Northern Girl
Fadette Marie Marcelle Cripps
Team Publishing (2010)
* * *
Synopsis
France, Summer 1945 The tiny French village of Marck has seen its fair share of trouble from the occupying forces, but now that the Germans have finally gone, it is time to start living again. For eighteen-year-old Madeleine, the celebration fair is a much-needed excuse for fun after the dark days of the occupation. Little does she know that a chance meeting at the fair will change her life for ever. Tom is a dashing young English soldier, far from his coal-mining village home in north east England, footloose and fancy-free in a strange and foreign land, and determined to make the most of his day's leave at the local village fair. From the battle-weary fields of northern France to the grimy industries of north east England, Northern Girl takes you on an unforgettable journey - a journey of all-consuming passion, heartbreak, family shame and, ultimately to a destination that no-one had forseen.
An unforgettable story, which Catherine Cookson and Maureen Lee fans will love.
France, summer 1945. The tiny French village of Marck has seen it’s share of trouble from the occupying forces, but now that the Germans have finally gone, it is time to start living again.
For eighteen year old Madeleine, the celebration fair is a much needed excuse for fun after the dark days of the occupation. Little does she know that a chance meeting at the fair will change her life for ever.
Tom is a dashing young English soldier, far from his coal-mining village in north east England, footloose and fancy-free in a strange and foreign land, and determined to make the most of his day’s leave at the local village fair.
From the battle-weary fields of northern France to the bleak village industries of north east England, Northern Girl takes you on an unforgettable journey – a journey of all consuming passion, heartbreak, family shame and, ultimately to a destination that no-one could have expected.
First published in Great Britain
in 2010 by Team Publishing
Copyright © Fadette Marie 2010
Fadette Marie has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9780956770509
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Typeset in 11/14pt Sabon by
Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd.
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, RG1 8EX
For my lovely mum Marie Therese
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Diane Pearson: without your expertise and constructive comments this book would never have happened. You were the first to read my manuscript, and on the day that I received your encouraging and complimentary letter my shock and joy was such that I could have been mistaken for a winner on The X Factor. Diane, I can’t thank you enough for getting me going!
Janine Giovanni: without your help I wouldn’t have contacted Diane Pearson in the first place, nor would I have had a clue how to go about getting a book ready for publishing. Having led me safely through the minefield of dos and don’ts of the publishing world, you are now about to introduce me to the mysteries of the marketing world. Thank you just isn’t enough, Janine (but you know, don’t you).
Claire Ward: I always have a smile on my face when I think of you, Claire. Whenever I’ve expected you to find me a pain because of my fussiness over the design of my book cover, you’ve always come back with a quip, or told me patiently that we’ll get there in the end. Thank you for that, Claire, you are a pleasure to work with.
Alison Martin: as soon as I was told that my manuscript had almost completed its journey and was finally with you I experienced a huge sigh of relief. Knowing that it was in safe hands. For organizing the printing and production of my book I thank you, Alison so, so much.
Katrina Whone: although we haven’t met, Katrina, I have been informed all the way about how you’ve given your precious time and how you’ve shared your expertise on the many aspects necessary to get my book out there. And on top of all that you introduced me to Lucy Pinney. Many thanks, and I hope that we do meet one day.
Lucy Pinney: what would I have done without you, Lucy? Your hands-on assistance has been invaluable to me, and the bonus is that I have gleaned so much from you in the process. I felt that we struck up a really good relationship via our emails, and I really look forward to working with you again in the future. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
My husband David: you’ve kept me nicely fed and watered (or should I say wined?) through the tears, tantrums and triumphs. Thanks, hon, it’s been a trial, hasn’t it?!
Angela Vernon: you have been encouraging through all the above processes, and more importantly you have listened when needed. Thanks, Angie.
Joanne Lidford: you knew that I would be particularly interested in an article in the Northern Echo depicting the village of Evenwood and very thoughtfully sent the article to me here in the south. To my amazement, there in the article, was a photograph of (the now long gone) Randolph Colliery just as portrayed in my story. Thanks you so, so much Joanne.
Chris Lloyd (deputy editor of The Northern Echo): thank you for taking the time out of your busy day to find the photograph of Randolph Colliery and for giving me permission to use the picture on the back cover of my book. I am so grateful for your help Chris, thank you.
Last and most definitely not least, Jean (our Jean): just like your character in the story, Jean, you always bring a smile, or more often a laugh, into our lives, and we, the family, love you for it. Thank you, just for being you.
Chapter 1
Evenwood, Northern England
Saturday, 24 November 1945
Sitting on the top of the double-decker bus, Tom was suddenly aware of the pungent, sulphurous smell of his childhood: the coal mine. He shut his eyes and inhaled deeply. Perhaps, now, at last, he’d be safe. And all the terrible things that had been happening to him would finally stop.
‘Evenwood Gate!’ The yell from the conductress brought him back to the present with a jolt. He leapt to his feet, grabbed his kitbag, and raced for the stairs. He was too late. The clippie had already double-pinged the bell, and the bus was lurching forward.
‘Whoops, sorry, luv, didn’t see yer there!’ she exclaimed as he jumped off the last stair, almost knocking her off h
er feet. She grabbed at the nearest seat to steady herself, then pressed the bell again, yelling at the driver, ‘Hang on a sec, fer God’s sake!’
And then, as the bus shuddered to a halt, she did a double take, at this soldier standing before her, so tall and handsome in his uniform.
Tom caught her staring at him, straightened his shoulders, and smiled, revealing perfectly straight white teeth, while his blue eyes twinkled with mischief.
‘Yer better hurry up, luv,’ she said, motioning him off the bus. But at the same time wanting to delay him for a moment longer, she added: ‘Haven’t seen you around before. Do yer live round ’ere, like?’
Tom noticed how blatantly she was looking him up and down. ‘Aye, I’m off home to see me family,’ he said. He winked. The clippie was very pretty, with a mischievous face and wayward blonde curls, and he was about to ask her her name when he was distracted by the driver, who had swivelled round in his seat behind the glass panel of his cab, and was glaring at them both, tapping frantically on his pocket watch. ‘Get a move on!’ the driver mouthed soundlessly.
‘Judging by your driver’s face,’ Tom said, ‘I think he wants to get home as well. He looks right narked!’
Laughing, the clippie said, ‘Don’t you worry about ’im, lad. ’Ee’s always moanin’ about something. ’Ee’s nowt but a pain in the arse, that one! But ah can deal with ’im, no problem!’
‘I bet you can,’ Tom said.
‘See yer around, then,’ the clippie said. She dinged the bell twice, but not before adding cheekily, ‘If ever yer need a ride, mind, don’t forget the number twelve bus!’
The driver pulled away so fast that the clippie had to grab the safety pole on the platform not to fall off, and Tom found himself laughing out loud.
When the bus had gone he suddenly felt cold. There were dark grey clouds overhead, and he could tell it was going to rain. Not wanting to get wet, he broke into a run, and the sound of his boots on the road caused terrible images to flash in front of his eyes: falling men … artillery shells exploding … severed limbs. He stopped, and momentarily covered his ears with both hands, trying to push the memories from his mind.
As he continued the mile-long walk from Evenwood Gate to his home in the village of Evenwood itself, the grandeur of the pit loomed before him, filling him with awe, as it always had. He studied the tall, familiar brick chimney, flanked by slag heaps and wooden outbuildings, beyond which was the huge wheel at the shaft surface. He shuddered at the thought of the metal cages, more often than not crammed with miners, being reeled down to the coal face.
Tom shook his head. No man should have to do such a God-awful job, let alone his da! And yet he knew there was nothing else his da could have done. After all, he’d never been trained for owt else, had he? And it’d be too late, now, for him to learn anything new. He’d been down that bloody pit since he was ten years old! It just wasn’t right!
Tom could understand why, before the war, his da had encouraged him to go into the building trade. He could hear him now, advising in his broad pit-man’s dialect, ‘Why, ye’ll have a trade fer life, lad! People will always be needin’ ’ouses. And, mind, there’ll be money ter be made, yer nah!’ He’d rubbed his forefingers and thumb together, to imply cash. Tom grinned at the memory, it was so typical of Da!
‘But more than that, son,’ Da had gone on, ‘ye’ll be outside, in t’ fresh air.’ He’d raised the palms of his hands heavenwards at this point, saying, ‘Ye’ll see the sky all day! Stick at it, lad, an’ ye’ll be all right!’
So Tom had stuck at it. Then the war had come along. He’d been called up, and that had been the end of that.
He looked again towards the chimney. It had thrown its gas flames so far into the sky that you could see the glow from at least ten miles away. And here it still was, still standing in all its glory. He leaned back to see the top of it, gazing in wonder, remembering how, as a child, he’d lain in bed watching the flames belt out of the top, and they’d lit up his whole bedroom with a fierce orange glow. He’d made up stories for himself about those flames, and they’d been so frightening he’d usually ended up going back downstairs, supposedly for a drink of water. His mam had never suggested he take a glass up with him before going to bed; she knew only too well that it would have taken away his excuse for coming down to be comforted.
Remembering how well his mam knew him gave Tom a warm feeling. It suddenly seemed like only yesterday that his imagination had run riot, making up stories about the dragon who’d so obviously lived inside that chimney. And probably still did, if that smell was anything to go by! He sniffed at the air. Oh yes, that’s a dragon smell all right, he thought, as he walked steadily home.
Fast approaching Bank Top now, he glanced up. ‘Blimey! The bus shelter’s still standing!’ He was so amazed that he spoke out loud. He grinned, remembering its secrets. The shelter at the top of the bank, he thought. I suppose you’d call it the top of the hill, if you were posh. He was suddenly reminded of his upperclass army mates. He was wondering what the ones who were still alive would make of this quaint little mining village, when, all of a sudden, the heavens opened, and the rain came down in buckets.
Christ Almighty! He broke into a run. If I’d got on the right bus in Bishop Auckland, he thought, I’d have been home by now. But no, I had to get on the first bloody one I saw. I should have got the number eleven instead of the twelve. Then he reminded himself that he wouldn’t have met the mischievous blonde clippie if he had.
In his haste to get under cover, he practically fell into the three-sided wooden shelter. After he’d wiped his wet face on the rough itchy sleeve of his coat, and once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he looked around. This place could tell some stories, he thought, remembering the brazen lasses who’d once shimmied around inside, displaying their naked breasts to an audience of eager village lads. For a brief moment he was back in the past, feeling a pang of embarrassment, and sitting on this very bench with his mates, staring in awe at those poor lasses, who’d do all kinds of mucky stuff in return for a fag, or even less.
It was all part of growing up, he supposed, and probably happened in most villages where there was nothing better to do. You could always go to the pictures instead, of course, but only if you had a tanner to spare for a ticket. Transported back to his teens, he sat on the damp bench a while longer. He noticed the musty smell of the shelter had got worse over the years, which he hadn’t thought possible. He glanced at the rotting wooden walls. Apart from that, it was the same. Although it was comforting to find that things hadn’t changed while he’d been away, it was also strangely disturbing, too. It was difficult to fathom how, after all that had happened in the world in the last six years, the pit chimney and the bus shelter could have remained untouched. Even the village looked intact. How the hell could that be? It just didn’t seem right to him, this sameness, when, where he’d been, right in the thick of it, there had been so much destruction and death.
I’m getting all maudlin sitting here, it’s time to move on, he thought, getting up. Outside, the rain was easing, so he decided to make a run for it. It was just as well he hadn’t been able to let his mam know in his letter the exact time he’d be home. All he’d told her was the day, and that it would be some time in the afternoon.
He felt happy at the thought that he wasn’t too far from her now. Oh, how he’d longed to see her! He wasn’t afraid to admit that he’d missed her terribly. There’d been times, during the cold dark nights, when he’d actually cried. Not only out of fear, but because he craved her comforting embrace. Sometimes, his longing had been so intense that he had crouched in his dugout, oblivious to the mud, and wrapped his arms around himself like a child – in an attempt to alleviate the torture of his surroundings. But, invariably, he hadn’t succeeded, and he’d broken down, doing his utmost to stifle the sobs over which he had no control. Even now, tears pricked his eyes, as he recalled that he’d not been alone in feeling like that.
More
than once he’d come across the other lads in the same state, and they’d insisted that it was only the cold making them shiver and sniff. But he’d known better! There’d been no place for sentimentality in those bloody foxholes, so each and every one of them had had to find their own way of dealing with the homesickness and fear. They’d had orders to obey, they’d been there to fight. And by God, how they’d fought! He’d watched some of his closest mates fall at his side, and he’d had no choice but to keep on – running and stumbling over broken bodies where they lay, some so clogged with mud that he’d not have recognized them even if he could have stopped. And all the while, there’d been a never-ending fog, caused by the continuous bombardment.
How the hell he’d got out of it he didn’t know, and he’d vowed to himself that if he ever got home, he was going to make the best of his life. No matter what!
Skirting puddles, he arrived outside his old school, which he remembered as being huge. He was shocked at how small it was. It was insignificant, he thought, as he stared at the tall narrow windows blending into the dull grey stonework. I suppose our Jeannie must go there now. He smiled, visualizing his young niece. She’d been a funny little thing. She had to be ten by now, and he probably wouldn’t recognize her.
Just ahead he could make out the red brick of his terraced street, where each house had its own back yard enclosed by high walls. Like the others in the village, his street was back to back with another, separated only by a narrow cobbled lane. So that on the rare occasions when washing wasn’t strung out from one side of the lane to the other, causing the flapping sheets to blot everything else out, you could look straight from your own gate into the opposite yard. There was a hell of a lot of gas-bagging went on from one gate to another, he remembered. But that was the way in Evenwood.
Northern Girl Page 1
