She’d been saving up for ages to buy a new hat for the Hoppings fair and now Da wouldn’t let her go. Ethel dried her tears and pressed her ear to the bare floorboards in her bedroom as Mam did her best to persuade him otherwise, downstairs in the scullery.
‘She’s a good lass, she’s been working so hard, it doesn’t seem right that she should miss out when all the others from the shop are making a day of it.’
A fist thumped the table. ‘It’s the wrong sort of place for her, all those hawkers, freak shows and fortune telling. It’s ungodly!’
‘Nathan, please,’ said Mam. ‘She knows right from wrong and it’s run by the Temperance Society so there’ll be no one supping pints there and she won’t be tempted to do anything daft, I know it.’ There was some murmuring and then Ethel heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, so she leaped onto her bed, picked up her Bible and pretended to read.
The bedroom door creaked open and her father stood in front of her, his thumbs tucked into the thick leather belt around his middle, his moustache twitching a bit. He was tall and striking, with high cheekbones and clear blue eyes, which seemed to pierce her. ‘All right, pet, you can go but there’s to be no funny business or you’ll feel the back of my hand, do you hear? A whip for the horse, a bridle for the donkey and a rod for the back of fools, so says the Lord.’
‘Amen,’ said Ethel, running into his arms. She listened to his heart beating through the rough wool of his waistcoat. ‘Thanks, Da.’ He’d always held her like this, ever since she was a little girl, but even though she was nineteen now and many lasses her age were already married, Ethel still loved to feel his arms around her. He was protecting her from the world outside, keeping her safe, she knew that.
‘You’re precious to me,’ he said, as he stroked her hair. ‘I just want the best for you, that’s all.’
The next morning, all the talk on the haberdashery counter at Fenwick’s department store was about the trip to the Hoppings. Even Miss Simpson, her snooty supervisor, was in a better mood than usual, rather than stalking about the shop floor with a face like she was sucking on a lemon.
Ethel hung on to every word of the chatter because she’d never been allowed anywhere near the fair before. It was the biggest social event of the year in Newcastle, when everyone could enjoy the spectacle and let off steam, but her mate Ada reckoned this year wouldn’t be as good as in the past. The Hoppings used to be held on the Town Moor but nowadays the powers that be had shifted it to Jesmond Vale, which meant it was a bit smaller, with fewer rides.
‘Oh, you should have seen it before the war!’ Ada cried. ‘It was packed as far as the eye could see, the moor was heavin’.’ Of course, there was always the possibility that Ada was trying to show off that she’d been loads of times, to get one up on Ethel; as they were friends, she was prepared to let Ada have her moment.
Legend had it that a gypsy curse meant it always rained on the Hoppings, which dampened the atmosphere. ‘Let’s hope it’s not ploating down later,’ said Ada, with a laugh. ‘Me hair will gan all frizzy and I’ll bet there’ll be loads of canny lads there.’
Miss Simpson decided she’d had enough gossiping. ‘Come along, girls,’ she said, pulling open a drawer full of cotton reels beneath the glass-topped counter. ‘This lot needs sorting out before opening time. We must remember our standards; this is Fenwick’s, jewel of the North, not Paddy’s Market, Ada.’
Ada shot her a filthy glance. Everyone knew that Newcastle’s flea market was full of bargains and there was no shame in shopping there. Ordinary folk couldn’t afford the likes of Fenwick’s fancy goods.
Miss Simpson really stuck the boot in. ‘And, Ada, please address the customers politely today, like Ethel does. We’re not in the collieries now.’
Poor Ada, it wasn’t her fault she had the broadest accent imaginable. Her dad was a miner and she was full of pit-yacking talk – ‘hoy that here hinny’, ‘creels and clarts’ and even worse sayings that made Miss Simpson blanch. The living end was when she once exclaimed, ‘Hadaway an’ shite,’ when Ethel had told her how much a particularly posh lady had just spent on an order of silk; Ada had almost got the sack for that.
Ethel made a point of trying to better herself. She was just a girl from the terraces of Benwell, so it wasn’t a case of putting on airs and graces, but she tried to live up to what her father wanted her to be. For as long as she could remember, she’d practised reading aloud from the Bible on Sunday evenings and he’d corrected her, occasionally rapping her across her knuckles with a wooden ruler if she struggled with long words. It had stood her in good stead because she’d learned to speak clearly. She could slip into Geordie slang like Ada, because she’d grown up playing out in the back alleys, but these days she tried to copy the soft, lilting tones of the well-to-do women she served as a shop girl, day in and day out.
She loved her job, being surrounded by so much colour and finery; the excitement of new bolts of material arriving weekly, in rich shades and textures. Ethel didn’t mind sorting through buttons or threads and she had a good eye for colour, Miss Simpson said so, which meant she could help people choose and customers liked that. Every season brought new dress patterns and Ethel studied them, feeling a little well of excitement inside her, because she would buy one for herself, and with her work discount she’d usually be able to get an offcut or two to make a new blouse or a summer dress. Mam was very handy with a needle and thread and she’d always made beautiful things for her, ever since she was a bairn, so Ethel had help with the sewing if she needed it.
Mam popped in to see her once, bursting with pride that her daughter wasn’t working in a factory, but serving behind a counter in the finest department store in the city instead. And Da, well, it went without saying that he was over the moon. He told everyone at his work down at the grocery wholesalers, where he was a clerk, that his daughter was working in Fenwick’s, and of course it was repeated in the church, where he was a lay preacher.
Da always said she was a bright spark, his jewel. It was true, Ethel looked different to the girls in her street and that did set her apart. They dressed in lumpen shoes, shapeless pinafores and heavy coats, but her clothes were cut from a finer cloth and her dresses made at home by her mam in the latest styles. She was fine-boned, small and slight whereas some of the lasses had legs like pit ponies. She’d had her blonde hair cut into a fashionable wavy bob, which drew envious glances. Da had belted her for that, because he liked her to wear it long, but it had been worth it.
Ada had promised to loan her some lipstick for later and Ethel was planning to nip to the make-up counter in her lunch break to get one of the girls to pencil in her eyebrows, to make them frame her face a bit more, because she was very fair. The only thing she didn’t much care for were her teeth, which were a bit crooked at the front, but that was the way God had made them and so there wasn’t much she could do about it.
The hours seemed to drag by until closing time, when there was a stampede for the doors and all the shop girls met up at the tram stop to take them to Jesmond.
Once they were on board, a whole gang of them started singing and Ethel found herself caught up in the excitement of it all, tapping her feet in time. ‘Oh, me lads, you should’ve seen us gannin, gannin along the Scotswood Road, with all the people standing. There were lots of lads and lasses there and all with smiling faces, gannin along the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races!’
Nobody minded about the racket, they knew that they were all high as kites because of the Hoppings.
All the shop girls were wearing beige nylon stockings rather than the boring black ones that working-class lasses wore, and some had rolled them down just below the knee, which was a bit of a daring fashion, because that meant you liked to dance. Ada had rolled hers and so while they were sitting at the back of the tram, Ethel did the same. She felt a little thrill as she did so, because she was more sheltered than most girls her age. Other lasses who were nineteen went out dancing sometimes with lads they liked but she was never allowed.
They linked arms as they strolled along into Jesmond Vale, which had transformed from a peaceful, rural place, a spot for quiet family picnics, into a brash, bustling, noisy world of roundabouts, shuggy boats, sideshows, garish awnings and endless possibilities for fun. Black smoke and soot belched out from tall chimneys at the side of each ride, so that the punters didn’t get their clothes all covered in smuts. Towering above it all, painted in the boldest red and white stripes, was a helter-skelter and the shrieks of people whizzing down it could be heard across the fairground.
The music of the steam-driven carousels was belting out and schoolboys had taken off their shoes and socks and were mucking about on the weir, which sloped gently from an old millpond nearby. Once they’d spent all their ha’pennies most bairns made their own fun in the water or just darting about around the stalls, occasionally getting a clip around the ear, but they didn’t seem to mind.
A crowd of blokes had gathered outside a boxing booth and several were taking off their caps and rolling up their sleeves, ready to fight the champions who were lined up, bare-chested, showing off their muscles. A couple of clowns worked the crowd, trying to encourage volunteers to step forward. It was a sad fact that since the war, most of the contenders were still wet behind the ears or looked like they were too old to go more than a round before being knocked out.
Ada wanted to buy a toffee apple, but Ethel was more interested in the sideshows which were offering everything from the Wonders of the East and the Mysterious Zano, to a living leprechaun and a lion-faced lady, so she wandered off while Ada queued up for her treat.
Ethel joined a small crowd in front of a stall promising a flea circus, ‘The Smallest Show on Earth’, with a high wire, chariots no bigger than a farthing and even weights for them to lift.
‘Come on, step right up! Don’t be shy, only a ha’penny a turn,’ said the stallholder, who was dressed in the full circus ringmaster garb of top hat and tails.
‘Where d’you get your fleas from?’ said a man who was standing next to her.
‘Steelworkers’ socks,’ said the ringmaster. ‘Well, we did find quite a few good ones in a house in Gateshead too, I can’t lie.’
A ripple of laughter washed over the assembled punters and as Ethel giggled, the man turned to her and said, ‘That’s a bonny smile you’ve got there.’
She blushed.
He seemed quite a bit older than her but there was a light in his eyes and his mouth curled slightly at the corners as he spoke, which made him look boyish. ‘Can I buy you a ticket for the show?’
Ethel wrinkled her nose. ‘I’d rather go on the scenic railway,’ she said, pointing to the gaudily painted, undulating ride across the way which had carriages shaped like motor cars. She’d been dying to go on that – it would probably be the nearest thing she’d ever get to sitting in a real one. Ada had chatted about it incessantly; she said it was the best fun ever. Well, now Ethel was going to go one up on her, by going on it with a fella!
He smiled.
‘My pleasure,’ he said, doffing his flat cap to reveal hair as black as coal.
‘I’m Ethel,’ she said, pushing her hat back on her head a bit, so that he could see her face better.
‘Nice to meet you, Ethel,’ he replied, as she gazed into his grey eyes – he was rather handsome. ‘I’m Harry.’
Ethel selected the shiniest car, painted bottle green with red leather seats and brass fittings. There were three rows of seats in each carriage, but she took the front one to get the best view, smoothing her skirt down over her knees so that the tops of her rolled stockings were not visible – she didn’t want him to get the wrong impression. He climbed in next to her and paid their fare to a gent in a bowler hat as a steam organ pumped out a tuneless version of the ‘Can-Can’.
Ethel grinned at him and murmured, ‘Thanks.’ She’d never had anyone buy anything for her other than her mam and da.
‘So, what’s the best thing about the Hoppings so far?’ said Harry.
‘Well, I’ve only just got here but I’d have to say, the company’s grand,’ Ethel replied, batting her eyelashes at him, just as she’d seen some of the other girls at work do. That felt good.
The ride set off and as it spun faster, Ethel started to giggle. It was such a strange sensation, going up and down the slope. Her insides had turned to jelly.
‘That’s quite an infectious laugh you’ve got there, Ethel,’ said Harry. ‘Is it catching?’
It was true, her da always said she could brighten up any room with it. She clung to the edge of the car windscreen, as the shouts and whoops of the bairns in the car behind filled the air.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘But my head’s spinning!’
After the ride they wandered off together towards the shuggy boats, but Ethel caught sight of Ada heading towards her with a face like thunder, so she pulled Harry into the bioscope to see some moving pictures. She was enjoying his company too much to share him with her friend.
As the lights went down and the screen flickered to life, Harry slipped his hand into hers and she didn’t try to stop him. In fact, she quite liked it.
By the time he got her home to Normanton Terrace, Ethel had found out quite a lot about Harry. He’d been lucky enough to survive the war and he had an easy manner about him, so it seemed as if they’d known each other forever as they sauntered along. He was softly spoken and not a show-off like so many of the fellas she’d seen at work. Perhaps it was because he was a bit older than her, six years to be precise, but that made him all the more attractive to Ethel. He was a perfect gentleman and he didn’t even try to kiss her; not like some of the gobby delivery boys that Ada had told her all about, with their wandering hands in unexpected places.
Harry was educated and clever; he was working as an engineer, which would be sure to find favour with her da because that was a job with good prospects.
Ethel hadn’t ever been allowed to walk out with anyone before – her da wouldn’t hear of it – but Harry had promised to come around and ask his permission, man to man. That was something that her father would respect, she was sure of it.
But until then, she made sure that Harry dropped her off at the top of her street, just in case anyone saw them together, because if they did and Da found out, she knew she’d be for it.
The following Saturday afternoon, there was a knock at the front door, and Harry was standing there, cap in hand, when her da answered.
Ethel hovered at the top of the stairs, listening to the murmured conversation, before Da turned to her, with a look approaching hurt in his eyes, and said, ‘You’d better get down here. And tell your mam to put the kettle on.’
Harry smiled up at Ethel, as if this was the most normal thing in the world, to just stroll into her home and talk to her father. Her insides were churning but there was something about Harry that was so reassuring, she felt almost compelled to be near him.
Da showed Harry through into the kitchen. He wasn’t about to welcome him into their front room, that much was clear, and Mam shot Ethel a concerned glance as the two men sat down at the table.
Mam hurriedly swept some breadcrumbs away with a dishcloth and filled the kettle, before disappearing into the pantry with Ethel hot on her heels.
‘So, what are your intentions towards my daughter?’
Ethel peered through a crack in the pantry door as Da sat, with his long legs splayed out in front of him, and eyed Harry across the kitchen table.
Harry opened his mouth to speak but a football clattered against the back gate, where the lads were playing in the alley, and Da got up and yelled across the yard, ‘Pack it in or I’ll come out there and give you all a hiding!’
He sat back down and returned his gaze to Harry, who smiled and said, ‘I’d like to take her out from time to time. Afternoon tea, a walk in the park, dancing perhaps . . .’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Da, as Ethel pretended to busy herself in the pantry with Mam, who gave her arm a little squeeze. ‘Our Ethel, she’s well brought up, not like the lasses you get from Jarrow, you know. Where’d you meet my daughter, tell me that, now, won’t you?’
‘At the Hoppings,’ said Harry.
‘My point exactly. She’s never been there before and she won’t be going again. Wrong sort of place for my daughter.’ He balled his hand into a fist and held it in mid-air for a split second, as if he were about to bang it on the table, but Harry just raised an eyebrow, and Da thought better of it.
‘She seems like a very sensible girl and I respect that,’ said Harry, leaning forward to make his point. ‘She knows her own mind and that’s because you’re a family with standards, but I wasn’t suggesting we go out alone. I’d be bringing my older sister. She’s a journalist, works for the Shipbuilder – she’s a senior sub-editor. So, you see, it would all be respectable.’
Da stroked his moustache for a moment and gave a little nod, as if he were ruminating on this piece of information and was quietly impressed. ‘And you live over Heaton way?’
‘Yes,’ said Harry. ‘I’m an engineer at Hawthorn Leslie and my mother’s well known as a local school teacher.’
Ethel brought the tea loaf she’d made earlier out of the pantry and started to slice some onto their best china plates.
As Mam handed a piece of cake to Harry, Ethel couldn’t help noticing that her mother’s hands were shaking. Ethel brought the teapot over to the table and Da let it brew for what seemed like forever before he pushed a mug towards Harry, poured him some and said, ‘Well, all right then. She can go out from time to time. But no funny business, mind, or you’ll be hearing from me.’