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  ‘I want t’be an actwess.’

  ‘You must be the girl who sang “Over the Rainbow” at the pantomime. I was there. You performed beautifully.’

  ‘Oooh, thank you, but ah stwuggle a bit wi’ m’speakin’.’

  Agatha stretched out a hand that resembled ancient parchment and touched Nora’s rosy cheek. ‘You will be fine. Follow your dream and don’t be scared – just live life.’

  Nora nodded, recognizing this special moment. ‘Do you miss being an actwess?’

  Agatha picked up the teapot and began to pour. ‘The person I miss most is me.’

  Violet Fawnswater had been the first to buy a box of chocolates in the General Stores and was luxuriating in her favourite armchair with a port and lemon and a surfeit of chocolate. She was reading her Blue Cars Continental Holiday Catalogue for 1953 and considering ten days in Switzerland for 32 guineas. She cut out the advert, filled it in and put it in an envelope. She stuck on a 1½d stamp and addressed it to Shaftesbury Avenue in London. ‘Armchair comfort in a Pullman coach,’ she murmured to herself. ‘You can’t say better than that.’

  There was a special moment when Doris and Nora had tidied everything away in the Tea Rooms.

  ‘Well done today, Nora, and thank you for dealing with Miss Makepiece so sensitively.’ She picked up a shopping bag from behind the counter. ‘This is for you for being such a good girl and a wonderful help.’

  To Nora’s surprise, it was a box of chocolates.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Ah’m weally gweatful.’ She stared at the box for a moment. ‘Ah’d like to wun over t’Miss Makepiece to see if she would like a chocolate.’

  Doris smiled. ‘That’s a kind thought. Off you go and then go straight home.’

  At Coe Farm Stan was not pleased.

  ‘There were none o’ them boxes o’ chocolates left,’ Deirdre told him. ‘When ah called in that stupid Prudence ’ad sold ’em all.’

  ‘She wants lockin’ up,’ muttered Stan.

  ‘Ah’ll go back t’morrow,’ said Deirdre. ‘She might get some more in.’

  ‘An’ pigs might fly,’ grumbled her brother. ‘Anyway, ah’m off out to t’pub so put y’coat on.’

  ‘Oooh lovely, Stan – are y’tekkin’ me out?’

  ‘No, y’daft mare. Fire’s gone out so you’ll ’ave t’get some more logs.’

  Nora knocked on Agatha Makepiece’s door and the old lady was pleased to see the young tea-shop assistant for the second time that day.

  ‘I’m sowwy t’twouble you, Miss Makepiece, but would you like a chocolate?’

  ‘What a kind thought. Do come in.’

  Nora stepped hesitantly over the threshold. ‘Jus’ for a minute.’

  Agatha pulled back a curtain that led to a tiny kitchen. ‘Now, young lady, do you know what drink goes well with chocolate?’

  ‘Tea,’ said Nora. The answer was obvious.

  Agatha gave a wry smile. ‘No, my dear, it’s coffee.’

  ‘Coffee! But ah only dwink tea. Mrs Clutte’buck says coffee is an Amewican dwink and not for us in England.’

  ‘Well, let’s be adventurous, shall we? As actresses we need to experience new things.’

  ‘Vewy well,’ said Nora, ‘ah’ll twy some.’

  Agatha spooned the Nescafé into two china cups and poured on boiling water, then a little milk. ‘Now, let’s add a tiny bit of sugar as this is a special occasion,’ she said, enjoying the sense of suspense.

  Nora sipped it carefully. ‘Ah weally like it,’ she said, her eyes bright in wonderment.

  ‘I thought you would.’

  ‘Mrs Clutte’buck says it won’t catch on an’ we’ll always be a nation of tea dwinkers.’

  ‘But what do you think?’

  ‘Ah think she would be sad if she knew ah was dwinking coffee.’

  ‘That may be, but we don’t have to be sad now.’

  ‘All wight.’

  ‘Remember, Nora, it’s the drink of the future.’

  And Nora never forgot.

  It was late on Saturday and darkness had fallen. In Laurel Cottage Freddie was playing on the hearthrug with his toy train and Lily was curled up on the sofa reading Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. She looked at Freddie with affection and smiled.

  Meanwhile, Florence was reading a book on rug-making with the intention of undertaking an ambitious project to make a deep-pile carpet. It appeared there was a company in Ossett who supplied all you required, including a piece of canvas, a large quantity of wool and a rug hook.

  Everyone was warm and content and the radio was playing the number-one record, Perry Como’s ‘Don’t Let the Stars Get In Your Eyes’.

  Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Oh dear, who can that be?’ groaned Florence.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Lily.

  She opened the door and there stood Tom. ‘I thought you would like these to share over the weekend with your mother and Freddie.’ He handed over a large box of chocolates. ‘Couldn’t resist. There were only two left, so I bought these for you and one for my mother.’

  Lily held the box in surprise. ‘You shouldn’t have, Tom!’

  He lowered his voice. ‘It was also to say thank you for being part of my life.’

  She stretched up and kissed him tenderly. ‘Would you like to come in?’

  He smiled. ‘I would love to, but I ought to get back home. I’m expected.’

  As Lily watched him drive away she wished her life could have been different, and that night when she lay in her bed there were no sweet dreams. All that was left was a trembling peace.

  Chapter Eleven

  Do Angels Have Wings?

  It was early March and a thin light bathed the waking land. The season was changing and a pallid sun appeared fleetingly beyond the rags of clouds that raced across a pale-blue sky. Vera looked out of the vicarage window and smiled as she recognized the signs. It was a sight to lift the spirits and gave hope of warmer days to come. The earth had shifted and hopes of spring were replacing the bitter winter months. The sprouting leaves of hawthorn had brought new life to the hedgerows and the spears of daffodils thrust their blue-green shoots above the grass. The last of the snow had gone and snowdrops, shivering with balletic tension, were like pearls in the pale sunshine. Aconites and crocuses provided a splash of colour and the sticky buds on the horse chestnut trees were cracking open.

  Vera sighed as she thought ahead to a busy day. She had been brought up to have a strong sense of noblesse oblige and firmly believed that a person of social rank should be generous to those less fortunate. So it was that she was destined to experience a day of problem-solving – and that included her brother. He was due to take both classes today for Bible stories. Joseph was always comfortable in his pulpit with a congregation of adults. Sadly, where children were concerned he didn’t have a clue. Vera knew she loved her brother – he was a kind and gentle man. However, although the Bible had taught her that love was constant, she wondered if this included Wednesdays.

  Close to the blacksmith’s forge in Ragley village was Badger’s Row, a collection of thatched cottages. The one at the far end of the row was no longer weatherproof. The thatch had sagged in places and, whenever the rain was more than a light drizzle, buckets had to be placed around the kitchen floor.

  It was here that six-year-old Rosie Finn was filling a heavy kettle from the pump above the kitchen sink. She was cold and had shivered during the night in spite of the old army blanket that had provided a little extra warmth over the winter months.

  Mary Finn, a single mother, was frying a thick slice of bread in dripping for Rosie’s breakfast. ‘’Ere y’are, luv,’ she said. ‘Eat this an’ be a good girl.’

  Rosie took the bread eagerly as she stared at the calendar on the wall. Each month there was a new picture with a Bible quotation underneath. This month it was a picture of a smiling Jesus with long fair hair, a neatly trimmed beard and surrounded by children. In the sky above his head
two winged angels looked down, while the text read ‘Suffer little children to come unto me.’

  Rosie chewed her bread and dripping and wondered why children had to suffer.

  In Laurel Cottage Florence was watching Freddie dip his toast soldiers into the runny yolk of a boiled egg before she took him off to school. The radio was on and Guy Mitchell was singing ‘She Wears Red Feathers’. She stared out of the window and was happy to see the spring sunshine. If it wasn’t for the situation with Lily all would be well – but her daughter had begun to spend more time with her handsome policeman and Florence sensed no good would come of it.

  When Lily walked across the village green that morning she sensed the change in the air. The first primroses brightened the verges, birds were pairing up and claiming territory, while rooks cawed loudly in the elm tops. Soon new shoots of lime and ash would burst into life.

  ‘Mornin’, Miss Briggs,’ called out a familiar voice.

  ‘Mornin’, Miss,’ echoed another.

  ‘Good morning, boys,’ she called back and looked around, but she couldn’t see anyone.

  ‘Up ’ere, Miss.’

  Lily looked up into the branches of the weeping willow above her head. Big Dave Robinson and Little Malcolm were sitting on a branch sharing a liquorice shoelace.

  ‘Do be careful, boys – it doesn’t look safe.’

  ‘We’re playing Tarzan, Miss,’ explained Big Dave.

  ‘So it’s you who should be worried, Miss,’ said Little Malcolm with a mischievous grin.

  ‘Why is that?’ asked Lily.

  ‘’Cause lions can’t climb trees,’ shouted Big Dave in triumph.

  ‘Well as long as you’re not next to Lake Manyara in Africa, you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Why’s that, Miss?’

  ‘Because that’s where tree-climbing lions live,’ and she strode off towards school.

  ‘Bloody ’ell, Malc – tree-climbing lions.’

  Malcolm stared after Lily Briggs. ‘That’s problem wi’ teachers, Dave – they know f***in’ everythin’.’

  The Revd Joseph Evans rode down the Morton road on his 1940s bicycle, which was beginning to show its age. He parked it outside the General Stores prior to buying a bag of biscuits for the staff-room; he wanted to contribute towards the morning tea and biscuits that were part of his regular visit.

  As he walked into the shop Rosie Finn was in front of him at the counter.

  ‘’Ello, Miss Golightly,’ said the little girl politely.

  ‘Hello, Rosie, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Can me mam ’ave ’alf an onion please … an’ one apple?’

  The little girl put two pennies on the counter.

  Prudence was used to serving unconventional amounts. She was also mindful that on no account should she provide a whole onion, as this would be perceived as charity. The outcome would be that Mary Finn would not frequent the General Stores again. So she cut an onion in half, wrapped it carefully, selected the largest apple and put them in a paper bag. ‘Here you are, Rosie, and here’s a barley sugar for remembering to say “please”. Now run straight home.’

  Rosie beamed, picked up the bag, popped the sweet in her mouth and ran out of the shop, pausing only to stare up in wonderment at the doorbell as it rang.

  She turned in the doorway and shouted back, ‘My mam says ev’ry time a bell rings an angel gets its wings,’ and Prudence waved in acknowledgement.

  ‘Children,’ said Prudence, ‘they never cease to surprise you.’

  ‘Very true,’ said Joseph, thinking ahead to school assembly and the two lessons that awaited him.

  Morning assembly seemed to go well and Vera propped open the double doors that led from the entrance area to the school hall so she could listen and join in the prayers. However, as always, the children’s questions caused difficulties for the well-meaning cleric. Joseph had been waxing lyrical about heaven and guardian angels for about ten minutes when Rosie Finn put up her hand.

  ‘Mr Evans,’ she asked, ‘why do angels have wings?’

  Joseph thought of the Renaissance painters he had studied and the many story books that featured flying angels.

  However, before he could answer the practical Sam Grundy called out, ‘’Cause if they didn’t they would fall out of ’eaven, sir.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Veronica Poole. ‘They need to stay above the clouds.’

  ‘They’ve got some sense,’ said the deep-thinking Norman Fazackerly, who had recently read a book about the weather and cloud formations, ‘’cause they won’t get wet. Y’wouldn’t want wet wings.’

  Joseph was getting desperate. The logic of young children was beyond him.

  ‘Ah ’ope one falls in our back garden, Mr Evans,’ shouted out Bertie Stubbs.

  Joseph was taken aback. ‘Your garden, Bertie?’

  ‘Yes, sir, then we’d ’ave one o’ them garden angels you were goin’ on about.’

  John Pruett gave Joseph a friendly nod and got up. ‘We’ll end with the Lord’s Prayer, boys and girls.’

  Joseph’s spirits lifted a little after his lesson in Lily’s class with the younger children – that is, until six-year-old Joy Popplewell looked up at him. ‘That were a lovely story about God, Mr Evans.’

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ he replied with a satisfied smile.

  The little girl looked thoughtful.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Joseph quietly.

  ‘Well … did God make Daddy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘An’ did God make you?’

  Joseph nodded. ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘An’ did God make me?’

  Joseph sighed at the innocence of youth. ‘Yes.’

  Joy’s face lit up with understanding. ‘Well,’ she said triumphantly, ‘’e’s gettin’ better at it.’

  At the back of the class Lily took the handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and held it against her mouth to stifle her laughter.

  Daphne Cahill raised her hand. ‘Will we all go to ’eaven, Mr Evans?’

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ said Joseph with an encouraging smile.

  Bertie Stubbs called out suddenly, ‘My grandad got killed in t’First World War.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Bertie,’ said Joseph with feeling.

  ‘So, is ’e in ’eaven?’ asked Bertie.

  ‘Yes, I imagine so,’ said Joseph, although without conviction.

  Bertie frowned. ‘So ’ow old will ’e be –’cause ’e were twenty-one when t’Germans shot ’im.’

  Suddenly there were animated children all raising their hands and calling out in excitement.

  ‘Will ’e allus be twenty-one, sir?’ shouted Frank Shepherd.

  ‘An’ when ah die will ah be older than m’grandad?’ Bertie wanted to know.

  ‘What will we do all day?’ asked Daphne.

  ‘That’s right,’ added Reggie. ‘If it’s jus’ clouds an’ sky there’s not much t’do.’

  ‘An’ will we jus’ ’ave t’clothes that we die in, ’cause they’d get mucky after a while,’ continued Daphne.

  ‘An’ there’s nowhere t’put a washin’ line,’ muttered Rosie Finn.

  ‘Do cats and dogs go as well?’ asked Sam Grundy suddenly from the desk at the back.

  ‘Will ah see our ’Arry again, sir?’ asked Arnold Icklethwaite.

  Joseph had taken a step back, such was the torrent of questions.

  ‘Harry?’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes sir, ’Arry.’

  ‘Oh dear, what happened to Harry?’

  ‘M’dad ’it ’im wi’ a spade.’

  ‘A spade?’ mumbled Joseph. This conversation was getting out of hand.

  ‘Yes, sir, an’ ’Arry were t’best ’amster ah ever ’ad.’

  ‘And your father hit him with a spade?’ asked an incredulous Joseph.

  ‘Yes, sir, ’cause ’e thought ’e were a rat.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘But m’dad said ’e were sorry afte
rwards so everybody were ’appy … ’xcept ’Arry, ah s’ppose.’

  In John Pruett’s class Joseph’s Bible story lesson went better than usual. The children were attentive and, with John sitting at the back of the classroom, discipline was total.

  ‘So in conclusion, boys and girls, the children of Israel built a temple and they crossed the Red Sea,’ announced Joseph in triumph. It had been a good story, one of his best.

  Eddie Brown raised his hand. ‘Can ah ask a question, please, Mr Evans?’

  ‘Of course you can, Edward,’ said Joseph with a beaming smile.

  ‘Well, y’said children o’ Israel, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Edward, I did.’

  ‘An’ they built them temples an’ suchlike.’

  ‘Magnificent temples,’ purred Joseph.

  ‘An’ then these children o’ Israel crossed that sea wi’ a funny colour.’

  ‘Yes, the Red Sea.’

  ‘Well, ah were jus’ wond’ring …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What were all t’grown-ups doin’?’

  Joseph looked at the clock on the classroom wall. Lunchtime beckoned and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  The children in Lily’s class were in the hall dancing to music in their bare feet. John Pruett had brought in his gramophone and Lily had placed a precious 78 rpm record on the turntable, wound the handle and lowered the needle with extreme care. The chirpy harmony of Edvard Grieg’s ‘Anitra’s Dance’ from Peer Gynt echoed around the draughty hall and the children interpreted the music in their own way. Some, like Daphne Cahill and Rosie Finn, were quite balletic; others, like Arnold Icklethwaite, ran around dodging left and right like a rugby league player.

  At the end the children sat on the bench outside their classroom tugging on their socks and shoes. It was clear that little Rosie Finn was struggling.

  ‘Shall I help you?’ asked Lily. She had just finished teaching Sam Grundy how to tie a double knot in his laces. ‘Let me have a go.’

  Lily tugged on one boot but had trouble with the other. ‘These are really difficult to get on. I think you’ve grown out of them.’

  Finally, Rosie managed to squeeze both feet into her boots.

  ‘Thank you, Miss.’

  ‘Rosie, we need to tell your mother your boots are too small.’