Girls on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  ‘Da—’ Stan tried again.

  ‘I’m not telling yer this for the sake of me health. I have yon sister o’ yours doing a damned fool job, I have you back here, and I look at ye and wonder what it was all about, that’s what I ask meself. What were all the strivings for, when you throw it back in me face?’ He was still jabbing the pipe stem at him, his hands gnarled and scarred, his nails torn and thick with coal. Stan expected Fran to leap in at the mention of her name, and was glad when she didn’t. Why draw the flak when she didn’t have to? This was his fight.

  ‘It’s not about you, Da. It’s what I want – need – to do. Look at Davey, look at me marrers, hewing away, keeping the engines of the country running. I can’t hold me head up, Da, not if I don’t do this.’

  ‘What if yer bliddy ’ead gets knocked off while yer holding it up? That’s what I want to know. But that be it, what do I know? I divint got learning, so what does I know? Thick as two bloody planks I be, but don’t yer think I won’t be bloody awkward an’ all, every time I see yer daft face, and yon sister of yorn too.’

  Fran stepped forward now, as Stan thought she might. ‘Da, that’s not fair, you’ve had yer go at me. Stick with Stan.’

  Her da just stuck his pipe in his mouth, sidestepped her, strode to the back door, picked up his cap and muffler from the hook, grabbed his boots from under his chair, and slammed the door behind him.

  Stan stared at the range, which was burning good coal, quiet coal which Mr Massingham Senior insisted the pitmen were still to be allotted every week, even now when the pits were under the management of the war cabinet, or whoever the hell it was. It was coal he’d be hewing again on Monday.

  The door slammed open again and his da yelled from the step, ‘And I’ll not have that Massingham whelp here again, d’yer hear? And to think he’ll be in t’pit buggering about and being a bliddy danger. Knows about the blacklocks, do ’e? Rats running up inside his trouser leg, do ’e? The world’s gone bliddy mad. First ’Itler, now you bliddy bairns. Bliddy mad. And you can still change yer mind, so tell me tomorrow and I’ll stick yer on a train back t’south, that I will.’

  The door slammed shut, again. Well, thought Stan, I hate the blacklocks and all, but so does every pitman. He waited, and it was as though the whole house did too. Then he heard Ben’s feet on the stairs and his younger brother rushed past Fran and Mam, who had appeared from the scullery, and hurled himself at Stan, holding him tightly.

  ‘Da’s gone down the back lane – I watched from Fran’s box-room window. And Mam and Fran have sorted two mattresses in the attic room so I don’t have to have yer bliddy cold feet on me. And da’s really angry. He only uses ‘divint’ when his rage’s boiling fit to spill over the whole of County Durham and it’s all yer bliddy fault, our Stan.’

  ‘Language,’ Fran and Stan shouted together.

  Mam disappeared to the scullery again, shouting in her turn, ‘If you’ve had yer dinner with his lordship, our Stan, you won’t want the tiny bit of lamb we got special, though it’ll be lost amongst the carrots and potatoes.’

  ‘And dumplings,’ Ben shouted.

  Stan laughed. ‘Try and keep me from it, Mam. Da’s vegetables, is it?’

  Fran set the table while Mam dished up a plate for Da for later. The two of them brought in the food, setting it on the table. As her mam sat, and both boys picked up their knives and forks and dug in, Fran saw the contentment on her face because her family were back. It would help the healing of her even more, she knew, but only if the menfolk stayed safe, and united.

  She watched Stan gobble up his food as he always used to, and though she could still wallop him, she felt … She couldn’t quite find the words. Then it came to her. They were a family again, which was something that had been taken from them when wee Betty was buried, for then a cold wind had blown through their lives. Their world had been rocked, and how could they recover? Well, here they all were, just as they’d always been after her da had been in a rage, and her da would come round and be, as he’d always been, if not pleased, then accepting.

  ‘Eat up, bonny lad,’ Mam said. ‘Your da will be back later. He’ll be in the club or with the canaries. He knows you won’t go back. War is war and he went into the last one, so he’ll blow himself out, you’ll see. But to get your feet back on the ground, you two boys can do the pots, as we women brought it to you, eh?’

  The groan from Ben made Fran laugh. It was all going to be all right, just so long as Stan didn’t find he still cared for Beth, or she for him.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, Sunday, Fran was at the box-room window as the miners on the extra shift clattered towards the pit. Da should be one of them, Tom Bedley too, but Da and Stan had been bellowing at one another for the last hour. Suddenly there was silence and Fran held her breath, waiting.

  She heard Stan shout, ‘I’m staying, Da, and that’s that. Besides, Mr Massingham wants me to partner the whelp until he gets the hang of things, and I owe the man, but not the son. And you remember that difference, Da.’

  Her da’s reply was so loud the whole of those along the back lane must have heard. ‘The whelp will only cause bliddy havoc wherever he bliddy well puts his bliddy great feet, and that’s a good reason, if you won’t listen to owt else, for going back to bliddy Oxford, and taking him with you.’

  Stan bellowed back, ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Da.’

  Silence again. The pitmen were still passing and she heard one of them shout, ‘Howay, Joe Hall, Tom’s on his way. Save your breath for Auld Hilda.’

  Fran agreed with her da. No one in their right mind would want that nincompoop anywhere near where real pitmen worked because he couldn’t have changed that much from childhood. What a pillock he’d been, lording it over them on his school holidays. But the owner was the owner, and the order had come down, so that was that.

  She heard the back door slam and peered through the window. Her da was crossing the yard, stopping by the hen-feed barrel and throwing grain through the chicken wire. For a moment he watched the hens come from the old pigeon loft with a fluffing of feathers, then he threw the scoop back into the barrel and slammed the lid down. He clumped to the gate and opened it. She pressed her nose against the glass, seeing him meet Tom Bedley, who looked so like Davey and Sarah, and the two of them set off towards the mine, heads down, talking, her da gesticulating.

  She waited a minute, opening the window and leaning out to make sure that her da wasn’t going to spring back in like some jack-in-a-box and start another round of bellowing, then headed downstairs for her own bread and dripping. She met Ben on the landing. ‘By, Franny, they were loud enough to wake the whole bliddy village, that they were.’

  ‘Don’t swear,’ she muttered, pulling him back by the collar. ‘Ladies first.’

  He came down behind her, muttering, ‘There’s no lady anywhere near me, that there isn’t.’

  She said nothing until they reached the passage, then she whipped round, grabbed his ear and laughed. ‘Take that back or I’ll skelp you, you little toerag.’

  Ben squirmed. ‘Pax, pax, you’re the best lady there’s ever been, and I want me bread and dripping, so get off.’

  ‘Don’t you two ever grow up?’ Stan called from the kitchen.

  Ben tore ahead of Fran, who yelled, ‘What happened to ladies first?’

  ‘That was then,’ Ben yelled, bursting into the kitchen and hiding behind their mam.

  Fran followed. ‘I’ll swing for you one day.’

  Stan was sitting on his chair at the table and slurping his tea. ‘Swing? Aye, that’s an idea. Let’s get on to the beck, and see if the rope’s still there. Maybe the kingfisher, or his bairn at least, will be there too. Mam, are you coming? We’ll take a bit of bait and spend the day out. What d’you reckon?’

  Fran, who was chewing her bread and dripping, thanked her mam for the mug of tea she set before her and added, ‘Oh, we’ll get Davey and Sarah too – it’ll be the gang, plus Ben. Ben, d
’you feel like scooting round and getting them sorted? Tell Davey to make his own bait; he’s got a pair of hands, same as Sarah.’

  Ben was off and out of the house, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

  Fran looked at her mam. ‘Come too, Mam. The sun’s out and it’s right nice.’

  ‘Nay, lass, Mrs Bedley’s on her way and we’ll work on sorting our proggies. If we’re selling to the big stores direct, we reckon on starting a cooperative of workers to produce the goods, but their work ’as to be good enough. We’ve drawn up a list of the lasses we think will be happy to do it.’

  Her mam was pulling out her proggy frame and putting it on the end of the table. Stan leapt to his feet and helped, while both Fran and he grinned at one another.

  Stan said, ‘Aye, we’ve bred our own boss, an’ all. What d’you think you’ve been and gone and done, our Fran? There’ll be no peace now. She’ll have us cutting up the blankets once she’s dyed them, see if she doesn’t. It’ll be like we’re bairns again.’

  ‘Aye,’ said their mam, ‘and any nonsense from the pair of you, and it’ll be a clip behind the ear, let me tell you.’

  At the Bedley house, Sarah was helping her mam lay out a finished proggy rug on the existing kitchen rug to see how it looked when it was down. ‘It’s grand, Mam, just right, but listen, are you and Mrs Hall sure you want to do this, get a group together, have Briddlestone’s expecting delivery, that sort of thing? You work hard enough as it is.’

  ‘Oh, stop your mithering, pet. I make them anyway, so why not get paid proper for doing it? And it’ll be reet good because while we’re all working together we can have a bit of a natter. It’s what we need, you know – something to think about other than the war, and the pit, and yon Factory place. It’ll be canny, you mark my words.’

  ‘Are you putting all the money into a pot and divvying it up? Or is everyone getting paid for what they produce?’ Sarah asked, sitting back on her heels as Mrs Bedley eased herself to her feet.

  ‘Mrs Hall and me’ll have to sort that out in some way that’s fair, then put it to the others and see what’s what.’

  Sarah, still hunkered down, traced the pattern, smoothing the strips of rag she and her mam had cut from old blankets and felted jumpers. She realised the blue sweater of hers that had felted in the wash had been incorporated into the centre of the design.

  Mrs Bedley went on, ‘Mrs Hall telephoned the man at Briddlestone’s about their needs and he said they’re thinking of using them for wall hangings in London and want the shaggy and the smooth, so they’ve asked us to make some samples of both. We’ve got Mrs Smith – Beth’s mam – from Langton Terrace, too, and a few more, including Mrs Oborne when she’s off shift. Some of them have young bairns an’ all, and as they need the money most, we reckon to take ’em on. Their men can help to make the frames, if the lasses can’t do it.’

  There was a knock at the back door and Sarah sprang to her feet, finding Ben stotting and jiggling on the back step. The lad always made her smile because he was so like Fran, with the same grin and enough energy to turn the world around.

  ‘Sarah, our Fran said we were all to go to the beck for t’day. So, put yourself some bait together, and Davey must too. She says you’re not to do his, cos he has mitts too. Where’s he, anyways?’

  Davey had crept up behind the lad and now yelled, ‘Right behind yer, Ben.’

  Ben jumped sky-high, then turned. ‘That’s bliddy dangerous. I could have fell and broke me legs, Davey.’

  ‘Language, young Ben,’ Mrs Bedley called.

  ‘But Mrs Bedley—’

  Davey lifted up the lad and whirled him around, Ben shouting, ‘Let me go, I’m not a bairn.’

  Davey put him down, ruffling the lad’s hair. Ben shrugged himself out of Davey’s reach, sticking his hands in his pockets. ‘Don’t know why I came to ask you, because you don’t deserve to come to the beck, so you don’t, Davey Bedley.’

  ‘Howay with you, our Ben,’ Davey laughed. ‘If your sister’s going, d’you think wild horses’d keep me away?’

  Ben grimaced. ‘I don’t want any kissing and hugging. It’s daft, and right soppy.’

  Sarah stood watching these two, loving every second. It was as it always was, and now Stan was back it would be even better. In fact, it would be perfect, especially if …

  ‘Stan’s coming too?’ she asked.

  Ben was backing towards the gate, smoothing his hair, which would not lie flat, just like Fran’s. ‘Oh aye, we’re all going.’

  ‘All?’ Sarah asked.

  Davey pulled a face. ‘What, you don’t want our Ben? But he’s part of the gang.’

  Sarah grinned. ‘Aye, wouldn’t go without the lad. Just checking.’

  For a moment she’d thought Ben had meant Beth too and something had twisted inside her.

  Chapter Eight

  Fran and Stan cycled round to the Bedleys’, Ben sitting on Stan’s crossbar, his cap pulled down hard, while Stan pedalled with his knees stuck out. As they reached the back gate and Stan dismounted, Ben muttered, ‘Yer look like a bliddy stork, so yer do, our Stan. I should have a bike of me own, now you’ve taken yours back.’

  Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘Tip his cap over his eyes if he swears again, Stan.’

  Slouching over to the gate, Ben lifted the sneck and yelled, ‘We’re ready and off, so if you’re not, then bliddy catch up.’ He sauntered into the Bedleys’ yard, hands in his pockets.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter with the lad?’ Fran whispered to Stan.

  Stan draped an arm around Fran’s shoulders. ‘I reckon big brother is back, and little brother isn’t about to take it lying down. He’ll settle.’

  ‘He’d better or he’ll get the feel of my hand across his backside.’

  Stan, who was peering into the yard, turned around, laughing. ‘No need to do a thing. Move up a bit and have a look.’

  Fran did, and there was Mrs Bedley whipping her tea towel across Ben’s legs as he stood on the step. ‘I’ve told you before – language, young man, language. Once more and I’ll skelp your lugs an’ all.’

  Ben backed away. ‘Aye, Mrs Bedley. Just let ’em know we’re ready, if yer please.’

  He sloped past Stan and Fran, while Mrs Bedley winked, then said, ‘Nice to see yer back, young Stan, even if yer Da don’t agree. Yer keep that little tyke on the straight and narrow, eh? Too smart by half, that’s his trouble. He’ll be following yer to Oxford, you mark my words – that’s if I don’t get me mitts on him beforehand.’

  Ben came to stand beside Fran, muttering, ‘That bliddy hurt, that did. Like a whip, it were. By, she’s got a good throwing arm.’

  Snatching off his cap, Fran smoothed his hair, replaced the cap and said, ‘She’s right. You’ve a future, lad. Just learn who to show off in front of, and who not, and for the last time, stop swearing.’

  Stan was leaning forward on his handlebars. ‘Listen to the women, our Ben. You’ll go far, but only if you remember there are some rules that shouldn’t be broken, and swearing in front of ladies is one of them.’

  Ben’s frustration got the better of him. ‘Fran swears and she’s a lady.’

  Davey came limping across the yard. ‘Fran’s no lady,’ he yelled.

  Fran just watched him – that golden hair, which after a day in the pit was thick with black dust, those blue eyes that were so alive – and waited for Sarah who was running across the yard to the shed, to take him on. Sarah grabbed her bike and barged into her brother so he had to hop out of her way. ‘You don’t deserve our Franny, loopy lugs.’

  Mrs Bedley was flapping her tea towel. ‘Away with you. I’ve work to do at your ma’s.’

  Finally, they were heading along the back lane, Ben sitting on Davey’s crossbar now because his was the bigger bike. Stan tipped his cap at him as he overtook, telling Ben he was a little snot, while Sarah, following Stan, called, ‘Take no notice, Ben, you’re too big to be a little snot. You’re a big one.’


  Even Ben had to laugh, and he called after them, ‘So what rules can be broken?’

  Stan’s reply was thrown over his shoulder. ‘Ah, that’s for you to find out, but not yet. It’ll be when you’re of an age.’

  Fran grinned as she rode alongside Davey, but heard Ben, who was holding on tight to Davey’s handlebars, mutter, ‘What the bli—’ then stopped. ‘What does that mean, when it’s at home?’

  Fran and Davey just laughed, and soon they reached the tarmac of Main Street. From here, they followed one another like ducklings, then Sarah quickly overtook Stan, calling out as she did, ‘You’ve been away so long, bonny lad, you’ve probably forgotten the way, so best follow the leader, eh? If you can catch me, that is.’

  ‘Leader, eh? Fighting talk, our Sarah. Get yer best foot down, pet, for you’re going to eat me dust.’ With that he put his head down and overtook.

  ‘Come on, Davey, get yer head down, man, and yer legs working on the pedals as though they mean it,’ Ben shouted, ringing Davey’s bell. ‘We’re after yer, Stan.’

  Soon they were all racing, scorching past hedgerows and drystone walls while the slag heap smouldered and pigeons fluffed, then settled in the furrows of the newly ploughed fields shooing off the seagulls that had flocked onto them in search of grain. Fran listened to the laughter and added to it. She shouted along with everyone else as the lead changed with each spurt, the bait tins clattering and the bells ringing. Finally, they were off the road and jerking and winding along Cod Lane – which meant Cold Lane – avoiding the potholes and tractor ruts, puffed out and full of laughter and relief.

  Stan was back, and was the same lad he’d always been. Da would forgive him, Fran knew, because his anger was born out of love and fear. All three of his bairns understood that, more so since Betty. She looked up as brakes squealed ahead of them, seeing Sarah gaining on Stan as he turned off down a single lane path. Ben groaned as he bumped on Davey’s crossbar and hung on for dear life until they all arrived at the beck, almost but not quite together. Sarah, who had taken the lead by overtaking on the grass verge, threw her arms up in the air and danced about, singing, ‘Who’s the winner, who’s the best?’