by Annie Clarke
Ralph interrupted, and he too was speaking quietly, so terribly quietly. ‘No, you don’t understand when I say I’m not sure I can do it. I mean, how can I go on being one of them, or pretending to be so, when I am …’ He looked around as he whispered, ‘I fear my loathing will show. I don’t want to be near the bastards, to be a part … The shame I feel … The kindness of the women’s co-op, the goodness of their daughters, and sons, the burden of guilt …’
Professor Smythe nodded. ‘Indeed. But what option have you? Restitution or disgrace, possible exoneration or the rope.’ He laughed, clapping his hands as a dance ended. ‘So wonderful to be young.’
Ralph followed the professor’s lead, though his mouth was dry with terror at his words. ‘Well, Professor, I should get myself onto the dance floor too, but instead I must sleep. I find I get easily whacked after this septic cut, and I am on the fore shift tomorrow.’ He waved to Mrs Hall, who smiled as she left a plate of sandwiches on one of the tables. She mimicked drinking a tankard of beer and Ralph pointed to the door. She nodded and he murmured to the professor, his voice shaking, ‘I so need to reclaim some honour. I have been mad for too long – selfish, self-pitying. My mother died, and I used it but I need to know—’
Smythe put up his hand and whispered a warning: ‘Wait.’
Davey was weaving between the tables, heading towards them with Fran, feisty Fran, daughter of Mr Hall. Mr Hall, now dead. Mr Hall, loved by Mrs Annie Hall, the co-op’s leader, whom he, Ralph Massingham, adored for her guts, her kindness. Oh God.
Fran seemed pale, and Ralph remembered hearing Annie Hall talking to Beth’s mother in his bedroom after they’d dressed the wound everyone believed was a pit injury. They had been worried about Fran blaming herself for not spotting the kirby grip sooner, blaming herself for the four deaths. They had agreed then not to let her speak of the dreams in which she heard them crying out in the rubble, or of her sense of guilt, in the belief that it would help her put it all behind her. Ralph suspected that, like him, she probably wouldn’t. What she needed, for it was what he needed, was for someone to understand, and to forgive. For him that was impossible, but not for her. She had tried to call a warning, her mother had said as she and Mrs Bedley sat knitting by his bedside, but felt she could have done it sooner.
Ralph stepped to one side as Davey shook Professor Smythe’s hand. ‘Good to see you, Prof. Thought you’d like to know young Ben’s doing some crosswords for the London magazine that commissioned mine, on your recommendation, of course. How’s your RAF son? Promoted to instructor was the last Stan heard. So, more or less out of it, I suppose?’
Professor Smythe’s face changed, just a fraction. ‘Sadly, the dear boy went back to flying sorties and failed to return. We wait for news, or rather, I wait for news, as his mother is, also sadly, no longer of this earth.’
There was silence between them, and Davey flushed. ‘Oh, I’m so—’
Fran reached forward and gripped the professor’s hand. ‘You wait, he could well be found in a prisoner-of-war camp. You just wait, d’you hear me?’ Her voice was low but fierce.
While the music flowed and the dancers swirled, Professor Smythe covered her hand with his own and nodded, for a moment appearing unable to speak.
Ralph noticed his father beckoning him over to the buffet table, where he was chatting to Annie Hall, who had just filled another plate with sandwiches. As Ralph reached them, Annie nodded at the coat over Ralph’s arm. ‘Glad to see you being sensible, lad, and heading home. Don’t you keep him long, Mr Massingham, he needs his rest. You nearly lost him, but you know that.’ She headed towards a different table.
‘So, Ralph, we’ve had our orders,’ his father winked, adding, ‘Nice to see our Stan and Sarah married. Heartfelt service, eh?’
‘Yes, yes, of course it was. Well, it would be with those two.’ Ralph paused. ‘But, Father, I need a word later this evening, if it’s convenient?’
Reginald Massingham studied his son, then nodded. ‘Yes, that would be good. Auberon Smythe has apprised me of your brief discussion outside the church, dearest Ralph.’
That was all, but ‘dearest Ralph’ was too kind.
Ralph walked back, skirting Smythe, who was in earnest conversation with Davey. Fran stood listening. Ralph shrugged himself into his coat and reached for the door, but paused, listening to the warmth of the music and laughter. He spun round for a last look, almost knocking into Fran, who had moved away from her fiancé and was looking at nothing – or perhaps at all the horror that consumed her – her face drawn and strained. Ralph stepped nearer.
‘The cries are a manifestation of a sense of guilt, Fran,’ he whispered. ‘You mustn’t go down that path. I heard your mother, you see, in my sickroom. You did all you could. You might think you didn’t, but you did. You tried, but it was too late. Frances Hall, the dead don’t want your sorrow, your guilt. They want you to live – for them. It was an accident. You tried to stop it. That’s what’s important. So face it, look back at it, see the truth, then give yourself permission to move forward.’
He turned and stepped towards Smythe, interrupting his chat with Davey. ‘Yes, do telephone me tomorrow, Professor. Does three o clock, after the fore shift, sound a good idea? Always good to chat about whether to return to finish my degree one day.’
Smythe hadn’t suggested three, but it felt good to take back a bit of control when Ralph’s life had been spiralling out of it for far too long.
The professor held out his hand and shook Ralph’s. ‘I will,’ he said, his eyes searching Ralph’s as if hoping to see a decision. Against his palm, Ralph felt a slip of paper. ‘The number to telephone.’
Ralph pocketed it and slipped from the hall, still fearful that he could never be one of Swinton’s people, when he so abhorred the mere thought of it, of them, of himself. Even as he dragged on his gloves and pulled up his collar against the biting wind, he knew he should – but if Tim Swinton suspected he was in opposition, he would kill Ralph’s family. It was what he had promised would be the fate of any turncoat when Ralph was recruited into Tim’s wartime group – though who his fellow members were, God knew, such was the code of secrecy.
He hesitated on the path, for Davey had interrupted just as he was about to request the family’s protection. Should he return? He shook his head at his expectation that others would sort out his problems, and walked on, deciding he’d just have to arrange a codicil to his Will paying for someone who would. So, there it was, done and dusted. All that was left was to do his duty to his country. After all, what did it matter what happened to him after that? Smythe and his merry men could hang him from the rafters, for it was what he deserved.
He walked on to Main Street, heading for home. The early evening gloom gave just enough light. The sounds of the pit workings carried on the wind, and nearer Massingham Hall he would be able to hear the owls in full voice. As he neared the phone box he heard the telephone ringing. He hesitated, chilled, fearing it would be Tim Swinton. Had someone been watching him? Was one of Tim’s group a wedding guest? He breathed deeply and hoped that it was a prearranged call from someone’s son or daughter. He looked around. No one was waiting, but there was someone just turning into a back lane. Who? The ringing continued.
He stood for a moment longer. It could be Tim, for this was one of their contact telephones, but contact was usually by arrangement. Again he looked around. No one was hurrying to take the call. He hesitated. What would happen if he left it for someone else to pick up and it was that bugger? Would Tim just put the receiver down? Or did he always know where Ralph was? Had he eyes everywhere? He waited another couple of rings, and still no one else came. He swallowed, braced himself and pulled open the door. He reached for the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘Well, Ralphy …’ It was Tim Swinton. ‘How was the wedding tea?’
Ralph broke into a cold sweat, but managed to answer. ‘How do you think? It’s just one of those things the Massinghams have to do. I’m still not
quite well. Well, not nearly well, in fact, so I’m on my way home.’
‘Yes, so I gather. Amazing that Fran Hall can still work at the Factory with that strapping on her arm.’
Ralph sighed. ‘Tough people, the Halls.’ Thinking – who the hell was reporting?
‘And a lift back from St Oswald’s with that doddery old fool Smythe, eh? So, long time, no speak. How are you after that nasty bout of septicaemia?’
Ralph sighed a second time. ‘As I said, Tim, not too good. A bit knife edge, in fact. I caught my side on the broken fence around the Factory when I attempted the break-in. I rubbed coal in it when I was shoving a tub to the main seam, to disguise it as a pit injury. It went septic.’
‘Devious sod, aren’t you? So, Ralphy, we’ll make something of you yet, for you know the penalty if you backslide.’
‘Why would I do that? I’m on the surface on the fore shift tomorrow, which I should be able to manage, and will keep my ears open.’
‘Yes, I heard that, so eyes as well as ears, eh,’ Tim said. ‘As always, I need information, any snippets, especially from the old dears who nursed you, or your delightful parents with their army of evacuees, the Factory girls, and anything swirling around the pit. Any news from anyone at all, because what seems trivial to you might mean something to me. Beth’s naval husband arrived, for instance. Based where?’
Ralph stared out at the moonlit street. Along the road was the bus stop where Bert picked up the Factory girls for their shifts. ‘Lord knows. No one talks about these things, you know …’ Of course Tim knew that, but he also knew that somehow information seeped from some people. Look at that Amelia, blabbing after a drink or two about the perimeter fence being down around the munitions factory. Yes, she had been useful, but he just hadn’t been able to subject himself to her any more. Or was it she who had given him up? He rubbed his forehead. He couldn’t remember clearly.
Tim’s voice was sharp. ‘I know no one’s supposed to talk, but you and I know they do. Surely the wife said something?’
‘Wife?’
‘For goodness’ sake, Ralph – Beth.’
Ralph’s mind raced, looking for an answer that meant nothing. ‘All I know is Bob has to return tonight.’
‘Now, the surname is Jones, isn’t it? Beth Smith became Beth Jones, so hubby is Robert Jones. You see, that’s the sort of information that can be useful if we ever find out where and what his ship is. So, stay on that, and anything like that. Remember, we’re not working alone, Ralph. What might be useless to us won’t be to others. Sharpen up, eh.’
Ralph knew damned well that Bob’s ship was a minesweeper, but that was for him to know and not for Tim to find out – not from him, at least.
‘The Bedley boy is back for the wedding. What’s he up to these days?’
‘Again, I don’t know.’ Of course he knew.
‘Then find out.’
‘I’ll keep my ears open.’ But not for you. He would report to Smythe that there were ‘others’ interested in information, and that questions had been asked about Bob Jones. But perhaps this was a chance to glean more.
‘So, you run another cell, do you?’ he asked.
Tim snapped. ‘You don’t ask the questions. You just do as you’re damned well told.’
Ralph knew he’d gone too far. There was movement outside and he peered through the taped glass. But it was only a dog sniffing at the snow in the gutter.
Tim spoke again. ‘Just listen. The priority is the Factory. We need to slow down supplies to the troops. I know the perimeter fence is up again, so it might be worth resurrecting your flirtation with Amelia. She seemed to be a fount of information, and could find out about the transportation of munitions from the Factory.’ Ralph’s heart sank. ‘But,’ Tim went on, ‘any girl will do. A few drinks, flattery, get them talking when they’re in their cups. The Factory is unfinished business, Ralph. One pathetic attempt to damage it isn’t enough, it really isn’t.’
Ralph closed his eyes, keeping his voice level. ‘All right, Teacher. I will try to do better. It’s just that I’ve been out of action.’
Tim said nothing.
‘Hello, hello?’ Ralph said.
‘Don’t just try,’ muttered Tim, ‘do better. So, I’m pleased to hear that you are being pleasant to people, which is a good move. It’ll get them onside, make them relax. They might not share information with you, but you could overhear it. Don’t forget, I have ears on the ground and will know if you slouch on the job. Information, information, information.’
There was a click as the line went dead. Ralph replaced the receiver. He pushed open the door and jumped as an old lady said, ‘Thank you. Got to ring my daughter. If I don’t, she worries, but nice to have someone who cares, eh?’
Ralph looked hard at her, examining her words. Was she who she said she was?
He forced a smile. ‘It is, really it is, good to have someone who cares.’ He could hear his father saying ‘dearest Ralph’.
He walked off along Main Street, thankful for the moonlight, though he’d know his way to Massingham Hall blindfold, after all he had been coming and going there all his life. He carried on, turning off for the road to the Hall, thinking of Tim and how that beggar’s father, a foreman at the Factory, would curl up and die if he knew who his son really was, just as Ralph had thought his own father would. He stopped. Perhaps his father didn’t know it all, just thought he did. How much had Smythe actually told him?
Well, his father would know soon enough, and would also know that Ralph was Smythe’s newest recruit.
His legs still felt weak, so the walk home seemed long. He headed along between the drystone walls, hearing Massingham Home Farm’s sheep on either side, and the lowing of the cattle higher up the slope. Farmer Thompkins was a good tenant who was pleased that his lad was working with him and not in the pit. Who could blame him? Ralph slid on a patch of ice, but steadied himself, keeping to the centre of the road. With fuel rationed, there was little chance of traffic.
On he went as the wind grew fierce, and he wished it was behind him, not fighting him every step of the way. Finally, he turned into the Massingham Hall drive, and ploughed on, head down, his homburg pulled low, his collar up. ‘Nearly there, nearly there,’ he kept repeating until he crossed in front of the porticoed house, passed under the arch into the cobbled garage yard and went down the steps to the basement kitchen. He found the key on the hook, then, making sure the blinds were drawn, switched on the light before hurrying to the range to warm himself. Home. He was home.
He hurried up the stairs to the sitting room, lighting the fire for the evening, then into the study, but the fire there was banked up from this morning. He went up the next flight of stairs to the first floor, lighting the fires in the children’s bedrooms, where they slept two to a room, except the second of the girls’ rooms, in which there were three beds. Five girls and six boys, although the girls were more than a match for the boys, especially little Eva, who could rule the world. He grinned, for ruling the world made him think of the three, no, four Factory girls, Fran, Sarah, Beth and Viola, not to mention the co-op. So was it any wonder these children were as feisty, for they were all from the same stock, Geordies one and all.
In each room, their pyjamas – sewn by the co-op and Sophia – were folded on the ends of the beds. In each room he drew back the bedclothes to get some warmth to the sheets, then went on to his parents’ room, where he did the same. For they were his parents, and Sophia was his mother, though he had never in the past accorded her that right: Sophia had been his nanny, the woman who had married his father and taken his dead mother’s place like a cuckoo – or so he’d felt. How stupid, how self-pitying, for it was Sophia’s arms that had hugged him goodnight while his mother had merely presented her cheek to receive a kiss, for to do more would disturb her clothes and hair. Of course, that was only between her jaunts abroad, which had been varied and often. But at least she had left him an inheritance.
He stopped
then, looking down at his parents’ fireplace, making sure the guard was firmly in place, as he had done in all the rooms. He knew the old Ralph would never have considered it his place to light a fire for anyone.
Finally, he settled on the sofa in the sitting room, waiting for Sophia, his father and the children to return, which they did as the clock moved on to 10 p.m., all of them bundling into the hall, the children talking nineteen to the dozen. Ralph went to the door, watching, wanting to feel the energy, the life, to be part of it. ‘Everyone have a good time?’ he asked.
Eva spun round. ‘Bliddy marvellous, Mr Ralph. I had a bit of bird in me sandwich, a peasant someone said.’
Abraham pulled her pigtails. ‘Pheasant, Eva. Peasant’s a person. Best not to eat people, less’n you’re a cannibal. Makes you burp.’
Eva pulled a face. ‘Leave me plaits alone, and stop being a know-all, Abe.’
Abraham just laughed and Tommy said, ‘Well, he’s clever. Boys are.’
Melanie pushed Eva. ‘Hit him, Eva.’
‘You and whose army?’ jeered Marty.
Sophia was shooing them to the stairs. ‘That’s quite enough of that. Anyone would think you’d all been at the wine.’
Suddenly the children fell quiet, and Ralph looked across to his father, who was removing his gloves, and placing them in the drawer of the hall side table. His father grinned and raised his eyebrows, acting out lifting a glass to his lips. Ralph laughed quietly.
Sophia turned. ‘Do not in any way, shape or form think this is amusing, you two. Go back to the warmth, Ralph. You shouldn’t have walked all the way. I should have asked Alfie—’
Reginald Massingham interrupted. ‘It was I who should have driven him, but I was rather taken up with the co-operative’s discussions on how many more proggy rug hangings Briddlestone’s might want, and whether the general, Annie Hall, could negotiate an increase in the price. Such businesswomen – so sharp they could cut us all into strips and put us in their rugs.’
Ralph grinned, thinking of the co-op and their no-nonsense attitude when they had given him bed baths to cool his fever. The first time, Beth’s mother had yanked down the sheet after he’d clutched it to his chin, saying, ‘Divint be daft, young man. I’ve seen it all before a million times. And let me tell you, there’s nowt special down there.’
