The Forget-Me-Not Summer (47 page)

Miranda patted the hand which clutched her own. ‘You're both doing the right thing,' she said gently. ‘It's the same thing that Steve and I will be doing in a few weeks, and we have no doubts, do we, Steve?'

Steve pretended to frown and consider, but just then the taxi drew up outside the church and in his role as surrogate father of the bride he had to be first out so that he could accompany Avril to where Pete awaited her at the top of the church.

Avril tucked her hand into Steve's arm as they reached
the porch, and glanced behind her as her friend adjusted her train. Her veil was down but it was a frail and beautiful affair through which she could see quite easily. She smiled her thanks, and then the organ music swelled and they began to process up the aisle. She was clutching Steve's arm so hard that she saw him wince, but then he was pushing her gently towards her waiting bridegroom, and the three of them stood, shoulder to shoulder, as the priest began the wedding service.

Avril clutched her bouquet nervously. The sonorous words rang out. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honourable estate . . .'

Avril had been staring straight ahead of her, waiting for her heart to stop beating so fast, knowing that the time was about to come when she would have to speak, and speak calmly what was more. For the first time, she risked a glance at Pete, standing so still and straight beside her, and a squeak of surprise emerged from her lips, just as the priest said, ‘First, it was ordained for the procreation of children, to be brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord . . .' He paused, but when Avril said nothing more he continued with the service whilst Avril caught Pete's hand and squeezed it convulsively. The black beard, of which she knew Pete was secretly proud, had disappeared, and above the clean lines of jaw and chin she saw the love in the eyes he fixed upon her. Avril smiled at him; her heart was dancing with joy. At that moment she knew without any doubt that she and Pete were about to set out on a journey together, and that, whatever might befall them, their happiness was assured.

MIRANDA WOKE EARLY,
because her feet were cold. For a moment she just lay there, staring at the ceiling above her head and wondering where on earth she was. Not in the Nissen hut with fellow Waafs all around her; not in the Mickleboroughs' crowded, happy house in Jamaica Close . . .

Then someone sighed gustily almost in her ear, a warm hand stole across her waist, and memory returned with a rush. She was in the Elms private hotel, the wandering hand belonged to Steve, her brand new husband, and the pair of them were having the only honeymoon they could afford before moving into the little rooms above the village butcher's shop.

Turning her head very carefully on the pillow, Miranda stared intently but lovingly at Steve's unconscious face. He wasn't handsome, but there was something sweet in the curve of his lips, and today, she remembered, something very exciting was going to happen, or so she and Steve hoped. Her very best chance of finding her mother would be between nine and ten o'clock at the Pier Head and she meant to be there in good time, come hell or high water.

She and Steve had learned about it by chance, when Steve had met an old pal from the air force, who had been rear gunner in his Lancaster. Miranda had been at
work, for the solicitors had been happy to give her her old job back, so Steve and Tony had gone into the nearest pub to tell each other how the peace was treating them.

Now, Miranda imagined the scene about which Steve had told her when he met her out of the office. He had told his pal, a journalist with the
Echo
once more, how he and Miranda had married only the previous day, and in describing his wife he had added the information that Miranda was the daughter of the missing actress from the Madison Players. Tony, who had covered the original story for his newspaper, had been very interested, especially when Steve mentioned the newsreel in which Miranda had been certain her mother had appeared, and the fact that Lynette Rich, also a former Madison Player, had told them that Arabella had taken part in a revue put on for the Americans by actors and actresses from the USA.

‘Well now, it's lucky you met me,' Tony had said, producing a card from his raincoat pocket. ‘The Yanks who've been entertaining their troops are leaving the country in a couple of days and congregating at the Pier Head first for what they describe as a farewell photo shoot.' He pressed the card into Steve's hand. ‘Tell your wife to hang on to your arm and show this to anyone who tries to stop you getting near the performers. It's my press card, but I shan't be covering that particular event, and if your wife spots her mother she'll be able to approach her.' He had looked doubtfully at Steve. ‘Or do you think it's best to let sleeping dogs lie? After all, it's been a long time since Arabella Lovage disappeared. It just doesn't seem possible that she wouldn't contact her daughter . . . but I leave it up to you. Tell her and
risk disappointment or keep it to yourself. The choice is yours.'

Lying now, almost nose to nose with Steve in the creaky old double bed, Miranda was devoutly thankful that Steve had decided to tell her everything, though he had warned her that her hopes would probably be dashed. ‘Tony pointed out that if Arabella is alive she would surely have made some effort to get in touch,' he had said. ‘But now I've told you, and as Tony said the choice is yours. Go down to the Pier Head and see if you recognise anyone, or forget all about it.'

And I made my choice without a second's hesitation, Miranda remembered. As it said in the marriage service,
for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health
. She would never forget Arabella, and to pass up the chance of flying into her mother's arms and hearing her story would be to forego everything she'd ever dreamed of.

So when Steve had suggested spending a couple of nights at a small hotel in the city centre before moving into the flat she had agreed eagerly. It might not be much of a honeymoon but it was all they could afford and the Elms was only a short walk from the Pier Head.

Miranda dangled one foot out of bed until it got quite cold, then pulled it back in and planted it squarely on Steve's warm body. He groaned, then turned and seized her, proving, Miranda thought, that he had been awake all along. ‘Morning, beautiful!' he said, whispering straight into her ear because it seemed no one but themselves was yet stirring. ‘Ready for your great day? I've booked us in for eight o'clock breakfast; what's the time now?'

Miranda reached out a lazy hand and picked up her wrist watch, lying on the bedside table. ‘Ten to seven,' she announced. ‘There's no point in getting up yet; the staff won't even have started their own breakfast, let alone ours.'

She snuggled down again as she spoke, trying to pull Steve down with her, but he resisted, capturing her wrists and holding them firmly. ‘If we get up now we'll be first in the bathroom,' he said. ‘There was a rush for it yesterday, because most of the people staying here are sales reps or office workers, and they want to be up and away by nine o'clock.'

As he spoke he scrambled out of bed, accidentally kneeling on Miranda's toes and causing her to exclaim: ‘Ouch! I'll get you for that, Steve Mickleborough!' She aimed a punch at him, but he dodged, then crossed the room and reached out to where their dressing gowns hung on the back of the door.

‘Better put 'em on in case the old feller in the room next door is on the prowl,' he observed. ‘Go quietly, or that chap with the huge moustache will complain that he wants his room moved again, because we make more noise than all the trains arriving and departing at Lime Street Station.'

‘If he does, I'll tell him that it's my husband who whistles and sings the minute the bathroom door is locked,' Miranda said. ‘Oh, Steve, I can't wait till we're in our own little place, with no one listening to our every move. But even here, even on your mam's living room couch, being married is the best thing that ever happened to me. I wish we'd done it sooner.' She had been whispering as they glided softly up the corridor
and let themselves into the bathroom. She looked around for the box of matches, pounced on them, and as Steve turned the gas tap on the geyser held the flame through the small aperture and blew out her cheeks in a breath of relief as it caught. ‘First go off,' she said triumphantly. ‘Naturally I learn how to do it properly on our last day! Fill the jug, there's a dear. That woman made it pretty plain that baths were only allowed between six and ten in the evening, so a good wash will have to suffice.'

Presently, washed, brushed and with their shared sponge bag clutched in Miranda's hand, Miranda and Steve left the bathroom. They mumbled an awkward ‘Good morning' to the short queue of would-be occupants standing patiently in the corridor, and received various grunts in reply. In their own room once more, Steve consulted his watch and then put both arms around Miranda as she shed her dressing gown and reached for her clothes. ‘God, you're gorgeous,' he mumbled. ‘It won't be breakfast time for ages, so how about a bit of smooching? There's time, honest to God there is.'

‘No there isn't, because I mean to look my best so that if we do meet Arabella she'll be proud of me,' Miranda said. ‘And unlike my mother I'm not a star of the stage, so it will take me quite a while to get ready.'

Steve laughed and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then turned to his neatly piled clothing and began to dress. ‘Don't forget we've got to put our suitcases in the left luggage at the bus depot,' he reminded her. ‘And before that there's breakfast and paying our bill, and afterwards we have to walk down to the Pier Head.'

Miranda pouted. ‘All right, all right, I'm doing my
best,' she said. ‘Shall I wear the blue blouse or the pink one? Only I've already packed the blue one . . .'

‘Shut up and get a move on,' Steve said severely. ‘Are you ready? Then let's go and get breakfast eaten, and mind you eat lots because you won't get anything else until later on this evening, when we go to Mam's for our share of the big pan of scouse she's preparing.'

Miranda promised to eat up, but in fact most things were still on ration or unobtainable, and though the recently introduced bread ration was quite generous Mrs Ada of the Elms was not. She watched her guests with an eagle eye, and though more than one cup of tea was allowed it grew weaker and weaker with every cup, and Steve had made Miranda laugh the previous day by declaring that the old skinflint dried out the tea leaves given to her guests on a Monday and made tea – or something vaguely resembling tea – with those same leaves on a Tuesday.

Accordingly, breakfast was not a lengthy meal and by half past eight they had handed over the key to their room, paid their bill – checking it carefully first – and set off for the bus depot, where they left their suitcases and accepted in their place two green tickets so that they might reclaim their property later.

Despite the fact that it was sunny there was a distinct nip in the air and Miranda was glad of her old winter coat, particularly as the breeze always seemed to get stronger when one neared the docks. But today the blue sky gave an illusion of summer, and the faces of folk going about their business, though pale and war-weary, were smiling as if in anticipation of the good weather to come.

They reached the Pier Head and Miranda clutched Steve's arm tightly. She was dressed in her best and even though her green suit and pink blouse had both come from Paddy's Market she thought she looked both neat and smart. Despite the cold wind she had cast off her overcoat, which was old and patched, and Steve held it over his arm while she turned an anxious face to his. ‘Is my hat on straight?' she asked. ‘Is my hair tidy? Oh, I'm sure my nose must be blue with the cold. Will Arabella recognise me, do you suppose? If she does, should I run up to her and give her a big hug? But what if she doesn't? What if I run towards her and she just stands there, staring; what do I do then? Oh, darling Steve, I'm scared stiff; I almost wish I'd never come.' She tugged at his arm, and began to turn away just as a large cream-coloured coach drew up in front of them, closely followed by another. Even as they watched the doors of both coaches opened, and a great many beautiful, excited people poured out and began to take up their positions at the foot of the gangway belonging to the ship upon which they were about to embark.

Miranda and Steve both watched, fascinated, as a tall, handsome man in his forties began to try to calm the excited babble, and to arrange both the actors and actresses themselves and those members of the press wielding cameras into some sort of order.

Miranda stared. There was no thought, now, of turning to flee. As the cameras clicked and whirred her gaze went from face to face, trying to find the one she remembered from long ago. If only her mother had had some clearly visible imperfection, but Arabella's skin had always been pale and flawless, and anyway without exception all the
women who had got off the coach were heavily made up.

Miranda was still scanning every fair-haired woman when Steve bent and whispered in her ear. ‘See anyone you know, queen? I can't help you much, 'cos all I really know is that your mam was beautiful and very very blonde. There are one or two brunettes amongst the line-up but mostly they're blondes.'

Miranda snorted. ‘Bottle blondes, that's what they are,' she said scornfully. ‘Arabella despised bottle blondes. But oh, Steve, if only they wouldn't keep moving about! I no sooner begin to examine one face than its owner flicks round and turns her back on me. I wish someone would tell them . . .'

As though on cue the tall man took off his dark glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose before beginning to speak. ‘Settle down, people; give the good gentlemen of the press a chance to see how us Yankees can behave ourselves. We'll have small girls in the front in a crescent and the rest of you fall in behind, whilst I fetch the star of the show from . . . ah, here she comes.'