Christmas Past

by Glenice Crossland

  Please not Jack. Then she questioned herself, ‘Why not Jack?’ He was a hot-blooded man, wasn’t he, a highly sexed man, until recently. She was shocked when she realised it had been a couple of weeks now. Last week had been the morning shift but even then she had stayed up till all hours finishing off the orders for Whitsuntide, children’s dresses, a suit for Mrs Baraclough; it had been early morning by the time she crept into bed beside her sound asleep husband. And the week before he had been on the afternoon shift. Why, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d snuggled up with Jack for a cuddle. What a fool she had been. She felt a stirring in her loins and turned in the direction of Jack and the girl. He sat up in a rush as she approached.

  ‘Oh, there you are.’ Mary fixed a smile on her face. ‘Do you mind if I reclaim my husband?’ she said pleasantly to the girl. ‘I think it’s time for tea.’

  Jack jumped up and brushed the grass from his best suit. ‘I was just coming, love,’ he stammered.

  ‘Good,’ said Mary, taking his hand. ‘The fresh air has made me quite hungry, and all that skipping seems to have been good for me. I’m quite looking forward to an early night. How about you?’

  Jack grinned. ‘Ready when you are,’ he said. Then they went hand in hand to find the children.

  It was only after the early night that Jack began to analyse Mary’s lack of concern at discovering him and Joan Edwards frolicking on the grass. The flirting had all been on Joan’s part and meant nothing to Jack, he being a little tipsy after a few beers, but Mary hadn’t been aware of that. If only she’d looked slightly upset, or ranted and raved at him afterwards. He told himself it was good that his wife trusted him, but that gave him little consolation. In fact for someone who was supposed to love him, he considered it bloody unnatural not to be just a tiny little bit jealous.

  Chapter Twenty

  Clutching a brightly coloured sand bucket and a long-handled wooden spade Alan skipped ahead as they approached the station. He was going on a train, a real train, with a real steam engine. In fact he was going on three trains. Daddy had shown him and Jacqueline on a thing called a map. First they would change at Sheffield and then at York. He had never been so excited and had eaten no breakfast at all in his eagerness to be off.

  Jacqueline walked more sedately and was rather subdued at the thought of leaving Tittle Harry behind, though Auntie Marjory and Una had promised to take care of him, and he was already firmly established in his basket under the table in Auntie Marjory’s kitchen. She carried a little leather attache case in which she had packed a new box of crayons, a drawing book, her favourite Milly Molly Mandy stories and a brand new bathing costume bought for her from Old Misery’s stall. She felt grown up with the case and walked beside her parents wondering how much further it was to the station. Her legs were beginning to ache, but Alan, usually the one to lag behind and beg to be carried, for once danced happily ahead, stopping at intervals to call for the others to hurry.

  The small station was already quite crowded with families and luggage, everyone eager to be off for the annual holiday. Because of the war this was the first time many children had been away and their anticipation of their first glimpse of the sea filled children and parents alike with excitement. The bucket and spade were still clutched in Alan’s plump, hot little hands when they changed trains at Sheffield. He had reclined mesmerised in the corner seat as bridges and signal boxes were left behind. The roll of the train and the steady da da da dum, da da da dum filled him with exhilaration, and now the huge bustling platform with its guards, porters and muffled announcements seemed awe-inspiring to so small a boy.

  ‘Cawwy my spade, Jacqween,’ he said, handing it to his sister so that he could cling tightly to his mother’s skirt. The bustling crowd was overwhelming, and to lose himself and miss the train was unthinkable. He heard the announcer’s voice, ‘The train for York is now standing at platform two.’ Jack trundled the luggage across the platform, with Mary and the children following closely, and Alan sighed with relief when his father threw the cases up on to the rack and the guard slammed the compartment door closed.

  Jacqueline was already colouring a picture of a vivid blue sea, like one she had seen in a picture book. A golden beach and an even more golden sun completed the scene. Then she settled down to watch the colours rolling by. Vivid greens of hills and woodland, reds and slate greys of houses and churches. Cottages each with its own pocket handkerchief vegetable patch or flower bed. Cattle and sheep grazing and looking up as the train disturbed their peace. Sometimes the countryside was obliterated by high bankings strewn with wild flowers, or thick clouds of smoke from the engine. She picked up a crayon, her mind unable to rest, her fingers itching to transfer the beauty of the passing scenery on to the pages. She would make a picture for Grandma O’Connor, and another for Grandad. She forgot about Tittle Harry for the moment. She was on her way to the sea, and her grandparents, and to live in a caravan. The excitement poured out on to the pages, and best of all there was no school for six whole weeks, and no more Miss Robinson; she would be moving up to another class and another teacher.

  Sunny Cliff Camp spread along the cliff top, just a short walk from the town, a spreading mass of caravans and wooden bungalows. It was a well-kept camp, with water taps and lavatories at regular intervals. The children were fascinated by the cream and green trailer, and by the fact that they would be sleeping in a bed which folded up during the day to make a sofa.

  A few tears were shed by Mary and her mother at their first meeting since the wedding. Before long the children and their grandparents became inseparable and after the first night Mary and Jack had the caravan to themselves as the children crammed into the beds of Jimmy and Michael and Norah and Kathleen. Only Mary’s eldest brother Bill was missing, as he was in the middle of training for a new job and unable to take leave. Jimmy said it was a girl who was the main reason for his absence.

  At the first sight of the sea Jacqueline had looked down from the cliff top and burst into tears. Mick O’Connor had been most concerned and unable to fathom out what was bothering his granddaughter.

  ‘I don’t like the sea. It isn’t blue and it hasn’t any waves. It isn’t a proper sea at all,’ she cried.

  ‘Is that all?’ Mick laughed. ‘Why I admit it isn’t blue today, but that’s oonly because the sky’s so grey. Just you watch it cheange when the sun comes oot. And as for the weaves, oh, they’re there all right. It’s just that we can’t see them from way up here. Come on doon and I’ll show you.’

  The pair had slid down the cliff path to the sands, kicked off their shoes and socks, and paddled through the rocky pools to the edge of the sea, where the waves tumbled gently, breaking into white foam around their feet. Jacqueline looked up at her grandfather, her face filled with delight, as she felt the rippled sand beneath her toes. He lifted her high and let her slip down into the water, so that it splashed their bare arms and faces, and they laughed, and made up for the irreclaimable years, a little girl and her grandfather together at last.

  Alan was soon following Michael about like a shadow, and Michael at the age of eleven and normally ignored by his older brothers was made to feel important and flattered by his nephew’s attention. After a few days on the beach they found themselves a far more interesting pastime, in the shape of a battered old bus. It had been used at one time as a caravan but now stood derelict in the corner of the field. Only the engine was missing, and in their imagination the two youngsters drove to many mysterious places, working the controls and steering in turn. It was only at mealtimes and during the evenings when a visit was made to the amusement arcades that the two friends could be coaxed away from the rusty, dusty old bus.

  Most of the other campers seemed to be Scots. They were a lively bunch and each night one of the party would bring out an accordion, supplying the accompaniment for singing and even dancing. Mary’s sisters pronounced themselves madly in love with a couple of youths from Glasgow, and Jimmy spent each day of the holid
ay in the camp snack bar, waiting for the pretty blue-eyed assistant to finish work, when they would go off hand in hand in the direction of Sewerby or Flamborough Head. Grandma O’Connor seemed to spend all her days resting her swollen, blue-veined legs in a deckchair on the beach and all her nights worrying about her wayward offspring, but by the end of the holiday the tension had left her. Her nose became tinged with the sun, and her husband brought a flush to her cheeks by declaring she looked as beautiful as the day he married her all those years ago.

  On the last day Mary and Jack managed to bribe Alan and Michael away from their imaginary travels with the offer of a boat trip. As they all sailed out on the Yorkshire Man, leaving the harbour walls behind, Jack placed an arm round his wife’s waist. ‘Oh well, it’s nearly over, love,’ he sighed. ‘It’ll soon be back to the black hole.’

  ‘Oh, Jack,’ Mary said. ‘I’d give anything for you not to have to go back to the pit.’

  ‘It’s not all that bad. They’re a grand bunch of lads – nobody could have better mates.’

  ‘It’s not that, it’s just that after all this – the fresh salt air, the sunshine – to leave all the long light days and go back to the darkness, it’s just not natural.’

  His arm tightened round her slim waist and he smiled down at his wife. Her hair shone like burnished copper in the sun and her freckles seemed more pronounced than ever, and he couldn’t resist kissing her. Giggling, she pulled away and he said, ‘So long as I’ve you and the kids to come home to I’m content.’

  ‘Yes, well, we’ll just keep on sending in the pools, and when our eight draws come up the pit won’t see you for coal dust.’ She laughed.

  ‘What would we do then?’ he asked wistfully.

  ‘We’d come back here, and buy the house up there at the edge of the cliffs, the one with the veranda, and each night we’d sit there and watch the sun go down.’

  ‘And then we’d go in,’ he said, ‘to our four-poster bed and make love until the sun came up again.’

  ‘You know something, Jack Holmes, you’re nothing but a randy old man.’

  ‘I may be randy, but less of the old.’ He laughed and kissed her again.

  Young Michael turned at that moment and whispered to Jacqueline. ‘Hey, look at yer ma and da, kissing right here on the booat where everybody can see them.’

  Jacqueline smiled happily. She liked her mammy and daddy to kiss each other: it gave her a safe happy feeling inside. She liked the seaside and she loved her grandma and grandad but she would like to get home to see Tittle Harry again. Last night she had dreamed that he had come to see her; Grandad Holmes had brought him. There they had stood at the bottom of her bed, Tittle Harry wagging his tail and Grandad smiling, then suddenly Grandad had taken off his cloth cap and waved goodbye, fading away into the darkness, leaving Tittle Harry to trot off all by himself, his lead trailing behind him. She would be glad to return home and make sure they were both safe.

  It is said that no one can be completely happy for long. The saying was proved correct the moment the train drew into the station, for there on the platform Harry was waiting with the news that his father had passed away. The worn old lungs had refused to cope any longer and during a coughing spasm his heart had been unable to stand the strain. Jacqueline was the only one who didn’t cry. She had seen her grandfather waving goodbye. He had been smiling then, and she had a feeling he was smiling still.

  Grandad Holmes was laid out in the front room by a woman from the next row who specialised in bringing new babies into the world, and helping the bereaved when their loved ones went out of it. She would stay there every night until the day of the funeral, keeping the body company. If Grandma Holmes hadn’t been in mourning she would probably have smiled. She could almost imagine her husband sitting up in his coffin and saying, ‘What the bloody hell is she doing here? Does she think I’m going to run away or summat?’

  Nevertheless, the woman insisted on staying, and was made most comfortable in the easy chair with a bottle of sherry to fortify her through the night.

  During the day a steady stream of visitors called at the house to pay their respects to the widow and her family, and the teapot was no sooner emptied than filled again. Some of the callers would pop in for a last look at their old friend; others would reminisce and attempt to cheer up the family by relating some amusing incident which had happened years before, but almost all would need to wipe away a tear or two at the passing of a dear friend and neighbour.

  The women were kept busy preparing for the funeral tea. A ham had been put on to boil and fruit cakes and bread were baked non-stop on the day before the burial. Grandma Holmes left the girls to it, knowing Margaret, her youngest, had taken it the hardest and needed to be kept busy. The children, who had never experienced death before, were constantly under their feet and instructed to go out and play.

  ‘Why can’t we go in the front room, Una?’ Jacqueline was filled with curiosity about what all the visitors were going to look at.

  ‘Because Grandad’s in there.’

  ‘But Grandad’s dead. I thought they’d taken him to the graveyard.’

  ‘Not until tomorrow.’

  ‘Let’s go and see him,’ Jacqueline whispered. ‘I’ve never seen a dead person before.’

  ‘Get lost!’ Una cringed. ‘You’re not getting me in there.’

  Alan circled the yard on his red tricycle chanting, 'Grandad Holmes is deaded, Grandad Holmes is deaded.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to see him anyway.’ Jacqueline ignored her brother.

  ‘You daren’t.’ It was the wrong thing to say. Una should have known better than to dare her cousin to do anything.

  ‘Oh yes I dare,’ Jacqueline said, and went towards the house. The kitchen was filled with yet more visitors. The under-manager from the pit and his wife had brought money which had been collected from the workers. Because these were posher visitors than normal everybody were giving them their full attention, and Jacqueline simply sidled in between the table and the dresser and through the kitchen door unnoticed. Her step faltered as she opened the front room door and the strong scent filled her nostrils.

  She saw the flowers first, some arranged in a large glass vase, others placed on the table, large bunches tied with ribbons and covered with cellophane. And then she saw the box, something like Grandma Roberts’s blanket box only longer. There it was perched on the table amongst the flowers, too high for her to see inside. She moved a chair towards the table, cringing as the complete silence was shattered by its scraping on the lino’d floor. For the first time she experienced fear as she wondered what a dead body looked like. She forced herself to climb up and peep into the coffin.

  ‘Oh, Grandad,’ she whispered. ‘You do look nice and clean.’

  His normally wispy hair had been flattened and his lined old face seemed to have been smoothed and the wrinkles ironed out. He looked to be almost in a sitting position, probably because his hunched back wouldn’t allow for lying straight out, and Jacqueline could have sworn he was wearing a smile. She reached out and touched the white garment he was wearing and then her heart almost missed a beat as she gently touched his cheek. Suddenly she felt happy. She was glad she’d seen a dead body; there was nothing to be frightened of. She jumped down off the chair and lifted it back to its place by the window, then slipped out closing the door behind her.

  ‘Well,’ Una said, ‘I’ll bet you didn’t go in.’

  ‘I did,’ Jacqueline said. ‘And I wasn’t scared at all. I saw him and I wasn’t frightened even a little bit.’

  ‘What’re you on about?’ asked the boy from the end house.

  ‘She’s been to see our grandad who’s dead.’

  ‘My grandad’s deaded,’ said Alan. ‘He’s gone to Jesus.’

  ‘No he hasn’t. I’ve seen him. He’s going to Heaven tomorrow.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ Una enquired, rather wishing she’d been brave enough to go with her cousin.

  Jacqueline s
hrugged. ‘Just like Grandad,’ she said, ‘only different.’

  ‘Can I go and ’ave a look?’ the boy asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, go on, just a peep.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll give yer tuppence,’ he said, knowing how he would rise in status with the gang if he could boast about seeing a dead body. ‘Go on, Jacqui. I liked yer grandad. Let me ’ave a look.’

  ‘It’s not worth it, not for twopence.’ Jacqueline had her eye on a jar on the window sill. ‘What’s in there?’ she asked.

  ‘A butterfly, a Red Admiral, go on let’s ’ave a look.’ By now it had almost become an obsession. ‘I’ll mek it threepence,’ he said.

  ‘Well perhaps just a little look, but only if you give me the butterfly.’

  His face fell, he opened his mouth to protest and Jacqueline turned to walk away.

  ‘OK, you can ’ave the butterfly,’ he said.

  ‘Come on then, but you’ll have to be quiet, and wait until they aren’t looking.’ Grandma Holmes suddenly came out and went across the yard to the lavatory. Jacqueline looked into the kitchen. Her mother was on her knees in front of the fire, polishing the brass fender, and Auntie Margaret was nowhere in sight. The cellar door was open; she was probably down there.

  ‘Come on,’ she whispered, and the pair tiptoed behind the table unseen.

  Once in the room Jacqueline watched proudly as the boy, taller than herself, peered over the side of the coffin. His face whitened and he turned and crept out, Jacqueline making sure the coast was clear before they made their way back through the kitchen.

  ‘Blooming ’eck,’ he said. ‘I don’t ’alf feel funny. I thought I were going to roll over in there.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t or I wouldn’t half have been in trouble,’ Jacqueline said. ‘Now can I have my butterfly?’

  Reluctantly he parted with the jar. Eeh, but it would be worth it when he told all the gang what he had seen. She was all right that Jacqueline Holmes, a right good sport. He would stick up for her in future.