Down an English Lane (21 page)

‘Because she’s such a clown as well,’ laughed Maisie. ‘Don’t you remember her at the concert with that Matilda poem? She nearly brought the house down. She likes fooling around and she’s not bothered about making herself look ridiculous. And Brian – Audrey’s boyfriend – he’s the other ugly sister. They’re a great act. You should see them!’

‘Well, hopefully, I will,’ said Anne. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’ She would know most of the youngsters – well, teenagers, many of them were by now – who would be taking part. On occasions such as this – pantomimes and concerts – it was good to sit on the sidelines and watch their pupils and former pupils with pride; and sometimes with surprise as they saw promise of an undetected talent.

‘So this will be performed in January, I take it?’ she asked.

‘Yes, the first week in January,’ said Maisie, ‘just before we all go back to school. It’s on three nights; the Thursday, Friday and Saturday. I’m really glad they decided to do Cinderella. It’s my favourite of all, not that I’ve seen all that many pantomimes. But I remember going to see Cinderella when I was a tiny little girl, with my mum and dad – my real dad I mean. When she married Sidney Bragg we
didn’t get any treats; at least we never went anywhere with him. I don’t even know which theatre it was at – I know it was in Leeds – but I remember the shining golden coach and Cinderella’s shimmering silver ballgown. I felt as though I was in Fairyland… And when we came out of the theatre it was snowing. And my dad picked me up and carried me…’

‘Yes, Cinderella brings out the child in all of us,’ said Anne. ‘It’s truly magical.’ She smiled at Maisie, who appeared lost in thought, far away in that magical world with a rapt expression on her face. ‘And one day, Maisie, you will meet your own Prince Charming. I feel sure of that.’

Maisie blinked and returned to reality. ‘What…? Oh yes, p’raps I will. But I’m busy at the moment, aren’t I, pretending to be a prince myself? My mum’s busy too, making my costumes…’

Maisie reflected, as she walked home later that evening, about what Anne had said. Her Prince Charming… Well, she had given up all hope, or had tried to, that it would be Bruce. But what about Anne Mellodey and her future prospects? It bothered Maisie a little that her friend still talked about herself and Charity Foster as though they were contemporaries.

‘Charity and I will have to decide what we are going to wear at the party…’ she had said. What about a Prince Charming for Anne? She was still young and pretty and fun to be with. Maisie hoped
that the future would hold much more for her than endless years of teaching at the village school, and memories of the young flying officer she had lost in the early years of the war.

Arthur Rawcliffe, Lily’s husband-to-be, had agreed that Maisie could be a waitress at the party; in fact, he thought it was a very good idea.

‘I’ll see that you don’t miss all the fun,’ he told her. ‘I won’t expect you to be on duty all evening. You must have a dance and a bit of a jive and enjoy yerself with the other young ’uns.’

‘Oh, I’m not bothered about that, Arthur, honestly I’m not,’ she told him. ‘I’d rather be doing something useful…and you won’t need to pay me, will you?’

‘Don’t worry; I’ll see that you get a bob or two for yer trouble; a bit of spending money like… But, aye, there’s summat in what you say, lass.’ Arthur was a true Yorkshireman, mindful of his brass.

In the end Lily, too, had said that she would prefer to wait on, rather than be just a part of the festivities. And Doris, when she found out what Maisie had opted to do, also volunteered to help. She, also, would be happy enough, she said, with a bob or two as payment, like Maisie.

On the morning of the party day Maisie helped Arthur, and Harry and Flo, the new partners in the business, to prepare the food for the buffet supper,
taking it in turns to serve in the confectioner’s shop as well, which was always especially busy on a Saturday morning. Arthur had been up extremely early, at four o’clock instead of his usual five, to cope with the extra baking, and Harry had joined him soon afterwards. Lily, of course, was busy in her own draper’s shop.

There were sausage rolls in flaky pastry, vol-au-vents, and pork pies – which Arthur called ‘hand raised’ – a speciality of his which he had reinstated since returning after the war, which folk came from far and near to buy. Admittedly, there might not be as much pork in the mixture as there had been in pre-war days, but everyone who tasted them pronounced them delicious. The open sandwiches, on freshly baked barmcakes, would be prepared later, so as to be fresh, with a variety of toppings; boiled ham, salmon, thinly sliced cucumber and tomato, and egg and cress. There were individual trifles in waxed cardboard cases, and a huge assortment of cakes; éclairs and meringues (containing mock cream which was almost as good as the fresh sort), almond tarts, jam tarts, coconut pyramids, and chocolate buns.

The pièce de résistance would be the birthday cake, large and square, seated on a silver board and iced all over in white, with blue lettering. ‘Happy Birthday Bruce,’ it read, ‘21 today’. There would be one largish candle instead of twenty-one small ones, in a silver holder, and in the centre a tiny silver
aeroplane, really a child’s toy, that Lily had bought from Woolworth’s.

‘And it’s not a whited sepulchre, neither,’ said Arthur, referring to the war-time bridal cakes; hollow constructions of cardboard with a tiny fruit cake hidden inside. ‘It’s the real thing. Not as much fruit as I’d have liked, but ne’er mind; there’s even a dash of rum in it.’

‘We’re certainly doing Bruce proud,’ said Maisie, although she had a feeling, deep down, that he would not really appreciate all the fuss and palaver. She had even had a suspicion that the party would not go ahead at all; that Christine might have persuaded him to say he didn’t want it, but that had not happened. It was going to take place in just a few hours and she, Maisie, though she was putting on a show of bravado and cheerfulness, would be glad when it was all over.

The food, laid in large wooden trays, had been transported to the Market Room in Arthur’s van. It was now ready and waiting, covered in sheets of greaseproof paper, in the small kitchen off the main room, to be served halfway through the evening. The first job that Maisie and Doris had to do, after helping to carry the trays in from the van, was to circulate amongst the guests, who were gradually arriving in ones and twos, and offer them drinks from round silver trays. There was a choice of sweet
and dry sherry, and orange juice for the younger guests.

‘Maisie! Good gracious, what a surprise!’ exclaimed Bruce as he caught sight of her, balancing a tray full of glasses. He came towards her and she noticed that Christine quickly followed him. ‘They’ve got you working, have they? I hope you’re going to be able to enjoy yourself as well.’

‘Don’t worry, I will,’ she replied. ‘I’m just giving Arthur a hand… Happy Birthday, Bruce,’ she added. She could not kiss his cheek, as she had seen some of the other guests doing, or even shake his hand, unless she put her tray down. She clung to it tightly as Bruce helped himself to a pale golden sherry of the dry variety and handed one to Christine.

‘Thank you, Maisie,’ he said, with a smile that could easily have filled her, once again, with longing, but she was determined not to let it. ‘And thank you for your card.’

She smiled briefly and nodded. ‘My mother will give you our present later,’ she told him. She had decided it would be foolish and might only prove embarrassing to buy him a personal gift, so she had added her name to the book token that Lily and Arthur had bought for him. A safe present, they had thought, preferable to cufflinks and tie-pins and the like, of which he might well get an abundance. Then, because she knew she must, she turned to the girl who was hovering at his side. ‘Hello, Christine,’
she said brightly. ‘Nice to see you again.’

‘Yes…and you too, er…Maisie, isn’t it?’ said Christine. She smiled with her lips, but there was a tiny spark of malice in her grey eyes. She knows perfectly well what my name is, thought Maisie, as she nodded and walked away.

The wording on the invitation had read ‘Dress Optional’, but Christine had obviously decided to dress up to the nines. And it had to be admitted that she did look lovely. Her dress was ankle-length, of deep pink silken taffeta with a sweetheart neckline and cap sleeves. The skirt was covered in delicate black lace with a trimming of a black lace flower on the bodice. It looked as though it might, at one time, have been a bridesmaid’s dress, updated in the ‘Make do and Mend’ manner that they had all got used to during the war. But if so, then it had been very skilfully done. Maisie, in her full-skirted floral cotton dress, partially covered by a frilly white apron, felt, by contrast, very young and unsophisticated; but she had been determined not to dress up too much. She was certainly glad now that she had not decided to wear her pink dress from the concert.

The evening consisted mainly of talking and dancing, or just sitting and listening to the music. The three-piece band, of piano, drums and saxophone, was called ‘Civvy Street’, and had been formed by three young men soon after they were demobbed. They were local lads from Lowerbeck
and the girl vocalist, Belinda, was the sister of one of them. They were very accomplished, especially as they had started playing together only quite recently, and they soon had most of the guests on their feet, circling the room in waltzes, quicksteps and slow foxtrots.

Maisie, having finished serving the drinks, sat at the side with Doris, watching the dancers glide by, the women and girls all in bright colours and the men no longer in uniform. There was a feeling of relaxation, of gladness that the dreadful war was at last over and that things were normal again. She saw Bruce and Christine dance by, her arms circling his neck, to the sentimental strains of ‘Long Ago and Far Away’. Don’t watch, she told herself, as Bruce smiled down at his lady friend and she, starry-eyed, smiled back at him.

The dance, a smoochy foxtrot, came to an end on a discordant flourish from the saxophone, and the couples stood around and clapped. Then the trio struck up with something much more lively; and the next minute Ted Nixon, Doris’s brother, was at Maisie’s side.

‘Are yer dancin’?’ he asked with a grin. She laughed and got to her feet.

‘I can do this one; it’s a quickstep, isn’t it?’ They had been having dancing lessons that term, one afternoon each week after school ended, with the boys from the nearby Grammar school; all very strictly supervised by the teachers, of course. She
had not quite mastered the slow foxtrot, and the tango still had her bewildered, but a quickstep rhythm was jolly and made you feel like dancing.

She sang quietly as she followed Ted’s lead. He was surprisingly light on his feet for a farm worker, she thought.

‘You sound happy,’ he remarked, grinning at her.

‘Well…yes, I suppose I am,’ she replied. ‘There’s no point in being miserable, is there? It’s a party! We’re here to enjoy ourselves.’

She was forcing herself to sound more light-hearted than she was feeling, but with Ted that was not difficult. She had known him ever since she came to live in Middlebeck, as Doris’s brother. Doris had two much older brothers and Ted was the younger of the two, the one who had stayed behind to take over the farm work during the war whilst his brother, Joe, and later, his father, had served in the forces. Joe was aged twenty-one, ruddy-complexioned, sturdily built and fair-haired, like his late father and his sister; he had a fiancée, a young woman called Irene from a farm near Lowerbeck, who was his partner for the evening. Ted resembled his mother, being dark-haired and dark-eyed and of a more lean and wiry build. Maisie had never given him much thought before, only seeing him as Doris’s brother, but now, as he smiled down at her, she realised that he was a very nice looking young man.

‘I’ve been waiting to have a dance with you,’ he
said, ‘but you were busy serving t’ drinks with our kid. Can I come and sit with you for a bit? I suppose you’ll be helping to serve t’ supper, like, won’t you?’

‘Yes, but not just yet,’ she replied. ‘About nine o’clock, Mrs Tremaine said. Yes, of course you can sit with me, if you want to.’