The Stanford Lasses

by Glenice Crossland

  Olive wasn’t much the worse for her ordeal. The family seemed to be more upset by the incident than Olive herself. But then, Olive didn’t have time to feel sorry for herself. She had a new job to think about. Billy was relieved that she wouldn’t be at the cottage so much when she began at the hospital. He would never have had peace of mind otherwise. He did wonder, though, if she might let him keep his eye on the place for her. He and Joan, of course. It was cold in winter, standing out on the river bank for a goodnight kiss. There was a nice, comfortable couch in there, and even a bed. But no, Joan was a nice girl and he loved her so he wouldn’t think about beds. He would offer to look after the cottage anyway, and the first thing Olive must do was stop leaving the key handy for the likes of rapists and thieves.

  For Alice, Christmas really was the best one ever. The adoption of Brian and Jennifer had been straightforward and the children would soon legally belong to the Jacksons. Alice might have been less exuberant had she known of Joseph’s plans for the new year. Joseph was a good worker and at the turnover of the department to the manufacture of Bren guns he was certainly in an essential occupation. However, rather than inspecting them, Joseph wanted to be firing them. He knew that he could safely break the news to Alice now she had the little ones to take his place. A new brother and sister had their uses, after all.

  The family gathering was to take place at Alice’s this year and though Emily protested she was actually relieved not to have to do the organising. After all, she and Isaac were not getting any younger, though they were both loath to admit it. The poultry, as usual, was supplied by Martha, and though the Christmas pudding was more carrot than fruit it was doubtful if any other family in Cottenly enjoyed better fare. Afterwards Jenny asked if she could play the piano. Alice said she was a born pianist.

  ‘Shall I play some carols?’ Jennifer asked.

  ‘No.’ said Alice. ‘Play something more cheerful.’ Joe spluttered in his drink and Alice wondered why everyone was laughing, then she joined in the laughter, happier than she had ever thought it possible to be.

  On Christmas morning the farm as usual was like a madhouse. Presents were opened and admired and Jack was surprised when Frankie and Sadie gave him a present, something tiny wrapped up in brown paper.

  ‘That’s for you, for being such a nice dad.’ Sadie blushed as she handed it over.

  ‘We didn’t buy it, though,’ Frankie added. ‘We found it.’

  Jack opened the roughly wrapped package to find a cigarette lighter.

  ‘I’ve polished it up,’ said Sadie. ‘And it’s got a pattern on.’

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly made it shine,’ Jack said. And no wonder, he thought. The lighter was solid gold, and the pattern was a pair of initials, HH. ‘Where did you find it, love?’

  ‘In the Dutch barn,’ Frankie said proudly.

  ‘Hmm. Well, it’s lovely. Thank you very much.’ Jack gave each of the twins a hug, his mind in a turmoil. As far as he knew, nobody at the farm smoked except old Sam, and he had never bothered with a lighter. He would never have smoked in the barn anyway. He would discuss it with Ruth later, but perhaps he should pay another visit to the police station. Of course there were the land girls, he would ask Billy about them, but neither of them had names beginning with H, and he doubted if they would own a gold lighter anyway.

  It was almost midnight before he had the chance to mention his suspicion to Ruth. Ruth pondered on the subject for a while, sure in her mind that the lighter and the fire were connected. It was when she awoke in the early hours that the initials began to register and the puzzle was solved. She began to shake. Sam had described the man as fat, well dressed and not young. She shook Jack awake.

  ‘Jack,’ she whispered, ‘I know who fired the barn.’

  ‘What?’ Jack was instantly awake. ‘Who?’

  ‘Hubert Hancock.’

  ‘Who’s Hubert Hancock?’

  ‘Councillor Hancock, manager of the wire mill.’

  ‘A manager? Why would a manager want to do such a thing?’

  Ruth couldn’t control the tremor. All the terror of the days after Walter’s death returned, the house in Wire Mill Place, the sight of Hubert Hancock sitting in the chair, his eyes undressing her as she fought to avoid his hands. Oh, why hadn’t she confided in Jack at the time? It was so much worse now, to try to explain. ‘Because he fancied me and I spurned him. Ask Winnie Armitage, she’ll tell you.’ Ruth told the whole story, right from the day she went to his office. Jack reached out and took her hand and she wondered again why she hadn’t told him at the time. It could have saved the barn from being fired.

  ‘Aye, well, it seems you might be reight,’ Jack said. ‘We’ll go see Reynolds first thing.’

  ‘But it’s Boxing Day.’

  ‘Oh, aye. We’ll give the man a break. We’ll go the day after.’

  Ruth suddenly jumped up in bed. ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. ‘Our Olive. It was him who broke into the cottage, who laid his filthy hands on her.’

  ‘Here, hold on, we don’t know that.’

  ‘We do. I do – it’s just the way he is. I’ll bet my life on its being him.’

  ‘Well, we can’t do anything about it just now. Try to get a couple of hours’ sleep.’ They both knew they wouldn’t sleep until Hubert Hancock was behind bars, but Ruth snuggled down into her husband’s warm embrace. Here at least she knew she was safe.

  Sergeant Reynolds experienced immense satisfaction on arresting Hubert Hancock on suspicion of arson and attempted rape. The thought of little Olive – as he always thought of her – being mauled by that jumped-up, pompous prick made his blood boil. Especially as it took place in Old Mother Buttercup’s place. Sergeant Reynolds had always had the greatest respect for Old Mother and little Olive had been like a daughter to her. On the other hand Hancock had been a thorn in his side ever since he married Sophie. If the truth were known Reynolds had fancied Sophie himself and had heard of the life she endured at the hands of that vain, arrogant creature.

  On the day Sergeant Reynolds arrested her husband Sophie packed her bags. She would always have a home with her unmarried sister in their late parents’ house. In fact she could just hear her now, saying, ‘We all told you so.’

  Hubert was in the office when they came for him. He wasn’t too worried when his secretary showed them in. Nobody had any evidence and even if the girl suspected, who would believe a mill girl against a public figure? However, his fat, flabby mouth dropped open when Reynolds spoke. ‘Hubert Hancock, I am arresting you on suspicion of arson, breaking and entering and attempted rape.’

  Reynolds knew the man was guilty even before the fingerprints proved to be those of the charged. His face gave him away the moment the lighter was produced. Reynolds stared at the man with distaste. For one thing, he was a Conservative and Reynolds had leanings to the left. Well, he wouldn’t be anything for much longer, neither councillor, public figure nor manager of the works. Nobody would give a position of importance to a man who had done time.

  George Crossman began work in Joe’s office the following Monday, and proved to be as competent as the next man, and though he mentioned it to no one he thought he noticed pins and needles in his wounded arm, surely a sign of better things to come.

  Joseph was the next member of the family to go to war. By this time Alice – though still on medication – seemed to be almost recovered and surprised her son by holding him close and planting a warm kiss on his cheek as they waited for the train. ‘Come home safely, son,’ she whispered, ‘and remember we love you.’

  There was no embarrassment between mother and son. Both had decided during Alice’s illness that feelings must be expressed, particularly in wartime when boys going away never knew if they would return. Joseph did return, along with Billy, who had followed his cousin into the army as soon as he could. Fortunately, the war was almost over by that time, and both came back unscathed: Joseph to return to the mill, this time to a position in the motor room, and eventua
lly to become the proud owner of a gleaming BSA motor bike.

  Billy had always loved the farm, but never realised quite how much until he went away. The day he returned for good he walked across the field and stood by the stile. He breathed in the odours of the land and cast his eyes down towards Cottenly and over in the direction of Warrentickle. His eyes followed the river towards the town and over the rooftops of Wire Mill Place. For the first time since it happened he allowed himself to think back to the night of his father’s death. Always before he had closed his mind to the nightmare incident; now he found he could recall it in perfect detail. The beating of his mother and brother. The fear on his little sister’s face. The hatred he had felt for his father as he plunged the knife into the flesh of his arm. He acknowledged the guilt he had been aware of deep down inside. Guilt that he had never mourned the drowning of his father, never felt grief at his passing. Now he could remember without regret. It was the men who would never come home at all, good men, brave men, who were the ones to be mourned. Billy put the thought of Walter Wray out of his mind once and for all. He couldn’t think of him as a father, just a cowardly bully, not worthy of a lost night’s sleep.

  Billy jumped the stile and went towards the house, to his mother, to Frankie and his sisters and the man who was in every sense his father. The old dog sensed his approach and lolloped towards him. Billy hurried across the land he loved and was to work on for the rest of his days. By his side would be Joan Sanderson, who had remained a good girl for the duration of the war.

  He heard the commotion in the kitchen as Grandma Dolan shooed a huge red rooster from off the table. Oh, it was good to be home.

  Everyone in Cottenly turned out to celebrate VE Day. Even the poor souls whose loved ones had failed to return from the war decided that an end to the atrocities called for some kind of celebration, if only for the sake of the children. Jack had delivered a cartload of tree branches to the Twenty Row so that a bonfire could be erected, adding to the string of fires which were to light up the countryside for the first time in years. He had thrown in a sack of potatoes so that the little ones could have potatoes roasted in their jackets: God knows little else was available for the large, impoverished families. Jack, however, had underestimated the residents of the Twenty Row and the surrounding streets. A battered old piano was already in pride of place outside one of the houses, and bunting was hanging from each of the bedroom windows across to the outside lavatories. Tables were already covered with white – if threadbare – linen and whatever rations anyone could spare had been pooled to make some kind of party. The bonfire supplied by Jack would be the crowning glory for kiddies and grown-ups alike.

  ‘You’re a bloody angel, Jack Dolan. These ’ere taties’ll go down a treat,’ Jack was told. ‘There’ll be no livelier party this side of Sheffield, once we get a good owd-fashioned knees-up going.’ Jack almost wished he was staying to join them but Isaac had already decided that this night would be something his grandchildren would remember long after he had shuffled off to the next world. A crate of Nut Brown had been delivered to the Stanfords’, along with pop and crisps for the youngsters and port for the ladies.

  ‘You’re turning into a right old boozer,’ Emily chided Isaac good-naturedly.

  ‘Nay, lass, if I can’t celebrate all the lads coming home safely, I reckon it’s a sad day.’ Isaac smiled. ‘I reckon we’re fortunate, thee and me, lass.’

  It was much later when Tom Baraclough returned, having spent time as a prisoner of war. He came back only half the man who had gone away, but Olive with her potions and witchcraft soon helped him back to his former state of health. Olive remained at the Royal Hospital until she and Tom were married and settled in Buttercup Cottage, where little David George was born. Lizzie was on cloud seven when she held her grandson in her arms for the first time. ‘He’s beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’ Olive straightened her son’s bib. ‘He’s going to be a clever one, this one, just mark my words.’ Lizzie’s face paled. ‘What? What have I said?’

  ‘The very words Old Mother said about Harry.’

  ‘Well, she turned out to be right. Our Harry is a clever one.’

  ‘I know. It was just uncanny, the way you quoted her very words.’

  ‘It’s always happening.’ Olive frowned. ‘It’s as though her thoughts are here in my head, like she’s thinking for me. In fact according to Grandma Burlington I’m ready to set up stall in Castle Market. She told me in a dream. Tom thinks I’m daft but it’s true. Do you think I’m stupid, Mam?’

  Lizzie cuddled little David closer. ‘Who am I to say? I only know she had the gift when she was alive; none of us can speak for the dead. I know one thing, though: if Old Mother’s guiding you, it’ll be in the right direction.’

  ‘So you think I should take on the market stall?’

  ‘Well, it was always your intention, but it’ll be hard work. And what about David? I’ll help out but he’s going to need his mum. And what about Tom?’

  ‘Tom’s all for it, and I wouldn’t be standing the market. I thought perhaps Bessie would run the stall for me. She’s always shown an interest in my work and she’s outgoing enough to enjoy serving the customers. I could prepare the stock at home and look after David. What do you think?’

  Lizzie laughed. ‘Don’t ask me. If Old Mother says so, then go ahead.’

  Olive did go ahead and eventually, guided by Grandma Burlington – or so she said – invested some of her inheritance in her own health and beauty store, not in the market but right in the heart of the shopping centre in the city, where she employed Bessie, Sadie and Mary – who had outgrown her frailty and was turning into another beauty. Olive’s herbal creams and remedies became quite famous, especially the Blue Burlington perfume. Buttercup Cottage was eventually extended, but not until after daughter Rose came on the scene, just as beautiful and bewitching as her mother.

  Wing Commander Harry Crossman suffered nothing worse than a burst eardrum. Beneath the surface, though, was another matter. The sight and sound of his friends and comrades flying to their destruction would live for ever in his memory. Harry told no one of the horrors but vowed to take his grandfather’s advice and work towards a position where he would do all in his power to prevent another war.

  Jennifer Smith remembered her promise and married Jimmy Crossman. Together they ran the Mobile Music business, entertaining at functions, weddings and parties, travelling the length and breadth of the county until Jimmy was offered a residential position in one of Sheffield’s top night spots. With his quick wit and ready patter he was probably one of the city’s most popular DJs. However, he never lost his love of classical music, inherited from his beloved Grandad Crossman.

  Ernest Edward followed his father into the tyre mill, looking forward to promotion now that Uncle Joe had been given the job made vacant by Hubert Hancock, who would be seeking other employment in a few years’ time.

  Sergeant Reynolds knew that divorces were long, drawn-out affairs but he was a patient man. In the meantime Winnie Armitage was keeping him informed regarding Sophie’s health.

  Jack Dolan and Billy made a good team as they worked their beloved land. The farm continued to flourish and Frankie expanded the haulage side. According to Frankie, he had always wanted to be a rag and bone man, but then, he had his second dad as a prime example.

  Brian Smith became a bus driver and cringed every time he did the Cottenly run, expecting at any moment a boulder to come tumbling down and in through the windscreen, or a ghost to put in an appearance on dark, moonless nights.

  Isaac Stanford passed away peacefully in 1955, surrounded by Emily and his three lovely lasses. At the foot of the bed stood his eldest grandson, Harry Crossman, newly elected Labour MP for Cottenly and Warrentickle.

  Isaac died a proud and contented man.

 

 

&nb
sp;