Wedding Bells on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  Will there be another wedding, or perhaps an engagement? A baby or two? Now, let me see where my characters take me. Careful, they’re behind you. Oh no they aren’t. Oh yes they are …

  Turn the page for a sneak

  peek into my new novel

  Christmas on the

  Home Front

  Coming October 2020

  Available to pre-order now

  Early October 1942, Massingham pit village

  Sarah, Beth and Fran congregated in the Halls’ kitchen, standing in a line as Fran’s mam, Annie Hall, handed a pair of knitting needles to each of them. Each pair had been stabbed into a ball of pale yellow wool. It was wool that Annie had pulled out from three tattered and tired baby coats she’d bought at the ‘Jumble Sale for the War Effort’ last week at the Miners’ Club.

  It was mid-morning, on Monday, and unfortunately the girls weren’t due to head for the munitions factory bus until just before twelve, though the three of them wished it could be sooner.

  Annie pointed her forefinger, a sign that she must be obeyed. ‘I warned you yesterday I’d be up and at you this morning, for ’tis more than time you got to work on cardigans for Sophia Massingham’s expected babe. You promised a while ago, but cardigans …’ She raised her eyebrows and looked at each of them in turn. ‘Came there none, as the Vicar’s sister would say. Meanwhile, I say the bairn’ll be walking before you three cack-handed lasses get round to producing owt. You know right well the babe is due at the end of the month, not earlier as the doctor thought. So at least you have a while longer. You’ve to knit, knit and knit again, lasses, for you’re in a race against nature. Winter will soon be upon us and woollies will be required.’

  Fran, Beth and Sarah shared a look but knew protests were pointless, not that they really wanted to demur, for they loved Sophia and Reginald Massingham, the enlightened owners of the pit, and the village, and lord knows what else.

  Fran ran her fingers over the wool, remembering how Davey had laughed last night when he telephoned her at the public phone box as usual, and Fran had told him of the lesson planned for the next morning. Her husband of six months had said, ‘Knitting for the babe at last, eh? Well, you’ve put it off for so long on the pretext of no time, or too much work so I’m not surprised your mam’s cornered you. I mean work? What work?’

  Fran had laughed, ‘I reckon when I next see you you’ll pay for that remark, young man. You who sit at a desk throughout your shift and fiddle about much as though you’re playing around with crosswords.’

  Now, in the kitchen, she still felt the longing as her friends and mam chattered around her, and remembered almost moaning, ‘Oh Davey, I just wish I was knitting for our own bairn, lad. I need something of you, for I miss you so much.’

  Davey had been soft as he replied, ‘It will be one day lass, just wait and see.’ Silence had fallen between them, until she remembered something to lift their mood. ‘Davey, oh Davey, Eva’s come up with an idea, the little madam.’

  Davey had sighed, though she could almost sense his smile. ‘Oh lord, not another idea. She’s full of them. Tell me, make me laugh.’

  So she did, explaining that one of the orphaned evacuees, Melanie, had been adopted by an aunt and was off to live in Wales just before Christmas, and that Eva, in spite of being heartbroken, was trying to plan a farewell party to see her off. ‘Typically our Eva has everyone else doing the work, starting with Stan, Sid and Norm finding a Christmas tree to her liking.’

  Davey had laughed, spluttering, ‘Oh aye, and then there’ll be the Proggy Makers’ Co-op dragged in to do the eats because Sophia will be busy with the new babe, and you, The Factory Girls group will have to s—’

  Fran had interrupted, ‘Are you a mind reader?’ At that point the telephone box door had opened, and Sarah yelled to Davey, ‘Talk quickly, older brother, it’s too cold for me and Beth standing here waiting on her ladyship. ’Tis fine for you down in the South.’

  Whereupon she and Beth had crowded in, as Fran repeated what he’d said. Beth shouted, ‘Aye, spot on, our Davey. Eva’s making a list of all that’s to happen, and ticking it off when I swear she hasn’t even asked anyone—’ Sarah had snatched the receiver, sharing it with Beth. ‘Aye, I reckon the co-op’s been giving her lessons on how to be bossy.’

  Now, in the warmth of the kitchen, Sarah was nudging her, waving her knitting needles and wool, saying, ‘Remember Davey’s phone call, and us telling him about Eva keeping track of everyone’s jobs when—’ They all sniggered as Beth interrupted, ‘Aye, but the difference is, we did actually agree to knit these cardigans, t’isn’t just your mam making it up. So, we should get on with it.’

  ‘Oh, who’s trying to be favourite,’ Fran chanted. Beth held up her hand, and continued, ‘At least your mam’s shown thought and chosen lemon wool to match our skin colour.’

  They burst out laughing though Mrs Hall muttered, ‘Don’t remind me of those dreadful explosives you work with, please. You know we mams spend our time doing our best to forget them.’

  Sarah stopped laughing and was pulling the ball of wool from her needles, deep in thought, then she looked up. ‘With us talking of making things up, I found meself thinking of that Daisy who made such a habit of fibbing. Did Davey say if any more has been heard about her whereabouts? It was Scotland last month, wasn’t it? It’s the babe who worries me, I can’t imagine how the wretched girl will cope alone.’

  ‘No, nothing more, and even that sighting was a “perhaps”,’ Fran answered, not wanting to think about Daisy in any way, shape or form, for she’d been such a nuisance at the Bletchley Park decoding establishment, accusing both Davey and his marrer Daniel of forcing themselves on her. No one could understand why, until it became apparent she was pregnant, and wanted someone to share the responsibility of the baby, which was in fact her boyfriend’s. Poor bloke, he’d been shot down during an air battle. Davey, soft as he was, and Daniel too, had felt pity for the pregnant young woman and got Daniel’s father, a vicar, to find a place for her in an unmarried mother and baby home. From there, she had disappeared, taking the baby with her.

  It was her mam knocking on the kitchen table who brought the girls to order. ‘Attention please, we haven’t all day, so sit down, the three of you, and watch close, for I’m sick of showing you how to do this. By, t’isn’t as though you know nowt about knitting for you learned at school. ’Tis such a simple thing but to make it even easier I’m showing you how to cast on using your thumb. I’ve decided I daren’t let you loose with the two needles, for it seems to me you leave your brains behind at the very sight of a ball of wool.’

  Fran was laughing silently, as her mam took her place at the head of the table, while they sat down. She watched as she wound a strand of wool around her thumb before looking at each of them in turn. ‘Watch close, because while you do, I have to tell you that we must help Eva, and obey the ticks against our chores. And ’tis your chore that’s becoming larger.’

  The girls groaned, but watched Mrs Hall. ‘Eva wants a bigger group of singers around the Christmas tree, which she insists is to be set up in the sitting room at the Massingham’s. So you need to recruit about four or five others to join in though it doesn’t matter whether they can sing, for the bairn’s’ll join in, and drown all out. Watch carefully now.’ Annie Hall shook her head, causing a strand of grey hair to come loose from her bun, and fall across her eye. She blew it off her face.

  Beth copied Mrs Hall, winding the wool round her thumb, saying, ‘But that’s all very well, Mrs Hall, for though Eva’s ticked us off on her list as certainties, we haven’t agr—’

  Mrs Hall rode over her. ‘Agreement’s nowt to do with owt and it’ll do you all good to be involved in a party. For a start it’ll take Fran’s mind off mooning over Davey, and calm you, Beth, when you get to thinking about not hearing from your Bob over the divorce he wants. And what about our Sarah, still swooning over our Stan, though they’ve been married – what – seven months? If he�
�s there, then she’ll be, so might as well give her some’at to do.’

  Fran raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m mooning, eh?’

  ‘Concentrate, Fran.’

  Fran laughed, loving this woman. Sarah said, ‘Tell you what, Mrs Hall, let’s just get on with knitting because you know very well we’ll do as we’re told, or you’ll be sure to strangle us with the wool.’

  Beth nudged her, as she struggled with the stitches for a moment, saying, ‘Aye, but Mrs Hall knows we have to make a bit of a fight of it, or ’tis no fun.’

  Annie Hall looked up from her six cast-on stitches, waving them in front of the girls and checking theirs, before nodding. ‘Good, keep going, and while I think of it there’s a piano in the ballroom. Perhaps we can bring it through to the sitting room, then the vicar’s sister can accompany you. Even if it’s a bit out of tune it’ll be better that the organ and all her puffing and wheezing. Just one squeak from her tubes and it’ll set everyone off.’

  Fran muttered, struggling to push the needle through the wool which she’d wound too tightly round her thumb. ‘’Tis the organ’s tubes, Mam.’

  The girls all grinned, and Mrs Hall too. ‘Aye, well, that’s as maybe, but to help you out I’ll talk to Sophia about the piano, and then maybe suggest it to Eva. Though she’s so sharp it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s been on to the idea without the help of any of us. As long as she has a labour force she reckons everything is possible. Mind, she’ll not put up with any forming of a union to question her thoughts on what needs to be done.’

  Sarah muttered, making another stitch, and nodding towards Mrs Hall. ‘Wonder who she reminds me of, our Fran? And aye, you have to live with her.’

  Fran was making another stitch after loosening the wool, but muttered, ‘Aye, ’tis why I’m such a wreck and moon over someone else.’

  Mrs Hall took no notice. ‘I reckon the co-op can bake a few tarts, there’ll be some apples stored up at the Hall and I’ll think of more things, but I reckon our Eva will have sorted what she wants already, so why am I bothering?’

  Again they all laughed and continued casting on, Fran created a fourth stitch, then a fifth as her mam continued, ‘Now, the pattern says thirty stitches, so keep at it. This will be the back.’

  The girls, as one, looked at the clock above the range, but no, it wasn’t nearly time to leave for the bus. They groaned, and worked on until each had thirty stitches on the needle. Mrs Hall nodded, ‘Aye, that’s grand. ’Tis the most difficult part, until you come to the armholes that is.’

  The girls sighed. She continued, ‘So we will now knit one, pearl one for the rib. We want the wee mite to feel welcome, divint we, and a few nice cardigans isn’t too much to ask, is it, eh?’

  The girls sighed again, and did as they were told, for this last comment was just another example of the co-op’s nice line in emotional blackmail.

  Mrs Hall mused, ‘Maybe you’ll work on it as you take the bus to and from the factory, and even during the meal break?’

  Fran said, ‘Oh aye, just think of the guards finding these metal needles as we go in. They’ll have them off us quick as a wink, and give us a tongue lashing into the bargain.’

  ‘Then I’ll be down there, frisking them, and taking the needles back just as quick, let me tell you,’ Mrs Hall replied. ‘Now, I’ll remind you that there were rips in the coats I bought, so the wool, though ’tis wound into a ball, is broken. You’ll have to join it. Divint even think of knotting it. You knit it with the two ends side by side, just for two, perhaps three stitches, and when it’s finished, use your big-eyed sewing needle to thread the ends through so it doesn’t show.’

  She smiled at them, as though all the problems of the world had been solved. Fran pressed her lips together against a retort, which would have anyway died a death, because her mam was roaring on. ‘Wait, I’ve an idea. I reckon if you talk to Bert, he’ll keep the knitting in the cab of his bus, so you can still knit on the way to and from work, and we don’t have to cause a scene at the gate.’

  Fran broke off from creating a pearl stitch. ‘Mam, did I hear you say “we”. It’s an “us”, I reckon.’

  ‘Aye, lass, but I’ll be with you in spirit.’

  Beth muttered, ‘That’s what we’re afeared of.’

  All four of them grinned as they continued working in rib; one plain, one pearl and Fran found her shoulders relaxing. She could feel the wool, the cool of the needles, and hear the click. The repetition was soothing, which is what her mam had always said. She smiled, for it pushed the absence of Davey into the background and that took some doing.

  Sarah dropped a stitch. ‘Oh no, look.’ She held up her knitting. Mrs Hall came round the table. ‘Watch, everyone.’ They did as commanded, and learned now to re-capture the stitch, and it was Beth who said, ‘By, poor wretch, it thought it had escaped, but let’s face it, if it wasn’t Mrs Hall, it’d be me own mam, or yours, Sarah, recapturing it, putting paid to its little game, just like they do to us.’

  Mrs Hall gave Beth one of her looks as she handed the knitting back to Sarah. ‘Two more rows, girls, then a cuppa, and perhaps “good girl” honey scones.’

  Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘You were that certain we’d fall in line that you’ve baked them already, you wicked woman?’

  ‘Aye, well, you’re good lasses, and all the effort is for the evacuees, poor wee bairns, for Eva will miss Melanie sorely when she goes back with her auntie. Better if Wales was next door, but it is what it is.’ Mrs Hall ended the row, then pierced the ball of wool with the needles, leaving them on the table before heading for the range, where she perked up the simmering kettle, poured the water over the used tea leaves already in the teapot, leaving it to stew. She hurried into the scullery, bringing back scones, and placing them in the middle of the table. They were already split, buttered and thinly spread with honey.

  Beth completed her row, just a step behind Fran, but Sarah dropped another stitch. ‘I reckon this wool’s got a life of its own.’ She couldn’t pick up the stitch, and dropped another into the bargain. Mrs Hall brought over the teapot, poured them each a cup, then went to Sarah. ‘By lass, you’re making a right dog’s dinner. Give it to me a minute, and for the love of Mike, watch.’

  She caught the stitches, slowly, checking that Sarah was watching, and handed it back, just as Fran set aside her needles and sipped her tea, looking over at Beth. ‘So, and you’ll be sick of the question you’re asked too often, I expect: nowt more from Bob then about the divorce he wants?’

  Beth shook her head. ‘Nothing, and if I do get a letter from him, I’ll send it back to Grimsby, Return to Sender, much as he did to me, his wife. The only letters I’ll open are from his solicitor.’

  ‘How do you really feel, pet, now it’s some months further on?’ It was Mrs Hall asking as she busied herself wiping down the range. It was the question Fran wanted to ask, because her friend still hadn’t regained the weight she had lost when Bob had left her.

  Beth concentrated on finishing another row, mouthing rib one, pearl one, then laid the knitting aside as the others had now done, and reached for a scone. She took a bite, then looked up. ‘A bit frit sometimes, for he was right horrid by the end, but you know that, and I’m with my mam, and me marrers and that’s what’s important.’ She smiled at them all. ‘’Tis strange really, for though I feel a bit better about it, I’ll be going along, doing something ordinary, and suddenly I remember something we did in the past. Or I see his face in a shop window, and think he’s there, behind me, angry because I won’t help him pay for the divorce. I mean, I send my wife’s allotment from his pay to him and Heather for the babe, and ’tis enough. The divorce is his business to pursue.’

  She looked around at them, and the scone in her hand. ‘But you know what, I can kick him out of me head easier now, just like a football: wham, bang. What’s more I make sure I miss the goal so he goes blasting away for miles.’ She grinned, the others laughed, finishing their scones and licking their fingers
. Mrs Hall tutted and brought out a damp flannel.

  Beth mused, ‘I’m starting to wonder if I ever really knew him, for he were off to war so quick, and then at sea … But, really truly, I mean it when I say I don’t want anything more of his nonsense.’

  She continued knitting, starting another row, knit one, pearl one, saying, ‘Besides, that’s the way it is, as our Fran says far too often, and drives us bliddy mad.’

  Fran pulled a face. The others grinned. Beth said, ‘If the wind changes, our Franny, you’ll stay like it.’

  ‘Talking of wind,’ her mam called from the scullery. ‘Check the back door is shut, would you, Franny. Seems to me ’tis rattling.’

  Fran checked the door, but it was closed properly. She returned to the table. Sarah was head down, knitting, and Beth too. Fran took her place, picked up her needles, pleased with her efforts. The only sound was her mam pottering about the kitchen, the gurgling of the range, and the ticking as the warming plate cooled. It was all so normal, when out there in the world, Fran thought, the war was raging. She found herself wondering if Bob was away escorting convoys or something, because the first convoy had got through to Russia, or so the newspapers said. Well, she damn well hoped so, for it was time Bob concentrated on his job and did someone some good.

  They knitted on, rewarding themselves with sips of tea at the end of each row so the sudden banging on the front door made Fran jump. She spun round, confused, then her mind raced. She froze, for the front door was for the police, or telegram boys, or authorities of some sort. Telegrams? Oh no. Fran felt faint, then threw down her knitting, and was up and out of her chair, rushing down the hall, her heart racing. ‘Davey? Not Davey?’

  Her anguished call must have galvanised them all, for she heard them tearing after her, her mam calling, ‘No, Franny. Let me.’ Fran didn’t slow, but still her mam reached the sneck ahead of her, pulling the door open, her arm out to hold the girls back. But there was no one there. Fran stepped out into Leadenhall Terrace, looking up and down the street. Beth, Sarah and her mam clustered around her.