Flower for your Troubles

By Benjamin Swan

1944, WW2's English home-front.
Land Girl, Rose, and Bevin Boy, Eddie, work their respective national services above and below a northern, Yorkshire Landscape. A small display of community pride and joy at the Summer Fair will bring heart and soul together and every layer of the district's society.
A war nearly won abroad, but conflicts of personal and collective obligation further turn and tug at the gathered faithful.
But first the crowning of The Summer Queen: head and tail of the judging body are a Mr Charles Butterworth, wealthy pit owner, industrialist and the newly assumed Lord of Carford Hall's grandeur, and a Miss Moorhouse, Methodist firebrand with an incomparable spiritual capital.
Overlooking the miniature whole, the venerable Ma Higgins, a wellspring of natural goodness and grace, and worth her salt, her sobering sentence...

''Flower for your Troubles', is a novel as rich as chocolate cake!"
Carry Franklin, screenwriter 'Suzie Gold'.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bee and the Swan Publishing
• Release date: Sep 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781912317394

Book preview

Eye

"Tis said as Cupid danced among the Gods

He downed the nectar flung,

Which, on the white rose being shed,

Made it forever after red...

...it’s pretty, but it ain’t true.

What goes to make a Rose, ma’am, is breeding, budding and horse manure."

Said by Mr J. Ballard to ‘Mrs Miniver’

Directed by William Wyler (1940)

The two speechless gazers bent themselves down to the earth, as if in prayer, and remained thus a long time, absolutely motionless: the flag continued to wave silently. As soon as they had strength they arose, joined hands again, and went on.

Thomas Hardy - Tess of the d’Urbervilles (1891)

Part 1: Heads

Chapter 1

An Air is borne

In the gathering around them everyone knew their part. Without further cue the townsfolk ceased their chatter, gingerly replacing teacups and biscuits into saucers, eyes into line; some removed hands from pockets, cigarettes from mouths; others even stood up to attention, joining voices to the unearthly brass of the Crosswell Temperance Band in what had become another national anthem during these war years.

"There’ll always be an England,

while there’s a country lane,

whenever there’s a cottage small

beside a field of grain.

There’ll always be an England,

while there’s a busy street,

whenever there’s a turning wheel

A million marching feet.

Red, white and blue -

What does it mean to you..."

From behind a table Mrs Hartley’s young boy presented a wet front having knocked over his glass of lemonade. Two eyes pipped dismay and a silent mouth wailed so much disappointment. Sweeping him up into her arms mum smoothed his front, cooing into his ear while the last of the song was sung.

"... Surely, you’re proud,

shout it aloud,

Britons awake!

The Empire too,

we can depend on you.

Freedom remains,

these are the chains,

nothing can break

There’ll always be an England

and England shall be free

if England means as much to you

as England means to me."

Mr Hartley had been killed at Abbeville less than a year in. But then she was lucky… ‘I’ve only a little one to look after,’ she’d always say. ‘Bobby won’t remember his dad anyways’. It was a blessing of sorts.

More than a moment’s apprehension followed the final chorus as small gestures of readjustment passed through faces and fingers, roused pride and sentiment in distanced eyes returned to present.

There must have been six, seven hundred or more, from Crosswell and the other smaller wards - Carford, Muddleton, Stanton, Westfield and Woodhouse, from Upper and Lower Rhodes Green. And a few from Leeds and Wakefield too no doubt, though, if visitors needed reminding, despite proximity to both, the Crosswell district was still resolutely independent.

All folk were welcome this day, a day of light amongst the grey. Hitler’s heels and heils would not stamp upon this or any other English soil; all good souls knew that victory was coming: The Yanks held the Pacific and the Soviets had retaken Belarussia; moreover, the beachhead had been well established in Normandy, France was sure to be liberated any day now. Some even said that Hitler had been killed, but really, that was loose talk amongst the few

No, the end of the war was nigh, most quietly agreed on that. What a knees-up that would be...! But here and now was a little relief, some normality amongst the necessary strictures. One’s eyes need not be closed to think of England. Being here was to feel the warm hum of the Albion sun upon cut grass, the Yorkshire tang given at tongue, a wet brown supped from bright china. There was no time for tears today, nor laughter wholly unrestrained, but a certain special grace was present; harmony and propriety rang out and not only from the Methodist players.

There was quite a spread to be had. Tabled along two opposing rows plate after plate of sandwiches were piled up - meat paste and tinned meat, sardines in tomato sauce, even cheese, though the white bread seemed to have been reserved for the high table; there were scones, with margarine only, but a good number of various cakes and buns, improvised custards, bakewells, jam tarts and jellies; and on one side, in a great wooden barrel, a vast fruit cocktail simmering beneath its sunned square of linen. And, of course, numerous pots of tea, squat in position, filled from bigger bellied metal urns. The children too had their lemonade, not fizz but made with rare, real lemons.

None could fail to be impressed, but, beverages and biscuits aside, before tucking in another official matter had to be decided: the crowning of the Queen of the Fair.

Many of the girls from the locale, however, they were working overtime, reaping the first of the harvest: newborn caullies, winter and Savoy cabbages all swaddled in leafy squeak, or else lashings of soft fruit - raspberries, strawberries, and the rhubarb synonymous with this area of the West Riding. Those Land girls who here, as up and down the country, had so ably taken over the majority of farm labour had been upon these local fields since first light, knives between teeth, barrows and buckets at the ready, tanked-up tractor at the gate: a formidable army, feeding the home front, digging for victory.

Thus, it was that only six young women could make themselves eligible for the coronation. In addition, the incumbent Summer Queen of Crosswell Urban District was also present. This was in fact Mrs Hartley, née Dobson, who, owing to the duration, had reigned since the nineteen thirty-eight fair. That occasion had seen husband and wife formally introduced, and under the dim threat of war their marriage was brought forward. Bobby was born the following year. Mum, Dad and little one had only a few precious weeks to share before Robert the elder had signed up.

Naturally, a Summer Queen should not earn her crown due to physical attributes alone. A judging-body must carefully consider deeper displays of beauty within the character and composure of each young woman that significantly underpin any surface splendour. A local quartet was given to the subtleties of task.

Councillors Abel and Smart were both small men of good age and experience, whose slightly crumpled appearance perhaps marked a qualification carefully written down on paper then folded-up and long filed away.

The glowering, towering figure of unflinching spiritual focus was the iron clad soul of Miss Moorhouse, bastion of the local society Methodist chapel and worth two of most ordinary men. Certainly, more able and smart than her first associates, in the wise eyes of the good Lord, His trusty delegate would ensure that a judgement was final and that keen, male attentions were always suitably directed.

Lastly, but not in the least, was a Mr Charles Butterworth, principal owner of the local colliery, sole owner of Butterworth’s modern Coke Works. His lean, clean shaven face was easily the event’s, indeed the area’s, most well known. Yet, among the wives of so many absent pitmen the bare faced cheek of Mr Butterworth’s frame and fortune remained the cheapest of home truths.

Commonly, so much undignified possession would have found its sour focus in the frosty decoration of Mr Butterworth’s Yank wife, Jeannie. Stirred within deeper national colours local opinion thought her another Wallis Simpson, a piece of fancy who’d strayed too far into the British way. A fitting tribute had been quickly paid upon her rude assumption: sharp tongues had considered that the most recently sunk pit shared the same low character of the big man’s wife, and though properly named Fanny all knew that black whole as Jenny.

Jeannie Butterworth’s name was the one listed in the sparse sheets of the event’s program, for initially she had been the one called to co-adjudicate the afternoon’s crowning glory. As it happened, an unexplained absence made another gift of her husband to the judging body and a male bias that not even Miss Moorhouse could offset.

The matter in question was to the most appropriate criteria that each young woman should be assessed. The Temperance Band continuing their brassy reverie, there followed another most delicate interview with each girl; the judges then advising the Mayor, who, having made notes, now struggled to explain the process. Regaining the crowd’s attention, he rang a small hand-bell, raising his voice in the way he was less accustomed to, without the aid of liquid amplification.

Briefly, it was thought that, ‘Beauty in the human form is considered essential when exemplified by personal and transforming ethics’...

Firmly pressing the bridge of her spectacles, Miss Moorhouse appeared to punctuate the point; meanwhile the councillors respectively adjusted creases at waistcoat and lip.

And, more so… ‘the new recipient will be in possession of a dignity and decency befitting her new role.’

The aforesaid three were the very model, where the Mayor appeared to buckle under the mental strain, or was it the metal chains about his person.

‘The burden of our new Summer Queen is but to breathe the sweeter life of hope and good purpose into the hearts of all she meets and, so doing, to raise once more, in one and all, the nobler spirit of harmony.’

In summation, the Mayor had prepared another breathless line of his own.

‘My good and gracious people, our new Queen of the Summer Fair shall, God willing, see us through our most difficult days into a new age of sustained peace where none too bold youth may combine with the best of tradition, and with the firm values we in the Crosswell Urban District, as throughout our great land, have all come to cherish.’

Within the deep horseshoe of the gathered faithful there was a swift round of applause at this most lucid articulation; the Temperance Band teetering upon a grander emphasis.

Mr Butterworth had up to now been motionless beneath his smooth, but now, leaning generously, he bent the ear of the Mayor who, nodding greatly, announced with an unavoidable anticlimax.

‘...And ambition...By God, our Queen must have it...!’

The scrutinised six shimmered in the high season, each in fondant white, floor length dresses nipped high at the waist with only forearms and modest necklines bare. All but one participant had hair puffed upon the head, where a corona of flowers set off their elegant effects and complemented eyes, paired secreted shoes, button details, embroidery.

To the eyes of beholders each appeared to personify the principles of virginal, impeccable virtue; all were surely saints to the bright day. Yet there must be one outstanding individual, and as the Mayor, again about to speak, surveyed one last time the brimming faces of the onlookers, each young woman stood serenely, arms lengthened by her side, eyes submissive.

But there was one to be distinguished...

‘Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbours, The Crosswell Urban District proudly announces that...,’

One pair of blue eyes looked out most evenly across that sea of faces, upon those hoping for their common ideals to be epitomised; her atmosphere was most becoming, keen and demanding, perhaps regal...

‘...Our Fair’s Summer Queen for 1944 is...

...Miss English’.

...They were English eyes.

Chapter 2

Bread and Butter

Miss English was a true Rose. Her father had bestowed that Christian name eighteen years previously. Some might have said that inspiration had struck along with the larger body of men in 1926, the year of Rose’s birth. That year had meant a good deal more thinking than working. But when pressed upon the artfulness of his choice, Rose English’s father resisted all suggestion, for he was not usually a man of flowery words.

‘Weren’t nowt to it but rhyme’ he’d say. ‘Most I ever see growing roundabout these hedgerows is them wild roses. Well if you’d felt our Rose in the Missis’ belly you’d know how wild she was even then’.

So, by her father’s faithful record, it would seem that Rose’s vitality, her very lust for life, was destined from the very beginning. And as the Mayor’s overdue emphasis suggested, here was the august quality that had sealed her coronation, under the cool and decisive influence of Mr Butterworth.

In the absence of his wife it was the change inside Mr Butterworth’s pocket that had outbid the combined and not inconsiderable pound of professional pieties and politics in Moorhouse, Abel and Smart.

New money was in the shape of its young life, the heart of its dollar driven through with a dagger. Here was the throbbing centre of strength in the wide world, a thorough circulation beyond the old reserve. One could forgive the Mayor his allusions in regard of values he thought to be held dear. His own position of alleged truth and respect was assumed like the robes and chains around his neck. Increasingly those qualities and their advocates could be marked down in administrative error. The Mayor may have been head of his class, and in their domain high achievers too were the like of Moorhouse, Abel and Smart, but though a working man’s word may be his bond, only a singularly rich man like Mr Butterworth had the genuine capital to break or make the promise of the legion poor.

As the name might so suggest, Mr Charles Butterworth was a smooth operator, and the means of his fine and fluid motion was an engine of intricate if not infinite parts: nature’s raw materials churned and chewed over into his gross domestic product. Mr Butterworth was not a plain man, rather a pristine individual, proud of all imperfection; a life-size waxwork with a low pulse.

In terms of industry his interests were promiscuous and incestuous. Coal was one thing, coke another, and gas; not discounting various chemical by-products and of course iron and steel. That was pretty much everything rolled into one: zeroes filled the balance of every remaining check.

Few could have doubted his supremacy, under the assurance of the Butterworth balm; about a face so suggestive of the sensual, yet at once serious and accommodating. Therein, too, the immaculate sheen of his factory model marriage; the trappings of prodigious success designed to flaunt a possession of virtue that his casual venality could reconfigure by a button he need not even press himself.

Rose English now wore the ceremonial regalia of her investiture. Around her shoulders an ungainly floor length scarlet robe, close at the neck and decorated with gold braid and heraldic embroidery; around her bosom a brass chain comprising forty-four discs; and upon her loose tresses a copper and nickel plate tiara where a wreath of flowers had been absent. Her small memorial tin cup presented only further encumbrance.

Rose had inherited her father’s elegant frame and the physical effort of her working day also formed a lean muscle upon so many well natured bones. A keen capacity had cut her wits, shaping there a generous intolerance to bluster, fuss and fancy talk.

But bonny as she was, even beautiful, Rose was plain in most other regards. These adornments of her new estate were, for want of a better phrase, gilding to her lily. Such grandeurs neither fitted her personal appearance or bearing. Her discomfort was evident to those who might closely observe. How was it then that she had consented to be judged thus and so become the Queen of this charade? After all, here she was at the high table, privy to the first slice, the full cream of the winner’s cup and of local society.

Indeed, it was a pale victory in Rose’s mind. But the honourable illusion was to be worn out not through pride but from duty. Such a pretty dress after all, beneath those heavy robes: not really the clothes of an emperor or empress.

In the first place, Rose’s presence at the fair replaced that of another Land Girl, Alice. Rose knew that her friend would still be at the fields, doubled over and digging in the sunshine, relieving the earth of its precious burden. Rose was quite certain that Alice would have loved to have been in her shoes.

Farmer Dunwell had come in late last night just as they were talking and while they packed boxes of freshly picked green rhubarb. The fleshy shoots were an officially recognised staple of the English wartime diet and, before the ration, the acquired taste of another more wholesome tradition. Tuskey, as locals would say, fine fingers of rhubarb dipped in a newspaper cone of sugar.

‘Allie! I need you tomorrow,’ Farmer Dunwell had said firmly.

‘All hands are on but yours, Rosie. It be full rate. First a them caullies’ll have to be pulled. And where’s that blooming little squeak, Pippa? Her and all!’

And he walked off to action before a word more could be said.

The sixty acres were his own and essential Warag production. His remaining on the home front was a national service of the war effort and, further to that, his orders were as spoken and not to be questioned. Farmers were the Land Girls’ paymasters, not the state. No matter how headstrong a girl might feel she was, the other side of Farmer Dunwell’s tongue could be a whetted blade. Plus, you might get reported, even docked. That much had never happened as far as Rose could recall, but she had tested the farmer’s patience on more than one occasion. Only she was such a good worker.

‘You not be the bleeding bailiff, Rose,’ Farmer Dunwell had once said. ‘But the way you go on...I should watch me back, eh?’

Watching his back then, both girls had never ceased their work, but Alice was crestfallen and spoke the disappointment in her brown eyes.

‘Alice, don’t,’ said Rose, blindly binding stalks, ‘I’ll speak to him; explain. I’ll swap.’

Without petulance Alice replied.

‘But it’s no good Rose. You heard as well as me. Besides...!’

‘Besides nowt! You’ve worked so hard on that dress. Have an heart, love. He’s farmer not scarecrow.’

Alice had made a summer dress from odds and ends of nice fabric she’d collected from other girls. She’d worked on it for two weeks straight with the fair in mind. That was all it was. Something Alice had applied herself to with diligence, something beautiful of her own.

When they’d finished packing, the truck driven off, Rose could see that Farmer Dunwell had retreated to the farmhouse. It was another irregularity to follow him up there, but she went anyway. He opened the door before she’d had chance to knock

‘Rosie? What now? Go on with you and get home. I’m almost sick at the sight.’

‘Mr Dunwell. I’d like to swap with Alice for tomorrow. I hope it’s no trouble!’

The second’s hesitation in the farmer’s face was a little like unsweetened rhubarb on his tongue, but he was used to the taste.

‘Trouble is, you think to know better, but only reason am letting you go tomorrow. Well I’ve no choice.’ Here was his concession.

‘You be the only one who’s worked nigh on four weeks straight. Eh? Go on with yourself for once.’

‘But Alice wants to go to the fair, and it’s a Sunday...’

‘...No Rosie. Allie’s no days in lieu. Caullies’ll have to be pulled. You know as well as me that them be the rules, and I don’t want one of them busybodies from county shoving her nose where the sun don’t shine. Fairs come and go.’

And having given due regard to the falling light as though he had its scent, he turned and went inside the farmhouse. The matter was closed.

Walking Alice back to the hostel amongst the larger body of girls, the sour of that decision softened in the long cone of the dwindling sun; the plain chirrup of skylarks spilling high in the folds of the broad sheet above. And though both friends had held their tongues only one matter was foremost in their minds. Then, turning at the gate to the hutment before the moment of their parting, Alice was suddenly bright.

‘But you must go instead, Rose? We’re about the same size. The dress would look a picture on you, I’m sure of it.’

‘Queen for a day, me? I’m not so elegant as you Alice. And you’re the one who’s put all the work in. Besides they’ll be other functions. There’s farmers’ ball near Christmas.’

‘But it’s a summer dress and it’ll be freezing by then, and you are so. Elegant I mean. You’ve a smashing figure Rose. At least if you’re there I’ll know the work came to good.’

Rose eyed her friend with a measure of wear and wonder, but catching the light of the last Alice continued.

‘I mean it, you know. Come in with me now and try the thing on. We’ll have to be quick though, the day’s nearly done.’

‘You’d be happy if I was to go instead; like a lamb?’

‘Yes! Happy as a lamb chop with fresh picked caullies and proper gravy.’

‘Don’t forget the mint sauce, and taeties roasted in dripping.’

‘Whatever you say Rose: mint sauce, taeties and garden peas. Come on...’

The friends thus made a promise. Rose agreed to be Alice’s deputy for the day, being sure to remember everything just as it happened and to report back to her friend that evening. Here then were Rose’s regal eyes from the heart of the stage; bright and open, filling up with detail.

Neither of them had really thought of winning. A fine presumption that would have been, and neither had that vanity. But what of the character Rose had played? What had she said to the judges to impress them; particularly Mr Butterworth, although in truth the others had seen a spirit of something too?

It was only her character that had spoken so clearly: the soaring skylark within her being, urgent under the sun. Without artifice Rose’s favourite and most pleasing song had spoken. Not at all that she had mimicked the male of that species to mirror another free-bird’s voice. Rather it was her very refusal to masquerade in the manner of what she felt she could not and never be - that is Queen of the occasion. Rose had betrayed only discipline in reflecting the truth behind her attendance; such simple kindness she spoke with in remembrance of her friend, of Alice’s careful dedication through the weeks and her wish to be stood upon the stage.

These facts had been stranger than every other girl’s careful, clumsy fiction; had been most interesting to Moorhouse, Abel and Smart. Here was their girl, their queen, with a singular expression of duty, dignity and decency that the first body thoroughly commended. As for winning ambition, Mr Butterworth had concluded and argued that all those other qualities had demonstrated just that in Miss Rose English: the overwhelming desire to please. Privately this undoubted virtue greatly interested Mr Butterworth.

Chapter 3

Manna from Heaven

Following the official clamours of the crowning, the congratulations and the posing before the local press, the Mayor then announced that all present could now enjoy the food. At the sating of an hour and a half’s anticipation an appreciative hum lifted through the park like a warmed-up crystal set. With good plates and bowls correctly brought from home, bodies now descended enthusiastically upon the enticing trestle tables; individuals intersecting in complex geometry as items of long held focus were independently rounded upon.

The Mayor had continued, reiterating each neighbour’s personal duty and adding something like ‘our children should especially benefit’. But his specific wavelength had been tuned out. All further attempts at a specific order were met with the general ignorance of Yorkshire folk ‘copping a deaf-un’. And such a thorough ignorance of his little bell ringing was apparent he actually looked beneath the cup to ascertain whether his clapper had been removed.

Coming to his senses, wisdom returning, his bearing became postural and flapping, twiddling his handlebar moustache like the key of a grandfather clock. But despite the movement the Mayor still felt dispossessed of the apparent dignity his office should have held. Swinging around the heavy pendulum of his body he found himself alone; that Mr Butterworth had taken it upon himself to lead our Queen, her fellow contestants, the other members of the judiciary and invited guests to their long table of refreshments, which in keeping with the show of superior social standing was raised thus, on a dais no more than eight inches high.

Such were his exertions by now the Mayor needed a drink and, more than a little forlorn, he found an opening before the busy table surface but towards the end where pickings were slim. With soft sour on his face he satisfied his attention with a glass of warm lemonade, lifting the vessel thus - as if upturned thimble - between his plumper fingers, before necking the draught in one.

However, the blind rush caused a stray pip to become lodged in his throat. Turning in his ruddy realisation, he beat a massive hand against the barrel of his chest. After several abortive attempts where the sorry headline of his imminent demise Summoned before his bulging eyes - Big man felled by little pip - he managed to regain the dignity that is breathing, hawking up the offensive remains of his refreshment with a misshapen phrase of guttural vowels. In a short and melodramatic play upon liberty, the pip was a glowing insignia launched into fresh air, then shot down into deathly insignificance upon the trampled grass, evermore lost to posterity.

The Mayor was chastened at the heartfelt performance but only Bobby Hartley junior had witnessed each small act. He was standing alone in a vacated green sea like a little buoy, inexplicably dumb with bemusement at ‘the man’ and, considering his stationary position throughout, suspiciously smeared with jam about the face.

Audience and performer were momentarily made one, anguished arched eyebrow filling another, smaller, red face, before the Mayor returned sadly to his haunting stage. At this point, Mr Butterworth had worked his way down the line and with quiet hospitality offered up another glass of lemonade to a rather parched looking head. The Mayor was humble in refusal and, twice eyed, looked to a plate of sandwiches just beyond reach, briefly turning again to note his audience reaction. Bobby Hartley was now miraculously wiped clean but looked on, eyes bright, expecting something of an encore.

Present in good numbers were young men from Butterworth’s two local pits and coke works, men whose conscription had been diverted to the further needs of a war machine. Lured into prompt attendance by the promise of contact with young women, many of these so-called Bevin boys were also eking out the free store of the pit holiday, this day being their last hooray. Most eagerly looked forward to that evening’s open air dance, but none had truly reckoned on the insurmountable social barrier of the high table where the best concentration of female company was presently beyond their reach.

Queen and court were none too pleased either. The leaden conversation of mainly old men stifled their youthful energies. Careful conversational minutiae were exchanged woodenly upon the stage as though the elders were carved figures of saints in a European clock emerging at the rung hour. Elsewhere, long beams of mournful, mooning eye-contact were being lobbed hopefully over the dividing line by both frustrated parties as if to say, ‘I am a prisoner. What’s life like on the other side?’

In soft, satirical sentiment the buttoned-up Temperance Band had refuelled and began to play We’ll Meet Again. As if envisioning the Hereafter, Miss Moorhouse developed a distinct mist in her eyes and wisely withdrew her frames before rust set in.

Rose had glanced once or twice (well, no more than three times) at the young lad standing apart from the main throng. She thought that the lad’s hair, sprouting from beneath a flat cap, looked like it was made of brass. Maybe that was because at her last two glances he’d seemed more than a little interested in the front row of the Temperance Band. He was staring so deeply into one of the euphoniums that when the whole took flight into that famed song he was sufficiently taken aback to cause him to remove the blast from one of his ears with a well-placed handkerchief. Having done that, he then stepped back and right into the gesturing hands of the bandleader, taking off that cap in a most sincere look of apology. Rose watched the warmth in his face rise and a grown timidity as he looked about him to see if anyone had witnessed his clumsiness. Sure enough, not far off a group of four lads were hooting and replaying the scene in mild spoof and he shrunk a little. ‘Bless him’, thought Rose; what a kindly face he had.

Concerning social circles Mr Butterworth had rarely, if ever, been out of his depth. This was no accident. He carefully measured all advantages and wherever he went his well documented success was a herald before him like an unrolling red carpet.

Ingratiation was only done unto his elevated person. Mr Butterworth’s stature and status permitted that he had the right to listen and talk whenever he chose, and the licence to demand any other’s careful word or silence.

With a plate of sponge cake nestled at his solar plexus and his fork as trident, Mr Butterworth had decided to part the lowly waters by talking to Rose. Fumbling with the neck of her gown she stood beneath him then. In his view, all did in one way or another. She couldn’t have known that a King was about to begin the extraction of her necessary ore. His plans had formed a precision in the hour since their first contact.

‘Miss English?’

Rose, preoccupied with her discomfort, looked up and round with some annoyance.

‘Yeh!?’

Remembering her true position correction was swift.

‘Yes sir?’ she said. Mr Butterworth was amused.

‘I fear the trappings of your success may be burdensome. Perhaps you would like me to remove your gown?’

‘Oh no, sir. Ta very much. I shouldn’t. I mean, everyone would see and I’m Queen, for today at least. Just it’s awful hot. Whoever thought of such a heavy cloth for summer-wear? I’ll be glad to be back in me dungarees tomorrow.’

‘Hmn. Duty above disposition. My Queen knows her place.’

The comment was ill advised even in Rose’s fluster. She was not amused.

‘Shouldn’t we all know quite where we stand, Mr Butterworth? Tis only a small platform.’

Without the slightest dismay the other effortlessly re-established the favouring gradient, looking down about his shoulder with pensive gaze and a tone to match.

‘Quite right, Miss English. My boys had to use wood from the stores, but I’m sure we may be able to return the planks to their proper use.’

Rose was sufficiently chastened.

‘Yes, sir. I’m sure.’ And she too looked upon her feet.

Mr Butterworth’s execution continued.

‘And your family; are they here to witness this present success? They would be exceedingly pleased at the occasion.’

‘Oh, well, Mam’ll be doing the laundry I expect. She’s never got less than a lot on. But me sister’s here, somewhere about.’

‘And your father?’

‘Oh no, sir. He’s passed on years back in the pit. Just us three now.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry to hear that. Hmn...English...?’

Mr Butterworth rolled the noble surname across his tongue like a foreign substance.

‘...I’m certain it was before my time, though accidents are an unavoidable part of the pattern. Likely there was nothing more to be done.’

Another discomfort, one that should have belonged to her opposite, now clung to Rose.

‘I didn’t mean to suggest, sir...It were just one of those things. There was a big collapse down the face. And when they got to him well he’d already gone, sir. Choked they said, just terrible so, but no-one to blame I expect.’

‘Please, please.’

Mr Butterworth was dabbing his mouth with an elegant cloth napkin he must have brought especially for the occasion: no-one else there had finery of any such kind. He dismissed the apparent slight with a flutter of his soft enveloping fingers, his rings catching the light.

‘I understand. A most regrettable incident. You were adequately compensated - for the loss?’

‘Oh yes. I expect so, sir. We had running water put in and everything: a bath and lavvy; hot running water. It’s ever so lovely. I don’t know how we must have managed afore, but we’re a bit out of the way. Mam says it were the right thing to do... seeing as Dad were always in is muck. She says she’d even rub coal dust into his back with a sack, just to make him right so...’

Rose then considered she had said too much and under a further heat began fiddling again with her collar; Mr Butterworth’s fingers again joining forces around his signet ring.

‘Indeed. Yes... It must be a considerable comfort.’

‘It is so, sir. Ta very much. It does help our Mam with her washing.’

‘And you too, I suppose, are helping with the housekeeping with your earnest efforts in our Land Army?’

The meddlesome winner’s cup that had been crooked on Rose’s little finger, at that moment finally dislodged itself and fell to floor with a clunk.

‘Oh, damn it!’ said Rose, forgetting herself again, and she dipped sharply to retrieve it before the crotch of Mr Butterworth who avoided any self consciousness by stepping backwards gracefully. In the space, newly created, Rose happened to see Ivy, her younger sister beyond who, in seeing her too, eagerly waved with a face beaming.

Neglecting any apologies, Rose stood and moved that one pace forward, responding in kind to her sister then curtseying grandly whilst fluttering her eyes. Rightly amused, Ivy bowed with such exaggeration that she fell down, whereupon the two began laughing.

Mr Butterworth had observed the sweet display and interrupted.

‘Ahh! Yours I presume?’

Still bubbling, Rose confirmed.

‘Aye! That’s our Ivy alright.’

‘Do you think she would like to come up and join us?’

‘Oo. She’d love it, Mr Butterworth. She’s partial to a white bread buttie. Would that be right?’

‘I don’t see why not... after all she is now a part of a Royal family.’

Almost without hearing, Rose had beckoned Ivy with a wave of the arm and a yell. Miss Moorhouse turned smartly at the exclamation and, locating the source, winced disapproval before returning her attention to another lady of indisputable and established distinction; continuing her conversation concerning modern manners, woman’s work and other matters of pertinence. Miss Moorhouse had already begun to reconsider her previous appraisal and thought that the young woman had spent more than enough time speaking with Mr Butterworth.

Ivy ran to her sister upon the platform and with natural affections the sisters put their arms around each other before the younger began to gush.

‘I thought you’d never see me,’ she said, ‘Oh Rose, you only went and won. Everyone’s so chuffed for you. Wait till Mum hears. You look so pretty and everything; and your crown too. Have they taken your picture for the paper? My friend Angela says you’ll be on the front page...’

Though pleased at her sister’s joy and that she had been its cause, Rose shared the parental instinct towards Ivy who was six years her junior. She thus gently tried to curb those sentiments brimming as they were, reminding Ivy that it was really Alice who was the winner and that although, yes, they had taken a photograph, it would be covered in salt and vinegar by the end of the week.

‘Whatever you say, I shall keep a copy always,’ replied Ivy, a little put out.

‘That’d be a nice thing Ivy, but aren’t there so many more important things happening in the real world? Don’t get so carried away. If a pricked your finger you’d just about burst. And who’s gonna pick up all your pretty little pieces then?’

‘Well, you talk as if becoming Queen of the Fair happened every day? You’re very pleased really. I can tell so.’

Rose couldn’t help but laugh at her sister’s way.

‘Well alright. But don’t go about boasting like we were something more than we really be. I’m just your big ugly sister and you’re still a bonny berry. If you’re not careful I’ll turn you into a little squirt just as easy.’

‘Oh Rose, but...’

Big sister moved as if to squeeze her sibling and reduce her wholly to the juices she had already been spilling. But having the desired effect as a stem to her sister’s rapid flow, the two hugged again in conciliation.

In all their two-headed natter and chatter Rose had quite forgotten about Mr Butterworth, gratefully if truth be known.