Christmas Past (3 page)

‘Can I come in? What was I thinking of, not showing you the bathroom? Slip on your dressing gown and I’ll take you now. Then you can eat your supper.’

Mary blushed. She had never had a dressing gown; indeed, it was only thanks to Mrs Brown that she had a couple of presentable nighties. She slipped one over her head and stood waiting.

Gladys Roberts suddenly realised the girl’s plight. Wishing she could recall her words, she left the room and was back immediately with a dressing gown of her own.

‘I wonder if you would like this?’ she said. ‘It’s far too small for me. Come along, the bathroom is just along the corridor. Don’t worry if you hear a banging in
the night, it’s only the air in the water pipes. If you want a bath this is the best time – the water has time to heat up again then for the doctor. I usually take mine in the
afternoon, when I’ve finished in the garden.’ She smiled.

The bath was unlike anything Mary had ever seen, long enough to lie down in and decorated with a blue floral pattern. The water closet stood beside it. Mary was speechless.

‘Well, I’ll leave you now, but don’t be too long or your cocoa will be cold. Goodnight, Mary. I’ll see you at breakfast.’

Then Mary was alone, more alone than she’d ever been in her life, and she didn’t care at all.

During the months that followed only three things worried Mary. One was the electricity. For the first few days she managed to avoid switching the contraptions on and off by
busying herself with other things until Mrs Roberts did it for her. Finally she had to tackle the frightening thing herself, and was surprised to find it quite painless. After that she was
delighted to use the huge, noisy vacuum cleaner which made the carpets look almost new again, and she always made sure the lounge was bathed in light by the time the doctor and his wife retired
there in the evening after supper.

The second thing she worried about was the injections. The doctor had given her two so far, and even though they didn’t hurt she felt quite sick at the thought of them. Dr Roberts had
examined her carefully and gently, given her a large bottle of Scotts Emulsion with which she was to dose herself every night, and done her more good than all the medicine in Sheffield by telling
her she was like a ray of sunshine flitting about the house with her freckled face and shimmering hair. She was still rather scared of him, with his booming voice and his infectious laughter.

‘Hello,’ he would bellow every time he passed her as she went about her work. ‘And what has my little town mouse been up to today then?’

At first Mary had blushed and stood there tongue-tied, but gradually she had found herself beginning to enthuse over the day’s activities: how she’d dared to feed the hens without
Tom’s assistance, or had made five pounds of bilberry jam, learning quickly from Mrs Roberts how to test the fruit – which had cropped late this year – for setting.

After a while the doctor sought Mary out most evenings for a chat, on the pretext of asking if she was feeling better, an unnecessary question, for Mary was blooming like the beautiful bronze
chrysanthemums which were at present growing in profusion in the glass lean-to round the back of the house. She gradually overcame her shyness and chatted away as though she’d known him for
ever. His little goat’s beard and curled moustache fascinated her, and once she had grown accustomed to the volume she found his deep voice beautiful. Once she heard him singing to his
wife’s accompaniment on the piano and she opened her bedroom door to hear more clearly, overcome by the deep bass rendering of ‘Linden Lea’, and other songs she had never heard
before.

The third worry, which Mary harboured long after the others had been solved, was what to do about her religion. She had written a carefully worded letter to Father Flynn, along with one to her
mother, giving them to Tom to post in Longfield. She had explained how she had not been to Mass since leaving home as the only church within reach was Protestant, and it was time she went to
confession. So far the only reply had been from her mother, and that was no help at all. Ma assured Mary that the family were all well, and then went on to tell her about Joyce Bailey, who had been
her best friend. Joyce, to everyone’s dismay, was expecting. The young man, who had been in Newcastle looking for work, had moved on before Joyce had realised the plight she was in, and her
father had thrown her out on to the street. Joyce had been taken in by One Shilling Lil and everyone knew how she’d turn out living with a woman like that. Everybody was sorry for the
girl’s ma, being shamed like that, and Mary must remember not to do anything which would put her in the same position.

Mary, who had been looking forward to her first letter, felt quite depressed after reading it. Poor Joyce. All her life she had been deprived of affection. Her parents had been even worse than
her da for the drink, and Joyce had been brought up hanging around pub doorways waiting for closing time. Maybe she’d be better off with One Shilling Lil. At least Lil’s house was
clean, and she had often given Mary and the other children a penny or a slice of bread and jam when they were little. Then her ma had found out and forbidden her to go there again. Mary had learned
later that Lil had come by her name by entertaining men during the evenings, but she still liked her. She was a kind woman. Maybe that’s why the men liked her, too: because she was kind and
laughed a lot. Besides, she was ever so pretty. Yes, Joyce would be all right with Lil. Mary knew she shouldn’t be thinking such things and felt ashamed. She really ought to go to confession,
but she couldn’t ask Mrs Roberts, her being Church of England.

Suddenly, Mary’s worry was resolved by Dr Roberts. Once a month he visited the orphanage at Upper Longfield. His duty was to keep an eye on the children, treating any colds, tummy upsets
or more serious complaints which affected them from time to time. The orphanage was run by nuns from the convent, a dark dismal place hidden completely by trees so that passers-by rarely noticed
it, and even if they did they were deterred from exploring further by the locked iron gates.

The young novices’ only worldly pleasure was working at the orphanage, when at least they were allowed to speak freely and enjoy caring for the children, who would have been in a sorry
state without them. Dr Roberts was the only male, apart from the priest, they were allowed contact with and they had even been known to laugh on occasions during his visits, as he narrated
anecdotes to them from the outside world. He knew he was their only link with it and made sure he passed on any items of local gossip, feeling pity for the poor girls cooped up away from
reality.

It was on one of his visits to the orphanage that he mentioned Mary, and was told she might attend Mass in the chapel once a week. Tom was to take her every Wednesday, when she could also make
confession. Dr Roberts found it difficult to imagine what she could possibly have to confess, but he knew from a letter he had received from Father Flynn that she was worrying about it. Why in
God’s name hadn’t the girl told him? And there was he thinking she was nicely settled in and able to talk to him without reservation now. Well, at least she didn’t hide away from
him any more, or blush crimson at the sight of him. Besides, she had certainly done Gladys a world of good. He hadn’t seen her so animated in years; teaching the girl to dressmake now by the
looks of things. He must arrange with Tom to take them into town next week when he dropped him off at the hospital.

Gladys could buy some material then and have the girl make herself some pretty dresses, instead of the dismal things she was wearing now, even when off duty.

Mary was in seventh heaven. They had set off at eight o’clock along the road to Sheffield. The moors resembled a large golden-brown carpet, and the hedgerows were a mass
of scarlet rose hips and luscious juicy blackberries. Hazelnuts clustered together on branches overhead.

She spoke not one word on the journey to the infirmary. Dr Roberts had to be dropped off at eight thirty and had promised to show them the new operating theatre block before Tom took them into
town.

Mary, who had never been in a hospital before, would rather have stayed in the car, but had to admit the place was impressive. Mrs Roberts left Mary alone and went off to chat with her
husband’s colleagues, and when Mary caught a glimpse inside an opened door she felt quite faint at the sight of a small boy lying on a rubber sheet on the floor. A nurse, seeing her scared
white face, assured her that he was only recovering from having his tonsils out.

‘The recovery room will be full before the day is out,’ she said. Even so, Mary hoped she would never need a tonsillectomy herself, and was most relieved when they were on their way
again.

Tom weaved his way in and out amongst the tramcars. He seemed to know exactly where he was going and pointed out various landmarks as they passed them by. He knew just where preparations were
being made in case of attack. The announcement that Britain was at war had been made a few days ago. Dr Roberts had come sadly home from church and told them the news, his eyes filling with tears
as he did so. By now most of the halls throughout the town had been either closed or taken over for military recruiting and other purposes. Tom seemed to know all about it, and told Mary how the
city had undergone a trial blackout as long ago as last year, so that things would be in order when the war finally came.

Now the worst had happened. Everybody was living in fear and a kind of panic had set in. Children were being sent to schools out in Derbyshire, and some had already been evacuated. However,
Sheffield seemed not the least bit frightening to Mary, and when Tom dropped them off at the market she almost skipped with excitement by the side of Mrs Roberts.

Gladys Roberts didn’t usually shop in Castle Market, but today was Mary’s day. If she was to settle in Sheffield, as Gladys hoped she would, she would need to know her way about.
They bought a few yards of fine material, which Gladys let Mary choose herself. She didn’t interfere except to suggest that Mary would look lovely in green or lemon, which would bring out the
colour of her hair. Mary took her advice and left the stall thrilled with the chosen fabric.

They also found fresh herrings for tea, and Mrs Roberts bought some extra for Tom to take home for his family. Mary was fascinated by the fish market, and Gladys bought her a tiny plate of
cockles to eat at the stall. She thought they were delicious.

Afterwards they walked up town and Gladys showed Mary the City Hall. They wandered round the gardens and visited the Graves Art Gallery. When Tom returned with the grocery order they went to
Gladys’s favourite restaurant for lunch together, and the coffee was so delicious that Gladys bought some beans to take home. Mary loved Sheffield and thought it was the happiest day she had
ever spent. Even so, she couldn’t wait to get home and begin work on her new dresses.

As she tacked the dress material ready for Mrs Roberts to sew, however, she began to feel a little guilty. Her sisters would be wearing the same old dresses they had had when she left, some of
them cast-offs of her own. She felt the warmth and comfort of the scullery around her and tears pricked her eyes as she recalled the shabbiness of the kitchen back home. Suddenly she needed her
mother’s smile and the sound of her sisters and brothers, laughing or even arguing. For all the luxury of Moorland House, nothing could make up for home. Then Mrs Roberts smiled across the
table and Mary cast aside her homesickness and the feeling of guilt. This was her home now. Even so, she vowed to write to her parents regularly and make sure none of her family forgot her.

She handed the tacked bodice to Mrs Roberts and excitement overcame her sadness. She was to have a new dress to go with her new life, a life she could never have imagined until she came to
Longfield. She vowed that if she ever had children of her own she would do everything within her power to protect them from poverty and instil in them the importance of working hard to keep to the
standard she was determined to set for them.

It was Mary’s big night. Tom was to take her to the Harvest Ball in Longfield School. Dr Roberts was lending him the car and had given Mary permission to stay until
eleven thirty. He didn’t know who was the more excited, Mary or Gladys. Mary looked a picture in the dark green crepe de Chine dress. The bodice fitted like a second skin, emphasising her
high firm breasts, and the skirt flared out over her slim hips. Mary had thought the pattern much too plain but could now see Mrs Roberts’s reason for choosing it.

‘What did I tell you?’ Gladys said. ‘You don’t need frills and flounces with hair like yours.’ She was right: Mary’s hair shone like polished copper. Gladys
had tied it back loosely with a ribbon the colour of her dress. Round her neck she placed a single strand of pearls. Mary had protested, afraid she might lose them, but Mrs Roberts insisted, saying
pearls needed to be worn otherwise they would lose their lustre. Dr Roberts had arrived home the previous evening with a pair of satin shoes, with a dainty heel and a strap fastened with a
satin-covered button. Mary had almost hugged him and he had been touched by her gratitude. He knew he was a fool treating the girl like one of the family, but the pleasure he gained from having her
around the house was a reward in itself.

When the door bell rang Mary’s heart almost skipped a beat. She hadn’t been able to help wondering if Tom had invited her to the dance out of sympathy. Still, his two sisters were
joining them, so he needn’t feel tied to her for the night.

If only she’d known it, her worries were groundless. Tom liked Mary. She didn’t throw herself at him as the last maid had, nor did she shirk her work or become hysterical at the
sight of a few hens. Even so, he wasn’t prepared for the sight of her standing there in the hall. Like a vision she was. None of the other lasses would hold a candle to her. By, he’d
have to keep an eye on her where the lads were concerned. They’d be round her like flies round a jam pot.