EPISODE FOUR

 

The Cold War

 

After the bleak years of the War, the 1951 Festival of Britain lifted the country's' spirits. The following year saw the sudden death of King George VI and brought a young queen to the throne. Winston Churchill's prediction of an Iron Curtain dividing Europe proved true but perhaps the greatest shock to the nation was the soviet spy scandal of the mid-fifties.

During this period the town saw an influx of royal visitors. In May 1951 the then Princess Elizabeth paid a visit, in 1956 the Duchess of Kent attended the opening of a new technical high school and in 1959, Princess Margaret came to visit a special school in the area.

Housing estates were built and the population increased to over 77,000. Due to the demand for new style housing, it was months before a buyer was found for Number Seven, which fell into disrepair. Weeds sprang up and apples and plums were left to rot where they fell. This was a sad time. I missed the aroma of Daisy's baking, Hetty's tuneful singing, Walter's sweet-smelling pipe tobacco for despite the tragedy of Teddy's death, Jack's suicide and Walter's heartache, both the Websters and the Parkers had brought joy to Number Seven.

Finally, mother and daughter, Cora and Thelma Stokes moved in. Their relationship was contentious; they were always quarrelling. If Cora liked something, Thelma disliked it and I wondered what was in store for me.

Cora was in her late seventies, Thelma in her mid-fifties. Cora's husband had deserted her after her daughter's birth and, from then on, she had played the martyr. Self-pity and bad-temper had etched lines into her features giving her a permanently disgruntled expression. In addition, she had unfortunately broken her left leg while running for a bus during the Blitz, resulting in a stiff knee which meant she had to use a walking-stick.

From the age of sixteen, Thelma had worked in a West End department store. Never having married, it had not occurred to her to leave her mother. She was ungainly with mousey hair, poor eyesight obliging her to wear thick lens spectacles which often slipped down her nose. Had fate decreed to remove her from Cora's influence, her life might have been happier.

They had lived in rented rooms since being bombed out of their London home, and now that Cora was 'getting on a bit' she had decided they should move to the coast. They were a far cry from my previous occupants and my walls were to echo with their discontent.

 

 

Cora and Thelma were at each other's throats from the moment they moved in. They squabbled about how to arrange the furniture, they fought about who should have the front bedroom, they argued about how much they should tip the removal men. If there was nothing to argue about they would invent something.

'I really like this house, Mother,' said Thelma after the removal men had departed. 'Just think, this will be our first real home since we were bombed out.'

'It's too big,' sniffed Cora.

'No it isn't.'

'It is. I said as much when the estate agent showed us round.'

'I don't remember you saying that.'

'You've got a short memory when it suits you.'

Determined to be positive, Thelma persisted, 'The garden's lovely, you'll be able to sit out there in the summer.'

'It's too big.'

'No it isn't. Don't forget now I've left work I'll have plenty of time to look after it.'

'The downstairs badly needs decorating.'

'I can do that too.'

'You don't know one end of a paint brush from the other,' scoffed Cora.

Thelma weaved her way between the piles of boxes cluttering the floor. 'I'll start decorating this room next week,' she declared. Looking around, she pushed her glasses further up her nose and added, 'Yes, I'm looking forward to getting started.'

'Hadn't you better get unpacked first,' snapped her mother, waving her walking-stick in the air and narrowly missing the centre lamp.

'Mind the light, Mother,' warned Thelma.

Cora looked up and pulled a face. 'That awful thing must go for a start.'

It was a Tiffany lampshade chosen by Hetty in her first flush of enthusiasm on moving in to Number Seven.

'I like it.'

'It's hideous it makes the place look like a bordello.'

Thelma gave a laugh. 'Really, Mother, you do exaggerate.'

Cora pointed at the boxes piled up in the kitchen. 'Start in there. Do you know which box the kettle is in?'

'How would I know? You were the one who packed the kitchen utensils,' retorted her daughter.

After a five-minute search she found the kettle and returned with teapot and cups balanced on a small tray. 'Mother, make a space for the tray please.'

Using her walking stick, Cora swept aside a pile of papers from the table and for a little while a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit restored peace.

 

Thelma was true to her word and the following week she started stripping off the wallpaper ready to redecorate.

'I think the funky yellow and red pattern or the terracotta lion design would be nice in here, don't you?' she said, flicking through a wallpaper pattern catalogue.

Cora disagreed. 'I want flowered wallpaper, Magnolias.'

'Flowers are old-fashioned, Mother.'

'Well what's wrong with old-fashioned?' argued Cora. 'And what are you going to do about that silly little cupboard over there?'

Thelma stood back to study it. 'It's rather sweet,' she said, 'but it's locked and there doesn't seem to be a key. We'll have to get a man in to chip it out of the wall.'

'Get a man in! I'm not paying someone to do that job you'll just have to paper over it.'

'It'll leave a bulge in the wall.'

'We can hang a picture over it.'

'All right, I'll do my best to disguise it,' said Thelma. 'I'm looking forward to trying my hand at decorating, you know.'

'Huh!' Cora was scathing. 'You'll mess it up. Don't expect me to pay for someone to come and clear up after you.'

'Oh ye of little faith,' declared her daughter, for once choosing not to take offence.

In the end the pattern they agreed upon featured little green birds which would be easy to match up. Thelma bought a book of instructions on home decorating and she turned out to be quite a dab hand at wallpapering. Even the bulge made by the little cupboard wasn't too unsightly.

Winter was approaching and Cora was impatient to get the rest of the house decorated.

'Are you going to do my bedroom next?' she asked.

'It's cold upstairs Mother, can't the rest wait until the spring?'

'You should have thought of that and done upstairs first.'

'You said you wanted the front room done before the winter,' protested Thelma.

'I don't remember saying that,' grunted Cora, 'and by the way, isn't the coalman supposed to be delivering today?'

'Yes, this afternoon.'

'Well, just make sure you count the number of bags he carries round the back. Last time we were a bag short.'

'That was ages ago, Mother, when we were still living in London.'

Cora gave a dismissive shrug. 'They're all the same so keep an eye on him.'

 

When she'd left work the company had presented Thelma with a wooden mantel clock and a card signed by all the staff. Mr Bateman, the Managing Director, gave a speech commending her on forty years service, forcing Thelma to stand through it all, red-faced with embarrassment. Shuffling from one foot to the other, she longed for the ground to open up and swallow her. As Mr Bateman finished speaking everybody clapped and wished Thelma well, with one or two declaring that she must stay in touch.

'Keep us up to date with all your news, Thelma,' said Nora, the woman who was taking her place, 'and don't forget to give me your address.'  She thrust a piece of paper into Thelma's hand. 'Here's mine.'

Some of the girls from Cosmetics invited her to join them in the pub for a drink after work but she knew they didn't really want her. They were in the habit of going to the Black Horse on a Friday evening to meet up with some of the boys from SportsandLeisure and they had never included her before. But she was touched when young Ellie from the canteen came up to her just as she was leaving the building and handed her a pack of embroidered handkerchiefs tied up with a pink ribbon. 'You've always been kind to me, Miss Stokes,' she said, looking tearful, 'I shall miss you.'

On the train going home, Thelma couldn't help thinking about the genuine sadness in Ellie's eyes as she had handed her the gift. Ellie had always greeted her with a cheerful smile and often added an extra scoop of ice cream when dishing out the apple crumble. As the train passed through a tunnel, she stared at her own reflection in the window wondering dolefully why, after forty years, she had made so little impression on her workmates. She was sure that by Monday Ellie would be the only one to give her a passing thought.

 

Cora grumbled incessantly: the house was too cold; the newspapers never arrived on time; there was too much passing traffic.

'I can't open the windows because of the noise,' she declared. 'It keeps me awake at night.'

'It's your own fault, Mother,' replied Thelma, resolutely adjusting her spectacles to sit on the bridge of her nose, 'you shouldn't have insisted on taking the front bedroom.'

'Hmm, and those kids from next door are always throwing their ball over the wall. You must go round there and complain to their mother, Thelma.'

'I'll do no such thing,' retorted her daughter although, privately, she was finding it rather tiresome having a grubby-faced eight-year-old constantly knocking at the door with, 'Can we have our ball back, missus?'

While she had been working, Thelma had put up with her mother's whining with stoicism but now they were together all day long, she was becoming more and more irritated. She began taking long walks along the beach, hands thrust in pockets, toeing pebbles as she allowed her imagination to run riot. Thelma had a vivid imagination and she enjoyed conjuring up ways of silencing Cora's moaning: stealing into her bedroom at dead of night and smothering her with a pillow; lacing her bed-time drink with arsenic so that she'd never wake up; pushing her down the stairs. She brightened up. Yes, that was the best way. She could say her mother had tripped over that damned stick she always carried. Of course, she knew she would never put any of these plots into practise but it was comforting to imagine them.

 

Cora's discontent stemmed from a broken heart. Alfred, the husband she adored, left her for a Tiller girl.

Betty, her best friend at the time, had commiserated with her. 'Don't worry Cora dear he'll tire of her in next to no time, you mark my words.'

'She's so glamorous,' lamented Cora, 'how can I compete? Why, she's got legs up to her armpits!'

Betty smothered a giggle. 'She's common. Your Alf will come to no good playing around with the likes of her.'

'But if he divorces me…'

'He can't do that, you're the injured party, he's the one in the wrong,' protested Betty. 'Anyway, look on the bright side, you're still young and if he doesn't come back to you, there are plenty more fish in the sea.'

This was no comfort to Cora who had set her heart on hanging onto her man and when Alfred did not tire of his long-legged Tiller girl, shamed by his desertion, she refused to file for divorce. Instead, she sneaked away and found digs on the other side of London, bringing up Thelma all by herself. A skilled seamstress she managed to keep body and soul together with the help of the small amount of money which, during the early years, Alfred provided. He never enquired about his daughter so Thelma grew up without knowing her father. It was hard-going but somehow mother and daughter won through and once Thelma left school and started working at the department store, things improved. By then, Alfred had disappeared.

'Your father's gone forever and ''good riddance'' I say,' proclaimed Cora when, on one occasion, Thelma became curious and plucked up the courage to ask about her father.

Betty kept in touch with Cora for a while but eventually gave up trying to pull her friend out of her poor me frame of mind. Working from home meant that Cora had very little contact with the outside world. Over the years, Thelma did all the shopping and most of the cleaning despite working a forty-hour week at the department store. No one ever visited them and since Cora was always dissatisfied with their rented accommodation, they had frequently moved house.

When, at the age of fifteen, Thelma started work, she would obediently hand over her pay packet to her mother. Every Friday evening Cora would count out the pennies to go into the appropriately labelled jam jars she kept on the kitchen shelf. There was one for coal, one for electricity, another for the gas meter and, of course, one for a 'rainy day'. Having performed this weekly ritual, she would hand back a modest amount of pocket money to her daughter. Cora appeared not to care that their lives were so predictably monotonous but Thelma never ceased to dream of something better.

On one occasion, while they were living in a rather seedy area of North London, she had challenged Cora. 'What's the point of saving for a 'rainy day', Mother we both need a holiday, why don't we go to the seaside for a weekend: Folkestone or Eastbourne?'

Cora's lips tightened. 'What nonsense, my girl, we might need that money for something important.'

'Like what?'

'How will you manage if I fall ill?'

'The NHS will take care of you.'

'Tch, the NHS is nothing more than charity.'

'No it's not, mother,' cried Thelma indignantly, 'it's there for everybody.'

Then their luck changed. The authorities got in touch with Cora to tell her that Alfred had died of a heart attack. Apparently his liaison with the Tiller girl had ended when he lost most of his money on the horses, prompting her to make off with a bookmaker from the betting shop. Over the years he had become a habitual gambler, his fortune vacillating from race to race. As luck would have it, his heart attack occurred when he was riding high, thus his winnings passed to Cora as his next of kin, making it possible for her to purchase Number Seven. Thelma never dared ask her mother how much money was involved and despite being better off, Cora continued to moan about their living expenses.

'I always said this house was too big for us,' she grumbled, 'we would have been better off finding a two bed-roomed flat.'

'We could rent out a room,' said Thelma, half joking.

To her surprise, Cora nodded her head. 'For once, you've come up with a good idea, my girl.'

They placed a card in the local newsagent's window and received a number of applicants. Cora insisted on showing them round despite her difficulty in getting about.

'Why don't you let me show people the room?' suggested Thelma, 'it would save you having to struggle upstairs.'

'I go upstairs to bed, don't I,' snorted Cora, 'so who says I can't manage? Besides, I don't want some stranger poking his nose into the other rooms up there.'

'I wouldn't let anybody do that, Mother.'

But Cora couldn't bear to relinquish authority to her daughter.

Then Leslie Dempster answered the advertisement and arrived on their doorstep looking dapper in a dark grey pin-striped suit and a trilby hat. He sported a narrow moustache over thin lips and wore tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles. When Cora answered the door, he took off his hat to reveal sleek black hair smoothed across his head as if to hide his receding hairline.

'Good morning, Mrs Stokes, I believe you have a room to let,' he said politely.

One glance at him convinced Cora that the fifty-something man standing in front of her was respectable. This impression was further confirmed when he explained that he was employed by the Tax Office. Anyone working for the local council must be trustworthy.

She went ahead of him up the stairs; her visitor followed at a discreet distance in order to avoid a brush with her rather large rear which tended to swing out as, encumbered by her stiff left knee, she made her shambling progress upwards.

Leslie Dempster liked the room. 'Well, Mrs Stokes,' he said with a little bow, 'this will suit me admirably. How much will you charge for it?'

Cora quoted a figure half expecting her prospective lodger to shake his head and barter but he agreed immediately. They made their slow progress downstairs to where Thelma was waiting expectantly.

'This is our new lodger, Mr Dempster,' said Cora triumphantly. Leaning her hand on the table for support, she beamed at her daughter and waved her stick saying, 'Thelma dear, show Mr Dempster the kitchen and bathroom.' She turned to him. 'By the way, did I mention that I cannot allow any form of alcohol on the premises?'

'Of course not,' replied Leslie. 'I myself was brought up in a strictly teetotal environment.'

Thelma smothered a smirk knowing that her mother was in the habit of drinking a pint of Guinness each evening before retiring to bed. Forcing herself to keep a straight face, she escorted their prospective lodger through the kitchen to the bathroom.

After glancing around he made Thelma blush by saying, 'Thank you, young lady, this seems eminently suitable for my needs.'

They returned to the dining room where Cora was waiting. She cleared her throat. 'Mr Dempster, in order to reserve the room for you I shall need a deposit.' To justify this request, she burbled on, 'We've got several other people interested in the room, you know.'

'No problem,' he replied, taking out his wallet and extracting the required number of notes. 'I shall arrive on Monday afternoon at around five o'clock if that's convenient.'

'That is most convenient, Mr Dempster. By the way, if I am to be cooking your meals, I shall need your Ration Book.'

'There's no need for that, Mrs Stokes, I prefer to cater for myself.'

'Of course, of course,' said Cora.

Thelma wasn't very happy about this arrangement. It was she not Cora who cooked most evenings and as the kitchen wasn't very big two people using it at the same time could cause a problem.

However, Cora seemed pleased. Waddling ahead of Leslie Dempster to the front door, she said, 'It will be so nice having a man in the house again.'

After he'd left, Cora's eyes glinted with satisfaction. 'Isn't it lucky I thought about taking in a lodger?' she said.

'Mother, it was my idea,' protested Thelma.

Ignoring her, Cora continued to enthuse about their lodger. 'Such a well-educated gentleman,' she said, 'and he's got a really important job on the Council.'

'Mother, he's a clerk in the Tax Office,' Thelma pointed out.

Her mother wasn't listening. 'Thelma dear, we've got the weekend to get the house spick and span. You must start spring-cleaning first thing tomorrow morning.'

Thelma could hardly stop herself from hitting Cora. Why did all the chores fall to her? Resorting to sarcasm, she said tartly, 'You can't spring-clean in the autumn. Besides he's only paying for the use of one room not the whole house.'

 

Leslie Dempster moved in on a damp October morning. He didn't have much luggage, just a suitcase with his clothes and several boxes. For the first few days, Cora was in her element. 'It's so nice having a man in the house again,' she gushed, giving the impression that her husband's demise had been only recent. Thelma found it difficult to hide her giggles but her mother's glowering frown warned her not to spoil the cover-image she was so carefully creating.

During the ensuing days she watched her mother's antics with amusement. Cora fussed over her lodger as if he were a member of the gentry. On the first Saturday after his arrival she invited him down for tea and cake and although Leslie was extremely polite, Thelma detected a hint of hesitancy before he accepted the invitation.

At the appointed time, Cora directed him to an armchair by the window, and on the pretext of giving him a place for his cup and saucer she cleverly arranged an occasional table in front of him. This made it difficult for him to stretch out his legs thus preventing a quick get-away once the tea had been drunk and the cake eaten.

'Dear Mr Dempster,' she began after pouring out the tea, 'have you been employed by the Council for very long?'

'I've been in local government all my life, Mrs Stokes,' explained Leslie, taking a sip of tea and dabbing his lips with Cora's floral napkin. 'But as I told your daughter, I lived in Salisbury until I was transferred down here.'

All smiles, Cora leant forward. 'A great career if I might say so and tell me, how do you find this part of the world?'

'Very agreeable, I love the sea. Have you and your daughter been living here long?'

Cora conjured up an air of sadness. 'Alas we were bombed out in the Blitz but fate smiled on us and found us this charming house by the sea.'

Thelma, who had taken a back seat so far, couldn't help saying, 'But Mother, I thought you didn't like it here. You're always moan…'

Cora flicked a hand at her. 'Nonsense dear, what put that idea in your head?' She went on. 'Tell me, Mr Dempster…'

'Please call me Leslie.'

Cora beamed at him. 'I'm Cora and my daughter's Thelma.'

'You were saying?'

'Oh yes, do you come from a large family, Leslie?'

'No, I'm an only child. Sadly, my parents died some ten years ago so now I'm all alone.'

Cora raised her eyebrows. 'No aunts, uncles, cousins?'

'Unfortunately, not. '

Thelma listened to their conversation without contributing much. She was embarrassed both by her mother's fawning tone of voice and by her probing questions. She wanted to put an end to them but didn't know how to change the subject.

An hour and a half later and after several more cups of tea, Leslie made his escape. On his way out of the room, he passed Thelma who caught a fleeting expression of sympathy in his eyes. She stood still for a moment, thinking about him and came to the conclusion that there was more to Leslie Dempster than met the eye.

 

Over the winter, Cora and Thelma had little contact with their new lodger. He never again accepted Cora's invitation to tea, cleverly finding an excuse each time she asked him. Returning from work he would cook a hasty supper before shutting himself away in his room. Sometimes, Thelma could hear him playing classical music on the gramophone he had brought with him but, for the most part, he seemed to be engrossed in his books. He never had visitors except for the man from Littlewoods Football Pools. Thelma couldn't help sniggering because, despite Cora's fortunes being changed by Alfred's race winnings, her mother despised gambling and would give a huff of disapproval whenever the collector came to call. In Cora's eyes, this was the only black mark against Leslie until one day he approached her asking if she could arrange for some shelves to be put up in his room.

'I would be most grateful,' he said in his quiet, polite manner, 'I have rather a lot of books and they are in the way on the floor and they may get damaged.'

'Well…' Cora pursed her lips, 'calling in a joiner will cost money; you know how expensive carpenters are these days.'

'Oh dear lady, I didn't mean that you should pay for it. I'll foot the bill if you would kindly arrange it.'

Cora's expression softened; smiling she said, 'Of course, Leslie, I will see to it at once. Run down to the corner shop, Thelma and make enquiries; that Mr Royston knows all the local handymen.'

As Thelma went to collect her coat from the peg in the hall, Leslie tried to stop her. 'There's no rush, tomorrow will do.'

'Thelma doesn't mind, do you dear?' insisted Cora.

When Thelma looked undecided, Leslie said, 'In that case, my dear, we'll go together. Please wait while I get my coat.'

As Leslie mounted the stairs, Thelma caught her mother's glance and knew that Cora wasn't happy. 'Mother, we can't let him pay for the carpentry,' she said.

'Of course we can, after all he knew there were no bookshelves when he took the room? I'll have to put his rent up if he keeps asking for extras.'

Thelma looked aghast. 'You can't do that, Mother!'

Their argument was interrupted when Leslie appeared wearing his hat and coat.

'We won't be long,' called out Thelma as they left the house.

While they walked along, Leslie said, 'Do you like to read, Thelma?'

'Yes I do.'

'What sort of books do you like?'

Thelma coloured as she replied, 'I love a romance but I don't suppose you would be interested in those.'

'Do you read Daphne du Maurier?'

'Yes, and Barbara Cartland and Catherine Cookson,' replied Thelma, spouting the names of famous romantic novelists she had heard of. She didn't want to admit that she only ever read Mills and Boon.

 

When March drew to a close and spring sunshine brought out primroses and daffodils, Thelma resumed her walks on the beach. Since leaving work she was obliged to spend a great deal of time with her mother and walking on the beach was a means of escape.  One Sunday afternoon she was surprised to come face to face with Leslie on the promenade.

'Well I never,' he said, 'I didn't know you were a keen walker too.'

To her chagrin, Thelma found herself blushing. 'I've always loved walking by the sea,' she said.

'In that case, do you mind if I join you?'

After half an hour they ended up in a seafront café. 'It's getting a bit nippy now,' said Leslie, hugging a beaker of tea. 'But perhaps we can do this again.'

'I'd like that.'

'Tell me about yourself, how long is it since you left your job?

 'Eighteen months. I used to work in a big London department store.'

'That must have been interesting.'

'It was sometimes,' fibbed Thelma, unwilling to tell Leslie how much she had hated the job.

'Your mother is a very stalwart lady.'

'Stalwart?'

'She tells me she was inconsolable when your father died and you must miss him too. Was his demise recent?'

Thelma almost burst out laughing. So that was the story her mother had fed their lodger! 'I never knew my father, he died several years ago.' Taking pleasure in disproving her mother's version of events, she added, 'He left us when I was a baby.'

'But I was under the impression…'

'I know, mother makes everything into a sob-story.' Thelma lowered her gaze feeling a twinge of guilt at her unkind words. She tried to rectify the situation. 'I mean, she tends to be melodramatic.'

'I see.'

They fell silent and Thelma's gaze fastened on the salt-sprayed café window. The sky had clouded over and the wind had picked up so that white crested waves splashed against the breakwaters lining the beach. Seagulls screeched overhead and both she and Leslie drew back as one soared close to the window.

'I thought it was coming in for a cup of tea,' joked Leslie.

The incident broke through their awkwardness and, after paying the bill - Leslie insisted that he did it - they left the café and walked towards home. As they passed the newsagents, Leslie slapped his pockets. 'I need some cigarettes,' he said, 'you go on ahead.'

Thelma was grateful for his discretion. It wouldn't do for her mother to think that she had been having a tête-a-tête with their lodger.

 

The Sunday afternoon walks became regular and by tacit agreement they met at the entrance to the pier. Thelma felt comfortable in Leslie's company and found herself opening up to him. They exchanged confidences, describing their lonely childhood. Like Thelma, Leslie had only ever had one employer: the Council. He explained how he had been exempted from call-up during WWII due to a heart condition brought on by an attack of rheumatic fever when he was eleven.

'I wanted to do my bit,' he said, 'but they wouldn't have me. In any case, my job in the Council was granted exemption.'

'If I had been younger, I would have joined up,' said Thelma, 'although it would have been difficult leaving mother.'

'Have you ever thought of moving, striking out on your own?'

Thelma recoiled with shock. 'Oh, I don't think I could.'

As time passed she learnt that Leslie was fifty-one and that he was dissatisfied with his job.

'Have you got any hobbies?' she asked him.

'I collect stamps,' he replied, 'I'll show them to you one day.'

'Sometimes I can hear you playing music,' she said.

'Oh dear, I hope it doesn't disturb you.'

'Not at all, I like it.'

'What about your mother. Does she mind?'

Thelma laughed. 'Mother's a bit hard of hearing so you don't need to worry about her.'

In fact, most evenings Cora retired to her room early armed with her bottle of Guinness. She always got Thelma to discreetly dispose of the empties while Leslie was at work.

'Do you like classical music?' asked Leslie.

'I don't know anything about it,' she confided.

Leslie smiled at her. 'In that case, I shall invite you to a concert one of these days.'

 

As the summer progressed, Thelma and Leslie grew closer. They even took to walking arm-in-arm which, for Thelma, was a strange experience. She had never been close to another person. On thinking back, she couldn't remember a single moment when anybody had hugged her. She supposed that as a baby her mother must have nursed her but during her toddler to teenage years she could not recall Cora ever comforting her when she fell over or sympathising when something went wrong at school. In fact, Cora had never attended any of Thelma's school plays or sports days.

Thus displays of affection were alien to Thelma, and when one day while they were sitting in one of the promenade shelters Leslie drew her into an embrace and gently kissed her cheek, she froze.

'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that,' he muttered, sliding sideways along the narrow bench so that there was a gap between them.

The incident spoilt their afternoon and they returned home with Leslie carefully keeping his distance. As they walked close to a shop window, Thelma caught a glimpse of their reflection: a stout soberly attired woman and a spruce middle-aged slightly-built man. She was a head taller than Leslie and probably weighed twice as much as him. All at once, she felt ridiculous and resolutely vowed to curtail their walks. It would be easy to do that without giving offence because autumn was approaching and the weather was not conducive to walking.

 

'Will you be going for a walk today, Thelma?' asked Leslie when he met her on the landing the following Sunday morning.

She shook her head. 'No, there's a lot to do in the garden at this time of the year; you know, cutting back and clearing up leaves.'

'I'll give you a hand.'

Thelma was stunned by the offer. 'That's very kind of you but I can manage,' she said.

'I'd like to help you.'

'No really, I can manage.'

'Manage what, dear?' Cora appeared at the foot of the stairs.

'Oh, I was just saying that I can manage the garden, Mother.'

Leslie started walking downstairs, a smile on his face. 'And I was offering to help.'

'Why, Leslie, that's very kind of you. After all gardening can be strenuous work and I'm sure Thelma could do with some assistance.'

Thus Thelma and Leslie set to work pruning, cutting back and sweeping up leaves. She tried not to appear too friendly but Leslie's eagerness to help and his cheerful manner soon melted her resolve and she felt comforted to have someone working alongside her.

Leslie stopped to remove his pullover and roll up his shirt sleeves. 'It's hot work,' he said as he took a packet of Capstan Navy Cut out of his pocket. 'Do you mind, Thelma?'

'Not at all,' she replied. It pleased her to see that he was a smoker, simply because she knew her mother disapproved of smoking.

Leaning on his spade, he removed his glasses and wiped the sweat from his brow. When he replaced his spectacles and started digging again, his bare arm brushed Thelma's hand and she experienced a frisson of excitement. She could smell him too: besides the cigarette, he carried the aroma of a working man, something that would have disgusted her had she come across it on the underground or in a bus. Something strange stirred inside her, something she had never quite been able to conjure up from all those Mills and Boon novels she had read.

Anxious to dispel these embarrassing feelings, she said, 'It's hard work and I'm grateful for your help, Leslie.' Just using his name made her blush but she knew he wouldn't notice because they were both quite red in the face from their exertions.

He grinned and replied, 'Actually, it makes a change from sitting at an office desk all day.' Then he sprang a surprise on her. 'Hmm, Thelma, would you like to come to a concert with me next Friday evening? It's a programme of light classics and I think you'd enjoy it.'

Taken aback, Thelma pushed her glasses to the bridge of her nose, mumbled her acceptance and went back to raking the lawn with added vigour.

 

The following Friday Thelma broke the news to her mother that she wouldn't be in for supper.

'Where are you going?' asked Cora. It was after all unknown for Thelma to go out in the evening.

Crossing her fingers behind her back in a bid to fend off the anticipated barrage of questions, Thelma replied, 'I'm going to the pictures, there's a film I want to see.'

'What's wrong with a matinée performance? We could go together tomorrow afternoon.'

'I'm sorry, Mother but I've decided to go this evening.'

'Which film is it?'

'It's one you wouldn't like.'

'How do you know? What's it called?'

'Rebel without a Cause,' mumbled Thelma, knowing that it was currently showing at the Odeon. 'It's not your sort of film.'

Cora gave a sniff of disapproval but, much to her daughter's relief, she didn't persist with the argument. Thelma took a long time deliberating on what to wear. The decision shouldn't have been difficult since her wardrobe was limited. Even when working at the department store, she had seldom spent money on new clothes and never bothered to follow the latest fashions like the other women employed there. In the end she chose a calf-length navy blue pleated skirt topped by a pale blue lambs-wool twin-set and once ready to leave, she crept downstairs and through the front door, calling out a hurried goodbye to her mother.