SUMMERTIME
Ada practised her signature again; she didn’t want a repeat of the embarrassment when they had arrived at the Guesthouse. She blushed once more as she recalled the look the landlady gave them. And the shame of having to produce their wedding certificate. It was a good job Harry had thought to bring it. The woman scrutinised it more than thoroughly and then her eyes glided to Ada’s stomach. She seemed almost disappointed to see that it was flat.
‘I have to keep an eye out for people who pretend they’re married,’ she said, handing them the key. ‘Third floor at the back. Baths must be booked and paid for by five the evening before needed. Threepence per bath.’
It was a horrid little bedroom with ill-fitting windows and a creaky bed. Neither Harry nor Ada cared in the slightest. It had been a long engagement and she had been very correct. Her fears about intimacy were banished immediately. ‘Lie back and think of England,’ her mother had told her. But she thought only of her husband.
The following morning, they enjoyed a hearty breakfast of porridge, kippers, toast and marmalade. Their first married breakfast. Ada took note of what Harry liked most.
She had never been to the seaside before and Blackpool was everything she had imagined and more. A long sweep of sand, a wide promenade with ladies in their best frocks and hats, men in casual jackets, almost all of them wearing boaters, little girls with frilly skirts and their brothers proud in their sailor suits. Italians in brightly coloured blazers dispensed ice cream from their carts, other stalls sold toffee apples, seaside rock and postcards. An elderly organ grinder played a tune while his little monkey rattled a tin for money.
‘Let me put my arm in yours,’ Ada said to Harry. ‘Show the world that we’re married.’
A photographer immediately swooped on them offering to take a picture. Before he could set up his equipment, however, a young woman flourished a piece of card and scissors and said she could make a silhouette of them, starting to cut before they had time to say yes or no. Harry grumbled but he put his hand in his pocket to buy it.
‘Another memory for us,’ Ada said, as she placed the silhouette carefully in her bag.
They stopped at the Blackpool Tower, their gaze soaring skyward to its pinnacle. ‘Can we go up?’ she asked. ‘It looks just like the Eiffel Tower in Paris.’
‘This is much better though,’ Harry said. ‘The Frenchies are just farmers; they don’t know how to build in iron. But I can’t be bothered to go up.’
‘Harry Dawson, are you scared of heights?’ she asked in a teasing tone.
‘Of course not. I’m not scared of anything. I’ll go up if you want.’
‘Not now,’ she said. ‘Let’s have some dinner. I’m peckish after all our exercise.’ She gave him a little dig in the side.
He beamed, knowing what she meant by this. It was grand to be wed.
On Monday, they saw people crowding around a newspaper vendor. ‘Probably more trouble in Ireland,’ Harry said. ‘We don’t want to bother with all that.’
Tuesday was very hot and they decided to go on a tram to Fleetwood, ten miles away. It was quieter than Blackpool, with fewer shops and holiday makers. At midday, Harry gave a deep sigh and his eyes went to a pleasant looking pub nearby. ‘This heat makes you thirsty, though.’
‘Come on then, Harry,’ Ada said. ‘Let’s wet that whistle of yours.’
The landlord pulled a pint for Harry and then pulled a long face. ‘Worrying news from overseas.’
Harry nodded and whispered to Ada. ‘Ireland again.’
‘It will soon be sorted out,’ she said. ‘It always is.’
It was so hot they returned to the guest house and retired to their room for the afternoon, leaving at six o’ clock for a final stroll down the promenade.
‘I’ve never been happier,’ Ada said with a sigh. ‘And just think, we’ve got the rest of our lives ahead of us.’
Breakfast next morning consisted of only toast and marmalade. Ada wanted to ask for an egg but the look on the landlady’s face discouraged her.
‘A marching band,’ Harry cried suddenly, ‘I love ‘em.’ He grabbed Ada’s hand and bustled her out to watch. The landlady joined them on the doorstep. It was a military band, immaculate and very professional.
A young soldier thrust a piece of paper into Harry’s hand. ‘We’ve declared war on the Germans,’ he said. ‘That will teach the Kaiser. Lord Kitchener has asked for volunteers. Just follow the band to enlist.’
Harry’s mouth dropped as he read the news. ‘Lord Kitchener says we’ll need half a million new soldiers,’ he said in a whisper.
‘A young man like you will be volunteering, no doubt,’ the landlady said.
‘No,’ said Ada, clutching his hand.
Harry’s gaze went from Ada to the landlady and then back to the piece of paper. Finally, he looked into Ada’s eyes. ‘I must,’ he whispered.
Two summers later, Harry Dawson died on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, along with 19,240 other British soldiers, 1,600 French and 11,000 Germans.