Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Sylvia let out a soft moan. ‘But he wasn’t on the ship! How can he be dead?’

  They all turned to look at Paolo’s young wife as she clutched Peter to her side and screwed her eyes tight against her tears.

  ‘Not Paolo, please not Paolo,’ she said in supplication.

  ‘Mammy, are you all right?’ Peter asked in confusion as his mother doubled up in grief.

  Rosa skirted the table quickly and put her arms around her sister-in-law and Paolo’s small son.

  ‘Oh, Rosa…’ Sylvia whispered, clutching at her for comfort. ‘How can I tell the bairns?’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sara stood on a chair and fixed the end of the silver tinsel to one of Louie’s picture hooks. She had treated them to a few gaudy strands and a handful of painted wooden decorations to adorn the parlour mantelpiece and to bring some cheer to the second sombre Christmas of the war. Sara knew Louie was missing young Stan, who had gone home to Tyneside for the holidays and she was also worried about her father, Jacob, who had not risen from his bed upstairs for two weeks.

  Sam had been taken on at the Eleanor again, after a flood of young miners had been released for military service in October, among them the cantankerous Norman Bell who had gone off to join the navy. Raymond, however, swayed by a Christmas bonus and the arrival of the green-eyed Nancy Bell as Dolly Sergeant’s assistant, had decided to stay on at the grocery store. Louie was discussing her nephew now.

  ‘Does he talk to you about young Nancy?’ Louie asked with a frown.

  Sara pushed back her long hair and considered Louie. ‘Not much. She seems canny enough, though - full of beans.’

  ‘Aye,’ Louie grimaced, ‘too full I reckon - just like her mother.’

  ‘I thought Minnie Bell was an old friend of yours, Louie?’ Sara asked in surprise.

  ‘We were very close once,’ Louie sighed. ‘Then things came between us - Sam fell out with her husband Bomber over the strike - and there were other things…’

  Sara did not want to hear any more about the wretched strike that had happened so long ago and yet still seemed to hold such a grip on them all. Neither did she care if Minnie Bell were out of favour in the Ritson household, for it still rankled to think that Minnie’s gossiping had started all the trouble between Uncle Alfred and the Dimarcos. But that was hardly the dark-haired Nancy’s fault, Sara admitted.

  ‘Nancy’s barely fourteen - she’ll not be interested in lads yet,’ Sara smiled. ‘And I wouldn’t worry about Raymond - all he thinks about is football.’

  ‘Aye, I’m just a born worrier,’ Louie confessed with a shake of her head. ‘Now that looks bonny.’ She stood back and admired Sara’s handiwork. ‘Hildy will be pleased to see we’ve made an effort - to think it should’ve been her first Christmas with Wilfred.’

  Louie broke off and looked at Sara, knowing how concerned she was for the bereaved Dimarcos.

  ‘How is Sylvia Dimarco?’ Louie asked.

  Sara shrugged. ‘She doesn’t say much - not when I’m there. And she’s so thin. Rosa says she only keeps going for the children.’

  ‘Poor lass,’ Louie clucked. ‘I wish there was more we could do.’

  Sara climbed off the chair. ‘You’ve been grand, Louie - all your family have,’ Sara assured her. ‘And Eleanor Kirkup’s being doing all she can to get the men released,’ Sara said, ‘not to mention your brother Eb chasing up his old contacts in the DLI.’

  ‘Aye, I know Eb tries, but they’ll not listen to him now - not since he signed the Peace Pledge,’ Louie answered.

  ‘It seems so unfair,’ Sara said in annoyance. ‘There’s Joe in the army and his father treated like a spy… Oh, Louie, when will I see Joe again?’

  Louie gave Sara a hug. ‘Perhaps they’ll give him some leave soon, pet.’ She pulled back and looked into Sara’s dejected face. ‘How about us inviting the Dimarcos for Christmas dinner? With Da in bed and Stan away home, we’ll be rattling around the parlour. That’s if you’re going to stop too?’ Louie scrutinised.

  ‘Aye I’m stopping,’ Sara said at once. ‘Especially since Tom’s still here. Oh, Louie, that would be champion! Do you think we could manage them all?’

  ‘Why-aye,’ Louie laughed. ‘Mam used to feed just as many when I was a lass. What about Tom?’

  Sara’s face fell. Tom had been convalescing at the Cummingses’ since his release from hospital in November, the doctors having been satisfied with his gradual recovery. With Colin away on the farm, there was more room for Tom at Uncle Alfred’s than at Stout House where Bill and Mary were occupying his bedroom. ‘I doubt he’d come,’ Sara answered. ‘Uncle Alfred’s turned him against the Dimarcos and he won’t listen to me when I try to talk about Joe or his family. Tom doesn’t see why Joe’s father shouldn’t spend the rest of the war locked up when the Italians are fighting us in Africa.’

  ‘I suppose his comrades are out there in the thick of it.’ Louie was philosophical. ‘You can see how he feels.’

  ‘Well, he should have a bit more feeling for Joe,’ Sara sparked. ‘He’s lost his brother.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me, pet,’ Louie’s voice trembled. ‘I know just how he must feel.’

  ‘Sorry, Louie.’ Sara squeezed her arm remembering how Louie had lost her brother Davie. ‘I say things without thinking sometimes.’

  After work the next day, Sara hurried down to Pit Street to issue Louie’s invitation. The afternoon air was raw and Anna Dimarco was closing up the chilly shop and pulling the blackout blinds. In the gloom her face was wan as a ghost’s, her tightly bound hair lined with silver like snails’ trails that glinted in the dim light.

  She ushered Sara upstairs with her usual politeness, but still with that touch of reserve that reminded Sara she was just a visitor, whatever they had experienced together.

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been for a while - what with working at The Grange and doing ARP duty—’

  ‘No need for sorry.’ Anna waved aside her apology. ‘Rosa is glad to see you when you can come.’

  Sylvia’s children were romping on the small sofa and Rosa was changing Mary’s nappy on the floor while Elvira and Sylvia cooked at the stove and Albina sat wrapped in a coat and blanket, sneezing into a handkerchief.

  Linda fell off the sofa with a wail, sending Peter scurrying to Sara and demanding to play leapfrog.

  ‘Not in here, Peter,’ Anna said in exasperation. ‘And be gentle with your sister.’

  Sara diverted an impending tantrum with her Christmas invitation. The older women looked at each other doubtfully. ‘It’s very kind of Mrs Ritson,’ Anna began, ‘but we cannot—’

  ‘Oh, yes Mamma,’ Rosa interrupted, ‘it would be fun to have Christmas with Sara. The children would love it and it would do us all good. Say yes, Mamma.’

  A discussion broke out in Italian in which they all gave vent to their opinions. Finally Anna had the last word.

  ‘Please tell Mrs Ritson we are happy to have the dinner with her family. She is a good woman. Thank you.’

  Sara left, heartened to see how their spirits were lifted by the prospect of Christmas in another home, away from the house at Pit Street, so full of painful reminders of the past. Hilda came home two days before Christmas from her antiaircraft battery in Newcastle and helped Sara and Louie make stuffed toys for the Dimarco children from old scraps of material and Sam’s pipe cleaners.

  Christmas Eve was Sara’s eighteenth birthday and, just as she was leaving the hospital laundry, she ran in to a gaggle of young carol singers gathered on the steps outside The Grange and listened entranced to the wavering, high-pitched voices of St Cuthbert’s Sunday School as they sang in the dark to the blacked-out mansion. The moon had not yet risen, but a flicker of screened torches wavered among them like fairy lights. Moving closer, Sara made out the muffled figure of her cousin Marina. Beside her stood Tom in an army coat.

  An officer came out and invited the children in to the house.

  ‘Splendid
singing - perhaps you could repeat a couple of carols in some of the wards?’ he requested.

  As the choir scrambled eagerly for the stairs, Sara dashed towards Tom and Marina and greeted them.

  ‘Will you call and see us tomorrow?’ Sara asked her brother, knowing she was not welcome at her uncle’s home.

  ‘I’ll try,’ he said, looking embarrassed, ‘but you know what Uncle thinks about the Ritsons.’ Sara had heard from Louie how Alfred Cummings was making life difficult for Sam at the pit because of his friendship with the Dimarcos and it annoyed Sara that her brother would not put himself out to see her on such a special day.

  ‘Tom, I’m family,’ Sara chided.

  Marina regarded the two of them. ‘Tom’s more fun than you are,’ she told Sara spitefully. ‘And Mam and Dad like him better than you. We never have arguments like when you lived with us.’

  Sara gave her cousin a look of exasperation and, turning to her brother, said accusingly, ‘Happy families, eh? You’ve changed your tune about Uncle Alfred quick enough.’

  ‘He’s not as bad as you think, once you get to know him,’ Tom said defensively. ‘Treats me like a son.’

  At first Tom had been suspicious and awkward about the attention Alfred heaped upon him, praising his bravery in France while bemoaning his disappointment in Colin as a son. But Tom had come to enjoy the cosiness and attention at South Parade and the adoration from his Aunt Ida and Cousin Marina.

  Sara humphed in disgust at Tom’s siding with the Cummingses.

  ‘Come on, Tom,’ Marina said and pulled him after her. ‘We’ll miss the mince pies.’

  Tom hesitated, not wanting to part on bad terms with his sister.

  ‘I could have a word with Aunt Ida - see if she’ll have you round for tea - she does a grand tea,’ Tom grinned.

  Sara decided to be frank. ‘The Dimarcos are coming to us for Christmas - I’ll be helping Mrs Ritson.’

  Tom scowled and dropped his hand from her shoulder. ‘I don’t understand you, Sara,’ he complained, ‘choosing to be with strangers rather than your own family at Christmas - it’s not natural.’

  ‘If I’m closer to the Ritsons and Dimarcos than to most of my own family,’ Sara was indignant, ‘then it’s only because they’ve shown me more friendship and love than my own kin.’

  For a moment Sara thought her brother would hit her in his fury - and for the first time she saw the look of disgust on his face which was so like Uncle Alfred’s.

  ‘Uncle’s right - you’re wayward and ungrateful,’ he snapped and, turning on his weak leg, hobbled away from her without a backward glance. He had not even wished her a happy birthday, Sara thought bitterly. Spinning round, Sara sprinted across the gravel drive away from the hurtful scene, determined not to let the argument upset her or spoil her Christmas.

  The last train to heave into Whitton Station that evening was overflowing with servicemen and civilians attempting to reach their families for the brief holiday. Throwing his kit bag out of the moving train and jumping after it, Joe landed on the crowded platform and flicked his Woodbine on to the track. Pat Slattery fell out after him and the two friends marched shoulder to shoulder, joking as they went, Pat trying to keep Joe’s mind from the thought of an emotional reunion with his depleted family.

  ‘Fancy a pint at the Durham Ox on the way home?’ Pat suggested. ‘Lad on the train said they’ve just had a beer ration.’

  ‘No, better go straight to Pit Street,’ Joe said with reluctance.

  ‘Haway, just a half to wet the whistle.’ Pat jostled his friend.

  ‘Typical Slattery,’ Joe teased, ‘not happy till you’re pissed.’

  Pat grabbed him round the neck and laughed, ‘And all you can think about is lasses and how to—’

  Joe clamped a hand over Pat’s obscenity and they broke in to a friendly tussle, attracting the attention of two members of the Home Guard who came to intervene. One turned out to be Bomber Bell, Pat’s brother-in-law, who gave them a lift in to Whitton Grange and deposited them outside the Durham Ox, offering to buy them a pint.

  ‘Take advantage,’ Pat told Joe. ‘Bomber’s only nice to his Slattery relations once a year - before Mam’s Christmas dinner.’

  The bar was unusually crowded, but a fuss was made of the servicemen as pitmen bought them watered-down beer and shared precious cigarettes, demanding to be told what they knew of the war. Pat and Joe had been training in Wales and had no idea where they would go next, but spun a yarn about a top secret mission which brought a flurry of extra drinks.

  Joe was about to wish Pat a merry Christmas and leave when a drunken Norman Bell fell through the door in his able seaman’s uniform with Dick Scott and his former workmates in support.

  ‘There’s that bastar’ Dimarco,’ Normy slurred. ‘Haven’t locked you up yet like the rest of ‘em?’

  Joe bristled and Pat put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Steady.’

  ‘Pint,’ Normy ordered. The barman ignored him ‘I said a pint!’

  ‘Looks like you’ve had plenty, son,’ Bomber Bell said to his cousin. ‘We don’t want any trouble in here.’

  ‘No trouble - want to buy this hero a drink.’ Normy pushed his way to Joe. ‘Hey, don’t turn your back on me, Dimarco!’

  Joe felt anger rising inside, ready to choke him. Here was the lad who had led the attack on his parents’ shop, who had terrorised his family. If it had not been for narrow-minded men like Normy Bell, his brother Paolo would still be alive today.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ Pat Slattery ordered.

  ‘Not doing any harm,’ Normy sneered. ‘Just want to ask Dimarco if he’s pleased the British have kicked the I-ties out of Libya. That must please you, eh? Dimarco the wop!’

  Joe turned and struck Norman Bell with a well-aimed right punch that felled the sailor in an instant. He was sprawling on the floor before he saw the punch coming. Scotty retaliated by kicking Pat Slattery in the groin and a fight erupted in the crowded bar.

  It took ten minutes for the police to arrive and the fighters to be ejected into the street, by which time Joe had a black eye and grazed temple, Pat’s cheekbone was broken and Norman Bell was carried out unconscious.

  Sara, on ARP duty, came rushing from Hawthorn Street with Sam to find out what was causing the commotion. When Sam saw it was brawling he told Sara to go home, but in the moonlight she recognised Joe’s tall figure.

  ‘Joe!’ she cried and rushed towards him. He turned from the groaning Pat, his face breaking into a grin of delight at seeing her. Throwing his arms wide he enveloped her in a beery embrace.

  ‘When did you get here?’ Sara demanded, breathless.

  ‘A couple of hours ago.’ Joe hugged her again.

  ‘Just long enough to cause some bother,’ the portly Constable Simpson butted in. ‘Why don’t you get along home, lad?’ The policeman was content to shrug off the disturbance as holiday high spirits, unhappy at the thought of arresting Joe after what had happened to his family. He ordered everyone else home to their beds.

  ‘I’ll see Pat home to his mam’s,’ Sam told the young couple, embarrassed by their public embracing.

  Joe walked Sara back to Hawthorn Street, their arms linked around each other possessively as she told him the plans for Christmas day.

  In the back lane Joe pulled Sara to him again. ‘I’ve thought of you every day, bonny lass,’ he whispered. ‘Happy birthday, pet.’ He kissed her enthusiastically and Sara was delighted he had remembered.

  For several minutes they stood shivering and kissing, then Joe finally asked, ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘I think you should get home,’ Sara said gently. ‘They’ll be that pleased to see you.’ Sara saw the hesitation in his face. ‘It’ll be all right. Your mam’s been very brave - she’s kept them all strong - I wouldn’t have believed it.’

  ‘And Sylvia?’ Joe asked.

  Sara thought of the skeletal, withdrawn young woman shrouded in black, who found it hard to smile at her children. />
  ‘I think Sylvia needs loving back to life,’ Sara answered and kissed Joe on the lips.

  ‘Till tomorrow then, bellissima.’ He kissed her hand and walked off in the moonlight. Five minutes later he was in his own backyard throwing stones up at Rosa’s window and his sister’s shrieks of delight at discovering who the intruder was banished all his anxiety at what he might find.

  They lit candles and brought out cold sausage and bread and a bottle of Arturo’s homemade wine to celebrate Joe’s return and sat up half the night. They talked and wept and listened and occasionally laughed at Joe’s tales of army life, until finally Anna sent them all to bed.

  ‘Tomorrow we go to mass and give thanks that Joseph is with us for Christmas,’ she decreed.

  ‘And light candles for our loved ones who are not with us,’ Elvira added sombrely, thinking of her own scattered family.

  Sylvia sniffed and then let out a howl of grief. Rosa rushed to her, never having heard her sob so openly before, but Sylvia shook her off. Joe stepped round the table and put his arms about his sister-in-law, resisting her attempts to push him away.

  ‘Cry all you want, pet,’ he told her gently, ‘it’s time you did,’ and he felt her lean against him as she shook with sorrow.

  The chapel was packed on Christmas morning and Sara sat with the Ritsons and Hilda and Raymond and joined in the lusty carol singing, wondering if her mother and family were doing the same at Lowbeck. She felt a new surge of goodwill towards them and vowed to herself that she would go and see them soon, even contemplating a visit to Tom and the Cummingses over the holidays. Afterwards, Sam escaped to the pub and Raymond disappeared on some ploy of his own, leaving the women to return and make ready the lunch for their numerous guests. The kitchen and parlour tables were pushed together and covered with linen tablecloths and set with the extra cutlery and crockery that Hilda had borrowed from her mother-in-law, Edie Parkin. Louie had invited the Parkins, too, so they would not spend Christmas alone, brooding over their captured son Wilfred, and Edie had made a large Christmas pudding - without eggs - from a recipe in the local newspaper.