That’Ll Be the Day

By Vivienne Loranger

A 1960s story set in the north of England and Australia. It follows the lives and loves of Brenda Bamford and Danny Dawson.
Danny ends up in Australia after being dumped by Brenda while Brenda stays in Rochdale in hot pursuit of the man of her dreamsBrian Davis, a musician.
Many twists and turns see the two main characters faced with a variety of obstacles. But in the end, do they find the happiness they both deserve?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Oct 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499024333

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by Vivienne Loranger.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014917619

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4990-2428-9

                Softcover        978-1-4990-2432-6

                eBook             978-1-4990-2433-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/13/2014

Xlibris LLC

1-800-455-039

www.Xlibris.com.au

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter One

This’ll be a right fun day, thought Brenda. A bloody black cloud has just pissed on me new perm, I have two hours of me mam’s moans to endure and to top it all there’s no soddin’ seats left on the bus. She pushed her way down the crowded bus aisle which wasn’t easy on account of an eight month pregnant load and two full shopping bags to carry. She was taking the shopping to her mam’s. Her mam hadn’t been well and Brenda felt obliged, like you do, to take her a basket of goodies.

She wished she hadn’t picked today though. For a start her hair was going to be a right mess. The ‘frizz free, body and bounce only’ perm would end up like friggin’ fairy floss and without the intervention of large rollers or a hairdryer there’d be as much bounce as a burst balloon. Brenda was a hairdresser, she knew these things.

Mind you, she blamed the garage. It was all their fault. She should be driving her car, not taking a bus. When the brakes on her Ford Cortina suddenly went wonky, she’d left it at Mick’s Motor Mechanics on Oldham Road to get fixed. Mick (she assumed he was Mick) was very pleasant, he looked a bit like her dad, thin and wiry with greying hair, and when he smiled he showed teeth crooked and nicotine stained just like her dad’s. Brenda felt she could trust him.

Give us a ring on Friday mornin’, love, an’ yer car’ll more ‘an likely be ready.

Well, she had, and it wasn’t.

Sorry, love, I’ve ‘ad a couple of t’lads off sick, y’know ‘ow it is?

Brenda was peeved. She hated taking the bus.

You could have said, she replied tartly, I’d have gone elsewhere if I’d known.

I just told ya, love, lad’s off sick, there’s nowt I can do. Anyway it’ll be Monday now, ‘aven’t even started on it yet. He said this brightly like a conveyor of great tidings. Brenda was furious and no expletive was spared.

Don’t take it out on me, love, I’m right sorry, but there’s no one ’ere to fix it.

Brenda slammed down the phone. That’ll be the day when something goes right for a change. She sighed and shifted her weight uncomfortably in the narrow space. It was standing room only on the bus.

Excuse me, would you like a seat?

Does it rain in Rochdale? Brenda muttered.

Pardon?

Oh, uh, sorry, yeah, she turned towards her benefactor and almost dropped her shopping. Danny, Danny Dawson, she cried.

Hello, Brenda.

I don’t believe it, she said squeezing her way into the seat.

It’s me all right, grinned Danny. The bus jerked forward and Danny made a grab for the rail to steady himself. You look well, Brenda, he paused, grey eyes twinkling, gained a bit of weight since last time I saw you. Danny’s eyes were always his best feature she thought, but now the rest of him measured up pretty good too.

You could say that, she laughed. It’s taken me eight months to put this lot on. Should have it off in a month or so though.

Danny smiled. It’s good to see you, Brenda.

And you an’ all, Danny. Then, with an impish grin that reduced her thirty years back to twenty, said, I mean I wouldn’t have scored this seat otherwise.

Danny laughed and leaned closer. The smell of Old Spice played around her nostrils and overcame the smell of sweaty bodies. Old Spice had always been her favourite.

You haven’t changed, Brenda, he said.

But you have, Danny Dawson, and how. It was hard to imagine this handsome, tanned man was the same person as the lean and lanky, prone to pimples, youth who was once her boyfriend. What was it, twelve years ago?

Brenda was eighteen when she met Danny. He was her second proper boyfriend, I mean you couldn’t count three previous one night stands whose names she couldn’t even remember. Her first real boyfriend was Brian Davis. She met both Brian and Danny at St. Patrick’s Youth Club. She’d joined the club at the instigation of Mavis Green. Mavis wasn’t exactly a friend, she was a customer of Jean’s Hair Salon where Brenda was an apprentice. It was Saturday morning January 12, 1958. Every month Mavis had her roots done and Brenda was slapping peroxide on the dark rim of hair that poked from Mavis’s scalp.

I’m right fed up, complained Brenda. Since me friend Sandra started courtin’, me social life has come to a standstill.

Well, you should join St. Pat’s Youth Club, Mavis said. There’s a smashing band what practices every Friday night and they play dead good music.

Mmm, I might at that, said Brenda as she pulled a brown stained plastic cap over Mavis’s hair. It’d take about half an hour for the peroxide to work so she busied herself tidying the countertop. Me and Sandra were friends since infant school, she said and sighed at the injustice of losing her best pal to Jeffrey Alcock. We went everywhere together.

You come along to St. Patrick’s next Friday then, love, said Mavis full of sympathy. There’s a nice bunch of girls what go and some not bad looking lads either, she winked at Brenda through the mirror above the pink porcelain wash basin.

Okay, I will, said Brenda full of renewed enthusiasm. After all she was sick of staying home with her moaning mam, her thirteen year old sister, Beryl, and the ten year old twins Michael and Shaun. For a start Beryl always wanted help with her homework, which wasn’t Brenda’s idea of fun, and the twins were so noisy. God, what a welcome respite it’d be.

Brenda knew she looked nice for her night at the youth club, she’d paid special attention to her hair. It was long and blonde. Jean, her boss, had bleached it as a eighteenth birthday present a couple of months ago but her mam hit the roof when she saw it.

What did you go and do that for? she cried. There was nothing wrong with the nice brown hair you had. She prodded the fire with the poker, then waved it wildly at Brenda. Brenda ducked.

It was mousy brown, Brenda said. It looks much nicer now.

No, it doesn’t, you’re too pale for that colour, makes you look pasty.

Brenda was upset, she thought she looked smashing, sort of like Diana Dors but without the bust size, her own measurements of 34-23-34 fell a bit short. Nevertheless her pale blonde hair turned under in a page boy looked really glamorous and she’d not believe otherwise.

Her mam was right about the pale complexion though. Maybe a touch of rouge over the Max Factor pancake would do the trick. Not much, mind, she didn’t want to look common.

Tonight she bunched her hair in a pony tail with a rubber band and a pink satin ribbon. She wore a pink circular skirt and a black jumper. A black patent leather belt clinched her waist so tight she feared for her circulation. Three inch stiletto heeled shoes added much needed height to her own five foot two inches in bare feet.

She took one last look at herself in her mam’s dressing table mirror. Deep blue eyes, lashes darkened with mascara, and bright pink lips smiled back. Right. Brenda, you’ll do. She collected her envelope bag from the wicker chair beside her bed, unhooked the off-white duffle coat from the nail behind her bedroom door and clattered down the wooden stairs. Then with a cheerio and bang of the back door, she was gone.

Brenda fronted at the youth club at seven-thirty p.m. She felt a bit awkward on her own and hoped Mavis would already be there. She didn’t know anyone else. A faint draught of warm air greeted her as she pushed open the lobby door to St. Pat’s. In spite of its weakness the warmth was a welcome respite from the bitterly cold wind. Brenda pushed back the hood of her duffle coat and stepped inside.

Seated behind a badly scratched wooden table was a middle aged man with a ferret face and balding head. A lean and lanky lad aged about eighteen was standing by his side. Both were in animated conversation. The boy had floppy light brown hair and a nondescript face, not ugly, mind, just insipid. His chin supported a pimple the size of a pea. If this is your idea of nice looking lads, Mavis, I don’t think much of your taste, thought Brenda wryly.

Hello, love, the man said as she approached the table. Come to join ‘ave yer? She noticed him ogling her breasts as she undid the pegs on her duffel coat.

I might, Brenda said, chin in the air, "but it better be cheap. Hairdressers get paid a pittance you know.

You a hairdresser then? the pimpled youth said.

I just said didn’t I, replied Brenda scornfully.

No, grinned pimples, all you said were hairdressers get paid a pittance. She wasn’t amused and ignored his pathetic remark. The lad looked embarrassed, she was glad. What a moron. Brenda turned her attention back to the man. His eyes were still staring at her bosom which protruded pointedly from her tight black jumper.

Well, how much then? she said impatiently. She could hear the strains of ‘Main Title’ coming from the church hall beyond and was eager to be there.

Half a crown to join, then a bob a week, I’m Alf by the way. I’m the youth club leader." Brenda nodded with disinterest and fished in her bag for the money.

An’ I’m Danny, Danny Dawson, the lad said holding out his hand. Brenda ignored it.

She plonked two shillings on the table and while she rummaged for a further sixpence leaned heavily on the table which was a mistake because the table had a cracked leg. The leg was set with glue and tape, but it was obvious from its unstable state it was not properly mended.

Oh…. ooooh, cried Brenda as the table groaned and tilted and her stiletto shoes tottered uncertainly on the green and brown lino. She was about to come a cropper when Danny leapt forward, grabbed her arm and yanked her upright, thus saving a pair of nylons from ruination. Or worse, an ankle from a painful sprain.

She wasn’t grateful, how could she be, she must have looked a right twit. She produced the sixpence still owing and headed towards the hall as fast as she could.

Hey, I’ll need your name and address, shouted Alf.

Brenda half turned. Brenda Bamford, 31 Norton Rd, Syke.

Fancy that, Danny called, I live at Bernard St. D’ya know it? But Brenda, with a swish of nylon and net petticoats, was gone.

Brenda had been to plenty of jumble sales at the church hall, so she knew exactly which door to take. Her mam, ever keen for a bargain, was really into jumble sales and Brenda was dragged along to act as a shopping bag for the numerous knick-knacks and junk her mam bought. Many a Saturday would see Brenda lugging home a broken coffee table or a pile of old magazines or, worse still, tatty woollen jumpers and cardigans she and their Beryl or the twins were expected to wear.

Never do to miss a bargain, Brenda, her mam said. You’ll more than likely find a use for it.

One such bargain was a dreadful black and white spotted china dog with a chipped left ear. It stood about a foot high and was awarded pride of place on the green tiled hearth next to the coal scuttle. Brenda’s mam, pleased as punch with her purchase, busied herself setting it at just the right angle to catch the light from the back window. But why she bothered was beyond Brenda, it was the ugliest ‘animal’ she’d ever seen and to try and highlight it was the daftest thing imaginable. However the highlighting did have some effect, though not quite what Mrs Bamford anticipated.

It happened that Mickey, their two year old Greyhound, thought the china dog was a rival for the family affections and, after sniffing like mad, cocked his leg and promptly peed on it. That’ll teach the intruder whose boss.

Brenda, Beryl and the twins laughed their heads off. Mickey, pleased with the response, was about to do an encore when Mrs Bamford, her face apoplectic, grabbed him by his thick leather collar and all but threw him outside.

Hey, that’s not fair, Mum, said Brenda, he was only marking his territory. She’d read somewhere dogs marked their spot when invaded by another. That the invader in this case was only made of china had to be overlooked on account of Mickey not being very bright.

Marking his territory, my foot, spat Mrs. Bamford, he can mark it outside where he belongs.

But it’s pouring down.

Serves him right. He’s ruined the rug. The rug in question was an old rag-rug made by Brenda’s maternal grandmother. During the war when there wasn’t much to do, only sit home and knit or crochet, Grandmother Stansfield would make rugs with bits of old material hooked through hessian backing. They were horrid. The colours were mainly dirty greens, browns and mustard with an odd speckle of red and blue. Each of her five daughters received one for their ‘bottom drawer’.

Maybe we should get a new rug, Mum, ventured Brenda.

New rug, cried her mam, appalled. That was a wedding present from your grandmother.

I know, but, well, it is a bit, er…

A bit what?

Brenda didn’t want to say she thought the rug was cheap, revolting and old fashioned, and how ashamed she was for her friends to see it.

A bit er…, smelly, that should do it thought Brenda. Her mother bordered on obsessiveness where cleanliness and smells were concerned. She didn’t have time to go out to work because it took her all day, every day, to dust, polish, mop and scour the entire house.

Well it certainly will be now, said her mam. She peered at the expanding circle of damp where Mickey’s pee had cascaded down the china dog, formed a puddle in the hearth and overflowed onto the rag rug. But I’ll not get rid of the rug. I’ll have it dry cleaned, she nodded, pleased with her brain wave. Mmm, that’s what I’ll do.

It’ll cost more to dry clean than the rug’s worth, Mum, Brenda said.

That’s nowt to do with it, our Brenda. Some things can’t be bought. The sentimental value is beyond cost.

Brenda sighed, it was worth a try.

It was lucky for Mickey that Brenda’s dad forwent his Saturday pie and pint lunch at the pub and came home early.

What’s our Mickey doing outside? he yelled shaking the rain off his woollen beanie, another of Mrs. Bamford’s finds at the jumble sale, and wiping his boots on the wire-haired mat outside the backdoor. He’ll catch his death out there, it’s pissing down, or hadn’t you noticed?

Mickey was the pride and joy of Brenda’s dad. He took precedence over his wife and children and to have his beloved pet out in weather not fit for a dog was a crime equal only to murder. Mind you, there was rain, as in today when it was obvious Mickey should be in the warm confines of the cosy living room.

And there was rain, lashing down if it must, when Mickey was obliged to pull a rabbit on the stark windy moors surrounding Syke. That the dog could catch its death then was quite irrelevant to Mr. Bamford, the thrill of rabbiting far outweighing his concern for the Greyhound.

I’ll not have the dog inside, said Brenda’s mam. It’s just cocked its leg on me new ornament.

Brenda’s dad sniffed and wiped his nose on the cuff of his overcoat. He ignored his wife’s remarks, threw his coat on the kitchen chair and, holding open the back door, said, C’mon in, Mickey, an’ let’s get y’ dry.

Mrs. Bamford knew better than to argue with her husband. She retreated to the living room, face fierce and mouth set straight. Why did he have to come home so early, he wasn’t usually back from the pub until about three p.m. Brenda was happy he had and by the looks of Mickey, now stretched in front of the fire, steam spiralling from his damp coat, so was he. The door to St. Patrick’s church hall was open, held ajar by a broken house brick. Brenda crossed the threshold and searched for Mavis Green. She spotted her almost at once, talking to a group of girls by the makeshift bandstand. Brenda started towards her. She was halfway across the bare boarded floor when she saw him, the lead trumpeter, and her heart played leapfrog in her ribcage. She paused for a moment to regain her composure. Mavis, seeing Brenda hesitate and taking it as a sign of timidity which meant she didn’t know Brenda very well, broke from the other girls to escort Brenda to their group.

Who’s he? were Brenda’s opening words. She nodded towards the handsome trumpeter.

Mavis laughed. That’s Brian Davis. Fancy him do ya?

Mmm, he’s not bad, grinned Brenda.

That’s an understatement if ever I ‘eard one, said Mavis. He can put his shoes under my bed anytime.

Brenda giggled. Okay, he’s smashing then, and he was. To describe him as tall, dark and handsome was stating the obvious, and to choose only three adjectives was like selecting three slices of bread from a whole loaf.

His looks were more suited to a film star than a motor mechanic cum trumpet player. At about six foot, broad shouldered, with black slicked back hair, Brian Davis was every girls dream. He was wearing a pale blue open necked shirt under a chunky fawn cable-stitched jumper. Someone’s been busy with the knitting needles, thought Brenda. She hoped it was his mother and not a wife. His dark brown trousers were perfectly pressed and snugly fitted his taut physique. Brenda was instantly in love.

I suppose he’s spoken for, Brenda said.

I don’t rightly know, Mavis replied. I’ve never seen ‘im with anyone.

He’s probably married, Brenda said glumly, and more than likely has a couple of kids. She brushed a strand of blonde hair away from her eyes and shrugged her shoulders. Looks like I’ll just have to ask him, doesn’t it?

You’ll not? said Mavis in disbelief. He’ll think you’re after him.

I am, grinned Brenda. But she’d bide her time, perhaps towards the end of the evening. Meanwhile she’d make sure he noticed her, if she danced right in front of him he couldn’t miss.

The band’s theme was basically jazz but a bit of rock and roll found its way into their repertoire. But Brenda figured Brian Davis, being lead trumpeter, would probably like to show off his skills with a trumpet solo, and she knew just the one. Men could never resist a bit of flattery, could they? Take her dad for instance. Whenever he fixed a broken earring or necklace or mended her shoes she praised him profusely.

I’ve got to hand it to you, Dad, you can do anything you, you’re sooo clever.

Aye, well you pick things up as you go along. Her dad was pleased, she could tell, and he was always good for a bob or two after a bit of such wheedling

Brenda picked her moment. When the band paused for a break she sauntered over and stopped in front of Brian Davis. He was sorting through sheet music and didn’t see her. Danny what’s his name, the creep with the pimples, was on her right talking to the trombonist. He kept throwing glances in her direction. Naturally she ignored him. Then Brian Davis looked up and saw her, well he couldn’t miss could he, she was right in his line of vision. He smiled, Brenda all but fainted. What perfect teeth, what wonderful dark brown come-to-bed eyes. Oooh… she closed her eyes but was startled from her trance by the sound of a voice.

Yes, love, what is it? It was his voice.

Oh, umm… er.., get a grip, girl. Brenda took a deep breath to control her erratic heartbeats. She smiled, she hoped seductively but wasn’t sure, there was a slight twitch to her lips not normally present. A nervous tic? Heaven forbid!

She tilted her head to one side, opened wide her beautiful blue eyes, blinked a couple of times (she’d seen film stars do this, it always worked) and said,

D’ya know ‘Oh Mein Papa’? It’s one of me favourites. Me dad used to play it for me when I were young like.

Your dad plays the trumpet? Brian said.

Yeah, well he did but he doesn’t anymore. Me mum made him get rid of it. It was true, after listening to her husband torturing ‘Oh Mein Papa’, ‘Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White’ and other such numbers, Brenda’s mum, in a fit of pique, said ‘It’s that trumpet what goes, or it’s me." It was a hard decision for her dad but after much thought he finally decided to keep her mam. She was, after all, more use to him than the trumpet.

Brian Davis smiled again. "’aven’t played ‘Oh Mein Papa’ in ages, don’t know if I still have the