Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  THE DARKENING SKIES

  A heartbreakingly moving story of loyalty and passion:

  the second in The Durham Trilogy

  Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ˜ ˜ ˜

  THE DURHAM TRILOGY

  Heartrending sagas set in Durham’s bygone mining communities

  Copyright © Janet MacLeod Trotter, 1993, 2011

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Publisher.

  Published by MacLeod Trotter Books

  ebook edition: 2011

  ISBN 978-1-908359-09-4

  www.janetmacleodtrotter.com

  (The photograph used on the cover is of Janet’s mother)

  eBook conversion by eBookpartnership.com

  Table of Contents

  About The Author

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Durham Mining Trilogy

  Bonus Chapter: NEVER STAND ALONE

  About the Author

  Janet MacLeod Trotter was brought up in the North East of England with her four brothers, by Scottish parents. She is a best-selling author of 15 novels, including the hugely popular Jarrow Trilogy, and a childhood memoir, BEATLES & CHIEFS, which was featured on BBC Radio Four.

  Her novel, THE HUNGRY HILLS, gained her a place on the shortlist of The Sunday Times’ Young Writers’ Award, and the TEA PLANTER’S LASS was longlisted for the RNA Romantic Novel Award.

  A graduate of Edinburgh University, she has been editor of the Clan MacLeod Magazine, a columnist on the Newcastle Journal and has had numerous short stories published in women’s magazines.

  She lives in the North of England with her husband, daughter and son. Find out more about Janet and her other popular novels at: www.janetmacleodtrotter.com

  By Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Historical:

  The Jarrow Trilogy

  The Jarrow Lass

  Child of Jarrow

  Return to Jarrow

  The Durham Trilogy

  The Hungry Hills

  The Darkening Skies

  Never Stand Alone

  The Tyneside Sagas

  The Tea Planter’s Daughter

  The Suffragette

  A Crimson Dawn

  A Handful of Stars

  Chasing the Dream

  For Love & Glory

  Scottish Historical Romance

  The Beltane Fires

  Mystery:

  The Vanishing of Ruth

  The Haunting of Kulah

  Teenage:

  Love Games

  Non Fiction:

  Beatles & Chiefs

  To Graeme and Amy - for the joy you bring

  ***

  Praise for THE DARKENING SKIES:

  ‘A moving and well written tale, The Darkening Skies continues the story of the people who live in the fictitious mining community of Whitton Grange. Janet convincingly portrays the rising tide of hate that engulfs the village…There is a good deal of worry, misery and poverty. But there is also courage, warmth, and, above all hope.

  The Newcastle Journal

  ‘This rich slice of pit-town life shows a world which is all but forgotten.’

  Northern Echo

  ‘I have just finished reading the fantastic novel ‘The Darkening Skies’ and I must say that I found your novel impossible to put down. You have written a story about prejudice, hatred and passion and you’ve managed to make me chuckle as well as shed a tear. You clearly are one of the genre’s best writers. I hope that you keep producing more great books.’

  J.D.B. - Malta.

  Chapter One

  ‘April 21st 1939. Today Sid Gibson asked me to marry him.’

  Sara Pallister stared at the words she had just written in the old exercise book she used as a diary, chewing on the end of her pencil, recalling her surprise. They had been sitting on the wall below the old lead mine, dipping their feet into the burn. It was cold as ice. Heather was burning over on Thimble Hill and they had been watching the fires spreading in the wind. At least Sara had been. All of a sudden Sid had said, ‘Do you want to get wed?’ Sara had laughed, ‘To who, like?’ As Sid flushed scarlet she had realised the farmer’s son was serious. He wants to marry me! she thought with incredulity, re-reading the stark words laid out in her bold script.

  She had had this daydream for years about being proposed to up on the fell, among the heather. Her dream lad was tall and dark and full of passion, like Heathcliffe in Wuthering Heights which Sara had read so often her mother complained the pages were falling out.

  But Sid, Sara thought with dissatisfaction, had a round face and straw-coloured hair. She knew her father and Sid’s father would be pleased at the Pallisters and the Gibsons coming together after generations of being neighbours. And Bill’s Mary would say good riddance and have her out of the house as quick as a flash, Sara thought, glancing across the large kitchen-cum-parlour at her sister-in-law. Mary was too mean to stoke up her own fire, preferring to come round here and help herself to her mother-in-law’s cooking and have a gossip.

  ‘John Lawson’s got the sack from the slaughterhouse,’ Mary was saying. Turning up drunk he was - and he with a bairn to support. Beth was a fool marrying a waster like John Lawson.’

  Always poking her nose in is Mary Emerson, Sara thought, resentful of the criticism of her friend Beth. Her mother was too soft to tell Mary to mind her own business and just now Sara was too preoccupied with Sid’s proposal. At least Mary did not know about her and Sid, Sara thought, hugging her secret.

  She thought back to that moment on the wall again.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Sara had said and Sid had leaned over and kissed her. His mouth had been dry and tasted sweetly of hay and Sara’s long, wispy hair had blown in the way.

  Sara wondered what it would be like being married to Sid. They would have to live with his family so he could help his father with the farm and it would be a life of fetching and carrying and she would never get to see the world like her brother Tom in the army.

  Imagine never leaving Rillhope, Sara thought in dismay, or at least never getting beyond market day at Lilychapel most of the year. She might never see Bishop Auckland or Durham again! Sara realised with a painful yearning that she longed to see more of the world. She wanted to see the dance bands she heard on her mother’s gramophone and go
to the pictures to see Clark Gable. She wanted one of those hats that came down over one eye and looked like they would slide off your head. But Sid Gibson did not understand this.

  ‘You’ll change once you’re married,’ Sid had told her like a doctor reassuring a sick patient, ‘lasses do.’

  That evening, Sara would have told her brother Tom whose leave was almost at an end, about the proposal but a row blew up at the supper table. It was over the Germans marching into Czechoslovakia, though Sara was vague as to where it was or why it should cause so much bickering between Tom and her father.

  ‘He’s done it now, Hitler has,’ Tom declared. ‘He’ll not be happy till he’s scrapping with us an’ all.’

  ‘Don’t talk daft,’ Mr Pallister fretted, pushing away his food with disinterest.

  ‘Well, we can’t ignore Jerry for ever,’ Tom continued, despite the signs of his father’s darkening mood. ‘They’ve got away with too much for too long. There’ll be a scrap.’

  ‘Chamberlain won’t allow it!’ his father snapped.

  ‘Chamberlain!’ Tom scoffed. ‘He’s got his head up his backside.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ his father cried and pushing back his chair stormed out to the byre, leaving the family subdued.

  The next day was Sunday and Sara peered out of the kitchen window at the rain spattering the daffodils, thinking glumly that Tom’s leave finished tomorrow. She would miss him and the way he defended her when Mary got on her high horse about how she did not help around the house enough! Tom looked so grand in his Durham Light Infantry uniform, a real soldier, Sara thought proudly, watching him polish his boots. Even so, she wished he would not upset their father with his talk about another war with the Germans.

  Last night her father had spent most of the evening sulking in the byre with the sickly lambs. These days he was always moody and their mother constantly warned them not to get in his way. He had not whistled round the house for weeks with all this talk of war, Sara thought, and then there were those letters from the bank she had overheard Mary and Bill discussing about the farm owing money. But why worry? Sara reasoned. Banks had plenty of money, so why should they mind if their small farm borrowed a bit?

  ‘Put that blessed diary away before your father sees it,’ Lily Pallister fussed at her daughter. ‘And find Chrissie - make sure she’s washed her face. Hurry up now!’

  Sara slipped her notebook under the hooky mat by the solid oak sideboard and rushed into the scullery. Pulling on a pair of mud-splashed Wellington boots and covering her head with her gabardine coat, she ventured outside into the pouring rain. She slithered along the flagstones in front of the farmhouse and dived into the adjoining barn, knowing her younger sister would be with the lambs.

  ‘Chrissie! Haway we’ll be late for chapel,’ Sara panted, peering into the nearest stall.

  ‘Smoky won’t take his milk this morning,’ Chrissie looked up from her crouched position in the straw, her straight brown hair falling across her eyes. Sara had known her thirteen-year-old sister stay in the barn all night keeping vigil over the tiny bleating lambs, coaxing them to drink from a bottle.

  ‘You’ll have to leave him now,’ the older girl said more gently, ‘but I’ll come and help you feed him after chapel. Mam’s going light we’re not ready.’

  ‘Dad says I can keep Smoky as a pet if he pulls through.’ Chrissie’s pale face broke into a smile.

  ‘That’s grand.’ Sara took her hand and pulled her up, thinking how soft her father was under his gruff exterior. He had paid for Bill and Mary’s wedding last year because Mary’s parents had been means tested and were getting public assistance. Furthermore, Richard Pallister did not insist that his sixteen-year-old daughter went out to work. No wonder he’s in debt to the bank, Sara thought with a twinge of guilt.

  The girls hurried back to the house and Sara made Chrissie wipe her face with a damp flannel while she combed the straw out of her tangled hair, before binding it into pigtails. Her own long, honey-coloured hair she bound in a pink ribbon then fixed on her green beret at a jaunty angle, glancing at her mother to see if she noticed. But she was bending over the range, her all-enveloping apron protecting her frayed best dress from the cinders.

  Down the stairs clattered her father and Tom, the one in starched white collar and old-fashioned black three-piece suit, the other in the khaki of his DLI uniform and polished black boots. Tom’s face was ruddy with scrubbing, but her father’s chin was nicked from shaving. It was not like him to allow his razor to become blunt. He reached for his sombre black hat, ignoring her look of concern.

  ‘Fetch the Bible, Sara,’ he commanded as they gathered in the doorway. Tom, help your brother hitch up the trap.’

  Tom winked at Sara as he passed and pulled her beret over her eyes.

  ‘Gerr off!’ his sister complained and rushed to the mirror.

  ‘Do as your father says, Sara,’ her mother said with a twitch of a smile as she pinned her blue hat to thick brown hair, ‘and straighten up that beret. You’re not going on a fashion parade.’

  Chrissie giggled as their father led them out into a fresh deluge of rain and ran for the trap which Bill had waiting outside. Mary was already perched on a bench under the slim protection of a canvas covering, her round face prim under her purple crocheted hat. The other women and Tom squeezed in beside her while Richard Pallister took the reins beside Bill. The stocky Dales pony, Bluebell, set off at a quick trot down the track, shaking the passengers against each other in the old carriage. Cath, the Pallisters’ sheepdog, ran barking a farewell behind them until they reached the first gate, then she turned and trotted back to her kennel in the yard.

  ‘Likely Sid Gibson’ll be there already,’ Tom teased Sara.

  ‘So?’ she answered unconcernedly, her fair face colouring.

  ‘He’s become quite religious since I was last home.’ Tom winked.

  ‘That’s enough, Tom,’ Lily Pallister said, but her smile was indulgent. ‘The Gibsons have always been good chapel-goers.’

  Mary joined in. ‘I saw you coming back from Rillhope mine yesterday with Sid Gibson. You seem to be seeing a lot of him lately.’

  ‘Am I?’ Sara replied, giving her sister-in-law a dismissive look. ‘I thought you were too busy with all your housework to notice what other folks do.’

  Chrissie sniggered into her hand, but Mary was quick to retaliate.

  ‘So you are courting, then? It would explain why you never have time to feed the hens, wouldn’t it, Mrs Pallister?’ She gave a knowing look to her mother-in-law, but the older woman did not respond. Mary persisted, ‘If you’re serious about Sid Gibson you’ll have to bring him round for tea, won’t she, Mrs Pallister? Better than sneaking around the beck in all weathers - it’s not seemly.’

  ‘That’s up to Sara, our Mary,’ Lily Pallister replied evenly, unruffled by their bickering. ‘Sid’s always welcome at Stout House.’ She squinted at her plump-cheeked daughter through the rain. Sara flushed under the scrutiny.

  ‘I just went for a walk up the beck, and happened to bump into him,’ she said defensively. ‘Can’t a lass go for a walk without being watched?’

  ‘Aye,’ Tom agreed, ‘Sara’s always been one for walkin’, nowt wrong with that.’ He scanned Mary’s thickening figure with his blue eyes. ‘Looks like you could do with a bit exercise, yourself. Too much of Mam’s home baking, eh, Mary?’

  Mary gave him a hostile look and turned back to Sara. ‘It doesn’t do to lead a lad on, mind,’ she continued to needle. ‘If you’re courting you should come right out with it and say so.’

  Sara looked at her with derision, encouraged by Tom’s jibe. She had a good mind to blurt out that Sid Gibson had proposed to her, she had not had to do the proposing like Mary had to Bill. Her dull, sensible sister-in-law had caught her brother like a fly in a spider’s web at the spring fair two years ago and he had put up no resistance. They had been married within the year and since then Mary Emerson, the unemployed quarryman’
s daughter, had strutted around Stout House as if she owned the place.

  But Richard Pallister put an end to their squabbling. ‘I’ll have no more o’ your noise, or I’ll skelp the lot o’ you,’ he barked over his shoulder.

  Sara pursed her pink lips and swallowed her retort, silenced by her mother’s warning look and her father’s black mood. Exchanging grins with Tom, she turned to survey the rain-soaked valley. Mist rolled off the top of the fell, hiding the steep fields of grazing sheep and blurring the criss-cross of dry-stone walls. Below them was Rillhope, a huddled row of cottages and a cluster of stone barns that held the slaughterhouse and Dickson’s garage. The river, peaty brown from its race down the hillside, chuckled and foamed past the cottage doorways with their white-washed lintels.

  No one spoke as they passed the Gibsons’ farm. A couple of hens pecked forlornly on the open stone steps up to the farmhouse door, otherwise Highbeck was deserted. A shiny tractor stood ostentatiously at the gate and Sara saw Bill glance at it enviously as they rattled by in the cart.

  Twenty minutes later they drew up in front of the Lowbeck Methodist Chapel that served the scattered communities of this remote part of upper Weardale. It was a solid stone building, only distinguishable from some of the farm buildings around it by its large, plain windows and discreet board that proclaimed the times of the services and Sunday School classes. Parked in front of its iron railings was the schoolmaster’s gleaming blue Austin and next to it the even grander red Ford belonging to the butcher. Sara noticed Sid’s battered bicycle propped against a tree and wondered if he would ever drive something as exotic as these cars.

  Clambering down from the trap, she followed her parents into the chapel and they filed into the Pallisters’ boxed pew, three rows from the front. She caught sight of Sid off to the right as she sat down, but was too far forward to look at him during the long service without craning round.

  ‘Beth Lawson’s wearing a new hat,’ Mary murmured at the beginning of the second hymn. ‘Don’t know how she can afford it with a new bairn to feed and clothe and John out of work.’