by Annie Clarke
He opened the door, entered, and almost slammed it shut. His father looked up from his desk.
‘Good morning, Ralph. How strange I didn’t hear you knock. Going deaf, am I?’
‘For heaven’s sake, Father, couldn’t the billeting officer find anywhere else for the dirty little tykes?’
‘Probably, but your mother and I suggested they send us six lads. They are not dirty, merely high-spirited, and, indeed, perhaps need to learn some manners. But that’s something several others not a million miles away could also consider. One is tempted to say, put your chin down, keep your mouth closed and put up with it, Ralph. After all, we are at war and there are many who need help, so if we can, we do, because we are fortunate not to need such aid. Or do you? Is that why you’re here?’
As his father waved him to a chair, Ralph thought that the bags under his father’s eyes could take a few pounds of bliddy spuds. Then he realised he had absorbed too much of the working-class way of thinking, and that wouldn’t do.
Ralph took the chair, easing his back and looking up at the portrait of his great-grandfather hanging on the wood-panelled wall behind his father. The other walls were lined with bookcases full of tomes his father had been ploughing through ever since Ralph could remember.
‘Your mother and I were sorry not to see you at St Oswald’s morning service, Ralph. It’s good to meet people and keep in touch with their concerns, as well as saying a prayer or two.’ He placed his pen on the blotter and now leaned forward and waited.
Ralph felt the stirrings of anger. There were no blue scars on his father’s hands, so who was he to talk? He examined his own, wondering how he could remove the coal already ingrained in his cuts. Bleach, perhaps.
He muttered, ‘I believe you mean my stepmother, and I wasn’t at church because I’ve had a busy week, scrabbling about shifting coal into tubs and shoving them along to the roadway.’
‘Ah.’ That was all his father said as he sat upright, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, his hands steepled, waiting. Ralph glanced up at the portrait again. His great-grandfather had begun by manufacturing something for steam engines, which had led to the development of his several collieries – after all, why not feed the engines with his own coal? It was the engine factory that his father had taken over first, after working as an apprentice at his parents’ insistence. In due course he had also inherited Sledgeford, Minton and Massingham collieries. These would one day be his.
‘So, tell me why you’re here, Ralph. What can I do for you?’ his father asked.
Ralph had memorised his proposal and began: ‘As you know, I’ve been working in Auld Hilda with Stan, Sid and Norm. And also Davey Bedley.’
At the mention of Davey’s name Mr Massingham tilted his head, his eyes showing a glimmer of amusement. ‘Ah yes, Tom Bedley’s boy, the one who bet on you striking the centre of the goal, the one whose ball you destr—’
Ralph interrupted, shaking his head. ‘Father, I was an idiot, but don’t forget he stabbed my ball, the one mother gave me which could also be called an act of destruction.’
His father put up his hand. ‘Hardly, for I seem to remember the gardener was easily able to make it good.’
Ralph ground his teeth, wanting to lash out, but instead said, ‘As I said, I was an idiot, but I wasn’t much bigger than those evacuee ragamuffins you make excuses for, so can’t we let it rest?’
His father sighed. ‘But they haven’t had your advantages.’
‘Father, for goodness—’ Ralph almost spat.
Mr Massingham held up his hand. ‘I’m tired, Ralph, forgive me. Go on, but I hope not to complain about Davey Bedley. As you say, we’ve all grown up, or should have. Incidentally, why aren’t you on the overtime aft-shift?’
Ralph sat on his fury, wondering why he’d had to come back to work here, why he had to put up with these idiots. But of course he knew why, there was a war on, an unnecessary one, for they should have come to an agreement with Hitler, course they should. He calmed down. ‘The overman said someone else really needed the money.’ This was the truth, and he’d been relieved. A rest would do him good. He continued, ‘The thing is, Father, Davey Bedley is wasted here. He’s got a bloody good brain.’
Now his father was listening closely. ‘Yes, I know that, as it happens,’ he said.
‘Well, Father, your chum Professor Smythe thinks Bedley’s brilliant at crosswords and the sort of coded clues he sets. I know because I heard him tell various people as I walked behind them. And I can’t help but think that would be of use to the war effort, more so than hewing out coal. Anyone can do that, after all, and that’s partly why I’m glad to be here, because I can take his place.’
He paused, thinking of Fran, because he wanted to take her from Davey bloody Bedley and so far she wouldn’t play ball. He half laughed, play ball eh? Well, he’d teach the whole bloody lot of them that you didn’t turn against him, take what was his. He found himself glaring at his father, who hadn’t saved his wife from TB and had instead taken Ralph’s nanny for himself.
His father was looking down at his blotting pad, which was a sure sign he was giving the idea some serious thought, but he said nothing. Inside, there was just the ticking of the clock, but outside Ralph could hear the evacuees running riot in the garden where he had played cricket with his cousins. Did these boys even know what cricket was? No, they probably kicked the same sort of paper ball in their mean streets, and bet on anything that came their way.
His father looked towards the windows and walked over to open one, calling out, ‘Abraham, move everyone across to the back lawn, there’s a good chap. There’s a football in the summer house. Kick it around a bit out there and you won’t hurt the flowers.’
‘Abraham – ah yes, I’d forgotten he was one of those.’ Ralph looked at the boys hobnobbing on the lawn and then traipsing off.
‘I thought all that Blackshirt nonsense was behind you?’ said his father.
Ralph sighed. When would these people realise who was going to win—He stopped, and knew he needed to gain more control of his thoughts, because thoughts could so easily turn into words.
‘I went to a couple of meetings, as I am sick, sore and tired of saying, but I also went to a Commie one, and so did lots of people. But that’s not what I want to talk about. I just feel Davey’s wasted, and only you can sort something out with the Prof.’
His father was standing in front of the portrait. Oh Lord, thought Ralph, not a homily about the great and the good and the advantages of hard work. Instead, his father said, as though he was deep in thought, ‘That’s a very sensible suggestion, Ralph, and I’m pleased to hear that you are looking out for the lad – burying the hatchet, if you like. But fuel is a bit like gold dust at the moment and we need our best men on it. Davey Bedley is one of our best men, so no, I don’t want him leaving the pit. Besides, he’s got that feisty Hall girl on his arm, which makes him a steady worker. I agree that Professor Smythe admires the lad, he has said so several times, but accept my verdict, for now at least. Damned good pitman, one who sets crosswords. Wants to start a magazine, I gather. Maybe that is something to think of investing in?’
The tea gong sounded, thank heavens, or Ralph would have exploded. Invest? Over his dead body. He fought for control as they both rose and he thought instead of the miserable slices of bread that awaited them. He wished his father wouldn’t subscribe to wartime rationing, as he and his wife insisted on doing. Had his mother’s TB been a result of starvation? He followed his father from the room, laughing harshly, and Mr Massingham turned. ‘Just thinking of something funny, Father,’ Ralph said.
They continued across the hall to the drawing room. Ralph wished he could remember his mother, but he couldn’t, only the loss, like a big, dark hole. He could remember his nanny, though. He had wept on leaving her when he was sent straight back to boarding school after his mother’s funeral. When he’d returned for the holidays, Nanny had become his stepmother and that had spoilt ev
erything. She was no longer his alone, and if that was the case, then he didn’t want her at all.
At five o’clock, Mrs Hall, Mrs Oborne and Mrs Bedley were first on the train to Newcastle, with the girls following in their wake. With their men on Sunday overtime in the pit, Fran and Sarah had agreed there was no point in lolling about at home. It took barely twenty minutes to reach Newcastle and head for the discreet restaurant that the Briddlestone’s buyer had suggested for an early supper.
They wore their best coats, hats and scarves, but as usual no stockings. Mrs Hall hesitated at the doorway, then looked at the windows, with their paper reinforcement against bomb blasts. ‘There, you see, no better than the rest of us,’ she tutted. She lifted the sneck and led the way inside, stopping at the head waiter’s lectern.
‘Blimey, it’s so quiet, and him just standing there,’ Sarah whispered. ‘It’s like being in church. Should we sing “Abide with Me”?’
‘Shhh,’ her mother hissed.
Fran nudged her. ‘Behave,’ she whispered, on the edge of giggles. The restaurant décor was dark red, the lighting dim. ‘All the better for us,’ she murmured to Sarah. ‘We’ll look quite normal, not yellow beacons with strange hair, and won’t put anyone off their food.’
It was Sarah’s turn to snigger.
The tables were set into alcoves and the head waiter led them towards the back, where a large round table was set up on the right-hand side of the room. Two men were already there, sipping whiskey and rose to greet them. They all shook hands, then the waiters took their coats before ushering them to their seats.
Fran and Sarah sat together as the small talk continued over a supper of pigeon pie. Fran crunched on a piece of shot and pushed it around her mouth, wondering quite what to do with it. The middle-aged man who had been introduced as Bill Witherspoon, the managing director and owner of Briddlestone’s, winked at her.
‘Spit it out if I were you. Lead’s as bad for you as the chemicals I daresay you’ve come into contact with.’
Fran merely said, ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ but she let the piece of shot drop with a ping onto the plate.
Mr Witherspoon nodded and said quietly, ‘Quite right too, sorry. Foolish of me.’
The small talk resumed. They spoke of families, rationing and the weather, and Fran wondered where they’d all be without the weather to moan about and also wondered when they’d get down to business. She looked across at her mam, filled with admiration because there she was, Mrs Annie Hall, talking as though she met businessmen every day of her life.
Finally, the meal was finished and her mother sat back while their plates were removed.
Mr Witherspoon was looking from one to the other and said, as the waiter brought a glass of brandy for each of them, ‘Please, a drop of rather nice brandy for us all. It’s the least I can do. I want to put a proposition to your cooperative, ladies.’
Fran picked up her own balloon glass, sniffed and sipped, just like Stan had said he did in the university at the special dinners they had. It felt raw in her throat, but she listened as Mr Witherspoon talked of a charity he ran for those who were bombed out and needed rehoming here, there and everywhere. He explained that he had matched financial backing from Mr Massingham, but that the rooms needed something homely. ‘Which brings me to your rugs.’ He waited.
Fran, thinking how Mr Massingham got everywhere with his good works, watched her mam put down her glass. She saw it was empty. Heaven’s, Mam, thought Fran, you got a wriggle on.
‘I hope you’re not suggesting we work for nothing, young man – what did you say your name was?’ asked Mrs Hall.
‘Ah, I’m Mr Witherspoon.’
Fran smiled, because he wasn’t young but it rather established the hierarchy, and it wasn’t in his favour. Well, well, clever Mam.
‘Mr Witherspoon, we have families to feed. And I reckon you need to hear that, an’ all, Mr Danvers,’ her mam said.
Mr Danvers, who was the Briddlestone’s buyer, hid a smile. Fran sipped her brandy, proud of her mother.
Mr Witherspoon shook his head. ‘Oh no, not at all, not for nothing. Briddlestone’s and the London store that buy some of our goods, including your rugs, are willing to donate ten per cent of every rug sold on the open market, but out of courtesy we felt we must discuss this with you. It doesn’t in any way affect your wholesale price, since the stores are absorbing the loss, unless, of course, there is a middle ground …?’
He waited.
Fran and Sarah continued to drink their brandies as their mothers and Mrs Oborne whispered together. Finally, Mrs Bedley took over the negotiations, and Fran realised that the co-op wouldn’t be taking any prisoners.
‘So, let’s get this clear, the retailers will be donating ten per cent of the price per item sold?’ asked Mrs Bedley.
Goodness, thought Fran, you mothers sound as though you’ve been at this for years. Well, perhaps they had. It was all that haggling housewives did with stallholders in the market.
‘Well, we feel that our members will also be eager to donate, to the extent of two per cent of each item delivered to you, Mr Danvers, but only if you pay the cost of delivery, which so far we have borne. But we would need proof that this charitable gesture is indeed the case, and not some sharp practice.’
This time it was Mr Witherspoon who hid his smile, for he knew damn well that the delivery costs would be at least half a per cent of the two per cent.
‘However –’ this time it was Mrs Oborne speaking ‘– we would expect a label on each rug saying: “The Massingham Rug Co-operative have kindly donated a percentage of the cost towards the …” What did you say your charity was called?’
Mr Witherspoon, beginning to look rather harassed, told them.
The three older women sat back, their brandies finished, their cheeks rather pink.
‘This would have to be in writing,’ said Fran.
‘The co-op members will have to agree, but we feel that this would be acceptable to them,’ her mother added.
Sarah nodded wisely. ‘Of course, and in addition we will each require another brandy.’
Both men laughed and stood to shake everyone’s hand. Then Mr Danvers sat down again and ordered another round of brandies.
The air was cooler when they left at seven o’clock. They used their torches, even though it was remarkably light, given such a clear sky and a good moon. The three older women followed Fran and Sarah, who were the only ones who could remember the way to the station. The mothers were laughing together, their arms linked and excitement in their voices. Sarah and Fran linked arms too, looking carefully before herding their wobbly mothers across the road.
‘Well, I hope Beth’s having a grand time with Bob,’ muttered Sarah, ‘because she’s missing a good day out. By, I’m missing her, and I have to say, I’m surprised.’
‘So am I – missing and surprised,’ said Fran. ‘It doesn’t feel quite right to be somewhere without her.’
They set off again, and slowly the realisation that they were going to help those in the North-East who had lost so much, sobered them. Fran’s mam called, ‘I’m right glad to be helping. Aye, we lose our men in the pit, but not our wee bairns these days. But it’s wee bairns who’ve died under these bliddy bombs. I reckon I’ll put a bit of me own money into the charity every time I sell them a rug.’
The others thought they would too, and celebrated more quietly now, glad to be going home to their families. Fran’s mam said as they drew near the station, ‘By, it’s been a good day, but me head’s beginning to split, so it is. It’ll be the cool evening, and nothing to do with the brandies.’
This set them off laughing again as they crossed yet another road, as a bus ground towards them. It caught them in its slit headlights as it pulled to a stop. Some women piled off, heading towards them, their torches playing on them, shining in Fran’s eyes. One roared ahead of her friends, barring their way, her finger wagging at them. Fran couldn’t understand what was happening
until the woman shouted, ‘Warmongers, that’s what you are, with your yellow faces, making those bullets. Murderers, just as much as the men who fire the buggers. Murderers. Look at you, stained with the shadow of death.’
Fran’s mouth dried but she stepped forward. The woman was raising her hand, as though to strike her, when Mrs Hall stormed round the girls and stood between them.
‘Murderers, you call them? Murder, and you with your fist in the air. Get away with you, and hope to God these lovely girls, who risk their lives every day, soldier on, because if Hitler gets over here, heaven help us all, you stupid, silly woman. You’ll know death then, right enough.’
Mrs Oborne and Mrs Bedley were with her now, forcing their way past the woman, whose friends were standing helplessly to one side, muttering, ‘So sorry.’
Chastened, they headed towards the station, which was just a few hundred yards away. Fran was shaking, but soon she was laughing again, and Sarah too. They held on to one another as they followed in the wake of those majestic women. ‘Trojans, the three of them. They frighten me to death,’ Fran gasped as they finally reached the station. The train was already at the platform, so they ran, the beams of their torches jogging ahead of them, until finally they stopped, opened a door, and slumped into their seats just as the guard’s whistle blew.
But then her mam wagged a finger at her. ‘That bliddy well does it. Tomorrow when you start your week of nights, you tell that supervisor person you need a transfer to the clean room, sewing bliddy overalls or knickers, or whatever the hell you do. You still look like ruddy canaries. Beth is resting up with her Bob, so it’s time you lot did too, do you hear me?’
How could they not? The whole compartment were agog.
On the Monday the night shift saw them in the sewing room with many others from the stemming shop, including Amelia, so there had been no need to make a fuss, thought Fran, with relief. Amelia’s face was still down to her armpits because of her delayed office transfer but like everyone else, she was relieved to be in a clean sector. Well, everyone but the girls they were replacing who were off to work with detonators, pellets or pouring the stemming powder into thingumybobs.
