Christmas at Emmerdale

by Pamela Bell

  ‘The conchie’s found Ava!’ Some of the watchers darted towards her to take her from the stumbling man, while others practically carried him to a safer area away from the spitting flames where he pitched forwards and Rose lost sight of him.

  ‘Is he all right?’ she asked her neighbours but they couldn’t see properly either. The question was passed to the front of the crowd, and the message came back that he was choking fit to burst and his hands were badly burnt, but that he was alive.

  ‘Thank goodness for that!’ Rose said to her mother.

  ‘And Ava?’ Edith asked.

  At first it was thought that Ava had been rescued in time too, and the news that nobody had been badly hurt was greeted with relief and even calls for a celebration. A few watchers even began to drift away, thinking that the drama was over. But then a different, grimmer rumour began to circulate. The conscientious objector had risked his life to save Ava, but he had been too late. She was dead.

  The crowd fell silent as it absorbed the news. They had become used to hearing of deaths on the front, but here in Beckindale, so suddenly and so terrifyingly, so immediate, to learn of Ava’s death was profoundly shocking.

  Rose looked around the familiar faces. For all their differences, the people of Beckindale were united in their distress. Everyone looked appalled. It was somehow moving to see how neighbours turned to comfort each other, she thought. She was gripping Edith’s hand as they waited for Charles to make his way through to them, his face grim after talking to Percy Bainbridge.

  Only one face wore a different expression.

  Rose hadn’t seen Levi at first but as she looked for her father she saw him at the side of the crowd. He was watching the fire and in the reflected light of the flames, it looked almost as if he was gloating. Rose’s heart seemed to stop as she remembered with ghastly clarity what he had said when she told him about the letter Ava had found.

  Just leave that to me, Rose. I’ll make sure that cow never bothers you again.

  Horror rippled through her. Oh, dear God, Levi, she thought. Dear God, what have you done?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It was another week before Maggie made it back to the village. The night of the fire remained a nightmare memory of thick black smoke, of the thunderous spit and crackle of the flames, of Ava lying crumpled on the ground and Hugo pitching forward into the darkness.

  Dr Barker had examined him and dressed his burns. ‘Keep him in bed,’ he told Maggie. ‘He’s inhaled a lot of smoke and we don’t want inflammation of the lungs.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Hugo wheezed. ‘I can’t stay in bed. The cows still have to be milked and—’

  ‘You’ll do as the doctor says,’ said Maggie, whose intense relief that Hugo was alive had given way to fury that he had risked his life that way. ‘I’m perfectly capable of milking the cows.’

  ‘In your condition?’

  Dr Barker put an end to the argument. ‘Neither of you should be milking. You’ll have to get someone to help for a few days.’

  ‘No one will come to Emmerdale Farm,’ said Maggie, defeated, but the doctor just said ‘Nonsense!’ and sure enough, when Hugo climbed painfully into the trap, Janet Airey came over with one of her sons, a lean beanpole of a boy of about fourteen.

  ‘I’ll send my Fred up first thing tomorrow,’ she said to Maggie. ‘He’s not good for much, but he knows one end of a cow from t’other. He’ll milk them and see whatever else needs seeing to until your man’s up and about again.’

  So Fred Airey trudged up from Beckindale through the snow to milk the cows and lug feed out to the sheep while Hugo lay in the cupboard bed underneath the stairs and fretted about his uselessness.

  ‘That’ll teach you to run into burning buildings,’ Maggie said but she watched him anxiously for signs of the infection the doctor had warned about.

  ‘I had to,’ said Hugo. ‘I kept thinking of Anne and Joshua and how I hadn’t been able to save them.’

  ‘I know,’ Maggie said more gently. ‘Just don’t do it again, all right?’

  It was as if that moment at the kitchen door had never happened. Maggie thought of it sometimes, of that alarming tingle of awareness, that moment when she had been sure that he wanted to kiss her, but could reassure herself now that she had imagined it.

  What had she been thinking anyway? She needed to focus on her baby now. The whole idea of being attracted to him was absurd. Hugo was nothing like Ralph. He was just an ordinary man, obviously still in love with his dead wife and grieving for her and their son. And even if he hadn’t been, what interest would he have in a woman nearly eight months pregnant with another man’s child?

  Of course she was worried about him, but only because she needed his help and she couldn’t afford to have him sick on her hands.

  Hugo tolerated three days in bed and then insisted on getting up again. Maggie accepted the inevitable and sent Fred Airey back to his mother with thanks for his help and slowly life settled back to a kind of normality. Hugo promised not to overdo things, and after a week of watching him with a hawk eye, Maggie decided that she could safely leave him and took the trap into Beckindale to replenish her depleted store cupboard.

  A thaw had set in two days earlier and the snow had vanished as rapidly as it had come. The top of the fells were still white, and a few patches of snow lurked along the dry-stone walls but elsewhere the dale was a patchwork of green and brown once more. The bare trees dripped onto the lane as Maggie drove the trap into the village and tied Blossom up outside the village store.

  Drawing a deep breath, she pushed open the door and heard the bell jangle over her head as it always did as she was met by the familiar smell of dried fruit and spices. The shelves were emptier than they had used to be, she thought. Tinned fruit was still stacked in pyramids on the shelf next to the treacle and packets of biscuits, but they were more widely spaced. On the top shelf stood big glass jars of sugar and flour, raisins and sultanas, dried peas and nuts, oatmeal and bicarbonate of soda. Once the Websters had made it a point of pride to keep the jars topped up, but now some were almost empty.

  The shop seemed to be full of women who turned as one to look at Maggie, and the conversation paused as it always seemed to when she appeared. Mindful of her promise to Hugo that she would make an effort, she clutched her basket and smiled stiffly.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said.

  She half expected to be ignored as usual, but Mary Ann Teale stepped forward. ‘Good morning, Mrs Sugden.’ She hesitated. ‘How does Mr Dawson do?’

  Maggie was taken aback by the question. Weren’t these the women who had refused to buy her cheeses knowing that she employed Hugo at Emmerdale Farm? ‘He’s much better, thank you,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘We heard he was in a bad way.’

  ‘The doctor worried about inflammation of the lungs after he inhaled so much smoke and he did have a very sore throat for a while. He still has nasty burns on his hands,’ Maggie said as Mary Ann’s interest seemed genuine, ‘but he won’t accept being an invalid.’ She smiled at Janet Airey who had come into the shop behind her. ‘He would only let Fred help for three days before he insisted that he could manage without any help.’

  ‘That’s men for you,’ said Mary Ann and there was a murmur of agreement from the other women in the shop. ‘Bone-headed! Still claiming it’s nothing when they can hardly stand.’

  Janet snorted. ‘Or the opposite. If my Dick gets a sniffle, he will have it it’s pneumonia.’

  ‘Reg is the same,’ confided Gladys Webster from behind the counter. ‘Makes a terrible fuss about a scratch. I’d like him to try having a baby!’

  The women laughed comfortably.

  ‘And you, Mrs Sugden? How are you keeping?’ asked Joan Carr with a significant look at the bulge under Maggie’s coat.

  Maggie’s first impulse was to put her chin up and say that she was perfectly well, but she glanced at Polly Warcup, the youngest member of group, who was sitting on one of the
chairs by the counter and looking as if she could give birth at any moment. Why pretend that she wasn’t like everyone else?

  ‘I get tired,’ she admitted. ‘And my back aches.’

  ‘Mine too,’ said Polly with feeling.

  ‘When is your baby due?’

  ‘The end of December.’

  ‘You’re a month ahead of me then.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to see my feet again,’ Polly confided, and Maggie smiled at her.

  ‘I know what you mean!’

  There was a pause when the older women looked at each other, seeming to nominate Mary Ann Teale as their spokeswoman by some mysterious unspoken means. ‘Mrs Sugden,’ she began, but Maggie interrupted her.

  ‘Please, won’t you call me Maggie?’

  Mary Ann inclined her head graciously. ‘Maggie, then. I think I speak for all of us when I say I’m right sorry about the way we treated you when we heard you had a conscientious objector to work at Emmerdale Farm. Those of us with boys at the front, well, it felt as if Mr Dawson must be a coward not to go with them. But we all saw how he rushed into the fire without a thought for himself and we can see now that whatever else he may be, he’s not a coward.’

  ‘No, he’s not.’

  ‘You neither,’ Janet added. ‘I wouldn’t have had the nerve to go into those flames, and that’s a fact. You’re a heroine.’ The others nodded.

  Maggie shifted her basket uncomfortably. ‘How is Iris Bainbridge?’

  ‘She’s bounced back. You know what bairns are like. You’d never think she nearly died a week ago!’

  ‘I’m glad. What has happened to the family? There was nothing left of the Woolpack.’ Maggie shuddered at the memory.

  ‘Didn’t Fred tell you? I’ve taken the three of them to live with me for now.’

  Fred had hardly said a word so it was news to Maggie. ‘No, he didn’t say.’ The Aireys had five sons and their cottage was hardly large. ‘Where have you put them all?’

  ‘Oh, they’ve squeezed in. Jack’s off to war now and Jim’s still in hospital, so we’ve got a bit of room.’

  ‘I heard Jim had been injured,’ Maggie said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Janet sighed. ‘Aye, he lost a leg. He were always such a lively lad, it’s going to be hard for him, but there, he’s alive. We have to be grateful for that.’ She glanced at Betty Foster who had no such comfort. ‘I’ll be glad to get Jim home, though.’

  ‘What about Mr Bainbridge?’

  ‘Margaret Burrows has given him a room next door.’

  Hugo had been right. These women were not all like Ava, Maggie realised. They had their own troubles, but in a crisis, they had rallied around to help their neighbours. She felt ashamed of how easily she had assumed that Ava spoke for them all.

  ‘Will he rebuild the Woolpack?’

  Janet pulled a face. ‘I don’t reckon he’s got the heart for it now. His brother’s got a pub in Leeds. He’s talking of taking the children there next year.’

  ‘Poor mites,’ said Maggie. ‘It’ll be a sad Christmas for them.’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Janet. ‘But between you and me, I don’t think they’ll miss Ava overmuch. She wasn’t exactly the motherly type, God rest her soul.’

  ‘It’ll be a sad Christmas for all of us with this blasted war going on,’ said Mary Ann.

  ‘It’s been a sad year,’ Maggie agreed. She hesitated, remembering what Hugo had said about making an effort to belong. ‘I wonder …’

  ‘Yes?’ Janet prompted when she trailed off.

  ‘Well, I was just thinking, it’s Christmas in a couple of weeks. What if we had a party for all the children? For everyone, even? To cheer us all up. We could all bring something to eat and drink, and perhaps we could play some games.’

  The women looked at each other. ‘That’s an idea,’ said Betty. ‘None of us has much but we could all provide something.’

  ‘I’m not much of a cook,’ Maggie confessed, ‘but I could bring some butter and cheese and try my hand at a cake.’

  ‘I’m sure I could spare a jar of jam,’ said Polly, brightening.

  ‘I’ve got a ham I was keeping for Christmas, but we might as well share it.’

  There was a buzz of conversation as everyone discussed what they could contribute and when the party should be.

  ‘We could use the village hall,’ Betty Porter suggested, and Polly clapped her hands.

  ‘And we could have a Christmas tree!’

  ‘I wonder if Lord Miffield would let us take one from his woods?’

  ‘He’s in London.’

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Haywood would write to him for us.’ Pleased at the enthusiastic reception to her casual idea, Maggie was growing in confidence. ‘I’ll ask her. And we could invite any of the wounded soldiers who can get to the village too,’ she went on. ‘Rose Haywood spends a lot of time at the hospital. She might know what they’d like. We can’t make Christmas for our own menfolk,’ she said, ‘but we could do something for them.’

  The women nodded their approval. ‘That’s a fine idea of yours, Maggie,’ said Mary Ann. ‘You ask Mrs Haywood to find out about the tree and mebbe Miss Haywood can invite those as can come from the hospital. The rest of us’ll spread the word in t’village. Now, was you wanting summat in from Gladys here? You may as well take the weight off your feet while you’re at it.’ She gestured Maggie towards the free chair by the counter.

  ‘Oh, but you were all here first …’

  ‘You go ahead,’ Mary Ann urged her. ‘It’s the least we can do after you brought little Iris out of the fire.’

  So Maggie sat on the chair while Gladys Webster measured out flour and sugar and fetched a tin of treacle from the shelf for the shelf. She rang up all the items on the till and packed Maggie’s basket for her as if she were an invalid. ‘There you go, Maggie,’ she said when she had finished.

  Betty stepped forward to help Maggie up from the chair and Mary Ann carried her basket out to the trap. ‘You can’t be too careful at this stage,’ she said, patting Maggie’s bump.

  It was a strange to feel accepted. Maggie was so used to feeling an outsider that she knew she must be coming across as stiff and self-conscious, but when Betty and Mary Ann waved goodbye and smiled, warmth unspooled inside and she smiled back.

  Edith Haywood congratulated her on the idea of holding a party and promised to write to Lord Miffield about a tree that afternoon. ‘I can’t see why he’d say no. And Rose can speak to someone at the hospital about inviting the men, can’t you, Rose? Rose?’ she added when Rose didn’t reply. She was staring distractedly out of the window but at her mother’s prodding, she started and promised to speak to the matron about the party.

  ‘Are you quite well?’ Maggie asked when Rose accompanied her out to the trap. ‘You don’t seem yourself.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Rose said. ‘It’s just been such a horrible time. I can’t believe that Ava Bainbridge is dead. I feel sick every time I think about it.’ She hesitated. ‘How did the fire start, do you know?’

  Maggie shook her head. ‘I haven’t heard anything. It’s a terrible thing. It’s common knowledge that Ava and I didn’t get on, but I wouldn’t have wished her dead, and especially not like that.’

  ‘No,’ Rose agreed with a shudder. ‘I never wanted her dead.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘Are you sure you won’t come?’ Maggie wound a scarf around her neck and buttoned her coat. Her own coat wouldn’t reach over her stomach now, so she was wearing Joe’s old one over her warmest woollen skirt and sturdy boots. It was Christmas Eve and it was snowing again. It would be a cold walk down to Beckindale.

  Hugo shook his head. ‘This is something you need to do by yourself, Maggie,’ he said.

  He had been pleased when Maggie told him about the party. ‘You see? It wasn’t that hard to make them like you.’

  ‘I’d rather you hadn’t had to nearly die in a fire for it to happen,’ Maggie had with some of her old tartness. ‘Look
at the state of your hands!’

  He looked down at his hands, where the skin was shiny and red. ‘These will heal eventually,’ he had said. ‘Loneliness doesn’t.’

  ‘I wish you’d come,’ she said now. ‘Everybody’s going except you. They would all make you welcome, Hugo. Nobody thinks you’re a coward any more.’

  ‘I’m thinking about the soldiers you’ve invited from the hospital,’ said Hugo. ‘Those men have been terribly injured. The last person they would want to meet is a hale and hearty conscientious objector.’

  ‘Not so hale,’ said Maggie, digging in the pockets of her old coat for her gloves. ‘I’ve heard you coughing. I wish you’d go back to sleeping in the cupboard bed,’ she fretted. ‘It would be so much warmer for you.’

  ‘I’m fine in the stable,’ Hugo said firmly. He picked up her basket from the table and handed it to her. ‘Now, have you got everything?’

  Maggie pulled the cloth back and wrinkled her nose as she inspected the contents. She had promised to take cheese and butter to the party and they were neatly wrapped in waxed paper. But she had been determined to make something special too. Leafing through a tatty recipe book that had belonged to Joe’s mother, she had decided to make a Yule cake. It didn’t seem too hard. She had followed the directions exactly, measuring out teaspoons of cinnamon and yeast, and weighing out the currants and raisins with the butter, flour and sugar. She had the right number of eggs, the precise quantity of milk. So why had her cake turned out flat and hard?

  ‘Perhaps I should leave the cake behind,’ she said to Hugo, inspecting it with dissatisfaction. She turned it over to show him the burnt bottom. ‘It’s a disaster!’

  ‘Take it,’ Hugo advised. ‘When the women of Beckindale see that you’ve produced a cake like that, they’ll never be able to accuse you of being proud again.’

  ‘That’s true,’ she said glumly as she covered the basket again with a cloth.

  ‘You can’t be good at everything, Maggie,’ said Hugo, reading her expression without difficulty. ‘Be content with being the extraordinary woman you are. You’re the strongest woman I know. The bravest – and the most beautiful,’ he added almost as an afterthought. ‘You don’t need to be a good cook too.’