More Tales of the West Riding (21 page)

“Whoever belongs to them, she shouldn't leave them lying about on a railway truck,” criticised Mrs Gowland in an uncomfortably loud voice.

“We don't know,” began Mrs Ellis.

“Encouraging people to steal, that's what I call it.”

“Do you mean to steal the boots, Gladys?” enquired Mrs Ellis, vexed beyond bearing.

“Why, no, of course not, Dorothy,” exclaimed Mrs Gowland.

The astonishment of her tone was justified, for Mrs Gowland's honesty, though perhaps she flaunted it a bit much, was permanent and sincere.

“Then why assume everybody else has a lower mind than you?”

The moment she had spoken Mrs Ellis was ashamed of herself; she felt she had been insulting. So she said hastily:

“Of course it
is
a bit risky, leaving boots like that on an open truck.”

“Yes.”

“The boots might fall off.”

“Aye, and then somebody would be in trouble,” said Mrs Gowland, recognising the olive branch but unable not to feel a little pleasure at the prospect of somebody in trouble.

“Exactly.”

The two women exchanged friendlier glances. The elderly porter, not stirring a hair, continued to look straight ahead of him, but with a grim expression, which seemed to indicate that anyone trying to take those boots off his truck would have a tough job of it. All passengers present now discreetly withdrew their glances.

“It's interesting, though, the things you see at railway stations,” murmured Mrs Ellis, turning away from the truck.

“I don't say otherwise,” conceded Mrs Gowland.

At that very moment, two things happened.

In the distance, on the curve, majestically appeared the London train. Long, massive, with fresh paint gleaming, drawn by two powerful diesel engines, it swept at terrifying speed down towards the platform. Everyone stirred, looked alarmed or expectant, seized their hand luggage, stepped towards the edge of the platform, or in timidity back.

But their attention was distracted. For suddenly there burst into the crowd a rush of joyous young people. Young men in tail coats and grey waistcoats, with white roses in their buttonholes and a look of having left top hats outside; six young girls—yes, six, no fewer!—in the most delicious plain but well-cut thin white frocks—“They'll freeze,” thought Mrs Ellis, alarmed for them—bands of roses in their hair, posies in their hands. One particularly handsome man, dark, tall, bright-eyed, slender—“Looks like a footballer or a cricketer or something,” decided Mrs Ellis: “with those white roses, too.” (The white rose being the Yorkshire symbol.) And one beautiful—oh, very beautiful—young girl; very fair, blue-eyed, beaming with happiness. “The bride, of course, they're a wedding party.”

“I think I'll take these in the carriage with me,” said the bride pleasantly, grasping the tops of the turquoise boots. The bridegroom politely took them from her.

And there was no doubt, of course, none at all, that the boots were hers, because her coat was of exactly the same delicious shade of turquoise as the boots. “A perfect match,” thought Mrs Ellis with satisfaction.

The London train drew up. There was a good deal of fuss and excitement. Kisses, handshakes and confetti abounded. The elderly porter was so well tipped he beamed; at one moment it seemed as if the bride and bridegroom would miss the train, but the best man pushed them safely into their reserved seats. Everyone waved. The train moved away with dignity.

Meanwhile the little local train had backed quietly into the other side of the platform. Mrs Ellis and Mrs Gowland had hardly noticed its arrival, but now they heard porters shouting
Bradford, Hudley, Todmorden, Rochdale, Manchester
and hurriedly scrambled for it. The elderly porter pushed them in and slid the door closed; they sat down side by side with a bump; the train moved off.

“It makes you remember your own wedding, doesn't it?” murmured Mrs Ellis.

“It does
that
,” said Mrs Gowland.

Her voice was muffled, and she was looking out of the window in a rather determined way. Mrs Ellis, surprised, gave her a glance and saw that there were actually tears in her eyes.

“She's not so bad, isn't old Gladys,” thought Mrs Ellis sympathetically, “after all.”

1971

Miss Beamish and Mrs Lumb stood next to each other in the pension queue. They were, of course, both of pensionable age.

Miss Beamish sighed.

Mrs Lumb turned and looked at her.

Miss Beamish was tall and thin. She wore an old, shabby but neat navy blue coat and skirt, matching scarf, grey cotton gloves and a hat. A hat, thought Mrs Lumb in wondering contempt, laughing to herself; how ridiculous! Nobody wore hats nowadays. It was a small, dark, subdued, unnoticeable hat, to be sure; but still—a hat! Miss Beamish's thin, greying fair hair was stretched tightly back from her high forehead, and she wore old-fashioned spectacles. A clerk or a teacher or something dreary of that kind, thought Mrs Lumb; no need to see a ringless left hand to know
she
had never married. Still, there was something rather sweet in her expression; her face was faded, but it might have been rather pleasant when young. Good as gold, I expect, reflected Mrs Lumb bitterly. Nothing stand-offish about her, anyway. Her boy was killed in the Hitler war, p'raps. Mrs Lumb, oddly moved to friendliness, spoke.

“Allus a long queue for pensions,” she said.

“Yes, indeed,” agreed Miss Beamish in her gentle voice.

She looked at Mrs Lumb with interest. A plump, bosomy woman, wearing a slightly soiled orange (or perhaps it was
meant to be pink?) cardigan and a tight black skirt. Her head scarf, very bright in shrill blue and green—were its colours what they called psychedelic?—had slipped from her head and lay in a crumpled mass round her strong white neck. Her short hair was very thick and dark, and tossed about her head in untidy waves, as though it had not felt a comb for weeks. Her face was lined but full of colour. A little too florid. Her eyes, however, were large, dark and rather fine. A handsome woman when young, I should think, reflected Miss Beamish, and an excellent mother—yes, I can see her with a lot of children who adored her. A rich, fine, useful life, full of work and love. A quiet, sad, wistful feeling, long suppressed, stirred Miss Beamish's heart; moved to friendliness, she smiled.

“And not much when we get it,” pursued Mrs Lumb, encouraged.

“Better than nothing,” said Miss Beamish, resigned.

“Well, yes. Of course,” said Mrs Lumb, “I daresay if I didn't go out to work, I could get my rent paid by the Supplementary. Some do, you know.”

“Do they really?”

“Oh, yes. But my old man, you see, he wouldn't like it.”

“No,” said Miss Beamish, sympathetic.

“But that isn't reely why I go out to work.”

“No?”

“No. The thing is, you see, it's more cheerful.”

“Ah!”

“I'm lonely, you see.”

“I see,” said Miss Beamish, who indeed knew all about loneliness.

“Well, you see, it's my old man. He's got arthritis, doesn't move except when he has to. He just sits there all day and night, and says nothing. Never has been one to talk. It was the same with the children. Play with them, yes, but talk to them, no. Before we were married, I thought he was the
grandest man; I thought it was fine, the way he hardly ever said anything. I thought it was kind of proud and noble. But now, I'm tired of it. Yes, I'm tired of it. Do you know, I sit in the evening playing patience by myself on the table, and he never says a word. I'm tired of it. So I go out to work, you see, and it keeps me cheerful, like. I sit there playing patience of an evening, and he never says a word. I don't think he even sees what I'm doing. I don't. I don't reely.”

“Oh, I don't think you should assume that,” said Miss Beamish very seriously. “It's hardly fair to your husband to take his lack of interest in you for granted, is it?”

“Well, I don't know,” said Mrs Lumb, opening her fine eyes wide as if surprised—she was really a bit stuck with that word
assume.
What did it mean exactly? Don't be so daft, she admonished herself; you understand what she means all right. “No, I don't think he takes a bit of notice of me nowadays, morning, noon or night, save when he needs his meals or his stick. We have one of those council flats, you know. High up. Very neat and all that, but you never see anybody. Across the way there's a young woman with a baby, her husband's a builder, you know, travels all over the country. She never comes in 'less she's short of sugar, something of that kind. I never speak to nobody when I'm home, so I go out to work, you see. 'Course, the money's useful. But if I stayed at home, I might get my rent paid. Some do. Or so I hear,” she added, suddenly scrupulous for the truth.

The client at the counter walked away, the queue moved up, Miss Beamish and Mrs Lumb became involved in their financial affairs.

Next week, Miss Beamish and Mrs Lumb found themselves next to one another again in the queue. (No doubt, reflected Miss Beamish, their respective buses arrived in the town about the same time.) They were both dressed as before;
Mrs Lumb's abundant hair was, if anything, a trifle wilder. Miss Beamish smiled in a friendly style, but Mrs Lumb looked sour.

“I'm still going out to work,” she said grimly, turning her head.

Miss Beamish looked interested. She was, indeed, keenly interested, but did not like to appear nosy by asking questions.

“I don't think he's said a word to me since I saw you last week,” grumbled Mrs Lumb crossly.

“Really?” said Miss Beamish, shocked.

“Not one word. I might as well not be there at all.”

“I hardly think,” began Miss Beamish in a deprecating tone.

“No! He doesn't even see me. I'll tell you. Last night that young Mrs Whatnot from across the corridor suddenly banged on the door and burst in. It seems her mother is ill and she had to go home to her of a sudden, like—been ill a long time, it seems.”

“Then it's not to be wondered at that she doesn't come in to have a word with you often,” suggested Miss Beamish primly.

“That's right. Girl seems right enough, and a bit lonely like with her husband so much away. She had to run for her bus, so she asked us to give her husband a message when he came in—say she'd taken baby with her, and that, and he was to follow.”

“You misjudged her,” thought Miss Beamish, but did not like to say so.

“Happen I thought over harsh of her. But that's not the point. Point is, when she banged so hard on door, and burst in, I gave a start, like—”

“Very natural.”

“Aye. And card I was holding flew out of my hand, and after she was gone I saw it had fallen against gas fire and
burned a corner off. We have North Sea gas, you know,” said Mrs Lumb proudly, “and it's
hot.
Eh! What a do that was. Sixteen visits we had from one and another of them men before it went right. Still, it's settled down now, and it's
hot.
Corner of card were burned right off. Of course that's very awkward when you're playing patience, you know. I mean a patience where you lay a lot of cards out face down. If there's one with a corner off, you can't help knowing what it is.”

“And was the burnt one a very important card?” enquired Miss Beamish.

“It were a black seven,” said Mrs Lumb grimly. “As soon as you saw it, you couldn't help knowing what to do with it. While it was still face down, I mean. It was like cheating, if you see what I mean. I can't play patience with that pack honestly, any more.”

“I'm very sorry,” said Miss Beamish.

“Course, I went on about it a bit,” admitted Mrs Lumb. “Anybody would. But did
he
tek notice? Not a ha'porth. Just sat there looking in front of him, not saying a word. I'm tired of it, I tell you, I'm right down fed up.”

“I'm very sorry,” said Miss Beamish humbly.

“Ha!” snorted Mrs Lumb. “So I'm still going out to work,” she snapped, and she turned her back on Miss Beamish.

The following week, Miss Beamish was sorry to see that Mrs Lumb was not ahead of her in the queue, and—she looked carefully—not behind her either. Her nearest neighbour in the rear was a thin, stooping, grey-haired old man who sniffed a good deal. The queue at the next opening suddenly melted away rather fast, as sometimes happened when two or three applicants turned out to be together, and the rear of Miss Beamish's queue forsook it and joined this shorter line hopefully. Taught by bitter experience, however,
Miss Beamish and the thin grey man knew the disappointments of such a move, and remained faithful in their loyalty to their own line.

“Now then, lad!” came a loud cheerful voice in the rear. “Move off and let me come next to my friend.”

“Nay, you're not jumping queue, surely,” said the old man, pretending to be indignant.