A Mother’s Hope

Only the previous day, he had reminded her that by now the girl would have given birth. Both he and Isobel were sure that Gertrude would have gone to a hospital as soon as she had realised she was going into labour, so Isobel had kept tabs on every maternity unit within a ten-mile radius of the city centre. She had telephoned round almost daily and at one stage had actually driven out to a small hospital in the suburbs, where a girl named Gertrude had booked herself in and had produced a baby girl. Isobel had rushed to the ward only to find a dark-haired, dark-eyed gypsy woman gazing dispassionately at her across the baby’s head. Isobel had returned home, disappointed but still convinced that she would find the right Gertrude if she continued to enquire regularly.

Today, however, she had decided that wherever Gertrude was, it was not in the area. It was almost the end of May, and she was pretty sure that the girl would have had her baby by now. Isobel crossed the gravel drive, mounted the three steps and pushed open the front door. A comfortable-looking woman, crossing the hall, stopped as Isobel entered and smiled a welcome. ‘Dinner in ten minutes; Mr Frank’s already in the dining room,’ she said cheerfully.

Isobel gave a small laugh. ‘What’s for dinner, Alice?’

Alice Widdowes was fifty-seven and had worked for the family ever since Isobel’s birth, when she had joined the staff as a kitchen maid at the age of fourteen. Other servants had come and gone, but Alice had remained and now acted as housekeeper and general factotum to Frank and Isobel. She had known all about the adoption plan, of course, and had been almost as eager as Isobel to have a baby to fuss over and spoil.

‘A roast: a leg of young Welsh lamb with the new mint from the garden, roast potatoes, carrots and some spring greens what were only cut this morning,’ she said. ‘And I hope as you’ll concentrate on your dinner and not say one word about that Gertrude Pleavin, ’cos I’m tellin’ you, she’s long gone, and wouldn’t thank you if she knew you were on her tail.’

This time, Isobel’s laugh held genuine amusement. ‘You’re right there; I’m sure she doesn’t want to see me because she must know she’s treated me abominably,’ she said. ‘I gave her everything, Alice, and wanted to go on helping her, but she threw my kindness back in my face and I do find it difficult to forgive her.’ She shook herself, then smiled reassuringly into the older woman’s worried face. ‘It’s all right; I’m really going to put both Gertrude and her baby right out of my mind. Dinner in ten minutes, you said? Good, because I’m hungry as a hunter.’

She went through to the dining room to find Frank, who must have heard her approach, throwing down his copy of the Echo and rising to his feet. He held out his arms and enfolded her in a warm embrace. ‘My darling girl, I heard you talking to Alice and I’m so glad you’ve decided to come back to me. Ever since I did that terrible thing I’ve felt as though I had built a wall between us; felt that you were adding to it, brick by brick, making it higher. But now all that is over and our lives can get back on course. I know you think it is too soon, but I want us to reapply to become adoptive parents. What do you say?’

‘I’ll think about it,’ Isobel said cautiously. ‘I told Mr Reynolds today that I wanted to take a couple of steps down occasionally, so that I could actually work with children, and he suggested that I be put down as a helper on day trips. So let me get used to being with children again before we do anything more about adoption. Do you agree?’

Frank was beginning to say that she was, as usual, being both sensible and practical when the door opened and Alice, pushing a trolley laden with covered silver dishes, entered the room. ‘Ah, here comes our dinner!’ he said. ‘Goodness, Alice, that smells delicious!’

Rose nodded agreement. She and Millie had bought a big old-fashioned pram from a young woman who lived on the large council estate just off Marsh Road and it was a real boon, but just now Rose had other things than crèches and prams on her mind. She whisked the baby off her breast and laid him across her shoulder to bring up his wind, reaching for a clean nappy as she did so. ‘Guess what happened just now?’ she enquired. ‘I mean guess what our Ricky just did!’

‘A poo in his nappy,’ Millie said promptly. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Oh yes he did, I can tell from here. But wait until I tell you what Alex did when I’d finished feeding him earlier . . .’

‘No, you listen, Millie Scott. Ricky smiled at me! No, don’t you scoff, honest to God, Millie, he smiled right into me eyes as though he’d been doin’ it all his life.’

Millie’s eyes rounded and she turned the baby in her arms to face Rose. ‘He did? Well, that’s just what I was going to tell you! Alex smiled at me just moments ago! He did, he did; I’m not just fooling around. A big, beaming smile! Just wait until I tell Scotty, he’ll be over the moon.’

‘So will Mart,’ Rose admitted. ‘Isn’t it odd, Millie, how the two of ’em do things together? Fancy them both smiling for the first time on the very same day!’

Millie turned Alex in her arms again and kissed the top of his downy head. ‘I expect they’ll do everything more or less at the same time,’ she said. ‘Walking, talking, taking out their first girl, getting married . . .’

Rose finished dressing Ricky, added a woollen helmet and laid him on the bed whilst she slipped into her own jacket. The June day was brilliant; sun streamed down on the town and she knew that by the time they had done their shopping and reached the factory both her jacket and Millie’s would be dumped on the foot of the pram.

‘Ready?’ Millie’s tone was impatient. Rose knew that her friend and Scotty loved Alex just as much as she and Martin loved Ricky, but perhaps because they had fewer financial worries they took parenthood far more lightly. Rose sometimes wondered if reading every book available on child rearing had been a good idea. When Ricky and Alex developed nappy rash, Millie bought a tube of Drapolene and applied it vigorously to Alex’s small bottom and then, it seemed, took it for granted that the rash would clear up. Rose agonised over every spot, bought different unguents which she could ill afford, and lay awake at night wondering if this was the start of measles, or something worse. If Millie thought Alex was too hot, she would airily rip off shawls and headgear. Rose, who had read that more heat escapes through the top of the baby’s head than in any other way, was terrified to remove a stitch of his clothing, though when Millie had pointed out the other day that Ricky’s little face was uncomfortably flushed she had taken her friend’s advice and stripped off his thick coat – and had then waited for a chill to develop.

‘Rose Thompson, are you ready, you wretched girl?’ Millie asked again, as Rose clicked her fingers to Don and took one last, lingering glance around the room. She always left the place immaculate because she was pretty certain that Mrs Osborne had a good snoop round as soon as her tenants left the building, though so far Rose had not missed anything. The other tenants assured the two young mothers that Ozzie would nick anything left in the bathroom, kitchen or fridge, but did not think she would take from their rooms.

When Whitsun had arrived, Mrs Osborne had been true to her word and put their rent up, but she had not turned them out. She had also told them, nastily, that whilst she had holidaymakers in the house they might only use the kitchen when the guests had finished their own meal preparations. Rose, somewhat ruefully surveying the devastation which invariably accompanied Millie’s culinary excursions, could not entirely blame the landlady, for Millie and Scotty spread indescribable chaos wherever they went. Scotty had rigged up a line for small articles, such as the baby’s bootees, which Millie washed down in the bathroom, but the nappies which she brought back from the brand new launderette five hundred yards from the lodging house, still damp of course but at least clean, she hung on the line in Ozzie’s back garden. The landlady objected loudly; indeed, when she had washing of her own to dry, she would take Rose’s and Millie’s clean stuff and sling it down on the tiny patch of grass, pegging out her own articles whilst grumbling that she would be glad when they moved out, since they were more trouble than a hundred holidaymakers. When this happened, Millie gave the nappies a good shake and used them without any fuss, but Rose spent hours removing tiny blades of grass and bits of earth and felt guilty for not washing them again.

Now, Millie heaved an exaggerated sigh and headed down the stairs. ‘I’m going without you,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘I nipped into the launderette earlier, so my nappies are up to date, if you know what I mean.’

The pram was kept in a cupboard at the foot of the stairs, and Millie yanked it out and thumped it through the front door, through the gate and on to the pavement whilst Rose, with the baby in her arms and Don at her heels, was still descending the stairs. When she joined Millie, her friend was just cuddling Alex down in the blankets, so Rose did the same with Ricky, hung her shopping bag on the hook at the end of the pram, and smiled at her friend. ‘I put my nappies out at the crack of dawn,’ she admitted. ‘You and Scotty weren’t even stirring. I just hope Ozzie doesn’t chuck them on the grass before they’ve had a chance to get dry. Mart gave me a hand to hang them out because Ricky was still sound asleep after the six o’clock feed . . . oh, Millie, won’t it be heaven when they give up the two a.m. one? Poor old Mart works like a dog on that funfair and though I try to get to Ricky before he wails and wakes Mart up, I’m afraid it doesn’t often happen.’

‘Alex is showing signs of giving it up,’ Millie said happily, tucking the blankets round the two small bodies. ‘As for waking up, Scotty never does. Not even for the six o’clock feed, though the alarm going off at seven has him grumbling loudly enough to wake both me and the baby.’ She turned a conspiratorial grin on her friend as she wheeled the pram towards the prom. ‘I haven’t had a chance to tell you before, but Ozzie and Scotty had a right humdinger of a row yesterday over the nappies. He told her that if he caught her chucking our clean linen on the grass once more he would take her sheets and towels and throw them on to the beach, and then he’d report her to the public health people for good measure and see her prosecuted for every penny we’d spent at the launderette. First she went red as a turkey cock, then white as a ghost; she was furious, but she was frightened, too – and with reason. Scotty would do it, you know, if pressed.’

‘Gosh,’ Rose said inadequately. ‘Millie, once or twice I’ve wondered . . .’

But Millie was bending over the pram and seized Rose’s arm. ‘Look at them!’ she said urgently. ‘Oh, Rosie, they’re smiling at one another!’

After this proof that their sons were indeed the most intelligent babies in the whole world, the two girls did their shopping. It was a Thursday, so Rose at least was short of cash, since Mart got paid on a Saturday. But both girls always saved a bit of money so that they might take advantage of Marks & Spencer’s reductions.

Once they had finished their shopping, they set off to walk to the pyjama factory, Rose feeling a little apprehensive. Suppose they employed Millie and not herself? Millie was beautiful, clever and posh, whilst she herself was small and plain. Still, there was no point in meeting trouble halfway.

However, when they arrived at the factory gates, a nasty shock awaited them. The advertisement for staff had disappeared, and though Millie said stoutly that it must have fallen off in a recent gale, or been taken away by evil little boys, she was obviously worried. She looked at Rose, saw the colour drain from her cheeks, and grabbed her by the sleeve. ‘Don’t look like that. I’m sure it’s just – just a silly mistake, but I’m going to make certain. Come along!’

It was Rose’s turn to push the pram and she followed her friend in through the factory gates, saying repeatedly that she was sure it was not a mistake and wouldn’t it be better to simply accept the fact that the jobs were gone and set about looking elsewhere?

Millie, however, paid no attention. She took the pram from Rose and pulled it into the shade, telling Don to sit and guard. Don, who had never been told to do such a thing before, looked somewhat bewildered, but obediently squatted beside the pram, looking not at Millie but at Rose, as though he suspected that the former had gone mad, but still trusted his mistress absolutely.

Rose had to laugh. The big dog was still somewhat in awe of the little bundles which appeared to have taken command of their lives, and even as she and Millie moved towards the doors he uttered a plaintive little whine as though he were asking them just what he was supposed to do should one of the babies cry. So she turned back, gave Don’s narrow head an approving stroke, and then bent down and whispered: ‘Stay, old feller, until us come back.’ The anxiety faded from the big liquid eyes and Don settled himself more comfortably, his back actually resting on one of the pram wheels.

‘Rosie, stop fussing that bloody dog and come on,’ Millie said. Millie never swore and the fact that she had just done so was proof of her inner anxiety, no matter how boldly she might behave. ‘After all, it’s no sin to ask if there are jobs still going!’

They pushed through the big glass doors into a reception area. There was polished brown lino on the floor and two pale grey upholstered couches stood against the cream-washed walls. A receptionist sat behind a desk with a telephone and looked up enquiringly as they approached. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’

Rose stared dumbly at the smart young woman in her pale grey suit and blue blouse, but Millie smiled winningly and leaned forward, both hands on the desktop. ‘You can indeed. My friend and I have been coming past here now for several weeks and we’ve seen your advertisement for staff . . .’

Millie told their story crisply and well, explaining that both she and her friend had recently given birth to babies, but were very keen to make pyjamas, particularly because of the crèche facilities available, just as soon as jobs were advertised once more. So could the young woman please tell her when that would be?

The receptionist, who had been listening with amused attention to Millie’s outpourings, suddenly began to look hunted. She said she wasn’t sure; no one had told her . . . she knew the advertisement outside the factory had come down . . . did Millie know that the firm was building an extension because the big stores were so pleased with their product? Whilst the extension was under construction there was a good deal of mess . . . she rather thought the directors had decided to wait until the new building was complete before . . .

‘But that might be months . . . years, even,’ Millie said, dismayed. ‘Rose and myself – this is Rose, by the way, Rose Thompson – are good workers; we shan’t let you down by losing time or sewing crooked seams. Surely, if we . . .’

Millie continued to put her case, not noticing that they were no longer alone in the foyer. A tall, dark-haired man had come in behind them and was standing listening and watching the two girls so that Rose, aware of his presence, was unable to warn Millie that she was being overheard. Scarlet with embarrassment, Rose waited for the man to tell them to leave, to stop hassling the receptionist, but instead he leaned forward and addressed Millie in a deep, amused voice.

‘So you and your friend are the owners of that big dog guarding the even bigger pram which is standing just outside the doors? And you want jobs in the factory? And you are not put off by the information Miss Cruickshank has given you – that we have suspended recruitment until the extension is built? Well, well, you certainly aren’t easily turned aside from your purpose, young lady!’

Millie, who had had her back to the man, now jumped and turned to confront her questioner. Rose, watching events with a mixture of fear and amusement, saw the stranger’s expression change at the sight of Millie’s beautiful little face. She was used to Millie’s looks, but now she realised what an effect those looks could have when Millie, blushing, suddenly rewarded the man with her most inviting and attractive smile. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘I didn’t know . . . I thought it was just Rose behind me . . . but perhaps you can help us. I was just explaining to the young lady . . .’

‘Yes, I heard,’ the man said. ‘I’m Peter McDonald, one of the directors. I spend a good deal of time here, though I work mainly in the mid-Wales factory; and you are . . .’

‘I’m Millicent Scott, Mr McDonald, only most people call me Millie,’ she said demurely. ‘And this is my friend Rose Thompson. As you obviously heard, we’re looking for jobs, and because of your crèche facilities we were hopeful . . .’

The man smiled and Rose, feeling very much a bystander, took in the crisp white shirt, dark tie and immaculate pinstriped suit. This was someone important, though she doubted whether he could invent jobs for them after what the receptionist had just said. But he had started to speak again. ‘We shall be recruiting more staff once the extension is finished, so if you will fill in an application form, I’ll see you are both called for interview when the time comes.’

He smiled suddenly and Rose, who had found his air of easy competence rather intimidating, realised that in fact he was quite attractive and probably not more than thirty-five or six. When he turned towards her, it was to enquire which one of them was the young mother, and Rose found herself answering with a smile, she hoped, as warm as Millie’s. ‘It’s the both of us,’ she said ungrammatically. ‘I mean there’s two babies in that there pram; one’s my Ricky and the other . . .’ she jerked a thumb in her friend’s direction, ‘is Millie’s Alex. So we’d both like our babies to go into the crèche whilst we’re working, please, Mr McDonald.’

Mr McDonald frowned. ‘Oh, Lord, now that may be a problem. You see, there’s a limit to the number of very young babies that the staff of the crèche can take on. However, it will be some weeks before we begin recruiting again, so if you go along to the crèche when you leave here, take a look round and explain to the nurse in charge that you have applied for work with us, perhaps you may be lucky.’

‘We’ll go as soon as we’ve filled in the forms,’ Millie said eagerly. ‘We meant to do so anyway, didn’t we, Rosie? Thank you so much, Mr McDon—’

But at this point the telephone on the reception desk rang. Miss Cruickshank picked it up, listened for a moment, and then turned to Mr McDonald. ‘It’s for you, sir. Shall I transfer it to your office?’

‘Is it the shipping people?’ he enquired. ‘It should be. I phoned them this morning, but the man I wanted was out, so I asked them to get him to ring me back. Yes, put it through to my office, Miss Cruickshank; I’m sure you can deal with these young ladies without any help from me.’ He raised a hand in a gesture of farewell. ‘Good luck,’ he said, and was gone, leaving Miss Cruickshank to produce a couple of printed forms, which she handed to Millie and Rose.

‘Which will you do first, visit the crèche, or fill in the application forms?’ the receptionist enquired. ‘My, but weren’t you lucky? Mr McDonald has nothing to do with the staff as a rule, but since he’s the managing director I suppose he can do pretty much as he likes. He’s ever so nice, never too proud to speak to you. But of course, we don’t see all that much of him because he spends a good deal of time at our factory in mid-Wales, and goes off on buying trips all over the world. So, you see, you really were lucky.’

The girls took the forms over to a table which Miss Cruickshank had pointed out to them. It was equipped with a tin mug full of biros, and it took the girls barely ten minutes to complete the paperwork. Then they returned to the receptionist. She was on the telephone, talking animatedly and making notes as she did so, but she took the forms, ran her eyes briefly over the contents and after a few moments replaced the receiver and turned to her visitors. ‘These look fine,’ she said. ‘You’ve not given us a telephone number, but I see you’re in digs, so I guess you haven’t got one. Never mind, a letter is probably safer anyhow, because I’m sure you’ll be called for interview.’ The telephone at her elbow rang again and she pulled a face. ‘The wretched things never stop,’ she commented ruefully. ‘I’ll be seeing you!’

Half an hour later the girls were wheeling the pram back along the pavement, heading for Bath Street. Millie smiled at the babies, now sleeping soundly, then turned to Rose. ‘It’s a really nice place; I’d have no qualms about leaving Alex there,’ she announced. ‘What did you think, Rosie?’

Rose gave an ecstatic sigh. ‘It was lovely,’ she said. ‘Oh, won’t I have a lot to tell Mart when he gets back from work this evening!’

‘Yes, same here,’ Millie agreed. ‘And we’d best make the most of our freedom because if you ask me, in a couple of months we’ll be in full-time employment and not able to stroll around the Botanical Gardens or spend time on the beach.’

‘We’ll have weekends,’ Rose pointed out. ‘And evenings, of course.’

‘We’ll be cleaning, shopping and cooking at weekends,’ Millie said gloomily. ‘I’ve enjoyed being a lady of leisure; I’m not at all sure how I’ll take to working all day.’

‘I know what you mean, but the money will be nice,’ Rose said. ‘Poor Don will have to go to the funfair every day, though. Oh, well, I’m sure we’ll work something out.’

That had been on a Saturday afternoon when the four of them, complete with babies and dog, had caught a bus to Llandudno. They had climbed the Great Orme – Rose and Martin had been awed and delighted by the wonderful views – and then descended to the prom where they sat in a row on a bench, eating chips and chatting. Rose had laughed to herself when Millie had given Scotty the telling-off, because she had noticed that her friend only ever called him by his full name when he was in her bad books.

Scotty had sighed, then grinned as he caught Rose’s eye. He had leaned over to grasp her hand and shake it in mock contrition. ‘I’m always in trouble with cruel old Millie,’ he had said mournfully. ‘She doesn’t love me when I’m too tired to go house hunting, but you’ll forgive me, won’t you, Rosie? You’ll be my little friend?’

This had made Rose giggle, but she had noticed that Martin’s face wore a wistful look so she had answered, bracingly, that she would be friends with anyone who would finish off her chips for her. Since Don had come eagerly forward at that point everyone had dissolved into laughter, and the Rhuddlan bungalow had been forgotten.

Now it was August, and Rose and Millie were preparing for a day on the beach. They had learned from bitter experience, now that the school holidays had started, that the beautiful golden sands speedily became very crowded indeed. However, if they set out immediately after breakfast, they usually managed to get some space to themselves, particularly if they pushed the pram towards Splash Point, which was the less popular end of the beach. At what was known as the Voryd end there was the funfair and a number of stalls selling such things as cockles and winkles, doughnuts and ice creams; things which were altogether lacking at Splash Point.

On this particular day, it was already so hot by eight o’clock that even Rose did not wrap Ricky in shawls or warm woollens. He was wearing a nappy and rubber knickers and an ancient romper suit which she had bought from a second-hand shop in Market Street, whilst she herself wore a cotton dress and sandals. She had packed a pile of jam sandwiches and two bottles of lemonade, and as soon as she had tidied round the room had set off to join Millie. As was her custom, she rapped sharply on her friend’s door, then flung it open. Millie was sitting in front of the dressing table mirror, a powder puff in one hand and a box of powder before her, and she jumped guiltily as the door opened. ‘What on earth . . . ?’ she began, then turned to smile at her friend. ‘You’re early today, and you’re usually late,’ she said accusingly. ‘And if you’ve come in to remind me to bring a big bottle of water for Don, you needn’t bother because it’s already in my straw bag. And I’m almost ready, but thought I’d do my face for once.’

‘For a day on the beach?’ Rose asked incredulously. ‘Wharrever for, queen? We shan’t meet nobody, norrif we go up to Splash Point.’

‘No-o, but it does me good to put my face on once in a while . . .’ Millie was beginning when Rose came right into the room and stared at her friend’s mirrored reflection.

‘Millie Scott, you tell big lies,’ she said accusingly. ‘How did that happen, may I ask?’ She leaned forward and ran a finger down a dark bruise that marred the smoothness of her friend’s cheek.

Millie sighed. ‘Trust you to notice!’ she said. ‘I walked into the kitchen door when I was taking our porridge back upstairs. It didn’t half hurt, and though Scotty went down and got a piece of ice out of the fridge and I held it against my cheek all through breakfast, it’s still come out in this great dark bruise, so I’m doing my best to cover it up with powder.’

‘Oh, Millie, as if powder could do it!’ Rose exclaimed. ‘You know what you are? You’re what they call accident prone. Sometimes I think you only have to look at two or three stairs to tumble down them, or even up them. It’s just been luck that you’ve not fallen when you’re carrying your Alex. You really must be more careful.’

‘I know, I know. Scotty’s always nagging me to look before I leap. He says if I wasn’t always in a rush, these accidents wouldn’t happen, but I suppose I’ll slow down as I get older,’ Millie said. She pushed the puff into the box and closed the lid, dusted her hands fastidiously, and stood up. ‘I’ve got the big black umbrella to shade the babies; have you got the smaller one for us?’

Having reassured themselves on this point, the girls checked that they had everything else they would need, and set off. As they had hoped, the tide was on its way out and the far end of the beach deserted, so they spread out their rugs, positioned the old umbrellas and changed into their bathing suits. Alex and Ricky lay contentedly in the shade and presently Rose turned to Millie, who was leaning back, eyes closed. ‘It’s pretty warm, but it’s going to get even hotter later on,’ she observed. ‘I think we ought to get off the beach and go up to the Botanical Gardens, or in fact go anywhere where we can find some shade. It says in the baby books . . .’

‘I know, I know,’ Millie said soothingly. ‘Hot sunshine isn’t good for small babies and it’s not ideal for their mothers, either. C’mon then, let’s have our swim, because I’m sure you’re right. The heat’s downright tropical this morning.’

The girls changed back into their cotton frocks and put on the ugly straw hats Millie had insisted they buy, because they were so cheap and would protect them from the glare. ‘They’re coolie hats, the sort of thing Chinese peasants wear in the fields,’ Rose grumbled, for she had parted reluctantly with her sixpence. ‘Ain’t life unfair though, Millie? You make that hat look high fashion and I make mine look like a bad joke.’

Millie giggled but said: ‘Rubbish, you look very nice. And now help me hump the pram back on to the prom and we’ll walk along to the funfair and buy ices. I could just do with a cornet, and Scotty gave me five bob before he left today because I said we were going to the beach. I expect he meant me to bring fish and chips in this evening, but he didn’t say, so I’ll buy us each a threepenny cornet.’

Dreamily, Rose helped with the pram and then strolled along, barefoot, with her coolie hat shading her face and her body relaxed after its swim. Ahead of her, she saw a line of coaches with people descending from them and wondered if they came from Liverpool; wouldn’t it be a coincidence if they were actually from the children’s home where she had spent so many years of her life!

They reached the foremost coach and Rose smiled to herself as the children descending from it began to form into a crocodile, chattering brightly as they did so. ‘Ooh, look at all that sand!’ ‘Ain’t the sea blue?’ ‘I allus thought it were green.’ ‘There’s shells; lickle pink ones, like the ones on the shell box on me mam’s dressin’ table.’ ‘See that big café there? Last year I ’member we had us dinners there.’

Rose turned to smile at the children as she passed them, and then felt her heart begin to beat a rapid tattoo. A woman was descending from the coach, a tall, slim woman with curly light brown hair. She was wearing a navy blue summer dress, with a white Peter Pan collar and cuffs, and as her feet met the paving stones of the promenade she raised her head and looked straight at Millie, whose turn it was to push the pram. Rose shrank back, taking hold of Don’s collar and bending over as though to address him. She waited for the awful moment when Mrs Ellis, for she had recognised the other woman immediately, would transfer her gaze from the pram to herself, but instead the woman stepped forward, smiling rather shyly at Millie and peeping into the pram.

‘Twins!’ she exclaimed. ‘What pretty little fellows. I assume they’re boys, as they’re both wearing blue?’

‘That’s right,’ Millie said.

Even from the back, Rose could tell that her friend was about to spill the beans, to say that they were not twins, that the mother of one of them was coming along behind her, but before Millie could speak another adult descended the steps of the coach and addressed the woman bending over the pram. ‘Will you go to the front of the crocodile, please, Mrs Ellis, whilst I take up the rear? It’s going to be very hot later on so I think we’d best make camp under the pier. It’s about the only place on the beach where we’ll find shade and I don’t mean to take children home suffering from sunstroke.’

Mrs Ellis straightened up, but cast one last, longing look at the babies in the pram. ‘Yes, of course, Miss Quentin. I’m so sorry, but the sight of these beautiful twin boys took my mind off my work,’ she said apologetically. She took a couple of steps away from the pram, and then turned back. ‘What are they called, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘Richard’s the one on the left and Alexander’s on the right,’ Millie said promptly. ‘And actually, they aren’t . . .’

But the woman was turning away, hurrying to the front of the crocodile. Rose released her pent-up breath and grasped Millie’s arm. ‘Let’s go over to that ice cream parlour on the other side of the prom and have a bit of a sit-down as well as a cornet,’ she muttered. ‘Millie, I know that woman you were talking to and if she comes back, or you see her again, please don’t tell her the boys aren’t twins. I’ll explain once we’re sitting down.’

And presently, explain she did. Oh, not everything, not by a long chalk. But she did say that Mrs Ellis had worked in the children’s home in which she had been brought up. ‘She’s got no kids of her own, you see, so I reckon she thought workin’ with children was the next best thing,’ she said. ‘Then, when I got pregnant, she just sort of assumed I didn’t want me baby and said she’d put it up for adoption. I were only fifteen and had no money, nor did poor Martin, so I reckon she thought she were doin’ the right thing.’

‘But why didn’t you tell her you wanted to keep the baby?’ Millie asked, giving her cone a quick lick. ‘When you told her you and Martin were going to get married, surely she must have realised you would!’

‘At first, I honestly did think I wouldn’t be able to cope,’ Rose admitted. ‘The trouble was that I didn’t know Mrs Ellis meant to adopt my baby. She was really good to me, gave me an allowance, paid the rent of the place where I lived, even lied about my age to get me a flat. I thought she was the best and nicest person, only then I discovered she meant to take my baby . . . our baby, Mart’s and mine, I mean . . . so we ran away.’

‘I see,’ Millie said slowly. She ran a thoughtful tongue round the ice cream, which was rapidly beginning to melt. ‘Or rather I don’t see. You aren’t afraid that she will steal little Ricky away from his rightful parents, are you? Because if she did, that would be kidnapping.’

Rose hesitated. Should she tell Millie that the Ellises did have a claim on Ricky, that he was in fact Mr Ellis’s son? But she had promised Martin that she would not tell anyone the true story, and much though she loved Millie she did not want her to know that Martin was not Ricky’s father. So she said, as brightly as she could: ‘I don’t think I’ve told it very well, but the fact is the Ellises are rich and important people. Mrs Ellis told my doctor that I had agreed to the adoption – it was Dr Matthews who accidentally let it out that the Ellises were going to take my baby. Well, Martin and I got away, but if she found us I’m afraid it would be her word against mine. When she first got me my flat I had to sign all sorts of papers, and thinking back one could have been an agreement to let the Ellises adopt my child. So you see . . .’

‘Yes, I do see, but I think you’re worrying about nothing,’ Millie said. She finished off her ice cream, wiped her mouth and began to get to her feet. ‘Ah, I see Don has come in for your ice cream cornet. I wonder why Mrs Ellis didn’t recognise you, though?’

Rose got to her feet and leaned over the pram where the two little boys both slept, dark lashes on cheeks which were flushed from the heat. ‘She was too fascinated by the babies,’ she said. ‘I can tell you I thanked my lucky stars it wasn’t my turn to push the pram, or I reckon I’d have been a goner.’

‘And are you going to be scared of meeting your Mrs Ellis every time a school trip arrives in Rhyl?’ Millie asked, rather derisively. ‘Because if so, life is going to become somewhat complicated for the next five or six weeks. Honestly, Rose, I’m sure you’re worrying over nothing. She can’t snatch Ricky out of the pram and run off with him in broad daylight; why, she might even take Alex by mistake and then she’d be in real trouble. She can’t follow you home because she’s come here in charge of children and won’t simply abandon them. No, I’m sure you’ve no reason to worry.’

‘I expect you’re right,’ Rose said as they turned down Water Street. ‘I’ll try not to, because apart from anything else, I do know that Mrs Ellis is a good sort of person. She goes to church, has a very responsible job and does good works – if you know what that means. I’m not sure that I do. But if we do meet up with her, she’ll want explanations and – and I’d simply rather not have to explain. Can you understand that, Millie? To admit to someone who has been good and kind to you, even if it was for the wrong reasons, that you ran away rather than tell her to her face that you meant to keep your baby . . .’

Millie shuddered. ‘All right, all right, I do understand,’ she said. ‘I still remember how dreadful it was telling my parents that Scotty and I were going to have a baby. My mother went white as a sheet and started to keel over, and my father shouted and roared . . . it was dreadful. Daddy said I was killing Mummy, that I was wicked and selfish, and when my mother recovered enough to speak she told me that unless I agreed to come home and forget that Scotty and I had ever met, I need never darken their doors again. I never thought I’d ever hear that phrase used in real life, but she actually said it, honest to God she did, and meant it too.’ She leaned over and squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘Dearest Rose, I do understand why you’re afraid of meeting Mrs Ellis, because if I thought my parents might suddenly appear before me on the prom, I’d either run like a hare or die of fright.’ She laughed, but there was no amusement in the sound. ‘Poor old us! So if you see Mummy and Daddy approaching, get prepared to run, and if either of us sees Mrs Ellis, we’ll both do the same.’

‘That sounds fine, except that I’ve never met your parents,’ Rose said. She smiled for the first time since they had watched the children descending from the coach. ‘You are daft, Millie!’

‘I know I am,’ Millie said sunnily. She looked affectionately at her friend. ‘At least it made you smile, and when we get back to Bath Street I’ll show you a photograph of my parents. I keep it hidden away from Scotty because I’m sure if he knew I had it, he’d tear it up. But I’m still hopeful that one day they will acknowledge that – that I did the right thing, especially now I’ve got young Alex here to plead my cause. He’s awfully like his father, don’t you think?’

Rose peered dubiously at Alex’s small, sleeping face. ‘Well, I suppose he is, so far as any baby resembles a grown-up,’ she said judiciously. ‘But whenever anyone mentions likenesses, I think of what Winston Churchill said: “I look like all babies and all babies look like me.”’

‘How true that is,’ Millie said, nodding her agreement. ‘I do love the things old Winnie says. There was the one where a politician named Gatepost called him a dirty dog, and Winnie said: “You know what dogs do on gateposts?” My father dined out on that for weeks.’

But Rose’s mind was still on an earlier part of the conversation. ‘I suppose I can see a slight resemblance between Ricky and his father,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Oh, not his features so much, but the way his hair grows in a peak—’ She stopped short, suddenly aware of what she was saying and of the way Millie was staring at her. ‘And his ears are a bit like Martin’s, too,’ she ended, rather feebly.

Millie frowned. The quizzical look on her face faded. ‘If you say so,’ she said. ‘Don’t think I’m insulting your beloved Martin, Rosie, but if I were you I’d just be thankful that Ricky isn’t an albino. From what I’ve gathered, being different has caused your husband real difficulties, so I expect he was pleased as well when he realised he’d not passed his colouring on to his son.’

‘Yes, he was very relieved,’ Rose said, glad to have had her slip accepted without further comment. ‘And now let’s get weaving, so we can eat our snap as soon as we reach the gardens.’

‘Our sandwiches, you mean, you little heathen!’ Millie said, as she had said many times before. ‘Not sarnies, not snap, not butties. If you’re going to rise up in the world, you’ll have to get rid of your Scouse accent. When I move into the secretarial side of the pyjama business, I want you with me.’

‘I’m not sure that I’d feel comfortable in an office,’ Rose said dubiously. ‘But first catch your hare; we’re not even factory workers yet!’