Wedding Bells on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  ‘Mam, I’ve got it.’

  ‘Got what? As though I don’t know,’ her mam called from the scullery, drying her hands as she came into the kitchen.

  Fran held up the bag, waving it. ‘Me dress, Mam, what else? What if it doesn’t fit? There was no time to try it on today. What if the hem’s come down again? What if it’s too creased?’

  Her mam laughed and took the bag. ‘Howay, take your boots off and shut the door to the hall. Stan, Sid and Norm are moving me bed down into the front room for you, and I don’t want them nosing.’ She was drawing the dress from the bag, laying it on the back of Fran’s da’s armchair.

  ‘By, our Tilly’s done a crackin’ job, God bless her soul.’ Annie folded the bag. ‘Of course it’ll fit. It did a week ago. It’s our Beth’s that’ll hang like a coat hanger, though Mrs Iris took it in a bit, on the quiet. I’ll keep the hessian, for it’ll make good backing for a proggy, I reckon. Make do and mend, eh? Now, into the scullery. Have a wash. Canna have your grubbiness on it.’

  Fran rushed into the scullery as her mam said, ‘Sophia was down today. By, she’s looking a lot better, more rested, but still tired. It’ll take time, though. Exhaustion picks at your core, so it does. Reginald thought Ralph might be back from the rehabilitation unit today, but he’s not quite ready. Just wants one more day of the exercises, and there’s a chance he’ll be at the wedding, if he can get transport from the Carlyle unit.’

  Fran had stripped and was washing and drying herself, not listening, not really. She peered out into the kitchen. ‘They lads won’t come in, will they, Mam?’

  Her mother shook her head. ‘They know it’s women’s work in here.’

  Annie clambered onto her armchair, holding up the silk wedding dress. ‘Get over here, lass. Arms up, little Franny.’ She dropped the dress over her daughter’s head; the silk was cool as it slid over her body. Her mam looked. ‘You’ll do,’ she said.

  Fran stood there, looking down at herself, smoothing the dress, so light, so smooth. She turned, and looked over her shoulder. She, Franny Hall, was to be a married woman, she was going to walk down the aisle without her da, she was to sleep with Davey, in her mam’s bed that the lads were bringing down now. At that thought she paused, then suddenly wanted to rip the dress off, wanted to forget all about tomorrow, for she didn’t feel like Fran Hall, she felt strange, lonely, frightened, for she wasn’t a bairn any more, but was to be a wife.

  She looked up at her mam, opened her mouth, but then there was an almighty bang from the stairs and Stan shouted, ‘For the love of God, why does the thing have to be so bliddy heavy? Lift your end, Sid, get it over the newel, eh, and stop fannying about.’

  Her mam started laughing, and between the bangs, the shouts and the laughter it was all right again, all normal: she was Fran, this was her mam, and her brother was helping set up the bedroom, and she’d still be here, like Sarah was still with her mam. Aye, it was almost all right. Mother and daughter looked at one another, and smiled.

  ‘Aye you’ll do, pet,’ her mam repeated, ‘you’ll do fine, our Franny. But let’s get it off you now, for I don’t want you seeing it in the mirror until tomorrow, eh? It’s then I want you to feel like a right princess and not before, because I can’t have you prancing about, showing off, when we’ve sandwiches to cut. But trust me, it fits like a glove.’

  She came down from the chair, unzipped Fran and eased the silk wedding dress from her, folding it up again in the bag. ‘When the lads have gone, I’ll hang Tilly’s masterpiece up in my wardrobe so it’s all tickety-boo for you.’

  She left it on the back of the armchair again and straightened the old sheet on the end of the kitchen table, picked up the iron from the hot plate with a tea towel, and began pressing her own lilac outfit for the wedding. Fran sat at the other end of the table and ate the sandwiches her mam had cut before washing her plate in the scullery. She carried the makings of some of the sandwiches for the wedding tea back to the table, and had started spreading margarine and adding a light dusting of grated cheese when Sid came in from the hall, rubbing his hands.

  ‘By,’ he said, ‘I reckon we’ll be moving them all back again when our Davey goes down South and Clark Gable realises you’re on your own, Mrs Franny Bedley, and swims the Atlantic to get to you.’

  Fran laughed as her mam upended the iron on the table, and used the tea towel from the handle to beat him towards the back door. ‘Don’t you be giving the lass ideas, our Sid.’

  He came to sit down while her mam poured boiling water into the teapot, finished off her pressing and hung her outfit over the airer. Fran finished the sandwiches, wrapped them in greaseproof paper and Sid took them to the meat safe hanging outside on the back door.

  By this time Norm and Stan were at the table, and they all gulped down tea, eyeing the biscuits, which were a precious batch her mam had baked for tomorrow. She allowed them one each. Fran looked at her brother. ‘What time is my lad due into Massingham?’

  Stan winked, wiping his mouth free of crumbs. ‘He’s here, train were early. We wouldn’t let him meet you off the bus, so instead he’s gone off to dance the night away in Newcastle with his lady of the night. We’re to make sure he staggers back before tomorrow, wiping the lippy off, in time to make an honest woman of you.’

  Her mam flicked him with a tea towel while Fran called, ‘Mam, you could have told me he was here.’

  Annie nodded. ‘Aye, I could, but I wanted you to try on your dress, not go roaring around to see him, as I feared you would, and the bride should not—’

  Fran shook her finger at Stan and the other two. ‘Listen, lads, I know you’ll take him out, but don’t you get him that drunk so he’s good for nothing tomorrow. I couldn’t bear to see him being propped up at the altar while I glide down the nave towards him. And you’re not going into town, surely.’

  Norm tapped the side of his nose with his finger. ‘Ours to know and yours not to find out, lass. ’Tis his last night as a free man, so have some sympathy for him, for the love of God.’

  It was Norm who received the flick that time, and with his arm over his head, he yelled, ‘It’s April Fool’s, so don’t take on so, Mrs Hall.’

  Stan was looking at the clock. ‘By, lads, time we were off, eh?’

  They shoved back their chairs and Fran, who followed them to the door, called, ‘Thanks, you three. You take care of me daft lad, you hear, or you’ll have me to reckon with.’

  Sid and Norm headed into the yard, but Stan stepped back into the kitchen and hugged her. ‘You have a good life with your lad, our Franny. He loves you so, and wanted to come on round when he arrived, but ’tis bad luck and we’ve had enough of that, though Sandra and Ralph are on the mend. Talking of luck, how is our Beth?’

  ‘She’s carrying on, lad, step by step, being bliddy brave. But not right, though who would be? Too quiet, too tired, too thin. I could strangle him.’

  ‘You and a dozen others.’

  He spun on his heel and set off across the yard. Fran held the door and watched him join the other two, who were wrist-deep in the hens’ corn feed. It made her think of their visits to Ralph, when Sid had mentioned that what else made him feel safe was the smell of the seed in the Canary Club shed. Their chatter seemed to have helped the lad and she smiled, thinking also of Viola, for her mam might not have to do too much matchmaking there.

  She watched as the three lifelong marrers threw grain through the wire, then stood just watching the hens clucking and pecking, before heading for the gate. As Norm lifted the sneck, she heard Sid say, ‘Aye, but you can’t blame the lass, with Bob being a beggar and writing to say she could help make the divorce quick and easy if she’d be snapped in bed with someone, rather than he and the pregnant nurse do it, for what if the bairn ever found out. She said no to him, course she did. Told him to sort it. She’s still into work every day, and anyway, do we really know if she’s having a drink or two?’

  Stan held the gate open. ‘But the mams say she is,
so where does the money, and the booze come from? The pubs aren’t supplying it, for Mrs Oborne asked, nor the bottle shop, and she wouldn’t go near that Norris, not after Mrs Bedley’s do, surely?’

  The gate shut, the sneck dropped and latched. Fran shut the back door and leaned against it, horrified, looking at her mam. ‘Beth’s drinking? Bob wants her to be photographed in bed with someone? We didn’t know any of it. How bliddy dare he? All this talk of cigar smells, canary-seed smells, and I was walking close to her and I never noticed the smell of booze. What’s the matter with us?’

  Her mam shook her head. ‘You’ve had the excitement, the wedding, and then there’s the tea to bake for, and your factory work, and doing your bit for Ralph and Sandra. If she didn’t tell you, how would you know?’

  ‘But the bus … They all know, don’t they, Mam?’

  ‘Aye, they do, but they thought why spoil your special time, eh?’ Her mam smiled wearily. ‘’Tis all right, her mam is there for her, and the last bit of power the lass has is to get up for work and not breathe a word to you. She needs that vestige of pride left to her by that man so she can spare you the worry.’

  Her mam told Fran then that the lads had feared Beth was in with Norris Suffolk, but felt sure she wouldn’t go to him, so it must be some other black marketeer. ‘I wonder if she buys the drink to spend the allotment money as a way of getting back at Bob?’ Annie mused.

  She stared into the distance. Then said, ‘Oh Fran, don’t let it spoil this time, and don’t tell her you know, the poor wee bairn. We mams are doing what we can. By, even Ben has chatted to her and walked with her, for he’s a good lad. It breaks my heart, for she talks to her mam of the shame she’s brought to the house, and she says it’s her doing – something about it’s payment for dropping Stan. And why should you girls guess when she chewed a bit of the dried-mint stem each morning in the scullery?’

  Fran shook her head. ‘Well, our shame is that we didn’t guess. But you’re right, she’s struggled on, so I’ll pretend I know nothing.’ She sat at the kitchen table, then checked the clock. ‘Where is Ben, anyway?’

  Her mam shook her head. ‘Where d’you think? Round seeing his hero, of course, showing him his latest crossword setting and talking clues, I reckon.’

  Fran smiled, wishing it was she who was there, but her mind kept taking her back to Beth, and she took herself out to the hens, where she gripped the chicken wire, resting her head against it, then looked up at the sky. ‘Oh Da, what’s to be done?’

  She could imagine him sucking his pipe, deep in thought. Then he’d look up, and what would he have said? She waited a moment as the hens fussed, and finally she could almost hear his voice saying, ‘Accept her gift of silence. But don’t you dare move far from her in case she falls.’

  Aye, that was good enough. For if that lass fell she’d be caught, but not just by her; she reckoned the lads would be there quick as a wink.

  She patted the wire, knowing the hens would go into the coop to roost when they were good and ready. She made her way inside, looking up at the airer and her mam’s outfit, then at her own dress. And there, hanging at the other end of the airer, was Ben’s suit. He’d be too tall for it soon. She nodded. Time moved on. Why, tomorrow she and Davey would be man and wife and that would make them grown-up, and again she felt uncertain. Beth? Davey? Marriage? What if it went wrong? What if he wanted to divorce her?

  Her mam was smiling at her. ‘Oh, little Franny, I remember how strange it felt to be marrying your da. Suddenly it was here, that day, the day that would change my life.’

  Fran nodded. ‘Aye.’

  ‘But you’ll still be at home, for now. Here, where you’ve always been. ’Tis Davey who will move to us, just as Stan moved to Sarah’s. He said he still thinks of here as home. It just takes time.’ Her mam brought her a cup of tea, and sat down herself.

  Fran thought of her dress, thankful to Mrs Oborne, and to Mrs Iris, who couldn’t be at the wedding as she was on shift. She thought of the lads bringing down the bed, lads she’d known since she was a bairn, and of Davey. Davey who’d had a year of life before she was born, but from that moment on they’d been two halves of a whole.

  She thought of one particular fitting in the sewing workshop when they’d all stood together, pinned, with the material inside out. Beth had hugged her, and the pins had pricked them. They’d laughed. Beth had said quietly, ‘You look bliddy lovely, our Franny, and you know, don’t you, that your Davey will never let you down. Don’t you dare think what has happened to me will happen to you.’ She had added, ‘I should have married a Massingham boy, not someone I barely knew. You know that Davey is your world, he always has been, and you his.’

  ‘One day you’ll be happy again,’ Fran had replied. ‘Trust that, trust us, for we’ll look after you.’

  Beth had just nodded and Fran had worried, she remembered now, for she had smelled something on the lass, so had that been …? Perhaps she was just being wise after the event. She stared at the range, the firebox full of coal, the flames flickering. Now, as she drank her tea, and then swirled the dregs around, she wondered if perhaps she had missed it on purpose, because it was easier?

  Her mam leaned forward, reaching for Fran’s hand. ‘Don’t you dare mither about Beth. Divint take that power from her, you hear? Not today, not tomorrow. Leave it until your Davey has gone, d’you hear, and she invites you into her world.’ Her mam shook her hand. ‘You hear me?’

  Fran nodded, hearing her orders, hearing also what she had thought her da would say.

  Her mam said, smiling now, ‘Taking the lad into Newcastle, eh? Where will they really go, d’you think?’

  They looked at one another and, laughing, said together, ‘The Rising Sun.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Fran woke in the double bed, the sheets crisp and clean. It was Thursday, 2 April 1942, Miss Frances Hall’s wedding day. She pulled the sheet up and over her head, playing tents as she had done as a child. She thought of Davey, here with her, and instead of the excitement she’d expected she felt fear, again.

  Had Sarah felt like this? She hadn’t said even when Fran had hinted at how she felt yesterday evening as they’d set out the jam jars and daffodils on the tables at the Miners’ Club hall. She lay, listening to the sounds of her house, but that didn’t settle her as usual. She made herself breathe as her da had taught her, in for four, out for four, imagining him in the kitchen, standing in front of the range, wagging his finger at her. ‘If you’re ever in strife, you keep your head, our Franny. If you lose it, then do your breathing. It’s saved more’n one pitman.’

  But it divint save you, Da, she thought. She kept on breathing, and gradually the sounds of the house calmed her and she accepted she’d be here tomorrow, and the next day, and for months, perhaps years, as this was still her home until Davey was back from the South and the war was over. By then she’d be used to being Mrs Bedley and Davey’d go back to the pit, and they’d have their own bairns, and a colliery house until he got his magazine up and running. Maybe her mam would be living with them. Unless her mam remarried.

  She sat up at the thought, startled. Her mam and a man? Howay, no. But a small voice said, Why not? It wasn’t something she wanted to think about. She flung herself out of bed and a second later Annie called up the stairs, ‘Howay, our Viola, up and at ’em. Give our Ben a call from the bottom of the attic ladder, will you, pet?’

  Fran had forgotten Viola had arrived last night to get an early start on the day. She was shrugging on her tatty old dressing gown when her mam rapped on the door. ‘Fran Hall, soon to be Fran Bedley, up you get too. Remember, Mr Massingham is sending the car for you and the lasses, whilst us mams are going on the bus. Thanks be to God the sun is shining, eh. Stan and Davey are being taken in a taxi, and if it doesn’t come, they’ll have to pedal like the wind to get there in time, so I hope their hangovers aren’t bad.’

  Fran was laughing as she headed to the kitchen. At the same moment, Viola c
alled from the landing, ‘Howay, our blushing bride. Wait for the one who’ll be walking along in your wake, always the bridesmaid, never the bride, eh.’ She rushed down the stairs. ‘I’m so excited, so bliddy pleased to be part of it all.’

  Ben had just jumped down the last few steps of his attic ladder and called, ‘Language, Miss Viola Ross, if you don’t very much mind, or you’ll feel me mam’s hand skelping your good ear, for you’re one of us now.’ He hurtled down the stairs as the girls hurried into the kitchen, shouting as he caught them up, flinging himself into his chair at the table. ‘Aye, you’re one of us, in spite of living the high life with the nobs up at the Hall. What’s more, Ralph will be back any minute.’

  Annie came in from the kitchen and skelped his ear as Viola blushed. Fran shared a look with her mam. Ah, she thought, as her mam raised her eyebrows. Fran wondered if Viola was soon to become more of a nob than a Massingham village lass. She hoped so, for there was that certain look in her eye at any mention of the lad, and it was Viola’s hand that Ralph had squeezed first, and Viola he had looked at when he came to.

  ‘Stop showing off, you daft lad,’ said Annie. ‘You may be close to thirteen, but you’re still a bairn, and don’t you forget it.’

  Ben crossed his arms, slumping back in his new shirt and suit trousers, and sighed. ‘How can I forget it, with you lot going on? And I’m even wearing a tie, for the second time in a month, and the shirt rubs me neck.’

  Annie brought out scrambled eggs on toast for all three of them, but she held it away from his reaching arm. ‘We’re not going to hear another word from you, lad, less it’s a nice one, are we? And divint forget to do your teeth and rub a flannel over your face.’

  Fran was trying to hide her laughter along with Viola, who said, ‘Or you’ll get no kisses from any girls at the wedding tea.’ The women exchanged looks.