Christmas Past

by Glenice Crossland

  On the other hand Mr Baraclough was never happier than when he could be his normal self, and then his broad Yorkshire accent would surface, so that his poorest customers could enjoy a good gossip and a risque joke or two. He was always good for a bit of credit towards the end of the week, when the bill would be entered in a tattered old accounts book which was kept beneath the counter. Being something of a Robin Hood, he would pop a free cow heel, a bacon hock which was beginning to turn or a bag of day or two old fancy cakes in with the orders for his worst-off customers, and many a good meal would be enjoyed by the poorest families thanks to his generosity.

  Just inside the shop door, next to the Rinso and the Lifebuoy, was a noticeboard on which customers could display small adverts free of charge. Mr Baraclough found a drawing pin as Mary produced a small slip of paper.

  ‘What are we selling today then, Mary lass?’ he enquired.

  ‘Only my services, Mr Baraclough.’ Mary smiled.

  ‘Oh, taking up in business, are yer, lass? Don’t let my missus see this or she’ll be wanting another new frock.’ He laughed.

  Mrs Baraclough came out from the back. ‘Is he talking about me again?’ she said, smiling at Mary.

  ‘Mary’s taking up dressmaking, love,’ he said.

  ‘Well, if the dresses yon little lass wears are anything to go by she should do very well,’ his wife said.

  ‘I’m not doing too badly already,’ Mary said proudly. ‘I’ve even made curtains for Mrs Davenport this week. The trouble is I’ve no idea what to charge.’

  ‘Aye, well, don’t go underselling yerself. Start as yer mean to go on. An hour’s work deserves an hour’s pay, and don’t you forget it.’

  ‘That’s what Jack says.’ Mary helped herself to a bottle of dandelion and burdock. ‘Can I have half an ounce of thin twist, please?’ She placed the bottle on the counter.

  ‘By, but it must be heartbreaking going down the pit this weather. We don’t get many days like this.’ Mr Baraclough looked out at the bright sunshine.

  ‘I know,’ said Mary. ‘Our Jacqueline’s changed into white ankle socks, though I think it’s a bit early yet.’

  ‘They’re all alike. The first warm day and they think it’s summer. Well, let’s hope they’re right and it keeps like this for Whitsuntide.’

  Mrs Baraclough was weighing up two pound bags of sugar, meticulously placing an empty bag on the scale with the weights, so making sure that the bags contained exactly the right amount. One never knew when the weights and measures man was going to pop in, and unlike her husband she wasn’t willing to take any risks.

  Mary paid her bill and went home, wondering if she’d done the right thing by starting to advertise. It had been Gladys’s suggestion, after Mary had run up a pair of pillow cases for one of her neighbours.

  ‘You should start up in business, Mary. Your needlework is first class and there are always people wanting good quality garments, particularly for weddings.’

  Mary had laughed but had thought about it afterwards, then decided nothing ventured nothing gained.

  Jack wished secretly that Gladys had kept her mouth shut. The confounded machine had already taken over the front room, and the continuous droning noise was beginning to affect his nerves. Besides, until he had bought the thing Mary had always been eager to join him in bed for an hour when he was on night shift, if Alan happened to have an afternoon nap. Now he was lucky if he got chance of a quick cuddle in the mornings, before Jacqueline had to be woken for school.

  There was no doubt about it, the bloody machine was coming between him and his love life. He thought about what his father was always threatening. ‘I’m going to put my foot down with a firm hand.’ He grinned to himself. The old man had about as much chance of laying down the law to his wife as Jack had to Mary, for if she made up her mind to do something neither Jack nor the devil himself would stop her doing it. Still, he did miss a bit of a cuddle in the afternoon, and now she had gone and bloody advertised.

  Fine quality dressmaking and alterations undertaken at reasonable cost.

  Aye, thought Jack, reasonable to the customer perhaps, but what about me?

  Mary was quite oblivious of Jack’s inner thoughts and only conscious that the biscuit barrel used as her piggy bank was becoming heavier. Every penny she earned from her sewing went into the barrel, and her aim was to save for a holiday with her parents. Jack was also halfway towards being able to afford the holiday and was already planning things for the last week in July and the first in August.

  At first it had been meant to be a surprise for Mary and the children, who had never seen their maternal grandparents or aunts and uncles, though the wedding day photographs had familiarised the children with Mary’s family, and presents were exchanged regularly. Jack had booked two caravans for the works holiday weeks on the east coast, after arranging with Mick O’Connor by letter that the two families would meet at the coast. But Mary, becoming suspicious of the communication, had wheedled out the secret, and was now working harder than ever, intent upon making the holiday a memorable one for all concerned.

  But first there was Whitsuntide, and that in itself was a source of excitement for Jacqueline and Alan.

  Jacqueline was sitting high on the counter in Miss Judith McCall’s, which was the most exclusive ladies’ shop outside the city. The little girl had often pressed her nose up to the glass, admiring the display of ladies’ wear in one window and children’s in the other. She was fascinated, not so much by the garments as by the colour schemes. She had already noticed there were never more than two colours in the displays at any one time, and had noted mentally how this added to the effect, rather than the hotch-potch of colours mixed together in the Co-op.

  Now she was actually sitting on the counter trying on bonnets which tied under the chin with pretty satin ribbons, and were trimmed with rosebuds in contrasting colours.

  ‘What do you think?’ Mary asked the elegantly dressed middle-aged proprietress.

  ‘With her dark curls I would definitely say the pink,’ said Miss McCall, to Jacqueline’s dismay.

  Mary had brought with her a sample of the organdie which was to be made into the Whitsuntide dress. It was the most delicate shade of blue with tiny sprigs of white flowers.

  ‘Ah,’ said Judith McCall. ‘Then I would suggest the blue.’

  ‘I like that one.’ Jacqueline pointed to a lemon one sitting on top of a hat box.

  ‘Oh, I don’t really think so, dear, not with blue.’

  ‘But I like it. That’s Caroline’s favourite colour.’

  The woman glanced at Mary, who changed the subject abruptly. ‘We shall need two pairs of socks. Plain white, I think.’

  ‘Oh, definitely.’ Miss McCall went to a drawer and brought out two pairs of snowy white cotton socks.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mary. ‘And we’ll take the blue bonnet.’

  Jacqueline opened her mouth to protest but closed it again when she saw the look on her mother’s face. Mary lifted her daughter down.

  ‘And now it’s Alan’s turn.’ Alan, unlike his sister, hated new clothes. Mary had already made up a pair of green trousers and intended to buy a green and white checked shirt which had caught her eye in the window. She knew she could have run one up more cheaply at home but she had been unable to find a similar pattern. She would be able to use this one to cut out another couple for Alan for when he began school after Christmas. Miss McCall suspected what Mary was up to but was biding her time. Mrs Holmes was making quite a name for herself amongst the locals, and having inspected some of her handiwork Miss McCall was considering offering to sell some of Mary’s garments for her. Of course, they would have to be one-off designs – Miss McCall would never risk her reputation for exclusivity – but she prided herself on recognising good work when she saw it.

  ‘I’ll take this,’ her customer was saying now. ‘And socks for Alan too.’

  ‘I’ve just the thing.’ This time the socks Miss McCall brought out w
ere white but with green stripes round the top.

  ‘There you are,’ Mary said to her son. ‘Now you’ll be all posh for the procession.’ Alan was unimpressed.

  ‘I do hope the weather holds,’ Miss McCall said.

  Mary paid for her goods, which were placed in bags bearing Judith McCall’s name, and Alan skipped out of the door with relief.

  ‘Caroline doesn’t like blue,’ said Jacqueline, but Mary noticed she opened the bag to peep at the bonnet at least four times before they reached the top of the Donkey Path.

  Whit Monday dawned with the sun already warm and the sky clear and cloudless. The children couldn’t wait to be dressed and Jacqueline refused to eat breakfast in her excitement, although nothing would put Alan off his food. The children were to gather at the various churches throughout the area, and then the procession would set off, each church joining in on the way, to assemble at the sports field where the singing would take place. St Catherine’s was the exception: the Catholic children walked alone, along the road and back again. Una said the large communal procession was far more exciting. But first they were to go along Barker’s Row showing off their new clothes to the neighbours, who would admire the children’s apparel and place a few coppers in any available pockets. Mary had been embarrassed last year when Una had introduced the children to the ritual but Jack did not agree that it was tantamount to begging, and pointed out that the tradition was as old as the hills themselves.

  Alan, who could now count up to five, sat down on the doorstep outside Mrs Broomsgrove’s and became more and more confused as his pennies amounted to more than he could tally. He consoled himself by counting the threepenny bits, knowing that each of those would buy one large cornet from the ice-cream man.

  Jacqueline held her pennies tightly in her hand and wondered where Tittle Harry was wandering off to, down in the direction of St George’s Road. She called his name but he trotted determinedly on his way. Jacqueline went after him. He had been lost once before and the whole family had spent a couple of hours searching for him until he was found sleeping inside Mrs Broomsgrove’s washing basket, curled up amongst the newly laundered sheets. The woman had almost suffered a seizure at the thought of a few dog hairs and had washed the whole lot again.

  Tittle Harry wandered across the road and climbed on to the low drystone wall overlooking the river, where it emerged from beneath the wall to flow in the direction of the Donkey Wood.

  When Jacqueline reached the wall and looked over, she saw that the spaniel had jumped down and was on his way to the water. Jacqueline called his name, afraid he would drown if he reached the river. She wondered what to do. The wall was far too deep for her to get down. Then she noticed the heap of black pebbles piled against the wall, and lowered herself over the topping stones before letting herself fall the last few feet.

  Then, horror of horrors, she found herself sinking down until she was waist high in the pile, which was not pebbles but soot from a newly swept chimney. The soot rose in a cloud, covering her dress, her face and catastrophically her lovely new bonnet. She began to wail and Tittle Harry ran in her direction, barking as he came face to face with the black figure. Jacqueline didn’t go over the wall this time but followed the path to the turnstile. Up Barker’s Row she went, the dog circling her then backing away, not sure that he liked this screaming, soot-coated Jacqueline. Everyone in Barker’s Row came out to stare, unable to believe the immaculate little girl could have changed into the grotesque object which was yelling now fit to awaken the dead.

  Mary didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, or where to begin cleaning up her daughter. She untied the bonnet and took off the once beautiful dress. Even the underclothes were black, so she removed them too, then lifted her naked daughter up into the stone sink in the corner of the kitchen, and began to scrub the yelling child as best she could. Jack watched helplessly, then went upstairs for a clean dress and underwear. Jacqueline cried louder at the sight of them.

  ‘I don’t want to wear them old things. I want my new dress and my new bonnet and my new shiny shoes.’

  ‘You’ll have to wear your pink dress,’ Mary stated. ‘It’s almost new; nobody will know.’

  Jack got out the blacking and brushes and cleaned up the shoes.

  ‘I don’t want to go in the parade in these old things.’

  ‘It’s too late for the parade. They’ll have set off from St Catherine’s ten minutes ago,’ Mary said.

  Jacqueline seemed to cheer up at that. ‘I didn’t want to walk with them anyway,’ she said. ‘I wanted to walk with Pam.’

  Jack began to grin. ‘I don’t think Father would like that,’ he said. ‘A Catholic marching with the Sally Army.’ He lifted his daughter down and wrapped her in a towel, warm from the fire guard. ‘Never mind, sweetheart, you’ll look just as good in your pink, and we’ll go and stand at the bottom of the Donkey Path. From there you’ll be able to wave to our Una, and Pam, and everybody else in the procession. Besides, if you’re not in the parade we’ll be first at the ice-cream cart.’

  Alan’s face lit up. He hadn’t fancied marching anywhere, and besides, now he would be able to see the band. ‘But what about our dinner?’ he worried.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you won’t starve, just because you can’t go to Sunday school for a potted meat sandwich and a bun. I’ll tell you what, we’ll all go to Grandma Holmes’s for our dinners. And up to the cricket field afterwards for the games as usual.’ He caught sight of Mary, adjusting her new hat in the mirror, and at the sight of her thanked God that he wasn’t on night shift for another two weeks.

  Tittle Harry chewed another flower off the blue bonnet.

  ‘Oh, you naughty boy,’ Jacqueline cried as he tussled with it under the table.

  ‘Never mind,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll buy you a new one when the shop opens after the holiday.’

  ‘Can I have a yellow one?’

  ‘Any colour you like,’ Jack said. Jacqueline jumped with delight.

  He’s going to spoil that child, Mary thought. It’s a good thing it’s Whitsuntide or she’d have had a jolly good hiding. Then they set off down the Donkey Path to watch the Whit Monday walk.

  The pile of cold meat sandwiches was colossal and the jar of pickled onions opened ready for the makeshift dinner. Most of the men had called at the miners’ club for a couple of drinks and the wives and children were already gathered round the table. Grandma Holmes had pulled out a couple of drawers in the dresser and placed a cushion on top of each to create two extra seats for the little ones. She mashed the tea and poured it thick and strong into the best china cups. There was nothing she enjoyed more than seeing all her family together, and this was an extra special occasion because Harry was back amongst them, and almost his old self again. Sally was now a regular visitor and although the Holmeses suspected he wasn’t quite what her parents had hoped for, Sally had given them no option but to accept him. At least they admitted he was a likeable chap, and seemed to be good for their daughter.

  At the table Great-aunt Edie and Great-aunt Nellie, who had walked several miles with the great uncles for their annual visit, were already tucking into the sandwiches. Jacqueline couldn’t help but laugh as Auntie Edie sweetened her tea with salt from the huge open salt pot instead of sugar. Then Auntie Nellie stabbed a pickled onion and sent it flying into the air, to land with a plop in Auntie Margaret’s tea. Jacqueline liked the great-aunts, who reminded her of Cissie and Susie, two of Farmer Barker’s hens, mainly because they always wore brown hats trimmed with feathers, and seemed to nod their heads each time they spoke. Alan was also glad to see the great-aunts, who seemed to have a never-ending supply of mint humbugs in their large, closely guarded handbags. Grandma Holmes said Great-aunt Nellie always carried her last will and testament in her bag, and never let it out of her sight for a minute, but Jacqueline didn’t know what a last will and testament was. She would ask her dad when they got home. If it was something very special perhaps they could buy Mammy one for Christmas
.

  The men could be heard long before they came into view. Grandma Holmes said they were hypocrites to be singing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ when everyone knew what their views on religion were, but seeing as it was Whit Monday she didn’t intend risking a discussion on the clergy and the afterlife, so she let their hymn singing pass without comment.

  After dinner the whole family made their way up to the field, which was already crowded in anticipation of the races and games. Jack was chosen for the cricket team and Mary organised a game of skipping for the women and children. Others were lining up for the obstacle race and the older folk made themselves comfortable on the grandstand to watch the fun and wish they were twenty years younger.

  It wasn’t until much later that Mary noticed that Jack was out of the game and went in search of him.

  ‘Have you seen your brother, Harry?’ she called. Harry looked a little uncomfortable as he denied having done so. ‘Er, not for some time,’ he said. ‘He was bowled out early on.’

  Mary smiled and circled the field in search of her husband. Perhaps he had taken the children for refreshments. She went towards the pavilion, then stopped. There, stretched out on the grass, was Jack. By his side was a young woman. Mary couldn’t quite place her, but had seen her before, noticing how attractive the girl was, and today with the sun playing in her long fair hair she looked even more beautiful. She was holding a buttercup beneath Jack’s chin and the pair were laughing, with eyes only for each other. Mary was at a loss what to do. Should she go to them, break up the conversation, or walk away? Her stomach was churning. Had it been Harry she could have understood it, but not Jack, please God, not Jack. She looked round for the children. They were watching the Punch and Judy show; she heard their cries ‘He’s behind you’ as if in a daze.