by Annie Clarke
‘Bairns I reckon, bored for they’re not in school in the mornings, which is the evacuees’ time,’ Mrs Hall muttered, slapping her hands together as though wishing it was their backsides.
Fran was almost crying, her throat thick. ‘I thought …’ Sarah hugged her. ‘We all thought, lass.’
Her mam led the way back into the house, and slammed the door behind them, leading the way to the kitchen, but as they entered, they saw the coals burning brightly in the range’s firebox, and felt a draught. Fran put up her hand, stopping them, for the back door was swinging in the cold wind. ‘What?’ She started to say. But her mam shouted, ‘By, the bairns must have tricked us, got us to the front and come in—’ She stopped. ‘But not Massingham bairns, no.’ They looked round checking, but what was there to steal?
Mrs Hall said, slapping her forehead. ‘Oh, wait, it’ll be Madge, she was coming to do some rug making.’ Fran raised her eyebrows. All this and it was Madge? But … She looked from the open door, to the corridor. But no, for who knocked on the front door? Her mam was raising her voice, ‘Come away in, Madge, take your boots off in here, and stop heating the yard.’ There was no answer, just an odd mewling noise. ‘A cat?’ queried Beth. Fran shook her head. ‘A cat can’t open a door.’
Mrs Hall pushed past. ‘If it’s that bliddy tom of the Pritchard’s after me hens, I’ll have its guts for garters. He’s a bliddy nuisance he is, like his owner. Yowls at the feathered ladies and gets ’em in a tizz so they stop laying, and I’m not bliddy having it.’ She grabbed the broom from the scullery and almost ran to the back door, while the three girls stood back, laughing. Fran called, ‘Oh Mam, they’ll peck him to death if he ever gets in, bliddy old boilers.’
Beth pulled at Sarah’s arm, sounding alarmed suddenly. ‘I wonder, d’you reckon ’tis Bob? But why …?’
Mrs Hall opened the door a bit wider, and Beth heard her gasp, and make what sounded like a groan as she almost threw the broom back into the room. Fran moved, leaving the other two. Beth felt herself shaking. She called, ‘Is it him, Mrs Hall?’
Fran reached the door, as Mrs Hall looked as though she was tipping over onto the step. Fran reached back, grabbed the broom, brandishing it and flinging the door so wide it crashed against the wall, shouting, ‘Get away, leave me mam, you bastard. Go—’
She stopped. ‘Oh, what? What …?’ She felt faint when she realised what her mam had seen, and was now bending over and could hardly speak. She swallowed, and her voice sounded far away, even to her own ears. ‘No, Beth, it’s not Bob. Look.’
She watched as her mother reached for the bundle on the step, hearing her say, ‘Oh, who’d do … Oh, I divint believe it, holy Mother of God.’ Her mam’s voice was a mere whisper as she straightened, carrying the bundle, looking helplessly at Fran.
Fran couldn’t believe what she was seeing either.
The girls had gathered behind Fran, and now all three stepped back. ‘What? Whose? Why?’ Fran dropped the broom, and reached for her mam, who nodded. Fran felt the chill of the blankets as she pulled them down. Yes, it was true, it was a bairn, and it was pale and quiet, but moving, breathing, mewling.
Beth just stared as Sarah took the other side of Mrs Hall, helping Fran guide her to the table, and all the while the anger was building in her. Bob, her husband. Bob, his baby. Finally she rushed to the back door, through the yard, to the gate, looking up and down the back lane. ‘Hello, hello,’ she called. Why would Bob? He wouldn’t, surely? There was no reply, no Bob. There was nothing but the usual Massingham noise; the singing of the wind in the pit head winding gear, the banging and crashing of the tubs bringing coal to the surface screens, the grinding of gears as lorries took the coal to the station. But then she heard it, a different sound, that of a car revving, a door slamming. It came from Main Street.
She flew along the lane, her feet bare, heedless of the freezing cold cobbles, seeing the car, dirty and mud covered, roar past the head of the lane before she was halfway to Main Street. ‘Bob?’ Instead of a shout, she heard little more than a whisper, for her voice wasn’t working. She kept on running, her breath heaving in her chest, her feet slipping until she reached the road, looked to the right, shading her eyes against the glare of the sun. The car was in the far distance, taking the Newcastle fork.
‘What on earth? Bob didn’t have a car.’ She turned, and ran towards the backyard, heading for the open door, stepping over the broom which still lay discarded half on the steps, half in the kitchen. To the right of the door, lying on the chair beneath which young Ben put his boots on his return from school, was a bag. She picked it up and carried it through to the kitchen table, where the girls were talking together, while Mrs Hall sat crooning to the bairn. The knitting needles were left abandoned on the table, the pale lemon wool too. She went to shut the door, but the broom was in the way. She felt such a deep chill in her heart, a chill far worse than that of an October day in Massingham.
Helplessly she made her way back to the small group at the table, staring at the babe, making herself be calm, making herself think, for this surely … Yes, she was right, this bairn was too big, seven, maybe eight months old and Bob and Heather’s wouldn’t be. She closed her eyes, feeling a moment of relief, but only a moment, for the babe was so wan, and thin, too cold and too quiet. And if not Bob’s, then whose? She heard herself say, ‘Who would do this? It divint make sense …’
She heard the sneck on the yard gate lift, then it slammed. Beth spun round. Was this the mother? Had the car returned? She held out her hand, stopping Fran. ‘Let me.’ She ran to the door, which was already open, and pulled it wide but it was Madge and Beth’s own mam, Audrey Smith, who called, ‘We’ve come to chivvy our Annie, pet. I know Madge was to work on the rugs here, but we met her, and decided it were best we take them to the Hall to help our Sophia, eh? She’s so laden with the bairn she’s almost past walking. Maud Bedley is waiting down the road.’
Beth stood gaping at them.
Madge pointed to the broom. ‘What’s amiss? Why are you looking so gormless, our Beth, standing guarding the door, like that, eh?’ Still Beth couldn’t speak. Alarmed, Madge stepped over the broom, and pushed past. ‘Is it our Annie?’
Beth could see Fran standing at the table, carefully unpacking the bag, laying out baby bottles, clothes, nappies; the girls’ knitting had been moved aside into a pile. Finally, there was a letter. Fran held it up. Beth’s mam, Audrey, snatched it from her while Madge squatted by Annie’s chair, pulling aside the blanket. Beth picked up the broom, leaning it against the wall, and shut the door. Madge muttered, ‘By, this babe isn’t thriving. I know it’s cold, but even so, look, it’s so thin.’ Madge was rubbing the bairn’s hands, blowing warm breath, while Annie Hall stood and moved closer to the range.
Audrey Smith said, ‘It’s addressed to you, Fran.’
‘Aye, I reckon I saw that before you ripped it from me hand.’ She took it back, unfolded the sheet of paper, and scanned it.
Fran was trembling, and she shook her head. The babe was mewling now, but weakly, and aye, it were like Pritchard’s tom cat.
Mrs Smith said, ‘For the love of God, lass, read it out.’
Fran had to read it twice to herself, because she couldn’t understand the first time, or believe it the second. She looked up, staring across at her mam, who was rocking the bairn as she walked backwards and forwards. She looked around at the others, then let the letter drop to the table, saying, and meaning it. ‘I’ll bliddy strangle her, so I will.’
‘Who?’ shouted Beth as she made her way towards the others.
‘Daisy.’ The baby’s wail was loud. Annie hushed her, rocking her as Madge picked up the letter and read it, her eye patch green today. Mrs Smith peered over her shoulder. Annie Hall muttered, ‘If someone doesn’t read the damn thing out, I’ll be the one strangling the lot of you. Daisy? Oh, the one our Davey had the troubles—Oh, for the love of God. And someone put the kettle to boil as we’ll have to sterilise these bottle
s, get something warm into the wee thing. Pan on the shelf in the scullery, Beth. Tip the boiled water in it, but keep it boiling, eh? Have we time to boil the milk and let it cool, or look, maybe the tot is old enough to drink it warm?’
The door opened, and in came Maud Bedley, Sarah’s mam. ‘I’ve given up waiting for you. The wind on the corner of Main Street got right into me drawers.’
Fran looked from the letter to her mam, who had become quite still, and was staring at her daughter. ‘Mam?’
Mrs Hall said, ‘If it’s Daisy’s, is she coming back for the bairn? Or is it forever?’ She stopped. ‘But ’tis the bairn we need to sort, nowt more, not yet.’
Fran just nodded, as Beth came from the scullery with the pan and poured in the kettle water. Madge had opened the vents on the firebox so the coals glowed red hot. Beth scuttled on more coal. ‘Hush Beth, quietly, eh,’ Fran called softly. She read out the letter then, equally quietly.
Fran, I know that you are a good person for Davey has talked a lot about you. I didn’t want to have my baby adopted and because you are good, I know you will keep her ’til I am able to have her back. It will be good for your mother too, Fran, as I know her own Betty died, and guess what, my baby is called Betty too, to make it easier for you and your mother to be good to her. Don’t try and find me. But please tell Daniel’s father, for he was kind to me. I will come for her, one day.
Gratefully, Daisy.
Sarah sighed, ‘Davey said she was devious, and I reckon he were only partway right, for she’s very, very devious naming her Betty, if she bliddy did. For this little babe were born months ago. I bet she’s called some’at else really. As though that makes any difference as to whether you’ll keep the lass. But you divint have to, you know. This is blackmail.’
Hear more from
ANNIE CLARKE
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Arrow Books
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London, SW1V 2SA
Arrow Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
Copyright © Annie Clarke 2020
Front cover photograph: Silas Manhood
Background: © Alamy
Design: Emma Grey
Annie Clarke has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in Great Britain by Arrow Books in 2020
www.penguin.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781473564664
