20 On The Box

A WIDOW WOMAN Part 20

   It was tea time in the Worsley home, a mere two short streets away from where Jane was clearing away and washing the plates after the evening meal for Betty and Roger had finished. But it was in the Worsley home where the family (mum, Joan, Dad, Rick and son Ian) were idly watching the evening news on their television set when Joan screeched “who on Earth is that?” because somehow the television cameraman had captured a close up shot of her son Ian and the girl he was standing closer than close to, and, of all things, holding her hand.

“Huh,” murmured Ian, blushing furiously whilst trying to sound casual, “that’s a girl. You know, what’s her name?”

“You’ve done well there, son,” half-chortled Rick.

“But you’re holding her hand!” protested Joan, “how come you know a girl well enough to hold her hand?”

“She’s Betty,” said Ian, as if that explained everything, which it did in his head. Then, to make absolutely sure she understood, he added, “she’s my friend.”

“A tidy looking lass too,” put in Rick, approvingly, “pretty, she is, real pretty.”

“That’s enough of that!” admonished Joan, “the lad doesn’t need any encouragement from you or he’ll end up going about things all wrong, and the lass’ll end up in the family way and spoiled for life!”

“You just keep it in your pants and you’ll be perfectly all right, lad,” advised Rick, not really aware that his son didn’t actually understand what he had to keep in his pants and how his pants might influence Betty ending up in, as his mother put it, the family way.

“She’s a pretty lass, though,” muttered Rick even though the image had long since left the screen and there was an anonymous saloon car on an anonymous street with a single hand waving out of it imperiously.

“She’s just my friend, that’s all,” muttered Ian, embarrassed.

“Do you hold all your friends’ hands, then?” asked Joan, determined to make sure that Ian was on a right and proper highway when it came to the female half of the population.

“That would be silly!” he snapped, fed up with what he saw as some kind of version of the Spanish Inquisition, “I’m allowed to talk to girls, aren’t I? And they’d call me if I went around grabbing other boys’ hands!”

“Just be careful, as your mother says,” advised Rick, “then everything will be all right. Remember that Cordish girl?”

“You mean scruffy Ann?” demanded Ian, “Betty’s nothing like her!”

“It’s not so much that you call her scruffy, more that she’s had a kid that’s had to be put in a home, and the whole thing’s upset her family,” explained Joan, “and we don’t want any unwanted bairns upsetting our family.”

“I’m a boy and boys don’t have kids,” mumbled Ian.

“But they help girls do it!” snapped Joan, “ask your father!”

“Leave me out of it!” begged Rick, who was fully aware that the sex education of his son ought to be down to him, but he continuously told himself that the boy wasn’t ready yet.

“You’ll have to spell it out to him some time,” said Joan.

“Nobody spelt it out for me, and we managed!” snapped Rick, “now just let me be. You‘ll be careful won’t you, son?”

And Ian snatched that opportunity to slip out of the house. He thought he knew where Betty Simpson lived and that it might be a good idea if he plucked up his courage to breaking point and went to call on her.

As luck would have it, she was on their front garden talking to a girl who was standing on the pavement. Betty, he knew, was a popular girl and half the boys in his class made the sort of noises boys do make when they approve of a lass. There was nothing anonymous about her.

“Did you see us on the telly?” he asked.

“Clara was just telling me! She said the camera was full on you and me, and the whole world knows you were holding my hand!” smiled Betty, “we’re famous, and I don’t even know your name!”

And that was the truth. They’d talked together briefly on the playing field where they stood a fair chance of not being seen by eagle eyed teachers from either school, but names hadn’t cropped up and he only knew she was Betty because it was a name all the boys seemed to associate with this one very pretty girl.

“Ian,” he said, “My name’s Ian. I know you’re Betty. Most of the lads know your name.”

“And you held her hands without her knowing who you are?” asked Clara, and she giggled, “that’s forward, that is.”

“We’ve talked,” explained Ian, feeling out-numbered.

Betty could see that he was finding the situation awkward, and sympathised. She knew that boys didn’t like to be found lacking in any department, especially by girls.

“Come and meet my mum,” she said, “I reckon she’d like you. Roger’s out with Dave something or other, so he won’t get in the way.”

And just like that Ian found himself being coaxed by the prettiest girl in the whole school if not in the entire Universe to go into her house and meet her mother. He knew her father had died because, in the chit chat they’d had on the playing field, that was one snippet that he’d caught and held on to.

Jane was busy in the kitchen. Working all day at the local co-op shop meant she had to catch up with her housework in the evenings, and she was supervising a mangle through which she was winding bedding ready to be hung on the clothes line tomorrow, weather permitting.

“This is Ian, mum,” said Jane.

“Hello Ian,” murmured Jane curiously.

“He’s famous,” added Betty, “he’s been on the telly and everyone saw him! And you’ll never guess what he was doing…?”

“I could try, but it might take all night for me to guess right,” smiled Jane.

“He was on the street and, you won’t believe this, mum, he was holding my hand!” almost squealed Betty.

“She’s my friend, Mrs…” explained Ian, niot quite sure what he should call her.

“They showed it in close-up,” added Betty, who hadn’t seen it herself, “Clara told me. Everyone knows!”

For once in her life Jane was lost for words.

© Peter Rogerson 04.07.21

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