‘I … er … thought it were you, only your hair used to be red and now it’s grey.’
Doug didn’t like the way this conversation was going.
‘Well, yes, it has changed. More distinguished, don’t you think? Not bad for sixty-nine, eh?’
‘Sixty-nine? Still the same old Doug, trying to fool the ladies! How yer poor wife put up wi’ you all those years, I’ll never know. How is she by the way?’
‘Well, I haven’t seen her for a while. We didn’t get on, decided to go our separate ways. Twenty years ago, to be precise.’
‘We! I’ll bet it was her who decided, and not before time either. And what about yer son?’
‘Canada. Been there ten years.’
‘So you’re all on yer own then? The irresistible Doug Fletcher left all on yer own. No one to black yer shoes or iron yer shirts. No wonder yer looking sorry for yerself! Eeh, it must ’ave been fate that got me out of me chair and brought me down ’ere today just for the pleasure of seeing the great Don Juan disbanded.’
‘Abandoned,’ corrected Sally.
‘Dumped, that’s what I mean. Just like he dumped me all those years ago. Do yer know, Sally love, I think I’ve come off best after all. I’ve got me lovely neph— son, and me beautiful grandchildren, and all without ’aving to put up with the likes of him. Eeh! You’ve made my day, bringing me down ’ere. Come on, let’s go and buy a bunch of flowers, I feel like celebrating.’
‘Can you manage?’ asked Sally, picking up the shopping.
‘Manage? I feel eighteen again. It’s as though all the shame and bitterness have slipped away and I can see Doug Fletcher for the poor poetic creature he really is.’
‘Pathetic,’ Sally interrupted, but Ida carried straight on. ‘With nothing at all to show for all his deceit and flatulence.’
Sally decided to ignore that one. Then Doug Fletcher stood up and touched Ida’s arm.
‘I thought we could perhaps see each other sometime, Ida. I always had a soft spot for you.’
‘Soft spot? It was me who had a soft spot. I must ’ave been soft in me head! The only one you ever had a soft spot for was yerself. When you’d got innocent young girls into trouble, you didn’t want to know.’
Sally ushered Ida out of the cafe, aware that the waitress and some other patrons who had just come in, mostly steelworkers, were listening in to this interesting conversation. Doug followed them out.
‘I didn’t know you were in trouble, Ida. You went away. By the time I found out what had happened, the boy was growing up and you were making out he was your nephew. I thought it better to leave well alone.’
‘Aye, better for you, no doubt. Well, I’ll tell you this, Doug Fletcher, I wouldn’t get together with you if you were the last man on earth. Go back in and enjoy yer dinner. It’s a far cry from the Grand Hotel! Come on, Sally, let’s go and buy those flowers and go home.’
‘Well, that certainly told him.’
Sally felt a bit dazed as they walked up to the main road. The shift-workers were flocking in for the afternoon shift, brought by bus from all areas of the city, Barnsley, and the surrounding villages.
Ida bought three bunches of chrysanthemums and gave one to Sally. I’m taking one for Emily Simms, too. She’s been such a good friend to me over the years and I’ve never appreciated it, but I do now.’
Then, when they were passing Miss McCall’s, Ida saw a frock in the shop window. ‘Oh, I do like that!’
‘Try it on then.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t … wasting all me coupons on a frock.’
‘Go on.’
‘All right! I ’aven’t bought owt to wear for years.’
‘Except knickers,’ said Sally with a smile. They went in. Judith McCall’s was the most exclusive shop outside the city.
‘Good afternoon. May I be of assistance?’ the proprietor enquired.
‘My friend would like to try on the dress in the window.’
‘Certainly. It’s woven wool, most exclusive.’ The dress was brought from the window and Ida was shown into a cubicle to try it on. Sally couldn’t believe the change in her when she emerged. The frumpy old woman had been transformed into a smart middle-aged one.
‘Oh! That’s really you.’ Miss McCall threw up her arms in admiration. ‘I’m afraid it is fifty-three shillings and eleven pence …’
Ida gazed at herself in the mirror and decided. ‘I’ll take it,’ she said.
Later, as they were climbing St George’s Road, she asked, ‘What colour did she say me new frock was?’
‘Almond.’
‘Blooming new-fangled colours! It’d ’ave been called fawn in my day.’
‘Well, whatever colour it is, you look lovely in it. When your Donald comes he won’t recognise you.’
‘I told ’er I was an eighteen but she wouldn’t believe me.’
‘Well, you don’t look it!’
‘I know. Like I said, I’m deceitful.’
Daisy was composing a poem for a competition. She had seen the details in a magazine at Grandma Butler’s. The subject had to be one which would remind the troops of home. She chose to write about buttercups. She knew all about them as she could look out of her bedroom window at a fieldful. She thought a lot of soldiers might have had a similar view from their windows at home.
The top half of the field had been taken over now by Dad and Tom Porter for an allotment. It was full of cabbages and Brussels sprouts, both of which Daisy hated. She had enjoyed the peas, though, which she and Norah had eaten straight from the allotment. Dad hadn’t minded, said it was better for Daisy to eat them raw than not to eat any vegetables at all. First of all she made a list of all the rhyming words, such as ‘green’ and ‘scene’ and glee and sea. Then she began her poem.
Down the lane the buttercups grow
A glimmering sea of gold and green.
Reflecting the glow of the evening sun,
A shimmering, dancing scene.
Down the lane and over the wall,
Little Ernie, and Dippy and me,
Follow the path through the long tall grass,
And into the buttercup sea.
Daisy wrote six verses about the glory of the flowers and little Ernie’s delight as he played amongst them. Then she wrote the final verse.
The summer won’t last for ever,
The flowers will die away.
And leave but sunkissed images,
In memory of today.
When winter spoils the meadow,
With slush and freezing rain.
I’ll remember a warm, small hand in mine,
And the buttercups down the lane.
‘What are you writing now?’ Sally asked.
‘Nothing,’ Daisy said, and ran across the field to Aunty Enid’s to ask Pat for an envelope. She didn’t want anyone to know about the competition and her cousin could keep a secret.
‘I need a stamp as well,’ Daisy told her.
‘Well, I haven’t got a stamp but I’ll buy you one.’ Pat wasn’t being paid at the theatre but was earning quite a bit in tips from making herself useful. There were lots of things Liz didn’t like doing, such as arranging the flowers in the dressing-rooms and sewing on buttons. Once Pat was even asked to stand in for a chorus girl who hadn’t turned up at rehearsal. The choreographer had been thrilled by her singing voice but didn’t think much of her dancing, accusing Pat of having two left feet. She didn’t mind, she loved her work, especially the tips.
‘Don’t tell anybody, will you, about the contest? Then if I don’t win, no one will laugh,’ Daisy pleaded with her.
‘And if you do win, think of the surprise it’ll be to them all!’
Pat thought her cousin had talent, she would encourage her. Maybe one day Daisy would be famous.
Mrs Miniver was on at the Palace. Amy was minding little Ernie, enabling Betty and Doreen to go. ‘You’d better go early,’ she warned them. ‘There’s bound to be a queue.’ Mrs Miniver was one of the year�
��s most successful films.
Amy undressed Ernie and put on his striped pyjamas, then she gave him a digestive biscuit and a drink of milk. She cuddled the little boy and rocked him in the old wooden chair that had been her mother’s. She sang the same lullaby she had sung to all her babies, the ones she still missed as much as she had since the day they were laid to rest in their tiny graves.
Sometimes she wished she could turn back the clock and give her remaining two children the attention she had not been able to then. So grief-stricken herself, Amy had failed to appreciate the sadness of young Jim and Betty. She should have talked to them more, explained why their brothers and sisters had suddenly been taken out of their lives. Jim had been less affected, but Betty, poor girl had needed comfort from her mother and not received it. No wonder she had gone off the rails for a few years, especially after her adored father died too. Oh, well, the lass had turned out all right in the end. Amy just dreaded receiving news that something had happened to Clarence. The lass was already distraught at the recent lack of word from him and Amy herself was beginning to fear the worst. Well, she would be there for her daughter this time, and for little Ernie.
She carried the sleeping child up to his cot and tucked the covers round his fair head. The baby scent reminded her of her own children, lost and still here. Amy said a prayer to herself then: ‘Please God, keep this child safe and bring us news of his father.’
Then she went down to her knitting: another pair of socks for Clarence. No point in being pessimistic. She had a lot for which to thank God. Her son was in a safe occupation, her grand-daughter had survived a fire, her own leg was finally healed, and she had a lovely daughter and grandson living with her. When Clarence came home, she would be the most fortunate woman in Millington. Please God, let it be soon.
Chapter Eight
IDA SEEMED QUIET when Sally arrived.
‘Are you all right?’ she enquired.
‘Aye.’
‘Only you seem a bit preoccupied.’
‘Aye, I am. I’ve had a letter from our Donald.’ Ida’s face brightened then. ‘Guess what?’
‘You’ve won the pools?’
Ida laughed. ‘No, I don’t send ’em.’
‘Well, then, I give in.’
‘They’re coming, all of ’em … our Donald, Joyce and the kids. For the whole day. I’m going to do a Sunday dinner. That’s if I can get a nice bit of beef.’
‘Oh, I’m sure Mr Baraclough’ll find you a bit. After all, it is a special occasion.’
‘Aye, I’m glad I kept me meat ration with ’im. ’E’s a good butcher, knows ’is trade.’
‘When are they coming?’
‘Saturday.’
‘So why were you looking so glum when I came in?’
‘It seems I misjudged Doug Fletcher.’
‘Oh?’
‘I wrote and poured it all out to our Donald, about being his mother. Told ’im how sorry I was for keeping it from ’im and that I did it for his sake, to stop ’im from being picked on, like.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He told me not to lose any sleep over it. Says ’e knew from being about six years old. This nice man called Doug kept coming to watch them on the playing field, apparently. Sometimes ’e would join in and play with ’em. Donald says one day another boy said, “That’s yer dad, isn’t it?” Our Donald says he supposed he already knew as ’e looked just like Doug. The other boy said, “Don’t worry, me mam says I’ve not to tell anybody.” And ’e never did.”
‘Well, and to think your Donald kept it to himself all these years!’
‘He says Doug Fletcher bought ’im a new football once for Christmas, but he let his friend keep it at his house so I wouldn’t ask where he’d got it from.’
‘Your Doug sounds a very understanding man. Just like Donald.’
‘Oh, aye, our Donald is. Well, I expect he’s got that from his dad … Oh, but, Sally, ’aven’t I been a fool all these years?’
‘Yes, but a well-meaning one.’
‘I shall wear me new frock.’
‘You’ll look lovely. It fits as though it was made to measure. What about your grandsons? Has Donald told them you’re their grandma?’
‘Yes, ’e talked to them the other night, explained everything. ’E says the youngest jumped up and down with excitement at ’aving a grandma.’
‘Do they know they’ve got a grand-dad as well?’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that. Donald hasn’t mentioned it in his letter.’ Ida sighed then. ‘Eeh, I didn’t shut me eyes all night, thinking ’ow thin and poetic ’e looked.’
‘Pathetic? Well, I don’t suppose he’s eating properly, with no woman about the place.’
‘No. It’s a shame. And he used to be so handsome …’
‘He still is.’ Sally put the top on the Brasso and replaced the ornaments on the mantelpiece.
‘Aye, ’e is.’
‘Well, I’ll be off then. I want to call in and check on Mr Powell.’
‘Danny Powell? He was another nice-looking lad. A shame about ’is leg.’
‘What happened?’
‘A piece of metal swung the wrong way on the crane, straight through ’is leg. Got a lot of compensation, but no amount of money can mek up for a leg. Thought the world of each other, him and his wife did.’
‘He fancied you once,’ Sally told her. Ida took this in her stride.
‘Aye, most of the lads did. Could ’ave had my pick of ’em if it ’adn’t been for me father. He ruled me life so much I fell for the first one who looked at me, when I found meself free.’ She stared into the fire. ‘He was a bad bugger, my dad.’ She looked so serious for a moment that Sally thought she’d better not laugh at Ida’s use of the swear word.
‘He beat me mother and me with a leather belt, every time he had too much to drink. I’ll never forget the fear on a Saturday night, waiting for ’im to come home. That’s why I told your Jim not to hit your little Daisy.’
‘He hasn’t, ever. I have, but only a slap on the leg, and only when she deserves it.’
‘Doug Fletcher’d never hit kids. He was a womaniser, but a kind one. I’m sorry I cheated his wife, even if it was unknowingly. But I don’t regret ’aving our Donald. He’s a kind, handsome lad, just like his dad.’
‘Aye, well, I’m off. Have a lovely day on Saturday. Do you want me to do your shopping for you?’
‘Do I heck! I need to walk more. I don’t want to put any weight on or me new frock won’t fit me.’
Sally was still smiling when she reached Danny’s.
The telegram they’d dreaded arrived on Monday morning: Clarence Hayes had died of dysentery in a German concentration camp. The news spread along the three rows before dinner-time. Betty was inconsolable. Sally took up residence at her mother-in-law’s in order to look after little Ernie. Amy was almost as upset as her daughter. She had grown fond of Clarence during his last week’s leave and dreaded the effect his death would have on Betty. Sally took over the care of Ernie for three days and then decided it was doing her sister-in-law more harm than good.
‘Betty needs to get up and see to Ernie,’ she told Amy.
‘Well, I don’t know what to do for the best.’ Amy, too, was worried her daughter would go into a decline if she stayed in bed much longer.
‘I think we should make her get up,’ Sally suggested.
‘Aye.’
Sally went upstairs, carrying little Ernie. ‘Betty love, our Ernie wants his mam. You need to get up.’
‘I know. It’s just, I still can’t believe that telegram. If I could see Clarence … his body, I mean … then I would know for sure.’
‘Yes, I can understand that. But they don’t send news that a man’s dead if they aren’t sure. The telegram would read that he was missing, believed dead, in that case. Clarence isn’t missing, Betty, he’s dead.’
‘Yes.’ She got up on shaky legs. ‘But his son’s still here. At least I’ve something
of him remaining.’ She lifted little Ernie on to the bed and sat down beside him, holding him close. The little boy wound his arms round his mother’s neck. Betty started to cry again, her tears dampening her son’s hair. Sally left the room, knowing that she would be all the better for letting go of her sorrow.
‘Mammy not cry!’ Ernie hugged Betty tighter.
‘No! Mammy won’t cry any more.’ She smiled at her son. He was a thoughtful little boy. Like his father, in fact. She would bring him up to be a son Clarence would have been proud of. She owed her husband that.
‘Come on, let’s go and help Grandma.’ She knew how worried her mother would be about her grieving.
There was still the war to get through, still the kids to feed. There were thousands of wives in her position so she’d better stop feeling sorry for herself and get on with things.
Daisy searched the house, every drawer and cupboard, but couldn’t find anything to write on. She even looked inside the music stool that had come from Grand-dad Denman with the piano, but was disappointed. She ended up cutting a brown paper carrier bag into squares. What she did find, though, was a pixie hat, obviously put away for the colder weather. A large-sized pixie hat in horrible khaki wool, the sort that was all wiry and itchy. Well, she wouldn’t wear it. Fancy wearing a pixie hat at her age! Everybody would make fun of her. Besides, she never had sore throats now she had had her tonsils removed. She would have to tell Grandma Butler not to knit any more, even if she did hurt her feelings.
When Daisy came home from school one day there was a tramp in the kitchen. He was sitting at the table eating greengage jam sandwiches. Sally had felt sorry for him and invited him in for a pot of tea. Daisy couldn’t take her eyes off him and sat down at the table with him so she could stare at him. He had hair down to his shoulders and a beard down to his chest.
‘Hello, Curlylocks,’ he said to her.
‘Hello,’ she said, fascinated by his long overcoat tied round the waist with an old pyjama cord. ‘Where have you come from?’ She knew it was cheeky to ask, but couldn’t resist doing so.
‘Where have I come from?’ The tramp considered the question before answering, ‘Well, originally I was a knight, in my past life that was, so I came from all over the place. Now I’m visiting all the castles, to try and find my spiritual home.’
Where the Heart Is Page 20
