Time Goes By (6 page)

‘Have you come to join us?’ she asked. ‘Are we about to welcome a new member?’

‘I hope so,’ he replied. ‘But I’ve just come along to watch tonight.’

‘And to see if you like us?’ Winifred enquired.

‘Oh, I’m quite sure I shall do that,’ he smiled. ‘I was a member of a drama group several years ago, but I haven’t done much acting just lately. I will be quite content for the moment to act as an ASM if you need one.’

‘We certainly do, don’t we, Winnie?’ replied his sister. ‘Our stage manager, Wilfred, is very good, but he’s past retiring age now and he’s always glad of extra help. Anyway, come along, Jeff, and I’ll introduce you to some of the members.’

Winifred decided she would look forward to chatting further with him when they had their cup of tea halfway through the evening; but for now she must get on with the job in hand, collecting the money and welcoming the members.

The play reading began with the casting of the two roguish young bachelors, Jack and Algernon. It was more or less a foregone conclusion that the parts would go to the two youngish men, Dave and Tony, who were both in their mid-thirties. Possibly a little too old for the roles, but there was a shortage of really young men.

There were several young women who were willing and well able to take the parts of the two girls, Gwendolen and Cecily. There was total agreement though, fortunately, when the role of Gwendolen was given to Thelma Bridges, who was Tawny Owl to the Brownie pack. At
twenty-three
she was a little older, but not all that much so, than the character was supposed to be. The part of Cecily was awarded to Thelma’s friend, Isobel, which pleased the pair of them.

When the tea and biscuits were served Winifred, purposely, did not seek out her new acquaintance, but she was not at all displeased, or surprised, when he came to join her.

‘Your turn next,’ said Jeff Bancroft, pulling up a chair and sitting next to her. ‘My sister says you’re auditioning for Lady Bracknell?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Pardon me for saying so, but aren’t you too young and … er … attractive for such a role?’ She could see that he was not trying to flirt with her. He was obviously sincere in what he was saying, so she
took his words at face value. She smiled.

‘Thanks for the compliment! I can assure you I’m quite old enough, although we don’t know Lady B’s exact age, do we? Yes, I realise I’m not the usual stereotype, but I don’t see that that matters. I feel I could put my own interpretation on the role. Does she need to be corpulent and hatchet-faced? I don’t really think so. Anyway, she’s a character part I’ve always fancied having a go at. My days of playing the young ingénue have long gone, I’m afraid.’

‘Mine too, alas,’ he replied. ‘But never mind; age has certain compensations.’

Winifred nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ She smiled at him questioningly. ‘Such as?’

‘Well, now you ask me I’m not quite sure, but there must be some.’ Jeffrey laughed. She recognised the Yorkshire accent as he spoke, not too pronounced, but typical of the folk from the rugged northern hills, gravelly and issuing from way back in the throat. She remembered Mavis saying that her brother lived in Bradford, the city where Mavis also had been born. ‘No, I’m joking,’ he went on. ‘Of course there are compensations. For a start, we’re wiser now, aren’t we? Years of experience must have taught us something. We’re not so ready to rush into things or make mistakes, or perhaps not quite so many.’

‘It’s said, isn’t it, that the person who never
made a mistake never made anything?’ answered Winifred thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever made any really drastic mistakes … but sometimes life takes over, doesn’t it, and you haven’t much control over what happens to you. You can’t always please yourself; sometimes decisions are already made for you.’ She realised she was becoming rather introspective. ‘Sorry …’ she smiled. ‘I didn’t mean to start soliloquising. But don’t get the wrong impression. I’m not complaining about my lot. I lead a very contented life.’

‘And a very full one, I believe,’ answered Jeff. ‘My sister has told me about your hotel, and about how you look after your little niece. You’ve no children of your own?’

‘No, I’ve never been married,’ she replied. ‘I was one of the very many girls who lost someone in the first war. It’s a long time ago, though. Who can tell whether it would have been a good marriage … or a mistake? We were very young, but it seemed right at the time. However, it just wasn’t to be.’ She was finding it very easy to talk to Jeff, but she realised she hardly knew the first thing about him. Mavis had mentioned, casually, that her brother was coming to live in Blackpool when he had managed to sell his house in Yorkshire. And now, here he was, and he did seem to be quite interested in talking to her.

‘Yes, it was a dreadful conflict,’ he replied. ‘Well,
both wars were, but I’m afraid I can’t speak from any real experience. I was just too young to join up in the first lot, to my parents’ great relief. My elder brother was wounded on the Somme. He lost an arm, but at least it meant that he didn’t have to go back. And he’s still going strong, I’m glad to say. Then I was called up with my age group in the second war, but I never got any further than the very north of England. I must confess I was relieved. I felt I was rather too old to be a “have-a-go hero”, and life was too precious for me to want to throw it away. But at least I did wear the uniform for a while.’

‘The same as my brother,’ observed Winifred. ‘He joined up – he was in the catering corps – but he didn’t leave these shores.’

‘And then he was widowed, I believe?’

‘Yes …’ answered Winifred. It seemed that Jeffrey Bancroft already knew quite a lot about her family circumstances. ‘Albert lost his wife towards the end of the war, but we’ve both tried to do what we can for our little Katherine – Kathy, we call her.’

‘Yes, I was widowed too,’ said Jeff, ‘three years ago. But my two children were already married with families of their own.’ That answered a question that Winifred had been wanting to ask, but had not felt able to. Mavis had not mentioned whether her brother was coming to live here on his own, or whether he had a wife and family.
And Winifred, at that time, had not really been curious enough to enquire.

She murmured the conventional, ‘I’m so sorry … about your wife, I mean.’

He gave a sad smile. ‘Yes … it’s always distressing, but I have to confess that it was not an ideally happy marriage. We were young – too young, as we both came to realise – but we stayed together for the sake of the children. It was a shock, of course, when I lost Beatrice. It was very sudden; an aneurism, and we weren’t even aware that she had a weak heart. I grieved for a while, more than I expected to. But then I knew it was time to move on. Both my children have moved away. My son is in Canada, and my daughter’s in the south of England, so I don’t see them as much as I would like to …’

‘So you decided to come and live in Blackpool?’

‘Yes. Mavis is my only sister and we’ve always got on well together. I decided to move away from the grime of the mill towns – although it’s not so bad as it used to be – and enjoy some of your famous fresh air and Blackpool breezes.’

‘And are you enjoying it?’

‘Yes … but it doesn’t half blow here! I was nearly blown off my feet on the lower prom the other day, to say nothing of getting soaked by an enormous wave crashing over the sea wall.’

Winifred laughed. ‘Yes, we residents have learnt to beware of the tides. Do you live near the sea?’

‘Yes, I have a little bungalow in an avenue near to Gynn Square.’

‘And what about your job? You were able to find employment here?’ Winifred realised then that she might be seeming rather nosey, but he was so easy to talk to. ‘I’m sorry …’ she said. ‘I’m asking too many questions.’

‘No, not at all,’ he replied easily. ‘Actually, it didn’t make any difference to my work because I’m self-employed. I’m a freelance artist.’

‘My goodness! That sounds very clever.’

Jeff smiled. ‘Well, let’s say it’s one of my very few talents. I’ll be able to help you with your scenery … I do illustrations for greetings cards and children’s books, and for book covers. Anything, really, that I’m asked to do. I suppose you could call me a jobbing artist, but it keeps the wolf from the door.’

‘I’m very impressed,’ said Winifred. ‘Oh … I think they’re ready to start again. It’s been nice talking to you … Jeff.’

‘The pleasure is all mine … Winifred,’ he replied. ‘And … good luck! Or should I say “break a leg”?’

She laughed. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not superstitious.’

Her chat with Jeff Bancroft had enhanced her sense of well-being and had, somehow, imbued her with confidence.

The other lady auditioning for the part was older and plumper, looking altogether more like a typical Lady Bracknell. But there was little doubt when they had both been heard what the outcome would be. The part was awarded to Winifred and the other contender gave way graciously.

‘Congratulations!’ said Jeff, as they put on their coats ready to depart. ‘I knew you’d do it.’

‘Thank you,’ said Winifred, humbly. ‘I must admit … I’m rather pleased.’

‘Now, may I offer you a lift home?’ he said. ‘Or do you have your own transport?’

‘No, I don’t drive,’ she replied. She knew it would be churlish to refuse; besides, she had no intention of doing so. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s very kind of you.’

His car was parked outside, a Ford Popular, about two years old, she assumed, although her knowledge of cars was limited.

‘So I’ll see you next week,’ he said when they pulled up outside Holmleigh. Like the perfect gentleman she had already assumed him to be, he jumped out and opened the passenger door. ‘I’m very pleased to have met you, Winifred. Goodnight, my dear. See you soon …’

‘Goodnight, Jeff,’ she said. ‘I’m pleased as well.’

She walked to the front door feeling a lightness of spirit that she had not known for ages.

T
he spring open evening was one of the most important events in the school year. The children had been in their new classes for almost two terms, by which time the teachers knew them all very well and were able to discuss with the parents their varying strengths and weaknesses.

Each teacher did his, or her, very best to make their classroom as attractive as possible. Sally Roberts, at four o’clock on that Thursday afternoon towards the end of March, looked around her room with a quiet smile of satisfaction. The exercise books had all been marked up-to-date and were arranged in tidy piles on the children’s tables, with a printed name card on the top that the parents could easily identify. Sally’s own desk had been tidied, and a vase of daffodils and freesias added a spring-like and welcoming touch.

The display on the walls, though, was of the greatest importance. It consisted of the children’s paintings and drawings, each one carefully framed and mounted; examples of stories the children had written, and their first attempts at poetry; and a large mural, taking up nearly the whole of one wall, depicting the story of
The Pied Piper of
Hamelin
. Sally had read them Browning’s poem and they had been fascinated by it. It was very sad, of course, the story of the children being lured away, and just one little crippled boy being left behind. But they had all seemed to take it in their stride, as they had done with Grimms’ fairy tales. They certainly were grim, with their instances of wicked witches, cruel stepmothers and terrifying ogres.

Sally had learnt, though, that children liked to be scared at times. They seemed to understand that it was not real, and that they were safe, when the story came to an end, in their own comfortable little world. At least, that was true for the most part. She had reason to believe that one or two of the children in her class were somewhat neglected – and it was usually the case that the parents of this minority were the ones who did not turn up to open evenings or other school events. And there was little the teachers could do, unless the neglect bordered on cruelty or deprivation, when steps would need to be taken. However, this area
of North Shore was, by and large, what was considered a good catchment area and there were few real problems.

The mural was the
pièce de résistance
of Sally Roberts’ classroom and she looked at it with a feeling of satisfaction. It was largely the children’s own work, apart from the large figure of the Pied Piper that she had drawn and the children had coloured in red and yellow. There were rats of all shapes, sizes and colours: orange, brown, fawn, grey, black and white. The houses of Hamelin, likewise, varied in design, mostly with the black beams typical of that part of Germany, standing at crazy angles with steeply sloping roofs and crooked chimneys.

She gave a contented nod, then put on her coat that hung by the door and went out into the corridor, then out of the side door. Phil Grantley was in the car park. This was really a small area of the playground that had been sectioned off for the use of those teachers who had cars, although there were only four of them who felt able to afford one.

‘Want a lift, Sally?’ called Phil, and she was pleased to accept.

‘Thanks, Phil,’ she said, scrambling into the passenger seat of his small Morris car. ‘Seeing that we have to be back at six, it doesn’t give us much time.’

‘All done and dusted then?’ he asked as they drove off.

‘Yes, all ready for the onslaught,’ she replied. ‘Most of the parents of my class have said they are coming, but it remains to be seen. Do you think this new system will work better?’

It had been decided by the headmaster, and agreed by the rest of the staff, that the parents should be given a five-minute slot, which was all that time would allow, in which to speak to their child’s class teacher. It would, hopefully, do away with the queues and the melee that had sometimes occurred in the past.

‘It ought to,’ replied Phil. ‘There was no end of a barney in my room last time, one chap saying that they’d been waiting half an hour and that another couple was barging in. There was very nearly a punch-up till I stepped in.’

‘I shouldn’t think they’d want to argue with you, Phil,’ smiled Sally.

Phil Grantley was a six-footer and well built too. He did a little boxing in his spare time. He was the physical education teacher, as well as teaching one of the fourth-year junior classes, and was often to be seen in his tracksuit, as he was now, because he took most of the classes for games. No doubt he would be more suitably dressed that evening, in a suit and tie. Dress code was carefully observed amongst the staff, it being
the view of the headmaster that teachers should set an example in tidiness and suitability of clothing.

‘Do you fancy coming for a drink with us tonight, Sally, when we’ve finished here?’ asked Phil. ‘I’m hoping it will all be over by half past nine at the latest.’

‘Thank you; that would be very nice,’ she replied. ‘Where are you thinking of going?’

‘Oh … probably one of the hotels on the prom, the Carlton or the Claremont, maybe. The bars are not too busy out of season and they’re not quite so rowdy as some of the town centre pubs. Us lads don’t mind, but we must consider the ladies, mustn’t we? Some of you prefer a bit more class.’

Sally smiled. ‘Why? Who’ll be going?’

‘Brian and Alan and me, and some of the younger lasses. I don’t know about the older contingent or the married women. We can ask them, but they’ll probably say no.’

‘It’s nice of you to include me,’ said Sally.

The infant teachers were all women, as was the norm. Sally felt that she fell between two stools; they were either several years younger, or older, than herself. Sally was thirty-four and already felt as though she had been teaching for a lifetime; she had been at the same school for all of the time. Fortunately, though, she loved her job.

Several of Sally’s colleagues on the infant staff
were young women who were quite new to the profession, aged twenty-one to twenty-five. Some of them were already married and juggling the two jobs of looking after a home and husband, and full-time teaching. It was usual, though, to stay at home when the first child arrived. The other teachers were older, fiftyish and sixtyish, with two approaching retirement age.

Sally felt herself more drawn to the junior teachers, several of whom were of a similar age to herself. She found that the men on the staff – there were five of them, six including the headmaster – added a touch of levity and lightness to the atmosphere. Although all of them, it must be said, were very competent teachers, the men, on the whole, did not take themselves or their profession too seriously, or get as tensed up about it as some of the women did. She got on well with the women, some of them single, as she was, and some of them married with teenage families. She was often included in their outings, usually at Phil’s invitation, and she appreciated it.

‘We enjoy your company, Sally,’ Phil replied, in answer to her remark. He glanced across at her and smiled, causing his craggy face to crease into laughter lines around his mouth and his warm brown eyes that always reminded her of those of her gran’s spaniel.

She knew that several of the staff wondered
whether the two of them were secretly going out together, but that was not the case. They were, at the moment, just good friends. Sally had discovered that beneath his brawn and his commanding appearance, Phil was really quite shy. He had joined the staff eighteen months ago, but had still not got round to asking her out on her own. Always supposing, of course, that he wanted to do so, and she was not even sure of that. Phil Grantley was something of an enigma. She knew, though, that he was roughly the same age as herself and, as far as she knew, quite unattached.

It was not far to Sally’s home, and they did not converse very much on the journey, Phil being a careful driver.

‘Cheerio then, Sally,’ he said, as she jumped out of the car. ‘See you later … I shall look forward to our drink together,’ he added, almost shyly. Then, ‘Shall I pick you up tonight?’ he asked, as though he had just thought of it. ‘About a quarter to six, is that OK? It’ll save you waiting around for a bus.’

‘Thanks very much, Phil,’ she replied. ‘I’d be really glad of that. See you later, then. Quarter to six will be fine.’

Well, that was a step in the right direction, she thought to herself, although she was not altogether sure, really, about the direction she wanted their friendship to take.

‘Hello, dear; had a good day?’ called her mother as she opened the front door. It was her usual greeting and Sally replied, as she usually did, ‘Yes thanks, Mum … I haven’t got much time,’ she added. ‘Shall I get ready before tea, or what?’

‘Your tea’s all ready for you, dear,’ replied her mother. ‘I remembered you have to be out again for six o’clock. I’ve made a nice shepherd’s pie and it’s keeping warm in the oven. Your dad and I will have ours later when he comes in from work. That’s the beauty of shepherd’s pie; it won’t spoil.’

‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Sally. ‘You’re a treasure. I’ll just wash my hands first, then I’ll get ready afterwards.’

‘Best bib and tucker tonight, eh?’ Her mother beamed at her.

‘Yes, that’s right, Mum. We must try to impress the parents. Although they’ll be looking at the children’s work, not at the teachers’ clothes.’

Sally knew that her mum, and her dad too, were very proud that she had been to college and had become a teacher. Her mother had told her many times that it was what she would have liked to do, but it had been impossible. She had been one of a large family of children; she had left school at thirteen and had gone to work in a store that sold clothing for both men and women. It was there that she had met her future husband, Bill, and they had married when she was just
twenty years of age. She had assured Sally that she had never regretted it, and Sally knew that that was true. She doubted that there could be many couples of her parents’ age who were as happy or as satisfied with their lot.

But Millie Roberts had been determined that her children should have all the advantages of higher education that had been denied to her and Bill, should it be possible. Jack, though, their second child and only son, had had other ideas. He had joined the merchant navy as soon as he was old enough and, consequently, he was always away somewhere or other on the high seas. Fortunately he had come through the war unscathed, but it was a great regret to Millie and Bill that they saw him so infrequently.

And it was the same with their eldest child, Freda, who was five years older than Sally. She, too, had shown no aptitude for serious study. She had left school at fifteen and had worked as an office junior for a solicitor in the town. Her parents had been disappointed when, at the age of eighteen, she had told them she was pregnant and was going to marry Clive, the lad she had been going out with ever since she left school. They had supported her, though, rather than regarding it as a shameful event that brought disgrace to the family, as was the attitude of many parents of the time. Freda had made a good marriage;
Millie and Bill now had three grandchildren, the eldest of whom, Jennifer, was now almost twenty. But, as it was with Jack, they seldom saw Freda and her family. They had moved several years ago to Birmingham where there was more scope for Clive in his work as a motor mechanic.

So it was that Millie Roberts had come to invest her hopes and dreams in her younger daughter. It had been a great joy to her when, after training for two years at a college in Manchester, Sally had been given a teaching post at a school in Blackpool, one that was practically on the doorstep.

Sally was still contented at home, but she knew that she stayed there now mainly for the sake of her mother. She did not mind her mum’s cosseting because it was never too overbearing. Mum never asked too many questions about her private life and she had all the freedom she needed. It was very nice, she had to admit, to have her meals cooked for her and her washing done, although she did pay her way very generously and helped out with the household chores as well.

The sad fact, however, was that Sally should have been married by now with a family of her own. She had met Martin Crossley soon after she had started teaching. He had taught at a secondary school in the town, and they had met at a social gathering of the National Union of Teachers, the organisation she had joined on starting her career.
He was the first serious boyfriend she had had. They were soon very much in love but were in no hurry to get married. Sally had felt she must teach for a few years at least as her parents had invested so much in her education; and Martin, too, wanted to save up so that they could have a good start with a home of their own.

But alas, the war intervened. Martin joined the RAF and within a year had become part of a bomber crew. He was the ‘tail-end Johnny’ which, he informed Sally, was the name for the rear gunner. He was involved, inevitably, in the Battle of Britain, and in the July of 1940 Sally heard the tragic news from Martin’s parents that he had been killed in action.

She was overwhelmed by sadness, but it was fortunate that she had the long summer holiday from school in which to try to come to terms with her loss and to pull herself together. During the first couple of weeks, though, as well as the anguish of her loss she was also nearly out of her mind with worry. On his last leave, only a few days before he had been killed, she and Martin had made love together for the first – and the last – time. They had paid no heed as to what the consequences might be, which was most unlike the careful and considerate man she knew Martin to be. In the midst of her tears she prayed frantically that all would be well, although she knew it was
rather too late for prayers to make any difference. Fortunately she knew, a fortnight later, that her fears had been groundless.

‘Thank you, God, thank you …’ she had murmured, over and over again. She remembered what had happened to her sister several years before. What a shock and a disappointment it would have been to her parents should it have happened again.