Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Hilda had brought two chickens from Eb and Eleanor in Durham - they’d turned part of their garden into a chicken run - and Louie’s stove was crammed with simmering vegetables; runner beans preserved in salt since the summer and dried peas and broad beans from the family allotment which Sam had rescued from wilderness. Sara brought out Louie’s homemade rowan jelly from under the stairs and the walnuts and chestnuts they had picked in the autumn and stored in sand for a Christmas treat and would roast on the fire after lunch.

  At one o’clock the Dimarcos arrived with small cakes and the last two bottles of Arturo’s homemade wine.

  Louie looked doubtfully at Sam, but he opened them without hesitation saying, ‘Your father can’t see us drinking through the floorboards, Louie.’

  Joe gave a toast, ‘To the Ritsons!’

  ‘To the Dimarcos,’ Sam returned.

  ‘To the lads overseas.’ The stout Ernie Parkin raised his empty glass and Sam refilled it.

  ‘To absent friends,’ Louie added swiftly and smiled sympathetically at Anna.

  There was a momentary silence, then Joe turned to Raymond and began to talk of football. Ernie Parkin immediately leapt in and soon the stilted exchanges relaxed into laughter and conversation. Peter and Linda tore open the toys Hilda had wrapped for them and started a game of jumping on and off Sam and Louie’s creaking bed in the corner of the parlour.

  In the fug of the small room they all squeezed around the table and tucked in to the special food, Linda balanced on Sylvia’s knee and Peter clambering between Rosa and his grandmother. Sara noticed Rosa’s shy looks towards Raymond as he chatted with Joe.

  ‘Your mam not coming home this Christmas?’ Joe asked.

  Raymond shook his head. ‘She’s doing a panto in London.’

  ‘I thought all the bairns had left London,’ Hilda said, coming round with more potatoes.

  ‘She is a brave lady to stay in London, yes?’ Anna commented.

  ‘Iris has plenty spirit, I’ll give her that,’ Sam grunted.

  ‘Is she an actress?’ Albina asked with interest, eyeing the fresh-faced Raymond in a new light.

  ‘Aye,’ he answered proudly, ‘a famous one - she’s been on the wireless.’

  ‘How wonderful!’ Albina marvelled and fixed her attention on Raymond for the rest of the meal. To Sara’s amusement he was happy to show off and boast about his exotic mother to an admiring audience. Only Sara seemed to notice Rosa withdraw frostily from the table and disappear to feed Mary in the kitchen.

  Later, when the tables were cleared and the men sat smoking in the parlour while Louie and Hilda and Edie Parkin prepared the tea and the others helped Peter play tiddlywinks, Joe and Sara slipped out for a walk in the cold dusk. They made straight for the dene and took the path through the bare, blackened trees to their kissing gate. It was too cold to linger, so they crossed the Common and circled the village, invisible now in the dark, wrapped in a pungent blanket of coal smoke. Fire flickered from the spoil heap, betraying the location of the Eleanor pit.

  ‘They’re going to employ men to dampen the heap - it’s a target for air attack,’ Sara said, her breath clouding as she spoke.

  ‘Proper little fire spotter, aren’t you?’ Joe chuckled and kissed her head.

  ‘I wish you could meet me brother Tom,’ Sara said, suddenly struck by how similar their humour was. ‘You’d get on so well.’

  ‘Like a house on fire?’ Joe teased.

  ‘You wouldn’t consider calling at Uncle Alfred’s?’

  ‘After what he did to my father’s shop? To my family?’ Joe was at once indignant. ‘I can’t believe you’d want to see him either, after the way he’s treated you.’

  ‘It’s Tom I want to see,’ Sara tried to explain. ‘I’ve always been closest to Tom.’

  Joe stared out across the valley, the outline of the village plunged in unnatural darkness by the blackout. He longed for Whitton Grange to return to the cheerful, grubby town he loved with its gas lamps and bustling traffic, the shops full of goods and his family accepted once more. He longed for the day when there would be petrol for his rusting motorcycle and the only uniform he had to wear would be Whitton’s football strip. But that day might never come; they had to live with the dangerous, uncertain present.

  Joe came to a decision about the one thing that had preyed on his mind for weeks. ‘You can take me to see your brother,’ Joe turned and encircled Sara, ‘on one condition.’

  Sara looked up in to his serious face. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You marry me first.’

  Sara’s mouth fell open in astonishment at the abrupt proposal. Although she had sometimes daydreamed about marrying Joe, the problems that had bedevilled their courtship and the attitude of their families had made such hopes seem futile. Yet she had heard him quite clearly; he wanted her the way she wanted him, despite the obstacles.

  ‘Joe?’ she queried. ‘You want to get married?’

  ‘Aye, don’t you?’ he grinned. ‘Don’t tell me I’m going to get turned down - no one says no to a Dimarco.’

  Sara laughed.

  Joe added, less confidently, ‘I’ve never asked a lass before, mind.’

  ‘And I hope you don’t go asking anyone again - ‘cos the answer’s yes.’ Sara kissed him.

  Joe laughed in relief. ‘That’s settled then! We’ll do it before my leave ends.’

  ‘But that’s in five days’ time,’ Sara gasped. ‘What about our families - it’ll be a bit of a shock. My mam won’t have time to come down from Weardale and—’

  ‘We won’t tell them,’ Joe replied. ‘We’ll go to the registry office in Durham.’

  ‘No, Joe,’ Sara said in disappointment. ‘I want to get wed in the chapel.’

  ‘My parents wouldn’t agree to that and your family would cut you off if we got married in a Catholic church, wouldn’t they?’ Joe argued.

  ‘They might cut me off for marrying you anyway…’ Sara was suddenly full of doubts.

  Joe lifted her chin. ‘Let’s face it - neither your family or mine are going to approve of us marrying. Having Christmas together is not the same as accepting you as family. I know my mam still wants me to choose an Italian girl, even after the way we’ve been treated - perhaps even more so. Let’s not take the risk of anyone saying no.’

  ‘All right,’ Sara agreed excitedly, seeing the force of his argument. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘We’ll go in to Durham and get a special licence,’ Joe said, ‘and we’ll need a couple of witnesses, that’s all.’

  Sara had a thought. ‘Let’s ask Eb and Eleanor Kirkup - they’ve been trying to get your father released. And they know all about families who disapprove of a love-match.’

  Under the shadow of the Eleanor pithead, Joe and Sara sealed their engagement with a kiss and returned to the others at Hawthorn Street where Raymond was entertaining them on the piano. He played badly but had an ear for a tune and, with hearty singing from his aunts and the Parkins, his wrong fingering was drowned. Sara found it hard not to let her excitement show and wished she could shout out her news to the roomful of people. But the Dimarcos were so enjoying the music that nobody rebuked or questioned Joe for slipping away with Sara.

  ‘My Davide plays the accordion,’ Elvira clapped in appreciation. ‘We love to sing and dance.’

  ‘Let’s push the furniture back and dance, then,’ Joe suggested.

  Three days later as Sam was washing in the tin tub in front of the fire, and Raymond was eating his tea, Louie found a note written in Sara’s sprawling writing tucked behind the tea caddy on the mantelpiece. Louie realised the girl must have put it there after breakfast, knowing she would find it later that day.

  ‘I’ve gone to Durham to marry Joe at the registry office. Sorry we could not tell you, but then no one can blame you later for knowing. We’ll be back tomorrow before Joe’s leave finishes. My love, Sara.’

  Louie gawped at the message and re-read it in disbelief. ‘Well I’ll never!�
� she cried and burst out laughing.

  ‘What’s tickled you?’ Sam looked up, coal grime still clinging to his neck and ears.

  ‘Sara and Joe have run off to get wed!’ Louie waved the note at her husband.

  Raymond gawped in shock, a piece of pie halfway to his open mouth.

  ‘Daft buggers,’ Sam grunted, ‘what they want to do that for?’

  Louie snorted. ‘Why do you think?’ For the first time in ages she saw Sam blush.

  Raymond felt a deep flush rise up from his neck too, until his cheeks burned. He’d never imagined Joe would ever really marry Sara, despite their obvious attraction for each other. But he had and Sara had chosen Joe and would be leaving their home for good. It struck him how much he would miss her, and he felt a stab of envy for his Italian friend.

  ‘Well, they’ve got no sense,’ Sam blustered. ‘What a time to pick with Joe about to leave for God knows how long and them without a home -’

  ‘They’ve always got a home here if Joe’s mam won’t have them,’ Louie said stoutly. ‘And there’s never a good time to get married - we know that - you just have to get on and do it. I think it’s grand they’re getting wed.’

  ‘Since when have you become the great romantic, Louie Ritson?’ Sam teased. ‘I thought you were the sensible one.’

  Raymond pushed away his plate, his appetite gone, and grabbed his jacket, mumbling that he was off for a game of billiards. Louie looked at him in surprise, but was too preoccupied by Sara’s news to stop him.

  The door banged behind her nephew as Louie took the flannel and began to rub her husband’s hairy chest and knotted arms. ‘I’ve seen how too much pride and misunderstanding can stand in the way of people’s happiness,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Look how Da tortures himself with not seeing Eb, when he could have been enjoying the company of his grandson Rupert. And I was just as much to blame for taking Da’s side, I see that now. Well, I’m glad Sara and Joe aren’t going to let their families meddle in their lives. I’m that fond of them both, I want to see them happy - and they’ve got such a short time…’

  Sam took hold of Louie’s hand and held it firmly to his chest. ‘Louie Ritson, how did I ever deserve such a wife?’ he smiled with affection. ‘And you would have made such a canny mother, too,’ he added almost inaudibly.

  Louie was moved by the unexpected words and, looking with tenderness at Sam’s once-handsome, channelled face, leaned over the tub to kiss him.

  ‘We’ve been blessed with each other, Sam,’ Louie answered and let him put his wet arms about her as he kissed away her tears.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  After the brief marriage ceremony, Eb and Eleanor Kirkup insisted on treating Sara and Joe at the British Restaurant behind Silver Street. They celebrated with a filling meal of onion soup, mince and leek dumplings and milk pudding and then went back to the Kirkups’ small house in the Bailey and sat around a roaring fire drinking punch and listening to Eleanor’s Jack Buchanan records, while rain battered the curtained window. They filled the cosy sitting-room with pungent smoke from Eleanor’s Turkish cigarettes and Joe taught card tricks to the Kirkups’ serious, bespectacled son Rupert. Sara warmed to Eleanor in her old-fashioned fringed dress talking of German politics and obscure poets and Eb, in a threadbare green Paisley tie, sketching his son who sat cross-legged on the floor. Sara felt grateful that they should be accepted so easily by the unorthodox couple and not criticised for their rash behaviour and Eleanor made her feel knowledgeable about literature by encouraging her to discuss Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre.

  ‘I wish you would stay,’ Eleanor urged the young couple, enjoying their lively chatter. ‘Our Belgian friends are away until New Year — you could have their room.’

  ‘Thanks Mrs Kirkup, but I’ve booked us into a place — it’s already paid for,’ Joe grinned and Sara blushed. In a short while they would be alone together at last, she thought with a pang of trepidation.

  ‘Well, come back here for breakfast, then,’ Eleanor insisted. ‘It seems so dismal to think of you both in a cold guesthouse.’

  Joe and Sara exchanged looks, finding it hard not to smile. Suddenly Sara was eager for them to leave, to have Joe to herself, away from the elegant Eleanor and her engaging conversation. It was the quiet, bearded Eb who saved them from embarrassment.

  ‘Eleanor, pet,’ he interrupted in his strong Durham voice, his face amused, ‘the cold’ll not bother them.’

  He turned his startlingly blue eyes on the newlyweds, sitting close together on the sofa and remembered how once he had yearned to be left alone with his lover. His relationship with Eleanor was now deep-rooted, comfortable and familiar, but he recognised in Joe and Sara the sweet intensity of first love that had driven him and Eleanor together to the disapproval of all.

  Eb said wryly, ‘My wife is a terrible one for organising folk. If you’d like breakfast tomorrow come any time - but don’t feel you have to. We’ll say our goodbyes now, just in case.’

  Joe and Sara rose quickly to meet the artist’s outstretched hand and Sara was astonished by the firm clasp from such a gentle man.

  ‘Ta for all you’ve done for us.’ Sara smiled at her hosts.

  ‘Aye - and for what you’re doing for my father,’ Joe added.

  ‘It’s precious little,’ Eleanor said, closing her bony hands about Joe’s warm ones. ‘I wish we could do more.’

  ‘Let’s hope your father’s released by the time you’re next on leave,’ Eb said with a smile of optimism, but Sara felt a twinge of anxiety at the words, for none of them knew when Joe would be back again.

  They left the Bailey, eerily quiet without the tolling Cathedral bells, and, lurching across the wet cobbles in the dark of early evening, found their way to the square where Joe had paid for a room above the Market Inn. The portly, perspiring publican, Ramshaw, turned out to be the father of actress Iris Ramshaw and grandfather of Raymond Kirkup, so he bought them drinks on the house for news of his grandson.

  ‘He’s a canny lad, Raymond,’ Mr Ramshaw wheezed and spat. ‘The Ritsons have brought him up well - poor as church mice - but Raymond’s not suffered.’ Sara was fascinated to hear more about the itinerant Iris. ‘My Iris?’ Ramshaw mopped his brow. ‘Swopped at birth by the gypsies if you ask me. All she ever wanted to do since she was a young lass was sing - and, by heck, she can sing.’ Ramshaw dropped his voice, ‘Her mother thinks she’s wayward, leaving her own bairn the way she did - but I think she did right leaving him with the Ritsons. Raymond would have been a right tearaway if he’d been dragged around the country with his mam and her strange friends.’

  Tiring of talk of Iris Ramshaw, Joe asked to be shown their room and the publican called for his small wife. Turning out the light, she led them outside again and through a separate entrance to the flat above, chattering all the while.

  ‘… But our Tom and our Percy are in the forces - RAF and Navy - and Jean’s a nurse in Newcastle. That just leaves Nora at home - she’s a telephonist at Shire Hall. So we’ve plenty room. Get a few servicemen staying - not so many travellers now. Fancy you knowing Raymond! I’ll send a pie back with you for Louie.’ She stepped round a dish that was catching drips in the passageway and opened a bedroom door. ‘Is this all right?’

  ‘Champion,’ Joe assured her, and held the door for her to leave.

  ‘Just shout if you want anything,’ Mrs Ramshaw winked. ‘Always happy to oblige one of our brave lads. It’s a shame you hadn’t time for a proper wedding - cried buckets at our Iris’s. Been a widow fourteen years now though, poor lass.’

  As Joe closed the door on her chatter, Sara glanced round the tiny boxroom with its three-quarter size bed and a chest of drawers with a hairbrush and empty scent spray and a framed newspaper cutting of a slim-faced woman dressed as Prince Charming in a local pantomime.

  ‘This must be Iris.’ Sara picked it up. ‘She’s bonny, don’t you think?’

  ‘You’re the only bonny lass I’m bothered about,’ Joe grin
ned and grabbed her round the waist.

  Sara laughed and twisted to kiss him. They went to bed at once, undressing hurriedly in the chill room under the flickering electric light and burrowing down under the bedclothes.

  ‘Come here, Mrs Dimarco…’ Joe pulled her against him and covered her in kisses. At the sound of the alien name Sara had a moment of doubt that she had done the right thing, but she banished all thoughts of the world beyond as they began to make love.

  The daydreaming Sara Pallister of two years ago would have been appalled at the prospect of spending the first night of married life in a shabby pub bedroom, listening to the drips from a leaky roof plop in to a metal pail, with a hand-me-down coat and woollen Sunday dress as discarded wedding garments piled on top of her husband’s army uniform to give them extra warmth. But she had learned a lot about life since leaving the security of Stout House and Sara knew she must make the most of this brief gift of time with Joe before they were parted. So they laughed bashfully at their unromantic surroundings as they spent a first joyful night of intimacy.

  The light went out inexplicably in the late evening and they dozed, then Joe roused Sara again in the early hours, whispering tender words that she would remember long after, as they took each other again.

  When Mrs Ramshaw banged on the door the following morning and shouted that breakfast was ready, they ignored her and stayed in bed for a final snatched hour. Then Joe said, ‘I suppose we should go home and face the music, Mrs Dimarco.’

  Sara stretched and yawned on his chest, ‘Can’t we just stay another day?’

  Joe kissed her soft hair. ‘I leave tomorrow, bellissima. We must get you settled at Pit Street before I go.’

  Sara was instantly nervous at the suggestion. She had imagined she would stay on at the Ritsons while Joe was away and the thought of moving in with the Dimarcos filled her with dread.