goin’ to make engines, an’ drive fast cars and be the richest man in the whole of Kirkdale!’
Kathy laughed and turned to the sideboard to get out a clean tablecloth, warning Billy that he must move his Meccano and play on the floor until after supper, but Mr Philpott answered Billy as seriously as though he had been another grown-up and not just a boastful small boy. ‘That’s right, Billy, you aim high,’ he advised. ‘I used to think I’d like to drive the big engines, but somehow I’ve never got round to doin’ nothing about it. There’s exams an’ that, you see, an’ I weren’t never good at exams.’
‘I’m ever so good at ‘zams,’ Billy said boastfully, without having the slightest idea of what the word meant, Kathy knew. He rather spoiled the effect by adding, slightly more truthfully: ‘Well, I will be good at ‘zams when I can read.’
Mr Philpott laughed and Kathy realised it was the very first time she had ever heard him do so. She turned to look at him, opening her mouth to make a comment and then closing it again. Damn the man, his awkwardness made her awkward, too, and besides, she could scarcely tell him that he never laughed; it was as bad as accusing someone of having no sense of humour, a particularly deadly insult to a Liverpudlian, because most of them made a joke of everything and enjoyed laughing at themselves almost as much as they enjoyed laughing at other people. Instead, she said: ‘And if you attended to me and to our mam, Billy, you’d be reading already. Still, just you clear that mess off the table and then you can help me lay it up for the evening meal.’
Sometimes Billy moaned and muttered when he was asked to help, but it seemed today he was in a good humour. He grinned at Kathy and turned to grin at their lodger as well. ‘It’s lucky you ain’t one of our fambly, Mr Philpott,’ he said. ‘Else she’d make you put coal on the fire an’ fetch the knives an’ forks out o’ the dresser drawer.’ Kathy pretended to smack him and he gave a squeak. ‘Awright, awright, I’m workin’ like you said,’ he announced. ‘You can get started on the sponge pud – is it to be lemon, or ginger, or just that lovely sticky stuff?’
‘That’s right, the sticky one,’ Kathy confirmed, taking a tin of golden syrup out of the pantry and standing it near the fire so that it would run nicely. ‘I’m using the golden syrup your Uncle Andy helps to make.’ She turned to Mr Philpott. ‘That’s Andy Bishop. He used to work with me dad at the sawmills but twelve months ago he took on a job at Tate’s so now Mam always says we’re eating Uncle Andy’s work when we have golden syrup.’
She had hoped to win another laugh from Mr Philpott but he merely nodded, and the next time she glanced in his direction he was making notes on his timetable once more. Kathy, beating eggs, sugar and margarine together with a whisk and adding flour, spoonful by spoonful, was not discouraged by the lodger’s return to his work. She thought it a sign that he was now more at ease with her, as she placed her pudding in the oven on the shelf below that which held the steak pie. Closing the oven door, she was aware of a warm feeling of achievement. Perhaps it might not be such a bad thing to become a housewife in the fullness of time, she thought. When she had got her degree and was securely established in some sort of grand job, then it might be quite fun to cook delicious meals for an admiring family.
Half an hour later, the Kellings and their lodgers were seated round the kitchen table, enjoying their meal. Mr Bracknell was in tearing good spirits. A policy had matured for one of his clients and when he had taken the cheque round to their house they had given him an early Christmas present of a bottle of whisky and a box of chocolates. ‘And I’m to go back nearer Christmas because Mrs O’Mara’s brother works on a farm outside Blackpool and always sends them a fine turkey in time for Christmas Day. But this year they’ve already had the promise of one from cousins who are going to spend Christmas with them. So there won’t be no need for you to buy a bird, Mrs Kelling,’ Mr Bracknell said exultantly. ‘Do you realise in another month it’ll be Christmas?’
This naturally excited Billy, who began to gabble of the presents he intended to ask Santa Claus to bring him, and even Kathy found herself wondering just what she would receive this year. Sarah Kelling was earning good money at Dorothy’s Tearooms, and in the days leading up to Christmas customers always tipped with far more generosity than usual. Both the lodgers had announced their intention of remaining in Daisy Street over the Christmas holiday and Kathy thought that it would be nice to have a big party at home, similar to the one Jane’s Aunt Edith had had the previous year. They could invite Aunty Irene, any O’Briens who were not otherwise engaged and perhaps a few friends who lived further afield. Kathy decided to suggest it to her mother when they were alone. Why, they might invite some of the staff from Dorothy’s Tearooms.
Kathy was still dreaming about the possibility of a party when her mother began to dish up the sponge pudding. It had risen beautifully to the top of the pudding basin and when her mother placed a jug of custard in the middle of the table and told the lodgers to help themselves, Kathy reaped the reward for her hard work in the congratulations that followed.
‘Aye, our Kathy’s doing all right,’ Mrs Kelling said when the last of the pudding had been eaten and they were beginning to dear the table. ‘And now if you’ll put the kettle over the fire, Kathy, we’ll all have a nice cup of tea.’
The Hewitt family were seated around their kitchen table, having just enjoyed one of the best Christmas dinners ever. Beneath the table, Loopy’s head still rested on Alec’s knee, for he had slipped her several pieces of turkey and she was always hopeful that there would be more to come. The other dogs lay on the hearthrug, patiently waiting for whatever came their way, but Loopy was Alec’s darling, and knew it. Now Alec, glancing at his parents, thought he had never seen them more happy and relaxed. In farming, it is always dangerous to assume that things will go right; there are so many factors – the weather, the health of your beasts, the likelihood of pests and disease – which can suddenly turn a good year into a bad one; but Christmas had arrived and things really seemed to be settling down. In the new orchard, the little trees stood firm, the buds on their branches already beginning to swell. Betty Hewitt’s beehives had settled down for the winter and at intervals either Betty or Alec took down their ration of sugar water which enabled them to survive when there were no flowers from which to obtain nectar. The hens were a mixed bunch now, with Rhode Island Reds and White Leghorns mixing freely in the stack yard. Betty had bought the White Leghorns for the sake of their big brown eggs and was hopeful that, since they were young birds, they would come into lay in January, thus providing eggs at a time when the other hens would be taking it easy. Winter egg production was always poor but it seldom stopped altogether and next year, if Betty’s plans worked out, they might actually have eggs to sell in the market as well as sufficient for family use.
‘Well, my woman, that were the best Christmas dinner you’ve ever made and you’ve made some good ’uns in your time,’ Bob said, reaching for the bowl of nuts in the centre of the table. He selected two walnuts and cracked them in the palm of one hand, doing it so neatly that the kernels remained whole, sitting in his palm looking like two miniature heads, Alec thought. ‘Mind if I light up my pipe while you get on with the washing up?’
Betty laughed. She was looking her best, Alec thought. Her short, crisply curling red hair was decorated with a tiny bunch of mistletoe; she was wearing a new dress of dark green wool, Bob’s Christmas gift, and her cheeks were flushed from the good food and the warmth of the kitchen. ‘You oughta offer to wash up for me, Bob Hewitt,’ she said chidingly. ‘Still an’ all, you’d likely make a mess of it and leave half my pans covered in grease, so you and Alec can go into the parlour while I clear away.’ She indicated the laden table and the wooden draining board covered with dirty pots and pans. ‘It looks a lot but I’ve a good kettle full of boiling water so it won’t take me more’n half an hour.’
Alec grinned affectionately at his mother. ‘Then you’ll sit down for a few minutes, to listen to the King’s speech, fall asleep in the middle and wake up with a jump when they play the National Anthem. Then you’ll look at the clock and get to your feet, saying it’s time we got the tea started. So don’t argue, Ma, I’m going to dry the dishes for you and put them away.’
‘You and your dad were up doing the milking at the crack of dawn,’ Betty said weakly, going over to the sink, ‘and as soon as the King’s speech is over the pair of you will be off to do the evening round, so I can manage here, really I can.’
‘I dare say you could, but you aren’t going to,’ Alec said gaily, picking up the nearest tea towel. ‘Besides, the evening milking won’t be as bad as the morning. Ned and Joel were both quite willing to give a hand, so there will be four of us at it, and not just Dad and myself.’ His mother began to pour the contents of the big black kettle into the sink, and to add cold from the bucket beneath. ‘Come to that, you’ve the poultry to feed and the eggs to collect . . . and then there’s the pigs. I reckon the leftovers will have them all scrambling to get their snouts in the trough first.’
‘You usually feed the pigs,’ his mother said mildly. ‘Not that I mind doing it when you and your dad are busy. They’re so eager . . . I rather like feeding them, particularly the sows and their piglets.’
Alec smiled at her. They had three sows now, two of whom were in pig, and half a dozen fatteners, and he could understand completely why his mother enjoyed feeding them. Pigs, he thought, definitely had a sense of humour as well as enormous appetites. His mother had named the sows Dolly, Dimple and Dora, and that was all right; they were almost pets and answered to their names, rearing up on end to look over their pigsty walls or trotting to the doors of their large, wire-nettinged runs whenever they heard someone approach. Whilst the sows continued to produce piglets they would stay on the farm, but at the end of the day the fatteners were being reared for meat, and it did not do to name or make too much fuss of them. Alec was farmer enough to take the autumn pig killing in his stride, and enjoyed the joints of pork, ham and bacon when they were on his plate, but he suspected that would not have been the case had they named the young pigs, and knew his mother shared this feeling. Even when the time came to kill off old and non-productive hens she always kept well away from the stack yard and refused to pluck or draw the birds, telling Bob frankly that either he or the farmhands must do it.
‘They come when I rattle the bowl with their meal in, or when I just call,’ she had explained once to Alec. ‘I know it’s silly, but . . . oh, I can’t explain.’
She did not have to do so; her son understood, even though he kept such feelings of his own in check. Farmers must have a regard for their animals, but it did not do to get sentimental. One had to eat.
Now, Alec began to put a handful of cutlery in the dresser drawer, then turned to speak to his mother once more. ‘As I said, Ned and Joel are coming up to help with the milking, so I’ll feed all the pigs this evening, if you can do the poultry. Now wasn’t I right to stay and give you a hand? We’ve done, and in record time, too!’
As soon as the washing up had been put away mother and son went through into the parlour, to find Bob asleep in front of the roaring fire and a sonorous voice on the wireless announcing that the King was about to address the nation.
‘I wonder how he feels?’ Betty said idly as she sat down in one of the old but comfortable fireside chairs. ‘A couple of years ago he was just the King’s younger brother, the Duke of York. This is his first address to the nation since his coronation, of course . . . it must seem very strange.’
‘Stranger for his wife, because she married him not even dreaming that his big brother would be idiot enough to hand over the crown,’ Alec said. ‘As for those two pretty little kids . . . well, I suppose I shouldn’t call them that, because they’re princesses, all right. One of ’em – Elizabeth, isn’t it? – might be Queen of England one day, if the Duchess . . . I mean the Queen . . . doesn’t have a son.’
‘Ye-es. But she’ll surely have other children, wouldn’t you think? I mean ruling the country isn’t easy. It’s a job for a man, I always say. Why, only the other day . . . oh, hush, he’s starting!’
Chapter EightFebruary 1938
It was a wet day, and not the first wet day of the month by any means. Kathy and Ruby, slogging along the road towards school, knew that once again there would be no chance of playing out during the break. Now that they were older, break-time was usually spent walking round the school grounds, talking earnestly. They also knitted squares which would be made into blankets and sent to Africa, though Kathy wondered, privately, what Africans would want with woollen blankets in the fetid jungle heat.
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