The Lost Days of Summer (32 page)

‘Don’t you go wasting your money on a meal when there’s plenty to spare here,’ Mrs Ripley said at once. She was an enormously fat and jolly woman, as golden-haired as her younger daughters, and more easy-going than any of them. Now, she beamed at Kath. ‘A new young man, is it? Or do I know him? If I had to hazard a guess . . .’

Kath bit her lip. ‘Don’t you go hazarding guesses, Mam,’ she said quickly. She knew her mother was very shrewd, and might well have read more into Kath’s deliberately casual remarks about her correspondent than others would. She was often the only person at home when the post arrived, so she had to be well aware Kath was receiving letters written in the same hand two or three times a week.

But now she was smiling comfortably at her daughter as she placed a buttered scone before her. ‘I don’t need to hazard guesses because I know right well who you mean,’ she said, nodding in a satisfied way. ‘Now don’t scowl at me, queen, I don’t mean to tale clat on you. Just you go off and enjoy yourself, like our Trixie always does. And if you want to bring the young man back here for a bite of supper, he’ll be welcome as the flowers in May.’

Kath smiled lovingly at her parent. Sarah was right when she said Mrs Ripley spoiled Trixie, but didn’t her mother spoil them all, when you came down to it? Since Kath’s father died Mrs Ripley had worked in a large bakery on Everton Road. It was hot and demanding work, especially at this time of year, but nothing ever prevented her mother from coming straight home after work to cook her family a sustaining meal. Yes, Mam is a heroine and we are lucky to have her, Kath thought, jumping to her feet and kissing her mother’s round, pink cheek. ‘Thanks, Mam. You’re the best, and I expect we will come home, though not necessarily this evening.’ She glanced round at the assembled company. ‘I’m just going to change into my best bib and tucker, then I’ll be off.’

She was about to whisk out of the kitchen when her aunt Prue gave a squeak. ‘Best bib and tucker, eh? I trust you’ll come back to give us a mannyking display afore you bobbies off.’

Kath laughed and made for the stairs. ‘Since I’ll be wearing the only decent cotton I possess, it won’t exactly stun you,’ she called. ‘But I’ll give you a twirl before I go off to meet my pal.’

An hour later, Kath was approaching Lime Street station with her heart bumping in delighted anticipation of the meeting to come. She had not seen John for a year, and then they had only met half a dozen times before he had been recalled to his regiment, but she had no doubt she would recognise him on sight. They had arranged to meet at the Continental Café but Kath felt a strong compulsion to go straight to the station, especially when she saw a number of soldiers emerging from the concourse. And she was right, for she had scarcely reached the station entrance when she saw a sturdy, familiar figure, black hair pushed beneath a rakishly tilted forage cap, and a broad smile lighting his face as their eyes met.

She had meant to be calm but welcoming; instead she found herself in his arms whilst their lips met in a long, hungry kiss. When they broke apart she was trembling, but shook her head disapprovingly at her own behaviour. ‘What must you think of me, kissing you in a public place with everyone watching?’ she asked him as he slid an arm round her waist and began to lead her out of the crowd spilling on to the pavement. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I meant to shake your hand.’

John laughed and squeezed her waist. ‘If you’d looked around you, Kitty my love, you’d have seen that almost everyone was kissing and hugging, so no shame there was in what we did. Now where’s this tea room where you thought you could get away with a handshake?’

Kath giggled, loving the fact that he alone had adopted the nickname Kitty. She reached up and kissed his chin, though he was only a couple of inches taller than she, feeling that it was no sin to show affection but simply natural. ‘It’s not far, just a hundred yards or so along the pavement, and a very respectable place. If we’d kissed in there they would have turned us out. Honestly, John, even hugging in public is considered not at all the thing.’

John stopped short. ‘Isn’t there somewhere else we could go?’ he asked plaintively. ‘I don’t fancy being turned out into the cold, cold snow if I so much as squeeze your hand.’

Kath giggled again. ‘It’s a baking hot day in August and if any snowflake was brave enough to venture out it would sizzle on the pavement,’ she declared. ‘But the tea room sells some of the best food available in the area and it isn’t expensive either. We could have poached eggs on toast, a big pot of tea for two and a cream cake for one and tuppence each. Of course it’s not real cream, but you can scarcely tell, honest to God, John.’ By this time they had reached the café and she drew her companion to a halt, then looked enquiringly into his kind brown eyes. ‘Well? What do you think?’

For answer, John pushed the door open and led her to a secluded table at the back of the room. ‘Since we need to talk, one place is as good as another,’ he said, beckoning to the waitress. ‘I’ve a plan which I think might solve our problem. I take it that Trixie is still claiming I’m her beau?’

‘I’m afraid she might be,’ Kath admitted and explained that her sister was at a bit of a loose end since Rodney had returned to the front.

John grimaced. ‘Damn!’ he said bluntly. ‘Still, I’ve had this idea . . . let me explain . . .’

‘Fire ahead,’ Kath said cheerfully as the waitress brought a laden tray to their table.

John waited until she had departed, then began to eat, speaking between mouthfuls. ‘I say, you were certainly right; this is prime grub. Real eggs, and toast as thick as a tram driver’s glove. But I must tell you my idea, see what you think. I’ve got a pal who’s a gunner like me and he’s on furlough right now. Normally, he would go home to be with his folks, but he’s promised to spend some time in Liverpool with an old uncle who was good to him when he was a youngster. Uncle Emrys – that’s the uncle’s name – is living with a daughter-in-law who doesn’t have much patience with him so my pal means to take him around and so on whilst he’s home. He’s booked in at a lodging house, but the old feller goes to bed early and rises late, so I suggested he might like to meet Trixie, take her about a bit. Owain is a grand chap, so I thought, if Trixie agrees, we could go about in a foursome.’ He grinned shyly at her across the table. ‘Once the other two are at ease with each other, you and I can slip off and have some time to ourselves. What do you say? I’ve arranged to meet him in the buffet on Lime Street station in an hour. If you don’t like the idea . . .’

‘I do, I do!’ Kath cried excitedly. ‘It’s a wonderful idea and Trixie will love it.’ She glanced at the clock which hung on the wall above the door leading to the kitchens. ‘I suppose we could go and meet her out of work, but I’m not sure that would be wise. It must seem more casual. Trixie is a great one for dancing, so if I say you and another lad want to make up a foursome and go to the Daulby Hall, I’m sure that will do the trick.’ She hesitated. ‘Only is this friend of yours very handsome? Because if he isn’t something really special, she’ll make a dead set for you.’

John laughed. ‘He’s a bit older than me, but a grand fellow with a nice way with him. Girls go mad for him, Kath. If he doesn’t sweep Trixie off her feet, I’m a Dutchman!’ He finished off his poached eggs, pushed the plate aside and reached for a cream cake, then glanced up at the clock. ‘Glory be, we’d better get our skates on or we’ll be late for Owain. Can you eat a cream horn in two minutes flat? I can!’

They finished their meal at a gallop, paid the bill and headed back towards the station. As they entered the buffet, Kath looked round hopefully, but it was impossible to pick out one soldier from amongst the throng of uniforms. John, however, headed straight for a tall man lounging against the wall with a mug of tea in one hand, whilst the other rested on his kitbag. ‘This is Owain Jones, a pal from my company,’ John said as the stranger held out a strong, tanned hand. ‘Owain, this is my girl, Kath, the one I’m always talking about, so don’t forget, she’s spoken for; it’s her sister we want you to charm.’

‘I don’t see myself as a charmer precisely,’ the man said, giving Kath an appraising look, and then a somewhat embarrassed smile. ‘Down to earth, that’s me. Just a simple farmer in civilian life, if the truth be known.’ He addressed Kath directly. ‘Only I’m going to be in Liverpool for most of my furlough, so when John here said he knew of a pretty girl who would enjoy keeping me company . . .’

‘And I’ve made sure she was respectable, like,’ John put in with a lurking grin. ‘He’s a serious bloke is Gunner Jones, a Welsh Methodist, and he don’t believe in strong drink or wicked women. Both being farmers and speaking Welsh has made things easier for us.’

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Jones,’ Kath said formally. There was no doubt that John’s friend was a handsome fellow, but she could see at a glance that he must be in his mid-thirties, a good deal older than Kath herself, let alone her sister. His curly, light brown hair was streaked with grey and he looked as though he took life seriously. Kath knew that Trixie liked her beaux to be young and lively and feared that she would expect her, Kath, to partner Owain. However, she could scarcely say so whilst Owain was present. Instead, she took her courage in both hands and said what was in her mind. ‘I’m sure it’s very good of you, Mr Jones, to agree to take my sister about, but she
is
only young, and she might find you rather intimidating. What’s more, you might find her too frivolous, so don’t think John and I won’t understand if you’d prefer to give us the go-by. Trixie is very pretty and very sweet, but she’s a bit like a little butterfly, fluttering from flower to flower, and—’

‘I’m not exactly a flower, Miss Kath, nor am I contemplating marriage, but merely a ten-day friendship,’ Owain said mildly, in a deep, heavily Welsh-accented voice. ‘If I were after a wife, I’d be looking for a nice little Welsh girl who neither drinks, swears nor smokes, but can bake bread, make butter, milk a cow, plough a field . . .’

‘Where I come from, horses plough the fields,’ John said, and ducked as Owain aimed a blow at his head. ‘Look, Owie, me and Kath have eaten, but you’ve not had a chance to do so. What say we get fish and chips and go back to Kath’s place? Then you can meet Trixie.’

‘I thought we’d agreed I’d bring her along to the Daulby Hall,’ Kath said, but already it had occurred to her that Owain’s looks alone would probably make him acceptable to her sister. Rodney had been a weedy young fellow, a subaltern with his company, and in her heart Kath doubted if Trixie would have looked at him twice had he not been an officer. Owain Jones, however, was considerably more impressive, being tall and well built, with that indefinable air of self-confidence which, Kath thought, made a man doubly attractive.

But John, who had dumped his kitbag on the ground as they talked, slung it over his shoulder once more, tucked Kath’s hand into the crook of his arm and beckoned Owain Jones to follow. ‘I’ll be coolly polite to Trixie and leave my old mate here to charm her,’ he said. ‘Come along, troops, best foot forward. Left, right, left, right . . .’

When Kath sought her bed that night, it was with the pleasing knowledge that things had indeed worked out as she and John had hoped. Trixie, the self-confident, had been in awe of Owain Jones at first, but from the moment he had walked into the kitchen she had had eyes for no one but him. They had spent a pleasant evening eating the fish and chips which Owain had insisted on paying for and there had been much talk about the war, which both John and his friend were confident was nearing its end. Only when they were drinking a cup of tea and preparing to part did Owain give Trixie his delightful smile and explain that though he would have to spend some time with his uncle during the day, he was as free as a bird in the evenings. ‘And I suppose you’re working anyway,’ he added. ‘What time do you finish?’

Blushing brightly, Trixie said she would be free from six o’clock, and Owain promptly suggested that the four of them might visit the theatre together. ‘A good show there is at the Playhouse,’ he said. ‘Nothing too serious, mind. Or we could find a dance.’ He smiled at Trixie, and if his smile was avuncular, Trixie did not appear to notice. ‘You look like a girl who can dance up a storm, as they say. How about it, cariad?’

Trixie had chosen to go dancing, as Kath had guessed she would, and the next time the sisters met, a couple of days later, Trixie was full of the charms of her new beau. ‘An older man knows how to make a girl feel important,’ she said. ‘I were real cross wi’ you at first, our Kath, fixing me up without a word – but I do like Owain, more than any other man I’ve ever met. Did he tell you he were a rich farmer before the war, and means to be a rich farmer again when it’s over?’ She hugged herself, shooting her sister a triumphant glance. ‘I bet you never thought your little sister would beat you to the altar, eh? But I wouldn’t be surprised if Owie popped the question before he returns to France.’

‘And would you say yes?’ Kath asked curiously. The two sisters were in their room, preparing for bed. The next day was Sunday, and the men had suggested a trip up the Mersey in a pleasure boat, culminating in a meal at a country inn which John knew from his previous visit to Liverpool.

Trixie considered the question, her head on one side and one forefinger pressed against her dimpled chin. ‘Marriage is a big step, but I do believe I’d enjoy being a rich farmer’s wife,’ she said ingenuously. ‘And I’d love a big white wedding. I’d have you and Lou as my chief bridesmaids and six or eight of the cousins as ordinary ones. I’d make Dad give me away in top hat and tails if his ship were in port, and cousins Jeff and Albert could be groomsmen. If the cathedral were finished, I’d have the wedding there, but as it is it’ll either be the iron church or St Nicholas. Which do you think is the prettier, Kath?’

‘Oh, either; but since Mr Jones is a Welsh Methodist, perhaps he’d prefer one of the chapels,’ Kath suggested. She could not help smiling at her sister’s remarks, which showed all too clearly that she was in love not with her proposed bridegroom but with the romantic idea of a wedding.