Christmas at Emmerdale

by Pamela Bell

  He hunched his shoulders and gazed morosely out over the valley. Grey, that was all he could think. Grey rain from grey clouds pressing down over grey hills divided by long grey stone walls. A grey village next to a grey river.

  How he missed the green of Ireland!

  At least Beckindale was better than Bradford. Levi hadn’t liked that at all. Bradford was hot and dirty and noisy. The sky was grimy with factory smoke which clung to the inside of your nose and the back of your throat. The streets were full of rattling vans and even cars, with their arrogant, tooting horns, and the sky was full of belching smoke. The people were friendly enough, but they spoke in a harsh accent that Levi could barely understand.

  He was horribly homesick for Ballybeg, but he couldn’t admit it. When he’d heard that his two elder brothers were heading for England to find work, he had stowed away to join them. It was the bravest thing Levi had ever done, but they had been dismayed when he had appeared after the ship had docked at Liverpool. He’d been a sickly child and their mother had coddled him until her death earlier that year, so Nat and Mick still thought of him as a child. But he was seventeen now and he wanted to be treated like a man.

  Levi had heard them talking about him in low voices.

  ‘What are we going to do with him?’

  ‘We can’t send him back to Ballybeg, not now. At least now he’s here we can keep an eye on him.’

  ‘I don’t need you to look after me,’ he protested but they both shook their heads.

  ‘But we do,’ said Nat. ‘We promised Mammy on her deathbed, didn’t we, Mick?’

  ‘We did. She made us swear we wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and it’s not easy, you have to admit, Levi. You’re a dreamer. You’d walk into a wall if we didn’t look out for you.’

  Nat had wanted to find work in one of the Bradford mills, but it was a hard time. There were plenty of local men hanging around on the streets, drawing dole money for half the week, eking out their beer and cigarettes. The Dingle brothers had managed to get a few days of work here and there but Levi hadn’t liked it. He hated the constant clatter of the machines, the grimy heat, the smell of people and wool, wool, wool. He missed working with the horses in the stables at the big house near Ballybeg, but having made such a fuss about getting to England, he couldn’t say so.

  They had arrived in Bradford just as the city was a-swirl with talk of war. Levi remembered the febrile atmosphere as they were caught up in a crowd around the newspaper office on 4th August. The British government had given Germany until eleven o’clock that night to withdraw from Belgium or it would declare war.

  The Dingles were Irish through and through and no lovers of British rule, but in the middle of that solid, seething mass of people, even Levi was caught up in the excitement. As the clock struck eleven, he found that he was holding his breath while they waited for the telegram that would be sent to the newspaper office.

  At last a great murmur rose from the front of the crowd and as the word spread back – It’s war! We are at war with Germany! – an exultant swell of cheering broke out, and somehow Levi and his brothers were throwing their caps in the air too, although afterwards he couldn’t have said exactly what he had been cheering for.

  ‘There you are!’ Mick clapped Levi on the shoulder and brought him back to the damp September afternoon. ‘Ready for an afternoon off?’ He put his head in the tent. ‘Nat, get out here!’ he shouted. ‘I’m told there’s a fine pub in Beckindale. I think we should go and introduce ourselves.’

  Having rousted out Nat, Mick led his brothers down the track towards the village. They passed a ramshackle farm, two of whose fields had been requisitioned for the training camp, but on this on murky afternoon there seemed to be no one about. Levi was just happy to get away from the camp for a while. There had been times during the endless drilling when he had wished that he had never enlisted. He had only done it because Mick had.

  Nat had been furious when Mick confessed.

  ‘Jesus, Mick, what were you thinking? We didn’t come all this way to fight for the English! We might as well have stayed in the bogs.’

  ‘Ah, come on, Nat,’ Mick had coaxed. ‘It’ll be a lark, and you know I could never resist one of those!’

  ‘What about that lass you’ve been seeing?’

  Mick’s face darkened at the memory. ‘She was only after giving me a white feather yesterday! Said I was a coward and she didn’t want to be seen with a man unless he was in khaki.’

  ‘So that’s it? You’ve joined up because of a silly girl?’

  ‘It’s not just that.’ Restlessly, Mick lit a cigarette. ‘You’ve seen all the posters. Your country needs you,’ he mimicked, pointing a finger at Nat in imitation of Lord Kitchener. ‘You must have heard about the German atrocities. When I think about what they did to those babies in Belgium, it turns my stomach! A man can’t just stand by and do nothing when that kind of thing is going on.’

  Levi had regarded his brother with admiration. ‘What did you have to do to join up?’

  ‘Ah, it was easy,’ said Mick. ‘A few questions, strip for a medical – there wasn’t much to that, just open and close your hands a couple of times – then all I had to do was take oath of allegiance in return for a shilling.’

  He tossed the shilling in the air and Levi watched it glinting in the light as it fell back into his palm.

  ‘Swearing allegiance to the English king stuck in my throat a bit, I’ll admit that,’ Mick said, ‘but you know I’m not cut out for steady work, Nat. I’d rather fight than spend all day in the mill. Besides, when I was in the queue at the recruiting office, I heard they give you three meals a day in the army, and a full uniform. I don’t mind doing a bit of fighting for that.’

  Nat hadn’t been convinced. His wife, Molly, was expecting a baby, and he had come to England precisely for some steady work. Well, there’ll be no stopping you now,’ he had sighed. ‘With all these men joining up, Levi and I should be able to pick up some more work here.’

  But Levi had no intention of staying safely in Bradford. If Mick was joining up, he would too. He knew better than to say anything to his brothers, though. They would only try to stop him.

  The next day he joined the queue outside the recruiting office. ‘Age?’ the recruiting officer barked when Levi finally stood in front of the desk.

  ‘Seventeen.’

  There was a pause, then a regretful shake of the head. ‘Too young. Next!’

  ‘But—’ Levi started to protest, only to be taken by the arm and propelled outside by a burly sergeant.

  ‘Clear off, son,’ he said sternly, but then he winked. ‘Come back tomorrow and see if you’re a couple of years older by then, eh?’

  So Levi firmly announced that he was nineteen when he went back. His medical was more thorough than Mick’s had sounded, but then it must have been obvious that Mick was fit and well. Standing naked in a line with other men, Levi was burningly conscious of his weedy physique, but he was passed and he beamed with relief as he swore the oath of allegiance and accepted his shilling in turn.

  Mick was furious when he heard what Levi had done, but there was no going back. And then, of course, Nat had to enlist too. ‘To keep an eye on you both,’ he grumbled. ‘I don’t know what Molly is going to say when she hears I’m fighting for the English King!’

  The Woolpack was a sturdy Yorkshire pub, all dark wood and the smell of spilled beer and cigarette smoke curling in the air.

  ‘Ah, heaven!’ said Mick, taking a deep breath with every appearance of delight. A group of older men with hard, weather-beaten faces and shrewd eyes stood at the end of the bar. Nodding at them, Mick stepped up with an easy smile and leant on the bar.

  ‘Three pints of your best, please, landlord.’

  The stout landlord grunted an acknowledgement and pulled the pints while eying the three of them distrustfully.

  ‘You from the training camp?’ came an abrupt question from the end of the bar.

&nbs
p; ‘We are indeed. We’re part of the proud contingent of Bradford Pals.’

  ‘You don’t sound like you’re from Bradford,’ growled one of the men, but Mick was unfazed.

  ‘Now, that’s very astute of you. We’re from Ireland, from Ballybeg, to be precise.’ He waved an arm at Nat and Levi who had taken a seat at a table in the corner. ‘The Dingle brothers at your service: Nathaniel, Michael and Levi.’

  ‘Bloody paddies,’ someone one muttered. ‘That’s all we bloody need. Them buggers from Bradford is bad enough.’

  ‘Least they’re doing their bit,’ a milder voice put in.

  ‘I’ve got no problem with them doing their bit at t’training camp, but putting on a bit of khaki don’t excuse thieving. I lost three hens last time them Pals had an afternoon off. Aye, and a spade. Tom’s missus, she reckoned they pinched a cheese and one of her pies. Ent that right, Tom?’

  There was a rumble of agreement.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Mick peaceably, ‘but this is our first visit to Beckindale and we’re just looking to enjoy a quiet pint here in your pub.’ He handed over some coins and carried the glasses over to the table where Nat and Levi sat.

  Levi saw one of the men standing at the bar turn to follow Mick with his eyes. ‘We know the Irish,’ he called after Mick. ‘They used to come and help with harvest. Worked hard enough but they’d steal as soon as look at yer. You paddies are no better than gyppos.’

  ‘Ignore them,’ said Nat in a low voice as Mick stiffened.

  Levi watched the men nervously at first, but Mick and Nat seemed to be able to shrug the hostility off. They were chatting easily about the family at home and the chances of specialist training, and as the strong beer hit him, Levi began to relax. He was feeling pleasantly fuzzy as he drained his glass.

  ‘Another round?’ he suggested.

  Nat regarded him with affectionate amusement. ‘I think you might have had enough, Levi. They make strong beer round here.’

  ‘I’ll have another.’ Mick tipped back his own glass and set it down on the table. ‘It’s our afternoon off, isn’t it? We’ve nothing to go back to but a tentful of smelly socks.’ He dug in his pocket for some coins. ‘You get them, Levi. I suspect I’ve worn out my welcome.’

  Levi fumbled the coins that Mick tossed at him, and nearly tripped over a stool as he got up. Burningly aware of his brothers exchanging looks, he went to the bar and ordered three more beers loudly, hoping that a show of confidence would make up for his clumsiness. The landlord had disappeared and been replaced by a plump blonde with an officious manner and a pursed mouth. She made a point of biting the coins he gave her to check that they were good.

  Levi’s mouth tightened as he gathered up the three glasses and turned, only to bump into one of men from the end of the bar who had crowded him deliberately and who now decided to take offence at the beer spilt over his shirt.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done.’ The man pushed at him and Levi fell back against bar, slopping more beer around.

  Over the man’s shoulder, Levi could see Mick get to his feet with a sigh. ‘Ah, Jesus …’

  ‘Henry Porter, you take any trouble out of here,’ snapped the landlady.

  ‘I’m not the one causing trouble, Ava.’ He shoved at Levi again, only to find himself spun round by Mick. When the good humour dropped from Mick’s face he looked dangerous.

  ‘That’s my little brother you’re pushing around there. If you want to fight, come outside and pick on someone your own size.’

  Henry was only too glad to oblige. To the landlady’s shrieks for her husband, they barrelled out into the street and started grappling, slipping and sliding on the damp cobbles. Nat and Levi tried to pull them apart but Henry’s friends soon weighed in and it turned into a nasty scrap. A fist hit Levi in the eye and he went down, seeing stars, just as a booming voice ordered them all to stop ‘at once!’

  From the ground, Levi blinked up to see a big man standing over them. The vicar, judging by his dog collar and the sheepish way the locals were dusting themselves down as he harangued them. ‘This behaviour is unacceptable. We are at war,’ he reminded them, ‘and we must all pull together. Henry Porter, get back to your work. And all of you! What are you doing in the pub at this time of day anyway?’

  But Levi had stopped listening. He had caught sight of a girl standing behind the vicar and for a moment he wondered if he had died and gone to heaven, because surely this was what an angel looked like. She was standing under an umbrella, the fingers of one hand pressed to her mouth in what might have been shock but could also have been an attempt to suppress a smile. She had golden hair, dewy skin and huge, mischievous brown eyes and Levi thought she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  Levi saw Mick risk a wink at her while her father ordered the local men away with a sternly pointing finger. She coloured and looked away, but not before a smile had trembled on her perfect lips.

  Mick rearranged his expression to look repentant just in time. ‘And as for you men,’ the vicar said, turning to the Dingle brothers with a scowl. ‘You’re a disgrace to your uniform! You are supposed to be training in discipline, not drunken brawls.’

  ‘But—’

  He flung up a hand. ‘I do not wish to hear any excuses. I will not have my daughter exposed to this kind of behaviour in the open street. I will have a word with your commanding officer if these incidents do not stop. We wish to do everything we can to support the troops, of course, but we must preserve standards in Beckindale, too. Now get on with you,’ he said, dismissing them. He offered an arm to the angel. ‘Come along, Rose. I’m very sorry you had to witness such a disgusting scene.’

  ‘Pompous old fart,’ muttered Mick as Nat helped Levi to his feet. ‘He should try cleaning out the latrines at the camp if he wants disgusting! But did you see his daughter now?’ He kissed his fingers. ‘Pretty as a picture!’

  ‘Rose,’ said Levi, looking after her dreamily. ‘Her name is Rose.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Dot heartily approved of Joe’s decision to sign up but was appalled to learn that Maggie intended to run Emmerdale Farm by herself.

  ‘You? Run t’farm? You’ll never do it! You can’t!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re a woman,’ said Dot as if that was explanation enough. ‘It’s not fitting. You’re not strong enough, and you don’t know anything about farming.’

  Maggie put up her chin. ‘I can learn,’ she said, but Dot only shook her head.

  ‘You should let a proper farmer take Emmerdale off your hands. Tom Skilbeck would be glad to help you out.’

  ‘I dare say he would,’ said Maggie, ‘but I’ve no intention of handing this farm over to him.’

  ‘You won’t have any choice,’ Dot predicted. ‘It were hard enough running it when Mr Sugden had George, but now there’s nobody. You’re on your own.’

  ‘I’ve got Frank.’

  ‘Frank?’ scoffed Dot. ‘If you’re relying on Frank, you’re really in trouble!’

  ‘We’ll see, won’t we?’ said Maggie.

  In spite of her show of confidence, she was overwhelmed by the enormity of the task she had taken on. She would never admit as much to Dot, but she had no idea how she would manage. That night she sat at the kitchen table with her head in her hands. There were fields to be ploughed, crops to be sown, walls to be repaired and fences mended. There were cattle to be fed, calves to be castrated, cows to be milked. The sheep would need to be brought down from fells at some point, to be tupped and sheared and lambed.

  Frank was only a boy, but he was strong. He had come in for supper, obviously puzzled by the changes that had been taking place. Maggie explained again, slowly and clearly.

  ‘You remember George?

  He nodded.

  ‘Where’s he gone?’

  ‘To war,’ said Frank after a moment and Maggie felt like cheering. She thought they might have been the first words he’d ever said to her.


  ‘That’s right. George has gone to war. And now Joe – Mr Sugden – he’s gone to war too.’

  Frank didn’t say anything but Maggie thought she saw a flicker of relief in his expression. For a gentle boy like Frank, Joe’s surliness and outbursts of temper must have been frightening.

  ‘And Toby?’ he said after a moment

  ‘Toby?’

  ‘Toby’s gone too.’

  She hadn’t thought he’d noticed. ‘Yes, Toby’s gone too,’ she said, her heart twisting as it always did when she remembered her faithful little dog. She drew a breath. ‘So it’s just you and me and Dot,’ she went on. ‘You’re the man now, Frank. We’re relying on you.’

  Frank didn’t say any more, but he puffed up a little, and the next day when she asked him to show her how to harness Blossom to the plough, he did it slowly but competently. Maggie walked beside him as he led the great horse out to the field where they grew winter oats.

  ‘You and Blossom plough this field,’ she told him when they got there. ‘Can you do that?’

  Frank nodded.

  ‘Off you go then.’

  Maggie stood and watched for a while as he took the long reins in his hands and guided Blossom up and down the field, the plough tearing up the earth behind her. Perhaps it wasn’t as neatly ploughed as some fields, Maggie thought, but it would do the job.

  Satisfied, she pulled he shawl closer around her shoulders. Frank was occupied and Dot had been left, grumbling, in charge of the farmhouse. The next step was to get some advice and Maggie knew where to get it.

  Nobody knew how old Elijah Aske was now. He had been a shepherd since Joe’s grandfather had first taken him on as a young lad and there was nothing he didn’t know about sheep or the hills that rose behind Emmerdale Farm. Joe resented him for it and cursed whenever Elijah’s name was mentioned, but Maggie admired the old man’s dignity. He kept himself to himself and seemed content to live alone in an isolated cottage below the moor but he accepted the occasional boiled pudding or cheese that she took up to him.