The Caxley Chronicles Read online

  The Caxley Chronicles

  The Market Square and The Howards of Caxley

  Miss Read

  * * *

  Drawings by Harry Grimley

  * * *

  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

  Boston • New York

  * * *

  First Houghton Mifflin paperback edition 2007

  THE MARKET SQUARE

  Copyright © 1966 by Miss Read

  Text copyright © renewed 1994 by Dora Jessie Saint

  Illustrations copyright © renewed 1994 by Harry Grimley

  THE HOWARDS OF CAXLEY

  Copyright © 1967 by Miss Read

  Copyright © renewed 1995 by Dora Jessie Saint

  All rights reserved

  For information about permission to reproduce

  selections from this book, write to Permissions,

  Houghton Mifflin Company, 215 Park Avenue South,

  New York, New York 10003.

  Visit our Web site: www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Read, Miss.

  The Caxley chronicles / Miss Read ; drawings by Harry

  Grimley.—1st Houghton Mifflin pbk. ed. 2007.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-618-88429-2

  ISBN-10: 0-618-88429-7

  1. Country life—Fiction. 2. England—Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PR6069.A42C39 2007

  823'.914—dc22 2006103553

  Printed in the United States of America

  MP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  * * *

  THE MARKET SQUARE

  To Olive and Philip with love

  THE HOWARDS OF CAXLEY

  To Pat and John with love

  * * *

  * * *

  * * *

  CONTENTS

  The Market Square

  PART ONE

  1 A June Morning 11

  2 The Norths at Home 22

  3 Consternation in Caxley 31

  4 First Encounter 42

  5 Domestic Rebellion 53

  6 Local Election 63

  7 Love Affairs 76

  8 A Trip to Beech Green 87

  9 Thoughts in the Snow 95

  10 Trouble at North's 108

  PART TWO

  11 Over by Christmas 125

  12 An Unwelcome Marriage 136

  13 Caxley at War 148

  14 Caxley Greets the Armistice 158

  15 Post-War Troubles 168

  16 Bertie Finds a Home 179

  17 Sep Makes a Decision 188

  18 What of the Future? 199

  19 Sep Loses a Friend 208

  20 Hope Realized 216

  The Howards of Caxley

  PART ONE

  1939–1945

  1 Happy Independence 11

  2 The Shadow of War 21

  3 Evacuees in Caxley 29

  4 War Breaks Out 40

  5 Grim News 52

  6 Edward in Love 63

  7 The Market Square Again 73

  8 The Invasion 84

  9 Edward and Angela 95

  10 Victory 106

  PART TWO

  1945–1950

  11 Edward Starts Afresh 121

  12 A Family Tragedy 132

  13 New Horizons 146

  14 Interlude in Ireland 155

  15 Edward and Maisie 168

  16 Harvest Loaves 179

  17 Problems for Edward 189

  18 Edward Meets His Father 200

  19 Return to the Market Square 211

  20 John Septimus Howard 220

  PART ONE

  1. A June Morning

  IT HAD been raining in Caxley, but now the sun was out again. A sharp summer shower had sent the shoppers into doorways, and many of the stallholders, too, from the market square, had sought more shelter than their flimsy awnings could provide.

  Only fat Mrs Petty remained by her fish stall, red-faced and beaming through the veils of rain that poured from the covers above the herring and hake, the mussels and mullet. She roared a few rude and derisory remarks to her more prudent neighbours sheltering across the road, but the rain made such a drumming on the canvas, such a gurgling in the gutters, that it was impossible to hear a word.

  It spun on the stones of the market square like a million silver coins. Office windows were slammed shut, shop-keepers braved the downpour to snatch in the wares they had been displaying on the pavement, and even the pigeons took cover.

  It ended as suddenly as it had begun, and people emerged again into the glistening streets. The pigeons flew down from the plinths of the Corn Exchange and strutted through the shining puddles, their coral feet splashing up tiny rainbows as iridescent as their own opal necks. There was a fresh sweetness in the air, and Bender North, struggling out of his ironmongery shop with a pile of doormats in his arms, took a great thankful breath.

  'Ah!' he sighed, dropping his burden on the pavement from which he had so recently rescued it. He kicked the mats deftly into a neat pile, and, hands on hips, breathed in again deeply. He was a hefty, barrel-shaped man and had been feeling the heat badly these last few days, and his much-loved garden was getting parched. This refreshing shower was welcome. He surveyed the steaming awnings in the market with an approving eye.

  No one—not even Bender himself—could quite remember how he had come by his odd name. He had been christened Bertram Lewis thirty-five years earlier at the parish church across the market square. Some said that as a youth he had liked to show off his outstanding muscular strength by twisting pieces of metal in his great hands. Others, who had shared his schooldays at the old National School in Caxley High Street, maintained that he was so often called upon to 'bend over for six' that some wag had decided that 'Bender' was the perfect name for this boisterous, lusty rebel against authority. "Whatever the reason, now long forgotten, for dubbing him thus, the name stuck, and if any stranger had asked in Caxley for Bertram North, rather than Bender North, he would have been met with blank countenances.

  Bender watched the stallholders resuming their activities. The man who sold glue was busy smashing saucers deftly, and putting them together again with equal dexterity, while a crowd of gaping country folk watched him with wonder and amusement. Fat Mrs Petty shook a shower of silver sprats from the scale-pan into a newspaper. Tom and Fred Lawrence, who ran a market garden on the outskirts of the town, handed over bunches of young carrots and turnips, stuffed lettuces into already overcrowded baskets, weighed mounds of spring greens, broccoli, turnip tops and potatoes, bawling with lungs of brass the while. This was Caxley at its best, thought Bender! Plenty of life, plenty of people, and plenty of money changing hands!

  'A mouse trap, North,' said a voice behind him, and the ironmonger returned hastily to his own duties. He knew, before he turned to face his customer, who she was. That clipped authoritative boom could only belong to Miss Violet Hurley, and it was a voice that commanded, and unfailingly received, immediate attention.

  'This way, ma'am,' said Bender, standing back to allow Miss Hurley to enter. He inclined his broad back at a respectful angle, for though the lady might buy nothing more than a mouse trap, she was a sister of Sir Edmund Hurley at Springbourne, and gentry needed careful handling.

  'Sharp shower, ma'am,' he added conversationally when he was again behind the broad counter confronting his customer. She stood there, gaunt and shabby, her scrawny neck ringed with a rope of beautiful pearls, her sparse grey locks sticking out from under her dusty feathered hat like straw from beneath a ruffled hen.

  'Hm!' grunted Miss Hurley shortly. Her foot tapped ominously on Bender's bare boards. This was not the day for airy nothings, Bender realized. Miss Hurley was in one of her moods. She should have found him in the shop, not dallying outside on the pavement. He reached down a large box from the shelf behind him, blew off the dust delicately, and began to display his wares.

  '"The Break-back", "The Sterling", "The Invincible", "The Elite",' chanted Bender, pushing them forward in turn. He took a breath and was about to extract more models from the bottom of the box but was cut short.

  'Two "Sterling",' snapped Miss Hurley. 'Send them up. Immediately, mind. Book 'em as usual.'

  She wheeled off to the door, her back like a ramrod, her bony legs, in their speckled woollen stockings, bearing her swiftly out into the sunshine.

  'Thank you, ma'am,' murmured Bender, bowing gracefully. 'You ol' faggot!' he added softly as he straightened up again.

  He wrapped up the two jangling mouse traps, tied the parcel neatly with string, and wrote: 'Miss V. Hurley, By Hand' with a stub of flat carpenter's pencil.

  'Bob!' he shouted, without looking up from his work. 'Bob! Here a minute!'

  Above his head the kettles, saucepans, fly swats and hob-nail boots which hung from the varnished ceiling, shuddered in the uproar. A door burst open at the far end of the shop, and a black-haired urchin with steel spectacles fell in.

  'Sir?' gasped the boy.

  'Miss Hurley's. At the double,' said Bender, tossing the parcel to him. The boy caught it and vanished through the open door into the market square.

  'And wipe your nose!' shouted Bender after him. Duty done, he dusted the counter with a massive hand, and followed the boy into the bustle and sunshine of the market square.

  The first thing that Bender saw was Miss Violet Hurley emerging from Sep Howard's bakery at the corner of the square. Sep himself, a small taut figure in his white overall, was showing his custo
mer out with much the same deference as the ironmonger had displayed a few minutes earlier. He held a square white box in his hands, and followed the lady round the corner.

  'Taking a pork pie home, I'll be bound,' thought Bender. Howard's raised pork pies were becoming as famous as his lardy cakes. There was something particularly succulent about the glazed golden pastry that brought the customers back for more, time and time again. Pondering on the pies, watching the pigeons paddling in the wet gutter, Bender decided to stroll over and buy one for the family supper.

  He met Sep at the doorway of the baker's shop. The little man was breathless and for once his pale face was pink.

  'Been running, Sep?' asked Bender jocularly, looking down from his great height.

  'Just serving Miss Violet,' replied Septimus. He paused as though wondering if he should say more. Unwonted excitement nudged him into further disclosures.

  'She's as good as promised me the order for Miss Frances' wedding cake,' he confided. 'You could've knocked me down with a feather.'

  He hurried into the shop in front of Bender and scurried behind the counter. Beaming indulgently, Bender followed with heavy tread. The air was warm and fragrant with the delicious odours from steaming pies, pasties, scones, fruit cakes and a vast dark dish of newly-baked gingerbread, glistening with fat and black treacle.

  Mrs Howard was serving. Her hands scrabbled among the wares, dropped them in paper bags, twirled the corners and received the money as though she had not a minute to lose. Howard's bakery was patronised by the stallholders as well as the town people on market day and trade was brisk.

  'A pork pie, please, Sep,' said Bender. 'A big 'un. I'll pay now.'

  He watched the baker inspecting the row of pies earnestly and felt amusement bubbling up in him. Same old Sep! Dead solemn whatever he was doing! Why, he'd seen him at school, years before, studying his sums with just that same patient worried look, anxious to do the right thing, fearful of causing offence.

  'They all look good to me,' said Bender. 'Any of 'em'll suit me.' Lord love Almighty, he thought, we'll be here till Christmas if old Sep don't get a move on!

  The baker lifted a beauty with care, put it in a bag and came round the counter to give it to Bender.

  'I'll open the door for you,' he said. 'So many people pushing in you might get it broken.'

  'That's what you want, ain't it?'

  'You know that,' said Septimus earnestly.

  They found themselves in the doorway, Sep still holding the bag.

  'I should be able to let you have the last of the loan at the end of the week, Bender,' he said in a low voice.

  'You don't want to fret yourself about that,' answered Bender, with rough kindness. 'No hurry as far as I'm concerned.'

  'But there is as far as I am,' said Sep with dignity. 'I don't like to be beholden. Not that I'm not grateful, as you well know—'

  'Say no more,' said Bender. 'Hand us the pie, man, and I'll be getting back to the shop.'

  The baker handed it over and then looked about the market square as though he were seeing it for the first time.

  'Nice bright day,' he said with some surprise.

  'Expect it in June,' replied Bender. 'It'll be the longest day next week. Then we'll start seeing the trimmings going up. They tell me the Council's having bunting all round the square and down the High Street.'

  'Well, it's over sixty years since the last Coronation,' said Septimus. 'About time we had a splash. It seems only yesterday we were decorating the town for the old Queen's Diamond Jubilee!'

  'Four years ago,' commented Bender. 'That was a real do, wasn't it, Sep? Beer enough to float a battleship.'

  He dug his massive elbow into the baker's thin ribs, and gave a roar of laughter that sent the pigeons fluttering. Septimus's white face grew dusky with embarrassment.

  'Ah! I was forgetting you'd signed the pledge,' chuckled his tormentor. 'You'll have to change your ways now the war's over and we've got a new King. Be a bit more sporty, and enjoy life, Sep! Once we've crowned Edward the Seventh on June the twenty-sixth you'll find Caxley'll start fizzing. Keep up with the times, Sep my boy! You're not a Victorian any longer!'

  Muttering some excuse the little baker hurried back to his customers, while Bender, balancing the fragrant white parcel on his great hand, strode back through the puddles and the pigeons, smiling at his secret thoughts.

  ***

  Septimus stepped down into his busy shop, trying to hide the agitation this encounter had caused. Why should a brush with Bender always give him this sick fluttering in his stomach? He had known him all his life—been born within a few yards and in the same year as this man. They had shared schooldays, celebrations, football matches, and all the life of the little town, but always the rift remained.

  'You're nothing but a yellow coward,' Sep told himself disgustedly, stacking hot loaves in the window. 'Why can't you meet Bender man to man? He's no better than you are. His joking's only a bit of fun, and yet you are all aquake the minute he starts to take a rise out of you.'

  He watched Bender stopping to speak to one of the stallholders. He saw his great shoulders heave with laughter as he turned again and vanished into the murk of his shop. At once Sep's tension relaxed, and he despised himself for it. Did Bender ever guess, he wondered, how much he affected other people?

  Take this morning, for instance, thought the little baker, threading his way through the customers to the comparative peace of the bakehouse at the back. Bender could never have known how much he would upset him by talking of Queen Victoria like that. The death of the old Queen had shaken many people. Septimus Howard was one of them. She was more to him than a reigning monarch. She was the mother of her people, a symbol of security, prosperity and order. She offered an example of high-minded principles and respectable family life. She was the arch-matriarch of a great nation. And Septimus loved her.

  He loved her because, in his eyes, she had always been right and she had always been there, safely on the throne of England. His father and mother, staunch Methodists both, had revered the Queen with almost as much piety as the stern God they worshipped, thrice every Sunday, at the Wesleyan Chapel in the High Street. Their children, with the possible exception of flighty Louisa, shared their parents' devotion.

  Septimus knew he would never forget the shock of that terrible news which Caxley had heard only a few months before. It was a dark January afternoon, the shop was empty and Sep had been engaged in cutting wrapping paper ready for the next day's supplies. He saw Tom Bellinger, the verger of St Peter's across the square, hurry up the steps and disappear inside. Within three minutes the tolling bell began to send out its sad message.

  Sep put aside his knife and went to the door.

  'Who's gone?' he asked Sergeant Watts, the policeman, who was striding by.

  'The Queen, God rest her,' he replied. For one moment they stood facing each other in silence, then the policeman hurried on, leaving Septimus too stricken to speak. He made his way to the quiet warmth of the bakehouse and sat down, stunned, at the great scrubbed table where he made the loaves, letting the tears roll unchecked down his cheeks. Not even when his father had died had he felt such a seme of loss. This was the end of life as he knew it. An England without Queen Victoria at its head seemed utterly strange and frightening.

  Septimus disliked change. He was not sure that he wanted to be an Edwardian. Something in that new word made him as nervous as he felt in Bender's presence. He suspected that the new monarch had some of Bender's qualities; his gusto, his hearty laugh, his ease of manner and his ability to know what the other fellow was thinking. The new King loved life. Septimus, his humble subject, was a little afraid of it. He mourned Victoria, not only for herself, but for all that she stood for—a way of life which had lasted for decades and which suited him, as it had suited so many of his fellow countrymen.

  At the time of the Queen's Diamond Jubilee in 1897, a fund had been opened in Caxley to provide a lasting memorial of this outstanding reign. Septimus Howard was one of the first contributors. He gave as much as he could possibly afford, which was not a great deal, for times were hard with him just then, and his fourth child was about to be born. But he was proud to give, and prouder still when he stood in the market place, later that year, and watched the fine drinking fountain, surmounted by a statue of Her Majesty, being unveiled by the Mayor in his red robe of office.