When the Clouds Go Rolling By

by June Francis

  An excited ripple of sound raced through the auditorium. A man shouted, ‘It’s a fix. That’s why that girl has gone up first.’

  No one took any notice of him. The audience was caught up in the drama on the stage. Clara could see Mrs Black’s eyelids flickering and the muscles of her face twitched as if an insect was scurrying over her skin and she was trying to get rid of it.

  Then the medium cried, ‘Go away! You’re overstepping the mark. There is a distance that has to be kept between your world and this. Dennis, you must watch the spirit company you keep.’

  Clara heard whispering from the wings. ‘You don’t think it’s Bert, do you? You know he had it in for her.’ Who was Bert? Clara wondered. She reached out to Mrs Black. ‘What is it? What is he asking?’

  Before she could touch her, someone seized her hand and said, ‘You must keep your distance when she’s in this trance.’

  Clara looked up into the plump face of a woman with light brown hair, gazing down at her with concern. ‘Why?’ asked Clara.

  ‘Because it’s dangerous for her to lose concentration and leave herself open. There are bad spirits as well as good that can sneak beneath her guard.’

  ‘But – but my father isn’t a bad man,’ said Clara indignantly.

  ‘No. But there is a spirit that would use him to harm her. Please, you must leave the stage now.’

  ‘But…’ began Clara.

  She did not get any further with her protestations because the young man suddenly reappeared at her side. ‘Please, come quietly. Maybe when the show is over my sister will have a few words with you and explain. You might even get the chance to speak to Mrs Black again,’ he said in a low voice.

  Clara did not move. What was really going on here? Had her father’s spirit really spoken to Mrs Black? If that was so, then why hadn’t he passed a message on to her? Perhaps he had wanted to but Mrs Black had refused to comply with his request. But what could he have asked her that was so unacceptable? And who was Bert? What had the medium meant when she had spoken of overstepping the mark? Suddenly she remembered the ominous heaviness in the atmosphere earlier and stood up. She wanted out of here.

  The young man murmured, ‘Thanks. I didn’t want to have to drag you off the stage.’

  ‘I presume you are joking,’ she muttered, as he accompanied her to her seat. She noticed he had blue eyes and curling black lashes that any girl might envy. Why wasn’t he in uniform? Unless he had a job that was essential to the war effort. He gave her a nod as she sat down, before heading back towards the stage.

  ‘Well, that was a right turn-up for the books,’ said Bernie crossly. ‘What were you thinking of, whispering yer dad’s name to her, girl?’

  ‘I didn’t, Gran!’ insisted Clara, watching the young man vanish into the wings. She wondered if he was Mrs Black’s son.

  Bernie dug her fingernails into her granddaughter’s arm. ‘Look! She’s come out of her trance, that’s if she was ever in one. It’s a load of codswallop! What did she mean my Denny overstepped the mark and needed to watch what company he kept?’ she asked wrathfully. ‘He was a good lad. I’m out of here.’ She dug her elbow into Clara’s ribs. ‘Come on, girl. I’m going to ask for me money back. Give me a hand up!’

  Clara felt even more embarrassed helping her grandmother out of the auditorium than she had when they had made their entrance. Part of her badly wanted to stay to find out if her father really had tried to get in touch with her; she could not see how else Mrs Black could have known his name. No one had arranged for Clara and her grandmother to arrive late or for her to go up onto the stage. She still felt slightly odd but was no longer scared.

  Clara was to feel even more embarrassed when the manageress refused to refund her grandmother’s money. Bernie raged, threatening her with the police, but the woman, who looked surprising like Queen Mary, even to the toque she wore on her head, was adamant.

  ‘You don’t have to leave, madam,’ she said haughtily, clasping her hands against her bosom. ‘I’m sure if you were to stay then you would see that Mrs Black has an amazing gift.’

  ‘So yer say,’ wheezed Bernie. ‘But I think she’s a charlatan.’

  The manageress’s eyes narrowed. ‘That is slander. Mrs Black gives of her time freely. She is a widow and was left comfortably off. She does not need to exhaust herself the way she does in the service of others.’

  ‘What about the price of the tickets?’

  ‘It pays for the hire of the theatre and the refreshments afterwards. During which time those wishing to consult Mrs Black privately are given the opportunity to make an appointment with her assistant, Miss Kirk. Any money over goes to the Seamen’s Orphanage near Newsham Park.’

  ‘I suppose… that’s where… she-she lives? In one of them… posh, big houses.’ Bernie’s breathing had become more laboured and she glanced wildly about her as she clutched Clara’s arm.

  ‘No. Although, I believe that Mrs Black originally came from Liverpool before moving to Chester. She now lives in the village of Eastham on the other side of the Mersey.’

  ‘There, Gran, now you know all you need to know about Mrs Black,’ said Clara, alarmed by her grandmother’s high colour. ‘Let’s get you home, so you can put your feet up.’

  Bernie shook her head. ‘I’ll never make it, girl,’ she gasped. ‘I have to sit down now before I collapse.’

  ‘She does look a dreadful colour,’ said the manageress, frowning. ‘I’ll get her a chair and see if there’s anyone who can help you take her home.’ She bustled away but was back in moments with a chair.

  Between them, she and Clara lowered Bernie onto the seat. Clara knelt in front of her grandmother and took her hand. The manageress excused herself and said she would be back soon.

  ‘Feeling better now, Gran?’ asked Clara, wondering if she was imagining the old woman’s colour was improving.

  Bernie moaned, ‘I think I’m on me last legs, Clara luv. It’s time to make me peace with those I’ve wronged.’

  ‘Then we could be all night,’ joked Clara, trying to infuse some fighting spirit into her.

  ‘Very funny,’ gasped Bernie. ‘What I want is to see Gertie before I go.’

  ‘Gertie. Who’s Gertie?’

  ‘Me eldest daughter,’ she quavered.

  Clara stared at her in disbelief and was about to say But you told me all your daughters were dead when the manageress reappeared with the young man who had escorted her from the stage.

  ‘This is Mr Kirk,’ she said.

  ‘You need help?’ he asked, frowning down at them.

  ‘Yes. But I didn’t mean for the manageress to fetch you,’ said Clara, feeling the colour rush to her cheeks.

  ‘Well, she did. She knows we came in a hired motor.’ He added abruptly, ‘Do you live far?’

  ‘Within walking distance,’ said Clara, getting to her feet. ‘But we don’t want to be a bother.’

  He shook his dark head. ‘If you live that near then it’s not going to be much of a bother, Miss O’Toole. Your grandmother will have you on the ground if she collapses, and that won’t do either of you any good.’

  Clara looked at him suspiciously, ‘How d’you know my name?’

  ‘Easy. No trickery involved.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Mrs Black said your father’s name was Dennis O’Toole and you didn’t deny it.’

  ‘I see. Do you believe in what she does?’ she asked impulsively.

  He did not seem annoyed by her question but shrugged navy-blue clad shoulders and said, ‘There’s lots of strange things that go on in the world. I’m in the merchant navy and sailors can be a superstitious lot. Who am I to argue against there being some merit in what she does? My sisters swear that Mrs Black has helped lots of people.’

  ‘You mean by getting in touch with their loved ones who’ve passed over?’

  ‘Yes, but she’s also a healer. So are you going to accept my assistance to get your grandmother home?’ he asked impatiently. ‘Or do you want her to brea
the her last here and now and we do an on the spot séance?’

  Clara’s dark brows snapped together. ‘How can you speak like that in front of my gran? You’ll make her believe she’s about to drop dead.’

  He had the grace to apologise but added, ‘She seems a tough old bird to me.’

  ‘Maybe so but she’s still human.’

  ‘Will you two stop it. I don’t intend dying right now,’ wheezed Bernie, ‘but I’m game for a ride in yer motor, lad.’

  He grinned. ‘That’s the ticket, missus.’

  ‘Then help me up. I’m ready for me bed but not me bleedin’ grave just yet,’ said Bernie, scrabbling for his sleeve.

  He put an arm round her and hoisted her upright. For a moment she swayed but Clara got the other side of her and they balanced her between them. They managed to get Bernie outside surprisingly quickly but had some difficulty getting her into the motor, which was parked at the kerb. At last she was seated in the back and Clara joined her. She thought her gran was definitely looking exhausted and hoped the evening’s outing wouldn’t prove too much for her. She saw him bend over in front of the car and fit in the handle to start the engine. As he turned it the vehicle began to shudder and shake. She felt a stirring of excitement as she watched Mr Kirk seat himself in front of the steering wheel.

  He glanced over his shoulder. ‘So where are we going?’ Clara gave him the simplest of directions.

  ‘Hold tight,’ he said.

  They were off, past the back entrance to the theatre, a school and eventually the laundry, then zooming past another pub on a corner and a cluster of shops before reaching their street.

  Mr Kirk helped Clara out of the motor first, and she was aware of the warmth and strength in his fingers. As she walked up the step towards the house, she noticed the lace curtains being lifted in the neighbouring houses. A slight smile lifted the corners of her mouth and she thought it would be all over the street in no time that the O’Tooles had arrived home in a motor car.

  She pulled the key on the string through the letterbox and opened the door before turning towards Mr Kirk, who was hoisting Bernie out of her seat. Clara hurried over to offer her assistance, although he was handling her grandmother in a competent and solicitous manner. Between them they helped her into the house and lowered her onto the sofa in the kitchen.

  He straightened up and gazed at Clara. ‘You’ll manage now?’

  She nodded and felt suddenly embarrassed that he should see her in such shabby surroundings, and yet she was also annoyed with herself for feeling such emotions. ‘Thanks for your help,’ she said stiffly. ‘You’ll want to be on your way.’

  He nodded. ‘Goodnight.’

  Clara saw him out and watched him climb into the motor car. She wondered what his home was like and whether he was related to Mrs Black in any way. If he drove a motor, even a hired one, then he most likely lived in a big, posh house with a large garden. A sigh escaped her. Then Bernie called to her from inside. Clara watched him drive off and closed the door, doubting that she would ever see him again.

  Chapter Two

  Summer, 1918

  ‘Be careful, Miss O’Toole. What do you think you’re doing, girl? Good job you’re not in the AMATOL factory. You would blow up the lot of us.’

  Clara blinked at the forewoman. ‘Sorry!’

  She told herself that she must stop daydreaming about Mr Kirk because it would not get her anywhere. She concentrated, making sure her hands were steady, as she dealt with another breech-loading charge of NCT and cordite. The amounts were so small, being weighed out in ounces and parts of an ounce, that she couldn’t afford to let her mind drift. She was earning almost three pounds a week on this job and didn’t want to be demoted to sweeping up waste from the floor to be recycled. Those girls earned only one pound and seventeen shillings a week. More money could be earned working with trinitrotoluene, known as TNT, which was mixed with ammonium nitrate to produce the highly explosive AMATOL, but that was really dangerous work and not for the clumsy or faint-hearted.

  Mr Kirk popped into her mind yet again. She told herself this was stupid. It was several months since her grandmother’s funny turn at the theatre and she had not heard anything from him since. Bernie had made a quick recovery and said no more about getting in touch with Clara’s father. She had asked her gran about Gertie but the old woman had clammed up and refused to talk about her. Clara found it extremely irritating that she might have an aunt alive somewhere yet could not get in touch with her. She thought it would be marvellous to have family to be friends with and to share the load of looking after her grandmother.

  She sighed.

  Jean, the girl a few feet away from her, said, ‘What’s with the sigh?’

  ‘Just fed up, that’s all.’

  ‘Me, too. Perhaps we should go the flickers together?’

  Clara smiled. ‘That’s not a bad idea. I’ll have to see how Gran goes but maybe we can arrange to go sometime. Since this new strain of flu has made an appearance, she’s worrying about herself. For the past week she’s refused to step foot outside the house, which is making life more difficult for me.’

  Jean’s yellowish features were strained. ‘It is worrying.’

  Clara nodded, then, noticing the forewoman looking their way, got on with her work. She swallowed a yawn, glad that the night shift would soon finish. It was her free Saturday, having worked the last three in the factory, and she was looking forward to having the weekend off. On Monday she would begin a six to two o’clock shift.

  An hour later, she made her way with the other women and girls to the cloakroom, where she stripped off her overalls and removed the turban from her head. She took her outdoor clothes from a cloth bag and her shoes out of another and changed into them. The shoes she put on were down at heel and the soles were coming away from the uppers. It was experience that had taught her that some of those on other shifts would steal anything decent, so she always came to work in her scruff.

  Once outside she breathed deeply of the early morning air before catching the tram home. The shop on the corner of Boundary Lane was open so she bought a loaf and a packet of Rinso washing powder, which was said to give good results with cold water. At this time of year one lit a fire as seldom as possible, so as to build up a store of coal for the winter. She broke off a piece of crust and munched it as she walked up the street of terraced houses and let herself into her home. She lit one of the two gas rings in the back kitchen and put the kettle on. There was still milk in a jug in a bowl of cold water, covered with a beaded cloth, so she poured some into a cup and drank most of it before using the rest to dab on her face, noticing that a rash had appeared on her chin. It itched and she wondered whether it was scurvy or another side affect of the chemicals used in the factory. She patted her face dry before going upstairs, but not to sleep. Maybe she would have a doze later but she was not going to waste a summer day off in bed. She had tasks to do.

  As she reached the landing Bernie called, ‘Is that you, Clara?’

  ‘Yes, Gran. I didn’t mean to wake you.’

  ‘I was already awake. Come in here. I want to talk to yer.’

  ‘Can it wait a few minutes? I want to get changed.’

  ‘OK. If yer making tea, I’ll have a cup, and yer can do me a slice of bread and jam, too.’

  ‘Fine. You been OK through the night?’ shouted Clara, stripping off all her clothes, intending to put them in to soak with the Rinso later. Gone were the days when Monday was the only washday in this house.

  ‘No, I bloody didn’t,’ called Bernie. ‘I didn’t dare lay flat in case I stopped breathing. You’ll have to get me another bottle of Black Magic.’

  Clara had paid out for umpteen bottles of cough mixture from the chemist’s, without recompense from Bernie, and was starting to believe her grandmother was addicted to the stuff. ‘I’m not buying it if it isn’t doing you any good. Perhaps you should spend out and see a doctor.’

  ‘I never thought yer’d b
egrudge yer old gran some medicine,’ said Bernie indignantly.

  Clara ignored that comment and took clean underwear from a drawer before fishing around in the tallboy for a clean blouse and black skirt. She dressed and then tidied her hair, thinking she must unpin it and comb some Icilma dry shampoo through it later. She pulled a face at her reflection before reaching for a jar of lemon and glycerine and rubbing the ointment into her face and hands. After that she felt heaps better and, picking up her discarded clothing, she carried it downstairs.

  She half-filled the deep white sink with water and then dunked her clothing in it before sprinkling some Rinso on top of it. She left it to soak, made breakfast for two and carried the tray up to her grandmother’s bedroom.

  Bernie was sitting up against the pillows. ‘If yer going to catch that flu then yer going to have to find our Gertie for me before yer get it.’

  Clara was accustomed to her grandmother’s peculiar, selfish logic, so all she said was, ‘I mightn’t catch the flu, and why the sudden mention of Gertie after all this time? Thought you didn’t want to talk about her.’ She placed the tray on a chair beside the bed and opened the curtains to let in the sunlight.

  ‘But yer might. I heard it strikes down those of yer age. I’ll need someone to look after me if you pop off. I don’t want to end up in the workhouse.’

  ‘You really do try and cheer me up, don’t you, Gran? It’s more likely that with your chest you’d be the one to die.’

  ‘Now who’s being cheerful?’ said Bernie, reaching for her cup of tea. ‘While I’ve been staying in, I’ve been giving that evening at the Theatre Royal in April a lot of thought. I reckon that Mrs Black knew our family from old. I think she was a mate of our Gertie’s and must have recognised me, although it’s more than forty years since last I saw our Gertie and Edith Rogers.’

  ‘Who’s Edith Rogers?’ asked Clara, sipping her tea. ‘And why haven’t you seen anything of your daughter?’