Contents
About the Author
Also by Glenice Crossland
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Read More
Copyright
About the Author
Glenice Crossland lives in Sheffield. She has loved writing from an early age, only taking it seriously after early retirement from her job in a leisure centre. She has read one of her poems on BBC2, had several read on Radio Sheffield and more published in various anthologies. She is well known locally for her watercolours of churches and local traditions. Married with one son and grandchildren, she still lives a few hundred yards from the house in which she was born. She is also the author of The Stanford Lasses and Christmas Past.
Also by Glenice Crossland
The Stanford Lasses
Christmas Past
A Family Christmas
Glenice Crossland
* * *
WHERE THE HEART IS
This book is dedicated to the memory of my parents and grandparents, all of whom lived in houses with an ever open door
Acknowledgements
With thanks as always to Georgina Hawtrey-Woore and all the team at Random House for their guidance and support.
Chapter One
THE KEY WAS inside the letter box, hanging from a string. It was a heavy old key, turning rusty from lack of use. Neither Sally Butler, her husband Jim nor little Daisy saw any reason to lock anybody out and, since they hadn’t much of value, didn’t think it necessary to lock anything in either. On the rare occasions the door did happen to be locked, any neighbour in need, indeed any Tom, Dick or Harry, would know where to find the key to number nine Potters Row. Usually visitors would simply tap on the door and enter the house with a call of ‘It’s only me’ or ‘Anybody in?’
The first caller of the day would be Nellie the postwoman. With telephones a luxury, only for the likes of doctors, business folk or the very wealthy, not many days would go by without a visit from Nellie. There’d be letters from aunts inviting them to stay, others announcing forthcoming visits, and especially welcome would be the ones easily recognisable as being from Sally’s airman brother, Ernest. Nellie would be fortified with something hot in winter, and on high days and holidays a drop of port wine.
‘It’s only me,’ she announced herself. ‘One from your Ernest this morning unless I’m mistaken.’
‘Oh, at last.’ Sally sighed with relief as she unfolded the flimsy sheet of paper. It was mainly thanking them for the parcel of knitted socks and gloves that Ernest had received. He sent his love to all the family and said he hoped little Daisy was being a good girl, then gave a glowing description of yet another new girlfriend.
Sally guessed things wouldn’t be nearly as rosy for him as her brother made out; nevertheless her mind was set at rest that so far he was still in one piece. After Nellie had been given the letter to read and then continued on her round, Sally unknotted the scarf from the top of her head, took off her pinafore, and raked a comb through her mop of chestnut curls. Then she hurried along to number five where her sister Enid Cartwright would devour the contents of the letter eagerly, also very relieved that their brother was safe.
The next caller of the day was Mr Harrison the milkman, who found the house deserted except for Dippy the black-and-white mongrel. The dog sniffed excitedly round the caller’s legs before returning to his mat. Mr Harrison usually enjoyed a gossip with Sally, but not to worry; the money and the jug were waiting on top of the sewing machine as usual. He measured out the milk with his gill measure and poured the dregs into the dog’s dish before he left, closing the door behind him. No doubt he would catch up with Sally at her sister’s if he put a spurt on.
He smiled to himself. If he’d been twenty years younger, Mr Harrison could have fancied Sally Butler, who was quite a looker, with her trim figure and what the lads used to describe as ‘legs up to her armpits’. Of course, he would never have got a look in when Jim Butler came on the scene, and nobody would begrudge the amiable young couple their obvious happiness together.
Little Daisy was playing shop with a couple of tin lids, a pile of stones and a few leaves when the milkman arrived at Enid’s. He began to sing ‘Daisy, Daisy’ and the child smiled shyly. Daisy liked the milkman. He could hear the two women laughing through the open door and as he popped his head in, Enid called, ‘Oh, aye, timed it right again, have yer? I don’t know how you manage it.’ He knew that meant she had just brewed up. ‘Sorry there’s no sugar,’ she said as she poured three cups of tea, ‘but at least we won’t be short of milk.’
‘Eeh, thanks, that’s welcome.’ He poured milk into the measure and transferred a drop into each cup. ‘What about the little lass, will she have a drop of milk?’
‘Thanks all the same but she won’t touch the stuff, I only wish she would.’ Sally frowned. ‘I’ve never known such a faddy little devil.’
Her sister grinned. ‘She’ll have no option when she starts school, they have a bottle every morning playtime whether they like it or not.’ Enid was a cleaner at Millington Council School, a few minutes’ walk away.
‘Well, I only hope she isn’t sick if they force her to drink it.’ Sally held out the letter. ‘We’ve heard from our Ernest at last.’
The milkman acknowledged the news with a smile.
‘That’s good, I wish I could say the same about our Frank. There’s been no news for weeks.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Sally frowned. ‘Still, no news is good news, or so they say.’
‘Not much consolation that, though, when your son’s somewhere out there,’ Enid pointed out.
Mr Harrison put on a show of bravado. ‘They say the mail’s not reliable, I expect that’s it. Oh, well, I’d better get a move on.’ He turned back at the door to say, ‘Thanks for the tea.’
‘Me and my big mouth!’ Sally sighed. ‘And the lad only just eighteen.’
She closed the door behind him and went to the window, standing looking out at the hardened earth that served as the road for Potters Row. On the opposite side a gap in the dry stone wall led to a path across the field, where in summer a profusion of meadow flowers would bloom.
Millington was a good place in which to live. Its main shopping street and the long, sprawling steelworks down in the valley were hidden from view by the trees in what was known as the Donkey Wood, lower down the hill. At the bottom of Potters Row ran the loop of St George’s Road, which curved at either end to join the main road. Potters Row and two other similar rows of houses, Barkers Row and Taylors Row, all led off St George’s Road and were separated from each other by open fields. Beyond the rows the first of the council houses, built in the twenties, could be seen, and the square, tiled roof of the council school. And in the distance the wide-open moors of the Pennine hills stretched for as far as the eye could see.
Sally frowned as she looked at the brick and concrete of the recently erected air-raid shelter at the bottom of the field, next to which a footpath known as the Donkey Path provided a short-cut to the main road.
‘It doesn’t seem two minutes since young Frank was doing the round with his father in the school holidays. The poor man must be out of his mind with worry.’
‘And his wife,’ Enid said. ‘Is this what we struggle to bring them u
p for? To send them off to be killed?’
‘Don’t say that, Enid.’
‘Well, it’s true. All I can say is, I’m glad mine are both girls.’
Sally placed her arm round her sister’s waist. ‘Well, at least our men are safe in the steelworks.’
‘No one’s safe, love, not even us. In fact, it’s all the steelworks that are making our city a target.’
‘Well, we’re not really in the city, are we?’ But Sally sounded uncertain.
She went outside on to the flagged causeway where Daisy was tearing up dandelion leaves to use in her shop. She picked up her daughter and held her close as if to protect her from everything evil, saying a little prayer for Ernest and Mr Harrison’s son to be kept safe, and for the rotten old war soon to be over.
Jim Butler glanced at the sweat-stained face of his watch. Half-past nine … only another half-hour and he would be clocking off. He shook the perspiration from his face. God, he could murder a pint, and then home to supper, Sally and bed. He watched the next steel billet leave the roughing as a square and made ready to turn it up diamond-shaped. Experience made him do this at the double, otherwise the immense heat would scorch the seat of his working trousers. He passed the six-foot turning-up fork to his mate Tom, who would turn the next billet which would possibly be turned into war weapons.
A man arriving for the night shift touched him on the shoulder so that Jim turned and read his lips: ‘Come on, Jim lad, get thy sen home to bed.’
Conversation in the billet mill was impossible due to the noise there. Jim mouthed his thanks and grinned as the man advised him what to do to that lovely young wife of his. Then he snatched up his snap tin and left the hellish heat and noise behind him.
Millington at ten o’clock at night would have been a quiet place had it not been for the sound of the steelworks and the clatter of working boots as the afternoon shift tramped wearily up the hill past the old smithy. The stream of buses were nose to tail, taking home the workers to outlying towns and villages; those they’d just brought in would already be hard at it on the night shift. The men who had left to join the armed forces had been replaced by women for jobs such as crane-driving, and now they too were wearily making their way home.
Jim called in at the Rising Sun and downed a pint in one go, bade the barmaid goodnight then made his way home. Sally scooped a ladling can of water out of the boiler by the fire and into the washing-up bowl as she heard her husband’s boots on the step. By the time he had washed at the pot sink in the corner, his meal of fried cheese and a pile of bread was waiting for him on the table. Only then did she speak of Ernest’s letter and her worry over the lack of news from young Frank Harrison.
Jim read the letter from his brother-in-law with relief and hoped a young man like Frank, who had everything to live for, would come through this war safely. He couldn’t help feeling grateful that his was a reserved occupation. Then he went outside and round the corner to the block of lavatories with its two rows of three cubicles. On the way he breathed in the cool night air, which was welcome after the filth and heat of the mill.
He went back in to Sally and the promise of his warm bed. As usual he peeped in on Daisy first, who lay sucking away at a pink dummy in her sleep. He considered removing it but decided against risking waking her. He was unwilling to share Sally with anyone tonight, not even his beloved daughter.
‘It’s time our Daisy threw that hideous old dummy away,’ Jim told his wife the next morning. ‘She’s going to have the bloody thing when she starts school, if we’re not careful.’
‘I have tried.’ Sally frowned.
‘Well, tell her she’s a big girl now, not a baby.’
‘I’ve done that.’
‘And?’
‘She informed me she likes being a baby and doesn’t want to be a big girl.’
Jim laughed. ‘She’s an answer for everything, that one. Try bribery then.’
‘Hmm, I’ve already decided on that. Today, as a matter of fact.’
Daisy loved the sycamore tree that stood near their house at the edge of the field. In spring the twittering of the birds on its branches woke her, and in autumn the leaves formed a red and gold carpet at its foot. She and her cousin Norah would crunch them and kick them in the air so that they rained down like the confetti at Aunty Betty’s wedding.
The little girl had felt like a princess then in her pink satin bridesmaid’s dress with head-dress and muff to match. Aunty Betty had looked beautiful, though Grandma Butler didn’t seem to think so; in fact, she’d shouted and bawled at Aunty Betty when she’d come downstairs dressed in her lovely white dress and veil. Grandma had said it was a sin to wear white in her condition, and how the girl had the cheek to go to chapel veiled she couldn’t believe. Daisy didn’t know what condition she meant and had asked her dad, which hadn’t helped much as he’d told her to ask her mam, who had changed the subject.
Now Daisy couldn’t make up her mind what to do. Mrs Porter next-door had a new baby; it had come yesterday in the nurse’s black bag. Daisy really, really wanted to go and look at it, but Mam said that if she did, she had to take her dummy and give it to baby Celia. Daisy looked down at the soother which hung from a ribbon fastened to her cardigan by a huge safety pin. She looked over to Mrs Porter’s door, standing invitingly open, and could no longer resist the temptation. She fumbled with the pin until finally she managed to undo it, then she ran into Mrs Porter’s house.
‘Hello, Daisy,’ said a woman in the kitchen. ‘Your mam said you were coming to see our new baby.’ She nodded. ‘Come on then.’ The woman took Daisy upstairs. Mrs Porter was sitting up in bed, looking very pale.
‘Hello, Daisy,’ she welcomed the little girl gamely. ‘Your mam said you were bringing something for baby Celia.’ And Daisy handed over her precious dummy to Mrs Porter.
‘Right, thank you, I’ll give it to her later. Now would you like to hold her?’
Daisy nodded again, speechless at first to be trusted to hold the baby girl. She gazed in awe at her tiny fingers and nose. ‘Isn’t she little?’ she said. ‘Just like my Baby Doll.’
‘That’s because she’s come very early.’ Mary Porter lifted her daughter from Daisy’s lap, and frowned worriedly. ‘I’m going to try and feed her now but you can come and see her again another day. Thank you for the dummy.’
Daisy ran home then, eager to ask her mam if the nurse would bring them a new baby just like Mrs Porter’s.
The next day Potters Row and all the rows were plunged into mourning when baby Celia died. Daisy immediately said she would go and fetch her dummy back.
‘No,’ Sally told her daughter. ‘Baby Celia has taken it with her to heaven.’
Daisy cried that night in bed.
‘Don’t be sad,’ Sally told her, ‘Jesus will look after baby Celia. He’ll help her grow into an angel.’
‘But what about my dummy?’ the little girl asked. However, that was the last time it was ever mentioned. Baby Celia’s short span on earth had succeeded where two years’ coaxing had failed.
Mary Porter had been Sally’s best friend since school days. The loss of baby Celia affected Sally almost as much as it did Mary and her husband Tom. Sally knew words of sympathy wouldn’t help so set about helping to arrange the baby’s funeral, ordering flowers, and making meals for the distressed couple and their son Stanley, who was a few years older than Daisy.
Mary’s labour had been a difficult one and her grief at losing her daughter had rendered her almost useless from weakness and shock. On the day of the burial Sally coaxed her into her best coat, on which she had sewn a black armband, and a black hat borrowed from Enid. Almost everyone in Potters Row turned out to attend the funeral and follow the tiny coffin down the hill to Millington Parish Church. Jim stood shoulder to shoulder with Tom, his fellow worker and friend, knowing words would be of little consolation but hoping his presence might help.
Afterwards the living-room and kitchen at Mary’s were overflowing wi
th relatives and neighbours, and by the time a few gallons of tea and even more pale ale had been consumed, Mary and Tom were looking and feeling a little better. Mary even confided in Sally that she would be trying as soon as possible for another child; she also told her friend that if she had a dozen more babies, none could ever replace the little one she had buried on this day.
Then, for the first time, Mary let loose the dam of tears she had stifled, as her friend held her in her arms. Sally knew that Mary would come through the darkness, and she knew her friend Sally would be there to guide her into the light.
Betty Hayes’ née Butler’s condition continued to shame her mother, no matter how anyone tried to console her. Eighteen now, Betty had always been a flighty piece, according to the locals. In fact, Mrs Ramsgate at number one expressed surprise to all and sundry that the girl had got away without becoming pregnant for as long as she had.
‘One lad after the other since the day she left school,’ she said. ‘I wonder if that new husband of hers knows her reputation.’
Amy Butler was having none of that. She was entitled to call her daughter all the names she could think of, but that didn’t mean anyone else had the right. She limped painfully along the row and hammered on the door to number one so that faces appeared at the windows and doors of all the other houses and ears strained to hear what all the commotion was about.
Mrs Ramsgate was only just five foot tall and as round as she was long. She was also the worst gossip this side of Sheffield. Usually she would spread her scandal then scurry off indoors, but there was no hiding from Amy Butler, who stood on her doorstep, arms firmly folded and a cloth hanging over one of them.
‘Amy?’ Mrs Ramsgate addressed her neighbour of many years.
‘Mrs Butler to you. What’s this you’ve been saying about my lass?’
‘What?’ The other woman shuffled her feet uncomfortably in their filthy old carpet slippers, wondering what Amy had heard. ‘I ’aven’t said owt except how lovely she looked in ’er wedding gown and veil.’
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