Jimmy Crossman didn’t go out looking for trouble, it just seemed to find him, and however hard he tried nothing seemed to turn out the way he intended it to. Besides, he wasn’t expected to do anything right, and if he did nobody would notice. Harry had always been the clever one. Olive was known throughout Cottenly as the beauty of the family. Bessie was forever being praised by Grandma Stanford for the way she could turn her hand to the household chores. As for Mary, everyone made a fuss of her; even Jimmy loved and cosseted her as he would a lovable kitten. Ernest Edward was too independent to care what anyone thought, involved in the Cubs and the Joy Hour. But Jimmy cared. If only somebody, just once, would notice something good about him, but nobody noticed him at all, except when he was in trouble.
Nobody except Grandad Crossman, that is. Grandad Crossman actually enjoyed Jimmy’s Saturday afternoon visits to Warrentickle. He would take him into the front room with the aspidistra in the window and the Margaret Tarrant pictures on the wall, one – called the Wind’s Song – on which a boy was said by Grandma Crossman to look exactly like Jimmy. There, in the warm cosiness, Grandad Crossman would let Jimmy wind up the gramophone and put on the records. Grandad had the largest record collection in Warrentickle and had started providing music for local events such as carnivals, socials and weddings. His collection included everything from Gracie Fields and Kathleen Ferrier to the very latest dance music. Jimmy and his grandfather would sit enthralled and Jimmy would keep the gramophone wound and the needle compartment full. Grandad Crossman would always give Jimmy a bag of Jap Desserts and for a time he would feel noticed and important instead of the runt of the family. Between them they would sort out the records ready for Saturday evenings when most of the social events seemed to take place.
However, this was not Saturday afternoon but Saturday morning, and Jimmy had once again landed himself in trouble, and in his opinion very serious trouble. It had all begun when he called for Brian, whom Auntie Alice had said he could take for a walk. They had set off to the very top of Queen Victoria Street and out on to the moor. Brian had never been to this particular spot, which was a favourite playground for Cottenly’s youngsters.
‘I’ll take you to Dragon’s Cave,’ Jimmy promised his newly acquired cousin.
‘Is there a dragon in there, then?’ asked Brian, uncertain if he had the courage to go inside or not. The vastness of the open countryside after the closed-in security of London’s East End was somewhat unnerving to the small boy.
‘There used to be,’ Jimmy answered, ‘but I expect it died long since.’
Brian decided he wouldn’t take any chances and turned back from the entrance to the dark, damp hole, which was surrounded by masses of grey rocks. Instead he climbed up the steep crags until he was high above the cave and could look down over the valley and the main road winding alongside the river, connecting the city of Sheffield to Cottenly. Jimmy followed Brian and together they perched on the edge of a rock.
‘There’s a ghost up ’ere,’ he said, determined to prove to the Londoner how brave he was.
‘How do you know? Have yer seen it, then?’
‘Oh, aye. Many a time.’
Brian looked around him uncomfortably. The silence seemed eerie and unnatural. The rock struck cold through his short grey trousers, and his legs were blood red in the cold, damp, November air. ‘I’m cold,’ he said. ‘Let’s be going.’
Jimmy picked up a stone and rolled it down the hillside, and it reached the river with a splash. ‘I’m not cold. It’s because you’re from London, not used to the country.’ He sent another piece of rock rolling down to the bottom.
‘You missed that time.’ Brian picked up a stone and copied Jimmy. Down the rocks clattered, some of them rolling off course and stopping short of the water, others losing themselves amongst the bracken.
Showing off, Jimmy rolled a small boulder to the edge. ‘I bet this goes further than yours.’ He pushed the boulder over the edge and watched it gather speed as it descended. Brian saw the Sheffield bus come round the corner just as the boulder hit a ledge of rock and bounced across the river, right into the window of the double decker.
‘You’ve smashed the winder, Jimmy,’ Brian informed him unnecessarily. Jimmy’s face was a sickly white. ‘I’ll bet you’ve killed somebody. Now you’re for it.’
‘’Ave I ’eck.’ Jimmy cowered back so that he couldn’t be seen by the driver of the now stationary vehicle.
‘I fink we’d better get lost,’ Brian said. ‘If ’e comes up ’ere and finds us we might get ’ung for murder.’
‘Shut up. Don’t talk daft. The windows are covered with netting in case of being bombed, so I can’t ’ave killed anybody.’ Jimmy tried to sound brave but he was already hurrying along the path. ‘Anyway, we’d better be off. I’m cold,’ he said. Brian ran on in front. ‘Not that way.’ Jimmy cut through the bracken and over a dry stone wall. ‘We’ll take a short cut across the fields to Auntie Ruth’s, then nobody’ll see us. Nobody’ll know we’ve been up ’ere at all. That’s unless you tell ’em.’
‘I won’t tell, honest, Jimmy.’ The small boy liked his new friend, who stuck up for him when the kids at school called him names such as Carrots, Vaccy and Townie.
They hurried on in silence until they came to the lane leading to Dolan’s Farm. They climbed the stile and cut across the field. It was only as they reached the yard that Jimmy asked, ‘Do you think it’ll be in the papers?’
‘Probably,’ Brian comforted him. ‘Especially if anyone’s got veir ’ead bashed in.’
Ruth gave the youngsters a couple of slices of bread and dripping and a pot of tea. It was a surprise to see Jimmy, who didn’t come very often. ‘You look half frozen, the pair of you.’ Jimmy’s face was ashen, and his aunt wondered if he’d been up to something. He usually had. Ruth had a particularly soft spot for her nephew, who didn’t seem to be able to keep out of mischief, but was in her opinion the most lovable of Lizzie’s bunch. She always wanted to take him in her arms and give him a cuddle, something she guessed the family were short of these days. She frowned as she worried about Lizzie’s condition. She would persuade her to see a doctor after the weekend. ‘Well, what have you two rascals been up to then?’
Jimmy looked alarmed. ‘Nothing, Auntie Ruth, honest, have we, Brian? We just came for a walk, to see you, that’s all.’ The look on his face confirmed Ruth’s suspicions.
‘Yes, well, sit up to the fire and have a warm.’ No doubt she would hear about their adventures sooner or later. ‘How’s your mam today?’ she asked.
‘Don’t know,’ Jimmy answered. ‘She doesn’t say anything, just sits there all day, waiting for the postman. Miserable as sin, she is.’
‘You must make allowances, love. She misses your dad.’
‘I know, but she’s not the only one, Auntie Ruth. I miss me dad an’ all.’ Jimmy looked down at the pegged rag rug he was sitting on, unwilling to betray the emotion and the tears which threatened.
‘I know, love, but he’ll be back soon, you’ll see.’ Ruth longed to take her nephew in her arms and hug him close, but knew he would be horrified with Brian there as a witness. She must talk to Lizzie, get her to pay more attention to her children, especially Jimmy, who really needed a father to keep him disciplined.
‘I miss my dad as well,’ said Brian. ‘But I’ve got my Uncle Joe.’
Bessie Crossman hated Saturdays. She couldn’t help comparing them with the Saturdays before her father had gone away. Then Saturday had been her favourite day. A walk with Grandad Stanford to Miss Fiddler’s sweetshop in the morning. Playing out in the afternoon, either with the long skipping rope down on the green, or hopscotch in her best friend’s backyard. And then the first house pictures after tea. Now it was the most miserable day of the week, especially as Olive had to work Saturday mornings and her mother didn’t do anything except sit staring into space. Bessie took the pegged rug outside and shook it, ashamed of the dust which pothered out of it, a sign that it hadn
’t been taken up for a full week. She swept the lino and washed it before replacing the rug.
‘Give me a lift with the table, Mam.’ She stood waiting, hands poised under the edge of the large, heavy board, but Lizzie didn’t respond. ‘Mam, I can’t lift it on my own.’
Lizzie seemed to come to life slightly. ‘Oh, leave it for this week. It isn’t dirty.’
‘Yes it is. If you won’t help me I’ll get Mrs Palmer.’ Bessie knew the mention of Mrs Palmer would rankle. It had long been a contest between her mam and the next door neighbour as to who could complete their household duties in the shortest time. Lizzie prised herself from the chair and took hold of the table at the other side. They lifted it on to the clean half of the floor and then Bessie set to work on the remainder of the room. After the table was replaced the young girl got out the mansion polish and started on the furniture. She hoped her grandparents wouldn’t arrive until she’d finished, then she could go with Isaac when he took Mary and Ernest Edward for their Saturday sweets. She wondered where Jimmy had disappeared to. No doubt he would be back in time; he wasn’t likely to miss his treat. ‘What are we having for our dinners, Mam?’
‘I’m not bothered. You’ll find something,’ Lizzie said.
Bessie sighed and went to the cellar head to bring out the potato basket and a couple of onions. Thank goodness for Auntie Ruth, who kept the family supplied with fresh vegetables. Bessie decided on fried potatoes and onions, seeing as there wasn’t much else, and was peeling the vegetables when her grandparents arrived.
‘Now now, what’s all this crying about?’ Isaac pretended to be concerned.
‘I’m not crying.’ Bessie giggled. ‘It’s the onions.’
‘And how’s yer mam this morning?’
Bessie shrugged and filled the kettle. Emily frowned and removed her coat. ‘Well, Lizzie, aren’t you going to make us a cup of tea?’
Lizzie patted her escaping hair back into its pins. ‘Our Bessie’ll make it, won’t you, love?’
Isaac guessed the agony his daughter was suffering, but knew it was time she pulled herself together. He had never been one to sympathise with self-pity. ‘It seems to me that our Bessie’s busy enough without having to make tea for the likes of us.’
‘It’s all right.’ Bessie began to set out the cups and saucers.
‘No, love, sit thiself down, have five minutes. Thi mam’ll do it.’
‘My mam’s not well,’ Bessie said.
‘Oh?’ Emily poured the boiling water into the pot. ‘What’s the matter, Lizzie? If you aren’t well, we’d better send for Dr Swinbourne.’
Lizzie glanced sharply at her mother and flushed. ‘No, I don’t need the doctor.’
‘Then why aren’t tha seeing to the dinner, lass?’ Isaac asked gently. ‘It seems to me you’re putting on our Bessie. She’s only a child, Lizzie. I don’t think thar being fair.’
Emily hated confrontations and attempted to change the subject. ‘Where’s your brothers and sisters, love?’ she enquired of Bessie.
‘Our Olive’s working, our Harry’s gone to a meeting and our Mary’s over at Auntie Alice’s. She’s always over there now – her and Jennifer’s as thick as thieves.’
‘And where’s our Jimmy and Ernest Edward?’ Isaac asked. ‘Don’t tell me – I expect our Ernest’s playing on the green and the Lord knows where our Jimmy’s gotten to.’ He grinned. ‘I expect they’ll come rushing in in time for their spending money.’ He turned his attention back to his daughter. ‘What are you doing today then, Lizzie?’ Lizzie stared blankly back at her father.
‘She never does anything,’ Bessie stated matter-of-factly.
‘Well, then it’s time she started doing something,’ Isaac said. ‘Get thi coat on, Lizzie. Tha can come down to the shops with us.’
‘Our Bessie’ll do the shopping.’
‘No, she won’t. Our Bessie’s done enough for today. She can go out to play, it’ll do the lass good.’
Bessie’s face lit up and then clouded again at the look of panic on her mother’s face. ‘I can’t go out. I don’t go out any more. I have to look after me mam.’
‘Well, it’s time you did go out, and thi mother too. Get thi mam’s coat, love.’
‘No, I can’t.’ Lizzie shrank back in the chair. ‘George might come home. I’ve got to be here when he comes home.’
‘When George comes home he’ll wait if you’re not here.’ Emily looked perplexed as her daughter began to sob. ‘It’s all right, Lizzie, don’t upset yerself. You needn’t go if you don’t wish to.’
Isaac glared at his wife. ‘Damn it, Emily, you’re not doing the lass any good at all. She needs pulling out of this’ – he struggled for the right word – ‘this melancholy.’
‘But it won’t do any good upsetting her further, Isaac.’
‘No, and it won’t do her any good sitting there feeling sorry for herself. Get thi coat on, Lizzie. We’ll go visit our Alice.’
‘I ought not to.’
‘Rubbish,’ Isaac stated firmly. ‘When George comes home what do you think he’s going to do? Go away again if you don’t happen to be sitting here all idle, on thi backside? And another thing, tha looks a sight. What’s George going to think of thee, getting into a rut like that?’
‘Isaac!’ Emily chided him, but he carried on.
‘It’s time tha considered others a bit, Lizzie. Why, I feel right ashamed of thee, lass, though I never thought I’d say so to my own daughter.’ Lizzie’s face turned a deep beetroot colour. ‘It makes me wonder where the country would be if all our womenfolk sat on their backsides feeling sorry for themselves. Why, even thi mother, at her age, is doing her bit towards the war effort.’
‘I’ve enough to do at home with six children.’
‘Enough to do? Thar doing nowt so far as I can see. Letting the lads wander off without knowing where they are. No, lass, I’ll not listen to any of thi excuses. It’s time tha showed willing.’
Bessie stood open-mouthed, eyes streaming from the onions. Never before had she heard Grandad Stanford raise his voice to anyone. Lizzie suddenly burst into tears again, deep, heartrending sobs escaping her.
‘Now look what you’ve done.’ Emily snapped.
‘Aye, I know. Exactly what I set out to do,’ Isaac said. ‘She’s been wrapped up in hersen too long. I’ll bet she’s never let open the floodgates since the day George left. She’ll come round now it’s all let out.’ He looked at his granddaughter. ‘Put on thi coat, Bessie love, and go out to play.’
‘I’ll just put the taties and onions in the oven first.’
‘Right, then thi mother’ll see to ’em when we get back. Here, take yer spending money. Don’t tell the others, but I’ve given thee a bit extra this week. I reckon tha’s earned it.’
Bessie’s eyes shone as she pocketed the money and hurried into her coat. Grandad Stanford placed piles of pennies on the dresser. He never failed to give them all a bit to spend, even the grandchildren who were working. Mostly it would go towards an evening at the pictures, or in Joseph’s case into his motor bike fund. The evacuees were treated in exactly the same manner. Isaac realised the pair had brightened up Alice’s life and reckoned they were worth the few coppers he doled out on Saturday mornings. Emily’s thoughts were travelling on the same lines, except that she couldn’t help comparing Alice’s exuberance to Lizzie’s dejection. No one would have believed that over the years her daughters could have changed personalities so completely. Emily cursed the war that had robbed Lizzie of the husband she so idolised, then cursed herself for giving in to the fear that George Crossman was never to return. If she herself had lost faith no wonder Lizzie was at such a low ebb.
‘Come on, lass.’ Isaac’s words broke into her thoughts. ‘Comb thi hair and take off thi apron. If George comes marching up the road, we don’t want him marching back down again at the sight of thee.’ He handed Lizzie a comb and gently wiped the tears from his daughter’s cheeks. She was still sobbing deep inside whe
n he led her through the door, which Emily locked behind them, dropping the large, heavy key on its string through the letter box, in wait for the first one home.
The first one home was Jimmy, who was amazed but delighted to find the house deserted. Not that his mother would question him about his whereabouts, but their Bessie was a nosy parker and would probably notice how uncomfortable he seemed. He warmed his hands in front of the fire until he developed hot aches and had to shake them until the pain disappeared. Then he noticed the piles of pennies and cheered up as he considered what to spend Grandad Stanford’s money on this week. He decided not to go to Miss Fiddler’s today. If someone had been killed on the double decker he would rather keep away from the area near the bus terminus. Besides, he would be having his usual bag of Jap Desserts from Grandad Crossman later, and somehow he didn’t feel much like eating this morning.
Two days later a small article in the local paper reported an incident which had taken place on the previous Saturday on the Sheffield to Cottenly bus. It was only by a stroke of luck that the windows had been protected. Otherwise, with a bus full of Saturday morning passengers, someone was bound to have been seriously injured. As it was, only two people had suffered slight lacerations. The police were appealing for any witnesses to come forward. Jack read out the report to Ruth at the breakfast table. ‘Probably loose rocks,’ he said. ‘Or the ghost chucking them down,’ he added laughingly. Ruth laughed with him, but she couldn’t quite dismiss Jimmy’s scared, white face from her mind. She hoped it didn’t mean extra worry for Lizzie. She doubted her sister could cope with much more.
The Stanford Lasses Page 24
