‘Come on, Mrs Browell. Let’s go back and have a hot cup of tea, yes?’ Carrie gently led the sobbing housekeeper to the waiting car which had formed part of the long black funeral cortège. David and Walter were executors of Margaret’s will in Alec’s absence, something Alec had arranged when he had suspected his call-up was imminent, and so all the family were going back to the house - much to Olive’s chagrin.
Margaret’s will was very simple. In the event of her dying before her beloved husband, she left everything to Alec, with a proviso that the sum of five hundred pounds be given to Mrs Freda Browell whom she considered her dear friend and companion. Freda was also left some fine pieces of jewellery, and a small terraced property in Bishopwearmouth. She could either continue to rent it out as was currently the case, sell it, or live in it herself.
‘That’s it.’ The solicitor looked round at them all, his glance taking in Freda Browell who was holding on to Carrie’s hand very tightly and looked rigid with shock. ‘The bulk of the estate is Mr Sutton’s, but there is a paragraph which states that both Mr and Mrs Sutton have agreed that Mrs Browell is welcome to stay on at the Ridings as housekeeper for as long as Mr Sutton lives on the premises. If you take this course’ - he now was speaking directly to Mrs Browell - ‘an adequate allowance will be made each month for you to keep the house in order for Mr Sutton’s return. Otherwise we will shut the establishment until further notice.’
Carrie dared not glance at David or any of the others, but when Renee brought out a handkerchief and pretended to blow her nose, hiding her mouth in the process, she knew that her sister was enjoying the position Olive now found herself in as much as she was. In one fell swoop, Margaret had given Mrs Browell the upper hand in a way she could never have envisaged when the will had been drawn up. Olive’s goose was well and truly cooked. If she wanted to stay on in Alec’s house she would have to stomach a large helping of humble pie.
Even in her grief Mrs Browell clearly appreciated the irony of the turnaround in her and Olive’s circumstances because she said quietly, ‘Could I let you know what I intend to do in a few days’ time, Mr Greer, when I’ve had a chance to reflect? Of course if I decide to stay on here some help would be useful’ - a strangled sound came from Olive - ‘but I’m really not sure.’
Renee glanced at Carrie at this point and Carrie read her sister’s face like a book. She was applauding Freda’s stance.
‘Of course.’ The small man rose to his feet, brushing an imaginary spot from his immaculate jacket as he said, ‘I will take my leave but not before I offer you all my condolences again. Mrs Sutton was a truly fine and gentle soul, a lady in every sense of the word.’
‘Yes, she was. Thank you.’ As the oldest brother present it was Walter who replied.
When they all left a little while later, it was Mrs Browell who saw them out, her mantle already one of gracious host. Olive was standing just behind her and looked as if she was going to burst a blood vessel when Mrs Browell said to Carrie, ‘Thank you for being so supportive,’ and took her hand. ‘Whatever I decide, I do hope we can keep in touch, Mrs Sutton, and if I stay on here, you and the rest of the family are welcome at any time, any time at all.’
They were halfway home in the taxi cab when the sirens sounded, and within minutes the whole sky was filled with lights and bombers, the flares so bright it seemed like day. But for once Carrie welcomed the diversion, if not the actual raid itself, because Matthew had just been voicing his opinion of events. ‘Fancy Aunt Margaret giving Mrs Browell the right to stay at the Ridings,’ he said peevishly, ‘instead of Gran. That’s not fair. Gran said Mrs Browell was going to go and that I could go and stay with her if I wanted, seeing as it would make more room at home for Lillian and everyone. Nothing ever works out for me.’
Part 5
Truth Will Out 1944
Chapter Twenty
Carrie felt her heart begin to thud so hard it actually hurt her chest as she stared at the calendar on the kitchen wall. She must have made a mistake surely. She counted the days again, and then once more. Then she walked over to the rocking chair to one side of the range and sat down, her legs weak.
Two periods. She had missed two periods now; the second had been due over a week ago. Admittedly she had been the odd few days late in the past, but never anything like this. And she had been feeling off colour for a couple of weeks and had been sick three mornings in a row. Why on earth hadn’t she cottoned on before?
And then she answered herself. Because the thought of having another bairn hadn’t crossed her mind in months. The last year had been so busy, she hadn’t had time to think, let alone brood about a baby.
The first half of 1943 had seen parachute mines, firepots and incendiaries rain down on Sunderland incessantly; large areas of the town had been flattened and many lives lost. Even David and those working underground hadn’t been safe; a bomb had dropped down the mine shaft in one colliery and sealed the fate of dozens of men. After this Carrie hadn’t known which was worse, David and Matthew and her father and brothers working down the pit when a raid was on, or being above ground where fire-watching and warden duties were proving more and more dangerous.
Carnage and destruction had become a way of life, and there was barely a family in the whole of the north-east who had not lost loved ones to the onslaught. But all that had occurred the year before, and since the previous summer no more bombs had fallen and the barrage balloons that had arrived within days of the last two heaviest raids had been hardly used.
This cessation had been too late for two of Carrie’s loved ones, however.
Early in March 1943, a parachute mine had exploded virtually in Ada’s backyard. The warden who had been patrolling the area said he saw an orange flash and an explosion, and when the rescue services reached the house they found a large crater next to where Ada’s shelter had been. Ada had been found crushed into the ground with her cats in her arms, and Carrie’s only comfort was that her friend had died instantly.
A week later the bombers were back, and this time it was Isaac who was killed. Lillian’s husband had been engaged in fire-watching duties when a row of houses close to the North Dock shipbuilding yard had been hit and all but flattened by several 500kg bombs. Isaac, two Special Constables and a warden had tunnelled into the wreckage at a point where they could hear children crying. After an hour’s hard work they succeeded in reaching two girls, sisters, the eldest of whom was only six years old. The children had been trapped under a stout kitchen table, which was what had saved them; it had provided a three by five foot shield against falling debris.
When the little girls had been safely handed to waiting neighbours, Isaac and one of the Special Constables attempted to reach the mother who was clearly seriously hurt but still alive. Working in a space no more than a foot or so high, they had just uncovered the woman’s legs when the rest of the house collapsed, burying both men and the injured woman.
Lillian had broken down at the funeral, and Carrie - still struggling to come to terms with the loss of Ada - had suggested that she and her children come and stay for a few days. After several weeks Lillian still hadn’t been able to face the thought of returning to the rented property she and Isaac had shared for the last two years, though, and so it was agreed that Carrie’s front room would again become a permanent bedsit. After a while Lillian had begun to pull round, her depression lifting a little.
It had been over the Christmas period, some months later, that Lillian had admitted to Carrie that her despair in part had been due to the prospect of Olive seeing Isaac’s death as a means to moving in with her, should she rent a property or rooms of her own.
‘I could manage Mam when Isaac was here, he wouldn’t stand any nonsense from her and she knew it, but now . . .’ Lillian gazed at her friend with tragic eyes. ‘She’d be up to all her old tricks and the bairns are frightened to death of her as it is.’
‘Look, lass, there’s a home for you and the bairns with us until you decide oth
erwise,’ Carrie said stoutly. ‘Your mam might not like being Mrs Browell’s skivvy but it was her choice, and she was lucky to get offered a roof over her head after how she’d been. David and I want you with us, all right?’
Lillian had cried and hugged her, but Carrie had noticed her friend had gone into the new year with a much more positive frame of mind, and now - a full twelve months after Isaac’s death - she was almost her old self again.
Carrie now rose from the rocking chair, deciding she needed a fortifying cup of tea. A baby. Oh please, God, let me be right about this, please don’t let it be another false alarm or something like that. But it wasn’t, she just knew it wasn’t now that the idea had taken shape. She walked over to the range, lifted the kettle which was already full of water and placed it on the hob before resuming her seat once again.
She lay back in the rocking chair, her hands going over her flat stomach in a protective gesture. She felt pregnant now that she thought about it; the sickness and deadening tiredness she’d suffered the last couple of weeks were just the same as she’d felt early on with Matthew. That should have given her a clue if she’d stopped to think. Oh, David, David, a baby. Your baby. But would he be pleased, the way he had been lately?
The thought brought her up short. Make the tea first, she told herself. One thing at a time. She sat at the kitchen table and drank two cups in a leisurely fashion, one hand on her stomach, despite the fact she had to see about getting the dinner on.
Things had been . . . difficult between them lately. And then she bowed her head. More than difficult. Last autumn she had suggested they find a house where the ground floor could be designated a work area - a sewing room, fitting room and eventually, perhaps, a sales room. Of course they would need a bigger place than they already had, maybe even shop premises with a flat above, and at least one girl to assist her. But she’d be her own boss - they would be their own bosses, because she’d suggested David leave the pit and be part of the enterprise. She had expected him to be enthusiastic. She knew he had never really liked her working for Mr Horwood so she thought he would be all in favour of her working for herself. But he hadn’t wanted to consider it or even talk things over with her, and the row that had followed had been short but unpleasant.
He had been unhappy since then, sort of closed in on himself, and the gulf between them had widened with each passing month. It frightened her. Again Carrie touched her stomach but now with a nervousness to the gesture. The loss of the old David had shown her just how much she loved him, and she did love him, so much. But she wasn’t sure if he loved her any more. When they made love now it was different, he was different.
She shut her eyes, resting her chin on one hand, her elbow propped on the table. All their married life he had constantly told her how much he loved her in the warmth of their bed at night. He’d said she was beautiful, amazing, all sorts of things, things which could never be voiced in the cold light of day, but he didn’t do that any more and the loss was more than she thought she could bear at times. But she wouldn’t beg him to love her. Her eyes opened again and they were misted. She would never do that. But with a baby on the way she needed to find out where she stood - and before she told him she was expecting.
She rubbed her hand across her face and stood up. She walked across to the rack where the potatoes were, but then her gaze alighted on the pile of fabric and old clothes sitting on a chair against the wall. The rationing of clothing had been introduced in June 1941 and it operated according to a point system whereby a person could buy one complete new outfit a year. This had meant her hours at Mr Horwood’s shop had gradually seen a reduction, until she was only working there one day a week. However, the ‘make do and mend’ order of the day had meant her own knitting and dressmaking expertise had been called on more and more by friends and neighbours.
Women’s magazines were packed with handy tips on how to turn an old lace curtain into a ‘dashing little bolero’ and a blanket into a beautiful swagger coat, but Britain’s new race of working women didn’t have the time or skill to make the clothes. Very quickly Carrie had found she was having to refuse orders. Space was at a premium with Lillian occupying the front room, and what with her work at the nursery and at Horwood’s shop, she was pressed for time too. Her hand rested on some parachute silk which a prospective bride had asked her to make into a nightdress and matching negligee. If David had been willing to move, she could have finished at Horwood’s and perhaps reduced her hours at the nursery to concentrate on their fledgling business. It would be a success. She knew it would be a success and now was the time to do it so that when the war was over - and pray God that would be soon - she would have built up a loyal clientele who would continue to buy from her when fabric was more plentiful again.
The back door opened and she turned, expecting to see Lillian with Luke and Katie. But it was David who entered, bringing a gust of icy-cold March air with him.
‘Hello.’ Ridiculously her new knowledge had made her shy. ‘I didn’t expect you yet, I thought you and Walter were staying up the allotment till dinner time.’ David was working the 6 a.m. to 2 p.m. shift at the moment, which meant most of his afternoons and evenings were free.
‘The ground’s like iron.’ Their gaze held for a moment. ‘You can smell the snow in the air and the sky’s so low you can reach up and touch it. We’re in for a packet, I reckon.’
Carrie nodded. ‘There’s tea in the pot if you want some. Mrs Fearn paid with some of her ration coupons for those grey trousers I cut down into a skirt for her lassie, so we’ve extra tea and sugar this week.’
‘I could do with a cuppa.’ He sat down at the kitchen table and poured himself a mug of black tea. Carrie filled a bowl with enough potatoes for dinner and brought them across to the deep white square sink to scrub and peel.
She was aware of him sitting in brooding silence and could feel his eyes on the back of her neck, but she didn’t look at him. At one time, just a few months ago, he would have kissed her if no one else was here when he came in.
‘They’ve asked for extras to work the night shift; some of the Bevin boys claim they’re sick with the flu.’ David’s voice was mordant. Ernest Bevin had brought in a scheme whereby lads of eighteen who were eligible for call-up were sent down the pit instead of into the forces if their name began with a certain letter, and most miners were loudly vocal in their condemnation of what was a desperate measure to increase output.
‘You don’t think they’re really sick?’
‘Sick of the pit but that’s all. Most of ’em are terrified of the dark, of the machines, of being cooped up miles underground, and of us most likely. They’ve no background in the pit, they do the least amount of work possible and even that’s not handled properly. They’re a danger, that’s the thing. A danger to themselves and everyone else. They don’t understand the way things are done, and why should they? Most of ’em are office boys or something similar. Anyway, I’ve said I’ll work tonight.’
‘You have?’ Carrie turned to face him now. ‘Walter too, I suppose?’ They normally worked together if they could.
‘Aye, he’ll be there.’
Why had he said he’d work an extra shift, and the night shift at that? As the war had dragged on, coal had become even more vital and Bevin had increased wages and improved working conditions as far as possible. David now averaged four pounds a week or more, a sum undreamed of before the war. But the pits weren’t any safer and there were more accidents every day because of the extra shifts and the inexperienced newcomers. Carrie didn’t pause to consider her words. ‘I don’t want you to go, David.’
David did not reply to this. His voice softer than it had been for some time, what he did say was, ‘You look tired, lass. You’re on the go from morn to night, it’s time to cut back on a few things.’
There was silence between them for a moment, and then, her voice as soft as his had been, she said, ‘Don’t go. Stay with me.’
Stay with me. What the hell
did that mean? David stared at the woman whom he loved more than life itself. There had never been a time when he hadn’t been aware of her existence; she had grown up with him, she’d been part of his childhood and youth, and his love of her had made him a man. He had been married to her for eighteen years and in all that time she had never once told him she loved him. Did she know that? He gazed into the great blue eyes set in a face which still had the power to turn his knees to jelly. Probably not. Oh, she had returned his physical love, he had no complaint there, and he knew from what some of the lads down the pit said that not all women were as generous with their favours as Carrie was. Some of them had to beg, demand or threaten to get their conjugal rights even once a month, and that after the priest or vicar was brought in to remind the wife of her duty before God. But Carrie always welcomed him, her body as generous as her spirit.
But generosity or gratitude wasn’t love. His stomach muscles clenched. She filled her life with a million and one things - was that because he wasn’t enough for her? And bringing Lillian back to live with them - had that been the act of an unselfish friend or did she want his sister in the house to avoid being alone with him more than she had to be? Damn it, he didn’t know. And he couldn’t ask her. He was too afraid of what the answer might be, or that she would lie. He had felt he’d had his answer to some of the nightmares which plagued him when she told him of her plans to set up her own business, but now he wasn’t sure if he had jumped the gun in assuming this bid for independence was the beginning of the end of their marriage - a marriage which had begun in desperation on her part. Any port in a storm.
The Most Precious Thing Page 31
