The hidden years, p.1
The Hidden Years, page 1
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In loving memory of Elizabeth Anne Castell Taylor (1932–2022), a child of wartime.
‘Perhaps it would be better if she could find the knack of realising what things are worth having and trying for, for then the desire for them would carry her on.’
ADVICE TO A GRANDDAUGHTER (taken from my grandfather’s diary)
One
June 1966
The clock above the porter’s lodge of Darbyfield University was half an hour ahead of the time showing on Belle Johnson’s wristwatch, but whichever was correct, she had been waiting ages for her lift and the blazing noonday sun was doing nothing for her hangover. Passers-by glanced curiously at the attractive student with her overstuffed rucksack and a guitar in a canvas case. At nineteen she was tall, lean and supple in faded jeans and a loose-fitting T-shirt. Her long smooth dark hair was parted in the middle, a tiny plait on each side holding it back from her drawn face. One of her chestnut-brown eyes was slightly larger than the other, which gave her an appealing look – or would have done had she not been scowling.
Belle tapped the watch, but the second hand wouldn’t move, and she frowned. Her parents had given her the delicate gold timepiece on her eighteenth birthday with the instruction to ‘look after it’. Possibly it hadn’t liked being left in a puddle of wine after last night’s party. She sighed as she unfastened it and slid it into her rucksack. Hopefully it would dry out. Then her lips curved at a secret thought. Perhaps time wouldn’t matter where she was going.
‘Hello, stranger!’ The accusing voice broke through her thoughts and Belle looked up, shading her eyes against the sunlight until Carrie’s earnest round face came into focus.
‘Oh, hi,’ she mumbled. Her friend looked as neat and conventional as ever in an A-line cotton skirt and spotless white blouse. Although it was a Saturday it was exam season and Carrie clutched a folder under her arm labelled, ‘The Enlightenment – First Year Revision Notes’ in her even handwriting.
‘What have you been up to, Belle? I haven’t seen you in ages and I’ve knocked on your door ever so many times.’
‘Sorry.’ Belle shrugged. ‘I’ve been in the library. And exams, of course. Hey, how’s History going, by the way?’ Belle felt bad at keeping Carrie in the dark, but then she hadn’t told any of her friends what she’d been doing for the last week – or about her big decision.
She barely heard Carrie’s response as she glanced anxiously up the road for the twentieth time. The cars continued to pass without slowing.
‘Belle? I said, who are you waiting for?’
She forced her attention back to Carrie’s troubled face and relented. ‘Listen, I’m sorry I haven’t been around. I was going to write, honest. I’m going away for a while. In case anyone asks, the rest of my stuff’s in the landing cupboard and I’ve handed in my key.’
Carrie’s pale blue eyes widened in concern. ‘You’ve cleared your room? Why? Where are you going?’
‘I’m off to Cornwall.’
‘Cornwall? But that’s hundreds of miles away. What about exams?’
‘I’ve only one left – Monday afternoon – and it hardly counts.’
‘You’re going to miss an exam?’ Carrie’s voice rose to a horrified squeak. ‘Belle, you can’t.’
Something inside her snapped. ‘I can. It doesn’t matter.’
‘But they might not let you back for your second year.’
Belle shuffled her feet and looked away, her roaming gaze taking in the old red-brick arched gateway, the cropped grass of the quad beyond, students trailing about in chattering groups in the sunshine, bags of books slung over their shoulders. A busy, familiar scene. She’d thought Darbyfield University was where she’d wanted to be, had been ecstatic when she’d won a place to read English. How proud her parents had been. But now… well, life looked different.
‘So when are you planning to come back?’ Carrie asked, folding her arms. ‘If you are coming back, that is. What about the Summer Ball?’
‘I don’t know yet.’ Belle felt a stab of annoyance at Carrie’s inquisition, while admitting it was unfair of her.
Carrie had been her constant friend at university, indeed the first friendly face she’d met after she’d driven up from suburban Surrey the previous September. Belle’s father had hefted a box of books onto her desk, remarked that her modern hall of residence was luxury compared to the shabby hostel he’d endured as a student in London (‘But that was 1930, Dad!’ she’d groaned), then bid her an abrupt goodbye with a quick peck on the cheek and an, ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ She’d gazed down at the upright, tweed-jacketed figure with the salt-and-pepper hair marching purposefully towards the porter’s lodge, and longed for him to look up and give a final wave. But he didn’t and sighing, she turned back to the room, feeling rather alone. She ought to make up the narrow bed and unpack. Instead sounds of activity drew her out to the corridor. There a petite girl with brown bobbed hair and delicate features was fetching a bottle of milk from the communal fridge. She looked up at Belle and gave her a shy smile. ‘Hi, I’m Carrie. I’m just making tea. Would you like some?’ And Belle’s loneliness had lifted.
Now she was biting her lip, wondering what to tell Carrie of her recent adventures, when the toot of a horn interrupted her thoughts and they both turned to see an ancient yellow car judder towards them in a miasma of fumes and tinny pop music. The young man at the wheel was grinning. Belle sighed with relief. ‘Finally, Gray!’ she exclaimed. Carrie just stared.
Happiness filling her, Belle gripped her guitar as the car ground to a halt. Gray leaned from the window and Belle’s heart leaped to see his tangle of corn-coloured hair, white teeth gleaming in his thin tanned face, sharp blue eyes twinkling above a hawkish nose.
‘You’re late,’ she admonished, trying, but failing, to sound stern.
He smiled lazily and patted the car door. ‘Couldn’t help it. Trouble getting the old girl going!’ Oh, that smoky drawl. ‘Chuck your stuff on the back seat.’
Seeing that he wasn’t going to help or apologize, Belle wrested the rear door open, then pushed her luggage inside next to some boxes and a grubby holdall. When she turned to say goodbye to Carrie, her friend was still staring at Gray and Belle giggled, for her mouth was a perfect O of amazement.
‘Carrie, darling, this is Gray,’ she said and gave her a hug. ‘Now, promise you won’t worry about me.’ She closed her eyes, breathing in Carrie’s clean, soapy smell.
‘I can’t help worrying,’ Carrie said in a small voice. ‘Be careful, Belle, won’t you? And stay in touch.’
‘I’ll write, of course.’
Carrie hissed in Belle’s ear, ‘I don’t know where you found him, but he’s gorgeous.’
Belle laughed and gave her a brief final squeeze. Then she gathered up a pulsing transistor radio and a punnet of cherries from the passenger seat and climbed in next to Gray.
‘All right, love?’ Gray pushed back his hair and smiled at her. ‘Have a cherry.’ He offered the punnet through the window to Carrie, who shook her head shyly and backed away. He popped one in his mouth and gunned the engine into life.
Belle waved to Carrie as the car leaped forward, but by the time they’d swung round the corner she’d all but forgotten her. Her mouth was full of ripe cherry and her heart was singing. She’d thrown off all her troubles. For a while, at least.
Or so she thought, as she dropped a fruit stone from the window.
Belle was still too young to have learned that your problems have a habit of coming along with you.
Two
Belle had known Gray for precisely a week.
She’d been out in the Derbyshire hills the previous Saturday with the Rambling Club, the university society she most enjoyed. There were a dozen of them, a mixed bag, their president a serious-faced Chemistry postgraduate named Duncan, who’d been brought up in the Cairngorm mountains and found the Peak District summits gentle in comparison. They were nice, ordinary young people, any of whom Belle would have felt happy introducing to her parents. The exercise and the peace and beauty of the countryside made her feel free; she could lose herself for a few hours.
That day’s walk had involved strenuous climbing, then on the way down the weather had suddenly worsened, the rain coming down in sheets, and they’d taken shelter in the mouth of a shallow cave. The rain passed and they’d pressed on, finally reaching the village station they’d started from, but were annoyed to discover that their train back to the city had been cancelled. The next one wasn’t for an hour. The rain clouds had gone, however, and everything looked fresh, the early evening sky gleaming peach and gold.
‘Why don’t we stop at that pub we passed?’ Duncan suggested and they retraced their steps.
Outside the Black Dog, a sandwich board advertised live music, a group called ‘The Witchers’. Belle felt exhausted, every bone aching from the day’s endeavours, so she gladly stuffed her waterproofs into her knapsack and followed the others through the ancient oak doorway.
She loved the atmosphere of the pub at once. It was old-fashioned spit and sawdust, with rough floorboards, horse brasses decorating the walls, and a s
‘Belle, what are you having?’ Duncan gave her a friendly nudge. He was a good-looking, athletic young man with a scruff of short dark curls and a steady, brown-eyed gaze. He was always especially kind to Belle, who was the only girl in the group and its youngest member.
‘Sweet cider and crisps, please.’ She handed him some coins and while she waited for him to order, looked round at the other customers. Some seated around tables were dressed for walking, like themselves, while over by the window a group of brawny youngish men stood nursing pints as they waited their turn at a dartboard. Local farmers, no doubt, from their physiques and weatherbeaten faces. Belle’s attention roved to a very different party by the far wall, close to the dais, half a dozen people a few years older than herself sitting around a long table, engaged in eager conversation. She stared at them with fascination, the men with longish hair, the girls in floaty dresses and ropes of beads, bright, alien figures in a Peak District pub. The blond head of a man facing her was bent to the task of rolling a cigarette, but suddenly he threw back his head and laughed at some joke, and she caught a flash of his white teeth and felt a stab of attraction.
‘Your drink, my lady,’ she heard Duncan say and she smiled her thanks.
Thirsty, she took a large gulp of cider, which went down the wrong way so that Duncan had to slap her back. By the time she finished coughing there were signs of activity across the room. The blond man, lithe in a white shirt and jeans, and a lanky mouse-haired one with a thin, peaky-looking face and round glasses, were taking up position on the dais with their guitars. After a shuffling of chairs, some patient plinks and plonks of tuning up and a few exploratory chords, they began to play a beautiful intricate harmony and the chatter in the room died away.
‘Are you okay now?’ Duncan whispered, concerned.
Belle nodded vaguely, transfixed by the music. She crept forward with her drink to hear better, just as the duo began to sing. The song was a lament, something about love among the willow trees, sad but droll, too, sung with merriment in the singers’ eyes and a chorus with a beat that made her tap her foot. Her gaze could not leave the blond singer’s face with its sleepy blue eyes, which he closed when he sang the tenderest lines. His warm, full-throated tenor voice teased and charmed. The other man’s was higher, reedier, but attractive in its own way, and the voices wove in and out of each other in perfect harmony.
When the song was over there was a burst of applause, and then they struck up another tune that had a swing like a country dance. Belle joined in as people clapped in time. After this the blond man spoke. ‘Thank you, everyone, for your appreciation,’ he said in a slow lazy voice and Belle hung onto every word. ‘I’m Gray Robinson and this here is Stu Ford. We’re The Witchers and we’d like to thank Frank there behind the bar for having us here this evening. Cheers, Frank. Now without further ado we’re going to sing a love song.’ Gray gazed round the room as he struck an opening chord and Belle, to her amazement, felt his eyes rest on her briefly. ‘It’s a bit sad, I’m afraid, but, hey, that’s the way it goes sometimes.’
Here someone at the back of the room shouted ‘Ahhh’ and there was laughter and Gray smiled in a laid-back fashion. Belle breathed in deeply. Again he glanced her way and she stared back at him in surprise. Then he closed his eyes and began to sing, by himself this time, a plaintive ballad about a summer romance blown away by an autumn breeze.
‘I don’t usually like folksy music,’ someone said in Belle’s ear. ‘A classical man myself, but they’re good, aren’t they?’ It was Tim, another of the ramblers, a stocky, rather ponderous lad, who’d regaled Belle earlier out on the hills with an account of his ambitions to be a barrister. She was sure he’d be a good one because he could talk so much.
‘They’re wonderful,’ she murmured back. ‘Sshh, I want to listen.’
Tim ignored this and glanced at his watch. ‘We’ll have to be moving soon. It’s not long till the train.’
‘Mmm. We’ve got plenty of time.’
Thankfully, Tim took the hint and stepped away, leaving her to concentrate on the song. It faded and segued into another. After several more, Gray announced a short interval. Stu leaned his guitar against the wall. Someone passed them pints of golden beer and Stu carried his to the table where they’d been sitting. Gray took several gulps of his then set the glass on the floor and picked up his guitar. As he adjusted the strings, his gaze strayed over towards Belle.
On a mad impulse, with a leap of courage she’d never known she possessed, Belle walked over to stand before him. He rested his arms on his guitar and smiled at her.
‘I…’ She felt suddenly self-conscious.
‘Love the gear,’ he said, pointing to her muddy walking boots and she smiled.
‘I love your music,’ she mumbled and he nodded his thanks.
‘Um, I’m Belle. We have to go to catch our train in a moment,’ she went on. ‘We’re from Darbyfield University. But I wanted to say… about loving the songs, I mean. And that I hope we won’t seem rude, leaving early.’
‘Hey, no offence, I promise,’ Gray said. He sipped his beer then played a few chords, staring at her all the while. ‘Tell you what, Belle. We’re playing in Darbyfield tomorrow. The Kaleidoscope in White Horse Alley. You know it? You should come.’
‘The Kaleidoscope. Okay.’ She didn’t know White Horse Alley, but she’d find it.
‘Gray?’ Another of his friends appeared and glanced curiously at Belle before asking him, ‘Another pint?’
‘Yeah, why not. Hang on, I owe you a quid…’
‘See you tomorrow then, hopefully,’ she broke in quickly, her courage running out. She returned to the others at the bar and shouldered her knapsack then cast Gray a final glance. He was helping Stu tune up, but he smiled at her and gave her a wave. Light with happiness, she waved back. She’d see him again, she vowed.
* * *
The following evening at eight, Belle found The Kaleidoscope in a cobbled backstreet that she had never known existed. It was a Sunday evening and the city was quiet. A hand-drawn arrow sign pointed down to a basement beneath a bookshop, in the window of which lay a dozen dusty volumes with curling covers and titles such as The Way of the Yogi and Capricorn’s Daughter. She sniffed at an exotic smoky scent that coiled through the air.
The same sandwich board advertising The Witchers was propped up on the narrow pavement and Belle pretended to study it, twisting her fingers in her hair as a group of young people flowed round her and down the steps on their way inside, trying to pluck up courage to follow them. She’d never been into a club on her own before. She’d failed to persuade Carrie to come because Carrie was revising, all her friends were, so she was here on her own. Eventually, she trod carefully down the narrow concrete steps. At the bottom she pushed open a rough wooden door and found herself in a dimly lit, claustrophobic space that smelled strongly of malt and tobacco smoke. A group of lads in turtlenecks and ankle boots who were clustered around the seedy bar with pints and cigarettes looked up briefly at her entrance, but otherwise no one took any notice. She gazed about, feeling out of place. Then, thankfully, she spotted Gray. He was standing with Stu and the others near a tiny corner stage where their guitars and two chairs were set up.
Gray hadn’t seen her. He was talking animatedly, gesturing as he related some anecdote and Belle waited uncertainly, unable to take her eyes off him but too shy to approach. Someone bumped into her and beer sloshed over her arm, an apology was muttered. She dabbed at her jacket with a handkerchief then walked hesitantly across and hovered at the fringes of the group. At last, Gray noticed her and broke off his story, smiling as he stepped across to greet her, bending to kiss her cheek as though he’d known her for years.
‘Folks,’ he said, turning to the group, ‘this is Belle.’
‘Hi.’ She smiled round at them nervously and they all nodded with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Gray stayed with his arm round her waist, in a way that was friendly rather than possessive, took a sip of his beer and continued his story.
