Time to Move On (2 page)

The first hour started slowly but by eleven the place was full. A dozen conversations filled the air and the buzz of voices and the occasional burst of laughter excited her. This was how she wanted to spend her life, creating a place where people felt at home, for a little while at least, where they could relax and enjoy the food she and her mother prepared. She hoped Paul Curtis didn’t intend to spoil it.

She heard the sound of a powerful engine and glanced at the door. She was tuned in to the sound of his MG. Oh dear, at the very last moment his table was occupied! She hurried across to see to the newly arrived customers and was relieved when they stood to move to a table near the window. Two people were leaving and she hastily stacked their dishes and efficiently filled her tray, flicking the odd crumb from the table before hurrying into the kitchen, where used dishes stood in regimented order waiting to be washed.

She heard the till give its
ching ching
as customers paid, then her mother asking, ‘What would you like this morning, sir?’ She brushed her hair back, refixed her silly hat which her mother insisted she wear, glanced at her reflection in the mirror placed for them to see into the tea rooms, and went out. He was looking at a newspaper but as she entered he smiled and nodded before his gaze returned to his paper. Was his smile wider than usual? Was he remembering her battle with the eggs and the recalcitrant dog? Deep breaths and she went on with her work trying to pretend he wasn’t there.

Jessie took his order, a scone with the jam and cream served separately, as he liked it, and a cup of tea. He didn’t stay long leaving a tip as usual and nodding his thanks as he left. Seranne waited and at the door he turned and smiled. She sighed. ‘And that’s my excitement for the day,’ she whispered to Jessie.

‘His name is Luke. I heard someone greet him as he came in,’ Jessie whispered back.

They closed at one o’clock on Wednesday and often went to the wholesalers hoping for bargains in china or glass to replenish their stock, depleted by years of shortages, but today Seranne wanted to talk to
someone
.

She didn’t drive, so she would make the journey to Cwm Derw on two buses. She expected her mother to go to the wholesalers as usual, but as she left, Jessie was dressed in one of her smartest suits, hair and make-up immaculately done, waiting for Paul.

Babs closed the bakers’ shop at one but Seranne didn’t expect to be there until half past two. She wished she had phoned. Babs might have already gone out for the afternoon. Fortunately Tony was passing and he stopped to give her a lift. Babs was still at the shop when they arrived, having been held up by a flurry of late customers. Seranne helped her wash the shelves and put the cardboard cutout of a sad baker boy
showing
a ‘Sorry, we’re closed’ notice in the window.

‘Mam’s got a new boyfriend,’ she began when they were finally finished.

‘That’s hardly surprising. She’s had several in the past and they don’t stay long. She gets tired of them very quickly, doesn’t she?’

‘Usually, but this time they’ve booked their wedding.’

‘What!’

‘She doesn’t have a ring and she’s only know him a few months but they are getting married at the register office on the eighth of November, would you believe.’

‘Well I suppose, if it works out, it will be nice for her. After all you’ll probably marry one day and otherwise she’d be on her own.’

‘Of course she wouldn’t. We run the tea rooms together and that wouldn’t change.’

‘But she’s still young … ish!’

‘She’s forty. I’m twenty-two. She was only eighteen when I was born.’

‘Twenty-two and I’m three years older. Time
we
were married, Seranne. Are you sure you won’t marry my brother?’

Seranne put on a mock serious expression and said, ‘Even Tony would be better than being on the shelf, I suppose.’ Then they laughed. It was a long-standing joke between them.

‘What about this party a week Saturday night? Or we could go to the local hop this week instead of my date with Keith? We aren’t that passionate about each other any more and I’d be glad of the excuse to cancel.’

‘I don’t feel like dancing.’

‘A good reason to go then, you misery!’

‘All right. Better than watching Mum and Paul canoodling.’

Babs sighed. ‘I could to with a nice canoodle, couldn’t you?’

On Saturday it was again Tony who obliged with transport and the two girls set off with the intention of having a good time. They both enjoyed dancing although they didn’t go as often as they would have liked because of the very early start to their days. There were several girls there they knew and with their mood set for fun they found laughter easy.

To their surprise, Paul Curtis walked in and almost immediately began to dance with a young woman, whispering in her ear, making her laugh. Angry, the mood ruined, Seranne waited until Babs had joined a group of their friends, then left the hall and spent the rest of the evening in the cloak-room, blaming Paul for her ruined evening.

The following morning, after staying the night with Babs, she refused a lift home and left early to get home by bus. Being Sunday there were fewer buses and after several long delays, she wished she hadn’t been so insistent on refusing Tony’s offer of a lift. But she knew this was the only morning when Tony could sleep later than usual. Besides, she needed to be on her own, to decide what – if anything – to say to her mother.

She kept thinking of Paul flirting with the young girl and feared for her mother, who seemed to be about to make another mistake. She got off the bus some distance from home, unable to sit any longer, filled with the need to walk. It wasn’t far and the crisp cold morning made it almost pleasurable. Mist shrouded the trees, frost glistened on the pavement and she felt her feet slide, unstable on the three-inch heels of her dancing shoes. Stupid to walk in them. Why hadn’t she carried some sensible ones?

Muttering to herself, walking cautiously, rather like a drunk, she stepped on to the road and made her way across to where a light glowed from above the dark windows of the tea rooms. She wondered if her mother knew where Paul had spent his evening and the temptation to tell her was strong. Surely she ought to be told? If she were to marry him, and find out too late that he was a womanizer surely that would be worse than making her face it now?

She felt a chill of guilt knowing that her resentment towards mother’s plan to marry was not really because she thought Paul unsuitable. The truth was she was afraid. Her mother was the only person in her life apart from a few friends; no relations, not even a distant cousin. Her mind kept filling with imaginary scenes. None were pleasant. She was taken by
various
routes into the future, each one a trip to loneliness, while her mother
and Paul went off together, their lives filled with laughter and happiness.

Her resentment towards her mother marrying was because she was afraid of being left alone. How selfish was that?

She stood on the pavement hesitating about going in. Ignoring her freezing cold feet in the flimsy shoes, she walked past the flat unwilling to go inside, then back again to stare through the windows of the tea rooms, wishing it would all return to normal. She crossed the road,
wishing
there was somewhere to go for an hour or two while she calmed her restive thoughts. How could she pretend everything was all right,
knowing
Paul had been out dancing while her mother – his fiancée – had sat at home unaware? Surely she had to tell her. Not for selfish reasons, but to save her mother from making a big mistake.

‘You’re wandering around as though you’re lost, but as you live across the road that can’t be true.’ The voice startled her and she turned to see the man from the corner table looking down at her, his smile barely
visible
in the early morning gloom.

‘I was thinking!’ she said, embarrassment making her voice sharp.

‘Don’t let me interrupt, then.’

He slowly backed away, arms open in apology, and on impulse she added, ‘I’m thinking about my mother.’

‘Oh? Is it something I can help with? I’ll listen if you want to talk.’

‘She’s getting married.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘The man she’s planning to marry was at a dance in Cwm Derw last night.’

‘Cwm Derw? That’s a long way to go for a dance.’

‘My friends have a bakery there.’

‘Hopkins?’

‘Yes, and he was there, dancing and flirting with a young woman.’

‘You’re probably jumping to conclusions. Men and women dance together and have fun together without automatically misbehaving.’

‘We’ve seen him there before.’

‘You’re wondering whether or not to tell your mother?’

‘D’you think I should?’

‘Most definitely not! You can’t interfere in the lives of others, without knowing all the facts. I’ve had experience of how devastating that can be.’ With that he walked away, leaving her wondering what sadness he’d experienced and also, whether in her mother’s case, her
not
talking could have a more devastating result. Still uncertain about what to do, she went up the stairs calling to her mother.

‘I caught the early bus,’ she told Jessie when she went inside.

‘Oh? Did you enjoy the dance? You must have seen Paul there.’

‘Paul? Well. I – I thought I saw him but presumed I was mistaken.’

‘No, he was with friends celebrating their daughter’s twenty-first birthday. Something arranged a long time ago. I was invited, but thought it better not to go.’

Seranne wondered whether she would dare tell the man at the corner table he had been right. He had saved her from storming in, in her usual quick-tempered way, telling her mother she was being fooled and
upsetting
her. She was grateful not to have made a terrible mistake.

Her mother was in the kitchen dealing with a fresh batch of cooking the following morning when the man she now knew as Luke came in and made his way to his usual place. Self-consciously she went to ask for his order and at once said, ‘You were right, about not telling my mother. She already knew.’

‘Good, I can understand how difficult it must be for someone like you to hold back.’

‘What d’you mean?’

He looked into her eyes, laughter in his, offended injury in hers which quickly changed to embarrassment when he said softly, ‘Are there omelettes on the menu? I saw you quarrelling with a small terrier a few days ago.’

‘Yes. Well. He startled me and eggs aren’t easy to replace.’ She took out the small notebook with its dangling pencil and said, ‘One of our scones with jam and cream served separately? Thank you, sir.’ There was just a slight edge to the ‘sir’.

Her mother went out that evening and Seranne sat in the living-room doing neat darns on some of the worn tablecloths before ironing them. She thought about Paul and wondered whether this time her mother might have got it right.

Jessie had been married three times, firstly to Seranne’s father, who had died when she was a baby in 1930, then to Simon Laurence, who gave Seranne his name when he adopted her. They were divorced when she was ten and he had dropped completely out of their lives. The third was Peter Wood who had disappeared during the war, but Seranne suspected he hadn’t died, but had resulted in another divorce. Since then there had been several friends but none lasted very long, to Seranne’s relief. Although each one was different from the last, there was always
the fear that they would stay and make changes to her life. She knew the fears were selfish, but running the tea rooms with her mother was all she had ever known.

From what she had gathered, Paul Curtis owned a small factory making leather goods, mostly shopping bags, travel bags and ladies
handbags
, but also wallets and shaving cases and manicure sets. He drove a smart Vauxhall car and dressed well. He obviously had money and certainly didn’t lack charm. Perhaps he
would
be the one to make her mother happy. Perhaps too Luke was right, and it wasn’t her place to offer an opinion. But however she fought it, the fear was still there. Tony was right, she was afraid of change. A third person would ruin the
pleasant
way she and her mother lived their lives.

Jessie was so happy as she planned her wedding that Seranne hid her doubts and pretended to share the excitement. She hated the way the flat was rearranged to make room for Paul. The furniture was shuffled around and several pieces were discarded. A small table that had been her grandmother’s disappeared, taken by Paul together with her father’s desk and chair while she was out, and she didn’t get a sensible reply when she asked their whereabouts.

‘Your mother didn’t want them any longer,’ Paul explained. ‘Isn’t that sufficient reason to find them a good home?’

She suspected him of selling them and outwitting him became a game. She arranged for Tony to collect anything her mother decided to discard for Babs to look after, ready for that distant ‘one day’ when she might need them for a home of her own. A couple of armchairs and a painting that Paul declared he disliked were put in store before Paul could remove them, and if he was disappointed he didn’t show it.

She had mixed feelings as her mother’s bedroom was rearranged and prepared for sharing, drawers emptied and space made in the wardrobe for his clothes. New bedding had been acquired and Seranne found it embarrassing to think of her mother sharing a bed with this stranger who was coming into their lives.

She began searching the newspapers for evening activities to join, anything to avoid spending evenings in the flat. How could she sit there and make conversation while they stared into each other’s eyes and wished her elsewhere? Yet there were things she and Jessie needed to discuss. They would still share responsibility for the tea rooms and that meant working together and discussing the day to day running of the place.

As the wedding day approached, Seranne discussed her worries with
Babs on the telephone and Babs came up several times using the bakery van and encouraged Seranne to get all her worries out in the open. She tried to coax her not to be so afraid. ‘Why should anything change?’ she insisted. ‘Paul won’t interfere with the business. He owns a factory making leather bags. How can that give him the authority to advise on selling cakes in a café?’