by Annie Clarke
Once out in the cool darkness, with only the smouldering slag heaps giving light as clouds covered the moon, they stood together.
‘This isn’t a game, is it, our Stan?’ she asked.
He edged closer, holding both her hands now. ‘I’m not playing at anything. I’m right serious, Sarah. I don’t know how I didn’t see you properly before, but now … I could an’ all after the beck, but I didn’t know what to do. All I know is I can’t sleep, eat or any damn thing, and I’ve kept me distance, because though I said I don’t need you to love me back and just want for you to be safe, I bliddy do. I need you.’ He looked furious with himself and dragged his hand through his hair. ‘No, not just need, but love you. No, not that. What I’m trying to say is, I bliddy need your love.’
She could only see the outline of his face in the gloom, and she smiled. Their gang leader could be as confused by love as her, and was as desperate as she realised she had been since he’d arrived home. She pulled her hands free of his grip and now that her eyes had become accustomed to the lack of light, she saw the shadow of pain pass cross his face as he nodded to himself and muttered, ‘Still friends, though?’
She shook her head and he swallowed, stepped back, his shoulders braced, nodding. She followed though, reaching up and holding his face, love making her braver than she’d ever been. Standing on tiptoes, she kissed his mouth and said against his lips, ‘More than friends. I love you too, so much. I didn’t rightly know … I just knew you made me feel safe, but like you, all the time it were love.’
In the hall, Davey brought across a tray with a few teacups full to the brim with the beer the marrers had donated for the lad, trying not to spill it, or give the game away to the ladies in the kitchen. Beth thanked him as Bob sipped, his hand trembling, so she took hold of the cup and held it for him. He drained it and she replaced it on the tray and reached for another. ‘Nay, lass,’ Bob said, ‘that be enough.’
She sat next to him as the band began again and the dancers whirled, though not Fran and Davey. Instead, they sat nearby, should they be needed. Just as her friends always did, as she had only lately come to realise; even Sarah, just now who, though she had been so fearful and hurt, had wanted to reach out to her when she, Beth Jones, had wailed like a bairn in her misery. As Beth took her hold of her husband’s hand, she felt ashamed of her own fickleness, her weakness, and her thoughtlessness.
Beth and Bob sat shoulder to shoulder, her hand held in his, and she could feel him still trembling. He leaned back against the wall as the dancers whirled and the band played louder. Fran gave Beth a look as the band called for her and the girls to sing with them. Beth shook her head, but Bob wasn’t sleeping and he murmured, ‘Please, I want to hear you.’ Beth said, ‘No, I want to stay by your side.’
Bob smiled, raised her hand to his mouth. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Let me hear you sing again.’
Only then would she leave him to join Fran, though Davey remained on guard.
Fran started to sing, ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ and Beth joined in, and from the look Davey gave Fran, he knew it was for him.
Beth looked over at Bob, who was still leaning back. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks were hollow. His right foot started to tap as they sang and he picked up on the lyrics as Beth made up her own words: ‘… each time that I do just the thought of Bob …’
Bob sang then, in his powerful tenor: ‘Beautiful, and yellow, my Beth … I love you, darling lass.’
She was too moved to sing, so Fran continued while Beth smiled at her Bob, for he was hers, and she wanted to be with him, holding him. How could she ever have forgotten his hazel eyes, his kind mouth, his strong body, his kindness. She left the stage to Fran then, unable to be away from him for a moment longer, all thoughts of Stan or any such nonsense quite gone. She sat with him, holding his hand, leaning against his shoulder. ‘What happened to you, bonny lad?’
‘Ah, what happened was me job, that’s all. In a place you canna know, doing things yer don’t want to know. Then I got a bath in freezing water when one of the mines we was sweeping for bit back and aimed a damned great splinter of shrapnel into me leg. Gave me a knock on me bonce into t’bargain. I have sick leave for a week, lass, and made it this far, but I’m not sure I can manage to make it to the house.’ He groaned as he leaned forward. ‘I need to get to me bed, with you, in our house, and then when I get back on duty I want to think of you with your mam in Massingham, with yer friends.’
Beth looked around. Friends? Had she ruined all this? Stan and Sarah had returned and his arm was tight around her. Sarah had the sort of smile that twisted Beth’s heart because it was so young, so unsullied, so pure, but she shook her head at herself. Her man was back, alive, and that’s all that mattered.
She beckoned towards Stan. They both came – she’d have to become used to that – and she explained that Bob needed help to get to the house. Stan whistled, cutting the music dead. ‘A couple of strong blokes needed,’ he shouted. ‘The lad’s gone about as far as he can. He’s only a sailor, not a pongo or a pitman.’
The hall was filled with laughter. All the men started towards them and Stan picked a couple of the soldiers, which made Bob grunt, ‘A couple of pongo lads giving me a lift – I’ll bloody never live it down.’
The youngest of the soldiers muttered, as he dragged Bob to his feet, ‘It’s always the pongos who get you lot out of trouble, mate.’
His mate took the other side and they set off into the darkness, followed by Stan with the kitbag and Davey carrying the crutches. The marrers carried the remaining teacups still with the beer, while the girls walked behind, each with a plate of pickle sandwiches. They all watched as Stan talked quietly to Bob until the soldiers edged him through the front door and helped him gently into the house. ‘Thanks, lads,’ Bob muttered. ‘I owe you a pint.’
‘That you do,’ said the boy from Worcester. ‘We’ll collect it, don’t you worry. And any time you sailor boys need us to save your arse, just whistle, eh?’
They left and the girls watched while the pitmen helped Bob up the stairs. Fran slipped her arms around her friends. ‘Are you both all right?’
The two girls looked at one another. Beth reached out a hand to Sarah.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Aye, me an’ all.’
Fran looked confused, but the other two merely smiled at one another, and Sarah said, ‘Aye, Fran, we’re all right.’
The next day they were bleary-eyed, but all ready for the bus at four in the morning, though the grumbles were loud. Once there, Amelia was directed to the office, rushing back into the changing room once the girls had stripped, been searched and were dressed again in their clothes, overalls and turbans.
‘I say, I’ve been asked to move to Administration, forthwith. Someone is leaving soon, so I am to shadow them for the next three weeks and take over properly then. Daddy and Mummy will be so pleased. I expect the powers that be felt it more my thing.’
Mrs Oborne said, in that voice of hers which said more than her words, ‘Quite likely they did. Well, I reckon we just need to say good luck.’
Amelia was already edging to the door, where the accompanying security officer was waiting to escort her to her new workplace. Amelia smiled. ‘So nice to get to know you all. I’ve learned a lot about how the common – well, what a factory girl is.’
Fran almost gasped, but stopped herself. Not Valerie, though, who said, ‘Can you still bear to live in a factory girl’s house, Amelia?’
But she had gone, the door slamming in her wake. There were murmurings, but not many since people were glad to be rid of her. It was then that Beth spoke to Miss Ellington about whether she could take leave for a week while Bob was here? Miss Ellington got back to her at the end of the shift. She had arranged for Amelia’s transfer to be postponed in order to keep the numbers up while Beth had the week off. While they were waiting to clamber onto the bus, Amelia stormed up to them.
‘That takes
the damned biscuit. Your bloke comes home with a bit of a bad leg, so you get leave and I have to fiddle about with bloody detonators or the yellow again. Honestly, it’s not fair because they’ll offer the position to someone else, I just know they will.’
Mrs Oborne came up behind her. ‘Steady the buffs, lass. I’ve just been checking and they’re going to try to keep the office job for you, and if it were your man you’d want to be with him, eh? Best not to make a bliddy fool of yourself. People don’t forget spite.’
Amelia’s mouth twisted, and she clambered on board, sitting down on her seat with a thump. She flashed a glare at the three girls as they filed past.
Fran said, ‘We’re sorry, but things are what they are.’
They found seats and Sarah hoped that Stan would be with Davey at the bus shelter, while Fran hoped that Ralph wouldn’t be. Beth hoped that Bob was a little better, and was glad her mam had come over to care for him, bringing her rug to work on too. She’d said that if there was any nonsense, he’d be progged through the hessian. Bob, holding up his hands as he lay back on the pillow, had surrendered.
As they travelled, they scratched their itching skin and checked their arms against one another, for they had been switched into stemming, probably just for the day. Soon, they’d been promised, they would be transferred to the sewing sector, but there was a war on and supplies were needed, Mr Swinton had said, looking supremely happy at their discomfort.
Chapter Thirteen
Beth hurried from the bus to her home in Sledgeford, hoping to be back by four to see her mam, only to find she had left tea ready, and a note to say she’d been offered a drive back in the postman’s van a bit earlier and had grabbed it because Da needed her. Beth and Bob ate her mam’s hotpot of gravy and vegetables, and had a cuppa, while she told him she had leave, though Amelia wasn’t best pleased. But she’d try and do her a favour in return, one day. Bob eased himself to his feet, saying, ‘Best news I’ve heard in a long, long time. Days for you and me to just be together. But first things first, let’s collect your bike from the hall, lass.’
He led the way, swinging himself on his crutches as she dragged her mac back on and followed, shutting the door behind them. They saw their way by the light of the moon and although progress was slow, they reached the hall, then Beth pushed her bike past the blacked-out cottages while Bob smiled as he listened to the owls, a cock pheasant, and in the distance the colliery train. He said, ‘Strange to be landlocked again, but good to get away from the wind and the waves.’
She said, ‘I can’t imagine being lurched about day after day.’
‘Aye, well, you get used to anything, so they say.’ He stopped and drew breath. ‘By, I bliddy hope me armpits get used to these beggars.’ They laughed together, and then set off again while he said, ‘But listen, hinny, yer mam and me’ve been talking, and it’s time you went home to Massingham. I know she’s asked before, and I know I’ve said it’s what I want for you, but it really is time, Beth. What is there to stop you, eh, when she needs support?’
She stroked his back because she knew she really did love him, and what was more, Stan had Sarah and really didn’t want her, so … She drew in a deep breath, so Stan wouldn’t be sneaking over to see her, as she had hoped – once hoped, yes, that was better. As they walked along, Bob talked of the salt-heavy sea air, the tumbling clouds and waves higher than the houses they were passing. Another owl hooted. She turned to Bob, just as he stumbled. She reached out, but the bike caught her, and his crutches were in the way, and she didn’t know how to help.
‘What should I do when this happens?’ she asked. ‘Choose you or the bike?’
He looked at her, roared with laughter, steadied himself and swung himself forward. ‘Just be by my side, Beth. That’s all I want, now and for ever.’
She replied quietly, ‘Then that’s where I will be.’
They walked slowly home, and she opened the front door of their terraced house, owned by Mr Massingham’s tenant farmer. He nodded. ‘You’ll give in your notice to Farmer Martin then?’
‘Oh, aye, I’ll be doing that, never fear.’
Bob laughed. ‘With your mam on the case I reckon that’s a given.’ He eased himself through the doorway and stared at the stairs. ‘I reckon I can get up there on me bum, and won’t need the lads to help this time.’
She flicked on the light and he hopped and swung his way to the foot of the stairs, staring upwards, then turned and sat with a thump on the third step. She rushed forward, her hands out. He pulled her on to him, leaning back, his crutches falling to the side. He held her close, and it was as though they fitted. This is what she had missed. But did they fit as well as she and Stan had? She closed her eyes and kissed him fiercely, wanting her mind to stop, needing it to give her some peace.
He said, holding her as fiercely as she had kissed him, ‘By, lass, it’s a lifesaver to be here, even for a few days.’
‘Aye, it is, sweet Bob.’ For it had to be for her too.
They clung together for a minute longer, and then he pushed free of her. ‘You wait here, pet. I don’t want to slither down and take you out like a skittle. Fat lot of good we’ll be to one another if we both break a leg.’
Once on the landing, he called down: ‘I’ll be getting meself into bed, but a cuppa would be right good, our Beth. But I’ll need me crutches up here. Would yer mind?’
She gathered them up and delivered them to him with a kiss, then hurried down and into the kitchen to test the kettle, which she’d left on the range after their tea. It was hot, but not boiling. She threw her mackintosh onto the back of her chair and shoved wood and fresh coal into the firebox, watching it roar into flames, shutting the door, opening the vent, hearing the draught whip the coals into a frenzy, and it echoed her heart. She reached up for their wedding photograph, perched on the mantelpiece.
Since this was taken he’d become thin and drawn, but so had she. She pressed the photo to her heart, feeling for the armchair and sinking into it as her legs gave way. Sarah with Stan, it would take a bit of getting used to; but Bob was back and it would give her time to get her head sorted and she’d go home where she was needed to help with her da. That would stop the loneliness, which must have led to the mischief of her heart, and—The kettle was whistling.
She made tea and paced as she waited for it to mash, picking up the wedding picture again, and now, as she traced the pair of them with her finger, she remembered how it was that day … Bob’s family at the church, hers, some Massingham families, and just before the doors closed, when she and Bob were standing before Vicar Walters, the gang had entered, all of them, including Stan, and afterwards they’d thrown confetti. They had kissed her, and wished her well, and Stan had done that too, but had not quite met her eyes. He had shaken Bob’s hand, but not quite met his eyes either.
She replaced the photo and poured the tea, putting her ration of sugar in her husband’s. She had her man again, and the gang were there for her, the girls either side of her as they travelled on the bus and worked at whatever bench they were designated by that beggar Swinton, who chose them for transfer, every time. So the war had taken her man, but brought the girls together again, so how dare she be lonely? How could she have even thought of causing mischief again? She reached up to the mantelpiece and touched the image of Bob.
‘I canna wait much longer, lass,’ he called.
She picked up the two cups of tea and called back, ‘On my way.’ And she was – on her way to being who she should be.
She heard a dot dot dot from Bob’s crutch, followed by a scrape scrape, then another dot dot dot, and hurried to the bottom of the stairs and called up, ‘SOS yourself, bonny lad, I said any minute now.’ His laugh reached her.
She carried the two cups upstairs. There he was, sitting up in their bed, his bare chest bruised and cut, adding to his blue pitman scars.
He had thrown the blanket off his broken leg which was plastered to above the knee. He held out his arms and she pl
aced the tea on the side table and went to him, her heart thudding, her mouth dry. Holding her gently as she sat on the side of the bed, he said, ‘I love you so much. I’m glad I saw Stan. I hadn’t said I were sorry, but he divint want to hear.’
‘He’s happy with Sarah,’ she said as he stroked her hair. ‘It’s well over, lovely boy.’
They said nothing while the tea cooled, then against her hair he said, ‘I love you, but not your hair. That strange streaking don’t become you.’
They laughed together. ‘Well, I canna care for black and blue, lad,’ she replied.
They drank their tea, she undressed and, for the first time in far too long, they lay in bed together, the covers pulled over. That was all, for his pain was sharp and his tiredness overwhelming, and she lay there, glad that he was back and relieved that they had not made love, for it seemed as though a stranger lay beside her.
On Sunday afternoon, Ralph Massingham stood absolutely still in the hall as six young boys erupted onto the landing at the top of the stairs, leaning on the bannisters and shouting, ‘Oy, yous. Shift yer arse, we’re coming full pelt across the ’all at t’bottom.’
His father was insane to have allowed his stepmother to take in evacuees. ‘No, you stop right there or you’ll feel the back of my hand. I am crossing my own hallway in my own time and you mind your damned manners,’ he yelled.
The boys had not been evacuated during the Newcastle Blitz of 1940, but had been after the particularly bad bombing on 1 September, when the New Bridge Street goods-station area had been plastered, and so many made homeless. The boys now roared down the stairs as though he had not spoken, and barged across the hall, running either side and thumbing their noses at him as he strutted to the door of his father’s study.
