by David Nobbs
‘You won’t be carsick, will you, Henry?’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘No, Uncle Teddy,’ said Henry in little more than a whisper.
‘Let’s gerron wi’ it,’ said Ada.
‘He has to have his little argument,’ said Auntie Doris.
‘I do not have to have my little argument,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘I do not have to have my little argument, Doris.’
‘Don’t clench your teeth at me,’ said Auntie Doris.
‘Tha can go now,’ said Ada. ‘T’ whole street’s seen her fur wrap.’
‘I’ll put that down to tension and ignore it,’ said Uncle Teddy, crashing angrily into first gear and setting off with a jerk.
Henry Pratt had lived at number 23 Paradise Lane for five years and almost six months. Never, in the rest of his life, would he remain in one home for so long.
The nearest that he would come to it would be at Low Farm, near the village of Rowth Bridge, in the spectacular landscape of Upper Mitherdale.
But I anticipate. They weren’t there yet. There were problems on the long journey from womb-cobble to world-hill.
The first problem was petrol. Or rather, the lack of it. ‘He always leaves it too late,’ said Auntie Doris, as Uncle Teddy trudged back into the distance with his can, towards the garage at which he had declined to stop because he ‘didn’t like the cut of its jib’.
The second problem was the signposts. Or rather, the lack of them. Most of them had been taken down, and the others had been pointed in the wrong direction, to confuse the Germans. It confused Uncle Teddy.
‘It’s lucky I know my county,’ he said. ‘I might get lost otherwise.’
The third problem was Uncle Teddy’s war effort. Or rather, the lack of it. It came to the surface just after they had found themselves lost for the third time.
‘Who are we supposed to be fighting, the Germans or ourselves?’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘Nobody, in your case,’ said Ada.
Uncle Teddy slammed the brakes on. The car slewed to a halt across the road, almost catapulting Auntie Doris through the windscreen.
‘I have flat feet,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘I have very flat feet. I have fallen arches. I have very fallen arches. My worst enemy couldn’t say that I am a man not to face the music when the chips are down. I want to do my bit. With my feet, I’ve no chance. No chance.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ada.
‘We’ll forget it,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘We’ll attribute it to tension, and wipe it from the minutes.’
They had left the big towns and the factories behind long ago. The hills were growing higher, the dale narrower. The little towns and villages were all of stone, plain, square, unadorned, and handsome. They crossed the river twice, catching glimpses of it slipping placidly over the rocks.
They came to another small town. There was no place-name to greet the Teutonic invader.
‘If it’s Troutwick, we turn right,’ said Uncle Teddy.
He pulled up in a pleasant, jumbled square, and asked two elderly men, ‘Is this Troutwick?’
The elderly men stared at him in amazement.
‘Well of course it is,’ said one. They had lived there all their lives, and they couldn’t see how there could possibly be any doubt on the matter.
‘How do I get to Rowth Bridge?’ said Uncle Teddy, speaking more loudly and slowly than usual, as if to foreigners.
‘Tha turns right,’ said the second elderly man.
‘Yes, but where?’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘Does tha see t’ lane along o’ t’ Trustee Savings Bank?’ said the first elderly man.
‘Yes,’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘Not there,’ said the first elderly man.
‘Carry on along t’ road,’ said the second elderly man, ‘till tha comes to an old inn, t’ Three Magpies, that were demolished ten years ago.’
‘More like twelve,’ said the first elderly man. ‘Our Annie were carrying our Albert.’
‘Mebbe,’ said the second elderly man. ‘Tha turns right there, any road.’
Somehow they managed to find the turning. Soon they were in a narrower, steeper dale, with a smaller, livelier river. The road was slow and winding, the houses further apart, the villages hamlets. Dry-stone walls criss-crossed the fields and hills, and at regular intervals in the walls there were stone field barns, like wayside chapels.
Some of the land was under the plough. Some was pasture for cattle. Most of it was a huge sheep run.
They crossed the old stone hump-bridge that gave Rowth Bridge its name. The river Mither was little more than a rocky beck up here.
They twisted through the village, a tight-packed cluster of low stone buildings, huddled together for warmth, for protection, and out of kinship.
Beyond the village the road ran on to the head of the dale, which was bounded by high fells to the north, with the impressive bulk of Mickleborough dominating the scene. The infant Mither tumbled joyously down from these hills, chuckling delightedly over its miniature gorge.
All this was unfamiliar and terrifying to Henry. He could see nothing good in this spectacular place. It was impossible to believe that life here could have anything in common with life in Paradise Lane.
There, tucked under the hills on their left, was Low Farm. It was a very long, low, seventeenth-century stone building, a typical long house of the Yorkshire Dales, with the cow barn built into the end of the house, as if it were part of it. Anywhere else it would have been a row of cottages.
A bumpy track led up to the farmhouse. Uncle Teddy negotiated it slowly, in pained silence, veering from side to side to avoid the worst potholes and cowpats. Sheep watched him, and protested.
‘We’d have suggested you came and lived with us,’ said Auntie Doris. ‘But we’re almost as likely to get bombed as you were.’
The track took them round the side of the house. There, at the back of the house, at the kitchen door, stood Ezra’s Auntie Kate and her husband Frank.
Frank, five foot nine of solid rock, gazed at them with his expression of amiable gentleness which verged on a smile without ever quite breaking into it. Kate, five foot one of bouncing energy, beamed from ear to ear.
Their expressions did not say, ‘We are prepared to have you here.’ Their expressions said, ‘We are grateful to you for coming.’
Suddenly, Henry knew that it was going to be all right.
4 Peace and War
ADA AND KATE stood at the landing window, watching little Henry marching sturdily up the hill in his Wellington boots. They were putting up paper-chains for Christmas. The paper-chains were sober and tasteful, in pastel colours.
It was Tuesday, December 17th. The Battle of Britain had been won. Churchill had said that never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few. Dowding, whose planes had won the battle, had been relieved of his command. The war cabinet had agreed that the civilian population around the German target areas must be made to feel the weight of the war.
On Sunday night, Sheffield had been blitzed. Henry Hall and his band had been forced to leave the city without their instruments, and there were more than five hundred homeless. Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris were not among them. On Monday night it had been Thurmarsh’s turn. 173 houses had been struck, and there had been a direct hit on the biscuit factory, with an attendant loss of custard creams on a large scale. Paradise Lane had not been affected. Nor had Her Mother, Leonard and his family, or the alabaster bust of Lord Hawke. Cousin Hilda survived unscathed as well, although a bomb demolished the house three doors away.
Henry’s right hand was firmly clasped in the left hand of the farm hand Billy, who wasn’t quite all there. Beside them trotted Sam, the sheepdog.
Ada sighed.
‘Is summat wrong, Ada?’ said Kate.
‘I don’t like Henry being so friendly wi’ animals,’ said Ada.
‘What does tha think he’ll catch, Ada?’ said Kate, ‘Milk fever? Mastitis? Hard pad?’
&nb
sp; Ada flushed, and Kate felt sorry that she had been so tart She had been a town person herself once. She had been the only person not to be surprised that they had arrived without Wellington boots.
‘I’m not o’er pleased that he’s such friends wi’ Billy,’ said Ada.
‘Billy’s safe enough,’ said Kate. ‘Manpower’s short. There’s a war on.’
Kate flushed now, and her hand went to her throat in distress. Ada knew more about the war than she did. She was on her own, in a strange place, without the support of her husband.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Kate. ‘I’m sorry, Ada.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Ada. She felt tears coming into her eyes. A hot flush drenched her body in the illusion of sweat. Her legs, which she knew to be huge and horrible, were on fire. She stumbled towards the bedroom she shared with Henry.
The bedroom was the only thing she shared with Henry. She had lost him. Her husband had been taken by the army. Henry had been taken by Kate, by Frank, by Billy the half-wit, by Jackie the land-girl, by Sam the sheepdog, by the River Mither and the age-old hills.
By the time Henry got home, she had recovered.
‘Well, what’s tha been up to?’ she asked him.
‘Picking earth,’ he said smugly.
‘Picking earth?’
‘Aye.’
He led his mother downstairs to the kitchen, and pointed to the flagged floor. Lumps of dark, wet, thick, winter earth lay on the beautiful bluish Horton flags.
Ada struck him violently, a big blow across the right ear.
‘Clear it up,’ she ordered, and rushed from the room.
Henry fell to the ground, his ear ringing with pain which exploded inside his head.
Tears filled his eyes, but he wouldn’t cry. Wouldn’t wouldn’t wouldn’t. Nearly did. Didn’t.
His Great-Aunt Kate came in with a handful of turnips, and found him sitting there, lips puckering, a lone tear drying on his cheek, on the flagged floor, beneath the hanging hams, in front of the huge, leaded range, among the earth that he had dumped or the floor.
‘What’s to do?’ she said.
‘Mam hit me.’
‘Why?’
‘I picked lots of earth.
‘Why did tha pick lots of earth, Henry?’
‘I’m nobbut a lad. I have to be naughty sometimes.’
He hurried from the room, before he could be hit again.
Frank came in before Kate could clear the earth from her beautiful floor.
‘Problem,’ said Kate.
‘Aye,’ said Frank. ‘I can see. Henry.’
‘No,’ said Kate. ‘Ada.’
‘Ada?’
‘Ada.’
Frank sat in the big, wide-backed wooden chair which looked huge until he sat in it. He stretched his weary legs.
‘Ada spilt earth on t’ floor?’
‘No. Henry,’ said Kate.
‘I don’t know what she’s on about half the time,’ said Frank.
‘Ada?’ said Kate.
‘No. Thee,’ said Frank. ‘I were just confiding in t’ Lord.’
It had been a great sorrow to Uncle Frank – he refused to be known as Great-Uncle Frank: it made him sound so old, and he was only just the wrong side of sixty – that he had had no sons. The three Turnbull daughters had been famous throughout the district for their vitality and beauty. Their ephemeral charm and grace had contrasted exquisitely with the stark timelessness of the gritstone landscape of Upper Mitherdale. They could have had anybody, and for two worrying years it had seemed that Fiona had. Now they were gone, married (and who were Uncle Frank and Auntie Kate to say that their husbands were unworthy of them, just because everyone else said so?). Uncle Frank had been proud and amazed that he could have helped to produce three such lovely creatures, but he was a farmer, and he wanted sons.
Now Auntie Kate – she refused to be known as Great-Aunt Kate: it made her sound so old, and she was still the right side of sixty, if only just – saw Ada worrying about Ezra, and gave thanks to God that she had no sons. In war-time sons get killed.
She began to keep Ada busy. She tried to encourage her to talk about her worries, while they made bread and havercake and Christmas cake and Christmas pudding and stuffing for the goose and all the other things which Auntie Kate could have made in half the time if she hadn’t been trying to get Ada to talk about her worries without appearing to do so.
The kitchen was large, but warm and cosy. A huge dresser occupied the wall opposite the range. The scrubbed deal table was covered in the preparations for a feast. Ada relaxed enough to explain the reasons why she found it impossible to relax.
These were 1 Ezra. (a) Was he sleeping well? He needed his sleep. He always had. (b) Was he getting enough food? He was a right gannet, despite his size. He’d be missing his brawn. She’d heard that the Red Cross sent parcels, but would they include brawn, or would it all be soft, southern stuff? (c) Would his food, even if adequate, be too dry? Ezra needed gravy to help him digest. (d) Would he be killed? 2 Self. (a) Was she a sour old hag, although only thirty-four years of age? (b) Were her legs getting bigger still? (c) She was still…tha knows…so why was she getting hot flushes? 3 Henry. (a) Why was he getting naughty? (b) Why was she jealous of him? (See 2 (a).) (c) Would he get mastoids because she’d struck his ear?
Auntie Kate felt that her responses were inadequate. They were 1 (a) Like a log, undoubtedly. (b) Definitely. An army marches on its stomach. Temporary brawn starvation might be a good thing. Absence makes the…etcetera. (c) Armies are great places for gravy. They’re known for it. Hence the expression, the gravy train. (d) I don’t know. 2 (a) No. (b) No. (c) God moves in a mysterious way. 3 (a) Because he feels more secure. (b) Because you’re a mother. (c) Unlikely.
‘That were t’ best Christmas I’ve ever ’ad.’
Auntie Kate looked at Henry sadly, gladly. She was torn in two. A casual observer might have thought her possessive. She needed people. She needed to be useful to people. But she did not want to impinge upon their close family attachments. She had no wish to cross the demarcation lines of emotion. She was not vying with a mother’s love. There had been hopes that Ezra might get leave before he went abroad, but he had not. Auntie Kate had been disappointed that Henry hadn’t seemed disappointed. How could she make his life here secure and rich without leading him to compare it unfavourably with what Ada and Ezra had been able to offer him?
‘It were t’ best Christmas I’ve ever ’ad ever,’ he repeated.
Jackie, the land-girl, had gone home for the holiday. Fiona, their youngest, had come over from Skipton with her husband, who was an assistant bank manager and had an artificial leg. They had married in October last year. The bride had looked charming in Burgundy marocain, with hat and shoes to tone. She had worn a spray of pink and white carnations, and carried her gas-mask. She had dark, deep eyes which were full of fun. Henry had liked her, but not her husband, who was right dull, in his opinion. Laura, their eldest, had come over from Nelson on Boxing Day with her husband and their three aggressive children. Laura was putting on weight. What her husband gained by being not quite as dull as Fiona’s, he lost by being a Lancastrian. Norma’s husband, who was duller than Laura’s, but less dull than Fiona’s, suffered from a far graver character defect than being a Lancastrian. He was German. They lived near Nuremberg. It had added insult to injury that Norma’s husband was fit enough to fight for Germany, but neither Fiona’s husband nor Laura’s husband were fit enough to fight for Britain. People were right when they said that the lovely Turnbull girls could all have done better for themselves.
On Christmas morning they had gone to church. Henry had stared at the people from the big house, in their family pew, as at creatures from another planet. Except for Belinda Boyce-Uppingham, aged six. He had stared at her as at perfection. She had looked right through him. Ada had hoped that nobody would notice that she didn’t know when to stand and when to kneel and when to sit. All the Boyce-Uppinghams had notic
ed. After church, people had lingered in the little churchyard and outside in the lane beside the aptly-named Mither. They had wished each other a happy Christmas. Humble villagers had touched vocal forelocks to the Turnbulls. The Turnbulls had touched vocal forelocks to the Boyce-Uppinghams. Old Percy Boyce-Uppingham had tapped Henry with his walking stick, as if he were a barometer, but instead of saying, ‘Looks like rain,’ he had said, ‘So you’re our new little town boy, then. Well done,’ and had given him sixpence, and Auntie Kate had nudged Henry, and Henry had said, ‘Thank you very much, sir. Happy Christmas,’ and then they had gone home and had roast goose with all the trimmings, and on Boxing Day they had had home-cured ham. And there had been a Christmas tree, and Henry had had a stocking, in which there was an orange, a Mars bar, an apple, a comb, a box of coloured pencils and a little woollen camel which squeaked. Round the Christmas tree there were other presents, which included a Dinky toy (a London bus), a book with stories and pictures, another book with pictures that you coloured and a humming top.
Now it was over, and Henry sat at the scrubbed deal table in the spacious kitchen, and managed to read a few words from his book out loud in a solemn, slow, artificial voice. It had been Auntie Kate’s idea that Ada should teach him to read before he went to school in January.
‘This is my best home ever,’ he said.
Auntie Kate turned grave eyes upon him.
‘This isn’t your real home, Henry,’ she said. ‘Always remember that. You like it because it’s new, and there are animals. It can be right lonely and cruel sometimes, specially in winter, and there’s not many folk thy own age here, and that’s why it can never be your real home.’
She hoped that this had made an impression on him, but what he said next was, ‘I were right put out at first about eating t’ goose, cos I knew him. He were my friend. Bur I et ’im. He were right tasty too.’
The words came slowly, solemnly, articulated with exaggerated care. Auntie Kate wanted to laugh at the grown-up sound of ‘I were right put out’ coming from the five-year-old boy, whose podgy legs were swinging above the flagstones as he sat in his kitchen chair.
