At last the war had ended, Hitler was defeated and people entered the new year of 1946 with renewed hope. London had suffered massive bomb damage but people everywhere seemed to have a new sense of purpose.
How marvelous people are when faced with such terrible odds, Evelyn thought as she drove through the packed, bomb ravaged streets of London on her way to take a few days break in the beautiful Yorkshire Dales just to chill out. She knew the journey well; escaping the hustle and bustle of London for a break in the countryside was the regular tonic Evelyn sought at least twice a year.
It was solitude she sought, well apart from the few acquaintances she had inevitably made during previous visits, and she was able to spend a few days with only herself for company, giving her time to think, reassess her life, its direction and gain a sense of renewal.
Evelyn was Scottish, born in Edinburgh; she worked as a freelance journalist and earned her living submitting copy and articles to national daily newspapers and magazines and, on more than one occasion, had found something to write about in the tranquil setting the Dales provided. She had moved to London with her parents in the early 1920s but always had a yearning for the countryside. Her marriage to Tom Bristow, a lawyer, had failed and they had divorced amicably in 1939 just before the war. Tom did not want children being very career orientated while Evelyn craved a family.
The stresses and constant arguments eventually became too much and their eight-year marriage was doomed. Evelyn felt deprived of the children she had always wanted and had now given up all hope of motherhood. Although they had been parted seven years Tom had always been totally opposed to divorce and, in mid 1940s Britain, divorce was a difficult, prolonged and somewhat impossible process if one party objected but finally he relented and the divorce came through.
Their paths still crossed and they occasionally met up for lunch. She still had feelings for him but knew she could never change him and there had been too many arguments and fundamental differences for their marriage ever to be resurrected. She still found him very handsome and, at 41 years of age, time had treated him kindly.
At thirty-six, Evelyn was a very attractive redhead. She was far more attractive than she gave herself credit for. Her shiny, long, red hair flowed beyond shoulder length draping onto her back. She had long legs and was lucky, just after the war, to have scarce nylon stockings the seam of which accentuated the beauty of her calves, and her slim ankles graced her high-heeled shoes.
Today, however, her shoes were more sensible as she sat behind the wheel of her car and started the long journey from London to Yorkshire. It was in the era before motorways and she stopped on a few occasions at cafes along her route for a cup of tea and a short break before continuing.
It was early evening by the time she drove into Horton-in-Ribblesdale, a sleepy village surrounded by ancient dry-stone-walls and the hillsides where sheep and goats wandered freely as they had done for centuries – so typical of this beautiful part of England.
Passing over the quaint stone bridge and past the ancient church where marriages and baptisms had taken place for hundreds of years, she pulled into the car park of the Crown Inn. She was welcomed by George, the landlord, a ruddy-faced man with a very pleasant smile, she signed the visitors' book and George helped to carry her luggage to her room containing an inviting double-bed.
Plonking her suitcase down George greeted her with, "Have a nice stay Mrs. Bristow. Evelyn had not yet reverted to her maiden-name. "If there is anything you need just shout."
"Oh George, how many times have I told you, my name is Evelyn?"
George just displayed is crooked-toothed, but very pleasant endearing smile.
After George left she sat on the bed and performed a little bounce to test the springs then looked around. It was basic, a wash basin, a wardrobe, a dressing table which afforded a set of drawers and a mirror. In the corner near the window there was an easy-chair. Inside the wardrobe door there was a full-length mirror and Evelyn caught the first proper glimpse of herself since leaving London.
"Ugh." She groaned then picking her case up she tossed it onto the bed and opened it taking out her clothes and hanging some in the wardrobe and putting her underwear into the dressing table drawers leaving a clean set of underwear on the bed along with the blue dress she intended to change into.
Scanning the room again she thought, this will do for a couple of tranquil days away from it all. She had stayed here before, knew some of the locals and George was a pleasant old soul, friendly and with a quaint sense of humour. She knew the accommodation would be rudimentary, certainly a million miles away from the luxurious hotels she had often stayed in but that came with the territory in the little Dales villages. George would never call her Evelyn no matter how hard she tried it would always be "Mrs. Bristow" or simply "Ma'am".
She removed the case from the bed, took a refreshing wash using the wash basin, a shower would have to wait until morning when she visited the swimming baths in the near by town of Settle.
She kicked her shoes off, removed the white blouse and grey skirt she was wearing, slipped out of her bra and panties. In the full-length mirror of the open wardrobe door she looked at herself. Like many woman do, she could only see what she perceived as faults but in fact she had a figure most women would die for.
Taking the bra from the bed she fastened the clasp at the front and shuffled it around to the back then pulled the straps over her shoulders and adjusted the cups to comfortably hold each of her fulsome breasts. She wriggled into some white, silk-French knickers, pulling them up snuggly, her white suspender belt was fastened in place before her nylons were carefully pulled over her feet, stretched up her calves, over her knees and smoothed out along her thighs, carefully checking the seams before being clipped to her suspenders.
She stepped into her high-healed shoes, locked her door and carefully negotiated the old, narrow, creaking stairs, turning left at the bottom into the bar of this ancient, almost medieval pub. She ordered a gin and tonic and took an old wooden, backrest seat in an alcove and surveyed the scene.
The pub was typically rural in character and one could easily imagine that nothing had changed for centuries. Evelyn loved quaint, old English pubs with the glow from the coal fire flickering across people's faces and sparkling horse brasses nailed proudly on the ancient oak beams above her head. The bare stone floor had the worn scares of centuries of treading feet that had scoured an ancient message, leaving the mark of busy lives long gone.
