Family Drama 4 E-Book Bundle

by Pam Weaver

  ‘No…wait. That’s it! Where’s the one place I haven’t looked?’ she said, making strides across the room.

  ‘You’ve lost me there, Mirren,’ he said, not understanding her excitement.

  ‘In here; the one thing that all the Miriams hand down from one to another. Look!’ She stood before the dark oak carved table box, hardly daring to breathe, undoing the clasps slowly and lifting the lid. ‘They’re here. Oh, Ben, they’re all here in the Miriam Box!’

  She lifted out the frames and the snapshots and envelopes, clasping them to her chest with relief. She sat down and wept, and Ben gathered her into his chest again and wept with her.

  ‘I’ve been so stupid. I nearly lost her twice over with my stubbornness. Hold me while I look at her again.’ They both gazed down through a mist of tears at the face looking back at them. ‘When does the aching stop?’

  ‘It never does, love, but it’s better to share the pain with someone than carry it all on your own. She’s found and you’ll put her in her rightful place, on show, where everyone can see what a lovely little girl she was. That’s the best we can do, I reckon.’

  ‘I’m so glad you came back,’ she whispered. ‘You won’t go away just yet, will you?’

  ‘What do you take me for, a masochist? Three steps out there and I’d sink without trace,’ he laughed, wiping her eyes with his old hanky.

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ she said.

  ‘I know, but I’ll see you right before I make tracks, and that’s a promise. And you can choose the picture for me, right?’

  ‘That’s all right then.’

  Mirren sat in the parlour, going through every snap. Wartime film was precious, and there weren’t as many as she hoped, but the little portrait done in Scarperton was still in its silver frame. Her birth certificate was in its envelope, and the little bag of silver threepenny bits, and a teaspoon someone had given for her christening. There was a lock of hair coiled round a cotton reel: little mementoes still intact and safe in the Miriam Box. And at the bottom were Dad’s old photos and the postcards; all her treasures were secure.

  She had never bothered much with the old oak chest until now. It was just something passed down and of not much interest. She fingered the carving lovingly, knowing she’d never be parted from it again. Perhaps one day she might even hand it over to another Miriam. This was her past but it promised a future too. She was young and healthy and on her own. Maybe it was time to look out instead of inwards.

  She smiled, thinking of the banks of snowdrifts blocking the side door, the great tunnels of ice in the farmyard. It was all about survival now, and tomorrow she would have to try to save what was left of their stock.

  20

  It was Ben who heard the drone of a single-engine plane in the distance coming ever closer, breaking the silence of the snow. Curiosity made him scrape off the icy ferns at his bedroom window to search for the dot in the sky. Suddenly it was swooping down, fluttering leaflets, and he could see Mirren already up, racing to gather them in.

  ‘Mafeking is relieved. The RAF are going to drop supplies. It says we’ve to listen to the wireless for instructions. It’ll depend on the weather. You remember they did it before? No, you weren’t here. Just when I thought we were on our beam ends…no hay, nothing but sawdust left.’

  He read the paper over and over. Bales of hay and emergency rations would be dropped to farms still cut off. Instructions would be announced on the Farming Programme. They must make some way of identifying the drop zone on the day of their delivery. There was hope after all.

  ‘Where shall we put it?’ she cried, her cheeks burning pink in the chill air.

  ‘Not too close to the house or they might drop on the slates and go through the roof. Better out by the far barn, if we can dig ourselves through the drifts. This calls for a celebration,’ Ben shouted. ‘Salty bacon or salty bacon?’

  Their food supplies were running low. Most nights they dined on vegetables and bacon, and rice pudding sweetened with treacle.

  Mirren was leaping round in circles, excited like a child at Christmas, as if all the old tensions had evaporated. But there were still the sick beasts and the remnants of their flock to feed until then.

  Ben’s favourite time was when they sat together and tried to bolster their flagging spirits. Last week the postman got through to the lane end but no further, and they stood on the walls and signalled that all was well and to tell the other Yewells that Mirren was safe. There were diggers doing their best to open the tracks but Cragside was not a priority yet.

  There was no snow that night. The clouds were high but still looking heavy. Mirren was glued to the wireless, hoping the batteries wouldn’t choose now to conk out. For three mornings she listened but there was no announcement. She and Ben began to think it would never be their turn, and then on the fourth day, the West Riding Dales were named and they both jumped up. Mirren was all for going out there and then to make their pyre, but Ben held her back.

  ‘Don’t be daft. It’s still dark. Get some food inside you and pretend it’s just another day in case they don’t have time to reach us.’

  ‘But they’ve got to come now. What if the cloud drops and they miss us?’ she moaned.

  ‘Hold your sweat. I’ll make a pyre to guide them in. We did it in the Home Guard,’ he ordered, not telling her he’d been trained to lure enemy aircraft down onto rocks.

  He gathered all the dry provender sacks from the inside of the door and laid them in a great cross over the field. The snow was hard and compacted, and he could just see the outline of stone walls beneath his feet. They kept watch all morning, looking to the east towards the RAF base at Dishforth, but there wasn’t even a bird on the wing.

  It was mid-afternoon when he soaked the sacks in old engine oil so they would flare up quickly and lit the match to the cross so it blazed out with black smoke and flames just as the sound of engines droned ever closer. He could see the smoke rising in the distance from Scar Head. Uncle Tom would have a good feast tonight.

  Mirren came running out, waving her hands. ‘Get under bloody cover!’ he yelled, racing over to grab her arm. ‘What do you think you’re playing at? You could be squashed by bales and boxes on your head!’

  The planes circled above like hawks on the wing, flying low enough for them to see the doors opening. They were checking to see if it was the right farm. One flew overhead while the other chucked out huge parcels down in the field, which just missed landing right in the flames.

  Mirren shot out to reach the boxes and screamed, waving her fist, ‘There’s no hay! We need bales, not parcels!’ Her face was a picture of disappointment and frustration.

  They watched the plane veering off westwards and trudged out with the sled to retrieve the manna from heaven. Looking up, Ben saw the other plane turning back towards the field. ‘Look!’ he yelled as she was trying to drag heavy parcels.

  This time they were bombarded with bales of hay, some well off target, many splitting open on impact, scattering hay in all directions. It was going to be a long afternoon.

  Neither of them could settle until every scrap was accounted for. It must all be under cover by nightfall in case the weather blew in again. They let the rescued sheep forage for themselves, scoffing up every blade of nourishment. It was good to see the ewes, cold and weak as they were, jostling and tussling for their share, butting and shoving each other like old wives at a jumble sale, hobbling from one pile to another, vacuuming up every morsel.

  That evening Mirren and Ben opened the food parcels in wonder. Rationing or no rationing, someone had done them proud with such a variety of tins. There was also toothpaste, soap, cocoa, tea, egg powder, boiled sweets, yeast and flour, and even some chicken feed. It was like those food parcels sent by the Yewells who’d settled in America. There was even a sack of coal nuts to burn.

  Mirren disappeared into the kitchen, weary as she was, and baked some scones. There was Spam and oatcakes and Dundee cake for tea, and
they huddled over the fire, full of gratitude to the men who had flown out these supplies.

  Ben had been here so long now it was as if he’d never been away. Surely the weather would let up soon and it would be time to be on his way. The ticket was burning a hole in his pocket. These extra rations would see Mirren through the last of the terrible siege. He didn’t want to think about the coming thaw, but there was rain in the night and he knew it wouldn’t be far off.

  Ben went down into the cellar to stock up their new provisions, whistling to himself. It smelled musty and dank, but the cupboards were sound and the slate shelves thick. He could see a line of neat Kilner jars all neatly labelled. Someone had been busy. And then he saw it, tucked away at the back and his heart sank.

  There, behind the salted runner beans, was a half-bottle of neat whisky, a cheap brand, and there was no dust on it. It was fresh.

  So that was her little game then? She was still at it, fooling everyone. No wonder she wanted to be on her own. Disappointment stuck in his throat like a stone. Nothing had changed then.

  The farmyard was like a skating rink as Mirren made for the cow shippon, slithering on the path. The sky was higher and the chill was not as bad. The rain would soak off the snow and the snow cutters would be making their slow progress up the Windebank road soon.

  She was head down, milking the brown Ayrshire, her cheeks warmed by its soft fleshy rump. The air drop of hay would save the last of their herd now, but it was too dangerous for them to step foot out of the byre. The fate of their lost sheep didn’t bear thinking about. She looked up to see Ben standing in the doorway with a mug of tea.

  ‘Put it on the ledge…thanks.’ There was something in his eyes that made her pause from her job. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’m thinking of cutting myself down the track. Now the rain’s come, the thaw can’t be far behind. I ought to be heading on. I’ll not have time to see Florrie and Tom but you can tell them all my news. You’ll manage till the lads come?’

  ‘You do what you think best,’ she said, feeling suddenly cold inside. ‘If you can dig yourself out, the cutter lorry won’t be far behind. I’ve held you up enough as it is.’

  ‘It’s not that…The ticket will expire but I could change it for later.’

  ‘You get yourself off down that road. I’ll be fine,’ she said, not looking at him, knowing she was shocked by this sudden announcement but didn’t want to let him see it.

  ‘Are you sure? I just thought I ought…’

  ‘I understand; places to go, people to see. Don’t let me hold you back.’

  ‘If you can’t manage…’ His voice trailed away.

  ‘I managed before you came. Don’t look so worried. I’m so glad we sorted things out. You’ve earned your keep. I’ll look you out that snap.’

  He helped her muck out, both of them working in silence. Funny how she’d not expected him to jump ship so quickly. He must have got cabin fever, cooped up with her. She was used to her own company, but in the last weeks having Ben around was a godsend. She’d grown used to his quiet presence.

  He knew what to do without even being asked. Cragside was as much his farm as hers. They had both adopted it as children, or it had adopted them. The thought of him leaving everyone behind for good had never entered her head. Why did it feel like desertion?

  Later she packed him up cheese, oatcakes, a wrinkled apple and a wedge of sticky cake into his knapsack. Never let it be said that she didn’t know how to send a man off properly. ‘Mind and stick to the stone walls and the telegraph pole. Take the red hanky and if there’s anything waiting at the lane end hoist it up the pole. I can just see it from the top windows,’ she smiled.

  Now it was time for him to leave she felt awkward. She had put Sylvia’s photo in an old tortoiseshell frame and packaged it up with a few snaps of hay time and the family, one of Gran and Grandpa at the eclipse. Ben was standing, looking around, hovering and in her way.

  ‘I’ll be off then…Send you a postcard. I hope you understand why I must make tracks now,’ he muttered, picking up the rucksack, avoiding her gaze.

  She’d insisted that he wear sacking puttees round his trouser legs to stop the worst of the wet. She’d found another scarf to muffle him and a prodding stick, mended the tear in his old greatcoat. ‘Put this one on till you get to the lane end. You can leave it there and put on the better one for travelling. Dog and me’ll go with you to the first barn.’ She pointed, wrapping the sacking hood around the shoulders of her old coat, making a monk’s hood of it.

  The going was slippery at first. Even the dogs were skating. They clambered over frozen drifts like mountaineers. The sky was grey and the drizzle icy, a fine mist rolling over the high slopes ahead so that the whole panorama was a monochrome of grey and white, stone and slate, grass hidden under a silver sheen of snow.

  Together they dragged the sledge of fodder across to the first outbarn where the cows were bellowing.

  Why did she feel he was deserting his post? What if the snow returned and she was stranded? How would she manage alone? She had depended on his strength and knowledge. She wanted to cry, ‘Stay! Please don’t go,’ but said nothing, not wanting him to feel obliged and beholden.

  He lingered at the barn door, hovering again as if reluctant to move on.

  ‘On you go, I can manage…Keep in touch. No more wandering off the track; straight lines is best. I’ll tell Tom you drank his whisky,’ she yelled, trying to make light of it all but feeling sick at heart.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said, his eyes wide. ‘We’re a good team, you and me.’

  ‘Just get on that ship and send me a long letter from Wagga Wagga land. If I win the pools I might just come out and see you one of these days…Shove off, me laddo!’

  She wanted to run to him and hug him, plead with him to stay, but it would only embarrass him. She didn’t need a minder now. He could see she could look after herself. He wanted to go and she was too proud to beg. They were friends again and that was all that mattered: friends and nothing more.

  Ah well, one day she would laugh about his coming with Tom and Florrie round the fire. ‘There was me, poor Jill all alone in the blizzard, and who did I dig up but my long-lost cousin. Then he was off before I had time to wash his socks! That’s Yewells for you.’

  She watched as he plodded forward, his knees plunging into the snow. Now and then he stopped and waved and looked back to the safety of their snow house. He’d looked so guilty as he walked away with a faraway gaze in his eye. Her own eyes were smarting but it wasn’t the wind.

  His body was bent into the wind, his trousers bagged and his coat flapping; his outline fading into the landscape. She wanted to call out to him to come back but her lips were cracked and no sound came out of her throat. So that was that then?

  If he made it to the lane end and took it steady, he could walk on the wall tops like the postman. Ben knew the lie of the land. He had his snap and a hip flask of hot cocoa and brandy. There were icicles to suck like lollies, but whether there would be a train to catch was another matter. When he got to the crossroads there were plenty of places where folk would give him a bed.

  She’d done her bit and kept him safe. He in turn had helped her out and given her the courage to look at Sylvia’s face. That was what family was for, but there was something in his unexpected return that had taken her by surprise. His warmth had stirred up feelings, memories of what it was to be young and alive to the attraction of a handsome face. Auntie Florrie was right: ‘You should get out more. You allus were the bonny one. Why’ve you let yourself go? You’re only young the once.’

  She did her chores watching the sky for any change, any sign of the thaw. It was getting colder and the clouds were like lumps of lead. Once the wind blew in it would start all over again, and she hoped that Ben would be well on hs way down the valley by then.

  The weather might not be thawing but she had, she mused. She was not so frozen up and dead to feeling. Ben had given her back so
me hope, she thought as she made her way to the hen hut with the chicken feed. There might be a frozen egg if she was lucky.

  When she reached the netting she saw disaster had struck. There was a hole and a trail of blood and feathers. A bloody fox…She needed no soothsayer to know what she was going to find in there. With a sinking heart she stepped into the cage and gathered up the remains of her chickens. Only one sat shivering on the roost pole.

  The worst of it by far was the fact that there was no one back in the kitchen. No one to share this bad news. For the first time in weeks she needed a drink.

  There was one bottle she kept for old time’s sake down in the cellar on the top shelf. She went down every now and then to polish it, inspecting it and talking to it. It was good to know it was there. She knew she could go down those steps and help herself any time she chose to do so. It had felt the right thing to do to remind herself that temptation was round every door, but tonight it felt like a step too ambitious. She was frozen through and her corns were on fire. The house felt so empty.

  Mirren opened the cellar door, sniffing the air. She fingered the bottle and took it off the shelf, hugging it to her chest. You were my comfort in times past, my comfort in times to come, she thought. Your time has come…

  It was like old times on night exercises, yomping over the snow towards the lane end, but the usual landmarks were hidden by the drifts and hard to make out. One wrong turn and Ben was off track again. His reinforced leggings were hard to lift; he prodded his stick like a blind man testing the depth of drifts. It was slow and exhausting work but the day was still fresh, plenty of time, and yet each step was taking him away from Cragside and the woman whom he loved dearly; the girl who must face the rest of the snows alone.

  He prayed there was a supply of letters and supplies waiting at the lane end, that she could bring the horse down and the sled to collect provisions and news of her farm hands. He strained to hear the noise of wagons cutting through the deep tunnels that gathered on the road down towards civilisation, but there was none.