Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘We’ll have a cup of tea in the parlour,’ Aunt Ida continued to prattle. ‘Just leave the case at the foot of the stairs and Marina can show you your room in a minute. Father’ll be back shortly from the Institute - plays billiards there every Saturday - but he’s never late for tea. Your Uncle Alfred doesn’t like anyone being late for tea.’ She threw Sara a look of caution. ‘Come in and sit down.’ She pushed open a cream-painted door into a brightly lit room flooded with the afternoon sun.

  It was crammed with furniture and ornaments and lamps with fringed shades and clocks and photographs in pigskin frames. ‘I’ll warm the pot. Marina - take Sara’s beret.’ Marina remained clinging to her mother’s dress. ‘Go and sit with Cousin Sara, now, Marina pet.’

  Reluctantly her daughter allowed herself to be coaxed from behind the screen of pink and yellow cotton. Aunt Ida hurried away and Sara sat on the edge of a floral-patterned seat listening to the clink of china cups in the kitchen. Marina swung her legs back and forth between the arms of two chairs, without taking her eyes off Sara. Sara pulled off her beret and smoothed back damp hair.

  ‘Your hair needs washing,’ the young girl commented.

  Sara flushed, but answered quickly, ‘Aye, I know. I’d like to have a bath before chapel tomorrow. Always bath on a Saturday night at home.’

  Marina laughed loudly as if she had said something amusing. ‘We don’t go to chapel.’ She assumed a superior air. ‘Mam and me go to St Cuthbert’s. It’s for posh people, but you can come with us if you like. The Seward-Scotts go to St Cuthbert’s - they sit in the gallery.’

  Sara had no idea who the Seward-Scotts might be, but from Marina’s tone she knew she ought to be impressed.

  ‘Uncle Alfred goes to chapel though, doesn’t he?’ she asked, trying not to appear ruffled by the girl’s condescending manner.

  ‘Daddy doesn’t go to church or chapel unless it’s Christmas or somebody dies or there’s a christening. He goes to the club on Sundays - not the men’s club - the officials’ club - the posh one.’ Marina’s small, narrow face allowed a smile of satisfaction. ‘We can’t start Sunday dinner until Daddy comes home.’

  Aunt Ida bustled in with a huge tray of cups, tea plates and mounds of scones and sandwiches and a large sponge cake with orange icing.

  ‘Can I help?’ Sara asked, unnerved by her aunt’s frantic activity.

  ‘Pull out that table over there, Sara,’ her aunt indicated with her thin eyebrows, ‘and put the flaps up.’ Sara arranged the gate-leg table as instructed. She took the starched white tablecloth from under her aunt’s arm and spread it out. Aunt Ida glanced worriedly at one of the docks, a dainty carriage clock on the mantelpiece with Roman numerals.

  ‘Father will be home any minute,’ she said as if to reassure herself. ‘He likes the tea just so - not too stewed - but not too weak. Men hate weak tea, don’t you find?’

  Sara had never given it a thought, but did not say so.

  ‘And Cousin Colin?’ she enquired. ‘Will he be having tea with us?’

  ‘Oh, that lad!’ Aunt Ida said with exasperation. ‘He pleases himself. He’d rather eat in the yard with those wretched dogs, given half a chance. I’ve tried to teach him proper manners, but he’ll not be taught. His own mother was far too soft on him, of course, God rest her soul. Spare the rod and spoil the child, I say. Father’s the only one he takes heed of, does Colin.’

  Sara did not remember Uncle Alfred’s first wife, for Aunt Susan had died when Sara was quite small. But her mother had told her that Uncle Alfred had soon married Ida, the housekeeper, who had come to help him look after his young son. That must have been when they lived in a small terraced house next to a butcher’s shop. Sara’s only recollection of visiting there as a small girl was of strings of sausages displayed in the window like garlands.

  Aunt Ida turned to see Marina poking her finger into the butter icing on the sponge cake. ‘Marina, poppet, don’t spoil your appetite.’ Marina licked her fingertip and then reached out for a thin drop scone spread with butter and jam. She shovelled it into her small, round mouth. ‘Well, just the one,’ Aunt Ida said weakly. ‘But don’t let your father catch you.’

  The older woman left the room to fetch the teapot. Marina swallowed hard and quickly reached for another scone, defying Sara with mischievous blue eyes.

  You heard what your mother said,’ Sara warned. But Marina stuck out her small pink tongue, then crammed the whole scone between elastic lips. Sara itched to smack her insolent face, but Aunt Ida returned with another tray-load and placed the tea and hot-water jug on a side table with the milk and sugar and cups of pink and white china. If she saw Marina’s bulging cheeks, she chose to ignore the disobedience.

  A door slammed and a voice called, ‘I’m home!’

  Aunt Ida’s hands flew to pat her permed hair, though not a strand was out of place. Sara wished she had had time to rearrange hers and wash her sticky face.

  ‘Daddy!’ Marina flew to the door, her scone digested in seconds. She jumped up at the small, stout man who entered and demanded, ‘Have you brought me anything? What have you got behind your back? Show me, show me!’

  He teased her a second more and then produced a package with a laugh. ‘For my little pet!’ He kissed her head, but she had turned away and was already tearing at the brown paper bag. He turned to his wife and asked curtly, ‘Tea ready?’

  She nodded anxiously towards Sara hovering in the corner and Alfred Cummings’s face creased into stern lines as he saw her.

  ‘So you’re here,’ he grunted.

  ‘Aye.’ Sara gave him a nervous smile. ‘Mr Parker the bus driver said to send his best,’ she said, trying to win his approval. She wondered if she should give her uncle a kiss? He had not come to see her at her father’s funeral, when she had lain upstairs full of misery. He was little more than a stranger. Sara stuck out her hand instead.

  ‘Parker?’ he answered suspiciously, ignoring her gesture.

  ‘Aye, he said you used to be friends - as lads.’ Sara dropped her hand, feeling foolish.

  ‘Oh, aye, Parker,’ Uncle Alfred repeated with disinterest. ‘Still driving that clapped-out old bus.’ He turned away from his niece. ‘Get the tea poured, Ida,’ he said and waved an imperious hand.

  ‘Yes, Father!’ Aunt Ida smiled and rushed to unveil the teapot, beginning the ritual of pouring and adding milk. With dainty pincers she dropped four sugar lumps into Alfred’s cup and handed it to her husband as he settled himself into a deep armchair with lace antimacassars protecting the flowered upholstery.

  ‘Milk and sugar?’ Aunt Ida asked, turning to Sara.

  ‘Just milk, thank you.’ Sara squirmed at the formality.

  ‘Pass me them sandwiches, lass,’ Uncle Alfred ordered. As Marina was now absorbed in eating the strands of red liquorice that her father had bought her, Sara assumed he was speaking to her. She handed him a plate which he piled high with dainty triangular sandwiches of white bread with their crusts cut off. Sara felt a twinge of longing for her mother’s thick wedges of homemade loaf spread thick with cheesy farm butter and honey from the hives at Thimble Hill.

  ‘How’s your mother?’ Uncle Alfred asked at last, through the churning of paste sandwiches.

  ‘She’s managing, thank you,’ Sara replied. ‘But it’s a good job our Bill’s around to help with the farm. And Mary, too - she’s going to cook for the visitors who come to Stout House.’ Sara had not imagined that she would miss her bossy sister-in-law, but at that moment she did.

  ‘Well, I’ve got work for you, young lady,’ Alfred grunted. ‘Dolly Sergeant can do with a bit help in her grocery shop. She’s a widow - old Sergeant was a marra of mine. It’ll just be stacking shelves and doing the running around, but.’

  ‘Father,’ Ida murmured, ‘there’s plenty time to tell Sara about Dolly Sergeant’s shop when she’s had a bite to eat. Help yourself to the sandwiches, Sara.’

  ‘No time like the present,’ her husband scowled. ‘The lass sh
ould be grateful she’s got som’at so soon. I’ll not have her getting in your way, Ida, or spoiling the running of the house. And you’ll be that busy with preparations for the Carnival.’

  ‘I’m sure Sara will be a help around the house, not a hindrance.’ Ida smiled at her shyly. ‘Won’t you, dear?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sara replied, trying to hide her dismay at the future they had planned for her.

  ‘Well, make sure you are,’ Alfred gave Sara a stern look. ‘Now, pass us a piece of that orange cake.’

  Sara’s appetite deserted her in the face of her uncle’s hostility; she knew his response to taking her in had been lukewarm, but she had not expected this abrupt coldness. She struggled to see some resemblance to her mother’s kindly face, so quick to bestow an encouraging smile or conspiratorial wink, but there was none. Uncle Alfred’s eyes might be the same pale brown, she thought, but they were small and hard like polished brown nuts. Sara chewed disconsolately on the starchy bread, watching Marina twirl liquorice around her fingers and snap bits off in her mouth, returning her look with a satisfied smirk.

  Somewhere a door banged open and then shut with the same violence, setting the thin china rattling in fright. Aunt Ida jumped, and Marina looked round warily at the parlour door. Muffled barking subsided as heavy footsteps clumped along the passageway and the noisy intruder entered. A large young man lumbered into the room, his long, lugubrious face set impassively below a shaggy fringe showing the indentation of where his cap had been. Heavily jowled like his father, Colin Cummings looked older than his seventeen years, yet his nose was button-shaped like a little boy’s and his blue eyes showed youthful resentment at the sight of his elders.

  ‘What time do you call this?’ Alfred barked at his son, startling Sara who was expecting to be introduced to her cousin.

  ‘I had a meetin’ with the trainer.’ Colin’s reply was defensive.

  ‘Tea is always at five o’clock,’ his father glared. ‘If those bloody dogs are more important than your own family then you can go and eat your tea with them.’

  Colin stood for a moment as if unsure of his father’s threat. He glanced at Sara and she saw a flood of embarrassment rise from his thick neck into his flaccid cheeks. Her throat dried up at the thought of his humiliation, this huge, ungainly youth being treated like a naughty schoolboy in front of his newly arrived cousin. She felt pity for him and it must have shown because his face set in a scowl at her.

  ‘Go on, get out!’ his father ordered, nicking crumbs off his striped waistcoat and wide worsted suit trousers.

  Colin’s small mouth drew in as if bottling up a retort and he retreated from the room. Aunt Ida said nothing, quickly asking Sara if she would like her teacup refilled. Sara handed it over without a word, a tense knot gripping her stomach. Marina drew closer to her father’s knees and began to chatter about a visit to the park. Uncle Alfred smiled down at her, with an indulgent pat on her head, as if nothing had happened.

  A few minutes elapsed, then Ida asked, ‘Shall I clear away now, Father?’ Her smile was nervous as she sought her husband’s approval. He nodded. Sara saw her aunt put the remaining sandwiches on to the tea tray.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ Sara volunteered at once, not relishing the thought of being left alone with Marina and her surly father. Uncle Alfred gave a further nod of approval and she followed Ida out of the airless parlour, bearing the half-demolished cake.

  ‘He doesn’t mean anything by his outbursts,’ Aunt Ida whispered to her in the safety of the passageway. ‘It’s just Colin can be so awkward. It’s his own fault, silly lad. Come and I’ll introduce you.’

  Sara entered the small kitchen behind her aunt. It was decorated in bright yellow tiles and black linoleum, with a view from the sink into the backyard where some dishcloths were drying on a washing line. One side of the room was taken up by a large white stove with gleaming metal hoods over the hotplates and the remaining walls were lined with orderly cupboards painted in primrose yellow. A door led off in to a walk-in pantry where plates of cheese and cold meat were covered in domed frames of white netting.

  Colin sat hunched on the back doorstep, fondling the heads of two fleshless, skinny-faced dogs. They looked mean and ugly, Sara thought, compared to Cathy, her father’s gentle-eyed sheepdog.

  ‘This is your cousin Sara,’ Ida told him. ‘Say hello, Colin.’

  ‘Hello,’ he mumbled, half twisting to look at her, but not leaving go of his hounds.

  ‘Hello, Colin.’ Sara’s smile was tentative. One of the grey dogs barked at her in suspicion.

  ‘Easy, boy,’ Colin quietened him and he snuffled in to his palm.

  ‘What are they called?’ Sara asked.

  ‘This one’s Flash and this one’s Gypsy.’ They licked as they heard their names. Sara could not tell them apart.

  ‘I like dogs. Can I touch them?’ She stepped forward. Flash growled.

  ‘They don’t take to strangers easy like,’ Colin warned. Sara put out her hand to the quieter dog. It sniffed at her curiously. She patted Gypsy’s head and got a lick in return.

  ‘I don’t like to touch them myself,’ Ida shuddered as she cut some meat from the cold knuckle of ham taken from the larder. ‘Animals are such dirty creatures. I won’t have them in the house, will I, Colin?’ She shoved a plate of food towards him. ‘Now don’t let them have any of it - they’re greedy beasts for all they’re as skinny as string beans.’

  ‘Me dad had a working dog,’ Sara smiled wistfully. ‘Cathy. Bill’s got her now. I miss her a lot.’ Colin nodded as if he understood. ‘Are yours just pets?’ she asked.

  ‘Na,’ he answered with aggression in his voice, ‘these are workin’ dogs an’ all. I’m going to race them once they’re trained. Flash and Gypsy are ganin’ to make me plenty money one of these days.’

  Sara saw Ida roll her eyes in disbelief.

  ‘One of these days you’ll land yourself a proper job like your father,’ she insisted, ‘instead of hanging around with gypsy trainers and the like and looking for easy winnings.’ Colin threw her a resentful look which she missed as she swept the ham back under cover in the pantry.

  ‘I’ll show you upstairs, Sara,’ said Ida when she returned, ‘then you can have yourself a wash. Father goes out to the club in the evening, so you can have a wander round the green - get your bearings. We’ll have a cup of cocoa when he comes in before bed. Father doesn’t like anyone staying out late - not after nine. He says it’s always a bad lot out on the streets after nine, doesn’t he, Colin?’ she added pointedly.

  He ignored her, munching hungrily on a piece of ham, and Sara again sensed their mutual hostility.

  ‘I’ll see you later then,’ Sara said, thankful to be able to escape upstairs. Colin watched her go with expressionless blue eyes, his long jaws working on the food. As she turned to take the stairs, she noticed his gaze was still on her. Picking up her case she hurried after her aunt.

  The second door on the upstairs landing led into a small back bedroom with a view through pink curtains to the back lane and the rows of terraces beyond. A large single bed covered in pink and white patchwork and occupied by a one-eyed teddy bear and a floppy-eared toy dog took up the centre of the room, with a chest of drawers and a narrow wardrobe fighting for the remaining space. At the foot of the bed, blocking the full opening of the door was a truckle bed made up with crisp linen sheets and old blankets that gave off a spicy smell of mothballs.

  ‘This is Marina’s room.’ Aunt Ida squeezed past the low bed to allow Sara to enter. ‘And yours now, of course. Bathroom’s next door - and the toilet’s next to that,’ she added with a proud smile. ‘There’s plenty hot water for a wash. Just make yourself at home, Sara. The top two drawers are for your things and there’s hanging space in the wardrobe.’ She gave Sara’s small case a doubtful glance.

  ‘Thanks, Aunt Ida,’ Sara smiled. ‘I think just one drawer will do.’

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’ They manoeuvred round each
other so Ida could leave. She hesitated a moment, a thin hand on the doorframe. ‘I hope you’ll be happy here,’ she said, uncertainty tingeing her voice. ‘I’m not good at saying these things, but I was sorry about your father going. Father didn’t—’ she stopped. ‘Your Uncle Alfred never thought he was right for your mam - thought farming was too hard a life for her. That’s why he may seem a bit cross at your coming. But he’ll come round - just as long as you help about the place and don’t get in his way. And don’t answer back,’ Ida added with a worried frown. ‘He can’t stand cheekiness.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sara nodded, quite subdued. Her aunt’s face relaxed at her compliance.

  ‘I only met your father the once - at our wedding,’ Ida mused softly. ‘A gentleman if ever there was one. You’re very like him in looks,’ she touched Sara briefly on the arm, ‘two peas out of the same pod.’

  Sara felt her eyes water suddenly at Ida’s kind words, but her aunt closed the door and was gone before she could respond. Gulping back the tears in her throat, she stepped over the truckle bed and stared out of the window. Colin’s dogs lay in the yard below half inside their outhouse, backs nestling against each other as they dozed. She wrestled with the stiff window catch and pushed open the glass to allow a whiff of the evening breeze into the stuffy room.

  In the back lane she saw Marina standing alone, eyeing a group of girls playing a skipping game. She chewed on something while they sang their rhythmic song and took it in turns to jump in to the moving rope. Beyond, she could see a stretch of street with people milling past, calling out to each other, laughing, entering the grand-looking shop on the corner. The evening sun was shining off its window, so Sara could not see what treasures it stocked, but the gold lettering of the shop sign was visible, boldly declaring it as ‘Dimarco’s - Superior Ice Cream’.