The Most Precious Thing

by Bradshaw, Rita

  The Most Precious Thing

  RITA BRADSHAW

  headline

  www.headline.co.uk

  Copyright © 2004 Rita Bradshaw

  The right of Rita Bradshaw to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2010

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  eISBN : 978 0 7553 7589 9

  This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Part 1 - The End of Childhood 1925

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part 2 - Not a penny off the pay Not a minute on the day. 1926

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part 3 - An Uneasy Peace 1936

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Part 4 - Rationing, Raids and Recriminations 1940

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part 5 - Truth Will Out 1944

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Part 6 - Homecomings and Departures 1945

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Rita Bradshaw was born in Northamptonshire, where she still lives today. At the age of sixteen she met her husband - whom she considers her soulmate - and they have two daughters and a son, and a young grandson.

  Much to her delight, Rita’s first attempt at a novel was accepted for publication, and she went on to write many more successful novels under a pseudonym before writing for Headline using her own name.

  As a committed Christian and passionate animal-lover - her two ‘furry babies’ can always be found snoring gently at her feet as she writes - Rita has a full and busy life, but her writing continues to be a consuming pleasure that she never tires of. In any spare moments she loves reading, walking her dogs, eating out and visiting the cinema and theatre, as well as being involved in her local church and animal welfare.

  Rita’s earlier sagas, ALONE BENEATH THE HEAVEN, REACH FOR TOMORROW, RAGAMUFFIN ANGEL, THE STONY PATH, THE URCHIN’S SONG and CANDLES IN THE STORM, are also available from Headline.

  To my big sister, Tonia, who shares the memories of childhood - remember who used to eat her selection boxes for breakfast, dinner and tea on Christmas Day? - the joys and sorrows of being grown-up, and the prospect that we’re both getting steadily older!

  I love you, Sis.

  Acknowledgements

  I owe much to numerous sources for the background material regarding the Depression and Second World War, but special mention must go to the following: Life in Britain Between the Wars by L.C.B. Seaman; Southwick by Peter Gibson; Durham Miner’s Millennium Book by David Temple; Tommy Turnball by Joe Robinson; Our Village, Memories of the Durham Mining Communities by Keith Armstrong; Sunderland’s Blitz by Kevin Brady; English History 1914-1945 by A.J.P. Taylor and British History edited by J. Gardiner and N. Wenborn.

  I would also like to thank those grown-up children and grand-children of the old miners, who generously shared stories, experiences and memories of the strikes and marches their forbears endured, and of their stalwart womenfolk who worked from dawn to dusk with a fortitude we can only marvel at now. Truly they had little time to dream . . .

  When Ev’ning does approach we homeward hie

  And our Domestic Toils incessant ply;

  Against your coming home prepare to get

  Our work all done, our House in order set,

  Bacon and dumpling in the pot we boil

  Our beds we make, our Swine to feed the while;

  Then wait at door to see you coming home,

  And set the table out against you come.

  Early next morning we on you attend;

  Our children dress and feed; their clothes we mend:

  And in the field our daily task renew,

  Soon as the rising sun has dry’d the dew.

  Our toil and labour’s daily so extreme,

  That we have hardly ever time to dream.

  Mary Collier (washerwoman), 1739

  Part 1

  The End of Childhood 1925

  Chapter One

  ‘His mam’s done everything she can to stop this wedding. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Aye, I do. You’ve told me often enough.’

  ‘I hate her and she knows it, but I don’t care. Upstart, she is. I said to Walter, your mam is an upstart and as tight as a tadpole’s backside, and that’s watertight.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He agreed with me.’

  That didn’t surprise her. Carrie McDarmount grinned at her elder sister and Renee smiled back, her full-lipped mouth wide. Walter was fair barmy about Renee; if her sister had said black was white he wouldn’t have argued.

  ‘She might rule the rest of them in that house with a rod of iron but she’s not starting any carry-on with me. I’ll soon send her packing with a flea in her ear. I would, you know.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that for a minute.’ Carrie was laughing now, her mouth - smaller than her sister’s but just as full and bow-shaped - opening to reveal a set of perfectly even white teeth.

  ‘The cunning old so-an’-so tried to make out she wanted us to wait because of the strikes and such, said it wasn’t a good time to think of getting wed with the slump worsening. I said to Walter, when will be a good time as far as your mam’s concerned then? We live at the wrong end of the street, that’s the thing. And then there’s Da.’

  Renee’s voice had hardened on the last words and now Carrie wasn’t smiling. She had never understood the antipathy between her father and his eldest child but ever since she could remember their rows had rocked the house. There was Billy, who at sixteen was just a year older than herself and two years younger than Renee, and then the twins, Danny and Len, the babies of the family at seven years old, and never a cross word with their da, but Renee only had to walk into the same room as him and there were ructions. Their mam said it was because the pair of them were like peas in a pod under the skin, and maybe she was right.

  ‘And you needn’t frown at me, Carrie McDarmount.’ Renee tossed her head, causing her wedding veil to flutter like a trapped bird. ‘I’ve nothing against a man having a drink, but Da! He can’t hold it, you know he can’t, and it’ll be the same old story later, him dancing and singing and acting the cuddy, likely as not in the street, and poor Mam not knowing where to put herse
lf.’

  ‘Renee--’

  ‘No, don’t come out with your endless string of excuses for him, not today of all days. Knowing he’s going to show us all up as usual has taken the edge off me wedding day, and that’s not fair. I don’t know why you stick up for him like you do, I don’t straight. He’s big enough and ugly enough to look after himself.’ Renee’s voice trembled slightly as she finished her tirade and, as always happened when her sister’s brash façade slipped a little, Carrie immediately softened.

  ‘Oh, lass, don’t take on.’ She sprang up from the edge of the old iron bed she shared with Renee and put her arms round her sister who was sitting on a hardbacked chair in front of the spotted mirror fixed to the back of the wardrobe door. ‘Look, I’ll try and keep an eye on him once we come back to the house, all right? See if I can stop him drinking too much. How’s that?’

  ‘No you will not.’ Renee gave the slender figure a hug, her own voluptuous and well-padded curves straining against the cheap satinette of her wedding dress. She sniffed loudly, before pushing Carrie away, saying, ‘I want you to enjoy me wedding day, Caz. Do you hear me? You’re not going to look after anyone. I wish you could’ve been my bridesmaid, lass, but with what it cost for the dress and then the bits of furniture we’ve bought . . .’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Renee’s use of the pet name told Carrie she was forgiven. ‘I didn’t expect it, honest. You’ve had more than enough to do with making your dress anyway.’ She stood back a pace, surveying her sister in the long-sleeved, high-necked shimmering gown. ‘You look bonny, Renee. Just bonny.’

  ‘Walter’s mam’s managed to let me know she thinks a white wedding’s a waste of money.’ Renee wrinkled her nose, her brown eyes taking on their normal wicked sparkle. ‘She was referring to the cost, of course; she doesn’t know the horse has been out of the stable for some time. She’s such a cold fish she probably doesn’t think a woman could like a bit of making on. How she’s managed to have four bairns is beyond me.’

  Carrie smiled wryly but said nothing. The sisters shared a bedroom in the cramped terraced cottage in Sunderland’s Southwick district. The curtained-off area provided just enough room for the pallet bed that the twins slept in, top and tailed; Billy slept on a desk bed in the sitting room. The enforced intimacy meant it was not Carrie’s mother but Renee who had explained to Carrie what the blood on her nightgown meant some twelve months before. Renee had also gone on to expound a little about the birds and the bees when she had seen her sister’s total ignorance of the facts of life, adding airily that she and Walter had been doing ‘it’ for some time, and that there was nothing to be frightened of. ‘Don’t say nowt to no one though,’ she had warned after she had sorted out a chunky homemade linen pad with ties each end for her younger sibling. ‘Mam and Da’d go mad if they knew.’

  ‘But . . . but if doing it makes babies,’ Carrie had asked, bewildered, ‘what if you have a bairn, Renee?’

  ‘Don’t you worry your head about that. There’s ways and means.’ Renee had nodded her head mysteriously, leaving her sister more confused than ever.

  No baby had materialised, and now it was Renee’s wedding day, a day that had had their mother fretting for months. With a strike every other week at Wearmouth colliery - or so it seemed to the womenfolk - and shifts being cut, and their da and Billy and the other miners being locked out at the drop of a hat, Carrie knew her mother relied on every penny her daughters brought home from their work at the firework factory across the river. When Renee had first got Carrie and her friend Lillian set on alongside her the year before when the girls had left school, Carrie had given her mother all her weekly wage of seven shillings and fourpence, only accepting the return of one shilling and fourpence when her mother had absolutely insisted.

  Now Renee’s contribution to the family pot, already halved since her engagement as she began her bottom drawer and saved towards furniture, would stop altogether. Her mother’s housekeeping had been stretched to the limit the last months as she’d endeavoured to put the odd penny or two by for the wedding feast.

  Renee rose to her feet, fluffing out her short veil. ‘I have to say I shan’t be sorry to leave this house. You’d have thought it was a funeral we were getting ready for rather than a wedding, and Mam’s begrudged every stick of furniture we’ve bought for our place.’

  ‘She hasn’t begrudged you it, Renee. She’s pleased you’ve got a few things together, she told me so. It’s just that she’s at her wits’ end half the time trying to manage on what comes in.’

  Renee shrugged meaty shoulders. ‘Aye, well, be that as it may, we all have to look out for number one in this life. I tell you, lass, I don’t intend to end up like Mam. Walk into any pit house round these parts come evening and what d’you find? A blazing hot fire, heavy, damp, stinking clothes hanging all over the place and a tired woman who looks double her age. Walter might be a miner but he already knows I’m not the sort to drop a bairn every year and worship the ground he walks on. We’ve an understanding, me and Walter, and whatever his mam says, or ours for that matter, I’m not giving up me job just because I’ve a ring on me finger. I want to enjoy being married and have a bit of a life, and you can’t do that if you’re stuck with a bellyful on a miner’s wage. Look at Gran and Granda, both gone well before their time thanks to the pit.’

  Carrie nodded. She’d heard it all before and she wasn’t about to argue with Renee, not on her wedding day. Besides, she agreed with Renee in part. Their da had been an orphan and was brought up in the workhouse, but their mam’s parents, Gran and Grandad Cain, had lived only a few doors away till three years ago. Then Granda had died in an accident at the pit and within three months Gran had succumbed to a heart attack, brought on by years of overwork and the many miscarriages she’d endured after their mam, Gran’s only child, had been born in the first year of marriage.

  Carrie smiled into the plump, attractive face in front of her and said briskly, ‘Come on then, lass. You ready?’

  ‘Aye, I’m ready.’ But then Renee caught hold of her sister, her voice thick as she said, ‘We’ve had some right good cracks in our time, haven’t we, lass? Pillows over our faces often as not so’s not to wake the lads. That’s the only trouble with Walter, he hasn’t got much of a sense of humour.’

  ‘You two will be fine.’ Carrie hugged her again. ‘Now come on, Da’s waiting and Mam and the lads have been left ages. I’ll have to be nippy to get there before you at this rate. And no arguing with Da once I’m gone, mind. This is one time I’m trusting you to be all sweetness and light, our Renee.’

  ‘Huh!’ They were both laughing. ‘That’ll be the day.’ Renee hitched up her ample bosom with her forearms, smoothed her dress and exhaled loudly. ‘I just hope Norman Finnigan has managed to borrow his uncle’s horse and trap like he said. Walter’s slipped him a few bob but you never know with Norman.’

  ‘I’ll go and see if he’s here yet.’ Carrie left the bedroom and Renee followed just behind her, both hands holding her long skirt clear of the bare floorboards.

  As the girls entered the kitchen the man sitting in a decrepit rocking chair in front of the warm range turned his head towards them.

  ‘Here she is, Da, and doesn’t she look bonny? I reckon Walter will burst a blood vessel when he sees her.’ Carrie’s voice was bright and still holding a thread of laughter but her eyes were pleading with her father, and Sandy McDarmount was well aware what his youngest daughter was asking. Be kind, say something nice. Don’t mention the cost of the new finery again or how Renee’s time would have been better spent putting the money into something for the house she and Walter were renting.

  His eyes lingered on this favourite child, the light of his life as he privately put it, and not for the first time he asked himself what he would do when Carrie made her choice and began courting. No one would be good enough for his bairn, he admitted ruefully, no one from round these parts any road. It wasn’t just that she was blossoming into a real beauty, ski
n like peaches and cream and eyes of such a deep blue they almost appeared black at times, it was the tenderness of her, the warm-heartedness to all and sundry. There were plenty who preached about going the extra mile but few who would walk it when push came to shove, but his Carrie possessed a generosity of spirit that made him fear for her at times. She even brought out the best in Renee, and that was saying something.

  He forced himself to smile at his eldest daughter and his voice was jocular as he said, ‘Burst a blood vessel? Probably half a dozen, I’d say. You look pretty as a picture, lass.’

  Renee stared at her father. She couldn’t remember a time when everything about the small, walrus-moustached man in front of her hadn’t irritated her to screaming pitch, and it was on the tip of her tongue to say, ‘Don’t overdo it, Da,’ but instead, mindful of the day, she smiled back and pretended to curtsey, making the three of them laugh.