The three of them set off happily. Paul was dressed in a strange but practical getup of knickerbockers and thick boots that brought hoots of laughter from the girls. Evelyn and Daphne took a basket each and Paul carried, slung over one shoulder, a special case containing a spirit stove, paraffin, kettle, and all the tea things. He wasn’t going up Kinder Scout without getting a hot brew at the top, he said. He also carried a stout walking stick and a pair of binoculars.
They walked down to Aldbury High Street and caught the tram into Stockport, from where they had to catch the bus out to Hayfield. The tram had run a little late and now they were cutting it fine, and the bus station was milling with people. Paul said he’d never seen such a crowd on a Sunday. There were several extra buses laid on as well as hired charabancs and in the confusion Paul took off into the melée to find out where their bus was leaving from. After a minute he reappeared to say it was way over at the other side and they would have to run. Then he was off again, followed by Daphne, and Evelyn had a hard time keeping up. Puffing after them with the heavy basket, she fixed her eyes on Daphne’s bright green headscarf, bobbing ahead of her. It was lucky Daphne was so big and liked bright colours, she thought, or she’d have lost her by now. Just then she saw a frowning Paul coming towards her through the sea of people. When he caught sight of her his face broke into a grin.
“Eh, lass, you’re struggling! Give us that here.” So saying he took the basket from Evelyn’s aching arm and steered her towards the bus. She could have cried with gratitude.
They clambered aboard and got the last seats. The bus would wind its way through Stockport and on out towards New Mills before going on to Hayfield. From there it would go down to Chapel-en-le-Frith and on to Castleton and end up in Sheffield. Along the way it picked up more passengers and soon it was crammed with people, many of them standing, some with rucksacks and sticks, others in working jackets and caps. There were children, dogs, and numerous picnic baskets. A group of five men tried to board with a furled banner mounted on two tall poles, but the conductor refused to let them on.
As the bus rolled away, leaving them behind, Paul gazed after them and said,“Never seen the like. Going to be a big do, this.”
With its full load the bus went slowly. Sometimes a hired charabanc overtook them, with flags flying from the windows. Evelyn was not quick enough to read what they said, but Daphne reported excitedly, “Ooh! Workers for something or other! Anti-fascist Federation of-oh, it’s flapping, I can’t see what! Oh, Paul, that one’s got ‘Communist’ on it!”
She turned to Evelyn, wide-eyed. “Is that the sort of thing your Stan’s getting up to these days?” Evelyn shrugged. She didn’t know and she didn’t want to know. Daphne pulled at Paul’s sleeve. “Paul, Evelyn’s Stan might be one o’ them! He’s forever at meetings. ”
“More fool him, then,” Paul said tersely, “and you still newlyweds.”
“He’s one of the regulars,” Evelyn said. “He tires himself out on it.”
“Plain daft if you ask me,” Paul said. “Plain bloody daft.”
Evelyn wasn’t sure if he meant Stan was daft to go to all the meetings, or daft to stay away from her, but she flushed with pleasure.
“It’s that Alan O’Reilly’s doing, really,” she said demurely.
Daphne hooted with scorn.“Ho! I wonder if he’s brought a picnic, your famous Comrade O’Reilly? Bet they won’t! Well, they’re not cadging off us, that’s for sure!”
“No fear!” Paul cried, making them all laugh.
After that they settled down to the bus ride. Paul got into conversation with others on board, chatting about other walking routes and scenic paths that Evelyn had never heard of. She was content to watch out of the window. Trees and buildings looked different on Sundays, especially around Eastertime, cleaner than on weekdays. She had said that to Stan once and he hadn’t had a clue what she was going on about. She was looking out, trying to explain it again to herself but at the same time thinking Paul would understand what she meant. She wouldn’t have to explain it to him. She gave herself a shake. What funny thoughts she was getting, now she was pregnant! Why, Paul was at least eight years younger than she was, just a nice decent lad. She turned her thoughts to Stan and wondered if she would see him later. It seemed unlikely, she’d never find him among so many people. She nearly cried right there and then, and that too must be because she was pregnant. Things could come over her so suddenly these days.
There was a cold wind blowing when they got off the bus, Paul said, on account of Hayfield being that much higher. Evelyn didn’t mind once she had got her jerkin buttoned and a scarf on. Daphne had packed a couple of spare cardigans, at her mother’s insistence. Paul met up with some of his regular walking companions and so they all went along together in a friendly, loose straggle up the main street. There were lots of people, mainly young folk, and a lot more men and boys than women and girls. For a moment Evelyn felt awkward, surrounded by the laughing Daphne and Paul and his band of high-spirited lads. What was she doing here? Maybe Daphne’s mother had only let Daphne go on condition Evelyn went, too. Maybe she thought if there was a respectable married woman in tow, expecting a baby what’s more, it would keep Daphne and Paul from getting too giddy.
Hayfield people stood out at their doors, watching the procession go past. Evelyn couldn’t make out faces but she could tell by the shapes they made, standing tall with their arms folded, filling up their doorways and hardly moving, that they were wary of this invasion of their quiet village.
Just then, somewhere ahead of them, there was a holdup. It was impossible to see what was causing it but the whole procession ground to a halt and then came sounds of a bit of commotion up ahead, snatches of shouting and even some singing. A few people round about them joined in the song. Paul said in a loud growl, glaring round, “Manchester riffraff, Jews and communists. Stirring up the apprentices from Mather & Platt and the other big factories. They’ve been at it for months.”
“Well,” quipped Daphne, “what were you expecting? The Salvation Army?”
This broke the tension and several people laughed along with them. Evelyn began to long to sit down. Policemen were going up and down at the edge of the procession, holding truncheons. But they were addressing the crowds with civility, instructing people to make their way without hurrying up the main street. At the end of the village and once over the river at Bowden Bridge, they were to go as far as the quarry and wait there. A policeman asked Evelyn if she was feeling all right, which she thought very nice of him and, encouraged, she asked if he had seen the Northwest Federation of Free Working Men because she was looking for her husband. The policeman shook his head. He told her there were six hundred people here and more arriving, God only knew where from.
They got as far as the quarry only just in time to hear the tail end of the speeches and, as Paul called it, “that bloody daft political carry-on.” Most of the speakers and leaders had moved off already and the platform was being dismantled and two or three bands were packing up. Evelyn’s basket was already weighing very heavy on her arm and she didn’t feel much in the way of a walk, but after a breather they pressed on towards the reservoir, following the line of people already heading that way.
The sun came out, and cheering though it was, Evelyn could have done without it. The combination of a cold breeze and the bright light made her eyes water so badly she hardly knew where she was going. But it was lovely being in the country, she told herself. The air smelled sweet and in the fields next to the road there were lambs bleating away and the big ewes were all bunched right up at the wall, watching the people troop past. The big daft things stood like soft grey boulders. Evelyn went up to one and it didn’t budge. As she stared at it, all the while the wind and sunlight were sweeping over it, changing the colours on its back from silver to mucky grey to nearly dark as soot, like a smudge in the middle of a picture. She must have been dawdling, because Daphne called out.