by Annie Clarke
Bert handed out the sacks from under his driving seat as the women filed into the cold. The snow fell as Fran and Beth rammed a sack up to the nearside front tyre. Sarah hunkered down to give them a hand. ‘This cold’ll stop your nose completely, anyways.’
Beth muttered, ‘Howay, it was all down to me, if yer don’t mind.’
They were all three laughing as they trudged to the back of the bus, tapping Mrs Oborne on the shoulder. ‘Come on, give us the benefit of your—’
Mrs Oborne said, ‘Not another word. Sick I am of the word arse.’
They were roaring with laughter as the four of them made their way to where Sylv and Beryl were already braced with their backs against the rear of the bus, their heels dug in. Two more came from the bus to help as Bert leaned out of his window and shouted, ‘On three.’
As Fran shoved back, her heels slipping and the exhaust billowing, she saw clouds of white moving on the verge, almost hidden by the falling snow and heard the baaing of sheep. Massingham’s wall must be down.
Mrs Oborne had seen them too, and called to Bert. ‘Howay, lad, the sheep are through. We’d best get the beggars back first.’
‘That’s just bliddy lovely,’ shouted Bert. The engine cut out, and they heard the driver’s door slam. Then they heard Bert say, ‘What the hell?’
Mrs Oborne called, ‘What’s the matter, lad?’
‘Nowt’s the matter, let’s get the beasts back.’ There was the slam of what sounded like the luggage door set in the side. Mrs Oborne called, ‘What was that?’
‘Just me, losing me feet and what, whacking into the side of the bus.’
He came around to the back while he sent Fran and Beth to find the gap in the wall.
Fran dragged her torch from her pocket, wading through snow that chilled her legs and slipped down the tops of her boots, but her toes were so numb it didn’t matter. She shone her torch, but the snow was so heavy the light just bounced back. She shouted, ‘We’ll have to find it almost by touch.’ They waded alongside the wall, Beth moving in the opposite direction. It was Beth who found the gap, and the others then herded the sheep through it while Bert shouted behind them, ‘In yer get, yer bliddy idiot beasts.’
The girls then scrabbled about in the snow, their fingers numb as they and Bert rebuilt the wall, with Mrs Oborne muttering that Mr Massingham owed them a bob or two for saving his sheep.
Finally they were finished and Bert clambered back into the driving seat, the women pushing and shoving the bus while the inside ‘crew’ bounced on the seats. The wheels slipped, the wind howled, and Beth muttered, ‘I could bliddy howl wi’ it.’
Together, as a team – well, what else? Fran thought – they dug in their heels, pushing, pushing, their boots beginning to slip. Suddenly the bus was moving back onto the road; the women were on their backsides and scrambling up, Mrs Oborne muttering, ‘I’ll bliddy murder him, so I will, cos my big arse is a freezing wet one, and I’m bliddy sick of this bliddy war.’
They were all screaming with laughter as they collected up the sacks, now matted with clumps of freezing snow. They could taste the fast-falling snowflakes as they scrambled after the slow-moving vehicle, with Bert hanging out of the window and yelling against the wind, ‘I canna stop, catch up.’
They panted as finally they piled on board. Bert picked up speed steadily and the bus seemed to claw its way up and into Sledgeford as the women dragged off their headscarves, caked solid with snow, and shook them onto the aisle. Mrs Oborne yelled, ‘If yer don’t get yer heater going full pelt, Bert, I’ll bliddy strangle yer.’
‘Tis on, lass. It’ll warm soon,’ he called back.
Fran muttered, as her nose began to bleed again, ‘It’d better do an’ all.’
The women at the Sledgeford Village bus shelter were full of complaints as they boarded, but Bert stood up and roared, ‘Shut the hell up. The lasses’ve had to push the bus back onto the road and get it up the hill, and you, Amelia what’s-your-name, would be no damn good in them silly shoes. Wear boots in the winter, for pity’s sake, whether you bliddy want to show us all you’re a cut above us or not. Now all go and sit down, and I don’t want to hear a peep out of you lot, and neither do any of these lasses who bliddy got us ’ere.’
It was then that all the women saw the gash on his forehead, and the blood that was still dribbling on his cheek.
They were silent as the bus crawled to the Factory, an hour late. But would they get back?
‘Farmer Watson will bring out his tractor, never you fear,’ shouted Bert. ‘I’m not slogging through this lot on me own with a load of bliddy hooligans roaring about on the roads, or mithering cos they’ve had to bliddy wait.’
In the changing rooms, Mrs Raydon checked them quickly. Mr Swinton entered, flapping his clipboard towards them as he pointed to the clock. Fran, so cold she couldn’t feel her fingers, toes, legs or hands, her nose so sore it throbbed, opened her mouth, but Mrs Oborne was there before her. ‘You put that clipboard down, Mr Swinton, or it’ll end up in a dark place and you’ll know the pain of childbirth. We’re here because we pushed the bus back onto the road, but only after herding Mr Massingham’s blithering sheep into their pasture, and we’re sick, sore and tired, so we’d best not find our pay’s been cut an’ all.’
She rammed her turban on her head and swept past him out into the corridor, followed by them all, barging along the corridor towards their other enemy, the yellow.
Late that night Bert knocked on the Canary Club’s shed door, after he’d tried to find Joe, Tom and Simon at the Miners’ Club. He slipped inside when Joe opened it, not wanting one of the ARPs to yell at him about the light.
He told them he’d discovered he’d whacked one of Massingham’s sheep with the front of the bus when he slid off the road. ‘The stone wall were down, yer see, and they got out. We put them back, so I reckon we’ve paid for the little beggar, else Massingham’d lost the lot. It were already a goner, so I stacked it in the luggage bay. Reckon we could all do with a bit of a feed, and it were dead so it’s not poaching.’ He pointed at Simon. ‘You did a bit of butchering in the thirties when us miners were laid off, didn’t you, lad?’
‘Whether a beast be dead or not is a moot point where poaching’s concerned,’ Simon muttered. ‘Not sure Massingham would agree.’
Joe shook his head, and turned to him. ‘Don’t be so bliddy silly, Si. Our lasses need the food, and it wouldn’t hurt any of the rest of ’em women, neither, or the bairns. It were running free, and ’twere an accident.’
Tom was nodding, watching Simon who studied his Woodbine, took a drag and stood up. ‘What we waiting for then?’ he muttered. They followed him out into the freezing cold and the snow, which was a good foot high and still falling.
Simon fetched the wheelbarrow and they trundled to the bus garage and into the darkness of the old shed where Bert had hidden the sheep. They lugged it through Massingham, grateful for once for the blackout, then headed to the back of Simon’s brother’s butcher shop. They stepped inside the jointing room, and only then did they speak. Bert said he’d have a couple of chops for him and the missus, and they could sort the rest as they pleased. ‘Sooner the better, though, in case word gets around. By then we’ll have eaten the evidence, eh?’
Simon nodded. ‘Yer’ll have it by tomorrow. And not a word to me brother. I don’t want him involved. I’ll divvy it up for those with Massingham women at the Factory, and get someone to deliver it around, no questions asked. That suit you?’
Tom muttered, ‘Will they all keep their mouths shut?’
‘They won’t know whose it is,’ said Joe. ‘It could just have come off the back of a lorry, and anyway they’d rather have their tongues cut out than split. We all would, eh. No point in getting Bert into trouble, not at his age.’
‘Not at any age, nor any of us,’ Simon said. ‘I don’t want to end up in clink, or chucked out of me house by Massingham, and I wouldn’t do it, but that the lasses are looking proper don
e in. And if I thought the truth will out, I’d be burying the woolly bastard now.’
The next day, when the bus arrived back at ten after their shift, the three girls peered from the window, grateful that Ralph was not there. They’d thought he’d keep turning up like a bad penny once Davey went but he hadn’t, not after the first day. They hurried home, Fran waving to the other two when they reached their back lanes. She then slid and slipped home, for her mam had promised something special for a late tea, a treat. She’d said nothing to the others because her mam had said not to.
Fran had feared for a moment that her da had poached a Massingham pheasant or two, as he sometimes threatened to do, but he wouldn’t dare, for her mam would have his guts for garters. She must have got something on ration from the shop, but what?
She rushed across the yard, which had been cleared by Ben. He’d also thrown down ash to stop anyone skidding which was always a bugger to sweep clean. But better than breaking a leg, or a nose, she thought, touching her own. By, it had hurt when Stan straightened it. She kicked off the snow and ash from her boots, eased open the kitchen door, and when she was met by the smell of lamb she thought she’d gone to heaven.
Her mam stood at the scullery doorway, grinning and wearing her Christmas apron.
‘Lamb?’ Fran breathed, her mouth actually watering.
‘Aye, lass. Your da said it were from a man with a lorry, and to say nothing, and just enjoy it. Sit yourself down.’
Ben was already there, his knife and fork at the ready, along with Stan, who called out, ‘Come on, Fran, for goodness’ sake.’
Her da was at the head of the table. ‘Sit, eat, don’t worry to wash yer hands. Wipe yer boots, and get this down yer, eh?’
She hung up her mac on the back door and slid into her seat, dropping her bag to the floor, forgetting that it contained the empty water bottles. Luckily they fell on the rug and didn’t break. She lifted the lid on the vegetable pot and saw sprouts, leeks and carrots from the allotment, there was gravy in the jug, and was suddenly ravenous, when she’d thought she’d never want to eat again after Swinton sent them back into the stemming shop. He still had workers down with flu, or sickness of some sort, so they’d be moved round again, unless they got it too.
The lamb was set before them, and now her mam sat and said, ‘Begin, and eat hearty.’ They did, no one having the time to speak, and it was better than the lamb at the restaurant in London because her family were enjoying it with her too. She hoped that Davey was eating heartily as well. As she ate she even forgot about her black eyes, her nose and her mouth ulcers, she just savoured every mouthful. She had just finished, and had laid down her knife and fork like the others, when they heard a knocking at the front door. The front door. They looked at one another. Her da stood. ‘Best get the dishes out in t’scullery, quick. It were off back of a lorry, remember, so there could be questions.’
Her mam rose too, turning on him. ‘You said Simon bought it off a friend with a lorry, and every Massingham lass from the factory’s had some, so it’ll likely only be one of ’em coming to – well, I don’t know what?’
The knock came again. Joe gripped Annie’s arm. ‘Coming to bliddy what? They’d use the back door, woman.’
Fran and Stan stared at their da, then at one another. Their da had shaken his wife, and he looked terrified. Annie said, ‘Who was this bloke with a lorry?’
Stan answered, ‘If Si knew him, that’s enough for us. So we keep quiet, just as everyone will. But I suppose that’s still the black market. God almighty. Could it be the police?’
Her mam was rushing with the plates to the scullery. ‘Ben, get the vegetables.’
‘Who’s getting the door?’ Fran asked.
Stan said, ‘Ben can go. They won’t be tough with him. Anyway, we’re probably just showing a light and it’ll be the ARP. Who’s on tonight, Mam?’
They were all standing around and her father had broken into a sweat; it was dripping down his face. Her mam said, ‘I don’t know. If it were Madge she’d come in the back. Ben, let ’em in if they show you a warrant. Not a word about Simon. We bought it off a man, all right. In fact, me, nowt a body else. I’ll have it laid at my door, I bought it, you all hear me.’
Fran shook her head, her mind racing. The knock came again. Stan murmured, ‘Mam, bring back the vegetables and the gravy. If it’s someone who’s heard a whisper, we can just say we had a bit of scrag end on ration, and made gravy, eh?’
Fran pushed Ben back in his chair. ‘Just sit down everyone. We’ve got a story, we stick to it. A bit of scrag end, and that’s that.’ Fran looked past Ben to her da, and now it was her mam gripping his arm and muttering, ‘You wouldn’t be so daft, Joe. Not to poach a sheep?’
He pulled away from her, staring into the range.
Fran stepped into the corridor. She shut the kitchen door on the family, feeling sick, the lamb tasting sour in her mouth. Had Da thought of poaching after she told him about rounding up Massingham’s sheep? No, he couldn’t be so stupid. Any farmer’d have their guts for garters. But no, if he had it wouldn’t be Massingham’s for that was the one thing that’d ruin them, make them homeless, jobless … She hurried as the knock came again.
She opened the door a crack, and peered out. Ralph stood there, smiling. ‘I wanted to check on you, because I thought I’d meet the bus again, just to walk you back, keep you safe. But I was called home because the sheep were brought in by old Hughes and we’re one short. So I had to double-check them with him, in this bloody weather. He was right. Bloody poachers.’
He pushed on the door, banging it open. Fran stepped out, pulling the door to behind her. Ralph said, pushing the door open again, ‘No, don’t get cold. I’ll step in with you because I heard Stan say you had a broken nose and a couple of shiners and perhaps there’s something I can do.’ He stopped as the smell of lamb wafted from the hall out into the night.
‘My word,’ he muttered. ‘Oh my word, Miss Frances Hall. What would my father say and do, eh? Rather a stickler where poachers are concerned, and there is the slight problem of breaking the ration too. What can we do about this, do you think? Too much of a coincidence, for us to be one sheep down and for little old me to be greeted by the rich smell of roast lamb issuing forth from your front door?’
They stood in silence, Fran on the step and Ralph still outside, both in darkness. All Fran could smell was his cologne and all she could see was his shape looming there, with the bright, starlit sky as silent as they were. She put out her hand, feeling the door behind her. Her family’s door, no, Mr Massingham’s door, and over to the right, in the distance, the smouldering slag heap, the only thing not snow-covered, also owned by Mr Massingham. She breathed in to the count of four, and smelled the sulphur; it felt as though the air was owned by him. The cold wind whipped at her. She said nothing.
Ralph said nothing either, but she could still smell his cologne. A pitman smelled of honest graft: sweat and coal. This bastard was no pitman. Oh no, he was fit only for the dungheap.
‘Well, we find ourselves in a situation, dear Frances, that seems to me to require a little bit of friendliness and understanding on both our parts. Heavens, we don’t want Davey’s family without a roof either, do we? Because a whole sheep for one family? I don’t think so. So, probably much of Massingham …’
She stared from him to the slag heap, watching it brighten as the wind got up. He leaned closer. She stood her ground. He said, his breath wine-tinged, ‘Have you nothing to say to someone who is eager and willing to help the Hall family? Of course, as well as tucking in, this could not have been poached by your father alone, so there could be many looking for a roof over their family’s heads, and a pit that will take them without a reference, eh?’
Again there was silence. Fran knew Tom Bedley would be in it up to his neck, and Lord knew how many others, because if a sheep had been poached, Ralph was right, it would be shared.
Ralph’s teeth seemed to gleam in the light from the
crescent moon, like a bliddy wolf’s. The wind whined in the winding gear of the pithead. Somewhere a train whistle blew, and nearer an owl hooted. Perhaps it had just flown over the house.
‘So, shall we toddle on up to the Hall, and perhaps take your father, maybe Stan as well?’
‘There will be no need for that, Mr Massingham.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Fran sat quietly on the bus returning from the morning shift at the Factory a few days after Ralph’s visit. The gloom was already descending as they entered Minton, where they stopped briefly to offload two of the passengers, and then off they went again to Sledgeford. Beth was telling Sarah how Bob had got through on the public telephone box, as arranged, and he had talked endlessly about the sinking of the Ark Royal by a U-boat. ‘By, it were only at the end he talked of love. But then, lass, the lines were hot.’
Fran heard them from across the aisle and tried to join in once more, as she had always done, until … Well, until Ralph had called and sniffed the air, and smelled the lamb before November was out and the very next day had been at the bus shelter, and she had left her friends to walk home with him as he’d grabbed her hand and tucked it under his arm.
Beth looked at her now, her eyes as they were that day when she and Sarah had just stared, along with the rest of the bus, and called after her, shocked. Ralph had said, ‘We’ll ignore them, don’t you think.’ It wasn’t a question.
They had run after her, but Fran had said, ‘Best you leave it, you two. Ralph is walking me back from now on.’ They had tried to talk to her on the bus the next morning, and during dinner break, but she had just said, ‘Things change.’ For they did. Everyone could only be safe if she played the whelp’s game and what’s more, said nothing, or her da would confess and …
Her friends, all of them, and Stan, and Ben, her mam and da, had all tried, but all she could do was repeat, ‘Things change, so leave me alone. I have a right to my own life and feelings.’
