Christmas at Emmerdale

by Pamela Bell

  At last her chance came. Dot brought news of a parade in Beckindale for the new recruits who would be leaving for training or, in the case of those like John Haywood who had been part of an officer training corps at their public school, straight for the front. Dot begged for the day off so that she could watch the parade and support the troops.

  ‘Why not?’ said Joe in an unexpected burst of geniality. He had been in a good mood since that terrible night when he had killed Toby. When he had nearly killed her. Maggie could see it in his eyes. He had enjoyed having her helpless and sobbing at his feet. It made him feel like a man at last. He looked at her now with a kind of gloating triumph, a conviction that he had mastered her at last. He thought that he had beaten her into submission.

  He was wrong.

  ‘We’ll all go,’ he said to Dot. ‘Give George a proper send off, eh? Not you,’ he added to Maggie. ‘You’re staying here. I’m not having you sniffing around for Ralph Verney.’

  Maggie lowered her eyes as Dot smothered a smile. She said nothing, but hatred of her husband settled hard and cold in her belly.

  On the morning of the parade, she made sure to hobble as she went to open the gate. To Joe, climbing into the trap next to Frank, it must surely look as if she was incapable of going anywhere. Frank took up the reins, clicking his tongue to get Blossom going, and Maggie smiled up at him as the trap rolled past her.

  ‘Enjoy the parade, Frank.’

  Frank’s expression when, battered and bruised, she first made it down the stairs to the kitchen for a meal had been one of horrified confusion. Nobody had bothered to explain the situation to him, and she imagined he thought of her as a wounded animal, which, after all, was how she had felt. He was the only one at Emmerdale Farm she cared to say goodbye to, and although he darted her a baffled look and a quick nod of response, she could tell that he didn’t understand why she wasn’t going with them.

  She took the photo of her father and Andrew in its frame but otherwise only what she stood up in: her Sunday skirt, a jacket, a sensible hat and sturdy boots. There was nothing of hers at Emmerdale Farm, she had realised when she looked around the kitchen for the last time. There had been her father and there had been Toby, and they were both gone. There was nothing to keep her here now.

  She was still stiff and sore, but it felt good to be walking away. Her heart lightened with every step that took her from Emmerdale Farm and she rejoiced as she marked off each staging point. The last time she wrestled with the wretched gate. The last time she made her way round that muddy patch in the track. The last time she turned into the lane and passed the Warcups’ cottage with its pretty garden.

  Newly married Polly Warcup was sweeping the door step. She looked up as Maggie paused, but her smile of greeting faded as she took in the ugly bruises, and she turned away and went inside.

  The last time she would be slighted by a neighbour, Maggie told herself. She didn’t care.

  Soon she would be with Ralph. It didn’t matter what Lady Miffield had to say. Ralph loved her. He had promised to take her away and she would go with her head up. She would not be ashamed of leaving a man like Joe.

  Her steps didn’t even falter when she turned up the avenue that led to Miffield Hall. Walking boldly up to the front entrance, she rang the bell. She could hear it clanging and echoing in the entrance hall and she put up her chin. When the butler opened the door, she refused to look embarrassed although she could read in his eyes his shock and disgust at the remnants of the bruises on her face.

  ‘I’m here to see Mr Verney,’ she said as coolly as she could.

  ‘Mr Verney is no longer is residence,’ said the butler, unable to conceal his satisfaction at disappointing her.

  Not there? How could Ralph not be there? ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Maggie without thinking and dislike flashed across his face.

  ‘I can assure you, madam, that it is true,’ he said, his voice dripping with contempt. ‘Mr Verney has enlisted in the army and is part of the patriotic contingent leaving Beckindale today.’

  Maggie stared at him, aghast. Ralph had enlisted? Dear God, what had she done? She had told him so firmly that she would not leave Joe. He must have thought there was nothing else to do, but enlisting? He could be killed! Why, why, why hadn’t he waited?

  But how could he have known that she had changed her mind? She had been a virtual prisoner and there had been no way to get word to him. It was not Ralph’s fault, Maggie realised as her thoughts chased each other in frantic circles. It was hers for believing that her promise to Joe was worth more than her happiness.

  She had to talk to Ralph, to show him what a terrible mistake she had made and persuade him to change his mind.

  Swallowing her pride, she made herself smile at the butler. ‘Please … I must see Ralph. If you could just tell him I’m here—’

  ‘Mr Verney has already taken farewell of his family,’ he interrupted her. ‘I understand that he will not be returning until the war is over, so I am unable to take a message. Good day to you.’

  And he shut the door in Maggie’s face.

  Overwhelmed with hopelessness, Maggie stared dully at the great brass knocker. She had left her escape too late.

  This cursed war! She had forgotten about it while she lay muffled in a red mass of pain. It had never occurred to her that Ralph would sign up. He was too warm, too charming, too passionate to be a soldier.

  And now he would have to fight and he might die, and it would be all her fault.

  Chapter Eight

  Rose had never seen Beckindale in such a festive mood. The shops along the main street were festooned with bunting, and a brass band playing in the little square added to the jollity of the scene. Reg Webster had acquired a box of paper Union Jacks on sticks for the village shop and those who had been lucky enough to buy one guarded it jealously and brandished it whenever anyone in uniform appeared.

  The atmosphere since the declaration of war had been a strange mixture of tension and excitement. In a burst of patriotic fervour, much encouraged by her father’s sermons and a stirring speech from Lord Miffield, no less than ten Beckindale men had signed up to fight with the recruiting sergeant who had come out to the village. Today they were on parade before departing for a training camp or straight to France where the first British Expeditionary Force was already fighting the Germans in Belgium.

  Rose had allowed herself to be swept up in the feverish atmosphere and she was not the only one. It felt as if everyone in Beckindale and the surrounding area was crowded into the main street. Percy Bainbridge had opened the Woolpack early and was offering free drinks to anyone in uniform, while Ava had found herself a prime spot to view all the activity from the upstairs window of the pub. Her stepchildren were running up and down the street, wildly excited like all the other village children.

  Brusque Janet Airey had her lips pressed firmly together and was scowling ferociously to stop herself crying as she said goodbye to her gangly son, Jim. Alfred Porter’s mother, Betty, clung to his hand, and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. George Kirkby was strutting up and down looking pleased with himself. Rose had seen him take a passionate farewell of at least three different girls none of whom, she suspected, would have looked twice at him when he was just a labourer at Emmerdale Farm.

  There was young Bert Clark, the cheeky butcher’s boy more usually seen whistling on his bicycle in his striped apron, grinning self-consciously in his new uniform. Big Billy Hutton, the farrier’s son, stood beside him. His father, Will, had shaken his hand and turned away, his expression grim. Even Joe Sugden was there, looking oddly pleased with himself, with slow-witted Frank Pickles looming beside him.

  Rose couldn’t see any sign of Maggie.

  But everyone else was there and between the shouting children and the oom-pah-pah of the band and the babble of conversation, Rose was struggling to hear what John was saying. Now that the time had come to say goodbye, there was a terrible tightness around her throat. Dear John
, with his finely chiselled features and sensitive mouth. Only two weeks ago he had been a Classics student at Oxford. Now he was Lieutenant John Haywood, with stripes on his sleeve to prove it.

  Beside Rose, her mother’s face was fixed in a smiling mask, but Rose knew how desperately sad she felt. Only the day before, she had found her weeping.

  ‘Mama! Whatever is the matter?’

  Edith dabbed hastily at her eyes, embarrassed. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘It must be something,’ Rose protested. She had never seen her mother cry before. Edith Haywood was muted compared to her charismatic husband, but she was always so steady and sensible that seeing her break down made Rose feel as if a pillar of her world had crumbled without warning.

  ‘Is it the war?’

  ‘Of course it’s the war,’ sighed Edith. ‘Everything is the war now! It is like a great bird, a kestrel or a buzzard, circling high above us. And it feels far away but then you look up and you know it’s still there, waiting to strike. John will be there, right beneath it. I wish, oh, how I wish he hadn’t enlisted!’

  ‘But we’re all so proud of him,’ Rose protested. ‘Papa says it’s a matter of honour.’

  ‘What does your papa know of war?’ Edith said bitterly without thinking. ‘It is all very well to talk of honour from the safety of the pulpit. It is not your father who will be fighting the Germans.’ She brushed angrily at the traces of tears on her cheeks. ‘What is honourable about men killing each other?’

  Rose must have looked shocked because she broke off. ‘Forgive me, my dear,’ she said after a moment. ‘I do not wish to criticise your papa. He is right of course. We must fight to protect the Empire. I just wish that John didn’t have to go,’ she finished brokenly.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be safe, Mama.’ Rose put an arm around her mother’s shoulders. ‘And he won’t be on his own. He’ll have Robert as his batman.’

  Robert Carr, a clever boy who used to work with Mr Bates, the newsagent, had enlisted at the same time as John, and was now a private. Rose liked the idea that John would have someone nearby to remind him of home but her mother only gave her an odd look.

  ‘I think it’ll take more than Robert Carr to keep John safe,’ she had said.

  Rose wasn’t sure what to think now. She had been moved by the outpouring of patriotism she read about in the newspapers, the proud certainty that the people of Britain would do their duty. Even in Beckindale there was a sense that they were all part of a great undertaking and when Rose thought about her brother enlisting without hesitation she thought her heart would burst with pride. It was impossible not to be stirred by her father’s sermons too, the fervour in his face as he banged the pulpit and charged them all to do their duty and support the war effort.

  But when she thought about saying goodbye to John, to Ralph, when she looked at all the young men on parade who were marching so bravely off to war and might not come back, Rose was conscious of a hard lump in her chest. Who could fail to be moved by their courage, or by the cheers and smiles of the crowd who had turned out to support them?

  It was marvellous to see them now, standing straight and proud in their uniforms, lining up under the critical eye of a fierce-looking sergeant-major. Bert Clark, George Kirkby, Billy Hutton … so many boys suddenly transformed into young men.

  And then there was Ralph.

  Captain Verney now. Rose had said goodbye to him at Miffield Hall the day before. Her heart had tripped when she saw him, the way it always did, but that flutter of excitement had died, flattened by the knowledge that she could never compete with Maggie Sugden. Ralph had been charming as usual, and he had kissed her cheek when they said goodbye, but there had been a remoteness in his eyes, an unreachability that had told Rose to give up hope at last.

  Watching him now, Rose touched her cheek where his lips had brushed her skin. There had been warmth in his kiss, even affection, but no passion. He had said his farewells privately and stood alone, his eyes scanning the crowd.

  He was looking for Maggie.

  How could Maggie not have come to say goodbye somehow? Rose wondered.

  ‘I must go.’ John drew her attention back by bumping a fist lightly against her shoulder. ‘Goodbye, sis.’

  ‘Oh, John …’ Face crumpling, ashamed of herself for wasting time thinking about Ralph in these last few minutes with her brother, Rose threw herself into his arms, unable to stop the tears. ‘Oh, John, I will miss you so! Please, please be careful.’

  His arms closed around her in a brief, hard hug. ‘I’ll miss you too. Look after Mother for me,’ he murmured against her hair as he released her.

  Rose nodded, knuckling the tears from under her eyes. ‘I will,’ she promised. ‘I’m sorry for crying, too. I really meant not to!’

  ‘It’s hard saying goodbye, but it won’t be for long,’ John said with forced cheer. ‘Everyone’s saying the war will be over by Christmas, so I’ll be home before you know it.’

  Now Papa was wringing John’s hand in farewell. Arthur punched him enviously on the arm. Edith stepped forward last and laid her cheek against her son’s, her eyes squeezed shut as she held him tight one last time. ‘Goodbye, my dear,’ was all she said.

  She watched dry-eyed as John marched over to join Ralph.

  Someone started singing God Save the King. The anthem spread through the crowd and the flags fluttered in a blur of red, white and blue as the contingent set off proudly. Small boys ran shouting beside them. Some of the mothers were looking anxious and trying to smile through their tears, but the younger women were starry-eyed and Rose saw last-minute kisses being blown. She tucked her hand into her mother’s arm, but Edith was standing rigidly, her face white and set, and she didn’t seem to notice Rose’s attempt to comfort her.

  Her father was beaming and telling everyone what a good show it was. Rose saw her mother turn her head to look at him, and the look she gave him was so contemptuous that Rose drew back her hand, shocked by the unwitting glimpse into her parents’ marriage. Edith didn’t even notice.

  ‘I’m going to cut through the back, see if I can catch them before they get to the bridge,’ she said and before her father could stop her, she picked up her skirts and ran off.

  She was breathless when she reached the bridge, where she soon realised that she was not the only one with the same idea. Some of boys who were too young to join up were clustered on the little knoll by the bridge, together with a few girls anxious for a last glimpse of their sweetheart.

  And Maggie Sugden.

  She looked ghastly, was Rose’s first thought. Her face was swollen and marked with yellowing bruises. She was holding herself stiffly, a hand pressed to her side as if it pained her, and her desperate expression relaxed only at the sound of marching feet. She hadn’t noticed Rose. She was peering at the advancing troops and her face cleared magically as she spotted Ralph at the front. ‘Ralph!’ She waved frantically. ‘Ralph!’

  Everyone on the knoll was calling out, cheering, whistling and blowing kisses. Rose saw John glanced sideways with a grin at all the commotion, and she waved at him, but she was watching Ralph beside him. She saw the moment he heard Maggie’s voice and spotted her, saw the remoteness in his face wiped out by a blaze of expression that made her heart jerk with envy.

  An answering smile bloomed on Maggie’s face and she looked suddenly beautiful as she cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘I love you,’ she yelled, and he waved his cap at her to show that he had heard, but the troops were marching behind him and he had to keep moving.

  For a few minutes the air was full of the tramp of boots, and then they were marching out of sight around the bend and the noise receded into silence. Some blackbirds were squabbling in a hawthorn and a sheep bleated forlornly from the fell, but otherwise there was silence.

  The boys drifted off, and the girls trailed disconsolately after them, pressing handkerchiefs against their eyes. Maggie had stood watching the lane long after the last of the troops had disappeared but
now she turned, the eagerness draining out of her, and saw Rose at last just as she caught her breath at a stab of pain, staggered and had to grab onto the wall.

  Rose rushed forward to help her upright. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I … it’s just … I had to hurry,’ said Maggie, her voice tight with pain. ‘I thought I was going to miss him.’

  Rose didn’t need to ask who ‘he’ was. ‘Here, sit down.’ She helped Maggie over to a boulder and sat down next to her.

  ‘Thank you.’ Maggie’s hand was still pressed to her side and she winced.

  ‘What happened?’

  Maggie turned stiffly so that Rose could see the ugly bruises on her cheek, the scab on her forehead, the still swollen lip where a cut had just healed. ‘What do you think happened?

  Rose flushed and looked away from the brutal evidence of a beating. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘He killed my dog.’

  ‘What?’ Rose’s hand crept to her mouth in horror. She remembered the bright-eyed little terrier that had accompanied Maggie everywhere.

  ‘Joe,’ Maggie said in a flat voice. ‘He killed my dog before he nearly beat me to death. I was leaving him this morning,’ she went on. ‘I went to Miffield Hall to find Ralph. I was going to tell him that I would go away with him wherever he wanted but he’d gone. I only just made it here to see him, to say goodbye. And now I don’t know what to do,’ she said as if the words had been forced out of her against her will. ‘I don’t want to go back to Emmerdale Farm. I can’t.’

  Rose looked down at her hands. ‘I used to envy you, you know,’ she said abruptly, and Maggie was surprised into a laugh that turned into a grimace at the jab from her cracked ribs.

  ‘You envied me?’

  ‘I know. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? But Ralph never once looked at me the way he looked at you.’