True Love Ways

True Love Ways

(Midchester Memories)

Copyright © Sally Quilford 2011

Cover Image ©
Sergeyryzhenko
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Dreamstime.com

True Love Ways

Chapter One

1945

“I'm sorry to do this, Peg, but it's not safe for
Meredith to live with you.” Sheila bundled a sleepy twelve-year-old Meredith
into her thick duffle coat. “You're coming to live with me and Uncle Norman for
a while, darling. You'll have lots of other children to play with in
Sheffield.”

“She's got children to play with here,” said Peg.
“Don't take her, Sheila.” There was something pathetic in Peg's voice. It was
many years before Meredith recognised it as the fear of loneliness.

Sheila turned to her sister, and her expression
softened. “I know it's not your fault, love. You just can't help yourself when
it comes to murder. But it's not safe for Meredith. You must see that.”

“Are you saying you don't trust me around her?”

“As I said, it's not your fault.”

Peg put a hand on Meredith’s shoulder, gently
brushing back a wisp of strawberry blonde hair that covered the child’s green
eyes. “You be good for your Aunty Sheila and Uncle Norman. Promise you won't
forget your old Aunty Peg.”

Meredith threw her arms around her aunt. “I won't.
I've had the best time ever with you, hunting murderers.” Sheila pursed her
lips, and made a small ‘pft’ sound. “You will let me know who murdered Colonel
Trefusis, won't you, Aunty Peg?”

“I don't think that will be necessary,” said Sheila.
“I'll write to you and let you know how she's doing, Peg.” Sheila kissed her
sister. “I do love you, you know that, dear. But we promised Mary we'd take
care of her.”

“I've never done anything less, Sheila, but it isn't
always possible to shield children from horror. Surely the Blitz taught us
that.” The two women were silent for a moment. As young as she was, Meredith
knew they were remembering the beautiful sister they'd lost during the early
years of the war. They turned with tearstained eyes to the child who was made
in her image.

“She'll have a stable home with me and Norman.”

“I know.”

After one last hug from Aunty Peg, Meredith followed
Sheila down the garden path and into Uncle Norman's waiting car. She pressed
her face against the window, trying to get a last glimpse of Aunty Peg and the
cottage. Both were lost in the darkness.

1959

It wouldn’t be too bad if there were not so many
changes, thought Meredith, as she hauled her suitcase over the footbridge at
Stockport station. It would be even better if the porters weren’t all busy
helping other passengers. She had about five minutes to get to platform four
and catch the Midchester train, otherwise she'd have to wait another hour. If
only Aunty Sheila hadn't insisted on her packing so much. 

“Aunty Sheila, it's June. I can't see I'll need that
many sweaters.” Meredith had removed five sweaters, leaving only her favourite
green one.

“You never know, dear,” Aunty Sheila had said,
putting the sweaters back in the suitcase. “I've known it snow in June.”

It was one of those things people always said, but
which, as far as Meredith knew was not true. Perhaps, she thought idly as she
lugged her suitcase up the next set of steps, it had snowed in June once, about
a thousand years ago, and the story had just continued through the generations,
so that everyone believed they'd seen snow in summertime. As she daydreamed,
her suitcase caught on a step, and the force flung the lid open, discarding
sweaters and more personal items down the steps.

“Oh Damn!”

A man who had been walking behind Meredith stopped,
and started picking up items. “Here,” he said. “Let me help you.” He was about
thirty-five, tall, with fair hair and blue eyes. Very handsome in a clean cut
way that was rare amongst all the teddy boys and James Dean clones that filled
the streets of Britain in the late nineteen fifties.

“Thanks, really there's no need to...” She became
flustered when he picked up one of her bras. Not least because she suddenly
noticed he was wearing a dog collar. “Sorry about the bad language, vicar,” she
said. She mentally filed him as unavailable, which she had to admit made him
seem even more attractive than ever.

“Don't worry. You should hear me when I catch my
finger in the door.” He handed Meredith her things, and she bundled them into
the suitcase, and pressed the lid shut. He held it down for her whilst she
fastened the lock.

“Are you expecting bad weather?” he asked. “With all
those sweaters I mean.”

“No, but my Aunty Sheila is.” Meredith grimaced.

“Oh yes, well, Aunty Sheilas tend to know about
these things.”

“Don't tell me you've got one.”

“I have, but she's called Gloria.”

Meredith smiled. “She probably loves you very much
though, hence all the fussing. Oh, I'm going to miss the train.”

“Which one are you catching?”

“Midchester.”

“Me too,” he said, picking up her suitcase. “So let
me help you. I'll go ahead and make sure it doesn't leave.”

Without waiting for an answer, he walked ahead with
long strides. From behind he looked like a panther on the prowl, and it
occurred to Meredith that there must be something in the bible about vicars not
being so attractive.

If she secretly hoped he would sit near to her on
the train, she was to be disappointed. He kindly helped her to her carriage,
putting her suitcase up onto the rack, then smiled his goodbye and disappeared into
the crowds at the lower end of the train. She settled back, and thought about
poor Aunty Peg.

They had been sitting around Uncle Norman's hospital
bed when the news came. Aunty Sheila had rushed home from work, picked up some
letters, then dashed straight to the hospital.

“Aunty Peg has broken her ankle,” said Sheila,
reading from the letter. “She says not to worry. She's got a nurse in. But I
should go to her. If only Uncle Norman...” She looked at her husband with the
mixture of sympathy and irritation that only Sheila could manage. “You would
pick this week to have your gall bladder out,” she said.

“Sorry, Sheila,” he said.

“I'll go and stay with her,” said Meredith. “I don't
start my job at the new school till September.”

“No, that's not necessary, Meredith.” Sheila pursed
her lips in the manner that was almost a trademark.

“Aunty Sheila, I'm a grown up now. I can take care
of myself. And Aunty Peg won't be doing much sleuthing with a broken ankle.”

Sheila sniffed. “I wouldn't put it past her.”

“Let her go, Sheila,” said Norman. Uncle Norman did
not stand up to his wife very often. He liked a quiet life. Strangely enough
when he did, Sheila seldom argued.

“Very well, but don't go getting involved in any
mysteries. How Aunty Peg hasn't got herself murdered by now, I don't know.”

So here I am, thought Meredith, a wave of excitement
passing over her. On her way to see Aunty Peg for the first time in fourteen
years. She had missed her more than she ever admitted to Sheila. Aunty Peg
wrote, but unfortunately when Meredith was a child, Sheila got hold of the
letters first, so by the time Meredith read them, all the juicy bits were
struck out with thick black ink. She had held them up to the light, but to no
avail. After a while, Aunty Peg must have realised her letters were being
censored, so they had become shorter, and full of less exciting news, until the
past few years when they had all but ceased. Meredith felt sad to think that
the bond she had once had with her aunt was broken. She hoped that the next
couple of months would go some way to rebuilding it.

The carriage began to fill up. There was a middle
aged man in his fifties, with a quiet scholarly air about him. She had the
feeling she had seen him before, but could not remember where. It did not
surprise her that he wore a dog collar. He was with a woman in her mid-forties.
A real looker, as Uncle Norman would say. She had blonde hair, and was dressed
elegantly in a blue silk dress, wearing a white scarf, covered in strawberries
around her neck.  They seemed to be with another woman, who was rather less
elegant. She wore a thick grey coat of which Aunty Sheila would have approved,
but which was unsuitable for the humid weather. Her short dark brown hair,
under a mustard coloured scarf, was clean, but lank. The woman in the strawberry
scarf could have taught her a lot about sex appeal.

“Of course,” the drab woman was saying as they
entered the carriage, “you'll have your own way of doing things, Mrs.
Mortimer.”

“I'm quite happy to leave the housekeeping to you,
Edith. At least until we move on to Peter's new parish. I'm not much of a
housewife, as I warned Peter before we married. That was when he told me what a
wonder you are.” She looked with fondness at the middle-aged vicar. The woman
called Edith did too. “And do call me Clarice.” Clarice smiled in a way that
took in everyone in the vicinity, even those not in her small group.

They were followed into the carriage by two boys and
a girl. The boys were Teddy boys, each wearing a dark suit with a long coat,
drainpipe trousers, and suede shoes with thick crepe soles. Their hair was
slicked back, with a quiff at the front. From what Meredith could make out, one
was called Jimmy and the other Bert. The girl was called Betty. Like Clarice
she was blonde, but the girl's hair owed more to a bottle. It was styled in the
way made famous by Marylin Monroe, and it seemed clear that Miss Monroe was
Betty's heroine. She wore a tight striped top, with a black pencil skirt and
dangerously high heels. The look was slightly spoiled by a ladder in the top of
her stocking.

“I hope you've brought something proper to wear for
strawberry picking, Betty,” said Jimmy.

“I've got my jeans,” said Betty, touching up her
blood red lipstick.

“Good, because we don't want a repeat of last time,
when your stilettos got caught in the mud.”

“We should have left her there,” said Bert.

“Hey, you don't talk about my girl like that,” said
Jimmy. He pulled a flick knife out of his pocket. Everyone in the carriage held
their breath, whilst he sat there opening and closing it for the next five
minutes. His eyes gleamed as he looked around, clearly content with the effect
he was having on them all.

The final arrival in the carriage was an elderly
man. He took the window seat opposite Meredith.

“Sorry, Miss,” he said, stretching out his legs so
that Meredith had to pull hers in. “Got shot in the war. Can't bend this knee
at all.” His voice boomed out in the carriage. Meredith pegged him as being
ex-military.

“Was that the Boar War, granddad?” asked Bert,
sniggering.

“No, it was the Great War,” said the old man. “Some
of us have had to fight for others freedom to wear stupid clothes.”

“Hey...” Jimmy sat forward. He still held the flick
knife, though the blade was tucked away.

“That's enough, Jimmy.” The voice came from the
doorway. Meredith looked up to see the young vicar who had helped her with her
suitcase.

“Oh, hello, Drew,” said Jimmy, quickly putting the
knife into his pocket. “What you doing on this train?”

“On my way to Midchester, like you.”

“You're not checking up on me are you?”

“Not everything in life is about you, Jimmy.” The
man called Drew smiled. Meredith wondered how difficult it would be to become a
born again Christian. “I'm going there on church business.”