Girls on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  Fran shook her head as she dug down with the pedals as they crossed the rising bridge over the beck, then soared down the other side. ‘It’s just one of those days. I can’t tell you why, you know I canna, but what with Stan and his news, and knowing I have to face Da, Davey, I’m wondering how you feel? Do you really not mind passing on the scholarship and staying here, only for him to chuck it up?’

  At that Davey braked and threw his bike on the verge. As the wheels spun, Fran braked too, and Davey turned and caught her handlebars. ‘Off the bike, now,’ he ordered. The wind was snatching at his cap and muffler, bringing the scent of sulphur from the slag heap on one side and of freshly turned earth, where Farmer Murphy had ploughed the harvested cornfield, on the other.

  She dismounted and he lowered her bike to the verge, then pulled her to him, kissing her mouth, her eyes and then her mouth again and again, until she kissed him back and she in turn pulled him tight against her. They stood together as a tractor roared round them, pulling a load of baled straw from the second of Murphy’s fields. Davey coughed as the straw dust tumbled in the air and fell around them.

  He dragged his arm across his mouth, then held her again, and his voice was fierce as he said, ‘Listen, lass. When I do or say something, it’s because I mean it. I do what’s best for me, and you, and me family. Me, do you hear – and you are best for me. Where you are, I am. I divint like the thought of dreaming spires or whatever Vicar Walters calls them. I want me magazine. I want our house, our bairns, you. You, do you hear?’ He lifted his head and shouted at the rooks pecking at the furrows behind the drystone wall. ‘It’s this canny woman I want, need, love, so what’s she got to say, eh?’

  He pretended to listen to the birds as a few lifted into the wind. ‘Ah, even the birds say you’ve to listen, pet. Listen hard and you’ll hear the truth. Remember that. I say as I feel, no games, no lies, no code. What I say is what I mean, and I mean I love you, and always have, always will, just as I tell you every day, daft lass.’

  She leaned back in his arms, knowing he wouldn’t let her fall, and then she held his face and kissed him, saying against his mouth, ‘You canna know how much I love you because it’s too damned big and it drives me daft because I can’t show it.’

  He grew serious. ‘You can, but we won’t till we’re married, and as to that – your mam said not yet, so not yet it is. But what we have to do is get on to this Bill whatshisname today, to get him to offer your mam, and mine, more for the rugs. You’re right when you say he’s knocked ’em down once too often. It isn’t right, when they thread them strips through backing to make what look like bliddy works of art and are then diddled. But I’ll leave you to do the haggling, cos I’m no match.’

  She kissed him once more and then hauled her bike up again and they cycled along together while she filled him in on Swinton and how badly she’d behaved by using words as weapons.

  He listened, but simply said, ‘He needs diminishing sometimes. He’s a bully, but you don’t want him to target you more than he does, so keep your tongue still. I’m always surprised he’s employed there when you think that boy of his, Tim, went to the Blackshirt meetings. Little Fascist, he were. Mebbe still is.’

  She panted as the road ran out of tarmac and they struggled along a rutted lane. ‘The lad didn’t go for long, though, did he, and if he were a threat he’d be in prison, I reckon, and he isn’t. Bit like Mr Massingham’s whelp, Ralph, though I reckon that was because his da sat on him pretty damn quickly. Good man, old Massingham. We’re right lucky.’

  ‘Aye, he is that, but the lad is a jumped-up brat, all trousers and no—’ He stopped. They laughed and turned back to the subject of Bill Norton, who last Christmas had bought her mam’s proggy rugs at the Miners’ Club local sale, saying they were presents for his relatives. He’d been back to Leadenhall Terrace many times since then, not just knocking on the front door, but knocking her mam and Mrs Bedley down in price if he bought two or more. ‘So, he has a bliddy big family or he’s selling them on, or that’s what you reckon?’ Davey asked.

  ‘Aye, I reckon he’s marking them up somewhere along the line and selling them on. Me mam nor yours doesn’t know how to ask the question or say no, but I’m not having it. She doesn’t know we’re doing this, nor does your mam, so keep your trap shut, lovely Davey.’

  They reached the better road and turned right, heading for Denton pit village, pedalling slowly over the cobbles, looking for Norton’s house on Brownley Terrace, while the slag heaps loomed and the pithead winding gear rattled above them. They finally found number 12, but it wasn’t a house, it was a shop selling household goods and bric-a-brac. ‘A shop, eh, bonny lass? Well, what d’you know,’ murmured Davey. They leaned their bikes against the window, peering in, but saw none of Fran’s mam’s rugs, his own mam’s, or any others come to that. Just a load of buckets, mops and so on. ‘Are you going in?’ Davey asked.

  Fran stared at him. ‘Howay, lad, we’ve come all this way just for the sake of our health, so we’ll just potter back, shall we?’

  It was such a close mimicry of her da that they both laughed. Davey kissed her and said, ‘If you still had your pigtails, I’d pull them, then knot them.’

  She nodded. ‘I reckon you would an’ all.’ She took a deep breath and entered. A bell jangled above the door and Bill Norton appeared from the back room. He raised his eyebrows when he saw Fran. Davey followed her in, taking off his cap and standing close beside her. Bill raised his eyebrows even further. ‘A shop, Mr Norton?’ queried Fran.

  ‘Well, I never said I hadn’t.’

  ‘So, you’ve been buying my mam’s rugs at cut-down prices for your shop?’

  He shook his head, looking from Fran to Davey, who still stood by her side, motionless but with his blue-scarred hewer’s hands visible, balled into handy fists. ‘No, for relatives, as I said, pet.’

  Fran moved closer to the counter, her bad day brewing up into a storm. ‘I’m not your pet, and no, that’s not true. You’ve been selling them on, but not here, that’s clear, and why would you? Because here the wives make their own. So where? But that doesn’t matter, does it? All that matters is that me mam gets a fair price for them, cos she works by the light of the oil lamp till her eyes ache.’

  He shook his head. ‘That’s nowt to do with me. I’m not forcing her to sell them, she wants to, and what’s more, I like to buy ’em. I’ve a living to make, and a middleman can’t offer top price—’ He stopped abruptly.

  Fran shook her head. She had thought it would be harder than this. ‘So, you’re a middleman, and now you must listen to me, Mr Norton, because I have the rest of the evening to stay here, in your shop. You see, I don’t need me tea, I had dinner at the work’s canteen and what’s more, I’ve had a hard day, a really hard day, and I’m right angry because I have things to do when me da’s had his tea that I’d rather not do. So, if you don’t want me here, stopping you from shutting up shop, tell me who buys me mam’s rugs.’

  Mr Norton shook his head, placing his hands on his counter. ‘You’ve no right. Your mam was happy with the price or she’d not have sold ’em.’

  Fran nodded. ‘Yes, I expect that’s right enough, but the thing is, I’m not happy, so you’d best offer a better price or you’ll get no more.’

  He shook his head. ‘Then I’ll have no more.’

  Fran nodded, turned and left. Davey closed the door behind them, hearing the bell jangle. ‘Now what, lass? Yer mam won’t be laughing if’n she’s no buyer any more.’

  ‘We talk to the missus.’

  He rammed his cap back on and grinned at her. ‘Be kind, because I think that’s steam coming out of your lugs.’

  She led the way round to the side of the house, intent on finding a way into the Nortons’ yard via the back lane, but there was a side door to the house itself, and she knocked. It finally opened, and a woman in a stained overall with a roll-up in the corner of her mouth stood there, her arms crossed. The cigarette wobbled as she said
, ‘Aye?’

  Fran smiled. ‘Your man wanted to give me the name of the people he sells the proggy rugs on to as I know someone who can collect ’em cheaper, but it’s gone right out of his head. I reckoned you’d know, cos you mebbe do the accounts. Somewhere in Newcastle, isn’t it?’

  The woman sighed. ‘Aye, forget his bliddy head if it weren’t sewn on, daft wallop that he is. Briddlestone’s Unique Crafts.’

  Fran smiled. ‘Right you are, and ta for telling us.’

  The door was already closing. Mrs Norton said, ‘He should get himself a brain,’ and banged it shut.

  Davey shook his head. ‘Will he give her hell for telling us?’

  Fran just grinned. ‘Think of the pair of them and work out who gives who hell.’

  She returned to the shop. Jangle went the bell. Mr Norton looked up. ‘One last chance, Mr Norton. A fair price would be another five bob each, eh?’ she said.

  ‘They’re not worth it,’ he said. ‘Just a bit of tat, and you can tell your mam I said that, cos I will when I see her next.’

  Franny’s qualms about her next move disappeared out of the window. She turned on her heel, with Davey following her out yet again.

  ‘Toerag,’ she said. ‘Now I’m going telephone Briddlestone’s. I’m not having me mam’s work being spoken of like that.’

  Davey dug in his pocket and drew out some coppers. ‘There’s a phone box over there, bonny lass, and remind me never, ever to cross you, or I reckon you’ll have my guts for garters, and stuff a few of them in me mouth while you’re at it. By, lass, you’ve not changed a bit since you gave your Stan a belt round the ears when he called our Sarah a – what were it? – a dozy dumpling after she’d swung across the beck and fallen in the water.’

  ‘Well, that’s only because you were going to punch out his lights, so I thought it were best it were me. I don’t hit so hard.’

  They had to wait as there was a queue of women at the telephone box, but what did that matter, Fran thought, for she had Davey’s arm around her shoulder. They spoke of nothing much except love, which was everything. After twenty minutes the phone was free, but there were others behind. An elderly woman in a headscarf said, ‘You going to be long, bairns? I’ve got me tea on the stove.’

  They sent her into the box first, while they talked to the rest of the queue. At last it was Fran’s turn. As she waited to be connected, she watched the old lady limping to her back alley, with Davey helping her. It calmed her anger as she finally spoke to Briddlestone’s, explaining that she had taken over the buying and selling of the proggy rugs from Bill Norton, who no longer wanted to be involved, and that she would lower his price by four shillings a rug if delivery by rail would be acceptable, rather than their Briddlestone’s van picking up from Denton. She actually had no idea if that’s what they did, and waited, barely breathing.

  The voice at the end of the telephone told her to hold on and she would be transferred. Fran repeated her offer to the man who came on the line. He conferred with someone else, and came back. ‘Aye, that’ll do nicely.’ A price was agreed that gave her mam and Davey’s an extra ten shillings a rug, which went to show how high Norton’s markup had been. Briddlestone’s explained that even though there was a war on, there was a steady market because each one was well made, with a unique pattern. In fact, they sold them on to stores in London, where there was still money and a nostalgic hankering for the traditional crafts. ‘Something to do with the war, maybe,’ the bloke said.

  He continued that the war had come too close a few days ago, with Hitler’s bombs dropping on Newcastle but missing Briddlestone’s, this time. He agreed to write to her home: 14 Leadenhall Terrace, Massingham to confirm the new arrangements. He also wanted Mr Norton to understand that they were still interested in receiving other products to supplement their range. They returned to Bill Norton’s shop and reported Briddlestone’s request for other products, but, Fran insisted, banging the counter, he must agree not to return to Massingham, ever, or Fran would report his unprofessional behaviour to Briddlestone’s. Shaken, Norton agreed.

  The cycle ride back always seemed quicker, she and Davey agreed as they pedalled into the wind. Once in Massingham, Davey turned off into the Bedleys’ back lane rather than going with Fran to her house because his mam would have tea on the table and her clipped ear was much worse than anything Fran could deliver. Fran was laughing as she opened the gate into their own yard, relaxing a bit as she saw that her da’s boots were not under his chair, so she could put off the conversation she had to have, for a little at least. She put her bike away behind the old pigeon loft as the hens clucked, amazed that she had forgotten the message she had to deliver for even a minute. Worse, she had forgotten about the lad who had been killed by the shell, and Sylv lying in hospital.

  Her mam opened the door, and stood on the step wiping her hands on her tea towel. ‘Howay, lass, Davey picked up your bike and said you were off on a ride to blow the cobwebs off but you must be fair weary. We heard about young Jimmy from his mam’s neighbour. Eighteen and no life lived—’ She stopped, then continued quietly, ‘Sledgeford is sorrowful today. But Sylv should be all right, so that’s right good.’

  ‘Aye, a bit of a day, one way and another, Mam, but some good news. I bumped into Norton, and you and Mrs Bedley’re to get another ten bob for each rug if we package them up and send them by rail to Newcastle, where they’ll be picked up by Briddlestone’s.’

  ‘My,’ her mam said. ‘Well, that’s right grand, really it is, oh my word.’ As the two women entered her mam flapped her tea towel to cool herself, excitement in her voice. Fran grinned to herself as she hung up her shabby mackintosh on the peg on the back door just as Ben tore into the yard, his boots flapping because his laces were half undone, as usual. He was shouting, ‘I done it, quicker than ever. I’ll drop in on Davey later. Stevie did it too.’

  Mrs Hall laughed as he yanked off his boots on the outside step and rammed them under his da’s chair, pushing them to the back and storming into the house in his socks. ‘What’s that you said, lad? What’ve you done, as if your sister and I don’t know.’

  Ben flung himself onto his chair at the table, laughing too, his dark hair in his eyes. He swept it back. ‘The crossword Davey’s just set, Mam. You see, he wanted to mek sure a bairn could crack it, cos the magazine has said he can set some crosswords for a column for under-thirteens. He said he’d give us each a bob when he gets his fee if’n we could brek it in an hour.’

  Fran crept up to him and grabbed his hair. ‘I reckon this mop needs a cut, don’t you, Mam?’

  Ben shrugged her away. ‘Keep your mitts off, Fran.’

  But his mam was bearing down on him with scissors. ‘Happen you’re right, Fran. Have a go, would you? Madge is busy with a couple of young ’uns already today. And you sit still, lad, or you’ll lose your lugs.’

  Ben crossed his arms and sank back into his chair, sulking. Fran caught the towel her mam threw from the ceiling airer and wrapped it around his shoulders. ‘How would sir like it?’

  Ben shrugged. ‘You’ll do it how you like, our Fran, like you always do, but since you came back today, not like Sylv, I’ll let yer. But not too short.’

  Mam and Fran looked at one another and Fran recognised the shadow of fear in her mam’s eyes. She concentrated on cutting his hair, which matched hers exactly in its colour and was her mam’s colour before she’d lost the babe and been so ill. Since then, grey had come into the rich darkness. While she worked, Fran said, ‘I’m sorry to vex you with the Factory work, Mam, but there’s a war on, and I’m very very careful.’

  ‘Aye, pet, I know. It is what it is, eh?’

  Her da’s voice broke in then from the doorway. ‘At least Stan has the sense he were born with.’

  Fran closed her eyes, and stilled her hands. Ben said, ‘Come on then, our Fran, brush off the bitty hairs round me collar – they itch. I’ve to get to our Davey with me crossword.’

  Fran finished while Be
n told his da what he meant and Fran had to listen to Da, walking to the scullery in his stockinged feet, telling Ben that if he kept on like this, he’d be one for the university too. Da always wore socks because unlike some of his marrers, he didn’t mind the bits of coal that fell into his boots and caught on them, saying they’d catch on his bliddy skin otherwise. Not that he usually swore in front of his womenfolk, but she’d grown up hearing her da and Stan talking as they walked through the yard while she was up in the box room, doing her homework.

  Mam called through to the scullery. ‘Did you finish taking the sickness dividends at the Miners’ Club today, our Joe?’

  ‘Oh, aye. The early shift came in to pay up. I’ll put it in t’bank on Monday.’ He returned to the kitchen and patted his torn jacket pocket, then drew out a stout brown paper bag and hid it behind the cushion of his armchair, which bulged stuffing through the splits. He laid the accounts book up on the mantelpiece, and while he was at it, grabbed his pipe and baccy. He stood there for a moment, letting the heat from the range soak into his aching limbs.

  Fran wondered if Stan remembered the ache, the cough, the scrambling along roadways bent double, and sometimes lower than that. Did he remember lying on his side while he hewed at the coal face when the roof was too low to stand, or sitting on a tiny stool winkling out the layers? Silly stupid bugger, she thought, and him with the same broken bones as Davey, so he could easily have stayed amongst Vicar Walters’ dreaming spires. Was it really because of the war he was doing it? If so, why not before? Or was it Beth, alone now Bob was at sea? But what did it matter? Fran still had to tell her parents.

  Ben was tugging at her arm. ‘Wake up, our Fran. Am I done?’