by June Francis
When the Clouds Go Rolling By
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Copyright
When the Clouds Go Rolling By
June Francis
Dedicated to the memory of my parents, Stan and May Nelson, and all my aunts and uncles who made me welcome in their homes and showed me what the real meaning of ‘family’ was all about.
Chapter One
Liverpool. Spring, 1918
‘Clara, get down here, girl. Yer haven’t ate yer tea and I want to get going soon,’ called Bernie O’Toole.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute!’ shouted her granddaughter.
Nineteen-year-old Clara gazed at her reflection in the mirror and frowned. Her thin face appeared yellowish in the dim light from the gas mantle. Surely she had not worked long enough in munitions to have earned the nickname Canary but if the war went on much longer, she possibly would.
She would have much preferred a job at the Palladium, as she loved watching films. Situated in a prime position on West Derby Road, it was advertised as the most palatial and comfortable picture house in Liverpool. It had opened in 1913 and her father had treated her to a best seat for a shilling in the stalls that first week. The film showing was The Penalty, exclusive to Liverpool, and the picture house had also featured a full musical programme by the Palladium Orchestra. But she had been too young at the time to get a job there and now, being the sole wage earner in the house after her father had been called up, had meant she and her gran had desperately been in need of a decent income. She loathed the munitions work but had no choice but to stick at it. She tried not to think how she would cope once the war was over, so was trying to put away as much money as she could. Never an easy task because her grandmother, Bernie, had a tendency to spend money as if it grew on trees. Last year, when the news came that her only son, Clara’s father, had been killed, she had started drinking again.
‘Clara, what are you doing up there, girl?’
‘I’m coming,’ she called, picking up her handbag and hurrying down the stairs that led to the lobby.
Bernie O’Toole, her greying hair fastened loosely in a bun, paused in the act of dowsing the bowl of bread and milk in front of her with whisky and peered over wire-framed spectacles at her granddaughter. ‘What are yer titivating yerself up for? There’s not going to be any young fellas there.’
‘I like to look neat and tidy and I don’t often get the chance to dolly myself up, Gran. Those blinking garments we have to wear for work don’t do anything for me.’ She sat down at the table, thinking how different her life would have been if her mother hadn’t died when she was thirteen. ‘Do you really need to pour whisky on your bread and milk? I don’t know how you can afford it or where you manage to get it from with so many shortages.’
‘Ask no questions and I’ll tell yer no lies. Just believe me when I tell yer it’s not coming out of your money,’ muttered Bernie, glowering at her. ‘Anyhow, it’s medicinal. If yer remember I gave up the gin years ago when my Denny asked me to. I only started on the whisky after he was killed.’ Her chin wobbled and she gulped down a mouthful of the bread and milk. ‘Your father was a saint, always looked after me,’ she mumbled.
Clara felt a lump rise in her throat, remembering that terrible day when the telegram had arrived. She had thought her grandmother would go off her head and had needed to suppress her own grief in order to cope with her. The months that had followed had been difficult, but somehow they had both survived. Even so, there had been countless times when she wished that, like so many of her neighbours, she’d had family to turn to. Her father had been the only boy in a family of girls but none of her aunts had survived into adulthood.
She took her tea out of the oven in the blackleaded grate. The food was burnt and didn’t look in the least appetising. In fact, she could not tell what it was, but guessed it was Bernie’s lunch leftovers from yesterday. She knew complaining was a waste of time; her gran would only say it was her own fault for being upstairs so long. The fact that she had only been up there a quarter of an hour would be neither here nor there.
‘Hurry up and eat, girl. I’ve front row seats and I’m in a mad hurry to see this Mrs Black perform her party tricks.’
‘Party tricks! Are you saying you believe this Mrs Black to be a charlatan?’ asked Clara. ‘Because if so, what’s the point of us going? It’s not going to bring Dad back.’
‘I’m not expecting him to be brought back but she has a reputation and it makes me wonder if there is something in spiritualism,’ said Bernie.
Clara said mildly, ‘You do surprise me, Gran. I thought you having your feet set so firmly in this world, you didn’t really think much of the next.’
‘Well, yer wrong there. I mightn’t have long to live and I’d like to know if our Denny will be there waiting for me when I kick the bucket.’
Clara forced a mouthful of food down before saying, ‘I must admit I’m curious to see whether this medium is as good as rumoured. Imagine if Dad could get a message to us.’
‘That’s what I’m hoping. There was a special bond between me and my Denny.’
Clara did not believe that for a moment. Her gran and father had been forever arguing over something or other, but she made no comment and got on with eating the mess on her plate. Fortunately, she was used to her meals at home being done to a crisp and was extremely hungry. But one thing her gran was right about was that Dennis O’Toole had truly been saintly when he had taken his mother in after his wife died. But Clara was of the opinion that he had only done so because he believed she was at an age when a girl needed an older woman on the scene. A lot of use Bernie had been! Clara had found out more about periods and how babies grew from keeping her ears open and listening to neighbouring mothers talk. She really resented her gran always referring to Clara’s father as my Denny. He had been her mother’s Denny and the old woman knew it, and it was the reason she had never set foot in the house while Clara’s mother was alive.
It was also not true that she had completely given up the drink. There had been Saturday nights when she had come home rolling drunk. Clara would be upstairs in bed and would hear Dennis giving his mother down the banks for coming home in such a state. Bernie’s response had caused Clara to pull the bedcovers over her head and stick her fingers in her ears. She was of the opinion that she and her father would have fared much better on their own, but it was too late now.
She finished her meal and went to wash her plate and cutlery. She lifted the net curtain and gazed outside at the yard. ‘At least the rain’s stopped. How much is this show costing us, Gran?’
Bernie smiled with false sweetness. ‘I paid so it’s
none of yer business, ducky.’
‘I sometimes wonder if you won a pile gambling years ago and have it stashed away where I can’t find it,’ said Clara.
Bernie laughed and then broke into a spasm of coughing, almost choking on a lump of bread. Clara banged her on the back. ‘Enough, enough,’ gasped her grandmother. ‘Do yer want to bloody kill me?’
‘Some days it’s tempting,’ said Clara beneath her breath.
Bernie glared at her granddaughter. ‘I heard that. If yer want to get yer hands on what I’ve got, then just you watch it. You might think yerself somebody because yer talk nice thanks to that Scots mother of yours sending yer to elocution lessons but it takes more than that to attract the men. You mightn’t believe it now but once I was young and far more attractive than you. I had an hour-glass figure and luv’ly long, fair hair. The fellas buzzed round me like wasps round a jam pot at Nelson’s jam factory. Yous haven’t got the same hope because, although you take after yer dad with his black curly hair and brown eyes, you haven’t got that it.’
Clara stiffened. It wasn’t the first time her grandmother had spoken derogatorily about her appearance, and if she hadn’t had such a strong sense of duty she would have walked out there and then. Sadly, she might never get the opportunity to prove whether Bernie was right or not about her having it because so many men of Clara’s generation had sacrificed their lives at the Front. Those who survived were going to have their pick of the women when they were demobbed, and what with the way the chemicals were starting to affect her skin, Clara could see herself being at the back of the queue.
‘Nothing to say?’ snapped Bernie. ‘I wish yer had some fight in yer, girl.’
‘I have plenty of fight. I just can’t see the point of arguing about it. Why do you say it, I wonder? I can only think you’re jealous of me.’ Clara poured herself some milk, hoping that what some of the women said at the factory was true – that it helped combat the effects of cordite on the skin.
Bernie snorted. ‘If I had yer youth, girl, I’d…’ Her voice trailed off and then she added, ‘I want to get going.’
‘I’m ready when you are.’ Clara drained the cup, washed it and shrugged on her black coat before picking up a narrow-brimmed black felt hat trimmed with a broad purple ribbon. She turned to her grandmother. ‘Well, get a move on or we’re going to miss the start.’
Bernie muttered beneath her breath as she donned her coat and hat. She placed a silver and ivory hip flask and her spectacles inside a capacious handbag.
Clara stared but said nothing.
Bernie muttered, ‘I saw that look. Just you think on that the whisky helps keep me blood going around me veins. Now get that door open and give me yer arm and let’s be out of here.’
Clara crooked her arm. Bernie clutched her granddaughter’s black sleeve with a claw-like hand, leaning heavily against her as they made their way outside. A gust of wind billowed their ankle length skirts, pushing them along the street of red-brick terraced houses.
Bernie gasped, ‘I bloody hope this medium is worth all this effort.’
Clara glanced up at the scurrying clouds. ‘I hope the wind doesn’t bring off any slates. A leaking roof is the last thing we need.’
‘Is that all yer care about? Yer not really bothered if I get to speak to yer dad or not, are yer? I did love yer dad, more than I loved yer bloody granddad, who got me up the spout every time he came home from sea. No wonder I had no strength in me and me babies were weak.’
Clara was amazed to hear the word love pass her grandmother’s lips but thought it wiser to make no comment. Besides, there were times when she did feel sorry for Bernie. It really must have been terrible to lose her daughters, one after the other, to childhood complaints.
They managed to reach Breck Road without being hit by any flying debris and hurried past the pub on the corner, which was next door to the Theatre Royal. There was no sign of a queue and Bernie’s breathing was laboured. Yet she managed to gasp, ‘I hope nobody’s pinched our bloody seats. It’s your fault for taking so long getting ready.’
Clara did not waste her breath arguing. She eased shoulders that ached due to her grandmother’s dragging weight and said, ‘I’m sure if they have, Gran, you’ll kick up enough fuss to get them moved.’
‘Don’t be pert with me, girl,’ Bernie snapped. ‘You got the tickets?’
‘No. You have them in your handbag, along with the kitchen sink.’
Bernie nipped Clara’s arm with her fingers. ‘Any more cheek from you and yous won’t be going in.’
‘Then I’ll go home and leave you to it,’ snapped Clara.
‘No need to get on yer high horse,’ said Bernie, beginning to search inside her handbag.
‘Can you see what you’re doing? You haven’t got your glasses on,’ said Clara, worrying that Mrs Black would have started before they managed to get inside the auditorium and into their seats.
‘I can feel around,’ said Bernie. She gave a cry of satisfaction and produced the tickets.
They went inside and it was as Clara had thought – a woman on the stage was already speaking as they made embarrassingly slow progress down a side aisle to the front row seats. Only after she had seated her grandmother and then sat down herself did Clara realise that a hush had fallen over the auditorium. With a heavily beating heart she glanced at the woman on the stage.
She was standing behind a chair, with her hands resting on its wheeled-back, gazing directly at Clara and Bernie. ‘Are you comfortable, dears?’ she asked, her voice soft.
Clara wished she could sink through the floor. This must be Mrs Black, although she did not look a bit like Clara had imagined a medium to be. Strangely, she had pictured a figure with long straggly hair, dressed in black robes with silver stars and moons sewn onto the material. Stupid, really: that image was more witchlike and very different from the person on the stage. Here was a middle-aged woman with silver hair pinned up in a neat bun on the top of her head, wearing a tweed suit of which the prominent colours were black, red and green. ‘I-I’m sorry,’ said Clara in a low voice.
‘Apology accepted, dear. Welcome, I am Eudora Black.’ She laced her hands together and fixed Clara with her dark eyes.
Clara felt a peculiar sensation and surprised herself by saying, ‘I’m here about my dad.’
‘It saddens me to hear you say those words,’ said Eudora, coming closer to the edge of the stage.
She sounds like she really means it, thought Clara, aware of the murmur that rippled through the audience.
Then someone shouted, ‘It’s not fair, she’s only just arrived.’
Another voice said, ‘I can’t see. Who’s speaking?’
Eudora held up a hand and gazed out over the auditorium. ‘In answer to the gentleman who spoke first, may I say it is not I who has decided who will go first on this occasion but the spirits. As for the lady who spoke, I will ask this young woman to come up onto the stage and then you will all be able to see her.’
‘Hey, hey, I didn’t plan on this,’ said Bernie, gripping her granddaughter’s arm and staring up at Mrs Black. ‘I want to see how yer perform before I make my move.’
Eudora’s eyes shifted to the old woman and her gaze rested on her face for several moments before she said firmly, ‘You are not in control here.’ The medium crooked a finger in Clara’s direction. ‘Come, dear. Do not be afraid.’
Clara freed herself from her grandmother’s hold and hurried over to a short flight of steps at the side of the stage. She remembered how, as a girl, she had run down the aisle during a pantomime because the dame had asked for child volunteers to sing. She felt as excited now as she had done then. Her senses were heightened and whispers reached her ears from the wings.
‘I wonder why she’s chosen her first. I was hoping she’d have you up front, so you could ask her about Seb,’ said a woman’s voice.
‘No thanks,’ responded a young male voice. ‘You should have asked her yourself.’
&nbs
p; ‘I can’t. Alice asked Hanny to get me to promise I wouldn’t do it.’
‘I won’t mention it to Alice if you don’t.’
Clara inconsequently thought of Alice in Wonderland and wondered who these people were, wishing they would be quiet as they were distracting her.
Eudora came forward and took Clara’s hand. ‘Over here, dear. Sit down. We don’t want your legs collapsing beneath you during this session, do we?’
Clara shook her dark head and sat in the chair, watching as the medium signalled to someone off stage. A young man came forward with another chair and placed it on the stage so that it faced Clara. She glanced at him and gained an impression of wiry strength. He retreated almost noiselessly to the wings and her attention was now on the medium as she sat down.
A minute must have ticked by and still Mrs Black did not do any of those things Clara expected of her; such as close her eyes and go into a trance or start speaking in a voice that didn’t belong to her. Then suddenly the medium reached out, causing Clara to start back. Eudora shushed her and, taking the girl’s hands, turned them over and looked at the palms before lifting her gaze and smiling at her reassuringly. Then she let go of her hands and closed her eyes. Clara held her breath and it seemed to her as if the audience was holding its collective breath as well.
Then Mrs Black said, ‘Horses! Your father loved horses even as a boy, and he would rather die than leave one suffering. His name is Dennis. He tells me that he was driving an ambulance with shells exploding all about him when he and his horse were hit and they passed over.’
Bernie gasped from the front row. ‘Here – where is he? I didn’t hear my Denny’s voice telling yer that?’
Her words were ignored and to Clara, the silence now seemed charged with something heavy and menacing. It scared her but she could not move and her eyes were fixed on Mrs Black’s face.
‘Dennis O’Toole, you have ten seconds and then you must go,’ ordered the medium in a stern voice. ‘There is someone with you and I can’t permit their presence here.’
Clara felt a peculiar leap of the heart that almost suffocated her, and then an odd mixture of fear and joy. ‘Is it true? Is Dad really here?’ she cried. ‘What about Mam? Is she with him?’
