After the War Is Over (12 page)

Edward had sent her the best of his roses, likely stripping bare the bushes in the
process.

“What shall we do with all of them?” Janie asked.

“There are so many. I suppose we could do up a big arrangement for the sitting room.
And perhaps some smaller ones for all our bedrooms. Do you have any spare jam jars?”

“I do. What if I cut some of the lady’s mantle in the back garden? It’ll look pretty
set next to the flowers.”

She and Janie worked quickly, arranging the long-stemmed hybrid tea roses in the Misses
Macleods’ best cut-glass vase, and trimming the stems of the damask and cabbage roses
so they fit nicely in the smaller jam jars.

The other women arrived home soon after, and as soon as they discovered the flowers
in their rooms, and learned from Janie that they had been delivered from a mysterious
benefactor earlier that afternoon, they couldn’t help but pepper Charlotte with questions.

“Who are they from?” asked Norma. “Do tell.”

“My friend.”

“Whatever for?” asked Rosie. “Did she hear about your story in the
Herald
?”

“Was it Lady Elizabeth who sent them?” asked Norma.

“No. A friend. And that’s all I wish to say for now. A generous friend with a large
garden.”

“Well, all’s I can say is that you’ve got some very interesting friends. I sure wouldn’t
mind meeting them someday.”

“Perhaps you will, Norma. Enough of me, though. How did you spend your day? How was
everyone’s day?”

It was just the cue the others needed. Their chatter filled the room, banishing any
more troublesome talk of admirers and mysterious friends, and Charlotte soon found
herself so diverted that she was nearly able to forget about the flowers, the man
who had sent them, and the gulf, as wide as the space between stars, that separated
a man like him from a woman like herself.

T
ell me again why we’re taking this infernal vehicle instead of the train,” Rosie said
with a groan.

“If I’d known you’d complain so much, I’d have told you to stop at home,” retorted
Norma. “Two-and-six to get to Blackpool and back—if that isn’t a bargain I don’t know
what is.”

“If
I’d
known this charabanc would be so uncomfortable I’d never have agreed.”

“Then next time one of the boys at work offers me cheap tickets I’ll remember not
to ask.”

“Enough with your bickering,” Charlotte intervened. “We’ll be there soon enough, and
thanks to Norma we’ll each have a few extra shillings in our pockets. So let’s not
throttle one another before we get there.”

They’d spent the past two and a half hours crammed into the open-topped charabanc,
with at least another hour to go before they reached Blackpool. It resembled nothing
so much as a gigantic coffin bolted atop the deck of a lorry, and was roughly as comfortable
as one might expect of such a jury-rigged vehicle.

Earlier in the week Norma had brought home four return
tickets to Blackpool, and when Meg couldn’t be persuaded to come along—she always
visited her family in Manchester on Sundays—Charlotte had invited Mabel Petrie from
work.

“I hope you’re not finding the journey too uncomfortable,” Charlotte said, noticing
that her friend was looking somewhat green about the gills. “Would you like some tea
from my flask?”

“I’d better not. Our driver would be sure to hit a rut just as we opened it. Thanks
all the same.”

Even Charlotte, whose constitution was normally as ironclad as a dreadnought, was
beginning to feel miserable, and not only because the charabanc’s unyielding wooden
benches had left her posterior black-and-blue. She was hot and sweaty, covered in
a film of dust, and so thirsty it hurt to swallow.

“How much longer?” she called to Norma, who sat directly ahead of her.

“We’re well past Preston, so not far now. Chin up!”

The view from the charabanc was pretty enough, for the Blackpool Road still bore some
resemblance to its ancient antecedents, curving and winding its way through open farmland
that was hedged in at intervals by tangles of hawthorn and gorse. From time to time,
the horizon dipped to reveal a ribbon of startling blue, but Charlotte couldn’t be
sure if it were the sea or a slice of the late morning sky.

“Look, everyone!” Norma called out, pointing at a roadside sign:
BLACKPOOL 5 MILES
, it read. “And over there!” She pointed to a spot in the far distance.

It was Blackpool Tower, still no more than an apostrophe on the horizon, but growing
larger and more impressive with every passing minute. All thoughts of charabanc-induced
misery vanished; they were nearly there.

The driver led them into the heart of town, so close that the
tower seemed only footsteps away, and drew to a halt on the forecourt of the train
station.

“We leave at half past seven on the dot,” he called out to his two dozen passengers.
“Mind you aren’t late or you’ll be sleeping rough tonight.”

“Where shall we start?” said Rosie, her good humor restored.

“Why not the beach?” suggested Norma. “We’ll all have a swim, and then we can eat
our lunch.”

As they walked west toward the seafront, Charlotte noticed that there didn’t appear
to be any public change rooms, at least not along the wide promenade that ran along
the shoreline and divided beach from town. “Where will we change?” she asked.

“See those bathing machines on the beach? No one uses them to bathe anymore, so they’re
hired out as places to change,” Norma explained. “They’re sixpence to use, plus another
sixpence for a towel. Here we are—we’ll take these steps.”

She led them down to the beach, which was impossibly wide and flat, and walked directly
over to the bathing machines. The proprietor was half asleep on his deck chair, but
Norma soon had him laughing like an old friend.

“Come say hello to Mr. Dunbar,” she called to the others. “Two-and-six for us all
to use the machine at the end, plus a towel each.”

“Wasn’t it a shilling each?” Rosie asked.

“Yes, but I talked him down. I’ve got sixpence, but I need two bob from the rest of
you. Hurry up now, before he changes his mind.”

The machine looked to have been sitting in that exact spot on the beach since Victoria
had been on her throne. Charlotte went in first, her nose wrinkling at the disagreeable
odor of damp.

When she’d first had her swimming costume made, back when she was an undergraduate
at Somerville, it had seemed quite daring, with its short skirt and cap sleeves that
bared most of her arms. Its attached bloomers now seemed rather old-fashioned, though,
and the cap that covered her hair looked like something her mother would wear.

She removed the white stockings she had worn with her frock and replaced them with
black cotton ones, then pulled on an old pair of canvas plimsolls, her bathing boots
having disappeared at some point over the past decade. After packing her street clothes
into her bag, and satisfied that she was covered respectably, she emerged from the
machine and waited for the other women to take their turn.

Much to Charlotte’s relief, both Rosie and Mabel were dressed in similarly conservative
suits, although Mabel’s was a pretty and rather unusual shade of dark purple. The
same could not be said of Norma’s swimming costume.

It wasn’t indecent, for there were a number of other young women on the beach wearing
modern suits: scoop-necked, sleeveless, with a skirt that stopped at midthigh. But
there was something about Norma’s suit, or perhaps it was the way she wore it, that
caused every set of male eyes on the beach to focus on her relentlessly.

The suit was, at least to Charlotte’s eyes, quite astonishingly formfitting, with
the knitted wool fabric revealing more than it concealed. Norma had dispensed with
stockings, too, and stood on the sand in bare feet. Even her head was uncovered.

“Isn’t that a bit much for Lancashire?” asked Rosie.

“I shouldn’t say so.” Norma was evidently delighted by the commotion she had caused.
“I bought it at Blackler’s. The saleslady said this is what everyone is wearing in
America.”

“Good for them,” Rosie muttered darkly. “I’m off for a swim. Anyone care to join me?”

“We’d better not all go. I’ll stay and watch over our things,” Charlotte offered.
“I don’t mind waiting a bit.”

“I’ll stay with Charlotte,” Mabel added.

With interest in her daring attire beginning to wane, Norma followed Rosie out to
the water, which was still at low tide. That left Charlotte and Mabel to spread out
the blanket they’d brought, anchor its corners with their bags, and soak up the sun.

The beach was growing more crowded by the minute, as holidaymakers finished their
luncheons and came down for a stroll along the sands. There were scores of young couples
walking arm in arm, some of them likely newlyweds, and no shortage of families with
strings of happy, sandy boys and girls trailing after them.

There seemed to be a great many children at the southern extremity of the beach, the
clamor of their voices rising and falling on the salt-kissed breeze. A herd of donkeys
was corralled there, and from what Charlotte could see the animals seemed content
enough. There were far worse places for a donkey to be, after all, than in the sunshine
carrying children on its back.

She returned her attention to Mabel, who was looking out to sea, possibly still transfixed
by the sight of Norma in her outlandish swimming costume.

“She is a good girl,” Charlotte said. “A bit wild at times, but her heart is in the
right place.”

Mabel smiled agreeably. “I’m sure it is. If I were her age I’d probably wear a suit
like that, too.”

“I rather envy her,” Charlotte admitted. “This awful old thing is so heavy. And it
itches horribly once it gets wet.”

Mabel turned to face Charlotte. “I expect it must be difficult for the younger ones.
Life was so dour, and for so long. They must be desperate for some fun.”

“Aren’t we all? Do you know, this is the first time I’ve been to Blackpool. I’ve only
ever been to the seaside at home, in the south of England.”

“Where are you from again? I feel as if I ought to know.”

“I grew up in Wells, in Somerset. We’re only twenty miles or so from Weston-super-Mare.
Mother and Father and I used to go for a week every summer. It was lovely there, and
the water was so warm. I can still remember how it felt.”

“It won’t be warm here, that I can tell you. We’ve some nice beaches near South Shields,
but the water is always freezing. You’d best brace yourself before we go in.”

Rosie and Norma came running back a few minutes later, their goose-pimpled skin providing
ample proof of the Irish Sea’s hardy charms, and hurriedly wrapped themselves in the
linen towels Mr. Dunbar had provided. Rather than change straightaway, however, Norma
perched on one corner of the blanket and declared her intention to have a “sunbath”
before getting dressed again.

Rather than grumble at Norma, as Rosie was sure to do once she emerged from the changing
tent, Charlotte beckoned Mabel to come with her for a swim. It was a long walk to
the water, for the tide was only just beginning to come in, and as soon as she was
ankle-deep in the sea she began to doubt whether she did want to swim after all. It
really was every bit as cold as Mabel had said, so much so that her legs were numb
before the water had even reached her waist.

“My goodness, Mabel, you were right about the water.”

“It will get better,” her friend promised. “Only give yourself
a moment to get accustomed to it. You’re almost there—just crouch down and let it
go over your shoulders. After that it’s lovely. Watch out for your spectacles, though.”

“Yes, of course. I ought to have taken them off, but then I wouldn’t have been able
to see a thing.”

Charlotte forced herself to go neck-deep, and once her teeth had stopped chattering
and she could breathe properly again, she decided the water was actually refreshing,
if quite bracing, and exactly what she needed after those long, dusty hours in the
charabanc. It had been years since she had last gone swimming, and she didn’t trust
herself to go out any farther, but fortunately it seemed that Mabel felt the same
way. So they simply stood in the water, their feet only just touching bottom, and
let the gentle waves of the incoming tide buffet them about. Before long, however,
a wisp of cloud obscured the sun and they were instantly chilled to the marrow.

Once they’d waded out of the water, changed back into their street clothes, and rejoined
the others, it was time for a picnic lunch. Janie had prepared sandwiches for everyone,
and there were bottles of ginger beer and a basket of plums that Mabel had brought,
and last of all Charlotte’s flask of hot, black tea to fortify them for the rest of
the day. The sandwiches were sandy, the ginger beer was warm, and the tea was tannic
by the time she took a sip, but all the same it was one of the nicest picnics Charlotte
could remember.

“Where next?” she asked Norma.

“Let’s walk down to Pleasure Beach. It’s only a mile or so from here, and we can take
the tram back when we’re finished.”

“But we’re at the beach now,” Charlotte protested.

“It’s not a beach, silly. It’s an amusement park. With rides and games and that sort
of thing. You’ll like it, I promise.”

While Charlotte did very much enjoy the walk south along the Promenade, she realized
soon after paying her sixpence admission to Pleasure Beach that she did not care for
amusement parks at all. They were too crowded, too raucous, and far, far too noisy—so
noisy that she soon felt a headache coming on.

While the others queued up to go on the flying machine, Charlotte found a seat on
a nearby bench and drank the last of the tea, now quite cold, from her flask. It seemed
to help a little, so much so that she felt able to brave the mysteries of the river
caves, which promised a journey through exotic climes and darkest jungles, but in
reality was a short journey in small boats through a dimly lit and quite obviously
papier-mâchéd landscape.

She drew the line at riding on the Ferris wheel, slow though it was, and was relieved
beyond measure when Norma declared it was time to catch the tram back into town. It
was late afternoon when they landed back in the shadow of the Tower, nearly four o’clock,
so they bought lemon ices and ate them under the shade of an open-sided gazebo on
the Promenade.

“What does everyone want to do next?” Norma asked. “Do we want to visit the Tower?
It’s sixpence entrance to the building and another sixpence for the lift to the top.
There’s an aquarium and a menagerie, and there’s a greenhouse sort of garden, too.”

Charlotte would have been content to stroll farther north along the Promenade, but
Mabel and Rosie were both in favor of the Tower, and not wishing to be a spoilsport,
she followed her friends into the grand entrance hall, though she declined to purchase
a ticket for the lift.

“I’ve never been one for heights, so I’ll stay here while you go up. I don’t mind—really
I don’t.”

And she didn’t. It was nice to sit on a bench in the hall, in the shadow of an enormous
potted palm, and think of all the lovely things she had done so far. When was the
last time she’d had so much fun?

Had she ever spent an entire day having fun? She sifted through her memories, but
couldn’t recall a single instance—not when she was at university, not when she was
Lilly’s governess, not in all the years with Miss Rathbone, and certainly not during
the war. There had been afternoons at the park, evenings out with friends, the occasional
lazy hour or two reading a book that was entertaining rather than improving, but she’d
never felt she could spend an entire day simply enjoying life.