by Annie Clarke
‘Aye, together,’ said Beth, ‘that’s right. And I ’spect Mrs Hall’s already set it up with Sophia.’
The next day the girls rushed home from the bus, washed, changed, had a cuppa and ran out of the house. At five o’clock Alfie was there in the Rolls-Royce, waiting near the bus stop in Main Street for the girls, as well as Stan, Sid and Norm. As they clambered in, they saw that Viola was already there, on the back seat, grinning. She held up her hand and the bandage was clear of blood. ‘See, just one day without rubbing it again and again on the sewing-machine table and ’tis already getting better.’
Alfie was puffing on a Player’s, but wouldn’t let them smoke. ‘I have me window open so can flick me ash out there, but knowing you lot, you’d flick yours here and there.’
He ignored the protests, just put his foot down to get them to the train station. As originally arranged, the Massinghams had paid for the tickets and they merely had to collect them. They arrived at the hospital for visiting hours just as Sister Newsome opened the double doors to the ward.
When she saw them she held up her hand. Stan, who was leading them like goslings stopped. ‘Turn, keep going. First door on the right.’
Stan looked at Sister Newsome, then the others. ‘Why?’ He stepped to one side to let a clutch of visitors into the ward.
Sister Newsome shook her head. ‘“Why?” asked the lad. Because I say so, I reply, but also because we had a bit of success yesterday. Young probationer Emily Stott thought to ask Mr Massingham if there was anything that had made our lad feel particularly safe as a child. He thought of cigar smoke.’
Sister Newsome raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, we can’t have cigar smoke in the ward, so the porter trolleyed Ralph into a side room where Reginald was instructed to have a good puff of the blighters he always carries. Very soon those infrequent tremors of the hands became actual movements. Follow me.’
She led the way, then paused outside a door ‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘Your task today is to talk to him of Fran’s wedding, because Reginald told him when he nipped in briefly this morning, of the bairns’ plans they made with Viola over their breakfast today to cut and colour confetti. Viola, you should remind him of the card young Eva drew and left for him when she came. You’ll find it propped up behind his water jug on the bedside table. Stan, you might like to talk of the pit; Sid and Norm, perhaps the Canary Club, as Simon Parrot and Cyn Ellington were in earlier in the week. Beth, talk to him of Bob – swear if you wish. Sarah, not too much sweet talk about Stan. Fran, talk of the dresses. And while this is ongoing, one, or all of you, will keep up smoking that cigar. No need to blow it in his face, just sit by the bed.’
A visitor was hovering, clearly needing to speak to Sister Newsome. She reached out and held the elderly woman’s arm. ‘Good to see you, Mrs Ashington. Now, you youngsters, off you go.’
They entered the room, where the curtains were drawn and the blackout blind pulled down. A low light glowed overhead. The bed had been set up between two windows. Chairs were stacked at the side. The boys spread them around the bed. On the bedside table was a wooden box containing the cigars.
‘Where the hell does Massingham get them these days?’ Norm grunted, taking one and rolling it between his fingers, holding it to his ear. ‘Ah, ’tis a bit dry. Probably from before the war, then. Who’s to have the first puff? Careful, it might flare up.’
While the lads sorted that out, Fran and Sarah sat on one side of the bed and Viola and Beth on the other. This was their third visit and it didn’t bother them as much as it had to see someone they knew lying so pale and still.
Beth said, once the boys had joined them, ‘Howay, Ralph. Not up and dancing yet, I see, but it won’t be long, bonny lad. Then you can have a bit of a waltz with me. You’ll have heard me mam tell you of Bob. He’s a right idiot, throwing me over when I look like a daffodil, and what’s nicer in the spring than a touch of yellow, eh?’
Surprised, the others laughed, even Norm, who was coughing as he took his first puff. Was it only Fran who saw the white of Beth’s knuckles as she balled her hands?
Sid snatched the cigar from Norm. ‘Like this, bonny lad.’
Stan stared. ‘How do you know? Smoke ’em under the bedcovers, hey?’
Sid shook his head. ‘My grandda used to save his pennies and have one every Christmas. We had to sit on his knee while he showed us how to light it without the flame touching the cigar, so it were just the heat that got it going, and then how to sort of sip at it, not take a bliddy drag. That’s right, isn’t it, Ralph?’ He looked at the lad in the bed and murmured, ‘Aye, I haven’t thought of it for a bit, but it’s a good ’un. I can remember the smell, the feel of his arm around me. I liked me grandda, right enough.’
On they chatted, taking turns to hold his hand or pat his arm. Viola spoke of her plans for confetti cutting and colouring with the children, and perhaps teaching them the saxophone. ‘But your Da will have told you this.’
Ralph lay motionless, a smaller bandage around his head and his bandaged leg under a raised cage that kept the weight off the gashed calf. Fran reached out, and held his hand, and there it was, rather more than a tremor, almost a flicker. She squeezed, saying quietly, ‘I’m grateful to you, Ralph, for your words to me at Sarah’s wedding tea, because my dreams are improving. We’re all grateful to you for sacrificing yourself instead of hitting the bus, but, lad, it’s time to stop laying about like Cleopatra and get yourself back to Auld Hilda, eh. And ’tis as well you know I have a bone to pick with Viola, for she knows the confetti making will annoy the vicar.’
Viola laughed, and took over again, talking about Eva’s card and holding his hand, feeling at home by his side, his hand lying in hers. ‘Ah, and Fran’s right, I reckon the confetti will be Reverend Walters’ worst nightmare, for he’ll have to clear the churchyard of it. But Eva wants a pile, so a pile there will be. But whether we throw it is another matter.’ She was watching his face and Fran laughed again, as Viola noticed how much his hair had grown.
‘By, our Ralph,’ she went on, ‘wait till I tell the bairns that you need a haircut. You see, I work and live in the Hall now, so never fear, I will make sure they’re not hiding scissors and a pudding bowl when I bring them Friday.’ She laughed quietly, then felt him squeezing her hand.
Had she imagined it? She squeezed back, and checked his face, – his eyelids were trembling. ‘Hush,’ she called. ‘Can you see his eyes? Quick, someone get Sister Newsome.’
Stan came to stand by the pillow, peering down, and then Ralph opened his eyes and looked into Stan’s. Viola stood. He looked at her. She still held his hand. He squeezed. His eyes closed.
Sister Newsome hurried in. Viola said what had happened. Stan confirmed it. They were shooed from the room, and Sister Newsome pressed a button. They heard a bell sound along the corridor. They waited outside, Sid still holding the cigar. Dr Wilson hurried past. ‘Smoke it, or ditch it,’ he rasped, his stethoscope swinging as he whirled into the side room.
The door shut behind him. They all sat, and only Sid smoked. After five minutes, Sister Newsome and Dr Wilson came out, deep in conversation. Dr Wilson smiled when he saw they were all still there. ‘Go in again. He’s back in the world he’s been inhabiting, but now we feel he’s on his way home. Highly satisfactory. I wasn’t looking forward to confessing to the co-op, or you lot, that there would be no progress, ever. I think I would have been rousted fairly comprehensively, but you might want to tell your mother, Fran, the good news. I will telephone the family.’
Viola was first back in the room, wanting to see Ralph’s eyes open again, and for him to look into hers. But he lay as before. She didn’t mind, for he had smiled, or his eyes had, his grip had been firm, his hand warm, and he had woken, for her. For that’s what she believed and her heart twisted, just as it had done on their first visit. She watched him and listened to Stan talking to Ralph now, telling him that Albright had him down for sorting the coal on the surface screens when he cho
se to shift his arse, and there it was again, that sort of pang, a twist.
She sat with her hands in her lap, realising only now what her mam had meant when she said that the first time she met Viola’s father, her heart had flipped over. They shook hands and something had passed between them, even before they knew one another’s names. It was love.
Sarah was describing the dresses, ending with, ‘… though why you’d be interested in dresses, Lord knows, but Sister Newsome’s word is law.’
Stan passed the cigar to her. ‘You’ve made the end wet,’ Sarah complained, waving the smoke away.
Beth leaned over, looking at Ralph, holding his hand again. ‘Why does the smell of cigars make you feel safe, bonny lad? For me it is the smell of me mam’s baking, and everything about her.’
Sid nodded, taking his turn with the cigar, then passing it on to Norm. ‘What makes me feel safe is spending an hour or two at the Canary Club with me marrers, where there is the smell of the seed. Makes me think of my da and his canaries. Howay, just talking about it brings to mind sitting on the upturned barrels, and all of us being there. And there were my grandpa, of course, but I’ve told you this already. Aye, I miss the old devil.’
Viola reached forward again and gripped Ralph’s arm. ‘For me, it’s music, singing, the saxophone, oh aye, and the smell of a roast chicken in the range, and people round the table. I reckon Mrs Hall cooks the best chicken, but that’s just for specials. Mrs Hall does a lot, doesn’t she? Nursed you when you were poorly, and now she’s set up the rota, but she divint make us sign up. We all want to come. Massingham people want to.’
It was Beth’s turn for a ‘sip’ of the cigar, as Norm called it. She sipped, coughed and passed it on, pulling a face. Fran grimaced, but took it. ‘Must I?’
Viola insisted. ‘It’s for Ralph, so stop being picky and take a sip.’
Fran did, and thought she’d burned her mouth. She passed it over the bed, the ash falling on Ralph’s blankets. Beth brushed it off. As she did so, they saw his good leg move. Or did it?
They all fell silent, then Sarah said, ‘The thing is, Ralph, if you’re not at the wedding, Eva will have a word or two to say, so best you stop slouching and come back to us, eh? You think of the smell of the cigar, think of why you like it, for that safety is still here.’
They all stared at his leg. Perhaps it hadn’t moved? Perhaps it was their imaginations? Viola left to find Sister Newsome, who popped her head back in and took his pulse, looking round at them all, her grin wide. ‘We’re on the way. If he opens his eyes again, come for me.’ She checked the watch pinned to her uniform. ‘Best you be on your way. Nip and see Sandra first. The news is confirmed that she’ll have limited sight in that eye, but she’s remarkably stoic. But then, you lot are.’
Sister Newsome raised her voice. ‘Your marrers are off, bonny lad. You’ll be seeing them at home any day now.’
She beckoned them all out, snatching the cigar from Norm’s hand. ‘I’ll have that. Dr Wilson is partial to a puff.’
Sid was the last to leave, herding Beth out before him. ‘You’re a hard woman, Sister Newsome.’ He raised his voice. ‘Don’t you let her get the better of you, Ralph, lad. We need you home in one piece for the wedding, and this woman bites. So, make your escape, eh.’
They headed towards the women’s ward, but Meryl and Sandra’s Auntie Gertie were by her bed. They saw the girls and waved them in, while the lads stayed in the corridor. Sandra was buoyant because she’d thought she’d lose the eye completely. She gripped Beth’s hand. ‘Trust me, losing Bob won’t be as bad as you think. Things aren’t. Don’t know why, they just aren’t. There’s always a way through, lass. Besides, I’d rather be in sewing, saves me getting that bliddy rash.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The days in the lead-up to Thursday, 2 April, sped by. It was the day before Good Friday, and the only one Davey and Daniel’s loss could be covered by two extra decoders, so the Factory had followed suit, with the stipulation that Easter Sunday would be a working day. As for the stemming, Mr Swinton was true to his word and made sure the girls were no longer in that workshop.
Instead, they swung between the detonators and pellets. Each day, it seemed, the yellow subsided a little, the itching too, but not enough, never enough, and on the bus to and from the Factory, they scratched, laughed, talked about the wedding tea, the decorations for the Miners’ Club hall, Ralph and Sandra, and prayed, absolutely prayed, that there’d be no bombing of Davey’s train line, or an emergency at his ‘place’.
It seemed to Fran and Sarah that Beth was slowly accepting the loss of Bob. And the quietness of their friend became something they accepted as the excitement mounted. On 24 March, Ralph was moved to a rehabilitation unit to regain the use of his muscles, and improve his co-ordination and general awareness. His telephone calls to Massingham Hall were less hesitant, his understanding more complete, and Viola found herself rushing to answer the phone just in case it was him, and they would talk of the children, of his exercises, of the calf muscle that had been sewn back together and was healing, though it was still weak and stiff, and then she’d pass him to Sophia, who was still very tired, or Reginald, who was still busy and seemed to have endless meetings, some with Professor Smythe.
She told Ralph this, and Ralph said, ‘Poor old boy, he’s had a bad chest.’
‘Who?’ Viola said, puzzled, because Reginald had been really well.
There was a pause, and then Ralph muttered, ‘Oh, Professor Smythe. He popped in, you know how he does. Always seems to be here, there and everywhere.’
All this Viola told the girls when she met them at Fran’s house to be fitted for her bridesmaid’s dress. For the girls and the co-op, it seemed a period of calm, even with the increasing but happy pressure of the wedding.
On Tuesday, 31 March, Fran expected to be able to bring her dress home on the bus, but Mrs Oborne shook her head when Fran hurried to the sewing room during the meal break. ‘Not today, but tomorrow, Fran. I want to re-sew your hem, for the stitching’s snagged.’
The next day, Fran and the girls hurried along to the sewing room at the end of the shift, and then rushed to the bus with their dresses carefully folded in hessian bags. As they carried them above their heads along the aisle, the other Factory girls clamoured to see them, making Fran laugh and shake her head. ‘No, not a chance.’
At that point Maisie stepped into the aisle. ‘Hush your noise, daft things. You take one step towards those bags and you’ll have me to deal with.’
They set off, the dresses safely stored in the rack above the seats. As they drove away, Bert yelled, ‘Aye, you leave the biggest bag alone. What’s Tilly Oborne ever done to you? It’s my life she makes a bliddy misery.’
Everyone laughed, Beth too, but it was that same thready, strained sound they had come to accept as normal. Or almost. Fran smiled at her, whispering, ‘I so want to show you, but I canna or me mam’ll go mad. Bad luck, she says. The marriage won’t last, she says.’ Fran stopped, closed her eyes. ‘Oh Beth, I didn’t—’
Beth laughed loudly, far too loudly this time. ‘Aye, well, I reckon our Bob must have had a peek at mine, eh, and it doesn’t matter, not a bit, Fran. I never think of him, ’tis not worth the effort, eh? But I think of your big day, and it brightens my world.’
Sarah leaned forward. ‘It does, Franny. As for you, Beth, you’re a trouper, a bliddy trouper, and we love you. You just go from day to day, step by step, and sometimes we forget how brave you are, but we don’t, not really, not deep down.’
The three of them sat back, looking down the bus, their arms linked, and Fran couldn’t bear it for Beth and wanted to beat Bob around his lugs, for Beth had heard nothing from him and didn’t know what was happening. The good thing was the allotment of Bob’s pay was still coming through to her, though Beth felt the bairn should have it when things were sorted. Sorted? Beth always stopped at that point, tailing off. Perhaps she still hoped that the silence meant Bob was reth
inking, but, thought Fran as they left Sledgeford, the child would always be there, in the background, and so too the nurse. What a mess it was.
The thought of the bairn made Fran think of Daisy and her bairn. According to Davey, who had heard from Daniel, who had heard from his father, the girl had contacted no one, written no letters, and certainly not to Fran, but it was better that way. For, much like Amelia, Daisy had caused too much trouble. However, it appeared that Amelia had had her comeuppance, for at the start of the week, Miss Ellington had shared with them that Amelia had received a warning about loose talk, following on from Gaines’s report. Any repetition would result in her dismissal.
Fran sighed, wishing the girl had been sacked straight away, but at least she didn’t take their bus now, she simply worked her nine-to-five shift and had stopped strutting about on those high heels as though she was Queen of the Nile.
The bus trundled on, and the further they went from the Factory the greater her excitement grew, for tomorrow she would become Mrs Bedley and this evening Davey would be here, though of course she wouldn’t see him. Everyone was singing ‘Night and Day’ and she joined in, and then they went into ‘A-Tisket, A-Tasket’. The girls linked arms, and now Beth was singing too. They sang and sang until they reached Massingham, and then collected their dresses and carried them along the aisle again.
As they headed down the steps, Bert called, ‘I’ll be there to take you all to the wedding, or the guests anyway, and bring you back, as well as eat my sandwiches you’ll have put to one side, our Franny.’
His laughter followed them down the pavement, the women’s good-luck calls also carrying to them, and they walked together from the bus talking of Davey’s call yesterday evening, so full of excitement and longing to see her. They left Fran at the back gate and she almost ran across the yard, then double-backed to say hello to the hens, before running again into the kitchen.