Singing The Blues: January 1957

The frost had settled thick on the rooftops along the terraced row, turning the slates the colour of pewter. It was still dark at half-past seven, on the kind of January morning where the cold felt as if it had settled in for the year. A milk float rattled somewhere down the next street, the clink of bottles carrying through the stillness.

Arthur pulled his coat tighter as he stepped out of the front door, locking it with a stiff turn of the key. The latch stuck in winter; it always had. He stamped once on the step to ram his thickly socked feet more firmly into his boots and glanced up at the sky: it was clear and pale, promising nothing warmer than yesterday. The BBC had said temperatures would stay low, with fog patches in the evenings. He believed them. They’d actually been right all week.

He walked briskly toward the bus stop on the main road, his breath rising from his mouth like pipe smoke. A Daily Herald billboard outside the newsagent announced SUEZ TALKS STALL AGAIN in thick black letters. Arthur barely looked. The world had been in a state for months; it wasn’t going to right itself straight after breakfast.

At the stop, a woman in a navy headscarf nodded to him. “Cold one.”

“Gets in your bones,” he agreed.

The bus arrived with a hiss of brakes, its windows fogged from the warmth inside. Arthur climbed aboard, dropped his coins into the conductor’s hand and found a seat near the front. A schoolboy in short trousers, apparently oblivious to the purple hue of his exposed knees, was reading a comic: Dan Dare in lurid colours on the cover of The Eagle.

Arthur stared out of the window as the bus trundled toward the factory. Rows of houses gave way to the low industrial buildings that lined the outskirts. He’d worked at the foundry ever since returning from National Service. The foreman, Mr. Hargreaves, would already be in, stamping around the floor with his clipboard, barking at anyone who looked idle.

Arthur didn’t mind the work. It was steady, which counted for something these days.

But he minded the quiet at home. He minded it more than he let on.

⁙

Lydia stood at the kitchen sink, her sleeves rolled up and hands immersed in warm suds of Sunlight. The window above the sink was fogged, but she could see the faint outline of the back garden: the washing line stiff with frost, the shed roof white as a layer of royal icing. She hummed under her breath; not a tune from the wireless, just something random to fill the silence.

She’d been up since six. A habit, since Arthur left early and she liked to have his tea ready, his sandwiches wrapped, his flask filled. She’d done it for years. It wasn’t the work that bothered her. It was the way he’d stopped talking to her while she did it.

She dried her hands and switched on the wireless. Its valves glowed as the Light Programme slowly crackled to life. A presenter with a clipped, cheerful voice introduced the morning music segment. She listened for a moment, then turned it down again. Too bright for this hour.

She had her own job to get to, at Woolworths on the High Street. She worked the counters; mostly haberdashery, sometimes toys if they were short. The January sales had kept them busy, though the rush was easing now. People were counting pennies after Christmas.

She went upstairs to dress: a grey wool skirt and a cream blouse, matched with the cardigan her sister had knitted her last year. She pinned her hair neatly, applied a touch of powder and checked her reflection. Not bad for thirty-two. Not old, but not young. Somewhere in between, where things could still change but rarely did.

Downstairs again, she put on her coat and gloves, turned off the wireless and stepped out into the cold.

⁙

The High Street was waking up. A delivery lorry backed into the alley beside the Co‑op; a man in a flat cap shouted instructions. The Odeon’s posters were being updated: The King and I still showing and High Society announced as coming soon. A group of teenagers lingered outside the record shop, peering at the window display: Elvis, Guy Mitchell, Lonnie Donegan. They talked excitedly about the skiffle craze; the clatter of washboards, cheap guitars and broomstick basses.

Lydia passed them and went into Woolworths through the staff entrance. The shop smelled of floor polish and a hint of Lily of the Valley. Miss Partridge, the supervisor, was already fussing with the tills.

“You’re in toys this morning,” she said without looking up.

“All right.”

“And mind the display. Children have been pulling things off the islands.”

“They always do.”

Miss Partridge sniffed, as if children were a personal affront.

By ten o’clock the shop was busy. Mothers with prams, pensioners counting coins, schoolchildren spending pocket money on sherbet fountains and marbles. Lydia moved between the counters, straightening boxes, answering questions, demonstrating a clockwork train that whirred noisily along a short length of track.

At eleven, a man approached her: mid-forties, well-dressed, a trilby in his hand.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Do you stock those new View-Master reels? My daughter’s after the Disney fairy-tale ones.”

“Over here,” Lydia said, leading him to the display.

He examined the reels, selecting two sets. “She’ll be pleased. Hard to keep up with what children want these days.”

“They change their minds so quickly.”

He smiled. “Don’t we all.”

She rang up his purchase. He thanked her and left. She watched him go, then shook herself and returned to the shelves.

⁙

At the foundry, the machines roared and clattered; the air uncomfortably hot in contrast to the cold outside. Arthur worked at his station, shaping sheet metal, the rhythms sure and familiar. During the tea break, he sat with his mate Bill, who was reading the Daily Mirror.

“Look at this,” Bill said, tapping a headline about the latest developments in the aftermath of Suez. “Whole thing’s a mess.”

Arthur nodded. “Was from the start.”

Bill folded the paper. “You all right, Art? You’ve been quiet.”

“Nothing wrong.”

“Your Lydia all right?”

Arthur hesitated. “She’s fine.”

Bill gave him a look that said he didn’t believe a word of it but wasn’t going to push. Then the whistle blew and they went back to work.

⁙

That evening, fog settled low over the streets, softening the lamps into amber halos. Arthur arrived home to find the house warm, with the smell of shepherd’s pie drifting from the kitchen.

Lydia was setting the table. “Good day?” she asked.

“Same as any.”

He hung up his coat, washed his hands in the kitchen sink, then sat in his usual place. They ate in near silence, the clink of cutlery the only sound. Afterward, Lydia washed up while Arthur read The Daily Express in the front room. The wireless murmured in the background: the news headlines, followed by a comedy programme with Ted Ray.

At half-past eight, Lydia came in and sat opposite him. “Arthur,” she said quietly.

He lowered the paper. “What is it?”

“We hardly speak anymore.”

He stared at her, unsure how to answer.

She continued, “I’m not asking for grand gestures. Just… something. A bit of warmth.”

He folded the paper carefully. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Say anything.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Words felt heavy and awkward, but somehow danced out of reach.

She looked at him for a long moment, then stood abruptly. “I’m going to bed.”

He remained in the chair long after she’d gone upstairs.

⁙

The next day, the cold deepened even further. The BBC reported temperatures below freezing across much of the country, with fog thickening in the evenings. At Woolworths, the heating struggled to keep up. Customers kept their coats buttoned up as they browsed.

During her lunch break, Lydia went to the café near the station. It was busy with office clerks, shop girls and a few older men reading newspapers. She found a seat by the window and ordered tea and a cheese roll.

As she stirred her tea, she noticed the man from yesterday; the one who’d bought the View-Master reels. He was seated two tables away, reading The Times. He looked up, recognised her and nodded politely.

She nodded back.

A moment later, he stood and approached her table. “Mind if I join you? If it’s not an imposition.”

She hesitated, then gestured to the empty chair. “Of course.”

He sat. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“I come here most days.”

“I’m usually at the office canteen, but it’s being repainted.” He smiled. “I’m Robert, by the way.”

“Lydia.”

They talked lightly, with a polite ease. About the weather, the January sales, the films showing at the Odeon. He’d taken his daughter to see The King and I; she’d loved it. Lydia mentioned she hadn’t been to the pictures in months.

“You should go,” he said. “It’s a good escape.”

She smiled faintly. “Maybe.”

When her break ended, she stood almost reluctantly. “I should get back.”

“Of course. Nice talking to you.”

“You too.”

She walked back to the shop with a strange flutter in her chest.

⁙

That evening, Arthur came home to find Lydia quieter than usual. She moved around the kitchen with a distant expression, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. He watched her, unsure how to bridge the gap between them.

After dinner, he cleared his throat. “We could go to the pictures tomorrow. If you like.”

She looked up, surprised. “Tomorrow?”

“Saturday night. They’re showing that musical. The one with Yul Brynner.”

She hesitated. “All right.”

He nodded, feeling relieved and anxious, both at once.

⁙

Saturday dawned cold and bright, the frost glittering on the pavements. Arthur worked the morning shift for a bit of extra overtime and returned home about two. Lydia spent the day cleaning, then ironing, then sitting for a while with copy of Woman’s Own she didn’t really read.

By six, they were dressed to go. Lydia wore her smartest coat, dark green with a coney fur collar, plus a pair of kid leather gloves. Arthur wore his Sunday best suit, brushed and pressed.

They walked to the Odeon through the crisp evening air. The queue stretched along the pavement, people stamping their feet for warmth. A group of teenagers laughed loudly, one of them carrying a portable transistor radio; a bit of an expensive novelty, with a tinny sound.

Inside, the foyer smelled of popcorn and cigarette smoke. A few discrete posters of Ingrid Bergman, Marlon Brando and James Dean lined the art deco walls. Lydia felt a small lift in her chest; she’d forgotten how much she liked the cinema.

They found seats halfway back. The lights dimmed. The newsreel came first: footage of the new Prime Minister, Princess Grace’s first baby, gales and high waves hitting the West Country, the continuing Suez negotiations. Arthur watched intently, while Lydia watched him.

After a forgettable light-hearted short about dogs, the main feature began.

For two hours, they sat side by side in the warm darkness, the CinemaScope colours bright, the Rogers and Hammerstein music sweeping. Lydia felt herself drawn into the story, the spectacle, the escape of it all. She glanced at Arthur once; he was also captured by the screen, though his expression was unreadable.

When the film ended, they stepped out into the cold night. Fog had begun to gather again, wreathing the streetlamps.

“Did you like it?” Arthur asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

They walked home in silence, but it was a different kind of silence: less strained, more companionable.

⁙

Sunday morning began grey, the sky low and heavy. Arthur read The People after breakfast, while Lydia went to church. When she returned, he was still in the front room with his feet up, the wireless murmuring by his side.

“I’m going for a walk,” she declared, her coat still buttoned.

He looked up. “Want company?”

She hesitated. “I think I’d like to go alone.”

He nodded, though something in his face tightened.

She walked through the park, the grass stiff with frost. Children tried to fashion snowballs from the thin dusting that remained in shaded patches. A man walked his dog along the path. Lydia breathed in the cold air, letting it clear her thoughts.

Near the bandstand, she saw Robert. He was alone, a waxed paper bag of breadcrumbs in his hand, looking out across the lake towards a huddle of ducks.

He turned at the sound of her footsteps. “Lydia.”

“Hello.”

“Didn’t expect to see you.”

“I come here sometimes.”

They stood for a moment, the silence stretching between them without becoming uncomfortable.

He said, “You seemed very… thoughtful, the other day.”

“I suppose I was.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

He studied her face. “Sometimes nothing is something.”

She looked away. “I should go.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

She walked on, heart beating too fast.

⁙

That evening, Arthur noticed her quietness again. He set down his paper. “Lydia,” he said. “Are you unhappy?”

She looked at him, startled by the directness. “I don’t know,” she said. “I feel… stuck. Like everything’s settled into place and I’m just watching it happen.”

He swallowed. “Is it me?”

“It’s both of us.”

He nodded slowly. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Neither do I.”

They sat in silence, the wireless playing softly in the background.

⁙

Monday brought more frost and fog. At Woolworths, Lydia returned to working the haberdashery counter. She kept busy, grateful for the distraction.

During her break, she avoided the café near the station. She didn’t trust herself to sit there without looking for Robert.

Instead, she walked to the library. It was quiet and warm, the smell of books comforting. She browsed the shelves, choosing Rumer Godden’s An Episode of Sparrows almost at random. As she checked it out, she felt a small sense of steadiness return.

⁙

On Tuesday evening, Arthur came home with a suggestion: “There’s a dance at the community hall on Friday,” he said. “Bill mentioned it. Live band. Nothing fancy.”

She looked at him. “You want to go?”

“If you do.”

She considered. “All right.”

He nodded, relieved.

⁙

Friday arrived with a thin fall of snow in the morning, which melted by midday. The evening was cold but clear. The community hall was decorated with paper streamers left over from New Year’s Eve. A small band, consisting of piano, drums and saxophone, played mostly standards, with a few newer numbers.

Arthur and Lydia stood awkwardly at first, watching others dance. Hearing the opening bars of True Love, Arthur said, “Shall we?”

She nodded.

They danced slowly and carefully, as if relearning something they’d once known. His hand on her waist felt both familiar and strange. She rested her hand lightly on his shoulder.

After the dance, they sat at a table with two cups of weak tea.

Arthur said quietly, “I don’t want us to drift apart.”

“Neither do I.”

“I’m not good with words.”

“I know.”

“But I’m trying.”

She looked at him, searching for the man she thought she knew. “I can see that.”

They sat in silence, but it was a warmer silence than before.

⁙

The week ended as it had begun: cold and foggy, with the world still in a state of uncertainty. But something between them had shifted; not dramatically and not magically, but enough to suggest the prospect of thaw.

On Saturday morning, Lydia made tea and brought Arthur a cup where he sat reading the local Recorder. He looked up, pleasantly surprised.

“Thank you,” he said.

She sat beside him. He had the paper folded open on one of the inside pages; a small boxed item halfway down the column. A photograph caught her eye before the words did: grainy, but unmistakably Robert, standing beside a well-dressed woman who rested a hand lightly on his arm. The caption mentioned a local council by-election and named him as one of the candidates.

Arthur barely skimmed the article, while Lydia lingered on the image of the poised woman beside Robert, the easy confidence of her stance, the sense of their settled life; complete, intact and far from anything she had imagined. The small flutter she had carried all week dissolved quietly, like frost touched by sunlight.

She drew back slightly, steadying herself and pointed towards the partially completed crossword on the facing page.

“What are you stuck on?” she asked, her voice even.

Arthur pulled the pencil from behind his ear and tapped the grid with its point. “Trying to figure this one out. Eight across:‘gloomy. Six letters.”

She leaned closer, their shoulders brushing. “Dismal,” she said.

He wrote it in, satisfied. “Knew you’d get it.”

They chatted about the news, about the film they’d seen, about maybe going dancing again, about dozens of small things that didn’t matter and yet somehow did. She filled in another clue for him, then another, the pencil passing easily between their hands.

Outside, the frost began to melt from the rooftops.