St Catherine’s was packed to capacity. Nowhere near as large as the Protestant church which dominated the main street, St Catherine’s was situated halfway up the hill. Theresa’s large and friendly family accepted Mary into their midst and made her promise to stay to lunch next time. Mary felt at home immediately in the church, though she left feeling more sinful than ever, having shirked confessing what she privately thought of as the Christmas sin.
Dr Roberts had a brainwave on the way home. ‘You can learn to drive the car and then I can lend it to you on a Sunday. That way you won’t be so tied, and what’s more you can go into Sheffield with Gladys on a Saturday. She needs to get out more and I must confess I’m really not up to town driving.’
‘You’re surely not serious?’ said Mary. ‘Why, I don’t know one end of a motor from the other. We’re likely to end up in the reservoir with me behind the wheel.’
‘If the girls at the ambulance station can drive then so can you. I’m sure you’ve more brains than the giggly lot of them put together, and they’ve taken to the wheel as though they were born to it.’
‘I wouldn’t dare.’
‘Well, we’ll see. You can have a go after dinner.’
Mary couldn’t help feeling excited. Tom had once suggested letting her take the wheel but it hadn’t seemed right without the doctor’s permission. The image of Tom warmed her heart and as always when she thought of him she prayed that he was safe. She suddenly realised that her job had diverted her mind from the desolation and doom that had occupied it after Tom’s departure, and she was thinking about the future more positively. Suddenly she felt fulfilled. She was doing a worthwhile job, even if it was only cutting steel strips to make cartridge clips.
Mary made up her mind she would learn to drive. After all, how many girls were given a chance like that, especially in wartime? Besides, it would provide a way of paying back the doctor for everything. She knew how much he hated driving, so now she could take them out at weekends. That was one thing about being a doctor: he was allowed a fair amount of petrol. Another incentive was the thought of Tom’s face when she picked him up at the station in the car. She would wear her pink satin on that occasion.
Oh, it had done her good to go to church again, even though she hadn’t confessed her Christmas sin.
Chapter Eight
Robert Scott crumpled up yet another sheet of paper and gave a deep sigh. How the hell was he expected to write a letter of such importance when he was in this state of physical and mental exhaustion?
He had thought the horror was over once he was picked up on the boat. How bloody wrong could a man be? That had just been the beginning of the nightmare.
The nights were the worst: the cold sweats, the trembling, the palpitations and the churning pain in the region of the solar plexus. Worst of all the constant reliving of the train of events from the time Tom and he had arrived at Cherbourg. The first week hadn’t been too bad; in fact the only thing to spoil the peace of the farm buildings they had taken residence in had been the bloody church clock which had struck every quarter-hour day and night. They had laughed then and sung. That was before they moved to Armentiers. It was there that all hell broke loose; things happened so fast then that they hadn’t known where they were. He picked up the pen once more.
Darlington, June 1940. Dear Mr Downing ... He paused, head in hands, unable to go on. How the hell could he be expected to write such a letter? They should never have made each other such a promise. Yet he knew if the boot had been on the other foot Tom would have kept his word and written to Robert’s parents.
He would make it easy for them, distort the truth; in fact it would have to be a bloody great barefaced lie. He began to tremble as another panic attack began.
He covered his ears as he heard once again the sound of Messerschmitts above him, and saw again in his mind’s eye the Hurricane as it came down at what must have been about three hundred miles an hour. He smelled again the blood of the young pilot, whose head had been completely severed by a piece of propeller blade.
Robert cried out in agony at the memory. He could hear Tom’s voice again, singing as they drove towards the Dunkirk road, trying to shut out the sound of divebombers overhead. He tried again to write, something to soften the news, but all he could think of was the truck suddenly caught by the Jerries, the shells shooting through the roof within inches of their heads, the whistling of MG bullets and a hand grenade which seemed to come suddenly from underneath. The panic to abandon truck, only to find themselves prisoners, completely surrounded by tanks and armoured vehicles, unable to do anything for Tom and Jocky Johnson still trapped inside the blazing truck.
It was the French who had given the prisoners the chance to escape to a nearby ditch, by opening fire on the Jerries. Robert had stayed knee deep in water for what seemed like hours until it was safe to return to the truck, only to find it completely burned out. He had sheltered, soaked to the skin, in a wood near Dunkirk, watching as sixty or seventy bombers worked at finishing off what was left of the docks, and then he joined the mass of men thronging the beaches, shuffling slowly forward, carrying injured and dying covered by greatcoats. Shell-shocked men wandered about, wondering what on earth they were doing there; others, dispirited by the surrender of the Belgians, marched half asleep, following the crowd.
Robert started to write again, but the rows of words before his eyes became rows of men, long organised rows, silently waiting, moving gradually towards the calm dark water’s edge, and then into it.
The panic came again. He couldn’t swim; the water was chin high. Petrified, he moved on. Soon he would be out of this bloody world, soon he would be with Tom and Jocky Johnson – then suddenly he was heaved upwards into the boat, and he heard again the cry of, ‘That’s enough. Another boat’s on its way, lads. Keep yer chins up.’
He was sweating now and wanted to vomit as he relived again the rise and fall of the small boat, and then the relief as sleep overcame him and the ship carried them home.
He would write the letter another day; he was too tired tonight. Robert sank into another sleep, a fitful sleep in which another nightmare awaited him.
Mary knew something was wrong as they cycled down the lane. Mr Downing was leaning on the gate with an arm round his wife, and the boys were sitting on the wall swinging their legs in a woebegone manner.
‘Oh, no,’ groaned Bessie. ‘Don’t tell me they’ve lost Honeysuckle. She seemed much better last night. I hope to God it isn’t foot and mouth. Me dad thought it might be.’
‘What’s up, Mam?’ Lucy asked anxiously.
Mrs Downing handed her a letter, breaking into sobs as she did so. Mary suddenly realised it was about Tom. Her hair seemed to stand away from her scalp and she felt cold, despite the warm evening.
Lucy read the letter aloud slowly.
Darlington, June 1940
Dear Mr and Mrs Downing,
I suppose by now you will have heard the news from the War Office, but being Tom’s best mate from the day we both joined up I always promised Tom if anything should happen I would write to you.
First of all I would like to reassure you that Tom was laughing and singing right up to when the accident in the truck occurred. It was all over so quickly that he wouldn’t have been aware of what was happening.
Tom talked about you all constantly during our nights together, especially Mary, so that I now feel I know you all personally. I would like to visit you sometime in the future. We always told each other that’s what we’d do, if it’s OK by you.
As for Tom, you can be proud of him. He was a brave man to the end. I for one am proud to have been his friend.
From his best mate,
Robert Scott
Mary seemed oddly detached from the scene before her, as though she was accepting the inevitable, and had already lived through the shock and grief even before it happened.
Lucy crumpled the letter viciously.
‘It’s all lies,’ she cried. �
�He’s got a cheek scaring us like that. We’d have heard by now from the War Office. He can’t be dead.’ Then she broke into deep, heart-rending sobs. Mrs Downing drew her daughter into her arms in an effort to comfort her, silently suffering herself even more than the grieving girl.
Little Douglas kicked his clogged feet rhythmically on the drystone wall, too young to know anything unusual had happened. Cyril, unable to stem the tears, jumped down and ran to the closet, slamming the door behind him, ashamed of showing his feelings in public.
It was Tom’s father for whom Mary felt the most sympathy. He seemed to have shrunk since she had ridden past him that morning. His brown workworn wrists were thrust deep into the pockets of his corduroy breeches, stretching the braces to their limits. His shoulders, usually squared and jaunty, were slumped, causing him to look inches shorter in his distress. Only Bessie seemed unaffected. Then she began to laugh, at first softly and then louder.
‘It’s all a joke,’ she cried. ‘Our Tom’s not dead.’
Her laughter turned to hysteria, which held them all in frozen distress until Mary remembered how her mother had dealt with Auntie Norah after the pit accident. She slapped Bessie’s face sharply, shocking her into silence. Then she said softly, calmly, ‘Come on, let’s go inside.’
She had known all along that he wouldn’t come back. Something had told her outside the jeweller’s. She hadn’t been able to stop staring at him, knowing it would be for the last time.
She must take after her grandmother. The same thing had happened to her on occasions, like the day before Mary’s uncle had been killed in the pit. She had begged him not to go to work the next day but he had laughed. They had all laughed but she had been right. Now it had happened to her. Her da always said she had her grandmother’s ways, and now it seemed he was right.
‘I’ll go and make some tea if that’s all right?’ she said. Mrs Downing nodded, and she set off into the house. The family followed her, slowly, silently, as though in a funeral procession. To a funeral without a body.
Chapter Nine
For a change Rowland Roberts showed his authority and insisted Mary take a holiday. The day after the letter arrived at the Downings’ he went to the station and bought a ticket to Newcastle. Then he wrote out a sick note and delivered it personally to the steel works, along with others for Bessie and Lucy, who were in a far more obvious state of shock than Mary.
‘She’s too calm,’ he said to Gladys after they had seen Mary off to bed with a mug of hot milk. ‘I don’t like it when they don’t show any emotion. It causes nothing but trouble in the long term.’
‘She’ll be all right,’ Gladys said. ‘She did all her grieving after Tom went back from leave. It was as though she knew he wouldn’t return. Didn’t I tell you at the time, about the premonition? It seems she takes after her grandmother, knew in advance what was going to happen, though I can’t say I ever believed in such things until now. Still, my mother always said there’s something strange about Catholics.’
‘It’s nothing at all to do with religion. I’ve seen stranger things happen at the hospital on more than one occasion – patients claiming to have left their bodies during surgery and watched the whole operation being performed. At first we put it down to vivid dreams caused by the ether, until one patient accurately described the layout of the theatre and the surgical team, all of which she’d never set eyes on. Oh, there’re some strange forces at work which none of us understand. Still, if it’s softened the shock for Mary it can only be for the good.’
‘Even so, I think you’ve done the right thing by insisting on her going home for a while,’ Gladys said. ‘There’s nothing you want more than your own flesh and blood in times of trouble, though this place’ll be like a morgue without her and I shall be counting the hours until she comes back. Oh, when I think about Tom I can’t believe we shall never see him again. What his poor parents must be going through, not knowing officially one way or the other. I’ll go down as soon as I’ve seen Mary off and find out if there’s anything I can do.’
‘Yes, you do that, dear. All this bloodshed, I can’t for the life of me see what good can possibly come out of it all. Still, we mustn’t be downhearted. There’s work to be done, not only on the front lines but here in the hospitals. I’m beginning to think our city will be a target before long. Better for Mary to go now before things begin to hot up. Though I shan’t rest until she gets back. I only hope I’m doing the right thing by sending her.’
‘You are, Rowland, I’m sure of it. If she stays here she’ll be going off to work as usual, and I’m sure a change can only be for the good. Oh, but I’m going to miss her so much.’
‘I know, dear; God knows I couldn’t think more of the girl if she were our own daughter. I only hope she doesn’t decide to stay with her family, but that’s a risk we have to take. Oh, well, shall we be going up? Somehow I don’t feel like listening to the radio tonight.’
Mary had boarded the train with the feeling of a lead weight in her stomach, but by the time she reached Newcastle she couldn’t fail to be uplifted by the anticipation of seeing her family again. Besides, a crowd of airmen had piled into the compartment and sung for most of the journey, trying to persuade her to join in. She hadn’t done that, but instead she had taken out the enormous packed lunch Gladys had made and handed round the oven bottom cakes filled with eggs and salad from the garden, and by the time the sandwiches had been eagerly devoured Mary had confided the reason for her journey and been offered consolation and inundated with requests for her address. One of the airmen lifted her bags from the rack for her and she left the train feeling much more cheerful. She could just imagine her ma’s face when she walked into the house.
The cheer vanished as she dismissed the taxi two streets from home and walked the rest of the way, not wishing to attract the attention of the neighbours. Even so she noticed the curtains shifting at a number of windows as she passed by, and was filled with disgust at the squalor of some of the houses. Surely the area hadn’t been so bad when she lived here, or was it just that she was spoiled now by her present environment? She pressed the brass sneck, relieved to see that it was newly Brasso’d, and walked into the living kitchen, welcomed by the smell of frying onions and potatoes.
Kathleen saw her first. She was setting the table and squealed with delight as Mary walked in. Dropping the cutlery, she ran to throw her arms round her sister, then stood back and looked down at Mary’s best costume, as though afraid of soiling it.
‘Ma,’ she called, ‘our Mary’s come home. She looks lovely.’
The scuffle on the stairs announced the entry of her mother. ‘Holy mackerel,’ she exclaimed, and Mary went into her arms, weeping for the first time since Tom’s departure, inconsolable as she gave way to the pent-up feelings of the past months. She closed her eyes and for a moment felt like a child again, comforted as she once was by the special warmth and devotion that only a mother and child can exchange. She realised at that moment that, much as she loved Gladys, it had been worth the long, uncomfortable journey to be here in her mother’s arms at this time of grief.
‘Nay, bonny lass,’ said her mother wiping her own eyes, ‘you should be laughing to be home, not turning the tap on and almost wetting me through.’
Mary smiled through her tears and said simply, ‘Tom’s dead.’
‘Oh, God, no,’ Mrs O’Connor said softly. ‘Oh, you poor lass, have a good cry then.’ And she gathered Mary into her arms again, rocking her right and left as though soothing a child to sleep.
‘Do you want to talk aboot it?’ she asked after a while. ‘Tell us what happened. It’s better oot than in. Or shall we have a cup of tea and talk later?’
‘Yes, let’s do that,’ said Mary. ‘I feel better already - it was just seeing you again after all this time. Anyway, I’m dying for a drink. Where are the others?’
‘Oor Norah’s at work – she’ll be home aboot six - an’ yer da’s on afternoon shift, finishes at ten. Eeh, I can
’t wait to see his face when he knows you’re home. I think he’s the one who has missed you the most. Blamed himself for you gooan’, said if he hadn’t spent so much on the beer we shouldn’t have been living here amongst the grime and smoke and you wouldn’t have been ill and had to go convalescing halfway across the country. Well, I’ll say one thing: he’s a cheeanged man, determined to shift us all out of here as soon as he’s able.’
‘Well, I’m glad some good came of my leaving.’
‘Why are you talking different, our Mary?’ asked Kathleen.
‘I’m not,’ said Mary, shocked.
‘Yes you are. Isn’t she, Ma?’
‘Well, I suppose she’s just picked up a different accent.’
‘I never noticed. It must have rubbed off on me from the doctor and Mrs Roberts. Oh, Ma, they are lovely – I’m ever so lucky to be living there. I wish you could visit the house some day.’
‘That’ll be the day when I go anywhere further than the shops.’ Mrs O’Connor laughed. ‘Are those stovies ready yet, Kathleen? I bet our Mary’s starving. I’d have done another panful if I’d known you were coming, lass, not that there’s many onions amongst the taties. Who’d have ever believed there could be a shortage of onions?’
‘Perhaps this chicken will make them go further,’ said Mary, opening one of her bags and taking out a brown paper parcel. ‘It was only cooked last night, in fact the poor thing was strutting around the garden yesterday afternoon.’
‘Eeh, lass, are you sure they can spare it? I mean with all the rationing and everything?’
‘I didn’t have chance to refuse. It was killed cleaned and cooked before I knew anything about it. I told you how good Mrs Roberts is.’
‘Look out, the camels are coming.’
Christmas Past Page 6
