by Annie Clarke
Since then, her friends’ eyes had been as cold and confused and hurt as they were today. Sarah, whose profile was so like Davey’s that Fran wanted to weep, looked anywhere but at her old friend.
Valerie spoke loudly now from across the aisle: ‘You’ve chosen your side, Fran, and how bliddy could you? I’ve said it before: you were one of us, an’ that makes it worse, but I’m not saying it again. I’m not saying anything at all to you ever again. Bad enough when it’s that Amelia strutting about being too good for us. But you taking up with the whelp the minute Davey’s back’s turned … Surprised you don’t get swept to the Factory for your shift in comfort, the chauffeur tipping his bliddy hat at yer.’ There was hurt as well as anger in her eyes too.
Maisie, sitting in front of Fran, swung round. ‘Shame on you, Fran Hall, that’s all I’ve got to say.’
‘So you keep saying, Maisie,’ said Fran because Maisie’s eyes were full of tears.
Now Sarah looked at Fran, her voice shaky. ‘Just tell us what’s changed, Fran. Then we might understand.’
‘I need to do it, that’s all,’ Fran said. It wasn’t a lie and she longed to tell them all, but then they’d protect her, fight for her, and they’d all be in the same position, all struggling for work, for a roof, all … Oh well.
Sarah and Beth just stared. It was what she had said before, but it meant nothing to them. ‘Need? Why? For the money? Has the concert gone to your head?’ It was Beth, but there was nothing more Fran could tell them, however much they’d all asked over the preceding days.
The one thing Fran knew was that no one would tell Davey, not for her sake, but for his. How could they, anyway, for no one knew where he was, not even her. He’d said he’d send a P.O. address, but hadn’t, yet. So there were some things to be thankful for.
She sat back, wanting to quiet her mind, but she couldn’t because rage with her da vied with her fury at Ralph, and her terrible pain at the price she was paying so that no one else would have to. How could this ever end? How could she clear her head, how could she stop itching, stop feeling sick, stop having mouth ulcers, feeling giddy?
Ralph didn’t care for her, she was sure, he only wanted to hurt Davey, to hurt the pitmen, to hurt all of them, as though it was all a game. Why? Why was he so full of hate, or something else she didn’t recognise? But then her family and friends no longer recognised her either but what did that matter? They must be safe for Ralph was cruel, capable of— What? She didn’t know, and had no intention of her family having to find out.
She closed her mind. There was nothing to be done until something happened. Perhaps the bugger would be killed by a bomb, or in the pit, and then, only then, could she explain.
They were approaching Sledgeford now, on reasonably clear roads, because the wind had blasted most of the snow off the road and verges, and built up great drifts by the stone walls. Yet again she wondered if she should explain to Davey, but then he would come back and challenge Ralph, and the same with Stan, and that would be the end. Wiping her hand across her mouth, she recalled the feel of Ralph’s lips on hers yesterday, until she’d struggled free, telling him he didn’t want her mouth ulcers. He’d recoiled, but then smiled. ‘Ah, but they’ll be gone one day, my dear Frances.’
She looked out of the window. At least he didn’t call her Fran; that remained hers. That and her telephone conversations with Davey, because they still spoke at their arranged time, using the public telephone box. All he talked about was love, and she did too, though her words didn’t sound right. They both knew it, but all he said was, ‘You’re working too hard again, sweet lass. Seven days a week is too bliddy much.’
Would Ralph be there today, at the bus shelter, with that look on his face as though he owned her? Perhaps not, because it was Sunday and the miners’ day off and he’d be at home with the Massinghams. She was so glad they were having to go in to the Factory every day now, because otherwise she might tell her family the truth and her da would march to Massingham Hall and confess, while she and her mam packed up the house.
No, that mustn’t happen, ever.
They left Sledgeford, and the bus ground along towards Massingham, but still no one spoke to Fran and no one sang with her, though she knew they rehearsed. She bit down hard on her lip and dared tears to form, concentrating instead on the itching of her body, which was worse. She couldn’t bear her mam to bind it with sphagnum moss, for that was when she tried to talk to Fran about loyalty towards someone working away. Of course the family had asked who had called, and she had explained it was Ralph, just checking up on her in Davey’s absence, and said how kind he’d been.
As the bus passed the Massingham pastures she cursed her da and Mr Bedley yet again. Had those two stupid men crept out at night, sacks over their shoulders, and grabbed and killed the poor wretched animal? Shame on them, bloody old fools. She cursed Stan for not understanding. He should, he was her brother, he should be able to read her mind and trust her. Ben too, and her mam most of all, and, of course, her marrers.
The worst had been yesterday when Amelia, carrying her clipboard, had whispered in the canteen: ‘Is it true what I’m hearing? Davey’s gone and you’re in the Massingham boy’s pocket? Well, and you thought I was snooty when you overheard that remark about factory girls. Not so smug now, are we? Because that Ralph won’t let you sing in a band, you know, or entertain troops, which leaves a place for me. That’s why I’m going to ask to rehearse with Beth and Sarah from next week. What do you think about that?’
Fran hadn’t answered, just felt a further stab in the heart as she watched the girl trot off down the corridor. Nor had Fran answered when Beryl came up behind her and said, ‘Having a go, was she? Well, Fran, what are you doing? What must your mam and da think? What if Davey hears about it? Ralph doesn’t want you – he’s just playing with Davey. He knows someone will tell the lad, and I wouldn’t put it past the whelp to tell him himself.’
Now, as the bus trundled along, she knew that at least he couldn’t do that, and she repeated that no one had his address, and for a moment her headache eased, but as they drove up towards Massingham her head was aching again because she hadn’t slept for days and all she wanted was some peace and the world as it had been before the war. Did you really know nothing if you died, or was there a kind God who understood and made it all better? Perhaps you just slept for ever?
They were passing St Oswald’s church. Its spire shone dark against the failing day. It was a beautiful church, outside and in, calm, peaceful and closer to God up there on the hill. Once it had been a beacon for the faithful across the area when darkness fell, but it was war now and no lights showed, though it still drew those who knew that Vicar Walters always kept it open.
Suddenly, she stood up. Yes, it was open, and it would be quiet and she could rest, at last. She walked down the aisle of the moving bus.
‘Fran?’ called Sarah.
She didn’t stop and as she passed the seats on which sat all those others she had thought of as her friends, they fell silent, then whispered together. But who could blame them? Once she was next to the driver’s seat, she said, ‘Please stop, Bert. I’m meeting someone.’
Bert grunted, and slowed. He knew about Ralph too. Perhaps he’d been one of the poachers, so it was his fault and all.
The bus stopped and she left, her head up and her exhaustion building as she kept on walking through the snow, which filled her boots and dragged at her. She couldn’t find the path beneath the snow, but what did it matter? She just had to head uphill. She leaned forward as the incline grew steeper. The wind covered the sound of the bus pulling away. She didn’t look back, just ploughed ahead, heading step by step for the darkness of the church, with its scent of used candles and the memories of past services and thousands of prayers said. She just wanted to sit and ‘be’.
The wind howled, and more snow came. She stared through the snow to the church, which came and went as the flurries gusted and died; on and on she plodded, her bag
with the empty bottles over one shoulder, her gas mask on the other. She just needed to let her body go, let her mind ease, and not have to pretend that she didn’t care that her life was swirling in and out and round everyone’s shock.
Her feet were so cold she couldn’t feel them, nor her hands. She pulled up her scarf, the one her mam had knitted, and she wanted to wrench it off, leave it in the snow, leave all thoughts of them. It. Leave it all. Her teeth were chattering, and at least she could feel that.
She was at the top, walking along the path that the vicar kept clear of weeds all summer, but which was now snow covered. Her itch seemed to grow worse now with every step, the pain of her mouth ulcers seemed sharper, her stomach hurt more. She didn’t know why it hurt all the time, perhaps it was the yellow? Her head thudded, but what did any of this matter? She passed snow-covered gravestones, looking to the left where little Betty rested, though with no headstone yet. One day they would have enough if they all kept their jobs, but if her da lost his, and the house, they would have to leave her behind. She’d be lonely because her mam couldn’t come to see her.
Fran stopped for a moment. She said, ‘I should come, our Betty, but it makes me cry.’ She walked on until she reached the porch and suddenly it was quiet. She tried to lift the latch but her hands were so cold that she couldn’t. She tried again, and then felt someone alongside her, then another person on her other side.
‘Meeting someone, my Aunt Fanny,’ said Beth.
‘Let’s get inside,’ said Sarah, ‘and get to the bliddy bottom of it all, in the quiet. We’ve all decided there’s something else going on.’
They had to shout against the weather. It was Beth who was finally able to open the door and they almost fell into the tiny church, which smelled of the huge candles that had burned for Morning Service. As the door slammed behind them, Beth and Sarah jumped, but Fran barely noticed as she walked to the altar, then the side table, her boots clumping on the stone floor, leaving impacted snow in her wake.
She used a taper to light a candle, and set it alongside the others. She’d give money when she was next here. The other two followed. Sarah stood behind her and whispered, ‘If the vicar came in now he’d think that angels had left their footprints, and his sister would tell him to pull himself together.’
The spell was broken. The other two walked around Fran and stood in front of the candles. Beth reached out and touched Fran’s cheek. ‘I always knew the lass was soft in the head, and she’s proved it, walking in this weather.’
Sarah laughed, then slid her arm through Fran’s and dragged her to the front pew and all three of them sat. Fran fixed her eyes on the window above the altar. She couldn’t see the colours of the stained glass, only the faint flickering of reflected light from the candles.
‘What’s going on, our Fran?’ Sarah finally asked. ‘We’ve had enough of not knowing, and more than enough of the gossip and the whispers, and much more than enough of you glowering through life, and us being horrid, so very, very horrid, to you. We’ve behaved badly – we all have.’
‘Not to mention Amelia talking of taking your place in our line-up, stupid cow,’ added Beth.
Deep sobs now wrenched Fran’s body. Sarah and Beth sat either side of her, patting her gently, Sarah whispering, ‘There, there. It’s not right when you’re like this.’
Beth murmured, ‘There bliddy there,’ and began crying too. ‘We’ve all been so mean, so upset but it was only when you went out into the snow that we all really talked. We none of us understands, and it’s made us angry, and scared, and worried, because you’ve always been so strong, so right.’
‘There, there,’ Sarah said again, and now she was crying as well. ‘Come on, tell us,’ she sobbed. ‘We’re not bliddy leaving without you, because we’re marrers, and we’ve got to sort it. And what’s more, you’re driving us to swearing in church, and Walters wouldn’t like it.’
Then suddenly they were laughing, all three of them, great gulping laughs as the wind battered the church and the crucifix shone. Fran told them then and they just sat and listened, and then sat some more. No one knew what to say, or what to do, except, as Sarah said, ‘Kick my bliddy father down the bliddy hill till his arse rings.’ Which was what Beth wanted to do to Ralph too.
‘We all ate the lamb,’ said Beth. ‘So you’re protecting us all, aren’t you, pet. So you’re still the strong one.’ It wasn’t a question and there was relief in her voice.
Meanwhile, the snow on their gloves and headscarves was thawing and water was pooling at their feet. ‘We should find a mop,’ said Fran.
Sarah pointed to the door of the little office. ‘Feel free.’
They laughed again, but it was only Fran who rose to find the mop, and only she who swabbed the floor, because the other two were deep in conversation. Fran wrung out the mop in the bucket, returned it, and then made her way back to them.
Sarah stood up, and together they all walked out into the cold again. They stood in the porch staring at the snow, and glimpsed the slit headlights of the bus down the hill. ‘They’re waiting for us. You didn’t think any of us’d let you just disappear? Meeting someone, you said. We knew better, but you didn’t tell us, and you should have done. We’re your marrers, and they’re your friends.’
Fran shook her head. ‘I couldn’t for his da must never hear and the more who know, the more the secret can be broken.’
Before Beth led the way out into the face of the storm, she said, ‘We’ll sort it all together, Fran, just us women, because the blokes will do something right crazy. But I could still bliddy knock ’em poachers on the head, daft buggers. We’ll have to box clever with the whelp, and we can do that. Aye, we can indeed.’
They headed for the path, but Fran stopped. ‘I need to see Betty.’
The other two followed as Fran led the way, making fresh footprints in the untouched snow. She headed for the yew tree on the edge of the cemetery and checked for her great-grandmother’s headstone, knowing that they had buried Betty to the right of her. Her da said they could have slipped her into Mrs Henson’s coffin to be buried with her, unmarked, as her son had offered, for then it would have cost nothing, but this was their lass and Grandmother Nancy would take care of her.
They had finished paying off the funeral within six months, for her da had made, and carried the coffin himself, and dug the grave too. Fran stopped by her sister’s resting place and whispered, ‘You’ll have your headstone, bonny lass. We’re putting money aside, and it will be done, and I’ll come again next month. I wish I’d come before, but I couldn’t bear it. Sleep well, little hinny.’
They slipped and slid down the hill, then clambered back on the bus.
‘Girl trouble,’ Sarah said to Bert.
Beth muttered, ‘Not for your ears, bonny lad.’
‘Grateful for small mercies, I am,’ said Bert, his cut almost healed, just as Fran’s broken nose was.
As they walked down the length of the bus, the women rose and followed them. Bert drove slowly to Massingham. The truth came out, and as all her friends squeezed or patted Fran’s hand, they whispered and came up with a plan. They would always be there as support, and she would never be alone with the whelp, but nothing would be said until somehow someone came up with a way out of this hole.
All of them wanted to kick the arses of the men who had poached the sheep, because they would rather have gone hungry, but they still loved them for it, and it was only Ralph they couldn’t forgive. ‘He’s a right bastard,’ Mrs Oborne said, then added, ‘But aye, you’re right, we can know but not the rest of the cooperative, or the parents or relatives, for they might do something stupid.’
‘We must just soldier on,’ said Maisie, ‘and we’ll be there, Fran, every step of the way. You are not alone.’
That night Fran slept for the first time in days, because the anger and fear had seeped away.
In Sledgeford, Amelia was writing to Davey. She would send it to his mother, who would know where to
forward it.
Mrs Bedley sat by the range, reading Davey’s letter, in which he’d sent the P.O. Box address, which would find him. He’d send the same, he said, to Fran of course. Mrs Bedley smiled. ‘Of course,’ she murmured.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Davey sat in the dining room of his digs a few days later, staring out at the bairns – evacuees and village children – who were walking to school. He smiled to himself, for the school operated a shift system like the pit, but then homesickness swept over him.
Two years ago, he couldn’t have imagined any of the scenarios he was now a part of: handing a ration card over to a landlady, making do with a small bit of bacon if he was lucky. Home-grown vegetables if you were fortunate, and heaven help you if not. And what about the lodgers being given a vote on when to have fresh tea leaves, and when to make do with reused? He stared down at the dregs. Some tea leaves had escaped the tea strainer and remained stranded in a broken line leading to the handle. What did that mean? Was it perhaps that he’d travel, because coming down here had been a bit of a leg, and going back would be too, but it was what he wanted more than heaven itself.
He grinned across the table at Daniel, who, it transpired, was his room mate. They didn’t usually have time to sit and ponder over breakfast. Daniel had folded The Times newspaper and was reading the editorial. Daniel knew everything because he had the memory of an elephant – once seen, never forgotten.
Daniel looked up from the newspaper. ‘What?’
‘Aye, lad, while you’re sorting out the problems of the world, I’m looking at me tea leaves. That says it all, doesn’t it? The brainbox and the want-to-be brainbox.’
Daniel reached out, taking the cup while Davey finished his toast, dry because it was a non-butter or -margarine day. ‘Ah,’ he said, handing it back.
It was Davey’s turn to say ‘What?’ A crumb escaped from his mouth onto his plate.
‘Serves you right for speaking with your mouth full,’ Daniel said.
