Wedding Bells on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  Finally Cyn came down the bus steps.

  ‘Hurry along, if you please,’ called Fran.

  Cyn beckoned them over. ‘Well, you could have gone ahead. You know Simon’s expecting us. It’s spring. There is work to be done on the allotment. So, let’s not dawdle, eh?’

  ‘Oh do let’s dawdle,’ Beth said. There was laughter. There always was. Fran and Beth walked ahead, following Cyn, with Sid and Norm talking about nothing much behind them, and Sarah and Stan murmuring Lord knew what as they brought up the rear.

  Fran was thinking what bliss it must be to have a husband at home with you, not miles and miles away, when Cyn raised her voice. ‘A suggestion, girls. The Massinghams need help, especially when that bairn comes, so if one lass has half a left hand and t’other, Sandra Young, is missing some of her sight, the two seem well matched. In other words, they’d work right well together. Think on, and it would be something to offer Sandra when we get her signed off from the Factory. Tell me your thoughts on it, and on who is to talk to the Massinghams. Let’s not dilly-dally, for I don’t want them to fill the post and Sandra to have no money coming in if she’s not up to the sewing shop.’

  They were nearing the allotments, and already beanpoles were up on some plots, but not their das’.

  ‘I’ll tell Mam,’ Fran said. ‘She’s been a bit down what with the Massingham babe coming. It’s reminded her too much of Betty. She’ll be glad to have some organising to do.’

  Simon Parrot came to the door of the Canary Club. ‘Howay, I’ve me own beer on the go, lads, and I reckon a taste of elderberry wine’ll go down a treat.’

  The shed was dark and Sid sat on an upturned barrel, smelling the bird seed, and it was as it had been most of his growing years. His father had kept pigeons before he’d been a member of the Canary Club in its early days, but then the black lung had taken him. It was long ago, while Sid was still at school, and the wedding photograph his mam kept on the mantelpiece didn’t remind him a bit of the ailing man he’d known.

  He watched as Cyn handed the girls bitty glasses of wine. There’d been no more from Bob after Beth’d sent her reply promising to send the allotment monthly, but he, Sid Barratt, could still see her pain, even though she was moving forward, as Ralph had said. He grinned to himself, for Ralph, the daft pillock, took his new walking stick to the pit, hooked over his arm as he walked up the slope to the screens, just to give everyone a good laugh. He fitted in and could even lip-read now, he’d said as they wheeled their bikes out of the pit yard one day. ‘Well, I bliddy have to,’ he’d said. They’d all swung round and looked at him.

  ‘Bliddy?’ asked Stan.

  Ralph raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, hard not to come down to everyone else’s level when I’m a pitman amongst pitmen.’ They’d beaten him about the head, then kicked his arse. He’d cycled away, calling back, ‘Read my lips,’ then mouthed, ‘Pillocks.’ They’d chased after him, but were laughing too much to go more than a few yards.

  Sid dragged on the last of his Woodbine. It was strange because now everyone, mostly, forgot the lad was the boss’s son. He was just one of them. What’s more, Sid knew that he’d stand side by side with them from now on, as he had against Norris.

  Sid took a beer from Simon. It was home brew, and strong enough to blow your head off.

  ‘When you’ve wet your whistle, lad,’ said Simon, ‘you and Norm help the girls sort out the seed. Just see if you think there’s too much red millet, for it gets stuck in their crop. Our Stan’s too caught up with the missus to help.’ Simon winked. ‘Then we need to get on putting up the beanpoles.’

  ‘We can help, eh, Fran?’ Beth called across.

  Fran nodded. ‘Da would have had ’em up by now, so he’ll be mithering.’

  ‘I meant help with the seed, for heaven’s sake,’ said Beth.

  There was more laughter.

  Beth and Fran moved to sit either side of Sid, running their hands through the seed, and Sid felt happy, for he was here, with Beth, and Norm was there too, ignoring the seed, but instead prattling about the spuds needing water and double digging or some such, though what the hell was double digging?

  Sid asked, and was told, once Norm had dragged his hand across his mouth, wiping it clean of the last of the beer. Sid thought of Beth doing just that after Norris’s kiss. He looked down and saw that her hands had stilled in the seed, and she was also staring at Norm. Inching his hand towards hers, Sid entwined her little finger and ring finger with his. Her wedding ring was gone. He squeezed. She did nothing. Perhaps it was a cheek of him?

  He moved his hand, but she snagged her fingers with his, momentarily. Then released them.

  He glanced at her. She at him. He whispered, ‘It’s in the past.’ She nodded. Fran was peering at the seed, checking for red millet as the two of them dug their hands in again, but all the while, Sid could see Beth’s slight smile in his mind’s eye.

  ‘Sifted to death, you three,’ called Simon. ‘Time for the real work.’

  ‘Not sure I signed up for this,’ muttered Sid.

  ‘If you’re one of us, aye, you did,’ Beth said.

  There was laughter. They all downed their drinks and within five minutes Sid found himself with the spade, learning just what double digging was all about and wishing he’d kept his big mouth shut. It wasn’t until he looked up and saw Beth laughing at him, dragging the dead runner beans from the poles, that it was all worthwhile. He said, ‘The first big juicy worm I find will be down your neck, pet, if you think there’s owt funny in this.’

  Beth’s laugh was louder still. ‘You and whose army, our Sid?’

  He said, quietly, ‘I reckon I’ll get me squaddie, Ralph, at me side, and we’ll take you on, lass, no trouble.’

  At that her gaze softened, her laughter grew quiet. ‘Oh aye,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll never forget that it were you, Sid, who saw that beggar off. Ralph helped, but it were you, and it changed how I felt, just as Ralph did later with his words. But it were you first and foremost. I didn’t see it at the time, though.’

  He stopped with his boot on the spade, and she with a beanpole in her hand, and they just looked, and he felt he could reach out and touch the warmth of her gaze.

  Fran, Sarah and Beth walked back to Beth’s house, though the other two would go on to their mams’ after they’d checked that she’d had no more letters. The lads were still working nearby at the allotment, just in case she had and they were needed. The girls’ boots clattered on the cobbles.

  Beth lifted the sneck, collected the key from the old pigeon loft and let herself in. She removed her boots, while Fran stood in the doorway on the newspaper, Sarah at her shoulder. The kettle was on the side of the range but could be heated quickly for a cup of tea. Beth didn’t bother to argue that she was strong enough to cope if she had another letter about the divorce and how to pay for it, but trotted through to the front door. There were two letters. One was a bill, the other was in Bob’s handwriting. She brought both back to the kitchen, and when Fran and Sarah saw it, they removed their boots and joined her.

  ‘I told him I wouldn’t read any more of his letters,’ she said. The envelope was cool in her hands; his handwriting was looped, and written in the same royal blue ink. Was he apologising and asking to be forgiven? What would she say? That’s what she had lain awake trying to work out all week.

  She faced the answer now, staring at his handwriting, for it was no. She could never like him again. Neither, she knew, could any of them. So, when she had got out of bed, she had realised that if he ever came back, the choice would be between her world and Bob. She looked around the kitchen. There was no room for him here; too much had been said and done.

  Fran leaned forward. ‘Open the bliddy thing, for ’tis driving me mad. Does he want to come back? Or is he up to mischief again? Come on, Beth. Open it.’

  Beth shook her head. ‘I said I’d not reply to owt he wrote. I said to let a solicitor handle the papers. So, it is only that envelope I wil
l open. I divint want him back. He wouldn’t fit, not here, not with us, or so I have come to feel.’

  They turned at a tap on the door. Sid entered. ‘I came to help. I heard what you said. I have a place for this letter, if it’s what you really mean, bonny lass. Might as well give the worms something to do, if I’m not to stuff them down your neck.’ His voice was quiet, but firm.

  Somehow Beth wasn’t surprised to see him, but the other two were, and they stared at Sid, open-mouthed. Beth looked up at her wedding photograph on the shelf. Then down at Bob’s letter.

  She put the letter in her pocket and put on her boots. Sid held the door open. The two girls booted up and came too. They walked across the yard and into the back lane. Sid led the way, back to the allotment. No one spoke. They tramped past Mr Oborne’s, and Mrs Adams’, until they reached their fathers’ plots.

  Stan, Simon and Cyn waited, standing by one of the double-dug rows they’d been working on. It was on Beth’s da’s plot. Sid pointed. ‘Into the trench then, if you’re sure.’

  She looked at them, these friends, these marrers, these people who were part of her world and were her mainstay, her life. She looked finally at Sid, his freckles, his Woodbine in the corner of his mouth, his cap slanted over to the side, and smiled. ‘Aye, I’m sure. Might as well do the soil some good.’

  Stan realised then what was happening, and nudged Cyn and Simon. Fran squeezed Beth’s hand. Sarah linked arms with her. They walked almost to the trench. Beth took one more look at the royal blue ink, the sloping writing, and couldn’t bear to hold the envelope any longer, so tore it into shreds and let the pieces flutter into the trench. Stan pulled the spade out of the earth and handed it to Sid.

  ‘Best cover it, lad.’

  Sid dug in the spade to start the second trench and tossed the topsoil into the first, burying the shredded letter. He dug in the spade again, pressing down with his boot. Then Beth shouted, ‘No. No, it’s my job.’

  She took the spade and dug and dug until she had finished the whole row, tossing the soil into the first trench each time. Sweat poured from her; her hands were sore from heaving the spade. She stood back. There, she thought. That’s what I’ll do with your madness every time from now on, do you hear?

  Sid came and took the spade. Their hands touched. He looked at her. ‘I’m right proud of you, lass. We all are.’

  She pushed back her hair, looking around. Fran and Sarah were smiling, the lads were nodding. Cyn Ellington came and put her arm around her. ‘Well, bonny lass. That’s shown the toerag, eh?’

  Before too long, the men had completed the digging and the beanpoles were in place, tied with twine by the girls. Down in the earth, thought Beth, were her husband’s last words to her. She breathed in, then out, here on the allotment where her da had dug with Mr Bedley and Mr Hall, the three plots side by side. She and her marrers were together, as they had been since childhood. A childhood of which Bob had not been a part. A gang of which he had not been a member. The pain wasn’t a pinprick, but neither was it a stab. It was just pain.

  She looked around. All this was enough, all this was her present and future: the slag heap shimmering, the Factory with Swinton as foreman, the co-op, her friends. Aye, they were enough, but Bob had been her husband, and she had thought he loved her. She stared up at the sky, to her da, in the gloom of the fading day, a day on the cusp of evening, and realised that perhaps Bob had never cared, not really. Had she known him, really, or he her, ever? She looked around again, and there was Sid dusting off his hands, nodding at her. Yes, there was Sid, whom she hadn’t thought of as a man – just part of the gang. But he was a man, and he had the kindest of eyes, a redness to his hair, and those freckles …

  They walked home and were so late that Fran realised their mams would skelp them, but more than that, Davey would be telephoning any minute. She yelled as much to the girls, and together they ran, leaving Sid and Norm to go on to their own homes, and Cyn and Simon to do what they would.

  The telephone was ringing in the telephone box, and magically there was no queue to sigh and roll their eyes. There were just the deepening shadows of the houses along the street, and the trees with branches like bare fingers against the darkening sky. Fran snatched up the receiver while the other two pressed their faces against the glass, pulling grotesque faces. She laughed and turned her back, listening to his precious voice.

  Fran talked, laughed, and briefly mentioned the burial of Bob’s letter. Davey cheered. The girls were tapping on the glass now.

  ‘Go away,’ Fran said, waving them off. Davey was telling her that Daniel had heard from his father, and that Daisy’s parents had not seen anything of her, nor had anyone else. He paused, then said as an afterthought, ‘Though there’s a vague police report that someone perhaps answering her description bought a ticket for a train heading to the North.’

  ‘What? Has she family up here?’

  She imagined his shrug as he said, ‘Who knows? ’Tis the bairn I worry about.’ He added, ‘I gather her parents would insist on adoption. But ’tis none of our business, thank heavens.’

  Fran remembered Sandra Young now and told him that it was possible she would work at the Hall, with Viola and Sophia. He said, ‘Aye, Sophia’ll need it at her age.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, she’s not ancient,’ Fran shouted. ‘It’s only because Reginald is older that you think that. Besides, the co-op’ll take care of her.’

  ‘Aye, but the thing is,’ Davey said, ‘I know some families have millions of bairns, but they’re not all a similar age.’ He paused, then said, ‘Oh Fran, never mind Sandra Young heading to Massingham Hall, why don’t you do it? Anything to get you out of the Factory.’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s what I heard Stan say to Sarah, and there’s nowt chance of it happening with either of us, or our Beth. There’s a war to win. It’d be like running away and leaving others up to their eyes in it.’

  Their trunk call was running out of time, and he was yelling, ‘I’d rather you ran than were—’ The line went dead.

  She replaced the receiver, pressing down on it, wanting him here and in her bed of a night, holding her till the dawn. But he wasn’t and that was that, but one day he would be.

  She opened the door, and the three of them walked home first to Sarah’s, where Stan was waiting, then to Beth’s, where they saw Sid leaning against the wall near her yard gate.

  ‘Howay, lass. Thought maybe there’d be a cuppa going spare.’

  Fran grinned, turned and headed for her own back lane, sauntering down it and in through the gate, resting her head against the hen’s chicken wire, telling them it had been a good day, a lucky day, just a bit of suntan for Tilly, nowt to speak of. She heard her mam singing in the scullery, opened the back door, removed her boots on the newspaper, and tucked them next to Ben’s outside, under her da’s old chair.

  ‘Howay, Mam. I’m home.’

  The singing stopped. ‘Sit yourself down then, lass. We’ll have a cuppa.’

  Ben looked up from the crossword he was setting, winked and said, ‘Best wash your hands, our Franny, or she’ll skelp you.’ They laughed together.

  Welcome to

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  Turn the page to step into the home of

  ANNIE CLARKE

  and discover more about

  The Factory Girls …

  Hello my dear friends,

  I do love a good wedding. In fact, I love anything that lifts life a little: any excuse for a celebration, mum used to say. So what could be better than to have a couple of our girls getting hitched, and a bit of a celebration ‘tea’, a singsong. I love having a singsong in my novels, as I have such a foghorn of a voice, I am for a moment, transported into someone who has a v
oice that can soar and swoop, and bring an audience to their feet.

  But clothes? Oh clothes in wartime, with strict rationing … Such a problem.

  Then I remembered a photo of my mum and dad. They were married in India having met on a convoy over during the war. My dad was a pilot in the RAF and mum a military nurse. I’ve probably told you she was destined to nurse in Singapore but it fell while they were en route. So that ‘squadron’ of nurses went on to India with the convoy. Sadly, some of her friends were on an earlier convoy and fell victim to the Japanese.

  So, there were mum and dad, having met on the boat, deciding to marry, and setting a date, but – arghhh – no frock. So, with Dad in the RAF, parachutes were available. A lovely frock ensued. And a wedding, and a reception at which they partied into the early hours. In the image you can see how terribly hot it was, the men sweated through their uniforms, but there was mum, elegant as ever on the day she changed from Annie Newsome (or Sister Newsome in my novels and as she was) to – eventually – my mum.

  In my mind, the frock was already a solid starting point for the next stage of the Home Front girls. I just needed to think of the rest of the story!

  I seem to write a great deal about communities, friendship, loyalty, endurance, love, and the odd fly in the ointment. Mum’s pit village abounded with all these virtues. Here, in North Yorkshire where we now live, we find the same: the goodness of people, the humour, the endurance.

  Mum and Dad on their wedding day

  When my editor told me that Fran’s dress for the cover photoshoot was actually a heritage dress, made from parachute silk, and dating back to the war, I was absolutely thrilled.

  In the fourth book, coming in October 2020, there is to be a pantomime. Who I wonder, is going to be the back end of the cow, who will be the nasty step-mother, and who the lovely fairy? Be still my beating heart.