A Daughter's Gift

by Maggie Hope

  ‘Oh, are you sure?’

  ‘Why not? Anyroad, I like you being here, you and the little lass. Gives the house a bit of class, having a kid in grammar school uniform going in and out.’ She laughed comfortably. Laura had been almost as pleased as Elizabeth when Jenny had passed the scholarship. She had no children of her own, and her husband was in the army: ‘Not in the trenches, thank God,’ she had said to Elizabeth when she’d first come. So the boarding-house keeper was more relaxed than most army wives, smiling and cheerful and always looking forward to the weekends when her husband had leave.

  Elizabeth loved working at Anderson’s. She found she had a natural flair for choosing clothes that would sell. The shop had a section for bespoke customers and dresses too and Elizabeth was fast learning to use the sewing machines and often lent a hand in the finishing of garments.

  Mrs Anderson, a lady in her sixties, would take Elizabeth with her to the fashion houses in Newcastle and Harrogate, deferring more and more to her assistant’s judgement. She had a feel for cloth too, instinctively picking out the best fabrics: sheer silks, fine tweeds and linens. Even in the fourth year of war there were still good fabrics to be bought, at a price, of course. And some of Anderson’s customers could afford the prices. Darlington, in its small way, was a boom town since the war.

  They were happy there, she and Jenny, Elizabeth mused. Jenny was at last coming out of her shell. She had begun to speak to the other girls at school, was even invited to a birthday party. It wasn’t the invitation which pleased Elizabeth so much as the fact that Jenny went instead of being overtaken by a fit of shyness and refusing. But still her eyes had a faraway look in them sometimes and Elizabeth knew that in her imagination she was running through the heather of her beloved moors.

  On Sunday they caught the bus to Guisborough, one of the new covered buses which carried as many as twenty-four passengers and had a roof on top. Elizabeth carried a basket with egg sandwiches and a bottle of liquorice-flavoured water and an umbrella, just in case. It was, after all, only April and though they were going through a warm period, there was a possibility of rain.

  There was only one bus on Sundays. It returned at five-thirty, so as it was twelve by the time they got to the old market town, the ancient capital of Cleveland, they had plenty of time for a walk. They found a footpath behind the old priory, the impressive arch of which stood bare and gaunt against the sky, the outlines of the church and monastery the monks had built so long ago still there, marked out in stone.

  ‘It’s nice, isn’t it, Elizabeth?’ said Jenny as she half-skipped up the bank out of the town. Around them the fields were beginning to green with the promise of summer; there were daffodils poking their heads out from beneath hedges, just coming into bloom.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Elizabeth answered.

  They walked until they reached the edge of Guisborough Moor before finding a spot in the lee of a stone wall to eat their sandwiches and drink their liquorice water. Around them the moor was peaceful; even the lambs with their mothers were fairly quiet, almost as if they knew it was Sunday. Elizabeth leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes, breathing in deeply of the sharp upland air. It tasted fresh and clean, no hint of coal smoke or smelting iron and steel which was usual in Darlington, so usual that it almost went unnoticed. Jenny picked a blade of grass and blew through it, producing a whistling sound. She smiled secretly, delighted with herself. Elizabeth just caught the edge of the smile as she opened her eyes at the sound.

  Inevitably, for even after all this time it still happened with her, Elizabeth thought of Jack. How he was, what he was doing, if he had grown more accustomed to his wooden feet, if he ever thought of her. Or was it as his mother had said that awful day, the one which stood out in her memory, the horror-filled day when she had gone to the Manor to see him and ask for his help and his mother had told her he didn’t want to see her ever again? A stab of pain went through Elizabeth at the memory, a stab of pain so familiar to her now yet as agonising as the first time. She moved restlessly and opened her eyes. Jenny had wandered away to a small hillock across the field and was gazing out over the moor, the brown heather just beginning to bud.

  ‘Come on, Jenny,’ Elizabeth called. ‘We’re going on now.’ She stood and packed the remains of the picnic in the basket. Obediently Jenny came running, her hazel eyes bright and a pink blush on her cheeks from the fresh air. Her legs, growing long and coltish now, flashed over the ground and the bright black plait of her hair flew out behind her.

  ‘We might see pheasants an’ all,’ she said as peewits skimmed the ground, calling their plaintive cry.

  Or maybe a nesting pair of blackbirds, thought Elizabeth, as a lark rose to the sky, singing its heart out. A blackbird’s song was the sweetest. They walked on, across the moor, keeping to an ancient pack trail until, reluctantly, they had to turn for Guisborough and home.

  ‘It was a lovely day,’ said Jenny as she leaned against Elizabeth on the bus, her eyelids drooping sleepily. ‘It’s not Weardale but it is nice.’

  Jack drove up the Great North Road, Dolly Hope by his side. He glanced at her. She sat with her handkerchief pressed against her lips; every few moments she dabbed her eyes with it, sighing audibly. Her eyes were red with crying, her nose red and blotchy. Her black silk dress, the newer, shorter length, had ridden up and was showing her bony knees. She looks a sight, he thought, and was immediately struck with compunction. The poor girl had just lost her father. Jack was taking her to her aunt and uncle’s home in Hexham.

  ‘Jack will you take you, my dear,’ his mother had insisted, ‘of course he will. He has nothing else to do, have you, Jack?’

  ‘As a matter of fact—’ he’d begun, but Olivia had shot him a warning glance full of daggers and interrupted smoothly.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be pleased to, won’t you, Jack?’

  He had been going to say that he had arranged to go over the books of the farm tomorrow morning but he kept quiet. After all, a drive up to Northumberland wouldn’t hurt him.

  So here he was, driving past Durham City, automatically looking over to the peninsula and the imposing view of the cathedral as everyone did, and wishing with all his heart that the next hour or two were over and he was safely on his way back to Bishop Auckland.

  ‘You can take the opportunity to get to know the girl better, Jack,’ Olivia had said, almost as a command. ‘I’m sure you could use the hours alone with her in a car to show her you care about her and will look after her. That’s all a girl like that wants, Jack, a well-brought up, sheltered girl like Dolly. And in the emotional state she’s in …’

  The implication was, Jack thought grimly as he passed by Framwellgate Moor and Pity Me and headed for Chester-le-Street, that he should take advantage of the girl when she was vulnerable and bully her until he got her promise to marry him.

  He didn’t want to marry Dolly and reckoned it was a fair bet she didn’t want to marry him. At least she hadn’t shown the slightest inclination towards him, no matter what hopeful signs his mother saw in her attitude. When she had been invited to dine with them at the Manor she had come and sat through the meal saying barely a syllable, hardly even looking at him.

  ‘She’s shy,’ Olivia had declared. ‘She’ll get over that. You can draw her out of it, Jack.’

  In his heart, he thought she was about as interested in him as he was in her, which was hardly at all. It was all in his mother’s mind, he thought, and smiled mirthlessly.

  ‘Would you like to stop at all, call at an inn to refresh yourself?’ Jack said delicately.

  Dolly stared at him, her pale blue eyes large, even with their lids puffy from weeping. ‘No, thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I would rather just get on. Unless you wish to stop, of course?’

  Jack shook his head. He drove on in silence, taking the turn west which led to Hexham. The road was a little quieter than the Great North Road but not much. Dolly began to sit up and take notice of the countryside around her. Her t
ears dried and a half-smile played around her mouth. Jack was faintly surprised; until he remembered that of course she had spent a lot of her young life in Northumberland, not far from Hexham, when her grandparents were alive. They turned off the main road before they came to the town, onto a track pointed out by Dolly. Here Jack had perforce to drive more slowly for the track was not paved and though it was reasonably straight and the worst of the ruts had been filled in with stones, nevertheless the springs of the Austin squeaked and groaned in protest. They hadn’t gone far along it when a lone horseman came into view, cantering towards them on a big grey. A cavalry officer, Jack was interested to notice, and slowed the car to a snail’s pace just in case the grey should take fright, ready to stop if need be. He was so concerned about the reaction of the horse to the automobile that at first he didn’t notice the change in his charge.

  Dolly was sitting forward, lips parted, eyes shining. She rubbed hastily at her cheeks, wiping away any trace of tears, sniffed daintily and patted at the hair showing below her cartwheel hat.

  ‘Hallooo there!’

  The cavalry office cantered up to the car as Jack applied the brakes to bring it to a halt. The horse pranced about for a second or two and the officer cried, ‘Steady now, steady,’ expertly controlling the grey which finally stood still, snorting.

  As an entrance meant to impress a young lady, thought Jack, it could not be beaten. He couldn’t help smiling as he at last took notice of Dolly who was blushing a becoming pink; even the effects on her eyelids of all the weeping she had done seemed less obvious now. She was smiling tremulously, putting back her veil over her hat.

  ‘Oh, Percy, Percy!’ she breathed.

  ‘Dearest Dolly!’ cried the officer. He dismounted gracefully from the grey and stepped over to the car. Putting one brilliantly polished riding boot on the running board, he leaned forward and took her hand, kissing it with a flourish.

  Jack started to chuckle and quickly covered it up with a cough. Percy, as Dolly had called the officer, looked up.

  ‘Dolly, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, all confusion. ‘This is Captain Benson, one of my father’s … our neighbours in Auckland.’ Her lips trembled as she remembered her father’s passing.

  ‘You poor darling,’ Percy murmured, before holding out his hand to Jack. ‘Lieutenant Writeson at your service, sir. How do you do?’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ Jack replied, and smiled at the earnest young man. ‘On leave, are you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. From France. I was coming down to Durham to see Dolly when I heard … Your aunt told me you were coming this morning, Dolly.’ He grinned and suddenly looked of an age for the sixth form, thought Jack, feeling old and jaded beside him.

  ‘Oh, how clever of you to know when we would get here!’ cried Dolly.

  ‘Not really, I’ve been up and down the lane three times already this morning,’ he admitted.

  ‘Well, shall we get on?’ Jack suggested gently. ‘I would like to get home by two, I have an appointment this afternoon.’

  Later, he drove back on the Edinburgh to Darlington road, the undulating hills through Riding Mill and Castleside which tested his brakes to the limit. But the views were spectacular, the countryside glorious and Jack felt like a change anyway. He laughed aloud as he thought of his mother. She had worked so hard to bring Dolly and him together, woven plans of how they would marry and settle down near her. She could hold on to the Manor if Jack had Dolly’s estates, and everything would work out satisfactorily for her. Oh, dear, what a nasty shock she was about to receive.

  The young couple were so happy, it was obvious to anyone that they were in love and would probably marry as soon as the war was over, which surely couldn’t be long now? How lucky they were, thought Jack, his expression sobering. He wondered how Elizabeth was faring. Was she all right in that place in the wilds of Bollihope Common?

  Stand Alone Farm, he mused. There were a few farms with similar names dotted around the north, dating from the time of the Enclosures when common land was fenced off and small farmers who had always lived in villages were forced to live on the patch of land they farmed. There was Once Seen and Never Seen, even a No Place. Jack smiled wryly. They had a sense of humour at least, those old farmers. But how lonely they must have been.

  Almost as lonely as he was himself, he thought, in a rare burst of self-pity. Oh, Elizabeth, Elizabeth. He hadn’t seen her when he went up to the moor that second time a year ago. Just that oaf of a husband of hers.

  ‘Get off my land,’ the man had said. His gun was broken over his arm but he had snapped it shut threateningly.

  ‘Stop pestering us. Anyroad, it’s none of your business what letters my lass gets.’

  ‘Ah, but does she receive her letters?’ Jack persevered. ‘Her brother wrote—’

  ‘I’ve warned you!’ Peart had shouted, abruptly angry. ‘If she got a letter from her brother, that’s her business. If she doesn’t want to answer, that’s her business an’ all! An’ she doesn’t want to see anybody, do you hear? Now get lost, will you?’

  Jack had retreated. He had had to face the fact that Elizabeth didn’t want to see him. They were standing in the yard, she must have heard the commotion. If she’d wanted to see him she would have come out.

  Peart watched him disappear up the track, using his stick as a lever, walking with a stiff gait. Then he swore at Snuff and aimed a kick at him which the dog was able to evade. They went into the house, where the fire was out, no dinner cooking. Peart was filled with rage. Aye, but he’d find the pair of them, those bitches, and he would drag them back by the hair on their heads, he would an’ all.

  Now, as he drove through Witton-le-Wear on the last lap for home, Jack went over the confrontation with Peart in his mind. The man had been more unkempt, dirtier than ever. There was no smoke rising from the chimneys of the house … A thought struck him. Was Elizabeth even there? Or was Peart bluffing him? He would find out, he vowed to himself he would.

  He had written to Jimmy to find out if he had had any word at all from his sister. But Jimmy had not replied as yet, which was strange for he wrote dutifully every week normally.

  It was possible that the boy was at sea and Jack worried about that. There were U-boats lurking round the British coast, he knew, it was reported in the papers often enough. The boy sailors from Dartmouth did go to sea as part of their training. But surely Jimmy was too young?

  Jack drove the car into Morton Main and the colliery yard. It was two o’clock and time for his appointment with Mr Dunne. He refused to worry about Jimmy, of course he was too young to go to sea. But at the back of his mind a thought lurked. If Jimmy had, and anything happened to him, then he, Jack Benson, would be to blame for he had encouraged the boy.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  THE WAR WAS over. ‘Is it true?’ Laura asked as rumours swept through the town. Elizabeth could only nod her head.

  ‘In three months of epic fighting the British armies in France have brought to a sudden and dramatic end the great wearing-out fight of the last four years …’ So the Commander in Chief of the British Forces, Field Marshal Haig, was reported as stating in his Despatch. The Armistice was signed on November 11th, 1918 and people poured into the streets to celebrate in joy and relief.

  ‘What does Armistice mean? What will happen?’ asked Jenny. She could scarcely remember when there hadn’t been the war with Germany.

  ‘There’ll be no more fighting, the soldiers will come home,’ Elizabeth replied. And Jimmy will be safe, she thought in her heart.

  They had a street party. Laura made cakes and pies and Elizabeth sliced bread and made sandwiches. The women put trestle tables up in the road along the streets of Albert Hill. Union Jacks hung from most of the windows; red, white and blue bunting was strung across the streets like so much colourful washing.

  But the men were slow to come home, most of them not arriving until 191
9. In the end, the people of Darlington went back to work and the women worried about their jobs, for now the men were coming back there would be no place for them.

  Elizabeth was busy. Everyone wanted the new shorter skirts and those who could afford it came to Anderson’s to be measured for costumes with a figure-hugging skirt and tailored jacket. She was taking over the running of the shop more and more these days for Mrs Anderson, who had lost her only son in the early days of the war, was becoming sadder and more wan-looking every day.

  ‘What was it all about?’ she asked Elizabeth one day. There was a lull in the shop and she was standing in the doorway which led to the workshop at the back. Elizabeth was turning up a hem by hand, putting tiny feather stitches along it which would not be seen on the outside of the garment but would be strong enough not to break or come out with wear.

  Elizabeth looked up from her work, knowing exactly what the older woman meant. Here she was herself, thankful that the war had come to an end before Jimmy was old enough to get involved, when there were so many women like Mrs Anderson who had lost husbands and sons. German women too, she mused.

  ‘Come and sit down, Mrs Anderson, you look all in.’ Elizabeth put her work aside and moved towards the older woman, putting an arm around her and leading her to a chair. ‘I’ll make a cup of tea, shall I? It’s five to twelve anyway, I’ll close the shop early for dinner.’

  Mrs Anderson allowed herself to be led without protest; indeed, as Elizabeth touched her she could feel the heat rising from her through the layers of clothing. She looked closer, concerned. This was more than a moment of grieving. Mrs Anderson’s eyes were febrile and even as she watched, a fine sheen of moisture appeared on her brow.

  ‘You’re running a fever!’ Elizabeth exclaimed. ‘Can’t you feel it?’

  ‘I don’t feel too good,’ the older woman admitted.