Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Later, they abandoned the motorbike and its sidecar, empty of ice-cream, and took a punt out on the river.

  ‘Do you know how to work these things?’ Sara asked dubiously.

  ‘Why-aye,’ Joe said, helping her into the flat boat. ‘You just sit back and relax.’

  He discarded his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, taking hold of the pole and pushing them off from the landing. Sara watched his muscled arms work the punt round, plunging the pole into the water as he balanced on the edge of the boat. They glided away, Sara wondering how many other girls he had taken out on the River Wear to become so adept at handling a punt.

  She leaned back and trailed her fingers in the cool water, listening to the dip of the pole as Joe manoeuvred them around the other creaking boats and drank in the sight of Durham’s medieval skyline. Further up river, Joe ran the punt aground on a sandbank and jumped ashore. Helping Sara out of the boat, he spread his jacket on the bank.

  She hesitated, unsure. There was no one else in sight. Joe flung himself down and patted the jacket beside him, loosening his tie. ‘Want a toffee?’ he asked, fishing a handful of sweets out of his pocket.

  Sara sat down cautiously on the edge of his coat, pulling her dress well over her knees. She slid him a look and was disconcerted to see him amused by her modesty.

  ‘Pity to cover them up,’ he said, tracing a finger around the rim of her sock.

  Sara shifted out of his reach, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

  ‘I don’t bite,’ he chuckled. ‘Here, have a sweet.’

  Sara flushed and took the toffee from his open palm. ‘I’m not used to going with lads,’ she murmured, uncomfortable under his dark-eyed appraisal.

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ he answered, popping a sweet in his mouth and edging closer. ‘You came with me quick enough.’

  ‘It’s true,’ she flashed him a look of annoyance. ‘I’ve only ever been courted by one lad - and that can hardly be called courting. We only ever kissed twice…’ Sara broke off, her face scalding with embarrassment, the toffee clutched tight in her moist hand.

  ‘Well, I’m happy to kiss you as many times as you like, pet,’ he replied, rolling over and placing his hand on her leg. ‘When do we start?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ Sara flicked his hand away crossly.

  ‘Come on, Sara,’ he coaxed.

  ‘Don’t, Joe,’ Sara rebuffed him, confused.

  Joe just grinned and munched on toffee. ‘I’m not used to rejection, Sara. Just one kiss, eh?’

  His arrogance was infuriating! She had been rash coming to Durham with him and now he was making her look a fool.

  Others might have been content with a quick roll in the sand and nothing more, but she would not oblige so easily. How stupidly romantic she had been, filling her head with notions of love for this conceited lad! Sara jumped up, glaring down at him as he lay back lazily on his elbow, watching her.

  ‘You’re an arrogant pig, Joe Dimarco,’ she shouted, ‘and I’ll not be taken for granted like this. I’ll walk back from here,’ she declared and plunged into the tall grasses and bushes that bordered their secluded cove.

  For an instant Joe was too dumbfounded to move. Then, ‘Sara!’ he leapt up and caught her by the arm. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Leave go!’ she tried to shake him off, furious with herself for what she had done. Childish naivety had got her into this fix and she had no idea how she was supposed to behave with this dark and handsome youth who was so much more assured than she was. Then she chided herself for being so in awe of him; Joe Dimarco was just an ordinary lad with an inflated opinion of himself. Well, she was not going to be just one more conquest, she determined. She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow and his hold slackened.

  ‘You don’t need me,’ she said, flushed with anger, ‘not when there are plenty other daft lasses who fall for all your fancy talk - bella this and bella that. Well, I didn’t come here to get me’self into any trouble - I’m not that sort of lass. I just came ‘cos I liked you - and I thought I meant more to you than - I thought…’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ He lunged forward and pulled her back from the nettles that were stinging her bare legs. A briar caught her cheek and scratched it. ‘Look, you’re hurting yourself,’ he said, ‘and you’ll get lost.’

  ‘I won’t!’ She squirmed in his grasp. ‘And if you don’t let go I’ll scream.’

  Joe let go suddenly, raising his hands in the air and stepping back, ‘I’ll not touch you again. You bugger, I only gave you a toffee!’

  She saw the baffled look on his face and wondered if she had misread the situation. Her leg throbbed with nettle stings and she was wretched for ruining the afternoon. He turned away from her, saying, ‘I’ll take you back now if that’s what you want.’

  The tears came easily, silent trickles at first, then accompanied by a great sob that made Joe look round in bewilderment. She stood and cried and shook and did not know why she felt so unhappy.

  ‘Hey,’ Joe stepped towards her and placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. ‘Why you crying?’

  ‘I d-don’t know,’ Sara shuddered and groped for a handkerchief.

  ‘I’ve never made a lass cry before,’ Joe said, peering at her scratched and tear-stained face. His self-assured demeanour slipped like a mask, leaving boyish incomprehension on his slim face. He seemed as wary of her now as she was of him, Sara thought dejectedly.

  ‘Well, now you have,’ she retorted with a sniff.

  Joe stood mystified and unsure of this contrary country girl, whose moods flickered across her pretty face like the changing weather. He wanted to encircle her shaking body with protective arms, but dared not do so. Instead he patted her shoulder, feeling contrite at his casual behaviour. He had been too eager to show off in front of Sara and demonstrate that he was experienced with girls. With Olive Brown it had been easy.

  He had viewed Sara’s initial disinterest in him as a challenge, wanting the haughty green eyes to soften into liking for him. And at the Carnival dance he was certain he had recognised her attraction for him, the way he had felt stirred as he held her maturing body against his.

  He had calculated that she would be willing to take risks and defy her guardians as he was prepared to incur the disapproval of his parents by going with local girls. Perhaps he was guilty of taking advantage of her, hoping that this trip up the river might lead to an afternoon of passion. Her rebuttal was sobering, he thought shamefacedly; Sara Pallister was as prim as the Italian girls with whom Domenica was always trying to match him.

  Yet Joe hated to think he had upset Sara. She meant more to him, he realised as he touched her and smelt the scent on her skin, than the other girls he had courted so casually over the past two years. Sara was different. He thought about her when she was not near him and felt an uncomfortable longing when he looked into her green eyes and touched her honey-coloured hair. He brushed a strand away from her face in a tentative gesture and spoke.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not trying to get me evil way, or anything - least not unless you want it,’ he added impudently.

  They laughed, self-consciously.

  ‘I just want us to be friends,’ Sara mumbled, ‘good friends.’

  ‘Then that’s what I want an’ all,’ Joe assured her, tracing her cheek with his fingers. ‘Let’s sit down and start again, eh?’

  ‘And just chat?’ Sara asked.

  Joe nodded and plonked himself down. ‘Can we eat toffees, too?’ he asked wryly. Sara laughed and agreed.

  For an hour they sucked sweets and talked about each other’s families, sharing stories about their growing up. Sara relaxed and forgot her awkwardness with the young Italian, enjoying his tale-telling and amused by his descriptions of his many relations. He spoke of his friendship with Raymond and his family and his admiration for his boxing coach, Sam Ritson.

  As the cathedral bells tolled drowsily for evensong, they left their sandbank with reluctance
and returned to the boathouse. The air was chill as they sped away from Durham and Sara snuggled against Joe’s back on the motorcycle as she shivered in the wind.

  He dropped her once more at the disused siding.

  ‘Better not to be seen together,’ Joe told her. ‘I don’t want to cause you trouble with your uncle.’

  ‘I don’t care what he thinks,’ Sara said boldly, but she knew he was right. Uncle Alfred thought nothing of the Dimarcos, and would be scandalised by her association with Joe.

  ‘When can I see you again?’ Joe took her hands in his. ‘Just for a friendly chat, of course.’

  Sara could not prevent a smile. ‘It’s half day Thursday. Can you get away in the afternoon?’

  ‘For you, bellissima, I will get away any time.’ Joe lifted her hands, kissed them lightly, then dropped his hold.

  ‘Can we go to Durham again?’ she asked, excited at the thought.

  ‘Aye,’ Joe grinned, ‘wherever you want.’ As she turned to go he added quietly, ‘Best not to tell Rosa about our little trips - or Domenica.’

  ‘Why?’ Sara asked in surprise.

  Joe’s slim face tightened as he replied, ‘They might not understand. Italian lasses have different ideas about courting. We’ll just keep our friendship secret for a bit, eh?’

  ‘If you want,’ Sara said, a touch disappointed. She had looked forward to confiding in Rosa about seeing her brother. At home she would have rushed down to see her friend Beth with such momentous news, but in Whitton Grange, Rosa was the nearest she had to a confidante.

  ‘See you here Thursday,’ he smiled, blowing her a kiss before remounting the motorcycle.

  Sara skipped off into the dene, feeling ridiculously light-hearted at her new-found love. She wanted to shout it out to the world, but Joe’s words of warning echoed in her head. For the moment, at least, their clandestine romance must remain secret. Then she remembered her diary. It was a relief to think she could pour out her feelings onto the pages of the battered exercise book. With that comforting thought she ran for her uncle’s home.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sara began to call more frequently at the Dimarcos’ parlour to see Rosa and felt a delicious thrill at the special looks and brief words that she managed to exchange with Joe. They met at the football matches on Saturday afternoons, but always there were other people around and no one but themselves knew that their careless comments were charged with meaning.

  One Thursday a bashful Raymond passed on a message from Joe that Rosa wished to meet her that afternoon in Whitton Woods.

  ‘Whereabouts?’ Sara asked lightly.

  Raymond eyed her. ‘By the allotments.’ Sara looked away quickly from his enquiring face.

  ‘Rosa probably wants to pick some flowers for the cafe,’ she flustered.

  ‘Aye, when it’s raining cats and dogs outside?’ Raymond teased. ‘I know it’s Joe you’re meeting - old Dimarco’s not going to let Rosa go wandering off into the woods by herself, is he?’

  ‘You won’t tell, will you, Raymond?’ Sara pleaded. ‘Uncle Alfred would hit the roof if he found out. He’s taken a dislike to the Dimarcos - just ‘cos they haven’t lived in Whitton Grange for as long as his people.’

  ‘He wouldn’t like them even if they had,’ Raymond grunted.

  ‘Why is he like that?’ Sara asked with exasperation.

  “Cos men like Cummings don’t like seeing foreigners getting richer than them, that’s all. It’s the eleventh commandment; Thou shalt not have more stashed away under the mattress than me.’

  Sara laughed. ‘So you’ll keep quiet about me and Joe?’

  ‘You can do what you like, I’ll not tell,’ Raymond said with a blush and left with his deliveries.

  Sara found Joe sheltering under a beech tree on the edge of the allotments that stood between the dene and Whitton Woods. His collar was turned up against the rain and his bedraggled appearance confirmed he had been there some time.

  ‘I’ve got a couple of hours off - the bike’s playing up and it’s in the garage,’ Joe explained. ‘We can have the afternoon to ourselves at last.’

  ‘Where are we going to go in this rain?’ Sara’s enthusiasm was dampened by the weather.

  ‘I know where we can dry off,’ he said at once and, taking her hand, led her to a dilapidated hut. It had long since been abandoned to field mice and the patch of surrounding ground to waist-high thistles and grass, a few broken canes showing where lines of runner beans and sweet peas had once been lovingly tended. Dusty seed boxes were piled against the door, but they clambered in through a gaping window and fell on to musty sacking.

  ‘We can play cards,’ Joe suggested with a wink.

  Sara peered around the rotting shed. Pinned to the wall, dusty and faded with age, were drawings of birds and flowers and one of a handsome, gaunt-faced woman sitting reading a book. It was almost completely curled in on itself. Sara unrolled it and gazed at the haunting picture.

  ‘She’s got a nice face. I wonder who she was?’ Sara mused.

  ‘We’ll never know,’ Joe stood beside her, peering at the pencilled visage. He slipped an arm around Sara’s shoulders. ‘Not my type, mind. Too skinny.’ He pinched Sara’s waist.

  ‘How did you know about this place?’ she asked intrigued.

  ‘Raymond mentioned it once,’ Joe said casually. ‘Used to belong to an uncle of his or something.’

  ‘What if his uncle should come?’ Sara said with concern.

  ‘Stop worrying.’ Joe was reassuring. ‘You can see no one’s been here for years. Both his Kirkup uncles moved away and his Uncle Sam’s never been one for gardening - too busy with union meetings and the boxing club.’ He put his head close to hers. ‘So it’s just our own little den - no one will come looking for us here. It’s been that hard getting you on your own,’ Joe laughed, flicking wet hair out of his eyes.

  Sara shivered, partly from the chill air and partly from excitement. ‘Raymond knows I was meeting you not Rosa.’

  ‘So?’ Joe was unconcerned. ‘Raymond’s a marra of mine, he’ll not tell anyone.’

  ‘Don’t suppose I’m the first lass you’ve brought here, then?’ She pulled away from him a fraction.

  He made no denial. ‘You’re the most beautiful,’ Joe murmured, caressing her cheek.

  ‘Let’s play cards,’ Sara turned from him and plonked herself down on a garden box, nervous of impending intimacy.

  Joe did not protest but sat down, cross-legged, opposite her and drew out a well-thumbed pack of cards and a battered packet of cigarettes from his jacket.

  ‘Want a smoke? he offered. Sara shook her head and then changed her mind.

  ‘All right, then,’ she giggled. She watched him light up two cigarettes and toss the extinguished match out of the window. She took one from him and, holding it gingerly between thumb and forefinger, put it to her lips and puffed. Nothing happened. Joe drew on his and squinted with amusement through the spiral of smoke. His fingers bore the brown stains of frequent smoking.

  ‘Suck,’ he told her. ‘Breathe it in.’

  Sara drew in a huge breath and choked on a rush of smoke. She coughed violently and dropped the cigarette. Joe laughed and picked it up, pinching out the burning end with his fingers.

  ‘It looks that easy on the films,’ Sara spluttered and laughed. ‘Here, I’ll deal,’ she said, reaching for the cards, thankful to have something to keep her hands from shaking. She and Tom and Chrissie had often filled in long winter evenings with games of Whist and Old Maid. Joe taught her an Italian game called scopa.

  They played for half an hour and then the rain stopped and the sun broke out through the trees, sending a muted shaft of light into the damp-smelling hut.

  ‘I want to take you somewhere,’ Joe announced suddenly and got to his feet. He reached down and pulled Sara up. ‘Haway, I’m sick of being beat at cards by a lass.’

  She followed him back out of the window, her bare legs and skirt soon soaked from the wet und
ergrowth that hemmed in their hideaway. The heavy midsummer storm had chased away any would-be gardeners and the allotments appeared deserted. Joe grabbed her hand and led her out of the maze of pigeon lofts and shacks and cobbled fences towards the woods.

  In silence, they climbed the path that burrowed through the trees, suddenly in awe of the moody, dripping quiet of the woods. At the top, the trees stopped abruptly and gave way to pasture. Beyond, Sara could glimpse the promise of moorland heather and a ribbon of old stone wall that reminded her of home. But she suppressed the thought, not wanting to dwell on the ties which tugged her memory to Stout House and Rillhope.

  Joe had stopped by a narrow gate that allowed only one person to pass through it at a time.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked her.

  ‘Aye, it’s a wishing gate,’ Sara answered, bemused.

  ‘Step in and make a wish, then.’ He held it open for her and she laughed, still uncertain, but stepped into the opening. Watched by Joe’s dark, amused eyes, she made her wish. Sara reached forward to push the gate back to pass on to the Common and allow Joe to follow her, but he held the gate firm.

  ‘Shall I tell you my wish?’ he said quietly.

  ‘You mustn’t say, or it won’t come true,’ Sara answered, her voice husky.

  He stepped towards her and slipped his free arm around her waist. ‘I wish you’d give us a kiss,’ he murmured, looking down at her full lips.

  Sara began to giggle. She leaned back against the gate and met his enquiring look with shining green eyes. Out here in the open, with the smell of wet foliage and the distant bleat of sheep, she had no fear of him.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he asked, dropping his arm, his poise disturbed.

  ‘Nothing,’ Sara laughed and slipped her own arms around his neck. ‘It’s just I wished for the same thing.’

  ‘You did?’ Joe asked in astonishment. ‘You mean - you want? I thought—’

  ‘Are you going to kiss me then?’ she challenged.

  Joe stooped towards her and they kissed tentatively. To Sara’s surprise he seemed much more awkward about it than she had imagined. His lips were dry and at first he pecked her like an inquisitive hen. It did not seem half as romantic as in the occasional films she had seen in the old hall at Lilychapel, when stirring music brought tears to her eyes and her insides melted as the hero and heroine embraced and swore undying love.