John was seated in the centre, flanked by Lily and Vera. The younger children sat cross-legged on the grass and the older ones stood in a line behind them. Vera had chalked ‘1952’ on a slate board and it was propped in front of the toecaps of John Pruett’s highly polished black leather shoes.
‘Right everyone, look at the camera and smile please,’ said Tom and the class of ’52 froze for their special moment in time.
Everyone did as they were told and looked at the camera … except Lily. She was looking at Tom.
Later, Lily was on playground duty and pretending to watch the goldfinches in the hedgerow pecking at the ripe seeds while keeping one eye on Tom as he walked down the steps of the entrance porch.
He smiled when he saw her. ‘Miss Briggs, how’s the bicycle?’
‘Perfect,’ said Lily, touching her cheeks and hoping she wasn’t blushing. ‘It’s running well. Mr Pratt’s son did an excellent job, but after half-term I shall catch the bus.’
‘Probably wise with the darker days coming up.’
They both leaned back against the school wall. Around them the hedgerows were rich with wild fruits. A feast of jams and jellies was in store for the villagers of Ragley as autumn shifted towards winter.
‘That was a wonderful talk, Sergeant Feather,’ said Lily. ‘Thank you for that. The children gained a lot from it.’
Tom nodded. ‘It’s important to keep them safe.’ Then he looked around. Children were running, skipping and kicking a football. None was within earshot.
‘Perhaps you could call me Tom when I’m off duty?’
It was Lily’s turn to smile. ‘Very well.’
He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Anyway, things to do, must press on.’
As he turned away, Lily called out, ‘I’m Lily, by the way.’
He waved as he closed the school gate. ‘I know,’ he said.
Off duty, mused Lily.
It was half past nine and Ruby was in her steamy kitchen washing nappies. It was a messy, smelly business, as Andy went through six nappies every day. She stood next to a huge tub and pounded the posser stick up and down in the soapy water. As she worked, beads of sweat formed on her brow. She was turning the handle of the mangle when Ronnie walked in.
‘Where’s m’breakfast?’
‘You’ll ’ave t’wait, luv,’ said Ruby.
He sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Well, don’t be long – ah’m sweatin’ cobs in ’ere.’
‘Ah’ll ’ave t’feed Andy soon,’ said Ruby. ‘Can you get y’self some toast?’
‘Man can’t survive on bread alone,’ quoted Ronnie.
‘Ah’ll do an egg after ah’ve seen to Andy,’ she said in a tired voice. ‘Ah think there’s one left.’
Soon Ruby was feeding her son. She had been advised by the health worker to wean Andy at four months and feed him on bone broth. Her mother, Agnes, had supplemented this with some tripe, as she said it was high in iron and wasn’t rationed. Naturally, Ruby followed her mother’s advice.
There was a pattern to the week for the womenfolk of Ragley village and they wore a headscarf and a pinny as a form of universal uniform. Monday was washday, followed by ironing on Tuesday. Wednesday and Thursday involved lots of polishing and dusting, and Friday was the day the menfolk brought home their wages. Saturday was ‘Big Shop’ day, with possibly a visit to the cinema, and Sunday was a time for best clothes and church.
However, even though it was Wednesday, Ruby had nappies to wash. Also, it was rare for Ronnie to give her any money for housekeeping and the money from her part-time cleaning at The Royal Oak was barely enough to pay the rent and put food on the table. Times were hard for Ruby.
At eleven o’clock she recalled Miss Evans’s offer of a few Farley’s rusks and set off for school. Vera was a member of the Church Toys for Children Committee and she had passed on to Ruby a knitted teddy bear with long, straggly legs. Andy loved chewing one of the legs at every opportunity and Ruby was pleased it kept him both quiet and happy.
Vera saw her coming up the drive and went out to meet her. ‘Hello, Ruby, I’m glad you came. Come round the back to the kitchen door.’
In the kitchen, Vera collected the leftover rusks and brought them out to Ruby.
‘Perfec’ for our Andy wi’ a bit o’ warm milk,’ said Ruby. ‘Ah’m grateful, Miss Evans.’
With Andy chewing on his teddy, they walked back down the drive and Vera wondered what would become of this hard-working young woman.
At lunchtime John Pruett and Lily were inspecting the children’s hands before they sat down for their meal.
‘You’ll have to wash your hands, Malcolm,’ said Mr Pruett.
Dave always stood up for his diminutive cousin. ‘But they’ll only get mucky again, sir.’
John nodded sagely. ‘Yes, David, I expect they will … but we don’t want any germs, do we?’
Dave paused. ‘Germs?’ Then his face lit up with realization. ‘Ah, Germans … y’reight there, sir, ’cause we gave ’em a proper good ’idin’ in t’war.’
‘You shouldn’t say things like that, David,’ said Lily sternly.
Dave looked puzzled. ‘Yes, Miss,’ and he ran off.
John grinned. ‘Actually, he does have a point.’
Lily turned away abruptly and didn’t reply.
It was mid-afternoon when Ruby’s mother, Agnes, arrived home from the chocolate factory in York. She took off her coat, picked up Andy and gave him a cuddle. ‘How’s my little soldier?’ she asked.
Then she winced and went red in the face with the effort of lifting her sturdy grandson. Agnes was the proud owner of a pair of cami-knickers made from parachute silk. These were fine, but she also insisted on wearing a peach-coloured corset with severe bones, which, after a couple of hours of decorating chocolates, felt like an instrument of medieval torture. In consequence, it made breathing very difficult. Ruby had tried to encourage her to purchase a rubber roll-on corset, but to no avail.
‘Tek y’corset off, Mam, an’ ’ave a cup o’ tea,’ said Ruby.
Agnes looked at Ruby and a crease of worry appeared on her forehead. ‘You look proper peaky. What’s matter?’
‘Ah’m all at sixes an’ sevens t’day,’ said Ruby.
‘Mebbe you ought t’fill that brain o’ yours wi’ summat useful, Ruby,’ said Agnes with feeling, ‘’cause empty cans mek most noise.’
‘Ah’m too busy, Mam.’
‘Y’need t’go an’ learn summat useful.’
‘Mebbe ah will.’ Ruby glanced at the clock. ‘Ah’ll ’ave t’go, if y’don’t mind lookin’ after our Andy. Ah’ve got an appointment wi’ Doctor Davenport.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Nowt … jus’ not feelin’ m’self,’ and with that she hurried out.
She passed their next-door neighbour, Mrs Cuthbertson, in the doorway. Betty Cuthbertson was known as the local scrounger. She knocked on the door and walked straight in. No one on the council estate locked their back doors and it was the norm for neighbours to arrive unannounced.
‘’As tha got a cup o’ sugar, Agnes luv?’ She sat down heavily on a chair. ‘Tea in t’pot?’ she enquired.
It was well known that Betty’s four children drank out of jam jars as she only owned two old pottery mugs. As usual, she had sent them to school with a slice of bread and dripping.
‘So what’s matter wi’ your Ruby?’ asked Betty, who was never backwards in coming forwards.
Richard Davenport’s surgery was on the Morton road, in the front room of Elderberry Cottage, where he lived with his wife, Joyce. He was a kindly twenty-seven-year-old, who had recently qualified and had grown used to the village community with its wide variety of ailments and problems. Often he could be seen hurrying out with his little black bag and bottles of strange-smelling medicine and jumping into his Morris Minor.
On occasions, home visits were requested by telephone, but more often than not there would be a knock on his door and an eager face would look up wi
th the urgent message, ‘M’mam’s been tekken badly, Doctor.’
‘Oh dear, do you know what’s wrong with her?’
‘Women’s troubles.’
Dr Davenport would nod knowingly and reach for his black bag.
When Ruby Smith arrived at his surgery, it didn’t take long for him to realize the young woman needed time and reassurance, and their conversation was lengthy.
Half an hour later Ruby walked slowly to the village green, deep in thought, and sat down on the bench under the weeping willow tree.
All was quiet until, above her head, a skein of honking geese flew in perfect arrow formation across a gunmetal sky over the school bell tower and into the distance. She watched as they disappeared over the horizon and envied their freedom.
Vera was coming out of her meeting in the village hall when she caught sight of Ruby sitting alone. Ruby looked tired and her eyes were red with tears once again.
‘Hello, Ruby,’ said Vera. ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘It’s ’appened,’ said Ruby.
‘What has happened?’
‘Ah’ve fallen again, Miss Evans,’ explained Ruby. She looked concerned and chewed her knuckles.
‘Fallen?’
‘Yes, ah’m expectin’ m’second.’
‘I see,’ said Vera evenly. ‘And did you want another child, Ruby?’
‘Not speshully, but ah’d no choice.’
‘No choice?’ It was Vera’s turn to look concerned.
‘Well ah were allus told it were men what took care o’ that side o’ things.’
Vera frowned. ‘Who told you that?’
‘M’mother, Miss Evans.’
Vera was aware that access to contraception was extremely limited. ‘Well I wish you well, Ruby, and do come to me if you need anything.’
Ruby couldn’t bring to mind anything the tall, elegant spinster could do for her, but she recognized the gesture. ‘Thank you kindly, Miss Evans,’ she said and set off for the butcher’s to request a scrag end and a few spare bones to make some stock.
Vera stared after her and said quietly, ‘There is surely a future hope for you, and hope will not be cut off.’
If her brother had been there she wondered if he would have added ‘Proverbs, chapter twenty-three, verse eighteen’ … but she doubted it.
It was six o’clock and Agnes had set off for the weekly Bingo session in the village hall while Ruby was preparing Ronnie’s evening meal. She had a large cast-iron pan with a wire frying basket inside. It was perfect for cooking chips and, in the butcher’s shop, Mr Piercy had told her that if you saved up enough lard and cooking fat you could make a healthy meal. Ruby had done just that and she shook the basket and smiled. Ronnie would be pleased when he came home.
The radio was on and she was humming along to Vera Lynn’s bestselling record ‘The Homing Waltz’ when he came in smelling of beer and smoking a cigarette. ‘What’s f’tea?’ he shouted.
‘A bit o’ meat from Mr Piercy an’ some chips. He said our Andy needed feedin’ up.’
‘Well ’urry up – ah’m starvin’.’
Ruby sighed. ‘Can y’light a fire, Ronnie? It’s comin’ in cold again.’
Ronnie walked into the front room, flicked cigarette ash on to the brown linoleum and tripped over the brush and shovel next to the hearth. ‘Bloody tip in ’ere,’ he grumbled and sat down on the single armchair.
A few minutes later Ruby put Ronnie’s meal on the table. Ronnie had lit up another cigarette and had begun to doze in the chair. Ruby began to get frustrated. ‘C’mon Ronnie, y’slow-coach,’ she shouted, ‘y’tea’s ready. Buck up an’ show willin’.’
‘Allus naggin’,’ muttered Ronnie. He staggered into the kitchen, took a final drag of his cigarette and sat down heavily. As he began to eat the chips with his fingers Ruby returned with Andy in her arms and sat down opposite.
‘Ah’ve got some news, Ronnie,’ she said quietly.
Ronnie didn’t look up.
‘Ah’m expectin’ again.’
‘Y’what?’
‘Another baby, Ronnie. Doctor Davenport said so.’
Ronnie pushed away his plate. ‘We can’t ’ave no more babies. Y’don’t earn enough as it is.’
‘If you get a job things’ll be better.’
‘Y’daft ha’porth – jobs are ’ard t’come by.’
‘Well, there it is, ah’m havin’ another an’ there’s nowt we can do about it.’
Ronnie took out another cigarette and rummaged in his pocket for his box of matches. ‘Mebbe there’s another way, luv.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Y’could get shut of it.’
That night Ruby wept silent tears as a cold wind swept away the rags of clouds to reveal a gibbous moon.
Chapter Four
Little Malcolm’s Butterfly
The church clock up the Morton road was ringing out. It was 8.00 a.m. and, impervious to the cold weather, the two Robinson cousins, Big Dave and Little Malcolm, had left home early to climb trees in the private wood at the back of Mrs Uppington’s cottage. It was a forgotten backwater of the village and their secret playground. In the hedgerow the red hips of dog roses were providing much-needed food for hungry voles, while the morning dew, like untouched diamonds, sparkled in the early-morning sunlight. The earth was cooling and the nights were beginning to draw in, but it mattered little to these intrepid sons of Yorkshire. Making a hole in the hedge had been difficult, but the tough Robinson boys were not easily daunted by prickly hawthorn.
With scratched knees they emerged on to the cinder track next to a row of old dilapidated thatched cottages that led to Chauntsinger Lane and the blacksmith’s forge. A washing line hung across the track between the cottages and they ducked under the flapping sheets.
To their surprise, Mrs Phyllis Uppington was collecting a bucket of water from a rainwater butt at the back of her cottage and she waved in acknowledgement. She ran a dubious bed and breakfast frequented in the main by itinerant farmworkers seeking seasonal employment. On the garden gate was a painted sign reading ‘B&B – No Blacks or Irish’. In Mrs Uppington’s world, prejudice was the norm.
‘Hello, boys,’ she called out. ‘I saw you go into my wood.’
‘Oh, ’ello Mrs Uppington,’ said Dave. His mother had told him that this strange lady was ‘soft in the head’, so he chose his words with caution. ‘Sorry, we were jus’ climbin’ trees.’
Phyllis Uppington was sixty-five years old and, with the exception of the occasional visitor, a recluse. Many thought her strange. She held up a shawl that, once upon a time, had been white. ‘I’m going to wash my shawl,’ she said. ‘It used t’be beautiful.’
‘It’s still lovely,’ said Dave generously. ‘We like that shade o’ grey, don’t we, Malc’?’
Malcolm nodded.
Her hair was like fine thistledown, silver-grey now and cascading down her back in gentle waves. ‘Did you know my two grandchildren used to climb in this wood?’
Dave looked through the open doorway. ‘Where are they now?’
‘In heaven.’
‘’Eaven?’
‘Yes … and they’ll be dancing.’
‘Dancing?’ repeated Dave and Malcolm in unison.
‘Yes, they were a proper little Fred Astaire an’ Ginger Rogers.’ She filled the bucket and walked back inside, seemingly at peace in her world.
‘C’mon, Malc,’ said Big Dave, ‘let’s play conkers,’ and they raced off to school.
In the vicarage Vera was in her kitchen listening to the radio. She sighed. A panel of experts was discussing the recent news. Britain had become the third member of the nuclear power club, along with the USA and Russia. In a far-off lagoon in the uninhabited Monte Bello islands off Australia’s north-west coast, a twenty-five-kiloton plutonium implosion device had exploded and left behind a crater over three hundred yards in diameter on the sea bed. Vera was so shocked she almost forgot to time her boiled egg with her
usual precision.
‘Operation Hurricane’ had been seven years in the making since in 1945 the then prime minister, Clement Attlee, had set up a Cabinet committee to explore how we could develop our own atomic bomb. The radio reporter declared it was an act of independence and defiance, but for Vera it felt like the beginning of the end.
‘Oh dear,’ she murmured.
Fortunately the next discussion item dispelled the gloom. A few weeks ago the silent movie star Charlie Chaplin had returned to England for the first time in twenty-one years, to promote his latest film, Limelight, and he had been cheered in the streets of London.
Finally, Vera turned off the radio, put her magazine in her bag and called to her brother. ‘Joseph, I’m leaving now.’
He appeared in the doorway, a tall, almost skeletal figure in a clerical collar.
‘I’ll see you in school later this morning,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I’m giving a talk to Mr Pruett’s class.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Vera cautiously. Joseph was always at ease with his Sunday morning congregation, but completely at a loss with young children. ‘What’s the theme?’
‘Creation,’ said Joseph.
And the best of luck, thought Vera as she set off for school at a brisk walk.
On the school field Big Dave and Little Malcolm were playing conkers. Dave was so much taller than Malcolm that he had to crouch each time it was his turn. Even so, it was the diminutive Malcolm who shattered Dave’s conker and sent it crashing to the ground.
Dave was puzzled. ‘Y’beat me ev’ry time, Malc,’ he said as they sat down on the grass.
‘It’s ’cause of m’dad.’
‘’Ow d’you mean?’ asked Dave.
‘’E soaks ’em in vinegar an’ then bakes ’em in t’oven.’
‘Flippin’ ’eck, Malc,’ said Dave in admiration, ‘no wonder you allus beat us.’ He looked around furtively. ‘Ah’ve got summat f’you.’
Malcolm looked up curiously at his best friend. Dave rummaged in the pocket of his baggy grey shorts and pulled out two cigarettes and a box of matches. ‘One f’you, Malc, and one f’me.’
‘Thanks, Dave!’
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