Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Do you want to see the bailiffs come in and auction off what’s been in Pallister hands for a century and see us begging for public assistance? ‘Cos that’s the alternative!’

  ‘Of course not,’ Sara replied quickly, flinging her arms around her mother’s neck. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Lily steeled herself to carry on. ‘So you are going to have to help the family too, Sara.’

  ‘How?’ she asked, drawing back warily.

  ‘There’ll be precious little room next door for me and Chrissie, so you’re to go to Uncle Alfred and Aunt Ida’s for a while. It’ll be easier finding work there than up here - and we’ll need you to work now, pet, every bit will help.’ Sara’s stomach churned at her mother’s words. ‘Aren’t you the lucky one going back to Whitton Grange?’ her mother attempted to joke. ‘I’ve been hankering after the place since I left! Haven’t I always bored the neighbours to tears with stories of my days there as a lass?’

  ‘Aye,’ Sara answered with a forced smile. ‘But Uncle Alfred - what does he think?’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be pleased to have you.’ Sara knew that for a lie. Her mother continued with forced brightness, ‘And you’ll be company for Ida. Uncle Alfred’s going to enquire about a job for you. It’ll all be just grand. They’ve got a nice house now, by all accounts, overman’s house near the green. Three bedrooms and electricity in every room - and a bathroom with an inside toilet, imagine that! And you can come home for visits once you’re settled in a new position. Mind you, once you’ve seen the bright lights of Whitton you’ll not want to come home, but!’

  ‘I will,’ Sara insisted, smothering her mother with an embrace, knowing the older woman was hiding her grief in a bold show of good humour.

  She was still too weak and confused to work out whether she wanted to go away to the pit village down the valley. The violent changes of the past few days were far too sudden for her to comprehend. Should she tell her mother of Sid’s proposal now? Sara could no longer think straight, and before she could find the words to tell her secret, her mother was tucking her up in bed and leaving with the half-touched plate of pie.

  ‘I’ll pop up with a hot drink later.’ She blew a kiss from the doorway and was gone.

  It was two weeks before Sara was well enough to go outside again. For the first few days she walked around the fields close to the farm, helping Bill count the lambs. At first she felt light-headed and fragile from the unaccustomed exercise, but gradually she felt her old strength and energy return.

  Soon she was walking to the store at Rillhope with eggs from her mother’s hens to sell and helping Mary spring clean Stout House in preparation for letting. Bill, with the help of Sid and Mr Gibson, worked on repairing the roof where it leaked into the scullery.

  ‘Given a lick of paint Stout House’ll look just grand,’ Lily Pallister said stoically as the women sorted through the dresser in the kitchen.

  ‘It seems a shame to leave this in the house,’ Mary said, holding up an embroidered tablecloth.

  Lily sighed, ‘That was my mother’s. We embroidered it together before I got wed. Take it next door if you like.’ Mary smiled in approval and put it to one side.

  Sara shifted restlessly, flicking dosed the lid of the box full of possessions that were going for auction at Lilychapel next month. She hated to see her old home dismantled and portioned off and the furniture rearranged to suit strangers.

  ‘I’ll go and meet Chrissie from school,’ she announced.

  ‘But we’ve got two more drawers to sort,’ Mary said.

  ‘You’re better at this than me,’ Sara replied and disappeared outside.

  ‘Let her go.’ Lily gave her daughter-in-law a warning look. ‘She’ll be off to Whitton shortly so she might as well enjoy her last few days.’

  ‘Then she’ll find out what hard work is all about,’ Mary muttered.

  Lily watched her daughter dash past the window, her pale gold hair lifting in the breeze and felt a pang of loneliness at the thought of her going. Sara, who looked achingly like her father but was most akin to her in mood and character, would leave a gaping hole in her life when she took the bus to Whitton Grange, Lily thought.

  Sara found Sid trundling his old bicycle down the track towards Highbeck. She had seen him leave Stout House with his dirty tweed jacket slung over one shoulder, the repairs to the roof finished. She had avoided him while recuperating from the ‘flu, unsure what to say to him. But the words could no longer be delayed.

  ‘Sid!’ she cried, running after him. ‘Wait on!’ He turned and stopped.

  ‘Sid…’ she came to a breathless halt at his side, her flyaway hair escaping its ribbon to lick her face. ‘How are you?’ she felt suddenly foolish, as he returned her look with puzzled blue eyes. He nodded. ‘Can I walk with you?’ Sara asked, her throat turning dry.

  ‘Aye,’ he agreed and began pushing his bicycle again.

  She felt a pang of remorse at having avoided Sid; the last thing she wanted was to hurt him.

  ‘Strangers are coming to Stout House next month,’ she told him, attempting to draw bun out. ‘We’ve nearly sorted everything - it’ll need a wagon to take all the stuff for auction. Mam and Mary are going to cook and clean for the visitors, did you know?’

  ‘Aye.’ Sid slid her a cautious look, ‘Bill said.’

  ‘What else did Bill say?’ Sara asked, dreading his reply.

  ‘That you’re ganin’ to Whitton Grange to live with your uncle.’ Sid’s voice was flat. Sara slipped a hand on to his arm.

  ‘Come up to the mine with me, Sid,’ she asked, her green eyes pleading, ‘I can’t tell you about it here.’

  With a sigh he abandoned his machine and followed her over the stile. Together they climbed the hill and jumped the stone wall that bordered the beck, following the path that snaked upriver to the disused lead mine. Wild primroses were already sprouting out of the rocks about them and the trees were forcing out tiny emerald green buds. Their footsteps echoed against the rock walls of the ravine that used to provide a natural stable for the ponies that worked the mine.

  Hopping the stepping stones, Sara led the way to the broken-down wall that marked the entrance to the old washing floor where the lead had been sifted from the stone. Years ago, the large water wheel had been removed for use elsewhere. High above them a curlew gave a mournful, throaty whistle as it dived into a current of air and was swept eastwards. Sara shivered to be so close to the place where her father had died, just a few hundred yards further up the beck. She could not come here alone, but with Sid she felt safe.

  ‘I have to go and find work.’ Sara sat on the wall and spoke quietly. ‘Mam needs the money I can send home and it’ll be one less mouth to feed. And if it means we can save Stout House for future Pallisters then I don’t mind going.’

  ‘And what about us?’ Sid’s tone was reproachful. Sara took one of his rough, grimy hands in hers.

  ‘Before the accident I might have said yes to you, Sid.’ She smiled at his ruddy face wistfully. ‘But now I’d be marrying you for the wrong reasons. I can’t turn me back on the family now and escape its problems - I’ve promised Mam I’ll help out and I will. Uncle Alfred sounds a right sack in the mud, but I can stand up to him.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sid smiled ruefully, ‘I don’t doubt you can.’

  ‘And it won’t be for ever,’ Sara tried to sound optimistic. ‘Uncle Alfred said he’ll only have me a few months any roads.’

  ‘It sounds a long time to me,’ Sid said, twisting his cap between strong hands.

  ‘You’ll have a bit peace without me around,’ she smiled.

  ‘Are we still courting?’ Sid’s question was almost inaudible.

  Sara regarded him with frank green eyes. ‘I’m not ready for marriage yet, Sid,’ she said softly. ‘I’m only sixteen and I’ve got to find me feet in the world. I’ve been gaddin’ about like a silly bairn full of fancy ideas about film stars. But life’s not going to be like that, is it? I’ve only come to see tha
t since Dad…’ Her eyes pricked as she thought of her father, she could not bring herself to use the word ‘died’ in this haunted spot.

  Sid nodded resignedly and jammed on his cap. ‘I’ll miss thee, lass.’ Sara turned her face up to his and they kissed briefly, affectionately on the lips. She felt a wave of tenderness for Sid, so physically strong, yet so gentle and mild mannered with her.

  Sliding off the wall, Sara whispered, ‘Will you show me where Dad - you know - please, Sid?’

  He looked at her, aghast, for a moment. ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘I need to know where, before I go,’ she insisted.

  Sid flushed but he took her hand and led her up the sheep’s path that clung to the edge of the beck. Five minutes later they reached the top of the ravine where the waterfall plunged deafeningly on to the black slimy rocks below. Today the water sparkled like liquid silver in the early May sun, not like that fateful Sunday, Sara thought, when it must have roared and fumed in a brown, boiling cascade.

  ‘He was standing on the far side.’ Sid pointed grimly. ‘I was coming up the path below.’

  ‘But what was he doing there?’ Sara asked perplexed. ‘The ewes were two fields away. Was he after a stray?’

  Sid shrugged, uncomfortable with the question. ‘More than likely.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  Sid gulped. He could not describe to her the picture that had plagued him since that twilit afternoon. The light had been bad and it was raining hard, so he must have been mistaken. Yet try as he may, he could not get the thought out of his head that Richard Pallister had hurled himself off the top of the ravine into the turbulence below. Sid had tracked his movements across the fell, trying to pluck up the courage to ask the farmer’s approval in marrying his daughter. But Pallister had acted strangely, not checking on his sheep at all as he roamed the rain-sodden moors, before suddenly switching direction and heading for the beck. He had called up to Sara’s father, but the noise of the waterfall had drowned his appeals. The man had looked up to the sky and shouted something, then jumped.

  Sara’s eyes watched him keenly, awaiting his answer, as if she, too, suspected there had been no accident.

  ‘He slipped,’ Sid replied in a small voice. And took with him my chances of marrying his daughter, Sid thought to himself with bitterness.

  Sara’s distressed face looked down at the rushing water. ‘There wasn’t any hope, was there, even if I’d found the doctor?’

  ‘None,’ Sid assured her.

  Sara gulped back tears, banishing the vision of her father plunging to his death. The place held no fears for her now, just a desperate emptiness. For the first time she was swept with relief that she would soon be leaving Stout House behind and the grief that rang around its walls. The strange world of Whitton Grange might frighten her, but nothing would remind her of the loss of her dear father as did this desolate beck and the rugged hills around.

  Thanks, Sid,’ she whispered. ‘I best be gettin’ back.’

  Descending in silence to the stile by the farm track, they parted.

  ‘I’ll see you before I leave,’ Sara promised, pushing strands of hair out of her face.

  Even in her old, darned school skirt and green jumper unravelling at the sleeve, Sid thought her beautiful. He nodded and watched Sara rush back up the dirt road to Stout House. He saw, with regret, that Sara Pallister did not look back.

  Chapter Three

  Changing buses at Stanhope marked Sara’s final farewell to the Dales. Leaving behind the solid, sandy-coloured farmhouses and the rugged patchwork of fields dotted with quietly grazing sheep, she was suddenly swamped by the bustle of the market town.

  ‘Parker’s is o’er there,’ a man answered Sara’s anxious question as to which bus would take her to Whitton Grange. ‘Green dirty one,’ the man nodded and hurried on.

  Clutching the small suitcase that her mother had brought with her as a young bride to Stout House, Sara scurried across the street, dodging the traffic of farm carts, milk lorry, butcher’s van and bicycles.

  ‘Going all the way to Durham, pet?’ asked the beaky-nosed driver.

  ‘Whitton Grange,’ Sara croaked, her throat dry and tight with crying.

  ‘Right you are,’ he smiled and grabbed her case, helping her on board. Already seated were two middle-aged women nursing shopping baskets, a young mother with a fractious baby hidden in a frilly coat and hat and three men bent over the same newspaper. Sara was struck by the thought that she recognised nobody; for the first time in her life there was no familiar face to which she could turn and share her apprehension. Feeling the pressure of fresh tears building up behind her eyes, she sat down quickly and stared through the window at the chaotic street outside.

  ‘Visiting family, are you?’ the bus driver asked pleasantly.

  Sara gulped and nodded, but could not trust herself to speak.

  ‘I’m a Whitton Grange man m’sel,’ he smiled and began lighting a cigarette. ‘What’s your family’s name?’

  Clearing her throat Sara managed to say, ‘I’m a Pallister -but me Mam’s family are Cummings. I’m going to stop with me Uncle Alfred.’

  ‘Alf Cummings?’ the driver blew out a ball of smoke. ‘Overman at the Eleanor?’

  ‘You know him?’ Sara asked.

  The man grunted. ‘We used to scrap when we were lads -always fighting was Alf Cummings - bad-tempered bugger, your uncle.’ The driver grinned. Sara flushed at his bluntness; she could not imagine her serious uncle being involved in anything as unseemly as a fight. The driver continued, ‘So you’ll be Lily Cummings’s daughter?’

  ‘Aye,’ Sara said, feeling a rush of gratitude at his interest. ‘You know Mam, too?’

  ‘Bonny lass, your mam was,’ he flicked ash out of the open window.’ ‘Course, haven’t set eyes on her for years. Married a farmer, didn’t she?’

  Sara’s eyes stung with tears as she nodded. ‘Me dad died last month. That’s why I have to gan to me uncle’s - he’s going to find me a job.’ Seeing her distress, the bus driver patted her shoulder briefly.

  ‘Sorry, pet. Must be hard on you.’

  Then a flurry of last-minute passengers arrived with luggage, children and two dogs and he flicked his cigarette butt out of the window and went to help them on board.

  Sara shuffled up to make room for a young man in naval uniform and she thought of Tom back with his regiment.

  Only last week the wireless had announced the introduction of conscription for twenty- and twenty-one-year-old men. Until then, she had taken no real notice of the talk of war on the Continent or Tom’s heated arguments with their father over Germany’s occupation of Czechoslovakia. Oh Dad! He would have been appalled at the preparations for war; he had forbidden any talk of preparing a shelter from air attack in the old lead mine. But her father was not here to dispute with this young sailor, would never be there to protect his family again and his going had overshadowed all other concerns about what might be happening beyond Stout House. And although the sight of a uniform was unnerving, Sara could not imagine war coming to this busy market town with everyone hurrying about their business in the spring sunshine.

  The bus coughed and revved into life and they edged their way through the town with noisy splutters from behind. Sara watched the fells suddenly unravel into gentle, rolling hills covered in woods and untidy hedgerows rushing along beside the road. The countryside was studded with tightly packed redbrick villages sending up smoke from their chimneys and gathered around spinning pit wheels.

  The sun through the window was hot on Sara’s face and the bus stuffy with the smell of humans, dogs and cigarette smoke. By the time it had wound its way around outlying communities dropping off and picking up passengers and provisions, Sara felt queasy from the unaccustomed motion. The sailor, whose name was Frank Robson, was telling her he had been visiting an aunt in Stanhope before going to join his new ship, his training finished. Her throat watered ominously, but she fought back the urge to b
e sick. She nodded or shook her head in reply to his chatter and it was with relief she heard the driver call to her that the next stop would be Whitton Grange.

  Taking her mind off her sickness, Sara craned for a better view of her new home. They were passing a pretty stone-built church set in a leafy graveyard, its notice board proclaiming it as St Cuthbert’s Parish Church. She was struck by the number of trees camouflaging the town. On the nearside stretched a wooded dene, its trees bursting with fresh, lime-green leaves and, beyond it, an impressive row of grand redbrick villas isolated from each other by high garden walls. Sara was quite astonished by what she saw, not in the least expecting to find such wealth and grandeur in a mining town. Her spirits raised a fraction.

  But as the bus chugged nearer to the town itself, she noticed that the stream through the dene was shiny with oil and a rusting coal tub and other debris lay piled on its banks. A railway track ran parallel to the road and a labouring engine pulling full trucks of coal panted past with a piercing whistle that made Sara jump.

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ Frank the sailor said with amusement. ‘You’ll find the country too quiet after a bit, believe me.’

  Sara gave an anxious smile and peered at the rows of blackened brick houses marching up the hill as the bus turned and groaned at the incline. Each terrace was belching smoke into the blue sky, an acrid haze that pinched the nostrils and covered the town in a veil of grey. The bus eased along a wide street lined with shops, their faded, striped canopies shading windows packed with tins of pilchards and semolina, displays of tea and cigarettes. An ironmonger’s had pails and brushes hanging outside its door and a strange-looking metal contraption blocking the pavement, advertising itself as a modern washing machine.

  Groups of men stood chatting in the sun, dressed in suits of dark blue and black with large caps shading their faces. The driver hooted with impatience as shoppers crossed the road in front of the bus.

  ‘South Street!’ the driver called as the bus juddered to a stop outside the imposing entrance to the co-operative store. Across the road, people were queuing for a cinema proclaiming itself in brash lettering to be The Palace. Sara craned to see what film was showing. Gary Grant and Carol Lombard were starring in something, but she could not see the name. The young woman with the baby alighted, her child now asleep in her arms, the driver handing down her carpet bag.