Reaching the disused railway siding at the head of the dene, Joe rode past the no trespassing sign where the fence had been torn down, dismounted his motorcycle and lit up a cigarette. As he blew smoke into the air and mused ruefully on Olive Brown’s rejection, he heard muffled voices from one of the far abandoned carriages. Someone shrieked out in fear and a baying of dogs went up.
Joe ground out his cigarette and ran forward. He circled the rotting trucks and debris of the once-busy siding, searching for the source of the noise. Rounding a corner, he saw the ramp of one freight van was down and inside he could see three shadowy figures lacing into a prone body doubled up on the floor. A couple of whippets snapped around the entrance, while a large, snarling black-and-tan mongrel worried at the victim’s leg.
‘Kirkups are scabs!’ Normy Bell shouted and jabbed a heavy boot into the boy’s guts.
‘They’re not—’
‘Raymond Kirkup’s a scab’s bastard!’ Scotty took the next swing with his foot.
‘Ah-ya!’
‘Your father was a bloody traitor scab! Come on, Colin, it’s your turn!’
Raymond began to whimper.
‘Where’s your Uncle Sam to protect you now, eh, baby Raymond?’ Joe saw Colin Cummings’s ungainly figure loom over the defenceless boy. ‘We’re not good enough for his bloody club are we? Well let’s see you fight now.’
‘Please—’
Joe’s stunned disbelief turned to sickening fear as Colin aimed a kick at Raymond’s head and he heard the dull thud. The boy’s arms went up in a protective reflex.
Long seconds seemed to pass as the others followed Colin’s example, the rain of blows bringing sweat out on Joe’s palms at their brutality.
‘Tell your uncle that’s what we think of his pissing boxing club,’ Normy Bell screamed savagely. His bad-tempered dog barked and snapped excitedly.
Joe was paralysed with horror; any moment now one of the lynching gang would notice him and he would be next. Never before had he felt so afraid or so vulnerable. He dodged out of sight and crept back towards the motorcycle.
‘Tell nancy boy Joe Dimarco he’s next,’ Normy jeered. ‘Fancy having a dirty Wop as a marra.’
Joe stopped. Raymond had warned him about Normy and Scotty and he had told him not to worry. Joe had said he would protect his friend and now he was running away to save his own skin. What sort of friend was that? Joe accused himself. He jumped on his motorcycle, his anger igniting. These thugs had insulted his family and his race, they were scum who boasted of manhood by picking on younger boys and he would not be terrified by them.
Kicking his bike into life Joe swung round and roared towards the van. Nearly skidding as he turned sharply to confront them, he saw Scotty look up in astonishment at the sudden intrusion. The dogs stood alert.
‘Leave him alone!’ Joe shouted and revved.
‘It’s the Dimarco bastard himself.’ Normy’s eyes narrowed in hate. ‘Let’s have him.’
Joe did not wait to allow them to recover from their surprise. He rode up the ramp straight at Normy Bell. Realising with incredulity that Joe had no intention of stopping, Normy jumped from the open doorway as the front wheel caught the side of his leg. His mongrel squealed in fright.
‘You daft bastard!’ Normy cried, hobbling out of danger.
Joe braked, pinning Scotty in the corner.
‘Ah, me foot!’ he whined in agony. Colin Cummings scrambled out of the way in a panic.
Joe turned and set off down the ramp, pursuing them across the empty yard, scattering them like frantic chickens. Raymond’s attackers ran off into the dene, each looking out for himself. Colin Cummings, being slower than the others, was the last to flee through the broken-down railway fence and head for the shelter of the trees. His whippets raced ahead of him and Joe chased behind, threatening to run him down.
In his haste, Colin stumbled and fell, ripping his jacket at the shoulder. Joe circled him.
‘Leave me alone, Dimarco,’ he pleaded. ‘It wasn’t my idea. I didn’t want—’
‘Get up Cummings!’ Joe cried at him. ‘Before I run you over.’
Colin half scrambled to his feet, holding up his hands in protection.
‘I didn’t want to hurt the lad, honest!’ Colin gabbled. ‘It’s just the others would think me soft if—’
‘You’re pathetic!’ Joe shouted with disgust. ‘You’re worse than the rest of them with your whingeing. Get up, you’re not worth fighting.’ Colin got to his feet, breathing hard. ‘But you go near Raymond Kirkup again and I’ll ride this up your fat backside, do you hear?’
Colin’s look was a mixture of loathing and fear. He turned without a word and ran in the direction of his vanished whippets.
Joe found Raymond sitting up clutching his leg, his left eye closed with blood and a swelling appearing on his brow.
‘They could’ve killed you, the daft bastards!’ Joe swore angrily. Raymond sat shaking; a moment later he leaned over and was sick. Joe fetched a water bottle from his cycle and poured some on his forehead, then made him drink.
‘They were waiting for me coming back from Greenbrae,’ Raymond gasped at last. Joe shook his head in disbelief. The gang must have been watching his movements and known that Raymond took a parcel every Saturday afternoon to his Aunt Hilda who worked for the schoolmistress at Greenbrae.
‘Haway, let’s get you home before they think of coming back.’ Joe heaved him up. Raymond protested at the pain to his leg where Normy’s dog had savaged him but Joe supported him to the cycle and helped him on the pillion. ‘Your Auntie Louie’ll fix you up…’
‘Don’t tell her what happened,’ Raymond said stubbornly.
Joe looked surprised. ‘Why not?’
‘She’ll just get upset I was picked on because of me dad being a blackleg,’ Raymond fretted.
‘But we’ll get them back for you!’ Joe felt bold in relief. ‘Sam and me and Pat—’
‘No!’ Raymond was adamant. ‘I’m grateful for what you’ve done, Joe, but I don’t want a fuss made. Normy and Scotty’ll just wait and get me again.’
Joe shrugged and argued no further. It was more important to see his friend home and cleaned up. As he pulled on his goggles he heard Raymond mutter, ‘Why did my dad have to scab in the ‘26 strike? I hate him for it!’
Joe could not answer, for it had happened when he was a small boy. He knew that his own father had nearly ruined his fledgling business helping out neighbours and extending credit to the strikers, so he understood Raymond’s bitterness that his father should have betrayed his fellow pitmen. Shaken and subdued by the ordeal, Joe and Raymond headed back to the village.
Instead of tramping through the spotless ice-cream parlour, Rosa and Sara approached by the back lane where a fanner’s cart stood waiting on the cobbles by an open gate. Out of it came the square-set young man who served in the cafe, rolling a vast empty milk churn before him.
‘Paolo, this is my friend Sara,’ Rosa said breathlessly, seeking his approval. The young man smiled shyly and nodded as Sara said hello, then his face broke into a besotted grin as Peter sprang towards him.
‘Careful, little man!’ He swung him up protectively, avoiding the metal chum. ‘Have you been a good boy for Auntie Rosa, heh?’
‘Good boy,’ Peter mimicked. His father kissed him in delight.
‘Come on, Peter, Daddy’s busy.’ Rosa grabbed him back and bundled him into the yard, his protests drowned by Linda’s hungry cries.
‘Ah, my little pussetta,’ Paolo laughed and chucked the baby’s cheek, making her cry even louder. ‘Mammy’s waiting for you, bambina.’
Sara followed Rosa as she steered the pram into a large yard with several outhouses. Immediately she was struck by its strangeness compared to the bare drab yards of the pit houses with their wash-houses and coal bunkers and tin baths hanging above moss-covered stone. Here, the brick walls had been white-washed and pots of coral pink Busy Lizzies sheltered in a corner, next to a rough wooden bench. Yet it
was still a work-a-day yard. The door to one shed stood ajar, revealing large barrels and more milk churns.
‘That’s where my brothers make the ice-cream,’ Rosa said, seeing Sara’s curious glance.
‘Do you have to help?’ Sara asked.
Rosa shook her head and laughed. ‘It needs to be stirred and scraped for hours - very hard work. You need strong arms like Joe’s, not puny ones like mine,’ she joked, bending her arm to show her lack of muscle. Sara felt a tingle at the thought of the brawny-armed Joe, with his sleeves rolled up, exerting himself over the barrels of ice-cream.
But Sara had no time to pause as Rosa led her across the yard, passing a small stable, pungent with the smell of horse manure and hay.
‘This reminds me of home,’ Sara said, sniffing the air nostalgically and feeling a pang of longing for her mother and Stout House.
‘That’s where Gelato lives,’ Rosa told her. ‘We don’t use the pony much now - not since Joe got his motorbike - and my father has the van, so Gelato spends most of his time grazing on the green.’
‘Oh? I’ve seen a black and white horse there - in front of my uncle’s house.’
‘That’s Gelato. Peter likes to feed him, don’t you, pet?’ Rosa picked up the tiring boy.
‘Lato,’ Peter nodded, stabbing his ringers into his aunt’s mouth.
‘Funny name for a horse,’ Sara said. ‘Ours is called Bluebell.’
‘It means ice-cream in Italian,’ Rosa laughed. ‘My younger brother Bobby called him that when he was a small boy and the name stuck.’
Abandoning the pram in the yard, Rosa asked, ‘Can you lift Linda out, please? Peter’s tired and he might be awkward if I put him down.’
Sara, feeling nervous at the thought of touching the baby, pulled back the blankets and gingerly reached to pick her up. She was heavier than she had imagined and her dark eyes widened in astonishment as this stranger’s face loomed near. For a moment she stopped her bleating and Sara cradled her tightly, fearful of dropping Paolo’s precious daughter.
Rosa smiled, ‘She won’t break.’
‘I’m not used to this,’ Sara smiled anxiously. ‘Am I doing the right thing?’
‘Of course,’ Rosa laughed, finding it strange a girl her age should be so ignorant of babies. She led the way into the back-shop.
Sara gawped about her at the strange sights and smells that assaulted her senses. Clumps of mouldy-looking sausages and strings of onions and garlic hung from the ceiling like weird decorations, while tea chests and sacks of sugar, crates of pop and piles of long dusty loaves on top of chocolate boxes, crowded the stone floor. A creamy vanilla smell mixed with the deep richness of coffee from the parlour, and somewhere lurked the salty sweaty odour of old cheese. At a sink in the corner, a thin young woman with jet-black wavy hair was clattering dishes. She turned at the sound of their entry, rubbing her bony nose with the back of her wet hand.
‘Rosa, thank you. Did Peter behave himself? It’s time for Linda’s feed. Come, little one,’ she gabbled in her own language, stepping forward to take the baby. Sara gaped at her, jiggling the infant in her arms as she started to howl once more.
‘Sylvia, this is Sara,’ Rosa replied in English so her new friend could understand. ‘She’s been helping me with the bairns.’
‘Grazie.’ Sylvia smiled her thanks, plucking the babe from Sara’s tense hold and cuddling her to her breast. The baby continued to cry. ‘You come for drink, yes?’ she asked Sara.
‘Ta very much,’ Sara agreed.
‘Rosa, we’re very busy in the shop,’ Sylvia lapsed into a staccato of Italian dialect, ‘can you finish the washing-up? Domenica is serving with your mother and Paulo is seeing to the milk. Joe is goodness knows where.’
‘And Papa?’ Rosa asked, depositing Peter and discarding her coat.
‘He’s upstairs with Father Giuseppe discussing the wedding arrangements.’
Sara looked between them, baffled by the alien tongue and wondering if Rosa was receiving a telling off for bringing her home.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ she asked, sensing the urgency.
‘No,’ Rosa reassured her. ‘You go upstairs with Sylvia and the bairns and have a cup of tea with Granny Maria. I’ve just got to help out here for a bit - Saturday’s are always busy for us.’
‘Let me do that,’ Sara insisted, reluctant to climb the gloomy stairs into the unknown without her friend. ‘I’m not useless at everything domestic, you know. You go and help out front.’ Sara had thrown off her gabardine and pushed up her cardigan sleeves before Rosa could protest. Sylvia shrugged and nodded and Rosa dived into the shop with a hasty thanks.
As trays of dirty glasses and cups and dishes streamed in from the cafe, Sara felt exhilaration in the mundane chore that she had never before experienced. The Dimarcos flew in and out, shouting at each other in a mix of English and Italian, fetching supplies of cigarettes and sweets, staggering in with a new barrel of ice-cream, making up exotic concoctions of ginger-beer and ice-cream, cream sodas and fruit sundaes and disappearing again into the bustling parlour.
The woman with the tight bun whom Sara recognised as Mrs Dimarco seemed taken aback to find her at the back-shop sink, but thanked her graciously and told her not to run away before she had been rewarded with an iced drink. Sara glowed with satisfaction that, for a short while at least, she was an indispensable member of the family team. For the first time since arriving in Whitton Grange, she felt needed and welcome.
When Mr Dimarco appeared on the dark stairway, he made an instant fuss of Sara, reprimanding his family for allowing a friend of Rosa’s and a guest in the house to be allowed to wash up.
‘You are Raymond’s friend, yes?’ Arturo Dimarco asked. ‘I never forget a pretty face,’ he teased.
Sara blushed coyly, loving the attention.
‘Papa!’ Rosa laughed.
‘Bene! Rosa give Sara a cool drink - an ice-cream - whatever she wants.’
Sara sat down happily at the bare wooden table in the back-shop with her friend while they sipped soda through straws and spooned delicious mouthfuls of homemade ice-cream.
‘I could live on this stuff,’ Sara grinned, relishing every sweet morsel. ‘Even Aunt Ida doesn’t make anything this good.’
The sudden thought of her aunt made her go cold and then flush hot with panic. She had quite forgotten the time. Glancing at a clock on the shelf above the sink she saw with horror it was well after four.
‘Eeh, I’ll be skinned alive!’ she screeched at Rosa who looked up with alarm. ‘Uncle Alfred’ll be home for his tea and I haven’t even peeled the potatoes. I’ll have to go.’ She jumped up, abandoning her half-eaten ice. ‘Ta for the drink.’
‘You’ll call again, won’t you?’ Rosa asked anxiously, reluctant to see Sara go. She was enjoying the fuss being made of her new-found friend and knew her mother would be disappointed if Sara went before she had grilled her on every aspect of herself and her family.
‘Aye, I’d like that.’ Sara grabbed her coat.
‘We could go for a walk tomorrow with the bairns,’ Rosa suggested.
‘Grand!’ Sara agreed. ‘Say ta-ra to your parents and Sylvia.’
Halfway to the door, she heard someone enter from the shop and turned in the hopes that it might be Joe. Her stomach knotted to see the pretty girl with the bobbed brown hair who had accompanied Joe to the cinema walk in carrying a tray of dirty dishes. Sara’s enjoyment of the afternoon vanished. Joe’s girlfriend worked here, too! The tall girl was obviously well in with the family then, she thought with crushing disappointment. No doubt she was from another Italian family; as Rosa said, they did not need outsiders like herself.
‘Sara,’ Rosa called out to her, ‘wait a minute this is—’
But Sara fled out of the back door, unable to stop and be civil to the girl that Joe favoured. She flew across the yard, fearful of the furious reception she would receive at South Parade. If Uncle Alfred did not get his tea at five o�
�clock precisely, she would be making patchwork blankets for the rest of the year.
Paolo waved from the outhouse, but she ignored him, skidding across the cobbles, greasy in the fresh rain that had fallen while she had been busy inside. At the gate she almost fell into Joe Dimarco as he dismounted from his motorcycle.
For a moment his dark face gawped with surprise instead of his usual confident amusement. He grabbed her to prevent her falling and Sara coloured scarlet as his fingers dug into her upper arm.
‘Running into me again!’ he laughed.
Sara was about to laugh too, her heart hammering to be suddenly so close to him, when the thought of his pretty girlfriend just yards away made her stiffen. She shook him off.
‘You should mind where you’re going, Joe Dimarco,’ she glared with her green eyes. He looked nonplussed by her rebuttal. ‘And this is one lass who’s not going to fall at your feet, an’ all. You might think you’re God’s gift to lasses, but you’re not as far as I’m concerned!’
He had nothing to say. Sara straightened out her coat and, anchoring her beret on her fly-away fair hair, stalked off down the back lane. She itched to look back to see if he watched her go, but resisted the urge. She had meant what she said; she did not care two pins for the tall Italian. Round the corner and out of sight, she picked up her heels and ran like the wind, trying to shake off the memory of his dark eyes and strong hands on her.
Joe stood, hands on hips, wondering what he had done to offend the plump-cheeked girl with the blonde hair to whom he had hardly given a second thought. He clicked his tongue against his teeth and shrugged. He was peeved by her rudeness, his feelings already battered after Olive’s rejection and the brutal hostility of Norman Bell’s gang in the dene. For the first time in his life he wondered if he really was different from his peers in Whitton Grange. Today he had certainly been made to feel so.
Shrugging off the uneasy feeling, he watched the strange girl disappear and admitted to himself that there was something about her petulant dismissal of him that stirred his interest; perhaps those haughty green eyes.
Turning into the yard he went in search of the answer to why this strange girl, Sara, had come running out of their back gate in such a hurry.
Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies Page 13
