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  In the distance, on the curve, majestically appeared the London train. Long, massive, with fresh paint gleaming, drawn by two powerful diesel engines, it swept at terrifying speed down towards the platform. Everyone stirred, looked alarmed or expectant, seized their hand luggage, stepped towards the edge of the platform, or in timidity back.

  But their attention was distracted. For suddenly there burst into the crowd a rush of joyous young people. Young men in tail coats and grey waistcoats, with white roses in their buttonholes and a look of having left top hats outside; six young girls—yes, six, no fewer!—in the most delicious plain but well-cut thin white frocks—“They’ll freeze,” thought Mrs Ellis, alarmed for them—bands of roses in their hair, posies in their hands. One particularly handsome man, dark, tall, bright-eyed, slender—“Looks like a footballer or a cricketer or something,” decided Mrs Ellis: “with those white roses, too.” (The white rose being the Yorkshire symbol.) And one beautiful—oh, very beautiful—young girl; very fair, blue-eyed, beaming with happiness. “The bride, of course, they’re a wedding party.”

  “I think I’ll take these in the carriage with me,” said the bride pleasantly, grasping the tops of the turquoise boots. The bridegroom politely took them from her.

  And there was no doubt, of course, none at all, that the boots were hers, because her coat was of exactly the same delicious shade of turquoise as the boots. “A perfect match,” thought Mrs Ellis with satisfaction.

  The London train drew up. There was a good deal of fuss and excitement. Kisses, handshakes and confetti abounded. The elderly porter was so well tipped he beamed; at one moment it seemed as if the bride and bridegroom would miss the train, but the best man pushed them safely into their reserved seats. Everyone waved. The train moved away with dignity.

  Meanwhile the little local train had backed quietly into the other side of the platform. Mrs Ellis and Mrs Gowland had hardly noticed its arrival, but now they heard porters shouting Bradford, Hudley, Todmorden, Rochdale, Manchester and hurriedly scrambled for it. The elderly porter pushed them in and slid the door closed; they sat down side by side with a bump; the train moved off.

  “It makes you remember your own wedding, doesn’t it?” murmured Mrs Ellis.

  “It does that,” said Mrs Gowland.

  Her voice was muffled, and she was looking out of the window in a rather determined way. Mrs Ellis, surprised, gave her a glance and saw that there were actually tears in her eyes.

  “She’s not so bad, isn’t old Gladys,” thought Mrs Ellis sympathetically, “after all.”

  In the Queue

  1971

  Miss Beamish and Mrs Lumb stood next to each other in the pension queue. They were, of course, both of pensionable age.

  Miss Beamish sighed.

  Mrs Lumb turned and looked at her.

  Miss Beamish was tall and thin. She wore an old, shabby but neat navy blue coat and skirt, matching scarf, grey cotton gloves and a hat. A hat, thought Mrs Lumb in wondering contempt, laughing to herself; how ridiculous! Nobody wore hats nowadays. It was a small, dark, subdued, unnoticeable hat, to be sure; but still—a hat! Miss Beamish’s thin, greying fair hair was stretched tightly back from her high forehead, and she wore old-fashioned spectacles. A clerk or a teacher or something dreary of that kind, thought Mrs Lumb; no need to see a ringless left hand to know she had never married. Still, there was something rather sweet in her expression; her face was faded, but it might have been rather pleasant when young. Good as gold, I expect, reflected Mrs Lumb bitterly. Nothing stand-offish about her, anyway. Her boy was killed in the Hitler war, p’raps. Mrs Lumb, oddly moved to friendliness, spoke.

  “Allus a long queue for pensions,” she said.

  “Yes, indeed,” agreed Miss Beamish in her gentle voice.

  She looked at Mrs Lumb with interest. A plump, bosomy woman, wearing a slightly soiled orange (or perhaps it was meant to be pink?) cardigan and a tight black skirt. Her head scarf, very bright in shrill blue and green—were its colours what they called psychedelic?—had slipped from her head and lay in a crumpled mass round her strong white neck. Her short hair was very thick and dark, and tossed about her head in untidy waves, as though it had not felt a comb for weeks. Her face was lined but full of colour. A little too florid. Her eyes, however, were large, dark and rather fine. A handsome woman when young, I should think, reflected Miss Beamish, and an excellent mother—yes, I can see her with a lot of children who adored her. A rich, fine, useful life, full of work and love. A quiet, sad, wistful feeling, long suppressed, stirred Miss Beamish’s heart; moved to friendliness, she smiled.

  “And not much when we get it,” pursued Mrs Lumb, encouraged.

  “Better than nothing,” said Miss Beamish, resigned.

  “Well, yes. Of course,” said Mrs Lumb, “I daresay if I didn’t go out to work, I could get my rent paid by the Supplementary. Some do, you know.”

  “Do they really?”

  “Oh, yes. But my old man, you see, he wouldn’t like it.”

  “No,” said Miss Beamish, sympathetic.

  “But that isn’t reely why I go out to work.”

  “No?”

  “No. The thing is, you see, it’s more cheerful.”

  “Ah!”

  “I’m lonely, you see.”

  “I see,” said Miss Beamish, who indeed knew all about loneliness.

  “Well, you see, it’s my old man. He’s got arthritis, doesn’t move except when he has to. He just sits there all day and night, and says nothing. Never has been one to talk. It was the same with the children. Play with them, yes, but talk to them, no. Before we were married, I thought he was the grandest man; I thought it was fine, the way he hardly ever said anything. I thought it was kind of proud and noble. But now, I’m tired of it. Yes, I’m tired of it. Do you know, I sit in the evening playing patience by myself on the table, and he never says a word. I’m tired of it. So I go out to work, you see, and it keeps me cheerful, like. I sit there playing patience of an evening, and he never says a word. I don’t think he even sees what I’m doing. I don’t. I don’t reely.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you should assume that,” said Miss Beamish very seriously. “It’s hardly fair to your husband to take his lack of interest in you for granted, is it?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Mrs Lumb, opening her fine eyes wide as if surprised—she was really a bit stuck with that word assume. What did it mean exactly? Don’t be so daft, she admonished herself; you understand what she means all right. “No, I don’t think he takes a bit of notice of me nowadays, morning, noon or night, save when he needs his meals or his stick. We have one of those council flats, you know. High up. Very neat and all that, but you never see anybody. Across the way there’s a young woman with a baby, her husband’s a builder, you know, travels all over the country. She never comes in ’less she’s short of sugar, something of that kind. I never speak to nobody when I’m home, so I go out to work, you see. ’Course, the money’s useful. But if I stayed at home, I might get my rent paid. Some do. Or so I hear,” she added, suddenly scrupulous for the truth.

  The client at the counter walked away, the queue moved up, Miss Beamish and Mrs Lumb became involved in their financial affairs.

  Next week, Miss Beamish and Mrs Lumb found themselves next to one another again in the queue. (No doubt, reflected Miss Beamish, their respective buses arrived in the town about the same time.) They were both dressed as before; Mrs Lumb’s abundant hair was, if anything, a trifle wilder. Miss Beamish smiled in a friendly style, but Mrs Lumb looked sour.

  “I’m still going out to work,” she said grimly, turning her head.

  Miss Beamish looked interested. She was, indeed, keenly interested, but did not like to appear nosy by asking questions.

  “I don’t think he’s said a word to me since I saw you last week,” grumbled Mrs Lumb crossly.

  “Really?” said Miss Beamish, shocked.

  “Not one word. I might as well not be there at all.
”

  “I hardly think,” began Miss Beamish in a deprecating tone.

  “No! He doesn’t even see me. I’ll tell you. Last night that young Mrs Whatnot from across the corridor suddenly banged on the door and burst in. It seems her mother is ill and she had to go home to her of a sudden, like—been ill a long time, it seems.”

  “Then it’s not to be wondered at that she doesn’t come in to have a word with you often,” suggested Miss Beamish primly.

  “That’s right. Girl seems right enough, and a bit lonely like with her husband so much away. She had to run for her bus, so she asked us to give her husband a message when he came in—say she’d taken baby with her, and that, and he was to follow.”

  “You misjudged her,” thought Miss Beamish, but did not like to say so.

  “Happen I thought over harsh of her. But that’s not the point. Point is, when she banged so hard on door, and burst in, I gave a start, like—”

  “Very natural.”

  “Aye. And card I was holding flew out of my hand, and after she was gone I saw it had fallen against gas fire and burned a corner off. We have North Sea gas, you know,” said Mrs Lumb proudly, “and it’s hot. Eh! What a do that was. Sixteen visits we had from one and another of them men before it went right. Still, it’s settled down now, and it’s hot. Corner of card were burned right off. Of course that’s very awkward when you’re playing patience, you know. I mean a patience where you lay a lot of cards out face down. If there’s one with a corner off, you can’t help knowing what it is.”

  “And was the burnt one a very important card?” enquired Miss Beamish.

  “It were a black seven,” said Mrs Lumb grimly. “As soon as you saw it, you couldn’t help knowing what to do with it. While it was still face down, I mean. It was like cheating, if you see what I mean. I can’t play patience with that pack honestly, any more.”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Miss Beamish.

  “Course, I went on about it a bit,” admitted Mrs Lumb. “Anybody would. But did he tek notice? Not a ha’porth. Just sat there looking in front of him, not saying a word. I’m tired of it, I tell you, I’m right down fed up.”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Miss Beamish humbly.

  “Ha!” snorted Mrs Lumb. “So I’m still going out to work,” she snapped, and she turned her back on Miss Beamish.

  The following week, Miss Beamish was sorry to see that Mrs Lumb was not ahead of her in the queue, and—she looked carefully—not behind her either. Her nearest neighbour in the rear was a thin, stooping, grey-haired old man who sniffed a good deal. The queue at the next opening suddenly melted away rather fast, as sometimes happened when two or three applicants turned out to be together, and the rear of Miss Beamish’s queue forsook it and joined this shorter line hopefully. Taught by bitter experience, however, Miss Beamish and the thin grey man knew the disappointments of such a move, and remained faithful in their loyalty to their own line.

  “Now then, lad!” came a loud cheerful voice in the rear. “Move off and let me come next to my friend.”

  “Nay, you’re not jumping queue, surely,” said the old man, pretending to be indignant.

  “You can have your turn when we come to counter,” said Mrs Lumb cheerfully. “I only want to be near my friend.”

  Miss Beamish looked round and saw Mrs Lumb. A much changed Mrs Lumb, however. The orange jumper had been washed, and now looked clearly pink; the black skirt had been sponged and pressed; the hair had been brushed and now showed its thick wave, lustrous and handsome. The face, too, was altogether different; the fine eyes sparkled, the red lips smiled.

  “I shall be happy to make way for such a gradely lass, love,” said the old man with a smile. He bowed and stepped back.

  “Cheeky!” responded Mrs Lumb, laughing.

  This swift flirtation had warmed the atmosphere of the entire post office; everyone looked round to enjoy it, and even the counter clerks smiled.

  “Do you remember what I told you last week about a card getting its corner burned?” cried Mrs Lumb, poking Miss Beamish’s hip sharply with her basket.

  “I do indeed.”

  “Well, what do you think? When I got home that day, there was a new pack of cards waiting for me, on’t table. A green rim they had, and gilt edges, and a picture of a girl at a spinning-wheel on the backs. All glossy. Oh, real posh! Must have cost a pretty penny.”

  “How delightful,” began Miss Beamish.

  “Fancy, he must have gone out with his stick and down in the lift—he hates the lift—and crossed right across the road to buy them. ’T’isn’t easy for him to walk out by himself now, you know,” explained Mrs Lumb. “Arthritis. Yes. He must have gone out with his stick, while I was at work, you know, and down in the lift and right across the road. I was that flummoxed I couldn’t find a word, at first, but then I said, ‘Have you bought these for me, Schofield?’ I said. Schofield’s his first name, you know; the eldest son’s always called Schofield in their family, traditional like. ‘Have you bought these for me, Schofield?’ I said. And he nodded.”

  “A nod is as good as a word,” said Miss Beamish.

  “It is that from him,” said Mrs Lumb with emphasis. “So you see, I reckon he really took notice of me all the time. Like you said.”

  “Of course,” said Miss Beamish, smiling with her head on one side.

  “Aye, I reckon so. I reckon so, aye.”

  Miss Beamish’s smile broadened.

  “Whyn’t you come up and see us some time?” urged Mrs Lumb, giving the address. She coloured and looked down, seeming rather embarrassed. “Just for a cuppa. Eh?”

  “I shall be very happy to do so,” said Miss Beamish, smiling with pleasure.

  “Course, he may not say anything. But if he smiles, you won’t mind him saying nowt?” urged Mrs Lumb.

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, come on, lad, tek thi rightful place,” shouted Mrs Lumb, hustling the thin old man one place up in the queue.

  Miss Beamish, smiling happily, felt that her faith in human nature, married love, life itself, was restored.

  For the Wedding

  1971

  The Parkins and the Steads lived side by side, next door to each other, in a very respectable row. The houses had steps up to the front door, with porches, and a nice little square of garden.

  Mr Parkin (Ted) was a foreman or floor manager or something of that sort at the big textile mill down the road. Mr Parkin was not tall, and though not plump, not thin—just comfortable, you might say. His hair, brownish-grey and not too tidy, was still abundant, and his dark grey eyes had a considerable twinkle. The mill thought the world of him; he had been there for years.

  Mr Stead (James) was a different kind of man, a teacher, an English specialist at Rayburn Road Secondary Modern. He was tall and very lean, spectacled, balding and perhaps a little stooped, especially at the end of term, when he was tired. Shortly after he came to Rayburn Road, he was appointed deputy head teacher. There was a chance that he might get an appointment in the town as head teacher, but this did not come off. Mrs Parkin therefore privately thought him rather a softy, but this opinion was not shared by her daughter Lilian, who attended Rayburn Secondary Modern.

  Thus, of the two men, Mr Parkin earned a good deal more, but Mr Stead had as it were more prestige.

  Neither of the men was much for drinking. Mr Parkin—especially when exasperated by misconduct on the part of some piece (of cloth understood)—would occasionally pop into the Fleece at the end of the lane for a quick one; but Mr Stead, never. Not that he was a teetotaller or anything excessive of that kind; he just did not care much for pubs, so noisy and smoky; he preferred to have a quiet glass (just rarely) at home.

  The great thing about Mr Parkin was his garden. Of course all Englishmen love their gardens, but Mr Parkin really had green fingers. With his jacket off and his braces taut over his shoulder, he could be seen any weekend, any evening, mowing, digging, tying, pruning. From February onward
his border bloomed: snowdrops, crocus, daffodils, tulips (these grieved him because the sharp West Riding winds would cut their long stems), later lupins, delphiniums, hydrangeas, glorious roses. Mrs Parkin (her name was Lena) thought privately that Ted had a special eye for colour; she believed that in fact he would like to have been in a designer’s office, playing about all day with coloured yarns.

  But of course in their young days opportunities for such technical advancement were not easily come by, and there was the war, and their first child coming; when he got out of the army Ted took the first job he could get. He never said a word about designing, of course; he wasn’t that kind of man; but Lena knew. Oh, she knew.

  Now Mr Stead (James), though no doubt he was right book-learned, admitted Mrs Parkin, had no gift at all for gardening. He admired Mr Parkin’s garden enormously, asked his advice and took it, and really did his best; but, poor fellow, somehow his plants never succeeded. They were thin and weedy, with miserable little blooms, and as for his roses, they always caught greenfly or mildew or both, so that at last he gave them up.

  “Unfair on them,” he said. Mrs Parkin thought this rather daft and far-fetched, but Mr Parkin understood and nodded gravely.

  Mr Parkin had been stationed in the north of Scotland during the war; he made good friends there, the Parkins often holidayed there when the war was over, and the result of this was that their son John Edward married a Scots girl and was happily settled up there. Then quite a few years later, unexpectedly the Parkins had another child, a girl, whom they called Lilian. Coming late and surprisingly as she did, a kind of bonus, naturally Ted and Lena doted on Lilian.

  Apart from that, she was a lovely girl. Really pretty. Lovely fair hair, really golden—“My mother had fair hair,” explained Mrs Parkin, for her own hair was just light brown. Lilian had beautiful blue eyes. A complexion as pure as snow, only warmer. A sweet face. A sweet disposition too, though not a softy, and quite clever in a quiet way. She did reasonably well at school, attended the local technical college and took a secretarial course and obtained a very nice job in a lawyer’s office. Meanwhile, interestingly enough, the Steads had rather the same experience. They too had two children, but the elder was a girl, married to a teacher and living in London. Mrs Stead too had been a teacher before her marriage. In truth Mrs Parkin was rather overawed by all this teacher business, and London and what have you—she found Mrs Stead rather stiff, and suspected that Mrs Stead found her gossipy. However, the Steads were good neighbours; very honest and considerate. When their second child, Robert his name was, a rampageous noisy lad if ever there was one, with red hair—yes, really red, carrotty—broke one of the Parkins’s windows with a misplaced football, Mr Stead brought him in to admit the fault and apologise, and paid for the window at once. Robert attended Rayburn Road school, of course. When he left he got himself apprenticed in a large engineering works. He came home at night looking dirty but cheerful, and was said to be doing well.