The Caxley Chronicles (9 page)

He had another cause for concern. He strongly suspected that things were not well with the family finances and only wished he could ask his father openly about the situation. Somehow, it was not easy to speak to him. Bertie awaited an opportunity, half-hoping, half-fearing that his father would broach the subject, but time passed and nothing was said. It did not escape Bertie's notice, however, that his father was more preoccupied than usual, and that some of the stock was not being replaced when it was sold. He had a pretty shrewd idea that Tenby's had hit his father's trade more seriously than he would admit.

Nevertheless, the staff still numbered six, presumably were
being paid, and were content with their lot. Bob, who had been at North's since leaving school, was now head assistant and Bender left more and more responsibility to him. He had grown into a harassed vague individual with a walrus moustache. His steel-rimmed spectacles screened myopic brown eyes which peered dazedly at the world about him. Despite his unprepossessing appearance the customers liked him and the staff treated him with deference. Unmarried, he lived with his old mother and seemed to have no particular vices, unless whist at the working men's club, and occasional bets on a horse, could be counted against him. Poor, plain Miss Taggerty, who was in charge of the kitchen ware at North's, openly adored him, fluttering her meagre sandy eyelashes, and displaying her distressingly protruding teeth and pink gums, in vast smiles which Bob appeared not to see. Only the very lowliest member of North's staff, young Tim, aged thirteen, sniggered at Miss Taggerty's fruitless endeavours and was soundly cuffed by the other assistants when so discovered. To them, disrespect towards Bob was tantamount to disrespect to Bender and the family. If Bob seemed satisfied with conditions in the business, Bertie told himself, why should he perturb himself unduly?

Summer slid into autumn, and the picnics and river parties gave way to concerts and dances as the days drew in. It was in October that the Caxley Orchestra gave its grandest concert each year, and in 1913 Winnie North appeared for the first time among the violinists.

Her family turned up in full force to do her honour. They sat in the front row of the balcony at the Corn Exchange.

'In case Mary wants to go out during the performance—you know what she is,' said her mother.

Mary, dressed in white silk with a wide sash of red satin, was beside herself with excitement. This was better than going to bed! Her eyes sparkled as she gazed about the crowded hall. Hilda, matronly in black velvet, did her best to quell her youngest's volatile spirits. Bender, at the end of the row, smiled indulgently upon his handsome family and their friends.

For the Howard family had been invited to join the party, and although Sep and Edna had excused themselves, and their youngest was in bed with the mumps, yet Leslie and Kathy were present and were to take Winnie and Bertie to their home for supper after the show.

As the performance went on the air grew warmer and more soporific in the balcony. Bertie found his attention wandering as the orchestra ploughed its way valiantly through Mozart's 'Eine Kleine Nachtmusik'. Along the row he could see Kathy's bronze leather shoe, wagging in time with the music, beneath the hem of her yellow skirt. Below the balcony, ranged neatly in rows each side of the wide gangway he could see the heads of almost two hundred worthy Caxley folk.

There was the mayor's bald pate, shining and pink, gleaming in the front row. Beside him were the glossy black locks, suspiciously lacking any silvery flecks or light and shade, of his sixty-year-old wife. Near him Bertie could see the bent figure of old Sir James Diller from Beech Green, his ear trumpet well in evidence and his shaking head cocked to hear every indistinct sound. Immediately behind him sat his manservant, ready to aid his ageing master if need be. In the same row were the manservant's sister and her husband, the local butcher,
there to hear their two sons performing, one as a flautist and the other as a violinist.

Bertie's eyes wandered farther afield. There was the postmaster, whose son had just lost a leg as the result of a train accident. There was the cobbler who drank, the schoolmistress who sang like an angel and the elderly curate of St Peter's who was father-confessor to half the parish. There was Mrs Gadd, the watchmaker's wife, who was aunt to Bob at the shop, and refused to have anything to do with him, for reasons unknown, and always demanded to be served by Bender himself. There was her cousin, known to young Caxleyites as 'old Scabby' because of his unfortunate complexion, and the chastiser of Bertie, aged six, when he had trespassed into the old man's garden in search of a lost ball. And beyond him was Louisa Howard, aunt to Kathy, and a thorn in the side of the Howard family because of her rebellious ways. Her flaming red hair and flaming red nose matched the flaming temper which scorched all with whom she came in contact.

'A vixen,' Bender called her, 'and a vicious vixen at that. If she'd been a boy she'd have been packed off to sea.'

Bertie's eyes strayed back to the platform. Husbands, wives, ' sons, and daughters, nieces and nephews scraped and blew, banged and squealed to the pride of their relatives in the audience. Bertie watched his sister's smooth fair head bent above her violin. Her pretty plump arm sawed energetically up and down as she concentrated on the music propped up before her.

How closely they were all tied, thought Bertie! Not only by the bonds of kinship which enlaced most of those in the Corn Exchange, but also by the bonds of shared experience.
They not only knew each other, their faults and their foibles, they shared the town of Caxley. They knew the most sheltered spot to stand in the market square when the easterly wind blew sharp and keen across the cobbles. They knew where the biggest puddles had to be dodged on dark nights, and where the jasmine smelt sweetest on a summer evening. They knew where the trout rose in the Cax, where a nightingale could be heard and where lovers could wander undisturbed. They knew who sold the freshest meat, and who the stalest. They knew who made the stoutest boots, the smartest frocks and the best pork pies. In short, they were as closely knit as a family, and as lucky as villagers in a village, in that Caxley was small enough, and leisurely enough too, for them to appreciate each other and the little town which was home to them all.

Nodding gently, in the pleasant stuffiness of the balcony, Bertie gazed through half-closed eyes at his fellow-citizens and found them good.

Some chaps, mused Bertie to himself, would be itching to get away from all this at my age, but Caxley suits me!

He caught sight of Kathy's tapping toe again and sat up straight.

Yes, Caxley would certainly suit him, he decided, as 'Eine Kleine Nachtmusik' crashed triumphantly to a close, and he joined enthusiastically in Caxley's generous, and wholly biased, applause.

W
INNIE WAS
flushed with excitement after the performance. Bertie had never seen her looking so pretty, nor had Leslie, it was plain.

They sat at the Howards' supper table and Bertie, hungry after three hours of Caxley music, looked with pleasure at the magnificent pork pie which stood before Sep at one end of the table, and the huge bowl of salad before Edna at the other. One of Sep's superb bread rolls, with a carefully plaited top, lay on each side plate, and Bertie broke his in two, savouring its delicious fresh scent.

'Let us call a blessing on the food,' intoned Sep sonorously, and Bertie hastily put his erring hands in his lap and bent his shamed head. It was bad enough to look greedy. It looked even worse to appear irreverent. Cursing his luck, Bertie could only hope that the whole table had not seen his actions. But, catching the eye of Winnie across the table, he soon saw that one member of the family would tell the tale against him later on.

'Lord bless this food to our use and us to Thy service,' droned Sep, his thin hands pressed together and eyes tightly shut.

'Amen,' murmured the rest of them, and there was an uncomfortable silence, broken at last by Sep himself who picked up a large knife and fork flanking the pie and began to
cut the golden crust, with almost as much reverence as his saying of grace.

Bertie, anxious to reinstate himself, passed the butter dish to Edna and complimented her on the superb vase of late roses which were the centrepiece of the table.

'Your ma gave them to me,' replied Edna. Bertie fell silent and studied the tablecloth.

It was a white damask one similar to those used in the North household, but much greyer, and badly ironed. Bertie could not imagine his mother allowing such a cloth on their own table, and certainly not such thick white plates, chipped here and there, and covered with minute cracks across the glaze where they had been left too long to heat in the oven. His knife blade wobbled on its handle, and the tines of his fork were so worn that it was difficult to spear the slippery pieces of tomato on his plate. He wondered why Sep and Edna endured such shabby adjuncts to their superb food, and also, as a rich crumb of pastry fell into his lap, why they did not think to provide table napkins. But it was positively churlish, he told himself, to think in this way at his host's table, and he set himself out to draw Edna into conversation about young Robert's mumps. He felt Kathy's eyes upon him across the table, and hoped she did not think too badly of his early gaffe.

'It's a funny thing,' Edna began energetically, 'but one side of his neck don't hardly notice, but the other's up like a football. Of course he can't swallow a thing, and his poor head's that hot you could poach an egg on it!'

Once launched, Edna sailed along readily enough, and Bertie allowed his mind to wander.

Only Winnie seemed to sparkle and Leslie too was at his
gayest. Their end of the table, where Sep presided, seemed considerably livelier than Edna's where Bertie was doing his best to woo the subject from infectious diseases, but with small success. Edna had no small talk, and, as Dan Crockford had found years before, very little of interest in her beautiful head. But she liked to chatter, and the subject of mumps had led, naturally enough, to measles, whooping cough, diphtheria and other children's ailments which had caused Edna dramatic alarm over the years.

'And that young Dr Martin, whose gone over to Fairacre now—and a good thing too if you ask me—he came and had a look at our Leslie. And I said to him: "He's got yellow jaundice, doctor," and do you know what he said?'

Bertie murmured politely.

'He simply said: "And how do you know?" With that poor little ha'porth as yellow as a guinea! It didn't need much to tell a mother what was wrong with him, but doctors don't give no one any credit for having a bit of sense. Though I must say, speaking fair, he give Leslie some very strong medicine, which did him a world of good.'

She gazed down the table at her second-born, and sighed happily.

'Make a lovely couple, don't they?' she said artlessly, and Bertie felt his heart sink. Was it really becoming so obvious to everyone? Could it be that a marriage would be arranged between the two? Bertie felt cold at the thought, and even Kathy's smiles and cheerful conversation after supper could not quite dispel the chill at his heart.

They made their farewells soon after eleven and emerged into the quiet market square. The stars shone brightly from a
clear sky above the tumbled Caxley roofs. In the yard of the public house a horse snorted, as it awaited its master. A few late home-goers straggled past Queen Victoria's upright figure, and somewhere, in the distance, a cat yowled in a dark alley.

Leslie had accompanied them down the stairs and opened the door at the side of the shop for them.

'Goodnight, Leslie, and thank you again,' said Bertie. But Leslie was not listening. Bertie saw that his hand held Winnie's tightly, and that the two were exchanging a look of complete love and understanding.

The Norths crossed the square, turned to wave to Leslie silhouetted against the light from his open door, and entered their own home.

Bertie made his way to bed that night with much food for thought.

It was soon after this that Bertie acquired his first motor-car, and it did much to distract the young man from his cares. It was a small two-seater, an A.C. Sociable, by name, and had been owned by young Tenby, the son of the flourishing ironmonger in Caxley High Street, since 1909 when it was in its first glory. Young Tenby, now married, with one son and another expected, had bought a larger car. It was the envy of all Caxley, a glossy new Lanchester, and Bertie was able to buy the old one at a very favourable price. One of his first trips was to Beech Green to take his mother to visit Ethel, now happily married to Jesse Miller, and also awaiting the birth of her second child.

Hilda, her hat tied on with a becoming grey motoring veil, sat very upright beside Bertie trying to hide her apprehension. But once the terrors of Caxley High Street were past, and they entered the leafy lane which climbed from the Cax valley to the downs beyond, her fears were calmed, and she looked about her at the glowing autumn trees with excited pleasure. Speech was well-nigh impossible because of noise and dust, but once they had drawn up, with a flourish, outside the farmhouse door, she complimented Bertie on his driving.

'Thank you, mamma,' said Bertie, secretly amused, 'but it's what I've been doing ever since I left school you know. I'm glad you weren't too frightened.'

While the two sisters exchanged news, Jesse Miller took Bertie round the farm. Harvest was over early that year and the stubble in Hundred Acre Field glittered like a golden sea. The two men crunched their way across it, Bertie envying his uncle's leather leggings which protected his legs from the sharp straw which pricked unmercifully through his own socks. He was glad when they approached the hedge of a cottage garden and Jesse paused to speak to the family who were working there. He bent down and removed some of the cruellest of the tormentors from the tops of his boots and his socks, and caught a glimpse through the bare hedge of a pretty girl, with her father, and a tall young man with red hair.