A Mother’s Hope

Martin smiled to himself, remembering how Don had behaved when the men from the auction room had come to collect the stuff that was to be sold. The dog had rushed into the kitchen and lain down on his blanket as though to protect it from these marauders and Martin had shut him in, worried that he might not understand they had consented to – indeed encouraged – the removal of their belongings.

The thought made Martin remember how he had helped to carry the sofa down the stairs, and how a neighbour had popped out and addressed him, face alive with curiosity. ‘Who’s movin’ out?’ she had asked. ‘I don’t reckernise none of that furniture.’

‘Top floor,’ he had said gruffly, glad that he had been wearing his cap and coat, since she had obviously taken him for one of the removal men. ‘Name of . . . oh, Evans, were it? But I dunno as they’re moving out, just gerrin’ a bob or two for the old stuff and replacin’ it, I reckon.’

The old woman had sniffed. ‘There’s nowt wrong with that there sofy as I can see,’ she had remarked enviously as the sofa passed her door. ‘Goin’ to Paddy’s Market, is it? Or the auction rooms?’

‘Auction,’ Martin had mumbled over his shoulder, as he had begun to descend the next flight. ‘On Tuesday next, if you want to purrin a bid.’

‘Oh aye? When I win the bleedin’ pools—’ The rest of the sentence had been cut off by the slamming of the door. Martin had not known her, but when he recounted the incident to Rose later she had said that it must have been Mrs Templeton, the only person in the flats that she really knew. ‘I take her in a bit of cake or an old magazine from time to time,’ she had said. ‘Poor old gal, she’s rare lonely, shut away up here.’

Now, Martin raised an eyebrow at his friend. ‘All right?’ he enquired. ‘Time to go?’

Rose nodded and slipped the rope into Don’s collar. ‘Might as well,’ she said, with a little shake in her voice. ‘Oh, Mart, I’ll be that glad when it’s over, and we’re safe. If only they don’t find out we’ve flitted until we’ve got away.’

‘They won’t; we’ve made our plans far too carefully,’ Martin said. ‘I’m going to Central Station and will make my way to Chester from there. You’ll go down to the Pier Head and catch the ferry to Woodside. We’ll meet up on Chester station and from there it should be safe for us to travel together. You’ve got further to go than me, so I’ll give you ten minutes’ start. Now are you clear what you have to do?’

‘Of course I am,’ Rose said rather crossly. ‘When I get off the ferry, I catch the number one bus to Chester, then make my way to the station where you and Don will probably be waiting. From there we’ll get on the train for Rhyl.’

‘That’s it, queen,’ Martin said encouragingly. He hung on to Don’s collar and gave Rose a little push. ‘Off you go! See you later.’

Martin, however, vetoed this idea. ‘Folk may think we’re runaways without no luggage,’ he explained. ‘Best if we take the lot with us.’

‘Well, we are runaways,’ Rose said rather peevishly, but Martin shook his head.

‘We are nothing of the sort,’ he said firmly. ‘We don’t owe rent because we’ve handed the flat back to Mrs Ellis and left the key on the string. We’re neither of us school kids, nor we don’t have parents to run away from, so you can rest easy on that score.’ He had stood the suitcases down for a moment to argue, but now he picked them up and set off, turning to smile at her. ‘Would Madam like a room facing the sea or would she prefer an inland view?’

Rose meant to reply gaily but she was too exhausted to make the effort. ‘I don’t care what the bleedin’ place faces,’ she said. ‘I just want somewhere to lay me perishin’ head, somewhere we can afford.’

‘Right. We’ll tell the landlady we just need a room for a couple of nights. We’ll say we’re on our way to somewhere further up the coast – that’ll explain why we’ve got so much luggage – though of course if it’s a nice place and we can afford it we might stay for longer. I mean to look for work first thing tomorrow, and you never know your luck.’

‘Course I does,’ Rose said at once. ‘I’m clearly in the family way, and even if folk didn’t notice first go off they’d turn us down ’cos of Don.’

‘Wrong on both counts,’ Martin told her. ‘It’s because you aren’t wearing a wedding ring, you silly girl, and we’re asking for two rooms. An unmarried couple, particularly when one of them’s pregnant, could cause a landlady a lorra grief.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Rose said. ‘But what are we to do, Mart? We can’t possibly get married before tonight and I’m damned if I’ll sleep on the beach. And anyway, I don’t want to get married!’

‘I’m not suggesting . . . look, you goose, when we walked down Regent Road to the front we passed a big Woollies. All we have to do is find a curtain ring what fits on your finger, pay over our penny or whatever, and tell the next landlady we try that we’re Mr and Mrs Something looking for a room for a couple of nights.’

Rose chortled and leaned across to give Martin’s hand a squeeze. ‘That’s a grand idea. I’m real sorry I don’t want to marry you,’ she said remorsefully. ‘You’re so good, Mart, and so kind, but I want to marry someone tall, dark and handsome, what’ll whisk me away to live a life of luxury. Only even me dream man needn’t come around for ten or fifteen years, ’cos it’ll take me that long to forget what horrible old Ellis did.’

‘I’m not surprised. But for now, all I want to know is whether you’ll go along with sharing a room and just pretend to be me wife,’ Martin said.

‘Don’t mind sharin’ a room, but I’m buggered if I’ll be Mrs Something,’ Rose said. ‘Let’s call ourselves Bunn, Mart, because I’ve got one in the oven, you know!’

After various ribald suggestions, which made them both laugh helplessly, Martin decided that they should use his real name – Thompson – since he thought that a change of his own surname would be not only superfluous but also unwise, just in case he had to claim the dole.

Immensely cheered by the sit-down, the cup of tea and the iced bun that had accompanied it, the three of them left the café and headed for Woolworth’s. They had been pleased when the waitresses had taken it for granted that Don would enter the café with them, and were equally pleased when Woolworth’s accepted the dog with complaisance. They found the haberdashery counter and bought a curtain ring, then went a little further along to where there was a display of costume jewellery, for Martin said that an engagement ring would give credence to their married status. He could see that Rose was really enjoying herself, for she chose a ring as though it had not been brass and glass but sapphires and diamonds, picking in the end a three-stone band of blue and white which twinkled as brightly, Martin was sure, as though it were the genuine article. He also noticed that afterwards Rose walked along with her hand held out in front of her, so that she could gaze at her new possession. He wondered whether to warn her not to make too much of it, but she was so plainly thrilled to possess even a little one-and-tenpenny ring that he decided not to be critical. If the next landlady they tried seemed suspicious, then he might have to mention it, but until then Rose should be allowed to enjoy her ‘jewellery’.

Leaving the centre of the town, they approached another side street and marched, resolutely, up a short tiled path to the faded front door of a tall three-storey terraced house. It had a notice in its bay window reading ‘Vacancies’, so Martin knocked and after a few moments the door opened to reveal a small, mouse-like woman wearing an apron, with rollers in her hair. She peered at them for a moment without speaking, then fished in her apron pocket and produced a pair of spectacles, which she perched on her small snub nose. ‘Yes?’ she said, subjecting them – and their luggage – to a sharp scrutiny. ‘Are you wantin’ a room?’

Martin saw with apprehension that her mouth, which turned down at the corners, shut like a rattrap when she was not speaking, and the eyes which scanned the small party were calculating rather than friendly. But he told himself that one should not judge by appearances and gave her the benefit of his brightest smile. ‘Yes, that’s right, we’re looking for a room,’ he said. He saw no point in explanations until they were asked for, so did not mention Don though, heaven knew, the woman could scarcely have missed the enormous creature.

The landlady, however, now made it clear that she had indeed noticed Don. ‘That’s a greyhound,’ she observed. ‘Does he race?’

‘No, no, he’s retired, though he were a great winner in his day,’ Martin said quickly. ‘He’s house-trained, of course, never barks and is very obedient. He’s no trouble. My – my wife and meself . . .’

The woman stepped back and gestured them inside. ‘Me hubby kept a couple o’ greyhounds when we was first wed,’ she remarked. ‘Come in and we’ll discuss things.’

Once in the hallway, the landlady introduced herself as Mrs Osborne and explained her terms. ‘I’m well known for me winter lets,’ she said smugly. ‘Of course I don’t go in for permanents – too many rules and regulations – so me winter lets has to leave before Whitsun. I used to say Easter, but times have changed and holidaymakers is comin’ later for some reason. Mebbe it’s the weather or mebbe it’s ’cos the dates is so different; well, last year Easter Day was the tenth of April, as I recall, an’ this year it’s the first. I reckon, meself, folks is reluctant to come to the seaside so early and mebbe find they’re in for days of rain and gales. Any road, you can stay here till the week before Whit, ’cos I need a week to clean the place through for the holidaymakers.’

‘That’s fair enough,’ Martin said, before Rose could answer, ‘if the room is satisfactory, that is. I don’t have a job lined up yet but I shall start looking first thing tomorrow.’ He smiled at the landlady. ‘We’re the Thompsons, by the way. May we see the room, please? Or is it rooms?’

‘I’ve only one room left,’ Mrs Osborne said sharply. ‘It’s on the top floor, which means a sloping ceiling but I dare say you won’t mind that. I’ve an idea me best front may be comin’ vacant in a week or so, but I charge more for that one, ’cos it’s a grand big room. I’ll give a knock to the door as we pass and if the Renaldos aren’t in you can have a peep, but otherwise it’s the back room on the top floor; take it or leave it.’

Neither Rose nor Martin spoke, so the landlady preceded them up a flight of carpeted stairs which ended on a sizeable landing from which three doors led off. She raised her hand to knock on one of the doors, but Martin said quickly: ‘Please don’t bother, Mrs Osborne. I’m sure the back room will suit us fine. If the better room becomes vacant and I’m in work, then perhaps we might think again, but for the moment . . .’

The landlady sniffed in a disparaging sort of way but flung open the middle door, revealing a bathroom and lavatory combined. The room was cramped and decidedly scruffy, with a large gas geyser over the bath, scuffed brown linoleum on the floor, and a hand basin with a glass shelf above it upon which were ranged a variety of different objects – toothbrushes, toothpaste and bars of soap jostled with safety razors, shaving foam, shampoo and hair cream. ‘Geyser works on shillings; you can get a good deep bath for two bob,’ Mrs Osborne informed them. ‘You must work out for yourselves when it’s your turn, though. Men shave in their rooms, save for the theatre folk, ’cos they has to look their best for Wednesday and Sat’day matinées and evening performances. I cleans the bathroom and keeps the kitchen respectable ’cos it’s what you might call mutual territory, but your room is your own concern an’ I hopes as you’ll keep it spotless. And when I say I cleans the kitchen, I mean the floor, the surfaces and the refrigerator. You’ll do your own pots and pans, of course, and crockery and that, and wipe down anything else you’ve used.’

‘Where is the kitchen?’ Rose asked as the landlady led them up a flight of very much narrower uncarpeted stairs.

Mrs Osborne paused to answer. ‘Ground floor,’ she said briefly. ‘Me and hubby and our fambly has the basement flat. I’ll show you the kitchen on the way down.’ At this point they reached a small and dusty landing and Mrs Osborne flung open one of the two brown-painted doors. ‘This is the one,’ she said, ushering them inside. ‘I reckon it ’ud suit the three of you – and the babby, when it comes – though Mr Thompson will have to watch his head when he’s gettin’ into bed.’ She gave an unexpected cackle of laughter. ‘Me other third floor lodgers are Mr and Mrs Scott. Mr Scott is a big feller, though not as tall as you, and when he first moved in I telled him if he kept knockin’ plaster off me ceiling I’d add it to his rent.’ She peered questioningly at Martin, who was still wearing his cap pulled well down across his brow. ‘Well?’

Glancing round, Martin saw that it was a big attic room with plenty of space for Don’s blanket, whilst he himself could kip down in a sleeping bag on the floor. There was a washstand with a jug and ewer on it, a small, rather rickety table, two kitchen chairs and a chest of drawers. It was clear why there was no wardrobe, because the sloping ceiling came down to within four feet of the floor. In addition to the furniture there was a Primus stove and a very small electric fire, beside which was a coin meter.

Mrs Osborne began to extol the virtues of the room, urging them to come over to the window. ‘You’ve gorra sea view,’ she said proudly. ‘It ain’t many people as can offer a sea view this cheap. Well? Are you goin’ to take it? I’ve not got all day, you know. Me hubby and me sons come in around six o’clock and expect a hot meal on the table.’

Martin smiled winningly at the landlady. ‘We’ll take it,’ he said firmly. ‘And we’ll pay two weeks in advance. Is that satisfactory, Mrs Osborne?’

‘Yes, that’ll do, Mr Thompson,’ Mrs Osborne said. ‘Would you like to leave those cases up here? You’ll want to get yourselves something to eat; if you go up to the prom there’s plenty of cheap places where you can get a meal. I’ll show you the kitchen on your way out.’

The three of them, and Don, hurried down the stairs and were shown into what must have been the original kitchen before the house was divided into bedsitters. It was a sizeable room with red quarry tiles on the floor, a large stone sink flanked by two wooden draining boards, a modern refrigerator and a gas cooker so old that Martin thought it must have been installed when the house was built.

Mrs Osborne led them in and waved a proprietorial hand at a row of dilapidated saucepans hanging on hooks above the cooker. ‘Them’s for use in the kitchen and not to be took to your own room,’ she said. ‘Likewise the kitchen utensils what’s kept in the drawer beside the sink. You can use the fridge for milk or butter, but not for things what smells strong, and don’t you go takin’ the tea towels – the ones on me airer, up by the ceiling – because they’re for kitchen use only. I forgot to show you that there’s a cupboard on the top landing with a carpet sweeper, dustpan and brush, cleanin’ cloths and so on. You share ’em with Mr and Mrs Scott. Oh, and you’ve your own cookin’ stuff – fryin’ pan et cetera – in the bottom drawer of the chest by the window. The Primus stove is grand for boilin’ the kettle and scramblin’ a few eggs, or warmin’ up a tin o’ soup, but of course if you want a roast meal you’ll have to use the kitchen.’ She sounded regretful, as though too much use of the kitchen would spoil its far from perfect beauty. ‘All right? You’d best come down into the basement so I can give you a copy of me rules book and your rent book, and you can give me your first fortnight’s rent.’

‘Rules book?’ Rose hissed into Martin’s ear as they descended the half-dozen stairs that led down to their landlady’s flat. ‘Wharrever next? Mustn’t have a bath when you feel like it, only when you’re allowed, only use the refrigerator for perishables . . .’

Martin dug a reproving elbow into Rose’s well-covered ribs. ‘Shurrup,’ he hissed, as their landlady opened a green-painted door and ushered them into a large sitting room. Martin blinked. The carpet, patterned with flowers the like of which he had never seen in his life, was vividly coloured and the large sofa and four easy chairs were upholstered in a chintz so bright that he was grateful for his tinted spectacles. The walls were covered in dark red plush paper and a television, set in a large cabinet, dominated the room. ‘Gosh, a television!’ Martin breathed. It was the first one he had ever seen, though they were widely advertised in newspapers and magazines. He would have liked to ask Mrs Osborne whether she ever allowed her lodgers to watch it, but did not do so for the landlady, he felt sure, was not the type to give favours.

Mrs Osborne crossed to a very fancy sideboard cum cocktail cabinet and pulled open a small drawer, extracting an exercise book and a sheet of printed instructions which she folded into four and handed to Martin. ‘Them’s me rules and this here’s me winter-let rent book,’ she said. ‘Sit down a moment while I fill in your details.’

‘I think we laid too good a false trail,’ Martin observed. ‘I daresay they might put out a proper search for you because even though you’re having a baby you’re still awful young to be on the loose. But remember, Mrs Ellis can’t go to the scuffers without revealing that she has done some really bad things.’

‘Hey, wharrabout Mr Ellis, then?’ Rose asked indignantly. ‘He were the one what did bad things, not Mrs Ellis. She’s awright, she is . . . well, compared wi’ him, at any rate.’

‘Oh, Rosie, do think,’ Martin implored. He took a long drink of his tea, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He had taken off his cap and kept glancing around, but no one seemed to have noticed his dead white hair and pale skin. ‘Mrs Ellis told the staff at the clinic that you were eighteen when she knew very well you weren’t. And you said she’d told the staff at the children’s home that she’d got you a live-in job somewhere on the Wirral. In fact she’s made a liar of you, because she made you promise to stick to the story and not tell a soul the truth. And them’s just the lies we know about; I bet she’s told lots more, because once you start in lying, it’s dead hard to stop. Oh, I know you think she were a good friend to you, but it were only so’s she could steal your baby.’

‘So does that mean she won’t search for me?’ Rose asked, brightening. ‘At least it means we shan’t have the scuffers on our heels. But I say, Mart, could you get into trouble for hidin’ me away? If so, perhaps it ain’t fair for me to expect your help.’

Martin pulled a face. ‘I dunno, but I reckon if I say I thought you must be eighteen or nineteen to have your own flat, I’ll be safe enough,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Besides, you said right at the beginning that people in the flats might think I were the baby’s father. We might pretend, Rose, just to keep us both out of trouble, that it’s true, ’cos you can’t chuck a father in prison for taking care of his little baby and what-d’you-call-it wife.’

‘Common law wife, I think it’s called,’ Rose said. They had left all their heavy luggage in their new home, but now Rose fished in her shabby little handbag and produced her clinic book, a variety of other documents, a large square ink rubber and a ballpoint pen, and began to work. Ten minutes later, she handed her clinic book to Martin. The name Gertrude Pleavin had been neatly erased and now read Rose Thompson.

Martin whistled and handed the book back. ‘Who taught you forgery?’ he said, grinning. ‘That’s a real neat job, Rosie; I don’t reckon anyone will question it when you start going to the clinic here in Rhyl. Are you goin’ to do the rest of your stuff as well?’

‘Reckon I’d better,’ Rose said, starting on the next piece of paper. ‘I’m going to put me name down at the clinic as soon as I can, though I’m not looking forward to it. I’ll ask Mrs Osborne where I should go; I reckon she’ll probably know.’

Rose had actually closed her eyes when it occurred to her that what was coming through the thin curtains was sunshine, and this reminded her that she had no idea of the time. Hastily, she sat up and stared across at the tinny little alarm clock that Martin had bought when he had first moved into the tower block. She had remembered to wind it the night before but had not set the alarm and now saw, with considerable surprise, that it was ten to eight. If Martin was to have breakfast before he left, she had best wake him and put the kettle on to boil.

Rose jumped out of bed, then hesitated. It seemed awful mean to wake Martin, who had had an extremely tiring time of it the day before, but whilst she hesitated indecisively, Don made the decision for her. He stood up and pushed his long wet nose against Martin’s neck, causing that young person to utter a muffled squawk before sitting up like a jack-in-the-box and exclaiming: ‘Oh, my Gawd! I’ll be late for work and they’ll give me the sack . . . where the devil am I? What’s goin’ on?’

Rose, who had filled the kettle the night before, balanced it on the Primus stove and began to pump. Glancing over her shoulder as she lit the match, she said consolingly: ‘It’s all right, Mart, you haven’t gone mad and you can’t be late for work because you haven’t found none yet. We’re in Rhyl and we’re goin’ to make do with cereal and tea this mornin’, so you can go the Labour Exchange; the early bird catches the worm.’

‘Well, how could I forget all that!’ Martin marvelled, rubbing his eyes. He got out of bed, clad now in his shirt, socks and underpants, and walked across to the window to pull back the thin curtains. ‘I say, look at that view! And the old girl were right: you can just about see the sea over the rooftops if you move your head around a bit.’

Rose joined him at the window. ‘I’m not as tall as you, but even I can see a little bit of sea,’ she said excitedly. ‘Tell you what, Mart, I’ll get dressed right now and bolt some of them cornflakes and a cuppa, and then the pair of us can walk Don on the beach. You won’t want to start askin’ for work until after nine o’clock.’

‘That sounds fine, but wharrabout washin’?’ Martin asked rather doubtfully. ‘When we was in the tower block, I washed and dressed in the kitchen while you did the same in the bathroom, but here we’ve only the one room, and when a feller is lookin’ for work he’s got to be as clean as a new pin and as neat as he can afford.’

Rose sighed. This was one aspect of their sharing a room that she had not considered. She certainly had no intention of washing and dressing in front of Martin, and guessed that he would feel the same. Then she was struck by a bright idea. ‘I’ll put me clothes on right away – shoes an’ everything – and take Don round the block while you get ready,’ she said. ‘No one will think it odd because he’s a big dog and needs all the exercise we can give him. After today, we can sort it out easily, I’m sure.’

Martin thought this was a good idea but suggested that instead of taking the dog at once, Rose should pop down to the kitchen and meet some of the other tenants whilst enquiring whether it would be possible for her to cook porridge on one of the gas rings. Rose agreed and hastily threw a voluminous maternity dress over the underwear in which she had slept, shoved her feet into her flat and comfortable shoes, and set off. She went down to the kitchen, but found it occupied by only one other person, a pretty, dark-haired girl who was peering anxiously into a small saucepan balanced on the stove. The girl turned as Rose and Don entered and uttered an exclamation, which was echoed by Rose. For a moment they simply stared at one another and then Rose began to giggle, for both of them were wearing identical maternity dresses, and both appeared to be in the same advanced stage of pregnancy.

‘I’m awful sorry to laugh. You must think me dreadfully rude,’ Rose said, smiling at the other girl. ‘But wharra coincidence, ain’t it? I mean you and me, both in the family way and both wearin’ the very same dress.’

‘You can say that again,’ the dark-haired girl said. ‘You must be in number six; my – my husband said he heard someone moving round last night. Old Ozzie will be chuffed to bits to have let her very last room. She’s always boastin’ that her winter lets are the cheapest and best in Rhyl. Oh, by the way, I’m Millie Scott.’ She held out a slender hand and Rose saw, enviously, that her beautiful filbert nails were enamelled pale pink and that she wore, on the third finger of her left hand, a broad gold band.

‘How do you do, Millie,’ Rose said, taking the hand and shaking it warmly. ‘I’m Rose Thompson and my – er – my feller’s Martin. I came down to ask if I could cook porridge on the stove. I don’t want to do it this morning, but perhaps tomorrow . . . We only arrived in Rhyl yesterday, and I’ve got to take old Don here out for a widdle, so probably by the time I get back Martin will have eaten his cornflakes and be ready for the off.’

‘You’ll be all right to cook porridge because most of us make do with cereal or toast for breakfast, and over the weekend anyone who isn’t working will want a lie-in,’ Millie informed her. ‘But I say, fancy her letting you keep a dog, especially up on the third floor. She’s a real tartar; the words “you can’t, you shouldn’t, you mustn’t” are her absolute favourites. But of course they say number six has been vacant all winter so I suppose she’d have grabbed almost anyone . . . sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounds.’

‘I think she only let us bring Don because her husband used to keep greyhounds when they were first married,’ Rose explained. ‘Oh, if you’re cooking eggs, they’ve just boiled over.’

Millie squeaked and whipped around, grabbing the small pan off the flame so jerkily that the water slopped over and half extinguished the ring. ‘Oh God, and Scotty gets quite nasty if I hard-boil his breakfast egg,’ she said. She hooked two eggs out of the water and plopped them into a couple of egg cups. ‘But if I behead them now and stick a knob of butter into the yolk, he’ll be in such a hurry to get it ate that he probably won’t even notice. I did the bread and butter up in our room and Scotty’s making the tea. You go off with your dog, and by the time you come back I’ll have had my breakfast, Scotty will have gone to work and we can have a nice natter. We might trot along to the clinic so that you’ll know where it is.’

‘I promised Martin that Don and I would go with him to the Labour Exchange when we find out where it is,’ Rose said regretfully. ‘I suppose you couldn’t wait until I get back?’

‘Course I could,’ Millie said promptly. ‘I’ve got some ironing which wants doing so I won’t be wasting my time. You give me a knock when you get back and we’ll take a look round the town.’

‘Oh, that would be grand,’ Rose said gratefully, ‘because we don’t know anything about it. I came here once, on a school trip, but that were ages ago and they marched us in a crocodile down to the beach and back to a big café – the Seagull, I think it were called – and then it were a rush through the streets to reach the coach before it set off back to the ’Pool.’

‘Well then, off you go,’ Millie said, picking up a small tray with the boiled eggs in their neat little egg cups perched on it. ‘I’ll introduce you to the other tenants later, because most of them turn up in the kitchen at some time or other. And I’ll wait for your knock.’

‘Thanks ever so,’ Rose called, as her new friend left the kitchen and began to climb the stairs. ‘See you in about an hour.’

Returning to her own room presently, she told Martin all about the other tenant. ‘I want to go down to the beach and have a paddle, but I guess we’ll have to do that another day, since we’ve got to go the Labour Exchange, and then Millie and me’s goin’ to do the town!’

Rose, Martin and Don set off into the bright and sunny morning, chattering gaily of the fun that they would have once Martin was settled in work. ‘Oh, Martin, I’m so happy that if it wasn’t for my bump, I’d turn cartwheels all along the prom.’

Martin laughed. ‘Then I’m glad you’ve got a bump because I dare say we’d be taken up and flung in prison if you went around showin’ your knickers in such a brazen fashion,’ he said. ‘But I know what you mean. After having to be so careful that no one saw us together, and spending the last week planning our getaway, I feel free as air and happy as – as a sand boy. What is a sand boy, any road?’

‘I dunno,’ Rose said, rather breathlessly, slowing her pace. ‘I say, that’s the funfair, ain’t it? Can we go up there later?’

‘We’ve got no money to spend on rides and that,’ Martin said rather dubiously. ‘Still, it won’t hurt to take a look.’

An hour later, Rose was knocking on Millie’s door and announcing, in thrilling tones, that Martin had got a job, thanks to her.

‘Well, isn’t that wonderful,’ Millie said with real enthusiasm. She took a thick scarlet coat from its hook and put it on, then added a bright red beret and scarlet mittens. Then she picked up a large straw shopping basket and adjusted the beret at a jaunty angle on her smooth black hair, turning to look anxiously at Rose as she did so. ‘Is that all right?’ she asked. She snatched up a curved clothes brush from a small hallstand and handed it to Rose. ‘Just brush my shoulders, will you? I don’t want specks of dandruff or loose hairs on this coat because God knows when we’ll be able to afford another.’

‘Why on earth would you want another?’ Rose said, vigorously brushing, though there was not so much as a speck of anything on the beautiful red material. ‘I bet you haven’t had this coat long; it’s got one of the new shawl collars.’

‘True,’ Millie said, as they left the room. She closed the door carefully, saying as she did so: ‘Scotty’s been talking about getting a lock for the door ever since we moved in, but it doesn’t seem worth it. I expect we will remain until Whit, when hopefully we’ll be able to rent not just a room but a little house, or a flat. You see, once the baby’s born I mean to go back to work. My parents made me attend secretarial school for six months and then I got myself a job as secretary to the managing director of the factory where Scotty worked.’

The two of them clattered down the stairs, but on reaching the hall Millie stopped suddenly, tugging at Rose’s arm. ‘But what about your dog? I don’t think they’ll allow him in the shops . . . or has your feller taken him?’

Rose shook her head. ‘No, he’s not with Mart. We took him down to the beach earlier and let him belt along the sand until he was exhausted while we walked up to the funfair; then we went back to our room and left him flat out. He’ll be fine; either Mart or meself will take him out again before we go to bed.’

‘That’s all right then,’ Millie said as they emerged on to the pavement. She gazed from left to right. ‘You never told me about your feller’s job; I’m so sorry, rambling on when you must be dying to explain. Let’s walk along the prom and you can fill me in.’

‘Right,’ Rose said. ‘Well, I suggested that we might visit the funfair – just to look, you understand – and it was closed, but there were one or two chaps painting and greasing . . . oh, you know, maintenance I suppose it’s called. And Mart had a bit of a laugh wi’ one feller and said he were lookin’ for work, and he said to go to the office, because people were always movin’ on . . . oh, look at that sparkling sea. How I wish we had time for a paddle!’

‘Yes, yes, but go on,’ Millie said impatiently. ‘You’re as bad as me for getting off the subject. ‘So you went to the office, and . . . ?’

‘And they wanted someone on the dodgem cars at weekends, to tek the money and see that folk didn’t just sit tight wi’out payin’ again, and they could also do wi’ another hand on the gallopers because they need repainting,’ Rose said quickly. ‘Gallopers is what they call the roundabout. The pay isn’t much, but the chap in the office said that if Mart was satisfactory it ’ud be steady work. Then someone said the Mad Mouse – that’s what they call the scenic railway – needed overhauling, greasing and so on, which will be at least another month’s work . . . and once the summer starts there will be all sorts of work available.’

‘And can you manage on what he’ll earn?’ Millie asked, her voice rising to a squeak. ‘I suppose since it’s what you might call casual work he’ll get the money in his hand and go on claiming the dole.’

‘Oh no, we couldn’t do that,’ Rose said at once. ‘You see, Mart had a good job in Liverpool so he didn’t have to claim the dole, and if he starts claiming it now someone might get suspicious. We’ll manage real well, honest to God we will. I’ve still got my Post Office book and so on, so we’ll be okay. And I’ll get some sort of job.’

‘Well, good for you; and if you’re earning, I suppose Ozzie’s rent isn’t too bad. I don’t know exactly what Scotty earns but I know when I was a secretary my top take-home pay wasn’t all that good. But I managed to have a lot of fun and buy fashionable clothes, and even go on holiday.’

‘Yes, but I expect you were living at home and not having to pay rent,’ Rose pointed out as they crossed the main road and headed for the prom. ‘Oh, do let’s go down on to the sand, even if it’s only for a moment. I know I said I’d like to paddle but I wouldn’t want your lovely coat to get all salty.’

‘Well, all right, we’ll walk along the beach for a bit,’ Millie said. ‘I shan’t paddle, though, because I bet the water’s freezing and if I catch a cold Scotty will say I did it on purpose. I don’t know about your Martin, but I think Scotty’s mother spoiled him something rotten. According to him, meals should be on the table so that he can come straight in from work, sit down and eat, and when things go wrong he has to look round for someone to blame.’ She sighed. ‘But I expect all men are the same.’

At this point, they lowered themselves on to the sand and slipped their shoes off. It felt deliciously warm to Rose’s bare toes, and after a moment’s hesitation she glanced at her companion. ‘I don’t think Mart’s at all spoilt; quite the opposite. He spoils me because – because of my condition, and he spoils Don because he’s always wanted a dog. In fact, he’s the most unselfish person I’ve ever met.’

Millie considered this, her head on one side. ‘Aren’t you lucky?’ she said. ‘I expect it was a silly thing to say – that all men are the same – because I know very well everyone’s different. Why, my own father is usually very easy-going, though I suppose you could say he’s under my mother’s thumb. At least, when I started going out with Scotty, it was my mother who said I’d live to regret it, and when she said that if Scotty and I married we need never darken their doors again, Father went along with it. So you see, although you could say my father paid the piper, it was my mother who called the tune.’

Rose was fascinated by this glimpse into family life. ‘But why didn’t they like Scotty?’ she asked. ‘I know I’ve never met him, never even seen him, but if you like him, I’m sure he must be very nice.’

‘Oh, he is,’ Millie said quickly. Too quickly, Rose wondered? ‘He’s most awfully handsome; all the girls in the factory are crazy about him. Oh, did I say he’s trainee management? That means he’ll be earning a lot of money one day. When he asked me out I was over the moon, and when he suggested we should marry, I simply thought that the two of us could talk my parents round. Only it didn’t work out like that. I took Scotty home, of course, and my mother was horrible. She kept looking him up and down and Scotty got cross – anyone would have – and when he gets cross he says things he doesn’t really mean. So you see he rubbed my parents up the wrong way and they did the same to him. They absolutely forbade me to have anything more to do with him, which meant secret meetings, which were kind of exciting . . . can you understand?’

‘I can understand that the way they treated you, and him, made you more determined than ever to get married,’ Rose said after some thought. ‘Couldn’t they see that?’

Millie shook her head sadly. ‘No, they couldn’t. All they could see was that Scotty worked in a factory and wouldn’t, they said, ever amount to anything because of his attitude. Even when I told them I was expecting Scotty’s baby, they didn’t relent. I thought they’d help us, release some of the money my grandfather left me, but they simply refused. They said I’d made my bed and must lie in it. So of course I got angry and went to see the family solicitor. I wouldn’t let Scotty come too, in case he lost his temper, but it was no use. Grandpa’s money is held in trust until I’m twenty-five, or until I marry a husband of whom my parents approve. Of course I had to tell Scotty and naturally he was furious. He wanted to confront my parents but I knew that would only make things worse.’

By now, the two girls had reached the tiny waves and Rose dipped her toe into the creaming surf. It was as cold as Millie had predicted, but Rose longed to hitch up her skirt and have a proper paddle. However, Millie was turning back towards the prom so Rose, eager to hear the rest of the story, followed. ‘So you and Scotty eloped, like in a Georgette Heyer book,’ she said. ‘Ain’t that romantic, though? Go on with the story, Millie. What happened next?’

‘There isn’t much more to tell,’ Millie said ruefully. ‘We came to Rhyl because Scotty got the offer of promotion, with more money. We’re much better off here because even the tiniest room in Liverpool costs a bomb and we both feel we’re starting a new life. I’ve rung my parents a couple of times to suggest that we might visit them, but whoever answers the phone, even if it’s my father, they just say “better not” and then put the phone down so quickly that I don’t have a chance to argue.’

‘Are you an only child?’ Rose asked curiously. ‘If so, your baby would be their first grandchild. I bet you anything you like they’ll take you back just to get their hands on the baby. But of course, if you’ve brothers and sisters . . .’

By now the two were scrambling back on to the prom and Millie, pushing her feet into her shoes, turned to Rose and nodded vigorously. ‘That’s what Scotty says, because I am an only child, but I’m not sure myself whether the baby will work the magic.’ She dusted sand off the skirts of her beautiful coat, picked up her straw bag and watched as Rose tried to get the sand off her wet feet. ‘Still, you may be right. The only thing is, they might want to see the baby and even me, but if they won’t let Scotty come too . . .’ She sighed, then shook herself briskly. ‘Are you ready? Let’s get going then, and on the way you can tell me how you and Mart ended up in Ozzie’s palatial apartments.’ She grinned impishly at Rose. ‘Your Martin must be well over six feet and he’s a good deal older than you, isn’t he? I was hiding behind my door when Ozzie brought you up to have a look at the room and I saw his white hair. There was just one lock sticking out from under his cap.’ She giggled. ‘I thought he was your father until I heard you calling him Mart.’

Rose laughed too. ‘He’s not quite nineteen and his hair is white because he’s an albino,’ she said frankly.

Millie’s eyebrows shot up. They were beautiful eyebrows, thin and winged. Rose, examining her new friend’s face, thought her not just pretty but beautiful. Her skin had a sort of translucence which goes with truly black hair and her eyes were very large, and such a dark blue that they could have been called navy. Looking at her properly for the first time, Rose realised that though Millie had seemed sophisticated, she was probably not much older than Rose herself. She was saying, ‘An albino? I had an albino rabbit and a cousin of mine had an albino cat, but I didn’t know a young man could be called that! Well, well, you learn something new every day. Oh, I’m sorry if I’m being rude, comparing your Martin to my rabbit, but I’ve honestly never heard of a person being all pink and white.’ She clapped a hand to her mouth, then spoke through her fingers. ‘Yes I have, though. Have you ever read Jamaica Inn? The clergyman who lured the ships to their doom with false lights was an albino.’

‘Oh, but you’ve made him sound horrible, luring ships to their doom,’ Rose said, dismayed. ‘Mart wouldn’t hurt anyone, honest to God he wouldn’t. It’s just that his hair is white, yours is black and mine is red. It’s – it’s something we’re born with.’

‘Yes, I know that really,’ Millie said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. So he isn’t even nineteen yet? Scotty’s twenty-four and I shall be eighteen in a few weeks. How old are you?’

‘Well, I’m almost sixteen,’ Rose admitted.

By now they had reached the high street and Millie pointed ahead. ‘See that big shop in front of us? It’s Marks & Spencer, and on half-day closing they sell off their perishables cheap, so we want to go in there at around half past eleven every Thursday to pick up the best bargains. They do wonderful beef and onion pies; Scotty loves ’em.’