Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Sometimes,’ Rosa nodded. ‘I do the washing up and clear the tables if it’s busy. But usually I’m stuck in the house upstairs helping my mother,’ she added wistfully.

  ‘Well, you’re not missing much,’ Sara pulled a face. ‘I think I’d rather be at home than doing shop work all day long. It’s killing on me feet.’

  ‘Are you related to Mrs Sergeant?’ Rosa asked.

  ‘No, thank goodness!’ Sara whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the storeroom door. She could still hear the older woman gossiping on the telephone. Rosa giggled with her. ‘Me uncle got me this job,’ Sara continued. ‘I don’t come from round here - me family’s from Rillhope, near Lilychapel.’ Rosa’s face looked blank. ‘Up Weardale,’ Sara elaborated. Rosa shrugged in ignorance. ‘Well, anyway,’ Sara gave up trying to explain, ‘I was brought up on a farm - I’m not used to a pit village.’

  ‘No, it must be strange for you,’ Rosa leaned on the counter, eager to chat. ‘My family were farming people too - in Italy - that’s where my parents are from. But I’ve always lived in Whitton Grange - don’t know anything else. I think my mother would like to go back one day - but my father is happy here, so we’ll probably stay for ever.’

  Sara put her chin in her hands, her fair hair falling forward. ‘You wouldn’t want to go back, would you? I mean, you seem as English as me, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  Rosa shrugged with indecision. ‘Perhaps when I marry…’

  Sara smiled knowingly. ‘Ah, you mean when some tall dark Italian whisks you away to his large mansion in Italy as his blushing bride!’

  Rosa gasped at the idea. ‘I think that only happens in the pictures,’ she giggled.

  ‘Aye, you’re probably right,’ Sara sighed.

  ‘My sister Domenica is getting married to a handsome Italian, though,’ Rosa confided, ‘in July. She and Pasquale are going to have a big wedding with musicians and dancing. She talks of nothing else.’

  ‘That sounds grand.’ Sara felt excited by the news, although she did not know Domenica. In the storeroom, the telephone clicked to signal the end of the grocer’s conversation. ‘And will she go back to a big house in Italy?’ Sara asked hastily.

  ‘No, an ice-cream shop in Sunderland,’ Rosa said and then both girls burst out laughing, just as Dolly Sergeant appeared at the door.

  ‘What’s all this carry on?’ she boomed in her deep voice. Her criticism died as she saw the young Dimarco girl filling her shopping bag with groceries. ‘Oh, good morning, Rosa.’

  ‘Morning, Mrs Sergeant,’ Rosa smiled politely. ‘My mother says she’ll be in to see you next week.’

  The woman heaved her bulky body behind the counter. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing her,’ she nodded in approval. ‘Now, don’t let the lass keep you from helping your mother.’ Sara bridled at the way she was never referred to by name in front of the customers.

  ‘Oh, Sara wasn’t stopping me,’ Rosa gave her most innocent of looks. ‘She’s been very obliging.’

  Mrs Sergeant gave a humph of disbelief, but Sara felt grateful to the girl for defending her.

  ‘Come on, Peter,’ Rosa took her nephew’s hand, ignoring the stickiness that was the only evidence of the vanished liquorice. The sugar mouse bulged in the boy’s pocket.

  ‘Here, give the bairn a couple of lemon chips.’ Dolly Sergeant relented at the sight of the solemn child and plunged her fat hand into one of the large jars. Rosa held her hand out quickly and took the offering, as Peter squealed, ‘More sweetie.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Sergeant, I’ll keep them as a treat for after dinner,’ Rosa smiled engagingly, her glance at Sara conspiratorial.

  ‘Ta-ra, Rosa,’ Sara grinned, ‘been nice talking to you.’

  ‘Yes.’ Rosa wheeled Peter around and led him to the door. ‘Bye, Mrs Sergeant, bye, Sara.’

  When she had left, Dolly Sergeant turned to Sara with a disapproving frown. ‘You’re not here to fraternise with the customers, lass. I can’t leave you for five minutes and you’re acting like the village gossip. Now get back in the storeroom and start unpacking those tins of pineapple.’

  Sara checked her impatience and went without protest to the backroom. At least it was Saturday and early closing, she thought, just one more hour to pass.

  Raymond appeared just as they were shutting up shop.

  ‘I’ve met Rosa Dimarco,’ Sara nudged him, as they shed their overalls in the storeroom. ‘She thinks you’re canny - always laughing, she says.’ With glee, Sara noticed the youth glow pink.

  ‘She wasn’t talking about me?’ Raymond scoffed.

  ‘She was,’ Sara insisted.

  ‘Don’t believe you!’

  ‘Well don’t, but it’s true.’ Sara pulled on her gabardine, seeing through the dirty window that it had started to rain.

  ‘Canny, did she say?’ Raymond asked with a bashful grin.

  ‘Aye,’ Sara encouraged. ‘She likes you. I said she was too good for you, mind, and too grown up.’ Raymond looked aghast at the idea they should have been discussing him, then saw that she was teasing.

  ‘Very funny!’ he groaned. ‘Still, I was going to call round to Pit Street to see if Bobby can fix me brakes. Squeaking all the way back from The Grange, they were.’

  Sara laughed, ‘You’ve got that parcel to deliver to your Auntie Hilda at Greenbrae, remember?’

  ‘I remember,’ Raymond grinned, bundling her out of the back door, as Mrs Sergeant came to lock up.

  ‘See you Monday,’ Sara smiled at him and ran in to the rain.

  All was quiet when she arrived home at South Parade. Uncle Alfred would be playing billiards at the club and Aunt Ida and Marina were visiting Mrs Hodgson, the vicar’s wife, to discuss arrangements for the Carnival flower show and who would be serving teas in the Mothers’ Union tent. Such social gatherings at the vicarage were the highlight of Aunt Ida’s week, Sara knew from her aunt’s anxious excitement over breakfast on such days. As Ida would be late back, Sara had been told to prepare the vegetables for Uncle Alfred’s tea.

  Bliss to have the house to herself for a few hours, Sara thought thankfully. But she had hardly removed her coat when the back door banged and Colin stamped in, trailing his muddy boots over the pristine kitchen floor. They regarded each other warily. Sara had hardly spoken to him since helping her cousin had landed her in trouble with Uncle Alfred and confined her to the house to do her aunt’s wretched sewing.

  ‘Afternoon,’ Colin glowered.

  ‘Want a sandwich?’ Sara asked, feeling tense as she went into the larder for a hunk of cheese.

  ‘Ta,’ Colin grunted. He hung around, making her unease grow, his dull eyes watching her every move.

  ‘You’ll be taking the dogs out this afternoon?’ Sara broke the awkward silence.

  At least he would not be around for long, Sara thought with relief. She prepared two cheese and pickle sandwiches and pushed one towards him on a plate.

  ‘I’m taking mine in the front room,’ she told Colin, eager to escape his presence. But he kicked off his boots and followed her along to the parlour like a possessive hound. Sara wanted to fetch her diary and record her meeting with Rosa, but she was not going to let Colin know she kept a secret correspondence with herself. No one in Whitton Grange was ever going to discover the things she wrote about them or their dismal town.

  They sat at opposite ends of the room, the smacking and grunting of Colin’s noisy eating disturbing the quiet.

  ‘There’s a practice race in the park this afternoon,’ he startled her with the sudden announcement, his large jaws demolishing the bread and cheese. ‘I’m putting Gypsy in.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice.’ Sara answered, trying to hide her irritation at his pig-like noises.

  ‘And I’m showing her in the Carnival,’ he said, dropping pickle onto his mother’s new carpet.

  ‘Good.’ Sara’s smile was tense; she wished he would hurry up and leave.

  ‘Want to come up the park, then? I know Gy
psy’s your favourite.’

  Sara looked at him in astonishment, embarrassed to see the expectant expression on his face. It was no idle question, but then Colin did not waste unnecessary words. She was about to say no, when it occurred to her she had nothing better to do but peel vegetables and return to the endless patchwork. Why should she not have a trip to the park in the fresh air, even if it was with her odd cousin? she reasoned.

  ‘Aye, I’d like that,’ she replied, licking the end of her fingertips.

  Colin sprung up, a foolish grin spreading across his large face.

  ‘I’ll get Gypsy ready. Give you a shout when we’re done.’

  Sara nodded and watched him go. It was not that she disliked Colin Cummings, it was more a feeling of distrust. That was it, Sara decided, there was a darkness in Colin’s brooding looks, a pent-up anger in his sullen mouth that disturbed her. He seemed at odds with the world. But at least, Sara reasoned, he appeared to like her and so his private grievances were none of her concern.

  It was blustery in the park, with occasional splatters of rain that whipped off the low hills, shaking the yellow gorse in a frantic dance. But Sara enjoyed its freshness, her long hair coiling around her full face and her green eyes squinting into the pearly grey sky at the motley collection of dogs running around the field. It was the same uneven pitch that was used for football games, but the spectators today were grey-faced pitmen of indeterminate age who whistled their whippets to heel or spat knowingly into the wind.

  Colin was soon immersed in the sport and Sara, growing bored and thinking she would not be missed, wandered off. Taking shelter behind a high hedge, she sat on a bench and watched the outcome of a tense game of bowls. Enjoying the somnolent click of balls and muted comments, she fished out her diary and pencil from her coat pocket and began to scribble her thoughts.

  ‘Sweetie!’ a familiar voice cried and Sara looked up to see Peter running unsteadily towards her. Behind him came Rosa pushing a large pram.

  ‘Hello again,’ Sara greeted her. Rosa smiled and came over to sit beside her, manoeuvring the hooded pram next to the bench. Peter climbed up beside Sara and started searching her pockets. She quickly pushed the diary inside her gabardine.

  ‘Sorry, pet, I’ve nothing to give you,’ Sara caught the pudgy exploring hands in hers. He giggled and tried to release the hold.

  ‘Here, Peter, eat this,’ Rosa handed him a banana, ‘and leave Sara alone. She isn’t made of sweets you know.’

  ‘Is this another Dimarco?’ Sara asked, peering into the boat-shaped pram.

  Rosa nodded, giving the pram a gentle rock. ‘Baby Linda, Paolo’s daughter, she’s four months old. Sleeping at last, thank goodness. She was yelling so much, my sister-in-law Sylvia was at the end of her tether, so I said I’d take her for a walk.’

  ‘It’s done the trick,’ Sara smiled, looking curiously at the plump, peaceful face, all but hidden in a fancy frilly bonnet. ‘My friend Beth has a baby boy Daniel about the same age. He gets on her nerves a bit, too.’

  ‘You could bring him out for a walk when I bring Linda,’ Rosa suggested with enthusiasm, ‘we could meet in the park when you’re off work.’ Rosa liked this girl with the untidy hair and the expressive face and wanted to be friends.

  ‘Oh, she doesn’t live here,’ Sara explained, ‘she’s at home in Rillhope.’

  ‘Oh,’ Rosa sounded disappointed. ‘Is that far away?’

  ‘Far enough,’ Sara answered glumly. ‘Twenty-thirty miles or so. But it takes most of the day on the bus, by the time you’ve walked into Lowbeck and then changed at Stanhope…’ Sara broke off, seeing by the look on Rosa’s face she might as well be talking about Outer Mongolia. ‘It’s a world away, Rosa,’ she said sadly, ‘and I’ve not heard from Beth since I came here. I’ve written but had no reply.’

  ‘Expect she’s been busy with her bairn,’ Rosa suggested kindly. ‘You’ll hear from her soon I bet.’

  ‘Aye, well, Beth was never any good at writing,’ Sara said ruefully. ‘At least you can go and visit your friends. Living in a town has its compensations, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t have friends, really,’ Rosa answered simply, ‘just my family.’ Sara watched her more closely, but her expression was uncomplaining.

  ‘You must have someone,’ Sara insisted. ‘Who do you go to the pictures with?’

  ‘I don’t go,’ Rosa said, leaning forward to pull the restless Peter on to her knee.

  ‘Well, church then?’ Sara persisted, seeing the delicate silver cross hanging from Rosa’s neck. ‘Don’t you have socials?’

  ‘We go to mass,’ Rosa conceded, ‘but we never get to the socials - the parlour is always open and we’re working when everyone else is free. My parents don’t take holidays. That’s just the way it is,’ she finished.

  ‘I see,’ Sara nodded sympathetically. ‘My dad was like that I suppose - but at least the family had a bit fun, now and then.’

  ‘I’m not unhappy,’ Rosa became defensive. ‘I love my family - I don’t need anyone else. And sometimes we get together with the other Italian families in the area - at weddings and things - like Domenica’s. That will be fun.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose you’re the lucky one having your family around you,’ Sara conceded, feeling an engulfing loneliness to think how far away were her own loved ones. ‘I miss me mam something terrible. I write to her every other day.’

  ‘Tell me about your family,’ Rosa urged, snuggling Peter on her knee.

  Sara found herself unburdening to this simple girl, who appeared even more naive than herself about the outside world and yet generated a warmth and interest towards her that she found comforting. They sat for a long time, while Sara told her about Stout House and her happiness there until her father’s death. Rosa pushed a lacy handkerchief towards Sara when grief for her father bubbled easily to the surface. She did not seem embarrassed by Sara’s tears but prompted her to keep speaking. Peter wriggled off her knee and went to explore under the hedge and still Sara went on talking.

  She spoke of her brothers and Chrissie and her tiffs with her sister-in-law, Mary.

  ‘You’re like me!’ Rosa said with delight. ‘I have a sensible older brother Paolo like your Bill, and Joe’s the daft one like Tom.’

  Sara laughed. ‘Tom was always getting into trouble with me dad.’

  ‘So does Joe,’ Rosa grinned, ‘but they still love each other. It’s just in Joe’s nature to be disobedient.’

  ‘I think he’d get on well with Tom, then,’ Sara smiled. The baby woke up and instantly began to whimper.

  ‘Do you want a feed, bombalina?’ Rosa rocked the pram vigorously. She stood up. Turning to Sara she asked unexpectedly, ‘Would you like to come back to my house for a cup of tea?’

  Sara hesitated a moment, thinking of the unpeeled vegetables, but the thought of going to the Dimarcos’ house was too big a temptation to resist.

  ‘I’d love that,’ she agreed and went to extract Peter from under the hedge where he was playing with a dirty tennis ball he had found. Together the girls set off down the hill into the village, Sara quite forgetting Colin and Gypsy and the original reason for being in the park.

  Colin noticed with fury the way Sara had slipped away, showing no interest in the dogs. She was just like the rest of the family, he thought with disgust, only concerned for herself. For a short while he had thought her different.

  ‘Bloody lasses!’ he cursed and spat as he watched Sara leave the park with Rosa Dimarco instead of returning to watch Gypsy. She was just as bad as the other girls, only concerned about gossip and not about his beautiful, sleek animals.

  ‘Who’s that with the Italian bitch?’ It was Norman Bell suddenly beside him with his ill-kempt mongrel, Baldwin, and his sour-faced companion, Scotty.

  ‘Me cousin, Sara,’ Colin flushed.

  ‘What she want to hang around with foreigners for?’ Norman asked with a jut of his blemished chin. Colin shrugged. ‘Want a bit of sport?’ Norman continu
ed, his pale blue eyes challenging.

  Colin slid a look at the cropped-haired youth with his name tattooed across his knuckles. If Norman Bell or his friend Scotty talked of ‘sport’ it meant only one thing.

  ‘Where you going, Normy?’ Colin asked.

  ‘Dene. Got a quarry.’ His smile was malicious. ‘Coming then?’

  Colin gave one last glance to where Sara had been sitting. She was gone. ‘Aye,’ he answered with a spit, his aggression stirring, and fell in behind the others.

  Joe Dimarco stepped back as Olive Brown slammed the door in his face, leaving him speechless. Normy Bell had forbidden her to see him, she’d said, because his family were Italian and the Italians had just made a pact with the Germans. Joe fumed, wanting to dismiss Olive’s foolish words. Normy’s antipathy towards him had nothing to do with his family being Italian; Normy Bell hated his guts because he was a better boxer and Olive, last year’s Carnival Queen, had chosen to go out with him instead of Normy. Nevertheless, Joe decided to detour through the dene on his way home and find out what was going on, unable to shake off his unease at Olive’s warning, which still rang in his ears.

  ‘Listen, Joe, you’d better watch out for Normy and the others. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And Raymond Kirkup - he’s another one in trouble. His dad was a scab and you shouldn’t let him hang around with you.’

  ‘I’ll choose my own friends, ta very much!’ Joe had shouted at her.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Olive had answered, trying to close the door.

  Suddenly suspicious, Joe had seized her arm and demanded, ‘What do you know about Raymond Kirkup?’

  Olive had protested, but Joe held on. ‘Normy said something about a scrap in the dene. Now ger’off us!’

  Ten minutes later, scouting along the oily burn, Joe almost gave up, finding nothing more sinister than a group of children knocking apples off the overhanging trees from Naylor’s vast walled garden. But a nagging concern for Raymond’s safety made him continue.