Lime Street Blues Page 3

  ‘They’ll start dancing any minute. I’ll come and help myself.’

  The tray quickly emptied and she returned to the kitchen for more. Minutes later, Nelson Eddy began to sing ‘Lover Come Back to Me’. It was one of the records the Clayburns had brought with them and she knew the words off by heart. She sang along at the top of her voice, knowing she would never be heard above the din in the drawing room.

  ‘You have a lovely voice, Rose. Though I should have known. Everything about you is lovely.’ Colonel Max was standing in the doorway, watching her with a sober expression on his plain little face that always reminded Rose of a lovable monkey. He looked just a little bit drunk. The gay atmosphere had made her feel a tiny bit drunk herself, though not a drop of wine had passed her lips. ‘Dance with me,’ the colonel pleaded. ‘It’s something else I dreamed about in France when things got unbearably bad.’ He seized her about the waist and began to whirl her around the table.

  ‘I can’t dance,’ she gasped.

  ‘Neither can I, my dear, and this shoulder doesn’t help.’

  She laughed out loud as she attempted to keep in step. ‘You’re mad, Colonel.’

  ‘Mad about you, Rose. Mad about you.’

  There was a loud cough and a voice said stiffly, ‘Excuse me.’ Tom Flowers entered the room.

  ‘Go away, Tom,’ the colonel cried. ‘Can’t you see Rose and I are busy?’

  ‘Your mother is asking for you, sir. There’s someone she’d like you to dance with.’

  ‘He only calls me “sir” when he’s annoyed,’ the colonel said gaily. ‘What’s the matter, Tom? Are you jealous? Tell my mother I’m otherwise engaged.’

  Rose stopped dancing and pushed him away. ‘If you don’t mind, Colonel, I think it’d be best if you went.’ Mrs Corbett’s anger would be directed at her, not her son, if she discovered what he was up to.

  Sniffing tragically, the dejected colonel went to do his mother’s bidding. For a long while, Tom Flowers stayed where he was, just inside the door, not speaking. Rose was uncomfortably aware of his dark, brooding face and burning eyes.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ she said when the silence had gone on for too long.

  ‘What wasn’t?’ Tom growled.

  ‘That Colonel Max asked me to dance.’

  ‘I know that.’

  There was another silence, then Tom said in a strained voice, ‘You’ve never seen my house, have you?’

  It was the last thing she’d expected him to say. ‘Yes, I have. I’ve passed it loads of times.’

  ‘I’d like you to see it proper.’

  ‘That’d be nice,’ she said politely.

  ‘Come tomorrow, after lunch. About two o’clock.’

  ‘All right, Tom. Thank you.’

  Disraeli Terrace consisted of ten whitewashed houses with gardens front and back, the only properties in long, winding Holly Lane, about a mile from Ailsham. The houses had been built a hundred years before by the Corbett family for their farmworkers, Tom informed Rose the next day. Anthony Corbett had been a Conservative Member of Parliament and a friend of Benjamin Disraeli, the Prime Minister, hence the name of the terrace.

  At the turn of the century, Tom said, the farm land was sold to a local farmer, along with the houses – all except one. When Anthony Corbett died, he had bequeathed the end property, number ten, to his gardener, Ernest Flowers, as a reward for a lifetime of loyal service. The land had been extended, so that the plot of number ten was three times as big as the other nine. Two years before his death, when Colonel Max’s father had had electricity installed in The Limes, he had insisted his gardener’s house be in receipt of the same facility.

  ‘It’s the only one in the row,’ Tom said proudly.

  ‘And it’s actually yours.’ Rose was greatly impressed.

  A glorious sun shone out of a clear blue sky, exactly the same shade as her best frock, as he showed her around the garden; a velvety lawn surrounded by a wide border of magically scented bushes, flowers and small trees comprising every colour of the rainbow. He told her the names. ‘Them’s hydrangeas, that’s broom, the tree in the corner’s lilac and that one’s cherry. They’re begonias, my favourite. They last till the summer’s almost out.’

  ‘It’s a nicer garden than The Limes,’ Rose said admiringly. ‘More colourful, more . . . ’ She searched for the right word. ‘More haphazard.’

  Tom looked pleased. ‘Mrs Corbett likes things to be neat and regular. I prefer them a bit wild, haphazard, like you said. I used to grow all my own vegetables until Mother passed away five years ago. The vegetable patch has been lying fallow ever since, but there’s still plenty of fruit. Do you like strawberries?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rose breathed.

  ‘Well, you can eat the lot come next June.’

  ‘Those flowers around the back door are very pretty.’

  ‘Them’s clematis.’ He pointed to a sturdy garden shed. ‘That’s where my dad used to smoke his pipe – Mother wouldn’t allow it in the house. Let’s go indoors, see what you think about the kitchen.’

  Children were playing in the other gardens, their cries and laughter oddly muted in the heat and stillness of the afternoon air. She couldn’t remember a child having been near The Limes and the sounds made her smile. ‘I love it here,’ she cried.

  Tom was watching her delighted face. ‘It’s lovely having you.’

  They went inside and she said she much preferred his kitchen to the one in The Limes. It had the same red tiled floor, but was only a fraction of the size, as was the table and the dresser with its flower patterned china.

  ‘It’s just right,’ she said. ‘Not too big and not too small.’ The electric stove had four hotplates and an oven and appeared much easier to use than the Aga. A long window over the sink looked out on to the garden. It needed lacy curtains and a bowl of flowers on the sill, she thought.

  ‘The parlour’s through here.’ He showed her into a cosy room full of dark furniture and a comfortable leatherette three piece. The wallpaper was patterned with swirling red roses. There was an attractive maroon tiled fireplace with a matching rug in front.

  ‘You’ve got a wireless,’ Rose exclaimed. ‘And a piano. I’ve always wanted to play.’ She sometimes played the piano in her dreams.

  ‘It’s never too late to learn,’ Tom said gruffly.

  ‘Chance’d be a fine thing.’ She laughed. ‘Mrs Corbett wouldn’t let me near her piano.’

  ‘You can play that one whenever you like.’

  ‘Thank you, but I wouldn’t know where to start.’ She thought it a very peculiar offer. She touched the gleaming lid, which had recently been polished, and couldn’t, for the life of her, imagine him with a duster. ‘Who keeps everywhere clean?’

  ‘A woman along the way, a widder, does it in return for me doing her garden. She makes my meals an’ all. Come on, Rose.’ He ushered her through another door into a narrow hall with narrow stairs, apparently determined to show her every inch of his house. Although she felt flattered, she couldn’t help but wonder why.

  ‘Have you got any brothers and sisters?’ she asked as she climbed after him.

  ‘Two brothers, both younger than me. They left Ailsham for Canada in nineteen twenty-three, not long after Dad died. They send cards at Christmas, but they’ve never been back. This is the main bedroom.’

  They entered a large square room with a low ceiling, more highly polished furniture, and a bed with a brass head and foot.

  ‘It’s very nice,’ Rose said truthfully. She would have preferred lighter wallpaper everywhere, but it seemed rude to say so.

  The two other bedrooms were smaller, but a perfectly adequate size. Tom remembered he hadn’t shown her the bathroom. ‘It was just an outhouse next to the kitchen, but I had it converted. You can see it later. Would you like a glass of lemonade?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  They returned to the kitchen. Tom’s hands shook as he poured the lemonade. He seemed unusually agitated. ‘R
ose,’ he began, then paused, his face glowing a bright, beetroot red.

  ‘Yes?’ she said encouragingly.

  ‘Rose, will you . . .’ He paused again. ‘Lord Almighty!’ he groaned in an anguished voice. ‘I never thought this’d happen to me at my age.’ He stood and went to the window, looking out, not at her. ‘Rose, I want to marry you. I want you to be my wife.’ He turned and said huskily, ‘I love you, girl. You’re on my mind every minute of every day. It’s driving me insane.’ He fell on his knees in front of her. ‘What do you say, Rose? The house, everything I have is yours. I’ll look after you, worship you, for the rest of my life.’

  Rose bent and put her cheek against his hot one. When she thought about it later, it seemed incredible that she didn’t feel in the least surprised. Tom sighed and slid his big arms around her waist. They stayed like that for a long time, both perfectly content. She had given him his answer. More than anything in the world Rose wanted to be loved.

  ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, girl?’ Mrs Corbett asked worriedly when Rose took in her morning tea a few days later.

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘Tom’s a fine man, the best, but he’s more than twice your age, very old-fashioned and set in his ways. You’ve had no experience of life. There’ll be plenty of young men after you when you’re older.’

  ‘I want to marry Tom,’ Rose said stubbornly. All Mrs Corbett cared about was losing her maid, knowing she’d never find another while there was a war on. That was the only reason she looked so worried.

  Three months later, on a golden day in September, when the leaves were just beginning to fall, Rose Sullivan became Mrs Thomas Flowers. Colonel Max was Tom’s best man. There were only three other guests; the Clayburn sisters, who dressed identically and pretended to be bridesmaids, and Mrs Denning.

  ‘The luckiest chap in the world has just married the prettiest woman,’ the colonel said soberly when he kissed the bride. ‘Are you happy, Rose?’

  ‘I’ve never been happier, Colonel.’

  ‘Then I hope you stay that way, my dearest girl.’

  Rose couldn’t understand why there were tears in his eyes.

  Part Two

  Chapter 2

  1957

  Jeannie Flowers lay face down on the grass. The hot sun beat down on her back through her school frock, and she liked the way the dry grass tickled her nose and chin, and the palms of her hands.

  ‘Would you like a strawberry?’ her mother enquired.

  ‘In a minute, Mum.’ She didn’t want to move. She felt as if she was part of the garden, connected to the earth itself, as she listened to the birds chirrupping fussily away in the hawthorn hedge and the humming of a bee that was probably nestled in one of the buttercups or daisies that sprang up minutes after the grass was cut – or so her dad claimed.

  ‘Mind you don’t get grass stains on your frock, and don’t forget your piano practice!’

  ‘I’ll get changed in a minute and practise after tea.’ Any other day but Friday, she would have taken off the frock as soon as she got home to wear for school next day. She lay where she was until the bee sounded dangerously close, then sat up.

  Her mother was sitting on a cane chair with the bowl of strawberries she’d just picked on her knee. Rose Flowers – ‘the prettiest name in the world for the world’s prettiest woman’, according to Jeannie’s dad – had spent the day preparing food for the weekend; pies, savoury and sweet, a large slab of bunloaf, dozens of scones and fairy cakes, and three crusty loaves. The strawberries were for jam. Rose gave one to her daughter. There was a film of flour on her arms and a dab on the end of her little straight nose. ‘This looks the biggest.’

  ‘Ta, Mum.’

  Mother and daughter, one a smaller version of the other, didn’t speak for a while, both thinking about the weekend ahead.

  Tomorrow, Ailsham Women’s Institute was holding its regular Midsummer Fête on the village green. Rose was in charge of the white elephant stall and the garden shed was full of bric-a-brac that people had been bringing for weeks. Jeannie had offered to help, mainly because she had her eye on a pretty manicure set and an enamelled compact, which Mum had refused to let her buy until the day because it wouldn’t be fair.

  ‘And anyway, love, I’m not sure if you’re old enough to have a compact at eleven.’

  ‘Oh, Mum. There won’t be powder in it, will there?’ Jeannie had snorted.

  ‘Not if I’ve got anything to do with it,’ her father had said grimly. Women only used cosmetics to disguise the fact they were plain, he claimed, and most didn’t manage it successfully. Jeannie’s mother had been forbidden to wear make-up – she’d never owned a lipstick in her life.

  Dad was entering his marrows and tomatoes in the vegetable show and would almost certainly win again. Some people said this was unfair, Tom Flowers being a gardener by trade, to which Tom would reply that he could have entered a dozen varieties of vegetables and swept the board, not to mention a host of blooms. He had roses in his garden as big as cabbages.

  Jeannie could smell the roses now. Their sweet scent, mixed with the quite different smells emanating from the kitchen, made her even more aware of how utterly perfect life was. If she’d had more energy, she would have leapt to her feet, done a little dance, and sung a little song to express her happiness.

  Instead, she uttered a long, contented sigh. Her mother looked up and their blue eyes met. They understood each other. Rose smiled. ‘Lovely, isn’t it,’ she breathed.

  ‘Mm!’ Jeannie nodded. They were the luckiest, most fortunate family in the world. On Sunday, her younger brother, Gerald, would be nine. Instead of a party, Gerald had asked to go to New Brighton on the ferry, which involved catching the train from Ailsham to Liverpool, then the boat from the Pier Head.

  Weekends were always enjoyable, but this was going to be one of the best.

  Her elder brother, Max, came into the garden, looking cross. He threw his royal blue blazer, his satchel, and then himself on to the grass. ‘Bloody teachers!’ he groaned.

  ‘Max!’ his mother gasped.

  ‘They damn well are. Well, some are.’

  ‘What did you do wrong?’ enquired Jeannie.

  ‘Nothing.’ Max’s tone was hurt. ‘Not a damn, bloody thing, yet I still got the strap.’

  ‘I’m sure you must have done something to deserve it, son.’

  ‘You always say that,’ Max said hotly. ‘You and Dad are never on my side. It so happens that, in the dinner hour, some lousy idiot saw two grammar school boys smoking in Orrell cemetery and reported them to the Head. When they refused to own up, Mr Francis decided to punish everyone who’d been out. Me and Chris Beatty only went to buy lolly ices and ended up getting walloped.’

  ‘That seems awfully unfair, Mum.’ Jeannie was anxious that the happy atmosphere not be spoilt. The normally easy-going, if excitable, Max had become quite tetchy lately. He was fourteen, a handsome boy, proud of his good looks, but worried he was growing no taller, while the other boys in his class were shooting skywards. Far more worrying for Jeannie was that he had begun to have violent arguments with their father, whose word until then had been law. Max was named after Colonel Max Corbett, their father’s employer and best friend.

  ‘Where’s your cap?’ Rose enquired.

  ‘In my pocket.’

  ‘And your tie?’

  ‘In the other pocket.’

  ‘Would you like a strawberry? And there’s lemonade in the larder.’

  Jeannie got to her feet. ‘I’ll get the lemonade.’

  ‘Ta, sis.’

  Max came into the kitchen with her, claiming he was hungry. He helped himself to two of the fairy cakes that were for tomorrow’s fête. ‘Where’s our Gerald?’ he asked with his mouth full.

  ‘Gone looking for frog spawn in Holly Brook.’

  ‘Lucky sod. I wish I were eight again. One thing I’d never do is pass the bloody eleven-plus. If I’d failed, I’d have gone to an ordinary schoo
l like every other boy in Ailsham. I’d be learning useful things, like woodwork, not stupid Latin.’

  ‘I quite hope I pass the eleven-plus.’ Jeannie had sat the exam a few weeks before.

  ‘Then you must be mad.’

  Gerald arrived with a jam jar full of frog spawn, which he emptied into the garden pond. Rose came indoors to prepare vegetables for the tea; home-grown potatoes, runner beans, and carrots. She turned on the oven to heat up a steak and kidney pie she’d made earlier. Jeannie stayed to help, while Max went into the parlour to do his homework, and Gerald disappeared into the lavatory with that week’s Beano.

  On Fridays, Rose always waited for Tom to come home so the family could have tea together. At exactly ten past six, the latch clicked on the gate, and Jeannie looked up to see the tall figure of Tom Flowers wheel his bike into the shed.

  Seconds later, he came into the kitchen, his darkly sunburnt face moist with perspiration, clasped his wife in his broad arms, and kissed her. It was a full minute before he noticed Jeannie. ‘Hello, luv.’ He chucked her under the chin. ‘Shouldn’t you have changed out of that frock by now?’

  ‘I was just about to, Dad. I’ve been helping Mum.’

  ‘And have you done your piano practice yet?’

  ‘I’ll do it later,’ Jeannie said patiently. She liked playing the piano, practising regularly every day, and couldn’t understand why people found it necessary to remind her.

  ‘Where are the lads?’

  ‘Around somewhere. Jeannie, set the table, there’s a good girl. Tea will be ready in a minute.’

  Jeannie threw a yellow and white check cloth over the big pine table, and began to put out the knives, forks, and placemats with a hunting scene that Dad had bought her mother last Christmas, along with a jug of cream and a bowl of cold stewed apple for afters. She quickly changed her school frock for an old one, and five minutes later, the Flowers family sat down to tea.

  Outside, the sun continued to shine and the birds to sing. A cool, welcome breeze sprang up, blowing gently through the open door and windows, and Spencer, the cat, returned from one of his adventures. Spencer was a great black tom, with a white vest and three white paws. He jumped on to the dresser and, with calm dignity, watched them eat.