Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Who’s the father?’ Raymond asked in a voice full of embarrassment. ‘Likely he’ll stand by her?’

  Louie nodded at Sara.

  ‘He’s called Emilio,’ she said with an awkward glance, ‘she met him at Domenica’s wedding. The Dimarcos didn’t approve of him and wouldn’t let Rosa marry - he disappeared back to Italy at the beginning of the war.’

  ‘She knew him last summer then?’ Raymond said in a tight voice. Sara met his look and nodded. His blue eyes in their grimy sockets were fierce.

  ‘No doubt Joe would like to knock him to hell if he had half the chance,’ Sam grunted, pulling off his boots.

  ‘Well that’s their business,’ Raymond got up sharply, ‘and Rosa’s got no one to blame but herself. I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss over her.’

  ‘It was Emilio’s fault,’ Sara corrected.

  ‘Who cares?’ Raymond answered savagely. ‘These Italians are all the same - think they can have any lass they want.’

  ‘Joe’s not like that,’ Sara protested.

  ‘Isn’t he?’ Raymond glared.

  ‘Tch, Raymond,’ Louie tutted.

  ‘Well, she’s daft getting mixed up with I-ties.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Sam warned. ‘Louie, get the water poured for our bath, will you?’

  Louie bit back a remark and turned to the range. Sara gave Raymond a furious look and stormed out of the house.

  Sara and Raymond did not speak to each other again for several days, Raymond’s hurt at the discovery that Rosa was not worthy of his adoration preventing him from apologising to Sara for his bad-tempered words. But the deepening crisis of war soon overshadowed their personal lives as news filtered through of fierce battles in Belgium and Northern France and the Allies were pushed back to the sea. One day, as they listened anxiously around the wireless in Edie and Ernie Parkin’s parlour, they learned of a huge battle to defend Arras. On the following day, a telegram was delivered to the Parkins for Hilda. Wilfred was missing.

  Hilda would not be consoled and Sara felt desperate to see her so wretched, imagining how she would feel if it were Joe or her brother Tom.

  Four days later, on the 28th May, after Sam had come home fuming at the news of murdered Belgian trade unionists being tipped into mass graves, word spread through the village that Belgium had capitulated. For the next few days everyone gathered around wireless sets and seized what newspapers they could for news of the British withdrawal to Dunkirk and the astonishing rescue by the navy and a flotilla of small craft that plucked thousands of troops off the beaches and out of the clutches of the surrounding Germans.

  The relief of escape for so many was soon overtaken by the dawning terror that invasion of Britain was imminent. Signposts were taken down to thwart the progress of an advancing army and volunteers flocked in increasing numbers for defence dudes. Holidays at the pits were suspended and the miners spared no effort in the fight to produce as much coal as possible to support their French allies, still resisting the Germans on French soil.

  Sara felt a wave of frustration that she was carrying on mundane shop duties while the war effort went on around her. So, after work one day, she took Louie’s advice and went to volunteer at the WVS canteen in the Memorial Hall, set up to receive the influx of servicemen being temporarily billeted in the village on their return from France.

  Sara found her Aunt Ida helping make tea in the hall kitchen.

  ‘Just look at them.’ Ida shook her head at Sara. ‘They seem quite done in.’

  Sara went out to serve in the crowded hall, but it did not buzz to the sound of chattering voices as it had when the evacuated children had arrived. The men sat subdued and utterly weary, smoking reflectively over cups of tea and saying little. An air of defeat hung over them and, for the first time, Sara felt really afraid.

  Ida was garrulous with nerves. ‘It’s a terrible thing, this war. And where’s it going to end? As Mr Churchill says, we must all do our bit. When I think of the danger to our children - to Marina—’

  ‘You mustn’t get yourself upset, Aunt Ida,’ Sara tried to calm her. She thought to change the subject. ‘How’s Colin getting on at the farm?’

  ‘Oh, Colin,’ her aunt trembled, and splashed scalding tea on to the floor.

  Sara jumped out of the way. ‘Aunt Ida!’

  ‘Sorry. It’s just my nerves. I hope he stays away. There’ll be hell on if he comes back.’

  Ida would say no more, so Sara busied herself clearing tables, before going on fire-watch duty with Hilda. She wished to fill each waking moment with activity and prevent herself dwelling on thoughts of her brother Tom, of whom there had been no word, and of Joe as he neared the end of his training. Hilda was the same. She could not talk of Wilfred without succumbing to tears and she spent her free time at the Parkins’ house, waiting for news of her husband.

  ‘Have you heard from Joe?’ Hilda asked one evening, giving up trying to read her book in the gloom. They staved off the boredom of fire-watching by reading to each other and Hilda had astonished Sara with her knowledge of literature.

  ‘A couple of weeks ago. He’s in a camp outside Edinburgh, but he can’t say much. I wonder where they’ll send him? Do you think it’ll be to France?’

  Hilda gave her a strange look. ‘Does it not bother you that he’s an Italian - with all this talk of them being spies?’

  ‘Joe a spy?’ Sara laughed at such a suggestion. ‘You read too many thrillers, Hildy. Joe’s as British as we are. He’s joined the DLI, hasn’t he?’

  Hilda persisted. ‘But do you think he’d fight against his own people, though, if he had to?’

  Sara was annoyed by the question. ‘If you mean the Italians, I don’t know. What does it matter? We’re not at war with Italy.’

  ‘We’re as good as. Musso’s just waiting for Hitler to do the dirty work, then he’ll join in.’

  ‘Well, it’s got nothing to do with Joe,’ Sara said indignantly. ‘He’d defend this village and those he loves as much as W—’ She bit back Wilfred’s name. ‘As much as any of the Durhams. Just like Churchill said last night - Joe’d fight in the streets and in the hills if he had to.’

  They avoided talk of their men after that but a few days later, Hilda came dashing in to Louie’s kitchen and screamed, ‘Our Wilfred’s alive! Louie, he’s alive! We’ve heard on the wireless.’

  Louie hugged her sister in delight. ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘They read out a list of prisoners - the Germans did - we nearly didn’t listen tonight - but we heard Wilfred’s name.’

  ‘So he’s a prisoner of war?’ Louie asked, her joy for her sister deflating.

  ‘Aye,’ Hilda nodded, undaunted by Louie’s look of concern. ‘But at least the bugger’s alive.’

  After finishing at the shop the next day, Sara went round to see Rosa and baby Mary, who was to be christened the following Sunday at St Teresa’s. Mrs Dimarco was serving a handful of customers in the parlour, while Mr Dimarco and Paolo smoked and played cards in the back-shop, the wireless crackling between them. They seemed preoccupied and Sara hurried into the courtyard where she heard voices. She found her friend sitting outside in the early evening sun, rocking her daughter in Linda’s old pram. For once, Sylvia was sitting good-humouredly beside her, peeling vegetables and watching Linda staggering after her brother Peter and his spinning top. Bobby Dimarco was tinkering with a bicycle in a corner of the yard.

  Sara, more confident now with the tiny baby, peered into the pram and stroked her cheek. ‘Hello, bonny Mary. How are you today?’

  ‘She’s grand,’ Rosa smiled, regretting that Sara could not be a godmother. She had tentatively suggested the idea, but her parents had dismissed the Protestant Sara as unsuitable.

  Rosa went and fetched them lemonade and they sat chatting as an evening breeze picked up and the sun went behind the clouds. Even Sylvia seemed content just to linger in the quiet of the white-washed courtyard, the door to the ice-cream shed creaking ge
ntly on its hinges, punctuated by the soft snorting of the old pony Gelato. Linda crawled up on to her mother’s knee and went to sleep, lulled by the soft voices and the somnolent sounds of evening.

  Colin walked the final mile into Whitton Grange. He was fitter now than he ever had been in his life; farmwork had firmed his layers of bulk into muscle and he no longer felt embarrassed by his oversized frame. The farmer at Thimble Hill had praised his way with animals and one of the dairy girls, Beth Lawson, had blushed and smiled in a way that was flattering, whenever he had approached. Colin had found a satisfaction with outdoor work that he had never imagined existed and cursed himself for never having had the courage to leave home before. On the farm, no one called him ignorant, or treated him like the village fool and no one seemed to mind his occasional clumsiness. He joined in the local whist drives and Beth Lawson with her merry, squinting brown eyes danced with him at the monthly chapel hop.

  ‘Sara never told me she had a handsome cousin,’ Beth had said one evening, allowing Colin to walk her home. Colin had been speechless with delight at her coquettish manner and dared to kiss her goodnight.

  Two weeks later, Beth had suggested he move into her cottage and share the rent.

  ‘What if your husband should come back?’ Colin had asked, uncertainly.

  ‘What husband?’ Beth had answered bitterly. ‘I’ve not heard from John since he went to sea - and I’m not likely to, either.’

  So Colin had moved in and he was content and felt useful for the first time in his life.

  Responding to Beth’s cheerful, earthy humour, he found he could talk to her of his deeply unhappy boyhood with a resentful stepmother and a father who never attempted to hide his contempt and disappointment. Beth was the first person to whom he had admitted his fear of his bullying father and she was the first woman to give him the warmth of physical comfort. She made him feel less guilty at the way he had used his strength to bully younger boys and for his aggressiveness toward Sara.

  ‘You’re not to blame,’ Beth had said stoutly, ‘your father made you what you were. But I know you’re not a bad lad, Colin Cummings.’ She had put her arms about him and kissed him and Colin had felt a wave of gratitude for her forgiveness.

  Only one thing made Colin fret and that was being without his beloved hounds, so he had decided to fetch them and bring them back to his cosy new home at Rillhope with Beth and her son Daniel.

  Yet, as Colin strode into the village in his dusty boots, the familiar fear of his father and his dread at returning to 13 South Parade, crept into his guts. His shoulders hunched as he tramped nearer the green, where his home lay in the shadow of gathering clouds.

  Rosa shivered now the yard was in shadow. ‘Are you working at the canteen this evening?’ she asked her friend.

  ‘No. I’m on fire-watch,’ Sara yawned, thinking it was time she made a move.

  At once they were aware that the wireless in the back-shop had been turned up to full volume. Sara glanced through the open doors and saw that Mrs Dimarco had drifted into the room, too.

  The clipped voice of the announcer was reporting a speech delivered only hours ago by Mussolini. Italy had declared war on Britain and her allies.

  Nobody spoke. Peter was laughing at something Bobby was doing with the bicycle and baby Mary whimpered in her sleep. Rosa stood up and, leaning into the pram, clutched the baby to her, making Mary wail. At once, all the Dimarcos began to talk.

  ‘What does this mean for us?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘We should have gone with Domenica—’

  ‘Don’t say that, this is our home!’

  ‘Nothing will change—’

  ‘Oh, Madonna!’

  ‘Anna, calm yourself!’

  Sara hung around on the edge of the arguing family, feeling useless and anxious. Eventually, she realised there was nothing she could say to put their minds at rest. No one really knew what such news would mean to Italian nationals in Britain. Sara had heard of German residents being sent to camps at the beginning of the war, but surely this would be different? These people had been here most of their lives.

  ‘Don’t worry, Rosa,’ she tried to reassure as she left. ‘This isn’t Nazi Germany. The British won’t mistreat you Italians - you’re part of the community.’

  But, as she hurried home, she realised she herself had referred to Rosa as an Italian for the first tune. Had she too started to see the Dimarcos in a different light? Hilda’s words about them being spies and the newspaper reports that warned of the ‘enemy within’ crept into her mind with their invidious message; can these people be trusted? Where do their loyalties really lie? Then Sara thought of Joe, training for danger and possible death with the Durham Faithfuls, her father’s old regiment, and she felt ashamed of such suspicion.

  Ida was taken completely by surprise when Colin banged the front door.

  ‘You should’ve said you were coming home,’ she said in agitation, appearing in the corridor to see who it was.

  ‘I’m not stopping long,’ he muttered as Marina darted out of the parlour.

  ‘Your father’s gone to the club to see if there’s any more news.’ Ida blocked his way. ‘We heard it on the wireless. Italy’s declared war on us,’ Ida gabbled.

  ‘Bloody I-ties,’ Colin mumbled.

  ‘Why don’t you go in the parlour and I’ll fetch you something to eat?’

  ‘I’ll see the dogs first.’ He pushed past her. ‘They’re all I’ve come for.’

  As he did so, Marina blurted out, ‘They’ve gone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Colin jerked round. Marina cowered behind her mother.

  ‘Father’s got rid of them,’ Ida croaked. ‘The whippets.’

  Colin gave her such a look of scornful disbelief that Ida took a step back, but he spun round and marched through the kitchen, leaving a trail of dried mud.

  The yard was ominously silent. No whippets sprang to greet him with licks and yelps of delight and the animal smell had gone - even their shed had been demolished. In its place stood a gleaming Anderson shelter.

  Colin was outraged.

  ‘Where are they?’ he managed to ask, shaking with anger.

  ‘We couldn’t feed them any longer,’ Ida stuttered. ‘Not with rationing - the family comes first, Father said. And there’s going to be bombing - we needed a proper shelter.’

  ‘Where are Flash and Gypsy?’ Colin shouted, grabbing Marina and shaking her. The girl screamed for him to let go.

  ‘You’re hurting me!’

  Ida was galvanised into protecting her daughter. ‘Take your hands off her! Your wretched dogs have been put down.’

  Colin gasped, as if he had been winded. ‘He did it, didn’t he? He hates me that much, he’d do a thing like this?’ He shouted something incoherent and fled across the yard, kicking the offending shelter with hatred as he ran out of the back gate. Ida clutched the crying Marina to her apron and closed her eyes in relief that her wild stepson had gone.

  At Hawthorn Street, Sara bolted down a quick meal of cheese salad and bread pudding made from stale leftovers. There was a tension in the stuffy kitchen that made her nervous.

  Sam looked across the table at Sara, who was rising to go. ‘You’re not going back to the parlour tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m on duty,’ Sara answered.

  ‘Do you want me to walk you down?’ he said self-consciously.

  ‘No, I’m meeting Hilda, thanks.’

  Sara left, quickening her pace as the evening clouds turned an ominous purple and the sky darkened early with the threat of a thunder storm. The air was heavy with moisture, but the rain held off while she and Hilda hurried to their post.

  ‘What’s wrong Sam?’ Louie asked as her husband paced back from the door.

  Sam shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. Coming back from work - there was a mood among some of the lads.’

  ‘What sort of mood?’ Louie pressed him.

  ‘People
are afraid,’ Sam said quietly.

  ‘I know,’ Louie whispered.

  ‘And they’re looking for someone to blame,’ he added.

  Sara was the first to notice something was amiss. Climbing on to the flat roof of the boiler house, she heard the distant call of voices in the oppressive gloom.

  ‘There’s a lot of people out in the streets tonight,’ she commented to a puzzled Hilda. ‘I can hear them.’

  ‘Perhaps the Home Guard are on manoeuvres,’ she suggested.

  ‘They wouldn’t be shouting like that. Listen.’

  The young women peered into the half dark of the June night and strained to catch the discordant noises of the villagers abroad.

  ‘I’m sure I can see torchlight. I’m going to take a look,’ Sara said, clambering off the roof. She was filled with an unease she could not define.

  ‘Not on your own, you’re not,’ Hilda declared and scrambled down after her.

  They made their way out of the school gates and walked closely together towards South Street and the centre of the village. Turning into Mill Terrace, they stopped in their tracks to see a wave of dark figures emerge at the top of the street, heading straight towards them with an uneven thud of boots.

  ‘Scarper!’ Hilda hissed to Sara. ‘It’s trouble.’

  But the crowd was moving so rapidly, they had no time to turn and run. The first young men were around them in seconds, jeering aggressively, their faces blackened to hide identity. Someone shone a dim torch in Sara’s face.

  ‘It’s Joe Dimarco’s lass!’ he shouted. Sara went rigid with fright as, through his disguise, she recognised the hostile face of Normy Bell thrusting close to hers. He spat in her face.