Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Sara flushed, furious at the slight to her father. ‘Me dad wasn’t a conchie - he fought with the Durham Faithfuls!’

  ‘And so would I have done, if I’d been old enough,’ Alfred barked, his thick black brows collecting over his red nose like thunderous clouds. ‘I was itching to get out to France, but I was still training when they blew the whistle. Your father always thought himself above me ‘cos he fought with the DLI and I didn’t. Well, I proved mesel’ a man by ganin’ down the pit and now I’ve got all this to show for me hard work.’ He gestured to the laden table and the comfortable room. ‘What’s Dick Pallister left but a bankrupt farm and my sister in poverty? That’s all he ever was - a penniless farmer.’

  Sara felt her face engulfed in red indignation. She glared at her uncle, but she could not trust herself to speak.

  ‘Father,’ Ida tried to calm her husband, ‘we mustn’t speak ill of the dead.’ Alfred shot her an angry look and she smiled nervously. ‘Have some more roast potatoes, Father - they’re your favourite. Marina, pass Father some more tatties and tell him how Mrs Naylor was asking after him at church this morning.’

  The girl did so, making a big show of putting them on his plate. Alfred seemed mollified by her action and the mention of the under-manager’s wife, but his mood was still belligerent and simmered dangerously with each course. By the end of the beef and Yorkshire pudding he was berating Colin for his slovenly appearance and Sara for her red-faced silence; serving trifle Ida dropped some jelly on the tablecloth and was given a lecture on thrifty housekeeping. He even snapped at Marina when she got down from the table without asking permission.

  ‘I work my backside off to bring meat to this table, young lady,’ he shouted, ‘so the least you can do is sit there till we’re all done!’

  ‘Father!’ Ida murmured in weak protest at his language, but her look was timid. Marina slunk to her mother’s side, chewing the end of her plait, her face petulant.

  ‘Get the tea made, Ida!’ Alfred pushed back his chair, stood up, and belched loudly.

  Ida hurried into the kitchen, shushing Marina before her. ‘You go out and play, pet, and give Father some peace.’

  As Alfred left the room, Sara caught Colin’s look of disgust on his half-washed face. She began to clear the table, still fighting back tears of outrage at her uncle’s harsh words about her father.

  ‘I hate ‘im,’ Colin muttered under his breath, but loud enough for Sara to catch. ‘He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.’ She glanced up, surprised by the venom in her cousin’s voice and saw him regarding her with his doleful brown eyes. For the first time she felt the stirrings of friendship for her sullen cousin, grateful for his sympathy.

  ‘I don’t care what he says,’ she answered with spirit, tossing her fair hair over her shoulder. ‘And I’d tell him so, if I didn’t need the job he’s found me and a roof over me head. Aye, I’d tell him his fortune and be off sharp!’

  Colin glanced warily at the closed parlour door across the passageway. ‘Aye, I’ve wanted to do that plenty times,’ Colin admitted, keeping his voice low as he helped her stack the plates.

  ‘Why don’t you?’ Sara encouraged. ‘I don’t know why you put up with the way he treats you. Me dad was kinder to the rats in the barn.’ She stopped, seeing him flush puce and look away from her critical eyes.

  ‘I don’t have a choice, do I?’ he answered defensively, hunching his shoulders. ‘I’ve no job and no money.’

  ‘Sorry, Colin,’ Sara touched his hand lightly, regretting her impulsive words, ‘I can see how it is.’ She quickly gathered up a pile of crockery, eager to get the chores finished and get out of the house. So she did not notice the way her cousin flinched under her touch, or the way he watched her go with a flicker lighting his eyes.

  Walking across the village green Sara turned up a steep street called Daniel Terrace and found the gates to the Memorial Park. Immature cherry trees were in full blossom and the park was busy with pit folk enjoying the fresh air. Young couples strolled arm-in-arm, while others went past pushing raiding old prams. A game of bowls was going on behind a screen of hedges, the flat green like a luxurious carpet. A row of old miners, sitting on a bench like scraggy crows, gave a commentary between throws, one of them shooting spit into the hedge after each pronouncement. The call of children at play rang around the open fields and Sara carried on, feeling her spirits lift as she mingled with the holidaymakers.

  The noise of a game of football drew her towards the far field. Quite a crowd had gathered to watch and their cries were vociferous.

  ‘Who’s playing?’ Sara asked a tall woman among the onlookers who could see what was happening. She thought how much her brother Tom would have enjoyed this lively spectacle.

  ‘Boys’ Brigade ‘gainst the Catholics,’ she replied eagerly. ‘Boys’ Brigade are one-nil up. My nephew’s playing.’ As she turned away, there was a roar from one end of the pitch as someone scored. ‘Oh dear, they’ve equalised,’ the woman cried. ‘Haway, Raymond!’

  Sara stood back, lifting on to tiptoes to try and get a better view without success. Deciding to work her way around to one end, she stepped back further without looking and, as she did so, a noisy revving and tooting behind made her jump violently, twisting her ankle. A jabbing pain shot up her leg and she bent down to clutch it. Turning, she saw a young man skidding across the grass on a motorcycle, whooping with delight and circling the pitch. Attached to his cycle was a battered drum which claimed to be transporting ‘pure ices’.

  ‘Watch where you’re going!’ Sara called after him in annoyance, but the youth did not appear to hear and carried on his flamboyant progress. Sara sat down and rubbed her ankle.

  ‘You all right, pet?’ the fair-haired woman in the pudding hat who had spoken to her before asked as she bent over. ‘That lad’s got no sense sometimes,’ she tutted. ‘Good family, but that one’s wild as they come.’

  ‘Aye, I’m all right.’ Sara stood up again with the woman’s help. ‘Ta very much.’ The older woman had a kind, plain face with light blue eyes and a large mouth that smiled readily.

  ‘Who is he any road?’ Sara asked, craning to see where the motorcyclist had gone, vexed that he had not stopped to see how she was.

  ‘Joe Dimarco,’ the woman answered with a cluck. ‘He’s canny when he’s not causing bother. Father runs an ice-cream shop on Pit Street. Nice man. Mr Dimarco gave us free ice-cream for our chapel picnic last year.’ She squinted at Sara. ‘You not from round here, then?’

  ‘No,’ Sara flexed her ankle, ‘I’m from up Weardale. But me mam’s from Whitton Grange. I’m stopping with me uncle.’

  ‘Oh, and who’s that?’ she asked with interest.

  ‘Alfred Cummings - overman at the Eleanor. Do you know him?’

  The woman’s face clouded as the smile died on her face. ‘Aye,’ she said stiffly as the motorcycle circled again, this time carrying a red-haired passenger shouting support for the Catholics.

  ‘Watch yourselves, lads!’ the woman wagged a finger at them. ‘You nearly knocked this lass over.’

  The rider braked and stopped. He shouted over, ‘Sorry, Mrs Ritson.’ Then, with a grin, ‘Would you like some ice-cream - freshly made this morning?’

  Mrs Ritson waved a hand at him. ‘No, but this lass deserves one.’ She put a hand on Sara’s shoulder. “What’s your name, pet?’

  ‘Sara. Sara Pallister.’

  ‘I’m Louie Ritson.’

  The cyclist parked his bike and clambered off. His passenger slid away quickly to watch the end of the game, with a nod at the tall woman. Sara watched, embarrassed now by the attention, as the dark-haired Joe Dimarco made a grand gesture of opening his drum of ice-cream and, taking a cone from a box strapped to the back of his vehicle, scooped a generous dollop on top.

  ‘For the young lady,’ Joe presented her with the cone, giving a bow. ‘Ciao, bella.’

  Sara blushed at the foreign words, suspecting he was mocking her for creating
a fuss. Well, he had given her a fright, she thought crossly, and bent to give her leg another rub before accepting his peace offering.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, but she could not tell if there was real concern, hidden as he was behind his cycle goggles.

  ‘Ankle’s a bit sore,’ she scowled at him.

  ‘Here, take this,’ he ordered, thrusting the cone into her hand. A moment later he had removed his tattered jacket and spread it on the grass for her to sit on. ‘Gan on, sit down. I can see it’s painful to stand.’

  Sara hesitated, unsure if he teased her or not.

  ‘Please,’ he insisted.

  She lowered herself on to his jacket, clutching the ice-cream with as much decorum as she could manage.

  Ta,’ Sara said coolly. He gave a broad grin.

  Then, pushing his goggles off his face, she saw him properly for the first time. His face was slim, the bones pronounced under his sun-darkened skin, his brown eyes large and lively between black lashes. They were laughing at her, as she’d suspected.

  ‘Eat it before it melts,’ he encouraged and Sara began to lick the frozen ice. It was so long since she had eaten one, she had forgotten how good it tasted. Joe turned to watch the football once more. Sara ate and slid glances at Joe Dimarco while he was not looking.

  ‘Your Raymond’s playing well today,’ he said to Mrs Ritson.

  ‘Not well enough it seems,’ the woman pulled a face, ‘but he tries that hard. Doesn’t get much time to practice these days, mind.’

  ‘Mrs Sergeant still cracking the whip, is she?’ he laughed.

  ‘Don’t be cheeky,’ Raymond’s aunt replied, but could not help smiling. Sara wondered if they could be referring to the Mrs Sergeant who was about to become her employer, but she was concentrating too hard on eating her ice-cream with delicacy to break into the conversation. It was delicious, rich and creamy and tinglingly cold on her tongue. She had never tasted anything quite as good as this before.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Joe turned suddenly to ask her. Sara wiped a bit that was dribbling off her chin and sucked at a trickle spilling over her fingers.

  ‘Aye, it’s grand, thanks,’ she answered, her indignation beginning to thaw.

  He nodded, satisfied. ‘Dimarco’s make the finest ices in County Durham. Nowt better, eh, Mrs Ritson?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ the woman laughed. ‘I’ve hardly been out of Whitton since I was wed.’

  ‘Take it from me, then,’ Joe winked. ‘I’ve ridden all over the county selling the stuff. And I better gan now and sell a bit more, else the boss will have me guts for garters, won’t he?’

  ‘Not your father - he’s too soft on you by half,’ the woman teased.

  Sara was intrigued by Joe’s broad Durham accent, belying his swarthy foreign appearance. All at once, she was reluctant to see him go.

  ‘D’you make it yourself?’ she blurted out, ice-cream melting on to her dress and hands. ‘The ice-cream, I mean?’

  ‘Every morning, before the sun is up or you are out of your bed, I bet,’ he declared. Sara found herself blushing at the suggestion and dived for another bite of her cone. It crumbled drastically, half of it splashing her dress before landing with a splat on his jacket lining.

  ‘Sorry!’ She flushed pinker, grabbing for her handkerchief to wipe up the mess.

  ‘I told you to eat it quickly,’ he said with amusement. ‘It doesn’t matter about me coat.’ She was only too aware of how gauche and hot-cheeked she must seem to Joe Dimarco when she wished to appear calm and composed.

  ‘It’ll wash off easy,’ the practical Louie Ritson assured.

  Sara stood up, cramming the rest of the cone into her mouth before she did any further damage. At that point, Joe’s red-haired companion reappeared and pulled his arm. ‘Gan on, the copper’s coming.’

  They all looked round to see a tubby, uniformed constable panting up the slope towards them.

  ‘It’s only Simpson,’ Joe sounded unconcerned. But his friend was restless.

  ‘Haway, Joe, you’re not supposed to have the bike up here. He’ll nick you this time.’

  ‘All right,’ Joe acquiesced with a shrug. Sara picked up his jacket and gave it a shake. She held it out to him.

  Ta,’ said Joe. Then, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Sara Pallister,’ she said, more dignified now all traces of the ice-cream had been removed from her face.

  ‘Ciao, Sara,’ he winked, briefly touching her hand as he took his jacket. Sara felt a frisson of excitement. Don’t be daft, she told herself, he’s just a Whitton lad, not a Heathcliffe or Clark Gable. Still, quite a good-looking one, she had to admit.

  Ta-ra, Mrs Ritson,’ Joe raised a hand in farewell. The boys headed back to the motorcycle, Joe swinging into the saddle in one swift, lean movement and pulling his goggles back over his eyes. He kicked the bike into life again and they roared off, waving at the portly policeman who was gesticulating as they passed.

  ‘Eeh, I hope they’re not in any trouble,’ Mrs Ritson shook her head. ‘They’re canny lads, a bit high spirited but that’s lads isn’t it?’

  Sara thought of her brother Tom and some of his escapades. ‘Aye, that’s lads,’ she sighed dreamily, looking after the disappearing motorcycle and licking her lips for the last traces of Dimarco’s ice-cream, feeling wicked and satisfied as if she had tasted something near to forbidden fruit.

  Rosa’s nose wrinkled as the smell of Granny Maria’s cooking filled the kitchen. The old woman was stirring the tomato sauce that would cover the small, potato-filled dumplings, while Domenica cut freshly made bread and salami for the evening meal. Rosa had helped her sister-in-law Sylvia put the babies to bed and now they were waiting for her father to dose the shop so that the family could eat their late meal together for once. It was the first time since Domenica’s return that they would all be gathered round the long table; normally they ate in shifts while taking it in turns to work in the cafe.

  ‘I’ll go and help Papa tidy the shop,’ Rosa volunteered, seeing her mother was busy preparing pies to sell the following day.

  ‘And find your brother Bobby,’ her mother called after her, pausing over her rolling pin. ‘Remind him he has school tomorrow.’

  Rosa descended the steep stairs into the backroom of the shop. Buckets of boiled milk stood covered and cooling, in preparation for the next day’s ice-cream making. The smell of the milk mingled with the sourness of strong cheeses, the earthy smell of olives and sausages stored in shadowy recesses and the rich aroma of coffee beans and sugar in their dusty sacking. She loved the comforting smells of their home and shop, and the feeling of safety that they instilled in her. No one else’s home that she had ever visited smelt quite as safe.

  Paolo was sweeping the cafe floor and her father stood at the open door bidding goodnight to his last customers.

  ‘I’ll mop,’ Rosa told her eldest brother. He smiled and nodded. She fetched the bucket and mop from the back scullery and filled it with water from the cold tap over the stone sink.

  ‘Bairns asleep?’ Paolo asked after his children, as Rosa returned.

  ‘Peter’s sleeping like a top, but Sylvia’s still trying to settle Linda. She’s a greedy lass your daughter.’

  Paolo gave his grave smile. ‘She has a good Italian appetite,’ he said with pride.

  Their father came in from the pavement and pulled down the blinds. ‘It’s been a good day and I’m ready for supper.’ He grinned at his daughter and patted his solid stomach. ‘Umm, you can smell Nonna’s pasta down the street.’

  ‘Bobby’s missing,’ Rosa said. ‘Shall I go and find him?’

  Arturo shook his head. ‘It’s dark now.’ He went to the door again and called for his youngest son. Moments later, a grubby-faced boy darted in at the door, his face, hands and knees smeared in black grease.

  ‘Bobby, you’re filthy!’ Rosa screeched. ‘Get yourself scrubbed this minute,’ she demanded with sisterly authority.

  Her father la
ughed and put an arm round the boy’s weedy shoulders. ‘Is Paolo’s bicycle in a thousand bits, Roberto?’

  ‘No, I’ve fixed it,’ he chirped, his look triumphant.

  ‘Grazie, Bobby,’ Paolo murmured.

  ‘Bene.’ Arturo ruffled his brown hair. ‘You will make a good engineer when you grow up. Maybe one day I’ll let you work on my van, yes?’

  ‘That would be canny,’ Bobby beamed. ‘Paolo, can I ride your bike to school t’morra?’ he asked his brother with a pleading look.

  ‘Si, if you’re careful,’ Paolo replied, wiping down the counter.

  ‘Now, wash!’ Rosa fussed. ‘Supper’s ready.’ Bobby pulled a face but his father gave him a playful cuff.

  ‘Do as your sister says, Roberto.’ The boy ran ahead with Paolo, giving him a detailed explanation of what had been wrong with his bicycle.

  ‘What about Joe?’ Rosa asked her father cautiously, as he bolted the shop door.

  ‘He can sleep on the street for all I care!’ Her father was suddenly angry. That boy! Where does he spend half the day?’

  ‘But Papa—’ Rosa’s protest was interrupted by banging on the front door. Arturo lifted the blind to see Joe’s face peering out of the dark. He let him in with a curse.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Arturo demanded, his craggy face frowning. ‘You should be here with your family, not chasing around the streets with Whitton boys. Domenica has been home a week, but she’s hardly seen you. She’s forgotten what her brother looks like.’

  ‘I promise I’ll take her to the pictures next week, Dad,’ Joe smiled, pulling off his jacket.

  ‘Don’t Dad-a me!’ his father shouted, working himself into a temper. ‘Are your family not good enough for you that you have to spend every minute away from the house? Huh? Can’t you help your own father and brother in the shop for one day? Is that too much to ask?’

  Joe shrugged and turned to Rosa with a heavenwards roll of the eyes, as if to say he had heard it all before. Rosa was silent but beseeching in her look, not wanting the family evening spoilt by a familiar row between her brother and father.