The Ever Open Door

by Glenice Crossland

  Then Ernest heard the cry of a new baby and Betty’s voice exclaiming, ‘Oh, Mrs Firth, it’s a boy! Oh, isn’t he beautiful? I never knew it would feel so wonderful.’

  ‘Eeh, love, you’ll never know joy like this if yer live to be a hundred. So let’s have a pot of tea and enjoy the feeling.’ Then her voice boomed out, ‘Ernest, is that kettle on’t boil? Can yer make us all some tea?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Firth. But can I come and look at the baby first?’

  ‘Aye, come on, lad. Eeh, I bet yer right glad yer did yer shoulder in, aren’t yer? After all, it’s worth a bad shoulder to see a bonny new baby like this.’

  Ernest grinned and looked at Betty, sitting up on the sofa, pretty as a picture with her new son in her arms. ‘Yes, Mrs Firth, it certainly is.’

  Betty Hayes née Butler looked happier than he could ever remember seeing her; she had always been a sulky young miss, from what he could recall. Now, though, he felt he could understand why. Betty, however, seemed a bit embarrassed as she remembered the things she had told him earlier.

  ‘Thanks, Ernest, for listening,’ she said shyly. ‘And I’m sorry I’ve spoiled your Saturday night.’

  ‘Spoiled it? I wouldn’t have missed this experience for anything.’

  Ernest found that he was glad she’d confided in him about her childhood. One thing was clear: this hale and hearty little one wouldn’t be leaving her for a long time. His face clouded over then. At least, he hoped not. No one knew what would happen from one week to the next in wartime, but Ernest Denman knew a bit more than most. He realised things were about to get worse before they got better.

  Betty never did find out who had been on at the Empire; nobody bothered to tell her, they were all too busy admiring the new baby, who by all accounts was also to be called Ernest.

  ‘And what will his dad have to say about that?’ Amy asked, in between cooing over her grandson and making sure her daughter was comfortable, after they had carried her on a chair back to her own bed.

  ‘He isn’t entitled to say anything,’ Betty told her mother firmly. ‘It wasn’t him who was here for me, it was Ernest.’

  Clarence Hayes had never even bothered to write to his wife, and since she didn’t know his whereabouts, she couldn’t let him know he was now a father. Betty didn’t mind. She didn’t want to share her son anyway. She wanted him all to herself.

  The letter confirming Sally’s inheritance had not yet arrived and she was becoming impatient to start work on the house. She knew the work might be in vain if anything went wrong, but decided to take off the wallpaper, which she placed in sacks ready for collection, and bought some distemper. She chose lemon for downstairs and pale pink for upstairs, then reversed the colours to stipple the walls with the aid of a sponge. She was delighted with the results and how much lighter the house now looked.

  She daren’t part with any of the furniture in case Charlotte became the new owner, against the odds, but Emily Simms had taken possession of the bedroom suite pro tem, on condition that it might have to be returned. The best of Mr Jessops’ furniture would be retained and the rest given to some needy family, when the letter from the solicitor came through.

  Sally enjoyed cleaning the house and making it attractive but was in no hurry to move in. The truth was she was nervous about taking her daughter to live in a house that had recently been entered and burgled.

  Chapter Four

  DAISY DIDN’T WANT to go to the new house, not now there was a new baby at Grandma Butler’s. Sally was having trouble keeping her daughter away – Baby Doll had almost been abandoned once a real live baby was on the scene. It was only the forthcoming concert that drew Daisy away from baby Ernie and back out to play.

  Pat was the organiser. Being rather big-headed now she had passed for grammar school, she had pronounced herself the boss. All the kids from the three rows were roped in to take part in the show, which would be staged on the flat piece of land by the air-raid shelter. Nobody had any real choice in what they would be doing except for Pat Cartwright. She, of course, had the biggest role, and since she was the best singer nobody complained.

  Pat would be singing three songs. One was about a tree, and another about nymphs and shepherds – not that any of them knew what a nymph was, not even Pat. Norah was to sing about an aspidistra in a pot. Daisy knew what that was because Grandma Denman had one. The Dawson boys were to form a trio and sing a George Formby song as well as ‘Underneath the Arches’.

  Most of the songs had been learned from records in the Cartwright’s front room. Bernard complained that his precious 78s would be worn out by the time they had finished. Stanley didn’t want to do anything at all, so he was elected to help with the costumes, the chairs, and to go round with a hat during the performance. Daisy, because she had Baby Doll, was to nurse her and sing ‘Go To Sleep, My Baby’. She already knew that, as Sally had sung it to her every night, without fail, from the day she was born.

  The star turn was to be Una Bacon who would wear the costume she wore when she attended her dancing lessons. She was to sing ‘Horsey, Horsey, Don’t You Stop’. In the middle of it she would stop singing and do a dance routine, including cartwheels. For someone not yet of school age this was a remarkable performance and Una was the envy of the whole gang.

  All the mothers were in charge of costumes. Stanley, who’d thought he was being let off one responsibility, was disappointed, though. Pat decided he had to dress up as Charlie Chaplin, complete with moustache and cane. The hat would be just right for collecting money in because it would hold a lot.

  On a glorious August Sunday afternoon, with a sky as blue as the dress Daisy was wearing, chairs were brought out of all the houses and a screen borrowed from Mrs Firth. This was used as a backcloth, behind which the performers made their entrances and exits. The concert was timed to coincide with the men arriving home from their lunch-time pints and promised to be an entertaining afternoon for performers and audience alike. Everybody who wasn’t at work attended – apart from Betty, who had been forbidden to leave her bed for ten days, and Miss Appleby, because of her legs.

  First on stage, of course, was Pat, whose clear melodious voice rang out across the field. By the time she had finished singing about a thing so lovely as a tree, a crowd of passers by, out for their usual Sunday afternoon walk, had joined the audience and their applause could be heard all the way down St George’s Road.

  Next were the Dawson lads and because their choice of songs was so popular, they were forced to add on another at the end. Fortunately they all knew another song and the audience joined in so that any forgotten words went unnoticed. ‘Strolling’ had everybody swaying along with the three lads from Taylors Row.

  Next little Daisy brought forth cries of ‘Aah’ and a few tears to the eyes of her parents as she stood centre-stage – if there had been one – and sang to Baby Doll.

  Then it was Pat’s turn again, this time with ‘Nymphs and Shepherds’, which wasn’t quite so popular, and then Norah. Her ‘Biggest Aspidistra’ was better received.

  Little Una, of course, should have been top of the bill. She actually received a standing ovation when ‘Horsey’ finally stopped. Then it was Pat’s turn again. She had certainly planned the programme well, as she ended with a medley of songs such as ‘Tipperary’ and about another half-dozen wartime favourites. At the end of all this she was joined by the other performers for the finale with ‘Land Of Hope and Glory’.

  The whole crowd rose to its feet and sang along with gusto, and Sally wasn’t the only one crying by this time.

  Charlie Chaplin made sure he approached the visitors from St George’s Road first. They were the ones from the big houses and were probably the wealthiest. The ones who gave the most generously, however, were those who had come straight from the Rising Sun. They would no doubt wonder where their money had disappeared to, later on when they had sobered up.

  Pat proudly thanked everyone for coming and begged them to give generously for the Sheffi
eld Newspapers’ War Fund.

  There were no prouder parents in England that afternoon than Bernard and Enid Cartwright, and with good reason.

  Sally had just finished the ironing when Miss Appleby looked at the clock.

  ‘You should ’ave time to put a bit of polish on the furniture before yer go. I hope yer not going to be sneaking off before twelve.’

  ‘Now, Miss Appleby, you know I never sneak off anywhere. If I wanted to go early, I should tell you and just go.’

  The older woman was sitting as usual in her chair by the window. Suddenly she sat bolt upright, on the alert. ‘Hello, it looks like she’s expecting another caller. Almost midday and she’s drawing the curtains.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The one on St George’s Road. The one with the window box.’

  ‘Well, it is rather sunny, maybe she doesn’t want the furniture to fade.’

  ‘Sun, rain or snow, makes no difference to that one. Always entertaining one man or another. Two she’s carrying on with at present. There’s a young one … nice-looking he is, too … then there’s the other one who seems old enough to be her father. Looks to be on his last legs to me.’

  ‘Perhaps he is her father,’ replied Sally, thinking, what a vicious old woman you are.

  ‘Of course he isn’t! Her parents moved down south years ago. Ashamed of ’er, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘She seemed a lovely lady when I spoke to her.’

  ‘You spoke to her?’ Miss Appleby seemed surprised to hear it.

  ‘Yes, about music lessons when I was fourteen, but she was booked up solid. That proves how good she is.’ Sally grinned. ‘A good thing, really. I lost interest as soon as I left school so it would have been a waste of money.’

  ‘No staying power, you young ones. Anyway, she’d ’ave fitted you in if you’d been of the opposite sex, no doubt. I ’aven’t seen any pupils there for months. Must be making enough out of her man friends,’ said Miss Appleby spitefully.

  ‘She didn’t seem that type of person to me,’ Sally protested.

  ‘Well! You can’t go on appearances is all that proves.’ She moved closer to the window. ‘Isn’t that Dr North over there? I hope ’e isn’t coming ’ere. He isn’t a proper doctor like Dr Sellars. Oh! You’ll never credit it … he’s going in. Don’t tell me she’s got ’er eye on him too!’

  ‘Maybe she’s ill.’

  ‘Dr Sellars used to come and see me every week about my legs,’ Miss Appleby said, unconcerned whether the poor woman was ill or not.

  ‘Well, she never seemed to do you much good. Dr North told you to walk more. Said a walk to the surgery would do you good.’

  ‘You know very well I can’t walk. It takes me ten minutes to get out of me chair. Anyway, what does he know? Not long out of school, by the looks of things. At first he seemed quite nice, then after a bit ’e didn’t seem to want to listen. I offered ’im some tips on ’ow to run the surgery better, but in my opinion ’e wasn’t interested. Some people won’t be told, even when it’s for their own good. I mean, I should know ’ow surgeries work when I ’ad a cousin who cleaned in one.’

  Ida’s face suddenly took on a condescending expression and she gave a little wave like the Queen. ‘There, he’s going now. I told yer he wouldn’t call.’

  Sally gave an exasperated rub with the yellow duster. ‘You said you didn’t want him to call.’

  ‘I didn’t, but it’s the thought that counts.’

  Just then Sally knocked over a framed photograph with a clatter.

  ‘Go on, go on, break up me happy home now,’ Miss Appleby said sharply.

  Sally replaced the photograph, muttering to herself: ‘Happy home … with you in it?’

  ‘What did yer say?’

  ‘I said, I’ll make you a drink in a minute.’

  ‘Go on then, and make one for yerself. And mind how much tea you use.’

  Sally went to the kitchen and filled the kettle, placed it on the gas ring and prepared a tray. In her absence Ida Appleby stood up, walked over to the ironing board and began examining the pile of ironing. Sally stood by the door and watched her.

  ‘I thought you couldn’t get out of your chair,’ she said. ‘And why are you counting the handkerchiefs? Don’t worry, I shan’t pinch those. I could start a market stall with the ones I’ve had bought. Besides, we never seem to need them at our house. I can’t remember when I last washed one.’

  Miss Appleby moaned and made a performance of looking crippled and in agony as she made her way back to her chair. ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ she said, referring to the hankies. ‘Too lazy to wash them, I expect. Now when I was a housekeeper things were different. Everything had to be boiled, starched and dolly blued. You wouldn’t have lasted two minutes in that job. You’d have been scared of the steam ruining yer make up.’

  Sally brought the tray in from the kitchen and slammed it down on the table. ‘I still boil and dolly blue, I’ll have you know. Here’s your tea. I won’t have one myself, thank you. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s ten-past twelve.’

  She picked up her bag and stormed out, leaving Ida sitting there open-mouthed. By the time Sally had walked the few doors home she had calmed herself down, but wondered why she felt sorry for such a miserable, self-centred old woman as Ida Appleby.

  Nellie delivered the letter from Dunstone & Sedgewick on Friday morning, which announced that probate had been granted. At last Sally let herself become excited at the prospect of moving house. Little did she know that her rival was still planning revenge on her for her temerity.

  Mark Kaye had begun to wonder if Charlotte needed some treatment for mental disturbance. For two nights she had woken him up with the story that there were dogs in the room. He had returned to the marital bed, not because he desired the closeness of her body, but to put an end to her constant nagging.

  ‘Look, there are no dogs! There have never been any dogs in this house.’

  ‘There are! They’re the dogs out of those cheap prints you brought from Uncle Walter’s. You should have brought the right pictures.’

  ‘Yes, well, as I told you before, I’m not a bloody owl. If you’d wanted me to see in the dark, you should have supplied a torch or fed me more carrots.’

  ‘They’re big dogs … menacing.’

  Mark looked at her with incredulity. ‘You’re stark raving mad.’

  ‘I want you to get rid of those pictures.’

  ‘Oh, you do, do you? Well, you wanted them, you got them, so shut up! I’ve got work in the morning.’

  ‘The clock strikes as well.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The clock … I can hear it strike one, as if to wake the dogs. Then they come for me.’

  Mark laughed. ‘You really are mad.’ He turned over, pulling the eiderdown with him. ‘And if you aren’t careful, I shall soon be back in the other room. For good.’

  Charlotte huddled closer to him.

  ‘Don’t leave me, Mark, I’m scared.’

  ‘Go to sleep.’

  She’s insane, was the last thing he thought before he dropped off to sleep. The sooner she got rid of her ill-gotten loot, the sooner she would shut up.

  Charlotte lay there, staring at the blank wall behind which stood Walter’s clocks, silent and unwound.

  Ernest arrived back at his base on the Lincolnshire coast, intent upon proving himself fit for action. During his medical examination he gritted his teeth and told the doctor he was ready for duty.

  The doctor was an expert at weeding out malingerers. In this case, he knew Ernest Denman was lying in order to be back in action. He was quick to note the colour drain from his patient’s face as he prodded and stretched the offending shoulder, however. ‘Two more weeks,’ he diagnosed.

  That decision was probably to save Ernest’s life. In the following few days, the RAF lost twenty-seven of its own aircraft, shooting down more than a hundred enemy raiders. The plane Ernest Denman would have been flying was one of them.
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  Friday afternoon was one of Daisy’s favourite times, when her mam and Aunty Mary took the two children to Millington market. All the mams seemed to get dolled up a bit for their visit there and Daisy was washed and changed into a clean dress. The mams always had a gossip and admired new babies, as well as queueing up for any biscuits or sweets that happened to be available. The sweets were usually pear drops or humbugs which would be shared out over the next week, a few every day. Daisy had noticed that on Sunday afternoons she usually got a few extra to keep her quiet while Mam and Dad went for a lie down upstairs. Today they were going to buy her new socks for school. Mam said she would get them from Old Misery’s stall as his were cheaper.

  The market was a cheerful place. There was jolly Mr Capstick who sold shoes and menswear. There was the fruit and vegetable stall where the stall holder juggled with potatoes. Old Misery’s stall, where Sally bought underwear, a fancy goods stall, and best of all the toy stall where Stanley and Daisy would no doubt be bought a paint book or windmill, or, in Stanley’s case, stamps for his album.

  Sally perched Daisy on the edge of the stall while she and Mary examined the goods. Suddenly she heard her daughter talking to the stall holder and was mortified to hear her announce: ‘I’ve come for some new socks, Mr Misery. Can I have some with stripes round the top, Mr Misery?’ Of course the man had only been nicknamed Old Misery because he had a face as long as Woodhead Tunnel, but Daisy wasn’t to know that.

  Sally was in such a hurry to escape the embarrassment that the socks were forgotten as she scooped her daughter up in her arms and hurried her from the stall and out of the market. ‘But I haven’t got my socks or a windmill,’ Daisy complained.

  The windmill-buying was usually left until the end of their visit, in order to bribe the kids to behave in the meantime. Today, however, no brightly coloured celluloid toy was forthcoming. It wasn’t until they were halfway up the Donkey Path that Sally looked at Mary and they both began to chuckle. Before long they were convulsed with laughter.