But the noise at the Nixons’ house was deafening that morning and he doubted his mother was able to sleep. Dan was arguing with Grant about his place on the Comrades team as they clattered around polishing boots and knocking into each other, trying to reach the huge wedges of bread and bacon Walter had prepared.
‘You should at least be on the bench,’ Grant grumbled. ‘It’s unheard of to turn up out of the blue and just walk on to the team – and at centre forward!’
‘They need me to pull the Comrades out of the hole they’re in, that’s why,’ Dan said cockily. ‘I’m going to turn their fortunes around. They know a professional when they see one.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Grant spluttered over a mug of tea. ‘So how come the Londoners let such a professional go?’
‘Time to move on, bonny lad,’ Dan said with a nonchalant wave of his huge sandwich. ‘I’m going to play First Division one of these days and I’m going to play in black and white.’
‘Craston, then?’ Grant mocked.
Dan came at him. ‘Not bloody Craston. Newcastle!’
Grant caught his arm and shoved him back. ‘I’ll show me backside in Fenwick’s tearoom the day you do.’
‘Just because the Comrades haven’t picked you since the Crimean War,’ Dan mocked. ‘You talk a good fight, but you haven’t got the guts for League football. What are you? Goalie for the Bolshie debating society?’ He laughed. ‘Too busy arguing about the rules you’ve nee breath left for running!’
Grant forced Dan’s arm on to the kitchen table, knocking a pile of his books to the floor and spilling a half-drunk mug of tea. ‘Come on then, let’s see how tough you are, you gobby little bugger!’
As they arm-wrestled, Walter tried to jump out of the way but got pinned against the heavy oak press with his newspaper. Then Mungo stormed in, eyes blinking in the light, his thinning hair tousled. He picked up one of Dan’s football boots and hurled it across the room.
‘How can a man sleep with you two fighting?’ he yelled. ‘Bugger off the pair of you!’ When he reached for one of Effie’s gleaming fire-irons and brandished it at them, his sons knew when to stop.
‘Is Mam still sleeping?’ Walter asked in concern, as the other brothers scowled at each other and began to pick up the debris.
‘Of course she isn’t. The dead in the cemetery couldn’t sleep through that racket,’ Mungo growled.
‘I’ll take her up a cup of tea,’ Walter offered.
‘Don’t fuss over her,’ Mungo snapped. ‘She’s not a bairn. If she’s thirsty she can come down for it.’
Walter knew his father hated anyone being ill, especially his wife. To him it was a sign of weakness and the patient must be bullied back to health. So Walter hesitated, waiting for Mungo to retreat to the earth closet in the outhouse with yesterday’s newspaper before he went upstairs. But Dan intervened, uncowed by his father’s wrath.
‘I’ll take it up,’ he said, reaching for the teapot and beginning to pour. ‘Can’t have her dying of thirst up there, can we?’ he challenged.
They all watched to see if this would spark off their father’s famous temper, as Dan had always managed to do. But Mungo just swore at him and told him he was a nancy boy, then stormed out the back door, dropping the poker with a clang as he went.
The brothers exchanged glances. Walter said, ‘He’s forgotten the newspaper.’
Dan laughed. ‘He’ll just have to read last week’s then – before he wipes his backside on it.’
Grant and Walter chuckled.
‘Better get your kit together,’ Grant said, retrieving the hurled boot from under the table and handing it to Dan.
Dan nodded. ‘So are you coming to watch me?’
‘Aye, of course I am,’ Grant admitted. ‘Wouldn’t miss the laugh of the season.’
They shadow-boxed around the kitchen, but Dan could tell that his older brother had signalled his approval at the stand against their father. He did not know why it mattered so much to him that Grant came to watch him, but it did. Maybe because he had always been the brother he had looked up to most, rather than easy-going Walter, or quiet Mungo who had been killed at sea. Grant had looked out for him as a boy, deflecting some of the punishment from their father on to himself and giving him rough comfort when his ears rang and his back stung from a beating. Grant was one of the few from the town who had survived the Front from 1915 to the Armistice, but he never boasted of his deeds or gloried in his heroism as Dan would have done. Grant was more likely to turn round and deliver a lecture on the iniquities of imperialism. ‘Lenin’s the only hero I know of,’ he had once declared, which had sent his father rushing for the fire-irons.
Dan and Walter went upstairs to see Effie. Her face brightened at the sight of them, and she sipped gratefully at the tea while Dan amused her with the description of what had gone on below. But it set her coughing again.
‘Do you want me to fetch Mrs Dickson to sit with you, Mam?’ Walter suggested.
‘No, pet,’ she spluttered. ‘You get away and enjoy yourself with Ava.’
Dan nudged his brother. ‘Is she any bonnier these days?’
Walter gave him a shove, and Effie laughed. ‘Don’t you go interfering there,’ she scolded mildly.
‘How about that pretty lass from the hotel coming to help out more?’ Dan said with a wink.
Effie sighed. ‘Millie? Aye, I might need a bit more help for a week or two. But she can hardly spare the time, the way her mother works her.’
The brothers looked at her in concern. It was very unlike their mother to admit she needed any help at all. She must be feeling ill.
‘We’ll sort something out, Mam,’ Dan assured her, rising from the bed.
‘Come here and let me kiss you, lad,’ Effie said with an affectionate smile. Dan obliged, and his mother pecked at his forehead with dry lips. ‘It’s so good having you back. I’ve missed you. Why did you have to stay away so long?’
Dan smiled awkwardly. ‘Can’t think why. Not when all the best women are in Ashborough.’
She laughed weakly and gave him a gentle swipe. ‘You never even told me where you were living. Did you have respectable lodgings? Did they treat you proper?’
Dan squeezed her rough, veined hand. ‘Aye, they treated me canny. I’m sorry I never wrote, but you know I was never any good at that kind of thing at school.’
Effie smiled at him sadly. ‘No, you weren’t, were you? Anyways, I’ve got you back now and that’s what matters.’ She pushed his hand away gently. ‘Be off with you. And play well. I’ll be grand until you get back.’
As they went, clattering down the stairs and talking noisily about the afternoon’s sport, Effie lay back exhausted and unclutched the handkerchief into which she had been coughing. It was speckled with blood. She closed her eyes, trying to squeeze back the tears that threatened to brim. She did not want to die now. She wanted to live to see her sons marry and have children of their own, to carry on hearing their banter and lively presence around the house.
Silence settled on number 28 Tenter Terrace for a few minutes, then the back door banged and footsteps crossed to the stairs.
‘Are you going to get the dinner on, Effie?’ Mungo shouted up the stairs. ‘Or lie in bed all day like a slut?’
Effie forced herself to sit up. Her husband would never believe she was ill with consumption, even though he must know the signs, having watched his own mother die of the disease. So there was no point telling him; he would discover the truth for himself soon enough. Once, she would have felt sorry for him, but not now. She could take the verbal abuse he gave her, hardly noticing the insults any more. But too many times she had had to stand by while he thrashed and assaulted her sons for their minor misdemeanours, fuelled by the drink that he consumed daily. God forgive her, she sometimes wished she could live long enough to see one of them turn the belt on him. The bitter thought gave her the strength to haul her aching body out of bed.
***
Ava burst in ahead
of the players. ‘The Comrades won! The first time since the start of the season and they won two-one. And guess who scored the winning goal?’ she asked breathlessly, pulling off her gloves.
‘You tell us,’ Elsie said without interest, balancing plates of buttered bread on a tray.
‘Dan Nixon, of course!’ Ava exclaimed to Millie, who was doling out portions of pie and peas.
Millie’s insides twisted at the mention of his name, and she wished she had been there to see him perform. ‘That’s grand,’ she managed to say.
‘He was wonderful,’ Ava enthused, ‘the best player on the field. Everyone clapped him as he came off. He’s better-looking than I remember him. I can’t wait to meet him properly!’
Teresa bustled in and interrupted. ‘Hurry up, girls, they’re beginning to arrive.’
Ava tore off her coat and flung it on a chair, patting her hair into place. ‘I’ll take that tray, Elsie,’ she insisted. ‘You stay here and wash up.’
Before Elsie could protest, Ava had seized the tray of buttered bread and was swinging through the door behind Teresa. Millie gave Elsie a sympathetic look.
‘I need some help with these pies,’ she said. ‘Don’t be bullied by Ava. You can help me.’
The young girl smiled in gratitude and followed her out. A buzz of male voices hit them as they entered the dining room, which was filling up with players. Their faces were red and gleaming from the cold scrubbing they had been given at the crude hut that passed for a clubhouse at Thomas Burt Park. Soon the tables were crowded with hungry young men, tucking into the fare and supping the beer that Moody had brought round from the Farrier’s Arms.
Millie’s heart lurched to see Dan Nixon holding court at the noisiest table, where Ava was hovering with a pot of tea. There was much laughter and Millie could see Ava’s round face dimple and blush at something Dan was saying to her.
‘Have you cut up the cake and fruit bread?’ Teresa asked.
‘Aye, Mam,’ Millie answered, dragging her gaze away from the far corner of the room.
‘Well, bring them out, and then go and help Elsie with the dishes,’ her mother ordered. ‘And stop standing around gawping at those lads, Millie. You’re just seventeen, remember.’
Millie hurried away, disappointed that Dan had not noticed her. Her mother was right; she was too young to catch the notice of men like Dan. It was different for Ava, who at nineteen had already worked in Newcastle and been out with Walter Nixon. She seemed far more at ease chatting with the footballers than Millie ever was. Millie knew that her mother did not approve of her mixing with lads at her age and was far happier for her daughter to help in the kitchen when the Comrades or the cricket club were patronising the hotel.
Once, Teresa had taken her to task for speaking to a young footballer who wanted to know if she was courting. ‘Of course she isn’t,’ Teresa had cut in with a laugh. But afterwards she had berated her daughter. ‘Don’t you go flirting with lads like that. I’ll not have you making the mistake I did and marrying the first man who shows any interest. I want a better life for you, Millie, that’s the reason I’ve worked so hard to keep us here. So don’t you go throwing it all away on a daft lad, do you hear?’
So Millie knew better than to argue with her mother, and disappeared to the kitchen to help Elsie. Later, when the visiting team had climbed aboard their charabanc and the locals had dispersed to social clubs or home, Millie went out to clear the tables. The sudden quietness brought a feeling of anti-climax, and she realised how much she had been looking forward to the tea. She hurried to clear up, for she had little time before starting work at the Palace. Her mother did not seem to mind her going there as long as she was earning money and ‘keeping out of mischief’ as she put it.
She found Ava lolling on their bed, half reading a penny romance.
‘It’s not fair the way you’re allowed to go out and I’m not,’ Ava pouted.
‘It’s work,’ Millie reminded her. ‘And you could have gone to tea at Walter’s.’ Ava gave a resentful humph in reply, so Millie quickly wrapped up in her coat and hat and hurried through the gaslit streets. Passing the end of Fern Street, she looked enviously at the dancers going into the Egyptian Ballroom in their tapping heels and best clothes. She hurried on, the more determined to get to work. Soon, she promised herself, soon it would be her going up the steps to the brightly lit dance hall.
That night she took tickets and sold sweets to the lively audience who had come to see Rudolf Valentino. In the crowded, fusty atmosphere of the old hall, Millie gave herself up to its rough glamour. She loved to watch the silent heroes and heroines with their exaggerated expressions rushing through the scenes in their fashionable clothes while Major Hall, an invalid from the recent war, banged out dramatic tunes on an old piano. Other cinemas boasted a bijou orchestra, and Elsie had told her that the new Empire had an enormous organ installed that rose from the orchestra pit at the beginning of the performance. But Millie was happy to be among the hubbub of the Palace, excited to be a part of Ashborough social life in this modest way. She liked to chat at the end of a performance with the kind major, who took an interest in her aspirations to be a dancer and had showed her how to dance a foxtrot.
‘Love dancing,’ he once told her as she swept up the orange peel and peanut shells. ‘Was quite good at it, though I say so myself.’ Then he had pointed to his missing eye. ‘No one wants to dance opposite a one-eyed old thing like me though, eh?’ Millie had glanced at the puckered scar where his left eye had once been and realised why he felt more comfortable sitting in the dark playing the piano. ‘You could wear an eye patch,’ she had suggested. ‘That would look dashing.’ After that the major had taken to wearing a black patch and thumped the keys with even greater enthusiasm.
Tonight the hall was heaving with bodies as late cinema-goers squashed on to the benches at the front, the main seats long since full. As the film started, Millie went to refill her tray of sweets and heard a commotion at the back of the hall.
‘There’s no more room,’ the manager, Mr Peters, was insisting. ‘Come back on Monday, we’ll be showing the same film.’
‘I want to see it tonight,’ someone was arguing. ‘Haway and let us in, man!’
‘Sorry, lad, you can’t.’ Mr Peters was adamant, blocking the entrance.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he demanded, shaking off the manager’s hold.
‘No, but you’ve had your fill of beer and you’re not coming in here.’ Millie could hear the annoyance in Mr Peters’ voice and strained to see who was causing the trouble.
‘I’m a bloody war hero!’ he shouted. ‘And I’ve just scored the winner for the Comrades the day.’
‘Oh aye? And I’m Rudolf Valentino,’ Mr Peters said, unimpressed. ‘Take him home, lads, and let him sleep it off.’
Millie gasped as she saw Dan being ejected from the cinema, with Walter and another man steering him away.
‘You might think you can chuck me out now,’ Dan roared, ‘but one of these days I’ll bloody own this fleapit! When I’m a famous footballer!’
‘Haway, Dan, man,’ Walter was cajoling. ‘We’ll gan somewhere else.’
Dan seemed about to relent, then he turned unsteadily as if he had just remembered something. At that moment he caught sight of Millie standing in the entrance, staring at the scene.
‘There she is!’ he announced in triumph. ‘That’s the lass I came to see.’
Walter told him to shut up, but Dan threw him off and lunged back through the door, grinning at Millie. She felt herself flushing with embarrassment as he fixed her with his blue-eyed gaze. His blond hair was ruffled and his tie awry, but even in his semi-inebriated state he exuded a powerful energy. Mr Peters tried to step in the way.
‘Be off with you! I’ll not have you causing trouble for Millie, she’s a good lass.’
Without stopping to think why, Millie intervened. ‘It’s all right, Mr Peters, I know him. And there’s room for one more – down at the front.
As long as he doesn’t mind squashing up a bit.’
‘I don’t mind a bit,’ Dan grinned, not taking his eyes from her. Millie held her breath, realising she might be jeopardising her job by speaking up for Dan if the manager was in bad mood. What had made her risk her dancing lessons on a sudden impulse?
‘You’ll have to behave yourself, mind,’ she warned him, suddenly unsure of what she had done. Dan just laughed.
Then Mr Peters relented. ‘Gan in then,’ he told Dan with a wave. ‘But cause any trouble and you’re out for good.’
Without a backward glance at his brother or friend, Dan stepped forward and took Millie’s arm. ‘Show me in then, bonny lass,’ he smiled.
Millie felt a thrill at his touch and words. She did not know if he had really come seeking her, but she did not care. He was here, linking his arm through hers, and she was exultant. She ignored the smell of beer on his breath and did not dwell on Ava’s gossip about all the other girls he had courted. Tonight Dan Nixon was hers, and they went into the dark hall together arm in arm. At that moment she had never felt more alive in her life.
Chapter Five
At the end of the film, Dan waited around for Millie to finish clearing up. He leant against a pillar with his hands deep in his pockets, whistling a tune that Major Hall had played. When the major appeared, he stopped him to chat about his army life.
‘I was in the Fusiliers,’ Dan told him. ‘Served in France. So did me brother, Grant Nixon.’
‘I know him,’ Bob Hall beamed. ‘He was a very brave soldier. But when were you there?’
‘Nineteen eighteen,’ Dan said. ‘Just caught the end of it.’
‘I was invalided out by then,’ Bob admitted, ‘but there were some fierce fights put up at the end by all accounts.’
‘Aye, there were that.’ Dan nodded, catching sight of Millie. ‘Well, nice to meet you,’ he said, ‘but I have to walk this young lass home.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Bob said, with a surprised look at Millie. ‘Well, thanks for chatting. People don’t like to talk about the war these days. Find chaps like me a bit of a bore!’ He laughed at himself.
THE TYNESIDE SAGAS: Box set of three dramatic and emotional stories: A Handful of Stars, Chasing the Dream and For Love & Glory Page 50
