Cast the First Stone (7 page)

‘For goodness' sake, what's the matter with you, Mum?' Fiona couldn't help herself now. She had wanted to tackle her mother for ages about her own appearance and the way in which she had changed. ‘You used to use lipstick yourself,' she went on.

‘And you used to do your hair nicely, not all scraped back like you have it now. It looked lovely when you curled it and put a golden rinse on it. It seems as though you don't care any more about what you look like.'

Mary smiled, still not showing any sign of anger or impatience. ‘That's the point, Fiona love,' she said. ‘I've come to realize that these things don't matter – how we look and how we dress – although I still try to look clean and respectable, of course. You see, dear, since I've come to know more about Jesus I've tried to think about what He would want me to do and how He would want me to behave. And worldly things, such as make-up and clothes, they're not so important any more. And perhaps, in time, you will come to see it that way.'

Fiona didn't answer at first. She was annoyed, and hurt as well. She had always been an obedient daughter and had never had any arguments of any importance with either of her parents. She also felt it was embarrassing to talk about Jesus in such a familiar way. ‘I do believe in God, and in Jesus,' she retorted. ‘I always went to Sunday School, didn't I? And then I was confirmed because you wanted me to be. And I go to church with you, most of the time. And I don't really believe that . . . that Jesus is bothered about me using make-up and trying to look nice. I just don't understand you, Mum.'

‘Then we'll say no more about it just now,' replied Mary. ‘But I would like you to go and rub off that eyeshadow and some of the lipstick in case the vicar notices. I don't think he would like it, especially for Communion. Go along now, Fiona, there's a good girl, and do as I say. We don't want to fall out about it, do we?'

Fiona was fuming inside. The thoughts that were forming in her mind were certainly not ones to be put into words.
To hell with the Reverend bloody Cruikshank! Why should I care what he thinks? And why does Mum let him influence her so much? Him and that mealy-mouthed wife of his!

But Fiona never used swear words out loud, and neither of her parents had ever done so. She obeyed her mother then, like the respectful daughter she had always been. She knew, though, as she received the communion bread and wine, that her thoughts were not as reverent as they should have been.

She had always been able to confide in her maternal grandmother, Annie Jowett, and she did so when she visited her the following Saturday afternoon. She took a tram to City Square and then a bus to where her gran lived in the district of Roundhay, on the outskirts of the city. She took a fruit cake that Mary had baked for her mother and a jar of marmalade from the batch she had made recently.

‘Aye, she's always been a good daughter, has our Mary,' said the elderly woman appreciatively. ‘And I know she's brought you up the same way, to be respectful and obedient. You're a good lass, Fiona.'

‘Yes, I always try to be,' said Fiona, ‘but I must admit, Gran, that they're trying my patience quite a lot recently, Mum and Dad – both of them.'

Annie nodded her head. ‘Aye, I think I know what you mean, luv. I've noticed it meself. They've got real involved in that church you go to, haven't they, since that there new vicar came? What with your dad being church warden, and your mam getting herself on the church council. Mind you, there's far worse things. If your dad was to start drinking for instance, or gambling; or if your mam was gadding about all over the place. Like the woman next door to me. She's got herself a new feller – we all know about it – and her husband's the nicest chap you could ever wish to meet.'

‘Yes, I know, Gran,' said Fiona. ‘Mum and Dad are good people. But they're so pious, so strait-laced, and they never used to be like that.' She told her gran about the altercation she had had with her mother about make-up. ‘Mum seems to think it's wrong now, to try to look nice – almost as though it's sinful. That's a word that's always cropping up. The vicar's always going on about sin and temptation.'

Annie nodded again. ‘Aye, you're right. I must admit I had a few words with Mary myself when she started preaching at me, telling me about Jesus and how she'd become a Christian. I said to her, “Look here, lass, I've been going to church all me life, at least I did until this blessed arthritis took hold of me. I know all about God, and about Jesus an' all, and I reckon I'm as good a Christian as most folk. I know I might not read the Bible every day but I say me prayers and I'm a good living woman. So you don't need to start your preaching here, thank you very much!” All the same, they're not doing owt wrong; they're happen just a bit overzealous. But you'll have to respect their beliefs, even if you can't go along with them fully. You must remember the fifth commandment. You'll never go far wrong, lass, if you try to obey God's commandments.'

‘Honour thy father and thy mother,' replied Fiona. ‘That's the one you mean, isn't it, Gran? And I do try to, you know.'

‘Yes, I know you do, luv.' Annie sighed. ‘Well, ne'er mind. I expect it's done you good to talk about it. Now, go and put the kettle on, there's a good lass, and we'll have a cup of tea and some of your mam's fruit cake . . .'

The Festival of Britain opened on the south bank of the Thames in London, in May, 1951 when Fiona was seventeen years old. It came as a great surprise to many when the leaders of the Church Youth Club that Fiona attended decided to organize a trip during the school holidays to see this great exhibition for themselves. More surprisingly, the vicar gave his consent, agreeing that it would be a worthwhile experience for the young people to take part in such an event. Provided, of course, that the teenagers were supervised at all times and were kept well apart with regard to sleeping arrangements at the hotel.

Fiona and her best friend, Diane, were amongst the ones who wished to join the excursion. Her parents had raised no objection, and neither had Diane's, no doubt because the Reverend Cruikshank had given it his seal of approval. The arrangements were made for a group of eighteen teenagers – ten girls and eight boys – with three adults, to travel to London and back by coach, staying for three nights at a modest hotel – one that provided bed and breakfast and an evening meal – near to the South Bank festival site.

‘I don't think my parents would have agreed so readily if they knew that Dave was going,' Fiona told Diane as they travelled home from school on the bus, one afternoon near the end of the summer term.

David Rathbone was Fiona's first boyfriend. He was a member of the Youth Club and had been in the same confirmation class. He was in the lower sixth form at the boy's grammar school, whilst Fiona and Diane were also in the lower sixth at the grammar school for girls. He walked home with her after the Youth Club meetings and she met him sometimes after school.

He kissed her goodnight quite chastely at first but she had realized that he was becoming a little more amorous just lately, and she knew she must be careful not to encourage him.

She was pleased, though, at the idea of having a boyfriend, like many of her sixth-form colleagues. She knew, however, from listening to their conversations that these friendships were not as innocent as hers and Dave's. That was if they were to be believed, however, which she guessed was doubtful! Dave was a secret, though, that she had kept from her parents.

‘Actually, Mum and Dad don't even know about him yet,' she told Diane.

‘Why not?' asked her friend. ‘Why don't you tell them? You'll have to sooner or later, won't you?'

‘Oh, you know what they're like,' said Fiona. ‘I'd be put through the third degree about him and given a lecture on how to behave myself – you know, about sex and all that. At least I imagine I would . . . although it's something that Mum never talks about. I fully intend to, though – behave myself, I mean.'

‘I don't suppose we'll get the chance to do anything other than behave ourselves,' replied Diane. ‘You can be sure that Mr and Mrs Wilkes will keep an eagle eye on us or else they'll have old Cruikshank to answer to. I'm jolly glad he's not going, aren't you?'

‘I'll say! He'd certainly put a damper on the proceedings. Dave says that Andy is going as well. So . . . you may well get lucky!'

‘I can but hope,' said Diane with a sigh. She had been hoping for ages that Andy Mayhew, Dave's best friend, would look in her direction, but all he seemed to be interested in was football. ‘All the same,' Diane went on, ‘whatever happens – or doesn't happen – it'll be great going to London, won't it? I've never been before. In fact I've never been any further than Scarborough, or to my aunt's in Manchester.'

‘Same here,' said Fiona. ‘Scarborough and Blackpool; that's been the extent of my travelling. I'm getting real excited, aren't you? I can't stop thinking about it . . .'

The Festival of Britain had been planned to celebrate the achievements of the country and the Empire; also as a tonic to the nation after the years of wartime and the austerity that had followed. It had been, initially, the Labour government, led by Clement Attlee, that had instigated the idea, declaring that it was time for everyone to start enjoying themselves and shake off the post-war gloom. By the time the festival opened, though, the government had lost an election and was replaced by a Conservative government, led by Winston Churchill, back in power after his surprising – to many – defeat following the war. The present party was rather less enthusiastic about the event, as it had not been their idea. Nevertheless, it was formally opened by King George VI on May third, 1951.

The Youth Club group set off on their adventure on a Monday morning in mid-August. A small coach had been hired from a local travel firm, along with one of their drivers. It would be a long journey; they were expected to arrive in London at six o'clock or thereabouts, in time for their evening meal, so they were making an early start at eight o'clock in the morning.

It was an excited group that met outside the church gates. Most of the parents had come along, in some cases father was well as mother, to bid farewell to their sons and daughters. The driver took charge of the luggage – they had each been restricted to one small case or travelling bag – storing it in the luggage compartment, then they all boarded the blue and cream coach. There was ample room and they could sit wherever they wished. Mrs Wilkes suggested, however, that anyone who was liable to suffer from travel sickness should sit near the front. No one owned up to this indignity, so Mr and Mrs Wilkes sat in the front seat with the other helper, a young woman called Rita, on the opposite seat.

The girls sat on one side of the coach and the boys on the other – not that they had been told to do so, but it seemed expedient at the start of the holiday. No doubt the situation might change as the week went on, Fiona thought to herself. She hadn't yet spoken to Dave or acknowledged that he was there, as both her parents were with her. The Reverend Cruikshank was there too, rather more jovial than usual; nevertheless, his presence did tend, somehow, to inhibit the merriment.

Fiona kissed her parents a little embarrassedly, but she knew it was expected of her; then she took her seat next to Diane, a few rows from the front. Dave, with his mate Andy, was opposite them; so that boded well for her friend, she mused.

The vicar boarded the coach at the last moment requesting that they should have a moment of prayer before they set off. He asked that the Lord would bless them all during the coming few days. ‘Keep them safe, O Lord, from harm and temptation,' he intoned in his lugubrious voice, ‘and grant them a safe journey there and back. May they enjoy, Lord, this time together for fellowship and fun with one another, and the opportunity to make new friendships and cement the old ones. Amen.'

‘Amen to that!' echoed Diane with a giggle as she nudged her friend.

‘Shut up!' shushed Fiona, aware of the vicar glancing around the coach.

Then they were off, waving goodbye to the parents standing on the pavement. They were all waving furiously as though their offspring were bound for a journey into the unknown. Some of the mothers were wiping away an odd tear. For many of them it was the first time they had been parted from their children. Others, though, had experienced a separation when their children had been evacuees, not all that long ago it seemed, and this parting brought back memories. Fiona had not been an evacuee. Mary and Wilfred could not have borne to part with her, she was so precious to them, and so, despite the anticipated dangers, they had kept her at home. As it happened their area did not suffer nearly so badly from the bombing raids as some cities had done.

The teenagers, though, were shedding no tears at the parting; they were too excited thinking of the pleasures that lay ahead. For the majority it was their first visit to the capital city.

They chattered excitedly, the noise increasing in volume until it sounded like the monkey house at the zoo, Mrs Wilkes – Sheila – remarked to her husband, Colin.

‘Ne'er mind,' he replied. ‘You can't blame 'em. It's a real adventure for most of them, I guess. They're good kids though, aren't they? I don't reckon we'll have much trouble with them.'

‘We've had our instructions, though, haven't we?' said Sheila. ‘You know that the Reverend said they were to be supervised at all times. And we did promise.'

‘I think we'll have to use our own discretion,' replied Colin. ‘They'll need a bit of freedom, some time to themselves. It's not as though they're a class of infants.'

‘Yes, we'll have to play it by ear,' agreed Sheila. ‘We can't let them wander around London on their own, of course. But they should be alright going round the Festival halls. We couldn't all keep together anyway. And there's a fun fair, isn't there, in Battersea Park? We'll have to let them loose there, Colin. So long as we make sure they're back in the hotel for . . . what would you say? Ten o'clock?'