Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Wop’s whore!’

  ‘Traitor!’ another cried.

  ‘Let’s give her it!’ Normy pushed Sara against the wall.

  ‘Get off me!’ she cried, trying to push him away.

  Hilda grabbed at Norman Bell’s arm. ‘Leave her alone! She’s got nothing to do with them Italians.’

  A large man elbowed his way to the front. ‘Don’t waste time on her,’ he argued. ‘It’s the Dimarcos we want.’

  Sara gasped as she looked into her cousin’s angry face.

  ‘She’s my cousin, leave her be,’ Colin said, levering his way between Norman and Sara.

  Norman shook him off, but fell back undecided.

  ‘Haway, Normy,’ his mate tugged his arm, ‘we’re wasting time. It’s the I-ties we’re after.’

  Some of the crowd had already moved on and Norman Bell did not want to miss out on any fun.

  ‘Stay away from Joe Dimarco if you’ve got any sense,’ he threatened Sara, his eyes narrowing.

  Seconds later the pack of men were passing on. It was easier now to see that most were young, some hardly more than boys. They strutted along shouting words of hatred, intoxicated with the excitement of violence. At the back of the crowd, Sara was certain she recognised a tall figure in an overlarge cap.

  She began to shake violently and Hilda’s arms went around her in comfort.

  ‘R-Raymond,’ Sara stammered. ‘Raymond’s with them.’

  ‘Never!’ Hilda cried.

  ‘There.’ Sara pointed him out, but the semi-dark had already swallowed him up.

  ‘Oh, Hildy, what can we do?’

  ‘Don’t you go near that parlour,’ Hilda ordered. ‘It’s not your business.’

  ‘What about the Dimarcos?’ Sara was aghast. ‘Rosa and her baby? We can’t leave them to that mob. Imagine it was your family in there, Hildy.’

  Hilda felt shamed. Italians they might be, but they did not deserve to be terrorised. Overcoming her fear, Hilda made a decision. ‘We’ll go for Sam. He’ll know what to do.’

  Without further words, they turned and ran up Mill Terrace, the sound of savage chanting filling the night sky behind them.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As soon as the news of Mussolini’s declaration of war had been confirmed, Arturo closed the parlour. Paolo and Bobby helped him wind in the canopies, close the inner shutters and draw down the blind behind the door. Paolo, ever methodical, swept the floor and wiped down the tables before they bolted the door and retreated in to the back-shop.

  ‘It’s just a precaution,’ Arturo assured his wife. ‘And we don’t get much business in the evening now, anyway.’

  But the men had not lingered downstairs and, as the sky grew dark, the family gathered around the kitchen table for the evening meal. Arturo attempted to jolly them, but the conversation was muted as they listened for changes in the sounds of evening beyond the open windows. The thrum of the pits mixed reassuringly with the languid call of birds, settling to sleep.

  Rosa pushed away her spaghetti without appetite and went to check on Mary. She slept peacefully. Returning, she saw young Peter standing fretfully in the doorway of his parents’ bedroom.

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ he grizzled.

  ‘Come here.’ Paolo smiled at his son and the boy ran forward and scrambled into his lap.

  ‘Tell me the story of the magic donkey, Daddy,’ the boy asked.

  No one protested as Paolo began to indulge the boy with the old tales, as timeless as the mountain villages from which they came. Arturo smoked steadily. As dusk deepened, Anna drew the blackout curtains and switched on a cheery light.

  The women were clearing the table when the jar of voices became noticeable. Anna stopped and cocked her head. The noise was growing louder, coming nearer.

  ‘What’s that?’ she demanded.

  Paolo’s story-telling ceased. Arturo stood up and went to the window, peering through a chink in the blackout into the dark. He could see nothing, but the sound of people advancing was unmistakable. He pulled the window firmly shut.

  ‘Arturo?’ his wife whispered.

  ‘It’s nothing. Just the ARP patrolling. Time you were in bed, little Peter.’

  Paolo swept up his son and gave him a kiss as he began to protest. He handed him over to Sylvia who coaxed him back in to the bedroom. She was still settling him down when noise erupted below in the street.

  ‘Come out, you bastards!’

  ‘Enemy scum!’

  ‘Hang the traitors!’

  ‘We know you’re in there!’

  ‘Catholic pigs!’

  All at once the shouts were drowned in a deafening shatter of glass as a brick was hurled at one of the shop windows.

  Rosa screamed and ran to her mother. Anna crossed herself and appealed to her husband, but he just stood in stunned disbelief at what he was hearing.

  ‘My shop?’ he said, incredulous.

  ‘Arturo!’ Anna beseeched.

  Indignation seized him. ‘I’ll not let them smash up my shop!’ He strode to the stairs.

  ‘Don’t go out there, Arturo!’ Anna pleaded. ‘Paolo - don’t let him go out.’

  Paolo pursued his father down to the back-shop and seized his arm.

  ‘No, Papa.’

  ‘I will speak with them - it is a crime,’ he protested.

  ‘Think of the children upstairs,’ Paolo was insistent. ‘They must be protected first - not the shop.’

  As he spoke, the sound of further missiles being hurled at Dimarco’s shop door pierced the night and splintering glass skidded across the pristine tiles.

  The seriousness of the attack struck Arturo at last. ‘Barricade the doors!’ he shouted.

  Together they heaved sacks of foodstuffs and crates against the back-shop door and, upending the solid table, pushed it against the bolted back door, wedging it with chairs.

  ‘We must ring for the police, Papa,’ Paolo urged his father.

  ‘Yes,’ Arturo agreed. He lurched for the telephone in the corner of the back-shop, the noise of the mob turning his fury to fear.

  It seemed an age before he got through to the police station and, in his relief, gabbled half his message in his native tongue.

  ‘Let me speak.’ Paolo took hold of the receiver, but the line was dead.

  ‘They will come any minute,’ his father assured him. ‘Sergeant Turnbull is our friend. He will put a stop to this violence.’

  Hurrying back upstairs they closed the door to the flat and pulled the heavy sideboard against it. Rosa sat rocking Mary in her arms, while Anna and Sylvia comforted a frightened Peter, and Linda slept on, oblivious to the commotion.

  Bobby crouched on the floor, trying to overcome his terror by reading a comic.

  Tensely, they sat around the table listening to the destruction below. Five minutes later they heard the rabble break into the shop and begin to break up the furniture…

  Sara was hardly coherent as she gabbled out her story to Sam and Louie who forced her to sit down and drink a cup of water, while Hilda explained more calmly what had happened.

  ‘They were heading for the Dimarcos’ shop,’ Hilda said.

  ‘We must stop them,’ Sara cried. ‘They looked ready to kill!’

  ‘Oh, that poor lass and her new bairn,’ Louie said, horrified.

  ‘Are there no police or ARP around to calm them down?’ Sam asked, grim faced.

  ‘We didn’t see any, but they’ve probably caught up with them now,’ Hilda replied. ‘We should be back on fire-watch …’

  ‘No!’ Sara sprang up. ‘This is more urgent - the Dimarcos are in danger.’ She saw the cautious looks on their faces, a reluctance to get involved. ‘It wasn’t just louts like Normy Bell and my cousin Colin, there were dozens of them.’ She looked at Louie directly. ‘Raymond was there.’

  Louie gasped. ‘Never?’

  ‘I saw him,’ Sara was adamant. ‘He was hovering at the back, but he was with them.’

  Louie turned
in horror to her husband. Sam grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair and pulled it on. ‘I’m going for the police.’

  Sara made to follow him, but he stopped her at once.

  ‘You stop inside with Louie and Hildy and don’t you dare go out on the streets again tonight,’ he told her severely. ‘Louie, make sure everyone stays in.’

  ‘Aye, Sam,’ Louie agreed.

  With part reluctance, part relief, Sara sank into a chair to wait for Sam’s return, sending up a silent prayer for the safety of her friends.

  On the way to the police station, Sam detoured by Pit Street just to see for himself if Sara’s fears were founded. He heard the mayhem before he got to the end of Mill Terrace and, running in to Pit Street, saw the rampaging crowd of villagers flinging stones and abuse and dragging furniture in to the street. For a moment he watched in horror as three men demolished a cigarette machine and raided its contents; chairs and tables were hurled into the street and men ran into the night with stolen goods, their boots crunching on a sea of broken glass from the large parlour windows.

  Sam had witnessed violence before; he had taken part in running battles on picket lines during the bitter strike of ‘26. But never before had he seen wanton destruction or such naked hatred against a defenceless family. The ugliness of it filled him with an angry shame, compounded by the thought that his nephew was among them.

  ‘If I get my hands on the beggar -’ Sam shouted aloud, knowing he could do nothing alone against such a volatile crowd.

  He turned and raced for the police station, but was astounded to find only a young constable on duty who seemed at a loss as to what to do.

  ‘Where’s Simpson or Turnbull?’ Sam demanded.

  ‘Constable Simpson’s up at Eleanor pit answering a call and Sergeant Turnbull’s been called to Durham for an urgent meeting,’ the policeman said.

  ‘Well, telephone for reinforcements. Get them out of bed if you have to,’ Sam ordered. ‘There’s a battle going on out there.’

  ‘I’ll have to wait for Serg— ‘

  Sam crashed his fist on the desk. ‘Now! Half the village is smashing up Dimarco’s shop and they’ll tear the poor buggers apart if they get hold of them, too. So telephone!’

  Rosa was sure they were all going to die. The shouting and violence seemed to go on for ever as they huddled in the dark of the kitchen, pretending not to be there and wishing that they were not. She was too terrified to speak, clinging on to her baby, attempting to nurse Mary and stay calm. Paolo had stopped Peter’s crying by inventing a game of hiding under the table and keeping quiet as a mouse, but now the little boy was growing tired of it.

  ‘When will the banging stop, Daddy?’ he asked tiredly.

  ‘Soon,’ Paolo promised. ‘Soon.’

  Arturo said he would go down and telephone the police again, but Anna worried it would be too dangerous. Then, for a while, the crowd seemed to tire and the noise of vandalism diminished.

  ‘Perhaps the police are here at last?’ Arturo’s haggard face brightened in hope. He got up from his cramped position and went to the window to look out.

  ‘There he is!’ a voice shouted. ‘They’re in there!’

  Arturo cursed his lack of caution; the attack began anew. Twenty minutes later the assailants broke in to the back-shop and the sounds of destruction came terrifyingly close.

  Arturo sat holding his wife as they listened to their life’s work being destroyed. What had they done to deserve such hatred? Arturo wondered bitterly. He had thought they were liked in the village, respected as hardworking and for paying their own way and being generous when they could afford to be. Only boorish men like Cummings had shown them any ill feeling before and there were few of his kind.

  Arturo could not understand the hostility. He had chosen to live in Whitton Grange most of his life, had fought alongside these Durham people in the Great War, had brought up his family among their families. He felt shaken with betrayal - and, most of all, he felt betrayed by his friend Signor Turnbull who did not come to his rescue…

  For an age they remained in the flat, praying for deliverance. Finally, in the middle of the night, the attackers appeared to fall back and disperse, melting into the dark, as if sated by their destruction.

  They’re going to spare us,’ Anna whispered tearfully, hugging her husband in relief.

  But hardly had they dared move from their protective circle when they heard subdued voices and steps on the stairs, followed by a sudden battering on the door to the flat that made Sylvia wail with terror.

  ‘Mr Dimarco?’ a man shouted. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Who is it?’ Arturo demanded with suspicion.

  ‘Sam,’ the man replied. ‘Sam Ritson. It’s safe to unlock the door.’

  The family gave a communal cry of joy.

  ‘Help me move the sideboard,’ Arturo said to Paolo. ‘Switch on the light, Anna.’

  A minute later they had the door open and, in the dim electric light, they saw Sam and a young constable appear, followed by Sergeant Turnbull.

  ‘Signor Ritson!’ Arturo gave Joe’s boxing teacher a hug in his relief.

  ‘As long as you’re all unharmed,’ Sam muttered with embarrassment.

  ‘We are champions, as you say,’ Arturo said with a bravado he did not feel. ‘Signor Turnbull, I am so glad.’

  But Turnbull stood aloof. ‘I’m sorry you had to endure such an attack. We were quite taken by surprise by its ferocity.’

  ‘You should have acted a bit sharper,’ Sam accused bluntly. ‘Got yourself back from Durham before midnight.’

  Turnbull gave the pitman a disdainful look and Arturo intervened quickly.

  ‘I’m sure you did your best, Signore. We are grateful to you both.’

  ‘It was Sara gave the alarm, Mr Dimarco,’ Sam said. ‘Not me or the police, so thank the lass, not us.’

  ‘Sara? Oh, I will!’ Arturo nodded. ‘Now, please, will you sit down with us?’

  ‘No,’ Turnbull said abruptly, ‘I’m afraid this is not over.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Anna asked anxiously. ‘Are we still in danger? Have they not gone away?’

  ‘Hush, Anna, let the Sergeant speak.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to ask the men to go to the police station for the rest of the night - and we must search the house.’ As Turnbull spoke, two constables appeared from the dark of the stairwell.

  ‘Why must you go, Arturo?’ Anna asked in panic.

  ‘Just a few questions…’ Turnbull kept his voice even. ‘If you could come along now, Mr Dimarco - you and Paolo.’

  ‘For how long?’ Anna persisted.

  ‘A day at the most,’ the police officer assured. ‘No need for any big goodbyes.’

  The room erupted in a barrage of questions as Turnbull instructed his men to search the flat.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘What is this all about?’

  ‘Can we go with them?’

  ‘I must pack a case for you, Arturo.’

  Turnbull began to lose patience. ‘There’s no need to pack anything. Just do as I say, please.’

  Sam watched, appalled, as the constables scooped up letters and accounts and poked in to the Dimarcos’ private possessions. He knew what it meant - these people were now ‘enemy aliens’, a supposed threat to the nation’s security and they would be shown no mercy by Turnbull whom Sam knew to be vindictive and calculating.

  ‘Listen Turnbull, what are you going to do to protect the women while you question the men?’ Sam demanded.

  ‘The crowds have gone - there won’t be any more trouble,’ Turnbull snapped. ‘Anyway, they’ll be safer once the men are locked up.’

  ‘You bastard!’ Sam seethed.

  ‘Out the way, Ritson, or I’ll take you in, too. Get them out of here now.’ He jerked his head for Arturo and Paolo to be taken away.

  Anna flung herself at her husband.

  ‘Just a day, Anna,’ Arturo said, trying to hide
his agitation.

  Sylvia thrust a hunk of bread into her husband’s pocket and a bleary-eyed Peter grabbed at his father’s hand.

  ‘Daddy,’ he sobbed, ‘I want to go with Daddy!’

  Paolo leant down and hugged the child. ‘Daddy will be back soon, bambino.’ He pressed his son into Sylvia’s arms and kissed her briefly.

  ‘Paolo!’ she held on to his hand, but Turnbull pulled them apart.

  ‘There’s no need for all this fuss.’

  Suddenly there was a squeal from the corner of the room, as a policeman spotted a cowering Bobby. ‘Here’s another one, sir.’ He hauled him to his feet. ‘Shall we have him, too?’

  Bobby kicked and struggled and Anna screamed. Sam stepped over and shoved the policeman out of the way.

  ‘He’s just a lad!’ Sam defended him.

  ‘Yes, he’s only thirteen, leave him,’ Turnbull ordered with indifference. ‘Where’s your son Joe?’ he turned to Anna.

  ‘He’s not here,’ she said, bewildered.

  ‘You know he’s with the DLI,’ Sam answered savagely. ‘Not even a bastard like you would try to arrest a Dimarco in uniform, would you?’

  Turnbull threw him a look of loathing and left without another word. Arturo was pushed after him, his face dignified and impassive, Paolo’s supportive hand on his shoulder. Then they were gone.

  Rosa looked at her mother and sister-in-law in disbelief trying to shake herself awake from the nightmare. But it was real; the people of Whitton Grange had run amok in their shop and her father and brother had been arrested.

  ‘I’ll stay until the morning,’ Sam told them unhappily. ‘I’ll stop downstairs and make sure no one comes back.’

  Rosa’s mother merely nodded, past deciding what should be done and Sam left, not knowing how to comfort them.

  At early light Sam went home, exhausted and grey-faced, to tell Louie and Sara what had happened, then left for his shift.

  ‘Tell Raymond I’ll have it out with him after work,’ Sam said grimly, pulling on his pit clothes. ‘You go and see what help you can be to Mrs Dimarco.’

  Sara went at once to Pit Street. At first she did not recognise the devastated shop front. Wreckage was strewn everywhere; as she picked her way over the broken glass and Mr Dimarco’s prized coffee machine which had been wrenched from the counter, she saw Mrs Dimarco and Rosa attempting to sweep up the mess in the back-shop. Tea leaves and flour spewed from bags and a fine white dust lay over everything. In the backyard, Sara saw Bobby squatting beside Joe’s damaged motorcycle, rubbing it ineffectually with a cloth.