Dancing in the Moonlight

by Rita Bradshaw

  Agnes lay looking at Lucy in the stillness that followed, the only sound her daughter’s broken voice as she murmured words of reassurance. She was dying, she knew that, but she hadn’t expected it to be like this, the pain in her head threatening to suffocate her and her throat closed up so that she couldn’t swallow. Her chest was aching with a fiery ache and each breath was a conscious effort, but strangely the fear was fading as the light dimmed. She could hear Lucy saying, ‘I’ll look after the bairns and the house and everything, I promise, Mam, you just rest now and don’t worry’, but she couldn’t see her daughter any longer through the blackness which had descended as the pain in her head became unbearable.

  But then the pain stopped. Suddenly and completely. And at the same time an airy lightness came upon her worn-out body, filling it with pulsating energy, so that she was aware of every muscle and sinew, filling her mind too, with an overwhelming desire to move forward.

  Through the darkness she could see a pinprick of something shining brightly in the distance and it was to this that she was drawn. She walked slowly at first, unused to the feeling of freedom, and then, finding she was as light as a feather, she gathered speed, carried along on a wave of happiness which consumed her to the exclusion of everything else.

  The pinprick grew into a brilliant radiance, and now she was running forward with the joyful abandon of a child and smiling with every pore of her body; she was going home . . .

  Chapter Two

  The day of the funeral was dark and overcast, but the severe snow storms which had swept the Northeast for a week had let up to just the odd light flurry now and again. An hour ago the undertakers had come for Agnes’s body. This had been lying on a trestle table in the front room since Enid and another neighbour had laid her out, the brass bed having been turned on its side against the wall. Walter had been adamant about this mark of respect for his wife and had slept in the bed in the kitchen since her passing. It was this same way of thinking that had prevented Lucy from attending her mother’s funeral; her father didn’t hold with women and children being present, and nothing she had said had been able to change his mind.

  She looked across the kitchen now to where Enid was busy cutting up a fruit cake. Enid had brought this and several other items, including a large ham-and-egg pie, as her own contribution towards the wake. Lucy was grateful, although she knew her father wouldn’t have liked what he’d have seen as charity. But Mrs Crawford understood her da and had waited until the menfolk had left, walking behind the horse-drawn hearse, before she’d appeared with her offerings. Once the men were back from the cemetery all the neighbours would come in and, although the table was groaning with food, it wouldn’t go far.

  Lucy bit down on her lower lip as she glanced at the table. On the same day her mother had died the shipyard had put their employees on short time and already they were feeling the pinch as a family, yet her da had gone out and bought beer and whisky for today with the rent money. She had felt like crying when she’d found out what he’d done.

  ‘It’s a fine spread you’ve put on, lass.’ Enid smiled at her. ‘You’ve done your mam proud and no mistake.’

  Lucy smiled back, but said nothing. She knew Mrs Crawford wouldn’t understand if she said what she was thinking. None of the neighbours would. A family could be starving and they’d still beg, borrow or steal to give someone what they called ‘a good send-off. And no doubt the neighbours had got up a collection for flowers for her mam, which would be placed on the coffin with some ceremony at the church before being left at the side of the grave later. Not only would most of the folk who would have contributed have been glad of the money for their own family, but she could have used however much it was for food or the rent money. And she hated the way these offerings were done, with a written list so that everyone could read what everyone else had put in. It was a form of blackmail, to her mind, and when she’d said that once to her mam she’d got the impression her mam agreed with her.

  ‘Now, lass, with the bairns out of the way, how about you and me put the front room to rights for your da?’

  Mrs Crawford’s voice was brisk and Lucy had learned enough about her mother’s friend over the past days to know the no-nonsense tone was the way Mrs Crawford hid her feelings about her mother’s passing. That, and lending a hand when she could, like this morning when she had suggested Ruby take John and the twins round to her house so they weren’t underfoot while the food was prepared.

  Quietly Lucy said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Crawford. I don’t know what I’d have done without you over the last week.’

  ‘Go on with you, lass.’ Enid sniffed loudly, hiding the emotion that had brought tears to her eyes by flapping her hand vigorously as she stomped out of the kitchen. ‘I’ve done nowt but what your mam would have done for me in the same circumstances.’

  Once in the dismal front room, they worked in semi-darkness, the curtains remaining firmly closed as a mark of respect for the deceased. The small fabric bags filled with dried lavender flowers, which the undertakers had supplied when her father had called to see them to discuss the funeral, couldn’t disguise the stench of death that lingered in the air. Lucy had always liked the scent of the fragrant shrub, but over the last days she’d come to hate it. She longed to open the windows wide to let the icy-cold breath of winter in, but such a scandal would never be lived down.

  The bed restored to its rightful position and made up, and the room tidied, they returned to the kitchen. Lucy’s eyes were drawn to the spot where her mother’s bed had resided for the last eighteen months or so. It had been carried upstairs by her father and Ernie this morning, Donald following behind with the mattress, and had been squeezed in at the foot of the lads’ bed. It had been decided John would sleep in it, as it was a small narrow single and the double bed was more suited to Ernie and Donald, who were both long and lanky. On hearing that John was to have a bed all to himself, Ruby had gone into a massive sulk, but Lucy hadn’t had time to cajole her sister round, with the hundred and one things she had to do that morning. Consequently Ruby had left for Mrs Crawford’s with a face like thunder, and Lucy didn’t doubt the poor twins would feel the back of her sister’s hand more than once.

  ‘There, there, hinny. You’re doing fine.’ Enid had noticed the direction of Lucy’s gaze and her family would have been amazed at the tender note in her voice, accustomed as they were to her sharp tongue. ‘Likely you’ll feel better once today is over and things get back to normal. I always say you’re in a kind of limbo till the funeral’s done. Look, they’ll be back soon and then it’ll be bedlam. I’ll make a pot of tea, shall I?’

  Lucy nodded, struggling not to cry. She wanted her mam, how she wanted her mam. She felt very young and helpless and frightened. She’d promised her mother she would look after the bairns and see to the house and her da and the lads, and she’d meant it. But could she? She didn’t know how she was going to feed the family over the next few days, let alone the next months, now the menfolk were on short time. John had holes in his boots, so his feet were wet through and blue with cold, and Ruby couldn’t fasten the buttons of her winter coat, it had grown so small. Mrs Crawford had said she’d feel better once things got back to normal, but they were never going to be normal again. That was the truth of it. Her mam was gone and she would never see her again.

  Her breath caught in her throat in a great sob and the tears spurted from her eyes, rolling down her cheeks in an unstoppable flood. She felt Mrs Crawford put an arm round her and turned into the comforting bulk in a paroxysm of weeping, as the grief she’d been holding in demanded release.

  It was a minute or two before she drew away and rubbed at her wet face with her pinny. Her eyes focused on Enid’s face, which was also wet, and she murmured, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Crawford.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, lass.’ Enid fetched out a none-too-clean handkerchief and blew her nose loudly. ‘I think we both needed that. Now I’m going to make some tea and we’ll have a quiet minute before they
arrive. An’, lass’ – she cradled Lucy’s flushed cheeks in her big rough hands – ‘I’m only next door any time you want me, all right? You know where to come, hinny.’

  Lucy nodded, smiling shakily and, satisfied she had done what she could, Enid turned towards the range.

  Lucy watched her mother’s friend making the tea, her thoughts clearer than they had been in days. Mrs Crawford was kind and she was grateful, but she wouldn’t be running to her every two minutes with this and that. She had to stand on her own two feet and do what she’d promised. It was up to her to keep the family together and she would do it, no matter what. Her mother had taught her how to make a penny stretch to two; well, now it would have to stretch to three or four, it was as simple as that. They had a roof over their heads and she would see to it that she put food on the table. They’d manage.

  Her small chin lifted and her shoulders straightened, and then, for an infinitesimal second, she thought she heard her mother whisper, ‘That’s it, hinny. That’s my lass.’

  It was so real that she turned quickly and looked about her, but of course there was no one there. Shaking her head at her foolishness, she told herself she was imagining things, but nevertheless the brief moment brought balm to her bruised soul and eased her grief, and the day she had been dreading no longer seemed such an ordeal.

  Tom Crawford stood leaning against the far wall of the kitchen, a glass of whisky in his hand and a faintly contemptuous expression on his ruggedly handsome face. The kitchen was full to bursting with neighbours and friends and they were all eating their fill – like pigs at a trough, as he put it to himself. And the whisky and beer wouldn’t last long, the way they were guzzling it down.

  His father and two of his brothers were standing in front of him in a group that included Ernie and Donald Fallow, and he was half-listening to their conversation as his gaze wandered round the throng. Tom had the advantage of being a head taller than any other man present and broad with it. Anyone looking at him would have added a good six or seven years to his nineteen years. From a child he had been big and physically strong, and he had used the feeling of power this gave him to control and bully his peers, feeding on their fear.

  His eyes rested on his father and Tom’s lip curled. His da was rabbiting on like he always did when he’d had a drink. As usual the subject was the injustices doled out to the working class by their supposed betters as the slump worsened. Not that his father was wrong; any fool could see that with the strikes and threats of strikes in the docks, shipyards, railyards and mines, things were going from bad to worse, but that was all his da ever did – talk. Like the rest of his cronies. None of them had taken on board that the country was changing. There were no overseas markets for Britain’s old industrial output, especially iron and steel and coal, and shipbuilding was dying on its feet. The Depression was going to get worse, not better, and no amount of strikes would change that. Not for the North. And the unions were worse than useless. It was every man for himself, that’s the way he saw it.

  He shifted his weight slowly and took another sip of whisky. It was poor stuff. Not like the fine old malt he’d acquired recently from one of his contacts down at the docks. Patrick McHaffie could get anything you wanted if you tipped him the wink along with a bob or two, but Pat’s petty pilfering was the tip of the iceberg. Like so many, Pat was gormless and would forever be grubbing away and risking his neck for peanuts while the real money passed him by.

  It was common knowledge among dock workers and the fishing community that the Kane brothers from Sunderland’s squalid East End controlled the criminal fraternity on the south side of the river. The Kanes had built up a nice business for themselves and had their fingers in umpteen pies – smuggling, extortion, protection rackets and a wide web of brothels – and he wouldn’t want to lock horns with them. Not unless he was prepared for a knife in the back one dark night.

  Tom smiled grimly to himself.

  But on the north side, stretching from Cornhill Dock and Wearmouth Drops round to Potato Garth and the North Dock near Roker, now that was a different story. There were lots of small rackets going on, but without any real leadership by one person or family. He intended to change that. Why else had he spent time inveigling himself into favour with the McHaffies of this world? He’d seen the way the wind was blowing, and the next step would be the shipyards laying men off permanently, he was sure of it. Others might be prepared to go cap in hand to the foremen begging for a shift here and there, but he was damned if he was. He wanted to get into the real money, the sort of money that came by being cannier than the herd.

  Over the heads of the crowd he saw the door from the scullery open. Lucy and his youngest brother, Jacob, stepped into the kitchen, each holding one of the twins in their arms, with Ruby and John at their heels.

  Tom’s brown eyes narrowed. His brother had clearly gone next door with Lucy to fetch the bairns through for something to eat, but it wasn’t that which set his jaw clenching. It was the way Jacob was shepherding them through the assembled company, his manner verging on proprietorial.

  Tom watched his brother settle Lucy on a chair with a twin on each knee and John at her side, before he and Ruby pushed through to the kitchen table. They returned with heaped plates of food and, as Jacob reached Lucy, he bent down and said something that brought a brief smile to her sad face.

  The little pipsqueak. Tom straightened away from the wall and swigged back the last of the whisky in his glass. After sniffing round Lucy, was he? He knew the two were friends, being the same age and all, but a blind man could see the way Jacob’s mind was working. He’d have to have a little word in his brother’s shell-like when the opportunity arose.

  His brother bent down to Lucy again and it was enough to cause Tom to shoulder his way through the crowd to where they were. He kept his gaze on Lucy, ignoring Jacob, as he said softly, ‘I’m sorry about your mam, lass, right sorry. You know you can call on us any time?’

  ‘Aye, yes, your mam’s already said.’ Lucy nodded at him, but she didn’t smile. This Crawford brother always made her heart pound, but not in a good way. There was something in his eyes when he looked at her – she couldn’t describe it, even to herself, not having come up against unbridled lust before – something that made her flesh creep. And yet he was handsome, and she’d heard Mrs Crawford tell her mother more than once that the lasses were shameless in the way they threw themselves at Tom. Jacob wasn’t half as good-looking and neither were Ralph and Frank, but she liked them much more, especially Jacob. Jacob was special.

  This thought brought a flush to her cheeks and she quickly lowered her eyes, busying herself with feeding more rice cake to Flora and Bess, who were messy eaters at the best of times.

  Tom saw the pink in Lucy’s cheeks and smiled to himself. He was fully aware of the attraction he generated, even in girls as young as Lucy, and didn’t doubt this was the cause of her confusion. He had been aware of his appeal since he was a lad of thirteen earning a few extra bob helping out with the hay-making at Garfield Farm. Farmer Garfield’s buxom sixteen-year-old daughter had taken him into the hayloft and practically eaten him alive. He’d emerged an hour later feeling on top of the world and with an appetite for more forbidden pleasures, and since then he’d indulged this appetite without restraint. He’d discovered he appealed to older women as much as the young lasses and he’d never had to pay for it, unlike half the men he worked with.

  He liked two types of females: the earthy kind whose husbands weren’t supplying their needs and who would allow any kind of liberties, and, at the other end of the spectrum, the young innocent lasses he had to cajole and persuade to give up their virginity. But the latter were always worth the effort; there was something about being first, about going where no one else had been, that excited him. Afterwards, when he wanted done with them, they were normally too frightened by what they’d permitted to cause him any trouble. There was the odd exception, like Amy Murray from Southport way who’d threatened to set h
er brothers on him if he didn’t start walking out with her, but after he’d slapped her about a bit and told her what he’d do to her if she opened her mouth, she’d got the message.

  He turned his gaze from Lucy’s bent head to his brother and found Jacob was staring fixedly at him. For a strange moment Tom felt this young brother of his could read his mind, and this feeling was strengthened when Jacob ground out, ‘Why don’t you go and get yourself another drink?’, his voice low, but weighted with a mixture of fury and dislike.

  No, it was more than dislike, Tom corrected himself in the next instant. Jacob, the little nowt, was looking at him as though he was muck under his boots. The rage that had won Tom many a fight in the school playground, and which had built him a reputation as being someone not to be messed with as he’d grown older, rose in a hot flood. Only the fact that he was at a wake prevented him driving his fist into Jacob’s face. Glaring at his brother, he said, ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘Nothin’.’ Jacob’s tone and body language belied his words. Small but broad-shouldered, with curly brown hair that sprang in an unruly tangle from double crowns on his head, he gave the appearance of being top-heavy and had a very masculine shape. His skin was clear and ruddy, and his heavily lashed brown eyes seemed over-big for his face, a face that was always smiling. But not today. ‘Just leave Lucy alone, all right? She’s upset.’

  Holding on to his temper with some effort, Tom lowered his voice. ‘Aye, well that’s to be expected, but she’ll have to cope with folk giving their condolences, boy.’

  Boy. Jacob’s dark eyes became as hard as flint. Tom had said that to get him going, knowing how it annoyed him. ‘Well, you’ve given yours, so you can push off.’