More Tales of the West Riding (22 page)

“You can have your turn when we come to counter,” said Mrs Lumb cheerfully. “I only want to be near my friend.”

Miss Beamish looked round and saw Mrs Lumb. A much changed Mrs Lumb, however. The orange jumper had been washed, and now looked clearly pink; the black skirt had been sponged and pressed; the hair had been brushed and now showed its thick wave, lustrous and handsome. The face, too, was altogether different; the fine eyes sparkled, the red lips smiled.

“I shall be happy to make way for such a gradely lass, love,” said the old man with a smile. He bowed and stepped back.

“Cheeky!” responded Mrs Lumb, laughing.

This swift flirtation had warmed the atmosphere of the entire post office; everyone looked round to enjoy it, and even the counter clerks smiled.

“Do you remember what I told you last week about a card getting its corner burned?” cried Mrs Lumb, poking Miss Beamish's hip sharply with her basket.

“I do indeed.”

“Well, what do you think? When I got home that day, there was a new pack of cards waiting for me, on't table. A green rim they had, and gilt edges, and a picture of a girl at a spinning-wheel on the backs. All glossy. Oh, real posh! Must have cost a pretty penny.”

“How delightful,” began Miss Beamish.

“Fancy, he must have gone out with his stick and down in
the lift—he hates the lift—and crossed right across the road to buy them. 'T'isn't easy for him to walk out by himself now, you know,” explained Mrs Lumb. “Arthritis. Yes. He must have gone out with his stick, while I was at work, you know, and down in the lift and right across the road. I was that flummoxed I couldn't find a word, at first, but then I said, ‘Have you bought these for me, Schofield?' I said. Schofield's his first name, you know; the eldest son's always called Schofield in their family, traditional like. ‘Have you bought these for me, Schofield?' I said. And he nodded.”

“A nod is as good as a word,” said Miss Beamish.

“It is
that
from him,” said Mrs Lumb with emphasis. “So you see, I reckon he really took notice of me all the time. Like you said.”

“Of course,” said Miss Beamish, smiling with her head on one side.

“Aye, I reckon so. I reckon so, aye.”

Miss Beamish's smile broadened.

“Whyn't you come up and see us some time?” urged Mrs Lumb, giving the address. She coloured and looked down, seeming rather embarrassed. “Just for a cuppa. Eh?”

“I shall be very happy to do so,” said Miss Beamish, smiling with pleasure.

“Course, he may not say anything. But if he smiles, you won't mind him saying nowt?” urged Mrs Lumb.

“Of course not.”

“Well, come on, lad, tek thi rightful place,” shouted Mrs Lumb, hustling the thin old man one place up in the queue.

Miss Beamish, smiling happily, felt that her faith in human nature, married love, life itself, was restored.

1971

The Parkins and the Steads lived side by side, next door to each other, in a very respectable row. The houses had steps up to the front door, with porches, and a nice little square of garden.

Mr Parkin (Ted) was a foreman or floor manager or something of that sort at the big textile mill down the road. Mr Parkin was not tall, and though not plump, not thin—just comfortable, you might say. His hair, brownish-grey and not too tidy, was still abundant, and his dark grey eyes had a considerable twinkle. The mill thought the world of him; he had been there for years.

Mr Stead (James) was a different kind of man, a teacher, an English specialist at Rayburn Road Secondary Modern. He was tall and very lean, spectacled, balding and perhaps a little stooped, especially at the end of term, when he was tired. Shortly after he came to Rayburn Road, he was appointed deputy head teacher. There was a chance that he might get an appointment in the town as head teacher, but this did not come off. Mrs Parkin therefore privately thought him rather a softy, but this opinion was not shared by her daughter Lilian, who attended Rayburn Secondary Modern.

Thus, of the two men, Mr Parkin earned a good deal more, but Mr Stead had as it were more prestige.

Neither of the men was much for drinking. Mr Parkin—especially when exasperated by misconduct on the part of
some piece (of cloth understood)—would occasionally pop into the Fleece at the end of the lane for a quick one; but Mr Stead, never. Not that he was a teetotaller or anything excessive of that kind; he just did not care much for pubs, so noisy and smoky; he preferred to have a quiet glass (just rarely) at home.

The great thing about Mr Parkin was his garden. Of course all Englishmen love their gardens, but Mr Parkin really had green fingers. With his jacket off and his braces taut over his shoulder, he could be seen any weekend, any evening, mowing, digging, tying, pruning. From February onward his border bloomed: snowdrops, crocus, daffodils, tulips (these grieved him because the sharp West Riding winds
would
cut their long stems), later lupins, delphiniums, hydrangeas, glorious roses. Mrs Parkin (her name was Lena) thought privately that Ted had a special eye for colour; she believed that in fact he would like to have been in a designer's office, playing about all day with coloured yarns.

But of course in their young days opportunities for such technical advancement were not easily come by, and there was the war, and their first child coming; when he got out of the army Ted took the first job he could get. He never said a word about designing, of course; he wasn't that kind of man; but Lena knew. Oh,
she
knew.

Now Mr Stead (James), though no doubt he was right book-learned, admitted Mrs Parkin, had no gift at all for gardening. He admired Mr Parkin's garden enormously, asked his advice and took it, and really did his best; but, poor fellow, somehow his plants never succeeded. They were thin and weedy, with miserable little blooms, and as for his roses, they always caught greenfly or mildew or both, so that at last he gave them up.

“Unfair on them,” he said. Mrs Parkin thought this rather daft and far-fetched, but Mr Parkin understood and nodded gravely.

Mr Parkin had been stationed in the north of Scotland during the war; he made good friends there, the Parkins often holidayed there when the war was over, and the result of this was that their son John Edward married a Scots girl and was happily settled up there. Then quite a few years later, unexpectedly the Parkins had another child, a girl, whom they called Lilian. Coming late and surprisingly as she did, a kind of bonus, naturally Ted and Lena doted on Lilian.

Apart from that, she was a lovely girl. Really pretty. Lovely fair hair, really golden—“My mother had fair hair,” explained Mrs Parkin, for her own hair was just light brown. Lilian had beautiful blue eyes. A complexion as pure as snow, only warmer. A sweet face. A sweet disposition too, though not a softy, and quite clever in a quiet way. She did reasonably well at school, attended the local technical college and took a secretarial course and obtained a very nice job in a lawyer's office. Meanwhile, interestingly enough, the Steads had rather the same experience. They too had two children, but the elder was a girl, married to a teacher and living in London. Mrs Stead too had been a teacher before her marriage. In truth Mrs Parkin was rather overawed by all this teacher business, and London and what have you—she found Mrs Stead rather stiff, and suspected that Mrs Stead found her gossipy. However, the Steads were good neighbours; very honest and considerate. When their second child, Robert his name was, a rampageous noisy lad if ever there was one, with red hair—yes, really red, carrotty—broke one of the Parkins's windows with a misplaced football, Mr Stead brought him in to admit the fault and apologise, and paid for the window at once. Robert attended Rayburn Road school, of course. When he left he got himself apprenticed in a large engineering works. He came home at night looking dirty but cheerful, and was said to be doing well.

Well, then, all of a sudden came a bombshell. One evening
when Lilian was out with a friend of hers at the pictures, or so Mrs Parkin thought, there were voices at the door and in came Lilian, radiant, with Robert Stead at her side. Mr Parkin had gone out for one of his rare drinks, and Mrs Parkin was alone. It was summer, and she was sitting in the front room, looking out at the flowers. She gazed at Robert Stead in astonishment. He had been a tiresome carrotty teenager for so long that she was astounded to see him as a young man, quite tall, quite good-looking now that his hair was brushed and he was out of his overalls and clad in a handsome pullover and some decent dark slacks.

“You remember Bob, mother,” said Lilian rather impatiently.

Mrs Parkin gasped.

“Robert Stead, Mrs Parkin,” announced the young man. “I was hoping to see Mr Parkin but I can tell you instead, can't I. Lilian and I have decided to get married, so we'd like to get engaged now.”

Mrs Parkin gave a dumbfounded gurgle.

“I shall be out of my apprenticeship next year,” went on Robert. “I've been saving quite a while, and there's hope of some rooms in Back Rayburn Street—of course, we'll put our names down for a Council House, but what a hope!”

Mrs Parkin continued to gape.

“Well, I'll leave you to think it over, Mrs Parkin,” said Robert cheerfully.

He kissed Lilian in a determined and somehow accustomed way, thought Mrs Parkin mournfully, and strode out.

“Now, mother, love, don't take on,” said Lilian, kissing her. “It can't have come as a surprise to you, really.”

“Yes, it has,” wept Mrs Parkin. “Of course, love, it may be just a passing fancy, you know.”

“Nonsense!” said Lilian robustly. “We were reported twice about it, before we left school.”

“Reported for what?” cried Mrs Parkin, horrified.

“Oh, just talking alone in the library,” returned Lilian, cool.

“I hope there's nothing
wrong
!” gasped Mrs Parkin.

“Of course not, mother,” said Lilian angrily. “We're not the permissive sort.”

The sound of Mr Parkin's key in the front latch was heard.

“Well, go up to bed, Lily, love,” implored Mrs Parkin. “Here's your father.”

“Will you tell him, or shall I?” pressed Lilian. “Or Bob could come back if I asked him—”

“I'll tell your father.”

“He won't need much telling, I think,” said Lilian, laughing as she slipped away upstairs.

Mrs Parkin groaned.

“What on earth's the matter?” cried Mr Parkin, alarmed by his wife's tearstained face.

“Oh, Ted! Here's Lilian and that Bob next door wanting to get engaged.”

“Tell me summat new,” said Mr Parkin, sitting down to remove his shoes.

“Did you—know?”

“Let's say I've seen it coming.”

“Oh, Ted!”

“What's the fuss about? He's a good lad, she's known him long enough to know whether she likes him, by next year he'll be a tradesman with a skill in his fingers, I reckon they love each other. You couldn't wish for better in-laws than the Steads.”

At first Mrs Parkin's disappointment at the engagement was, let's face it, acute. But—perhaps it was odd, perhaps it was just human nature—she revived considerably when she found that Mrs Stead was disappointed too.

“Really, you might think Mrs Stead thought our Lilian not good enough for their Robert,” she said indignantly to her husband.

“I expect she does. Very natural,” rejoined Ted.

“Our Lilian! Not good enough for that rough red-haired chap!”

“Bob's as dear to his parents as Lilian is to hers.”

“Well! If Mrs Stead is trying to break up their engagement, she can think again, that's all!” fulminated Mrs Parkin. “Our Lily! So good and beautiful! They're promised! She's given him her heart! Let Mrs Stead just try, that's all! I'll see to that, I can tell you!”

“I'm sure you're right, love,” murmured Ted.

The affianced year passed; Robert came out of his apprenticeship and got himself quite a good job. How Mrs Parkin managed to boast about this job to her circle of friends, while continuing to regard Bob with all the contempt due from a mother-in-law, it is difficult to say. But she did. That is, until the wedding was actually in sight, when she suddenly found herself, not exactly opposed, but slightly hung up, about the arrangements by a coolness—it was no more, but she felt it—on Mrs Stead's part. The wedding reception was to be held in the Sunday school, with catering from the Fleece at so much a head.

“My daughter and her husband will be coming from London. I hope that is—all right,” murmured Mrs Stead.

“Of course,” said Mrs Parkin. “Our John Edward and Alison and the new baby will be coming down from Glasgow. We want our families about us at these times.”

“Indeed, yes. But we must not—overburden—your list of guests unduly.”

“Oh, don't worry about that!” said Mrs Parkin robustly. “Ted will be equal to anything of that kind, I assure you.”