Chocolate Shoes and Wedding Blues
TRISHA ASHLEY
Chocolate Shoes and
Wedding Blues
This one is for my friend Nora Neibergall,
distant only in miles.
Table of Contents
Chapter 26: The Birds and the Bees
Chapter 29: Describing Circles
Exclusive Recipes from Trisha Ashley
Nancy had to walk quite a way to the red call box near the village green, then stand in an unseasonably cold wind waiting for a large woman in a spotted headscarf tied turban-fashion round her head to stop talking and come out, before she could place the call to her sister.
‘At last! What kept you?’ Violet exclaimed.
‘Never mind that now,’ Nancy said tersely. ‘I’m in the phone box, so call me back. You’re the one with all the brass.’
She dropped the black phone back onto its rest, thinking that brass was something her sister had never been short of. But her latest scheme – well, that really took the biscuit …
The phone rang almost immediately. ‘I was starting to wonder if you’d got my letter,’ Violet said.
‘Oh, I got it all right – and Mother and Father got theirs, too. But what on earth are you thinking of, Violet? This mad plan of yours will never work!’
‘Viola,’ her sister corrected her automatically. ‘And of course it will – why shouldn’t it?’
‘I can think of at least five reasons off the top of my head. And you might have asked me first.’
‘We’re sisters, so why wouldn’t we help each other out of a sticky spot? And I’ve got it all planned. I’m going to rent somewhere quiet, where no one knows us, and in a couple of months you’ll be home again as if nothing had ever happened and can put it right out of your head.’
‘But something
will
have happened. And if I suddenly vanish like that, then reappear, don’t you think there’ll be talk? You know how rumours get around in the village.’
‘Oh, probably no one will notice,’ Violet said optimistically, ‘and if they do, they won’t
know
, that’s the main thing.’
‘Vi, I can’t let you do this – and don’t you think your husband might have something to say about it, when he finds out? No, we’ll have to find another way.’
‘Too late, because I’ve already written to Peter explaining everything, though goodness knows when he’ll get the letter,’ Violet said triumphantly. Despite the recent VE Day celebrations, many men were still fighting out in the Far East, Violet’s husband among them.
‘You’ve actually
sent
it? Without asking me first?’
‘Of course, because it was obviously the only way out of the situation. So you see, we’ll have to go through with it now. Peter will be fine about it when he comes home. I can twist him round my little finger,’ Violet added. ‘There’s no fool like an old fool.’
‘You shouldn’t speak like that about your husband.
You
chose to marry a much older man when you were barely in your twenties, Violet, no one forced you!’
Nancy could almost see her sister shrug her thin shoulders. ‘So, when are you coming?’
‘Violet, we can’t possibly do this. You’re quite mad to even think it!’
‘You mean you won’t come, Nancy? You’ll just tell Mother and Father the truth? Mother will probably have another stroke from the shock and shame.’
‘You’ve got Mother upset already, telling her you’d been ill again and were going to convalesce somewhere quiet and wanted me to keep you company. She was all set to come down herself and look after you, but Father wouldn’t entertain the idea for a minute,’ Nancy said. Their mother had suffered a mild stroke the previous year and, though she had made a good recovery, she was still not fully fit.
‘Thank goodness for that! But I didn’t think he’d let her. I take it they’re OK about
you
coming, though?’
‘Yes, in fact they’re so worried about you they want me to go at once. They think you’re a frail little flower since the pneumonia, though you only got that from gallivanting about in flimsy clothes in the evening with your fast friends, drinking too much.’
‘Honestly, Nan, you sound more like twenty years older than me, than two! But the sooner you come down the better, because it’s lucky no one’s noticed anything yet. There’s nothing to keep you there now, is there? I mean, you’re not
still
seeing that American pilot?’
‘No, he’s gone home and, anyway, we were just friends, really,’ Nancy said. Her fiancé had been killed in the early days of the war and there hadn’t been anyone serious since then. Not that Violet was likely to believe that.
‘Tell that to the marines!’ she said now, rudely.
‘But I
have
started seeing someone recently,’ Nancy confessed.
‘This is certainly not the time to get involved with another man!’ Violet said severely. ‘Who is he?’
‘The new curate. He’s been round to tea at our house once or twice and we’ve been for walks. Mother and Father like him and … well, he’s a good, decent man. I know I’ll never love anyone like I did Jacob, but I don’t really want to spend the rest of my life alone, either.’
‘A curate? Good grief!’ Violet exclaimed.
‘He was an army chaplain.’
‘Honestly, what a moment to pick to go out with a curate! Let’s just hope he never gets wind of this, because I don’t suppose he’d be very forgiving.’
‘Amen to that!’ Nancy said devoutly. ‘And I wouldn’t have encouraged him if only I’d known …’
‘Well, you didn’t, and with a bit of luck you’ll be back home before long, and can pick up where you left off.’
‘I don’t think I could – not without telling him the truth.’
‘You can never tell
anyone
the truth. And it’s not like you can back out of the situation now, Nan, is it? It would finish Mother off if it all came out, and as for Father …’
‘You don’t think that they’ll suspect anything eventually?’
‘They might
guess
, but that’s not the same as knowing – and everything will be nicely sorted out by then, no scandals. But you must keep it secret …’ Violet paused then asked, ‘You haven’t already told Florrie, have you?’
She knew Florrie was Nancy’s best friend and there were few secrets between them.
‘No, no one knows but you and me.’ Nancy sighed. ‘It suddenly feels as if I’m trapped in a horrible nightmare, but I can’t see anything else I can do, so I’ll be down on Monday afternoon.’
‘I don’t know about nightmare, but it’s all a damned nuisance,’ Violet said. ‘Tell me which train, and I’ll meet it.’
A woman walked up to the phone kiosk and stood shifting her feet restlessly outside. ‘Look, I’ll have to go – there’s someone waiting for the phone,’ Nancy said.
Stepping out of the booth Nancy pulled her warm coat around her against the chilly evening breeze. It was made of good but well-worn pre-war tweed with a little fur collar, and was now getting tight over her waist and tummy – but then, Nancy was a typical Bright, like her father, small and dark, and the womenfolk did tend to put on weight in their late twenties. Her sister, Violet, in contrast, was tall and fair like their mother, and stayed slim no matter what she ate.
Normally, the thought of the carrot cake her mother had made earlier would have hastened Nancy’s steps home, but now the heavy burden of lies, secrets and subterfuge she was shouldering made her feel distinctly queasy.
My name is Nancy Myfanwy Bright. My father liked the name Nancy and I was called Myfanwy after my mother. I’m ninety-two years of age and I’ve lived quietly in this cottage behind Bright’s Shoes in Sticklepond all my life, so I don’t really know why you want to record my memories for your archive, because it isn’t going to be very interesting, is it, dear?
Do help yourself to a slice of bara brith
–
it’s a sort of fruit loaf made to my mother’s recipe. There’s another kind they call funeral cake in the part of Wales Mother’s family came from, because it was always served to the mourners after an interment. I’ve told Tansy – that’s my great-niece – that she should do that when I pop my clogs, too. I’ve taught her all Mother’s old recipes …
Now, where were we?
Middlemoss Living Archive
Recordings: Nancy Bright.
As I drove out of London and headed north for Christmas my heart lifted with each passing mile. It always did, because West Lancashire – and, more specifically, the village of Sticklepond – was always going to feel like home to me. You can take the girl out of Lancashire, but you can’t take the Lancashire out of the girl …
I would have moved back there like a flash, if it weren’t that my fiancé, Justin, was an orthopaedic consultant whose work was in London, not to mention his being so firmly tied to his widowed mother’s apron strings that he spent more time with Mummy in Tunbridge Wells than he did with me. And even when he wasn’t with Mummy Dearest, I still came second to his latest passion – golf.
Justin’s mother was only one of the many things weighing on my mind – the sharp, pointy tip of the iceberg, you might say. She’d be staying at the flat in London while I was away and I knew from past experience that by the time I got back she would have thoroughly purged my unwanted presence from it by dumping all my possessions into the boxroom I used as a studio to write and illustrate my popular
Slipper Monkey
children’s books.
