by Jenny Holmes
Several voices confirmed that Cliff Kershaw encouraged weekend singalongs and kept an upright piano for the purpose.
‘No doubt it draws more customers in if they can tap their feet and have a sing-song while they’re downing their pints.’ Joyce backed the idea. ‘Don’t forget, girls, write down the titles of the songs you’d like to sing before you leave for work today. That’ll give me enough time to flick through my book of Broadway hits.’
So it was agreed – rehearsal for the Christmas show, tonight at seven o’clock at the Blacksmith’s Arms.
The arrangement made, the girls arrived that evening in dribs and drabs. All were dressed to impress in pastel-coloured frocks with shoulder pads and nipped-in waists, their hair carefully curled, winter coats slung casually around their shoulders. They went straight to the bar to order their drinks and if they were lucky a gallant young man from the village would step in and pay. There were smiles and laughter, the sound of pints being pulled, glasses chinking and jokes being told.
‘Good evening, Cliff.’ Bill Mostyn presented himself at the bar and took a quick look around. ‘Are you on your own tonight?’
The landlord grunted his reply. ‘It looks like it. Grace is busy with her Land Army pals over there in the corner. And don’t ask me where Edgar has got to.’ His protruding bottom lip stuck out further than ever to show his displeasure. His bald head shone in the gaslight glare from the sconces on the wall behind him.
‘I’ll have two pints of best bitter and a Guinness, please.’ Bill took in the busy scene and saw that the Land Girls were already bunched around the piano, chattering ten to the dozen. ‘What are they up to?’
‘They’re rehearsing another Christmas show. Don’t worry about not being able to hear yourself speak above the cats’ chorus – they’ve promised to keep the noise down.’
‘I’m not worried.’ Bill was used to Cliff’s curmudgeonly mutterings. He made out Joyce at the piano and Brenda and Grace amongst the excited group.
‘Cole Porter’s “Anything Goes”.’ Joyce flicked through her book of popular songs. ‘Yes, Kathleen – here it is, after “I Get a Kick out of You”. Hmm, that’s an Ethel Merman song. Would you like to try that one, Elsie? It would suit you down to the ground.’
‘We could sing it as a duet,’ Elsie said to Una. The one-time stable girl was transformed into a vision of loveliness in a light wool dress of palest blue with a sparkling brooch in the shape of a bouquet on her breast and a touch of rose-pink lipstick on her full lips. ‘What do you think? Una, did you hear me?’
‘What? Yes, I’m sorry. I wasn’t concentrating.’ Not to be outdone, Una too had worn her best outfit. Her dress was jade green to set off the reddish tone of her hair and it was cut in a wrap-over style that made the most of her slim waist.
‘“I Get a Kick out of You” – shall we give it a go?’
‘If you like.’ Her gaze flicked over the crowd at the bar. The reply to Angelo that she’d penned the night before was in her pocket but so far there was no sign of Neville Thomson. She’d half expected him not to be here, it was true. He looked too young to drink and probably wouldn’t get served even if he tried. Yet she’d still hoped to see her go-between.
Dear Angelo
Thank you for your note. It would be nice to meet up. How does this coming Sunday evening sound? I can be there by six o’clock. I hope you get this message in time. Love from Una
The words were etched on her brain.
‘That would be two Cole Porter songs in the programme,’ Joyce went on. ‘Now, who would like to sing something from The Wizard of Oz?’
Brenda took up the suggestion. ‘“Over the Rainbow” would go down well,’ she decided. ‘It’s about dreams coming true and we could all do with a bit of that in our lives.’ A switch from monochrome reality to full Technicolor in the whoosh of a good witch’s wand.
‘Very well. Kathleen, your turn first,’ Joyce ordered.
The young hairdresser sang ‘Anything Goes’ with gusto. Her choice was lively and the lyrics risqué, with references to a glimpse of stockings and fast cars drawing wolf whistles and whoops from the men by the bar. Towards the end she stumbled over the words and apologized.
Brenda put an arm around her waist. ‘Don’t worry, we don’t expect you to be word perfect at this point. Wait until we get to my turn.’
Now Una and Elsie were due to sing along but this time it was Joyce who had difficulty finding the right notes. ‘Let’s leave that for now,’ she decided as her fingers faltered and she closed the song book. Her civilian garb consisted of sensible blouse and skirt, brightened by a yellow silk scarf. She’d pinned up her dark-brown hair in a fancy French pleat and wore pearl earrings to add another feminine touch. Taking a fresh sheet of music from the pile on top of the piano, she turned to talk to Brenda.
‘Phew!’ Elsie let Una know that she was relieved to be let off the hook then went to join two fellow horse enthusiasts on the settle next to the inglenook – Alice Foster from Hawkshead Manor and Geoffrey Somers, Master of the Burnside hunt. She left Una still looking for Neville and hoping against hope.
Over by the piano, Brenda and Joyce tried the first few bars of the Judy Garland song, but Brenda soon lost her way. ‘… Way up high, there’s a land … once in a lullaby.’ Her rhythm was wrong and she struggled to remember all the words. She laughed and turned her failure into a joke.
‘Maybe I should have picked the Scarecrow’s song.’
‘“If I Only Had a Brain”,’ Jean cut in sharply, giving Brenda a significant look.
‘Tut-tut.’ Joyce grimaced then compared Jean to the Tin Man. ‘He doesn’t have a heart,’ she said pointedly.
Una stood a little distance away. It struck her that Brenda rarely took things seriously and suddenly this bothered her. What if her advice about Angelo was as shallow and mischievous as many other things about her? Should she have followed it and written the reply or was it all foolishness? Well, as things had turned out, she still had time to change her mind. Dear Angelo, Thank you for your note. It would be nice to meet up … She recited the words over and over inside her head. To send or not to send? If it came to it and she decided to go ahead, she could probably cycle out to Brigg Farm to find Neville tomorrow afternoon. Or then again, perhaps not.
‘They’re putting on another show.’ Bill stood with his usual group of friends close to the door, explaining to a newcomer the reason behind the noisy gaggle of Land Girls gathered around the piano. He noticed that Grace had left the group to lend her father a hand and was responding as quickly as she could to Cliff’s gruff orders. Feeling irritated, he put down his glass and walked outside to the gents’ toilet. He didn’t get far across the yard, however, before he saw Edgar lurching in the dark towards him.
Edgar stumbled and dropped his cigarette. ‘Watch where you’re going,’ he told Bill, his voice slurred and accusatory, his gaze unfocused as he stooped to pick up the glowing cigarette. He swore as he took it by the wrong end and burned his finger.
In fact, Bill had only reached out to steady the other man. He caught the stale alcohol on Edgar’s breath as he stood up straight. ‘Steady on,’ he advised in a friendly manner.
Edgar shoved him away, swayed backwards then took an unsteady step towards the pub door. Thomas Lund had followed Bill’s lead and only just got out of Edgar’s way as he blundered on. ‘Someone’s had a skinful,’ he remarked before accompanying Bill to the gents’.
Bill thought no more of the incident when he went back to the bar. His pals had moved in on the Land Girls as soon as their rehearsal had finished and Brenda Appleby was heading his way.
‘I just wanted to say ta for persuading your mother to rearrange this week’s rota after all,’ she began breezily. ‘I don’t think I could have stood many more days at Home Farm.’
Bill looked mystified. ‘It was nothing to do with me. It’s Mother you have to thank; she must have had a change of heart.’
‘Well, tell her thank
s from me.’ She raised her glass and was pleased that he responded with a chink of his own glass. ‘Chin-chin,’ she added with a smile.
Thomas swung through the door and noticed the spark between them. On the spur of the moment he decided to play Cupid. ‘It’s my round,’ he announced. ‘Brenda, what’ll you have? Bill – another pint of bitter?’ This left Bill alone with Brenda again while he went to the bar.
She plunged in with the first topic of conversation that came into her head. ‘How do you think our rehearsal went?’
‘So-so.’ His answer was honest. ‘When do you have to be ready by?’
‘The twenty-third. It’s for the prisoners at Beckwith Camp, like last year.’ She rolled her eyes in dismay. ‘I know for a fact that they can out-sing us any day of the week.’
‘It won’t be the singing they’re interested in.’ In spite of himself, Brenda’s infectious good humour steered his response. ‘They’ll be chuffed to be let out of their barracks to get an eyeful of you lot.’
Brenda pretended to huff and puff. ‘You can’t say that! Your answer should be something like, “You have the voice of an angel, Miss Appleby, and so does the rest of your merry band.”’
‘You have the voice of an angel,’ he concurred. ‘An angel who forgets the words to her song.’
She laughed. ‘It’s from The Wizard of Oz. Do you know it?’
‘No, musicals aren’t really my cup of tea.’ Standing close beside her in the increasingly crowded bar, Bill could smell Brenda’s flowery perfume and almost feel the warmth of her skin, which was smooth and creamy. She had long, thick lashes and a smile that would light up the darkest day.
‘Judy Garland is marvellous in it. And you should see the little Munchkins – they’re a scream.’ Gabble-gabble. She opened her mouth and words tumbled out willy-nilly. One day she would learn not to do this, but for now she let her tongue run on. She told Bill about the brainless scarecrow and the cowardly lion. ‘Do you like dogs?’ she asked him. ‘Dorothy has a little pet dog called Toto, who gets transported with her into the World of Oz.’
Her radiant face fascinated him, her eyes especially. Her dark lashes were complemented by finely arched eyebrows and a high forehead, half covered by a sweep of dark, glossy hair. He frowned and pulled himself up short for staring at her.
‘Sorry,’ she said with a low, breathy laugh, ‘I’m going on a bit.’
‘I do like dogs,’ he admitted. ‘We never had one, though. They bring Mum out in a rash, the same as horses.’
Too quickly for her liking, Thomas came back with the drinks and the chat turned to the football match that the Burnside eleven were due to play the next day. ‘It’s at home,’ Thomas explained to Brenda. ‘Why not come along and watch?’
‘Perhaps I will.’ Taking a sip from her glass of sweet martini, she tuned out of the conversation about team tactics and gave herself time to plan ahead. She would stay with Bill and Thomas for as long as her drink lasted, keeping in the background for once, chipping in every now and then but mainly listening and smiling, as women did when men talked football. It wouldn’t come naturally to her but she would try.
It worked well for a while. ‘… Tall centre forward … keep the ball out on the right wing … hope that the pitch thaws out—’ There was a sudden interruption.
‘Bill, can you come please?’ It was Grace. She was obviously distressed as she tugged at his sleeve. ‘I’m sorry – it’s Edgar. Can you come?’
He went with her straight away, behind the bar then down some worn steps to the cellar where he found Edgar slumped across a barrel with Cliff trying to pull him upright.
‘He’s too heavy for us to manage,’ Grace told Bill. ‘It was Dad who found him when he came down to tap a new barrel.’
The cellar was small and damp, with a vaulted ceiling. A row of full barrels was lined up down one side and a stack of empties on the other. There was no light except for a paraffin lamp hanging from an overhead hook.
Bill quickly assessed the situation. From what he’d seen of Edgar half an hour earlier and from the way he was bunching his fists and flailing his arms now, he decided there was no hope of getting him to stand on his own two feet. ‘Where do you want to take him?’ he asked Grace, whose face was pale and strained.
‘Upstairs, to the back bedroom.’
Cliff abandoned his efforts and stood back to draw breath. His watch had slipped out of his waistcoat pocket and hung down on its silver chain. His face was shiny with sweat. ‘Don’t bother. Leave him where he is,’ he told Bill. ‘Let him sleep it off.’
‘We can’t do that,’ Grace argued. ‘It’s damp down here. He’ll catch his death.’
‘A fat lot I care.’ Disgust marked Cliff’s features and he couldn’t resist giving Edgar a nudge with the toe of his boot. ‘Bloody idiot.’
Edgar’s eyes were closed. He struck out with his fists but only succeeded in slumping further onto the floor where he sprawled face-down.
‘Idiot,’ Cliff repeated as he gave up on his son and left.
Bill went across to Edgar, turned him over and propped him up against the wall. ‘Listen to me. I’m going to take one arm and Grace here is going to take the other. We’ll stand you up then get you up the stairs to bed.’ There was no response so he spoke to Grace. ‘It’s no good – he’s a dead weight. We’ll need Thomas to lend a hand.’
‘I’ve never seen him as bad as this,’ she said. Edgar’s face and neck were a mottled red and saliva slid out of one corner of his mouth.
‘I know. But fetch Thomas, there’s a good girl.’ Bill squatted beside Edgar while Grace went for extra help. Edgar’s head lolled forward, his legs splayed wide. Edgar Kershaw has broken more than his leg was the alarming thought that passed through Bill’s mind.
Within a minute Grace was back with Thomas. The two men hauled the drunk man to his feet and took his weight. They began to drag him to the bottom of the cellar steps. Thomas’s head caught on the paraffin lamp and it swung precariously on its hook. ‘Steady,’ Bill cautioned.
Grace held her breath. They had to negotiate the stone steps. Would there be enough space for three men abreast? She felt sick as she went ahead. What in God’s name had happened to Edgar to make him like this?
Bill and Thomas struggled but at last they got him to the cellar head where Joyce had come to Grace’s aid.
‘You looked upset so I guessed something was wrong,’ she explained as she stepped in to steady Edgar while Thomas and Bill had a breather. She made no fuss as she took his weight, merely waited to see what would happen next.
Eager to get Edgar out of sight of customers and to keep him out of their father’s clutches, Grace held open a door that led into the kitchen at the back of the house. The hum of voices made her brother open his eyes and groan. ‘In here, quick,’ Grace said.
Joyce straightened Edgar’s jacket as she handed him back to the two men. ‘Poor blighter,’ she murmured.
They got him across the kitchen and up another flight of stairs, along the corridor and into a small room with a patchwork quilt across a single bed underneath a cross-stitch picture saying, Home Sweet Home.
‘Bloody hell.’ An exhausted Thomas stood back as Bill eased Edgar onto the bed.
Grace gave a sound between a sigh and a sob. She unlaced Edgar’s shoes and loosened the top button of his stained and crumpled shirt.
‘Lay him on his side,’ Thomas suggested and Bill followed his advice.
‘Keep an eye on him,’ Joyce told Grace as she and Thomas backed out of the room. No fuss, no judgement.
‘Ta – I will.’ Grace had to blink back tears. She felt helpless and desperate.
Edgar lay on the bed breathing heavily now. He drew his knees to his chest and curled into a ball. Grace and Bill retreated to the door then turned to take one last look.
‘You did the right thing,’ Bill reassured her. He took her hands between his. Hot tears brimmed and trickled down her cold cheeks. He brushed them away with his t
humbs. ‘Edgar will be all right in the morning; you’ll see.’
‘I’m on tenterhooks to see if I get a reply,’ Una confessed to Grace. It was a bright, cold Sunday morning. After the fog of the night before, rime frost lay thick on the wall tops and shrouded the bare trees as she’d cycled into Burnside. ‘Do you think I will?’
Grace had put aside the painting of a Christmas tree that she’d been working on and sat her down with a cup of tea. ‘Let me get this straight. One of the Italian prisoners—’
‘Angelo. His name is Angelo.’
‘Yes, I know who you mean. Angelo is sweet on you. He wrote you a note and you’ve written back.’
Una nodded. ‘Neville Thomson is in on it. He’s promised to take letters back and forth.’
‘That’s the bit I’m not sure about.’ Grace felt a sharp pang of sympathy for her visitor. ‘Is Neville reliable?’
‘I’m not sure either.’ After she’d finally overcome her doubts about Angelo, she’d cycled up Brigg Hill, her heart in her mouth.
She’d arrived at the farm and Roland Thomson had given her short shrift. ‘Neville’s playing football. What do you want him for?’
‘Nothing,’ she’d replied, kicking herself for not thinking of this. After all, she’d heard the raucous yells and shouts coming from the playing field behind the Institute as she’d cycled by. Of course Neville would be playing for the Burnside team – he was one of the few remaining fit young men around. She’d cycled away from the farm on the hill, back down to the village, then hung around in the Institute porch until the whistle had blown to end the match and Neville had at last got changed and sauntered up the yard.
‘Heck,’ he’d said when he spotted her, his wet hair sticking to his scalp after a quick cold shower. ‘Don’t tell me, let me guess – you want me to play postman for you.’
His mockery had galvanized her into action and she’d quickly handed over the note. ‘Don’t sound so surprised.’