The next day being a Saturday, Cathie set off early to Campfield Market, intent upon making a start on her preparations for Christmas. Most of their food was purchased from the local Co-op where she could benefit from an annual dividend and other special offers. At Christmas they would allow customers a little extra sugar, butter and a tin of condensed milk. But she still loved to visit the market for bargains.
Cathie had carefully written out a list, which included little gifts to put in crackers and some sticky strips to make paper chains. She already had a box of Christmas tree baubles and ornaments that she and Sal had collected over the years, many of them home-made. Later, Cathie meant to buy a small tree, which she would decorate. Right now she must find the right ingredients to start cooking. Dried fruit for mincemeat and a Christmas cake, dried egg, prunes or dried apricots, spices and vanilla essence to make everything taste good, and ground rice for some mock marzipan. Hopefully there’d be an end to rationing soon, but while it continued, this would not be an easy task; so the sooner she started searching, the better.
The food shops and stalls were mainly in the top section between Tonman Street and Liverpool Road, and that was where she headed first. A brisk wind made her tighten the scarf about her neck, sending scraps of grubby paper bags and rotting cabbage leaves flying everywhere. But the baby was tucked up safe and warm in her pram with the hood up and the apron clipped in place over the blankets.
Cathie decided she would try ordering a goose from one of the butchers, although sometimes it was better to come to the market late, just before it closed as prices were cheaper then. The problem with that was there might not be anything left, and Cathie really had no wish to make do with another mock goose comprised mainly of lentils and onions. If this was to be the best Christmas ever, to celebrate Alex’s homecoming, genuine poultry was essential.
Cathie loved exploring the market, with its huge iron girders arching across the roof beneath a range of dusty windows, the supporting pillars beautifully decorated with red roses in patriotic honour of Lancashire. She would lovingly stroke a hand over one as she passed by, as if to bring herself luck, something she still felt in need of despite the war being over. Outdoor stalls jostled for space from here on Tonman Street right across to Deansgate, many of them piled high with second-hand goods, as anything new and cheap was quite rare with rationing still in place.
As always the market was heaving with people: harassed mothers scolding their children for wandering off, old men in flat caps and mufflers huddled together by the hot baked potato cart, no doubt busily putting the world to rights. Perhaps discussing how the General Election in July had brought a Labour landslide with Clement Attlee now Prime Minister in place of Churchill. The terrible bombs that had been dropped since on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the fact Britain was pretty well stony broke.
Nevertheless, morale remained high, despite the threat of austerity and restrictions growing ever tighter as young men returned from the war. It was true that ex-servicemen were not always in one piece, or a happy state of mind, often damaged either physically or mentally. But families were delighted to see their loved ones safely home.
Cathie could barely wait to see Alex again.
She studied various grocery, vegetable and biscuit stalls, happily pausing to watch a man in a bowler hat cleverly juggling pots, pans and plates, appearing to let one fall then easily catching it in order to gain people’s attention. ‘I’m not asking five shillings. I’m not asking one shilling. I’m not even asking sixpence. A threepenny bit and this beautiful plate is yours,’ he shouted to the large crowd gathered about his stall.
Smiling at his showmanship, Cathie queued at her favourite butcher’s stall, where she was a regular customer, and bought a few sausages for tea. He gladly took her order for a goose, offering to give it priority once he heard that her fiancé was returning from the war.
‘Can’t promise it’ll be big, mind, but I’ll do my best, and let you know if I don’t find one.’
Thanking him, Cathie moved on to the Maypole Dairy, which sold margarine, butter, cheese and bacon, also nuts and dried fruit. Checking her purse, she made a mental note to choose with care, as she certainly couldn’t afford to buy everything at once. But after careful browsing, and a very helpful shop assistant, Cathie purchased the necessary ingredients to at least bake a Christmas cake. She’d worry about the mock almond paste, icing sugar and mince tarts later.
Having finished her shopping and carefully negotiating the pram between the crowds of shoppers, Cathie went to meet up with her two best friends for a snack at the market café, as they loved to do on a Saturday. After greeting each other with hugs and a few moans about the cold weather, the three of them gave their orders then sat drinking tea together while Cathie told her good news.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ Brenda said, instantly sharing her friend’s excitement.
‘When does he arrive?’ Davina politely enquired.
Davina Gibson, who worked on a second-hand clothes stall, was new to the area, having moved into Castlefield just a couple of months ago. Cathie had met her while buying some clothes for baby Heather. She’d been sympathetic of her loss, and so helpful in allowing Cathie to negotiate a low price on everything she needed, they’d become firm friends ever since. Brenda Stuart, on the other hand, was a best friend of some years’ standing, as she and Cathie had been in the same class at school all those years ago, and worked together at the rubber factory producing tyres for motor cars, army vehicles and trucks.
Both these women had been left widowed by the war, as had so many others. Davina was something of a beauty with her voluptuous figure, long dark hair, green eyes beneath winged brows, and full lips. While dear Brenda claimed to be a plain country girl with scraggy brown hair, plump figure and puffy cheeks. But her round face nearly always wore a smile, and there’d generally be a twinkle in her downward-sloping dark eyes.
‘I’m not sure, but in time for Christmas, or so he hopes. It’s so exciting. I can hardly wait to see him again.’
‘Have you set a date for the wedding?’ Davina asked, the corner of her mouth twisting into what might pass for a smile. She wasn’t the most exuberant or lively friend Cathie might have hoped for, being slightly cool and distant. Whatever she’d suffered during the war had clearly badly affected her.
‘Not yet, but I know Alex is keen for us to marry as soon as possible.’
‘I do hope I receive an invitation,’ Brenda said, eyes sparkling at the prospect.
‘If and when it happens,’ Davina added.
‘Of course it will happen, fairly soon, I hope. How would you both feel about being bridesmaids? I have some lengths of parachute silk, which Mam managed to buy cheap from the mill. It has one or two flaws in it, which is disastrous for a parachute, but will scarcely show in a dress. We could sew them together.’
Brenda whooped with joy. ‘That would be wonderful, so long as you teach me how. Never was much good at sewing but I’m willing to learn.’
Looking slightly stunned by this request, Davina murmured, ‘Oh, that is so kind of you to ask me, Cathie, but I’m not sure I could cope with attending a wedding so soon after losing my own husband.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that. I’ve no wish to upset you.’
‘When and how did you lose him, darling?’ Brenda asked. ‘You never did tell us.’
Davina’s lips tightened. ‘I don’t care to speak of it.’
‘Ah, I can fully sympathise with that feeling,’ Brenda agreed. ‘Painful things have happened in my life that I cannot bear to remember either. I’ve locked them in a box in