Village Life in 1950
November mist rises from the meandering Mersey and rolls over flat Cheshire farmland. It envelopes the square Norman tower of St Martin’s church and shrouds nearby Ashton Hall; It creeps down the narrow lane and dims the gaunt Edwardian houses staring blankly across the ancient cobbles, their netted windows hiding secrets the tenants think are safe; it swirls over Morell’s the grocer and Sewell’s the butcher; it shrouds the black and white clock tower of the school where children chant their tables and Mr Cartwright wields his menacing cane; it billows around housewives muffled in scarves and felt hats hurrying from butcher to grocer, pausing only to buy the daily paper from Harry Beswick’s, before hurrying home to a warm fire and their favourite wireless programme.
At the end of the street the Buck and the Plough stand aloof regarding each other through the haze, smugly aware that their patronage is safe, for in Ashton you are either a Buck or a Plough man, except perhaps in Church Lane. No apparent inebriation there; all indiscretions kept strictly behind closed doors. At weekends they mow their lawns and tend their flowerbeds whilst their children seek adventures on the Old Rectory field, swinging like Tarzan from branch to branch and filling jam jars on strings with taddies from the stream bordering Old Pa Davies’s field. When disasters occur, as they often do, friends, like warriors, carry their wounded comrades home to mothers who are always there. Time now to enjoy childhood games, for all too soon they will attend the local grammar school, go to university and become pillars of society.
Not so for those who live in nearby terraces where small homes huddle on dead-end cobbled streets, their doorsteps crouching on uneven pavements. Here there are no lawns to mow, no trees to climb. Just a back yard with an outside loo. Mothers go out cleaning to supplement the weekly wage and line up at the post office counter on Thursdays for the family allowance. Snot nosed kids with national health specs wear latchkeys on strings and let themselves in when school is done. Not for them a university education. Maybe a scholarship to Oxbridge if Mr Cartwright has spotted their potential, or more likely an apprenticeship with Uncle Bill to keep them off the streets. Woolworths is always an option for their sisters as long as they can count, or better still the typing pool if their spelling is any good.
The mist lifts and the autumn sun shines through. In Church Lane the kids are busy collecting “bommie wood” from the old Rectory to pile high in Butterworth’s back garden, taking turns to guard their spoils from marauding gangs of village kids. They place old doors on top of the stack and pretend they are riding the waves on a pirate ship, whilst in the Village the kids huddle on street corners sharing crafty smokes and plotting how to pinch wood to stack on the field behind the Plough.
Suddenly it is Bonfire Night and the excitement is electric. Dad’s moth-eaten jumper and old baggy trousers have been stuffed with newspaper and rip raps, and a head has been fashioned from an odd pillow case. Guy Fawkes now sits proudly aloft awaiting his fate. The fire is lit and the heady smell of wood-smoke pervades the night air. Nearby the church tower is silhouetted against the reddening sky. Mothers stand around the blaze, their faces illuminated by the flames, warming chilled hands and chatting to neighbours, whilst keeping a wary eye on their lively youngsters. Infants write their names in the air with sparklers; fathers place rockets in milk-bottles. Whoosh! The heavens are alight with shooting stars and plummeting orbs, crackling and popping, whizzing and banging. The air is filled with the pungent smell of cordite.
Away on the Plough field all cares are abandoned. Reg, the pub landlord, has lit the fire and is attempting to establish some sort of order. His cheerful wife Maureen hands out treacle toffee and mulled wine whilst keeping a strict eye on Freddie Ellison who, as always, is up to no good. Better watch out. He’s armed with bangers! Without Mr Cartwright’s steely gaze he roams unfettered whilst mum and dad hug their ale inside the bar. Now the fire has burnt low and chestnuts are roasting on shovels in the embers. Too soon all is over for another year and people drift away. Reg douses the embers with water and congratulates himself on a job well done for another year. Freddy Ellison has not caused mayhem and he has not had to call out the fire brigade.
Back in the Lane parents carry sleepy children home to bed to dream of adventures swinging through trees and riding stormy seas. Smoke hangs over the village and the mist rises again like a comfort blanket wrapping each home in a warm cosy cloak. All is quiet and all is safe. Time for Ashton to sleep.
November mist rises from the meandering Mersey and rolls over flat Cheshire farmland. It envelopes the square Norman tower of St Martin’s church and shrouds nearby Ashton Hall; It creeps down the narrow lane and dims the gaunt Edwardian houses staring blankly across the ancient cobbles, their netted windows hiding secrets the tenants think are safe; it swirls over Morell’s the grocer and Sewell’s the butcher; it shrouds the black and white clock tower of the school where children chant their tables and Mr Cartwright wields his menacing cane; it billows around housewives muffled in scarves and felt hats hurrying from butcher to grocer, pausing only to buy the daily paper from Harry Beswick’s, before hurrying home to a warm fire and their favourite wireless programme.
At the end of the street the Buck and the Plough stand aloof regarding each other through the haze, smugly aware that their patronage is safe, for in Ashton you are either a Buck or a Plough man, except perhaps in Church Lane. No apparent inebriation there; all indiscretions kept strictly behind closed doors. At weekends they mow their lawns and tend their flowerbeds whilst their children seek adventures on the Old Rectory field, swinging like Tarzan from branch to branch and filling jam jars on strings with taddies from the stream bordering Old Pa Davies’s field. When disasters occur, as they often do, friends, like warriors, carry their wounded comrades home to mothers who are always there. Time now to enjoy childhood games, for all too soon they will attend the local grammar school, go to university and become pillars of society.
Not so for those who live in nearby terraces where small homes huddle on dead-end cobbled streets, their doorsteps crouching on uneven pavements. Here there are no lawns to mow, no trees to climb. Just a back yard with an outside loo. Mothers go out cleaning to supplement the weekly wage and line up at the post office counter on Thursdays for the family allowance. Snot nosed kids with national health specs wear latchkeys on strings and let themselves in when school is done. Not for them a university education. Maybe a scholarship to Oxbridge if Mr Cartwright has spotted their potential, or more likely an apprenticeship with Uncle Bill to keep them off the streets. Woolworths is always an option for their sisters as long as they can count, or better still the typing pool if their spelling is any good.
The mist lifts and the autumn sun shines through. In Church Lane the kids are busy collecting “bommie wood” from the old Rectory to pile high in Butterworth’s back garden, taking turns to guard their spoils from marauding gangs of village kids. They place old doors on top of the stack and pretend they are riding the waves on a pirate ship, whilst in the Village the kids huddle on street corners sharing crafty smokes and plotting how to pinch wood to stack on the field behind the Plough.
Suddenly it is Bonfire Night and the excitement is electric. Dad’s moth-eaten jumper and old baggy trousers have been stuffed with newspaper and rip raps, and a head has been fashioned from an odd pillow case. Guy Fawkes now sits proudly aloft awaiting his fate. The fire is lit and the heady smell of wood-smoke pervades the night air. Nearby the church tower is silhouetted against the reddening sky. Mothers stand around the blaze, their faces illuminated by the flames, warming chilled hands and chatting to neighbours, whilst keeping a wary eye on their lively youngsters. Infants write their names in the air with sparklers; fathers place rockets in milk-bottles. Whoosh! The heavens are alight with shooting stars and plummeting orbs, crackling and popping, whizzing and banging. The air is filled with the pungent smell of cordite.
Away on the Plough field all cares are abandoned. Reg, the pub landlord, has lit the fire and is attempting to establish some sort of order. His cheerful wife Maureen hands out treacle toffee and mulled wine whilst keeping a strict eye on Freddie Ellison who, as always, is up to no good. Better watch out. He’s armed with bangers! Without Mr Cartwright’s steely gaze he roams unfettered whilst mum and dad hug their ale inside the bar. Now the fire has burnt low and chestnuts are roasting on shovels in the embers. Too soon all is over for another year and people drift away. Reg douses the embers with water and congratulates himself on a job well done for another year. Freddy Ellison has not caused mayhem and he has not had to call out the fire brigade.
Back in the Lane parents carry sleepy children home to bed to dream of adventures swinging through trees and riding stormy seas. Smoke hangs over the village and the mist rises again like a comfort blanket wrapping each home in a warm cosy cloak. All is quiet and all is safe. Time for Ashton to sleep.
Teddy
Just look at him. Big grin on his face and posing for the cameras as always. Butter wouldn’t melt. He doesn’t care that the golfers in their shiny cars, speeding down the lane, have to brake to avoid him lying in the middle of the road. Just watch him. He’ll sit at the gate and, just when he hears them coming, he will casually stroll out as if he owns the place and make himself comfortable. Then there will be a screech of brakes and some very choice swear words, and Teddy will get up, in his own time, and go back to sit by the gate. Sometimes if he’s really cross with them he will chase them all the way down to Mrs. Butterworth’s house, just to make sure they know who’s boss. Who do they think they are anyway? Using the lane as a speed track. Don’t they know that he, Teddy Haigh, is the king of the road?
Mum felt really guilty about this behaviour and she once asked her neighbour if she should keep him inside on a Sunday when the golfers liked to play their weekly eighteen holes. But Mrs. Stott said, ‘Oh no Mrs. Haigh. Teddy is our policeman. Let him be. The children are safer when he’s on duty.’ So Teddy kept his job.
Then there was the time when he followed Jennifer Butterworth all the way to Lymm Dam. She looked very smart in her newly pressed guide uniform, doing her 5 mile hike for her Queen’s Guide badge. No matter how many times she turned around and said ‘Teddy go home’ he continued to pad along behind her enjoying the walk and the company. Sadly, on that day, he looked like a tramp wrapped in dirty bandages dipped in some evil smelling wintergreen oil. She was devastated when she had to take him back on the bus, and even pay his fare!
Dad had read somewhere that if he shaved off all Teddy’s beautiful silky coat and wound him up like a mummy in those foul smelling bandages dipped in wintergreen oil, it would get rid of the fleas. Some hopes of that! Teddy was proud of his beautiful long, silky, strawberry blond tresses and he didn’t like being sheared at all. But he lay obediently still whilst Dad carefully snipped away the fur and the fleas until he was quite bald and flealess. Then he was subjected to the humiliation of being smeared in wintergreen oil and bandaged up with the elastic bandages that Mum used on her rheumaticky knees. After a couple of weeks when the bandages came off, and his fur grew back making him handsome and silky again, Teddy immediately rebelled and went down to the farmyard to pick up more fleas from the foxes that came sniffing around the hen houses. You just couldn’t control Teddy, or his fleas.
Every so often Teddy had to have a bath, especially when he had rolled around in the muck heap down at the farm. That was a full scale operation. First we had to catch Teddy and lock him up in the kitchen, because as soon as he heard the clank of the big aluminium bath stored in the outhouse, he would be off, and you wouldn’t see him for the rest of the day. Once the bath was filled with buckets of warm water from the tap in the kitchen, Dad would open the kitchen door, just wide enough for him to squeeze through, pick up Teddy, who squirmed and yelped as if he was going to his execution, and place him in the bath squealing with indignation. Then Dad would rub him all over with special black,smelly soap and he would stand shivering in the dirty water looking at us accusingly as if to say ‘I’ll report you to Dogline’ which of course he couldn’t because we didn’t possess a phone. Once rinsed off he would leap out of the bath and get his own back by vigorously shaking off all the water, so we had to get out of range fast to avoid a shower.
I remember the day Teddy came to live with us. I can’t have been much more than 2 years old, a toddler, but I can see him now, this ball of fluff cradled in my older sister’s arms, being carried past the kitchen window, and I recall the rush of excitement knowing that this was an important new member of the family. We called him Teddy because he looked like a cuddly teddy bear. He was only a year younger than me so we grew up together, going for long walks down by the river bank through fields of buttercups and cows which gazed at him suspiciously until we reached the far gate. But he never chased the cows, at least not when I was with him, so I reckon they had nothing to worry about.
No one else in the lane had a dog so he was the neighbourhood pet. Well, you couldn’t really call him a pet because he had far too much dignity. Teddy would do just what Teddy wanted to do. We only saw him at mealtimes. I think he got fed at all the neighbours’ houses as well, but nobody complained. They just said ‘Hello Teddy’ when he appeared at their door, and gave him the scraps from yesterday’s dinner.
When Mrs. Butterworth’s cat, Lassie, had kittens, which was quite often, Teddy seemed to sense when they had arrived, because he would trot down to their big house at the end of the lane to pay a complimentary visit - not a day too soon nor a day too late. Always on the day they were born. Mrs Butterworth jokingly maintained that he must be the dad because he would stand at the kitchen door and gaze proudly at the kittens asleep in their basket, as if he were. But of course he wasn’t - because he was a dog and Lassie was a cat.
Times were good for dogs in those days. Plenty of freedom, plenty of walks, plenty of friends and plenty of scraps. You could put up with a few fleas and a bath once in a while. Oh Yes Teddy, you had plenty to smile about.
Home Truths
‘Em! Em! Where are my gold cuff links, Em?’
‘Give me a second Ernest.’
‘'urry up Em, it's my meeting tonight.’
‘I’m coming.’
‘Oh there you are. You know 'ow I 'ate being late for these things. It doesn’t give a good impression. What’s up Em? You look like you’ve lost five bob and found a farthing.’
‘Nothing. It’s nothing at all.’
‘Rubbish. You’re looking all wound up. What is it?’
‘Now don’t get upset, Ernest.’
‘Ay ay. What’s this then? What’s 'appened?’
‘Ernest….. Ernest, you know Mary met a man whilst she was working up in Newcastle’.
‘Oh you mean this Dan fellow she keeps on about? Help me with these darned things, Em.’
‘Yes, well it turns out he’s eighteen years older than her.’
‘So you mean he’s thirty eight?’
‘Yes that’s right’
‘Is 'e married? Don’t tell me the silly girl 'as gone and got 'erself involved with a married man, and one twice 'er age into the bargain?’
‘No, he’s not married, well not as far as I know. The thing is…… the thing is, Ernest….’
‘Come on woman. Out with it. I’m late as it is.’
‘…… She’s pregnant.’
‘She’s what? 'ow many months?’
‘Three, maybe more. Now don’t get angry Ernest.’
‘Well, 'e’ll 'ave to marry 'er! I’ll not 'ave one of my daughters showing me up like this. What will the neighbours say? 'ow can I show my face at the Rotarians. It’s too much. 'e’ll 'ave to marry 'er………It’s all your fault, Em. You’re far too soft on those girls. Like mother like daughter.’
‘Yes. And like mother like daughter she will ruin her life marrying a man who won’t appreciate her. You always have to drag that up don’t you Ernest. Twenty years I’ve been a good wife to you. Cooked for you; laundered your shirts; been a good mother to your children. And what do I get for my trouble? Nothing but abuse. I’m fed up with it.’
‘ 'aven’t I done my duty? Worked 'ard and kept you and the girls fed and clothed. 'ave I ever laid a hand on you in anger?
‘Well thanks for that Ernest Brocklebank. When I think of the life I could have had with Albert Ainsworth. He had a good steady job and he asked me to marry him loads of times. I’d have been happy with him. But oh no. Along comes Mr. High and Mighty Ernest Brocklebank with his charm and big ideas. And I fell for it hook line and sinker.’
‘I’ve always done my best Em. It wasn’t a good start to our marriage but I stood by you and we did our best for Mary and the others. It 'asn’t been so bad 'as it, Em? We’ve 'ad our good times. Christmases 'ave always been good and bonfire nights with the kids. And we’ve always 'ad a holiday every year at the seaside. Don’t tell me it’s all been bad.’
‘Yes, well that’s as maybe. There are always highlights when you have children. But it’s been hard work for me, Ernest, with very little emotional support from you. Christmas hasn’t just happened you know. I’ve spent hours in that kitchen cooking the turkey and making sure everything was just right for the kids whilst you entertained your friends in the front room. And holiday times it’s been just me stuck on a windy beach watching the kids and throwing pebbles into the sea, whilst you swanned off somewhere on your own. I hate Abergele. And how about the evenings I’ve been left on my own at home whilst you went to your bloody Rotary meetings. No, Ernest. Being married to you hasn’t been a barrel of laughs,’
‘Em, I never realised. You never said anything. 'ow was I to know?’
‘I never wanted to rock the boat. I just wanted a quiet life. The slightest thing and you’d go on and on about it. But getting back to Mary. When we had to get married Ernest, how did your mother feel about it?’
‘To be honest, she was 'orrified. But she was determined that I should do the right thing by you. She was always a very respectable, decent woman, my mother. Always taught us to do the right thing no matter what.’
‘I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies. I always felt that she was tight lipped with me. Mothers and their sons hey. No woman is ever good enough for them. You were a good son, went to see her every Sunday with the kids. I didn’t like her much, but I never stopped you from seeing her did I? Not like you with my sister. You never forgave her for not giving you first refusal on those shares in the bakery. I know it was wrong of her to offer her shares to a third party, and I understand how angry it must have made you feel to have to buy them back again, but she’s dying now, Ernest. Can’t you let bygones be bygones?……..I’ve been visiting her in secret you know.’
‘Hm!. Do you think I didn’t know what you were up to? All this sneaking around, pretending you’d bin somewhere else. I’ve been waiting years for you to be honest with me about that.’
‘Honest? How could I be honest about anything when you were so unreasonable? She’s my only sister, Ernest. And it wasn’t all her fault. She was only doing what her husband wanted her to do. But you were so rigid about it all. Ten years Ernest, and you still can’t let it go.’
‘Hm. It doesn’t change 'ow I feel about them? Talking of mothers, 'ow about your mother Em? I always felt she looked down on me. Like I was a bad smell under 'er nose.’
‘Yes, she was pretty miffed when I married you. She always felt her daughters should marry doctors or lawyers. I think she would have liked the big white wedding to show off to all her friends. Father was livid of course. I was always his favourite, the pretty one. No one was ever good enough for me. But he came around eventually once Mary was born. And he did leave us shares in the bakery.’
‘Yes, a pity we had to share it with Florrie and Vern, and let’s face it, 'e 'ad no-one else to leave them to.’
‘Oh Ernest. Give it a rest now. See what I mean? You can’t let it be can you?’
‘Well it’s true. But you know, Em, 'aving this conversation with you I realise I want more for our daughter than we 'ad. She’s worth more than a forced marriage and the two of us feeling cheated and resentful. 'ow’s about we stop the cycle here, Em. I suggest we look after Mary and the baby, and to 'ell with the neighbours. It’s more important for our Mary to be 'appy. In any case I don’t fancy this Dan bloke as a son in law. He’s not that much younger than me.’
‘That’s all well and good, Ernest. As long as you realise that it isn’t our decision to make. …. And how about Florrie? Can we let that go as well? ‘
‘Well, we’ll 'ave to see about that. I can’t forgive them and I still don’t want anything to do with them, but I won’t stop you seeing them, as long as they don’t come 'ere. And I want you to promise me, Emily, that if you’re ever un'appy again you'll talk to me about it. We won’t always agree, but at least we can face up to things together as a team. We need to be honest with each other. No more bottling things up. I’m not a mind reader you know. We need to make a fresh start, you and me.
‘It sounds good. Let’s just hope it lasts. I have to say it’s a relief to get it all out into the open about our Florrie after all these years. As for Mary, we have to take things one day at a time. It’s her decision, Ernest. Please don’t impose your will on her.’
‘Me? Impose my will? What on earth do you take me for, Em?’
‘Em! Em! Where are my gold cuff links, Em?’
‘Give me a second Ernest.’
‘'urry up Em, it's my meeting tonight.’
‘I’m coming.’
‘Oh there you are. You know 'ow I 'ate being late for these things. It doesn’t give a good impression. What’s up Em? You look like you’ve lost five bob and found a farthing.’
‘Nothing. It’s nothing at all.’
‘Rubbish. You’re looking all wound up. What is it?’
‘Now don’t get upset, Ernest.’
‘Ay ay. What’s this then? What’s 'appened?’
‘Ernest….. Ernest, you know Mary met a man whilst she was working up in Newcastle’.
‘Oh you mean this Dan fellow she keeps on about? Help me with these darned things, Em.’
‘Yes, well it turns out he’s eighteen years older than her.’
‘So you mean he’s thirty eight?’
‘Yes that’s right’
‘Is 'e married? Don’t tell me the silly girl 'as gone and got 'erself involved with a married man, and one twice 'er age into the bargain?’
‘No, he’s not married, well not as far as I know. The thing is…… the thing is, Ernest….’
‘Come on woman. Out with it. I’m late as it is.’
‘…… She’s pregnant.’
‘She’s what? 'ow many months?’
‘Three, maybe more. Now don’t get angry Ernest.’
‘Well, 'e’ll 'ave to marry 'er! I’ll not 'ave one of my daughters showing me up like this. What will the neighbours say? 'ow can I show my face at the Rotarians. It’s too much. 'e’ll 'ave to marry 'er………It’s all your fault, Em. You’re far too soft on those girls. Like mother like daughter.’
‘Yes. And like mother like daughter she will ruin her life marrying a man who won’t appreciate her. You always have to drag that up don’t you Ernest. Twenty years I’ve been a good wife to you. Cooked for you; laundered your shirts; been a good mother to your children. And what do I get for my trouble? Nothing but abuse. I’m fed up with it.’
‘ 'aven’t I done my duty? Worked 'ard and kept you and the girls fed and clothed. 'ave I ever laid a hand on you in anger?
‘Well thanks for that Ernest Brocklebank. When I think of the life I could have had with Albert Ainsworth. He had a good steady job and he asked me to marry him loads of times. I’d have been happy with him. But oh no. Along comes Mr. High and Mighty Ernest Brocklebank with his charm and big ideas. And I fell for it hook line and sinker.’
‘I’ve always done my best Em. It wasn’t a good start to our marriage but I stood by you and we did our best for Mary and the others. It 'asn’t been so bad 'as it, Em? We’ve 'ad our good times. Christmases 'ave always been good and bonfire nights with the kids. And we’ve always 'ad a holiday every year at the seaside. Don’t tell me it’s all been bad.’
‘Yes, well that’s as maybe. There are always highlights when you have children. But it’s been hard work for me, Ernest, with very little emotional support from you. Christmas hasn’t just happened you know. I’ve spent hours in that kitchen cooking the turkey and making sure everything was just right for the kids whilst you entertained your friends in the front room. And holiday times it’s been just me stuck on a windy beach watching the kids and throwing pebbles into the sea, whilst you swanned off somewhere on your own. I hate Abergele. And how about the evenings I’ve been left on my own at home whilst you went to your bloody Rotary meetings. No, Ernest. Being married to you hasn’t been a barrel of laughs,’
‘Em, I never realised. You never said anything. 'ow was I to know?’
‘I never wanted to rock the boat. I just wanted a quiet life. The slightest thing and you’d go on and on about it. But getting back to Mary. When we had to get married Ernest, how did your mother feel about it?’
‘To be honest, she was 'orrified. But she was determined that I should do the right thing by you. She was always a very respectable, decent woman, my mother. Always taught us to do the right thing no matter what.’
‘I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies. I always felt that she was tight lipped with me. Mothers and their sons hey. No woman is ever good enough for them. You were a good son, went to see her every Sunday with the kids. I didn’t like her much, but I never stopped you from seeing her did I? Not like you with my sister. You never forgave her for not giving you first refusal on those shares in the bakery. I know it was wrong of her to offer her shares to a third party, and I understand how angry it must have made you feel to have to buy them back again, but she’s dying now, Ernest. Can’t you let bygones be bygones?……..I’ve been visiting her in secret you know.’
‘Hm!. Do you think I didn’t know what you were up to? All this sneaking around, pretending you’d bin somewhere else. I’ve been waiting years for you to be honest with me about that.’
‘Honest? How could I be honest about anything when you were so unreasonable? She’s my only sister, Ernest. And it wasn’t all her fault. She was only doing what her husband wanted her to do. But you were so rigid about it all. Ten years Ernest, and you still can’t let it go.’
‘Hm. It doesn’t change 'ow I feel about them? Talking of mothers, 'ow about your mother Em? I always felt she looked down on me. Like I was a bad smell under 'er nose.’
‘Yes, she was pretty miffed when I married you. She always felt her daughters should marry doctors or lawyers. I think she would have liked the big white wedding to show off to all her friends. Father was livid of course. I was always his favourite, the pretty one. No one was ever good enough for me. But he came around eventually once Mary was born. And he did leave us shares in the bakery.’
‘Yes, a pity we had to share it with Florrie and Vern, and let’s face it, 'e 'ad no-one else to leave them to.’
‘Oh Ernest. Give it a rest now. See what I mean? You can’t let it be can you?’
‘Well it’s true. But you know, Em, 'aving this conversation with you I realise I want more for our daughter than we 'ad. She’s worth more than a forced marriage and the two of us feeling cheated and resentful. 'ow’s about we stop the cycle here, Em. I suggest we look after Mary and the baby, and to 'ell with the neighbours. It’s more important for our Mary to be 'appy. In any case I don’t fancy this Dan bloke as a son in law. He’s not that much younger than me.’
‘That’s all well and good, Ernest. As long as you realise that it isn’t our decision to make. …. And how about Florrie? Can we let that go as well? ‘
‘Well, we’ll 'ave to see about that. I can’t forgive them and I still don’t want anything to do with them, but I won’t stop you seeing them, as long as they don’t come 'ere. And I want you to promise me, Emily, that if you’re ever un'appy again you'll talk to me about it. We won’t always agree, but at least we can face up to things together as a team. We need to be honest with each other. No more bottling things up. I’m not a mind reader you know. We need to make a fresh start, you and me.
‘It sounds good. Let’s just hope it lasts. I have to say it’s a relief to get it all out into the open about our Florrie after all these years. As for Mary, we have to take things one day at a time. It’s her decision, Ernest. Please don’t impose your will on her.’
‘Me? Impose my will? What on earth do you take me for, Em?’