Wedding Bells on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  Making his way round the sofa, he sat down opposite them, leaning forward, but his father rose and stood with his back to the fire, gesturing to Sophia to remain seated. This was what always happened when Ralph was in trouble. It was Ralph who rose now, looking from Sophia to his father. ‘What’s wrong. What have you …’

  His throat was dry, not only from coal dust, but fear too.

  Sophia sprang to her feet. It’s like a game, Ralph thought. If I sit down, will they?

  ‘What?’ He knew he sounded fierce. He tried to smile, but failed.

  Sophia stood in front of her husband, facing Ralph, wringing her hands. ‘We have learned …’ She stopped. Began again. ‘It doesn’t mean we don’t love you any the less …’

  Had she found out that he had killed Bedley and Hall in Bell Seam? Had his father explained that Ralph was trying to make amends?

  Reginald took over, his eyes on his son, shaking his head in warning. ‘Let me, darling. Ralph, you are to have a brother or perhaps a sister. There.’

  Ralph looked from one to the other. ‘What?’ It was all he could find to say. His mind was racing. Were they adopting one of the children? How could they choose one? Eva, Abraham, Marty? ‘How can you choose just one?’ he asked. ‘It’ll have to be all the orphans.’

  They looked at one another, confused. Ralph continued. ‘Really, it can’t just be one, it would be too hurtful. I’ll help pay for them, but Sophia, you’re too tired—’

  ‘Oh, for the love of God,’ his father barked. ‘We’re pregnant.’

  Ralph let the words hang there, in front of him, and all he felt was utter relief. Sophia wasn’t ill. Not at all. And then anxiety took the place of relief. ‘But Sophia, you’re—’

  She put up her hand. ‘Stop. Other women have babies in their late thirties, of course they do. So can we please not discuss my age.’

  Ralph laughed, for in that moment he remembered that’s how Sophia had ticked him off when she was his nanny. Up would go the hand, like a policeman. He strode to her and took her in his arms. ‘You will be an exemplary mother, just as you were a nanny. But forget about me – what about the children? How have they taken it?’

  Sophia was patting his back and his father had made his way to the drinks table and was pouring brandy for Ralph and himself. He left it to Sophia to explain that they’d had to calm their fears of rejection.

  Ralph took his brandy and saluted Sophia, and then his father. ‘Couldn’t be more delighted, but only if, Sophia, you don’t do so much. I know we have Viola, but is that enough? Shouldn’t we try and find someone else, because the co-op will do what they can, I’m sure, but you’ll need another person to be here all the time. Besides, we only pay the little the co-op will accept for their help, and simply can’t impose more.’

  He sipped his drink and his father nodded. ‘I agree. The baby will be born in about seven months, so we need someone as soon as possible. Alfie is putting out feelers, and the co-op too. So, I think we can rest assured that everything will be resolved.’

  The three of them stood smiling at one another.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind, Ralph?’ asked Sophia.

  ‘Quite honestly, Sophia, what’s one more hooligan?’

  His father shrugged. ‘But it will impinge on your inheritance – I have to say that now.’

  Ralph knew that, of course, but if he couldn’t make the pits and factories work, then he deserved to be poor. He simply had to keep everything running properly, in the real Massingham manner, once his father was no longer able; not just for the family, but for the community. He had been thinking in terms of a co-op, some sort of workers’ shares in the business, but with a strong management core. That might work, but that was for the future. And that future must include not just the new baby, but those of the evacuees who needed a home.

  Sophia was kissing Reginald’s cheek. ‘Don’t be long, you have meetings tomorrow, darling.’ She kissed Ralph and almost floated from the room. Ralph and Reginald watched.

  His father raised his glass again. ‘That’s what you need, lad. A good woman.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ muttered Ralph, ‘but sadly, they don’t grow on trees, especially when I am what I am.’

  The telephone in the hall was ringing. His father raised a finger; his eyebrow lifted in enquiry. Ralph grimaced. ‘I’ll take it. It’s bound to be you-know-who.’

  ‘I’ll go on up. The less I know the better.’ While Ralph hurried for the telephone, his father replaced his empty goblet on the table, then crept past as Ralph lifted the receiver.

  Ralph put his hand over the mouthpiece and called softly, ‘Night, night, Daddy. Get as many hours in as possible, for soon you’ll be up on and off throughout the night, and let’s face it, you’re not in your late thirties.’

  His father’s laugh drifted back down as he climbed the stairs. ‘Enough of your cheek, sonny.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Ralph, ‘Massingham resid—’

  ‘It’s me, Ralphy boy. You’re better, then? On your feet, stick to hand when needed, and just in time for the wedding. All recovered except for that cut in your leg, which must be well healed by now. Been doing some exercises, I hear.’

  It was the call Ralph had been expecting. He played along because Smythe’s lot would be tapping the line. ‘Hello, Tim. Yes, back at work. Had to get my body fit, and someone mentioned a bit of a bruised brain, which had to settle down, if you see what I mean. Well, of course you don’t know what I mean, but any doctor will tell you.’

  Tim’s tone was cold. ‘Aye, and I’ll make it me business to find out. But there’re other things to sort now you’re back. Someone who used to blab about the Factory has been – shall we say – corralled. So, you’re going to have to listen long and hard, find another Factory girl who’ll be a source of information – one under stress will do. I heard there was one, until you and Sid used your fists. She’s on her feet now. That’s one possibility down the spout. Find another.’

  Ralph sighed. ‘I’ll keep my ears and eyes open.’

  ‘It’s late,’ Tim muttered, ‘and I’m too bliddy tired to think, but do that. You’re on the surface screens, but you can still hear things, and from Stan and his marrers. Pit and Factory – those are your areas, so get on with it.’

  Ralph’s grip on the receiver tightened. ‘Yes, I’m doing so, but any reason for the rush?’

  Tim, his voice cold, muttered, ‘I reckon your brain’s still bruised, for you know better than to ask questions. Just do as you’re bliddy well told.’

  Ralph wondered if he could grip the receiver any tighter. ‘Sorry, like you I’m tired.’

  He heard Tim breathe, ‘Got to go. I’ll keep in touch.’ The line went dead. Ralph replaced the receiver, rubbing his hands together, then wished he hadn’t, as the blisters from the shift set his teeth on edge.

  Ralph checked behind him and up the stairs, but for safety’s sake he carried his brandy into the study, closing the door. He snatched a quick look at the clock. Well, Smythe had said day or night if he needed to speak to him or Yeland.

  He asked the operator for the number. Yeland answered at the first ring. ‘Ralph?’

  ‘That you, Yeland?’

  ‘No, it’s the Fairy Queen. What can I do for you, Ralph?’

  Ralph relayed the conversation, adding, ‘I know you’ll hear it in due course, or perhaps listened as it happened. Either way, I asked a question. I could have kicked myself.’

  ‘Yes, we heard,’ said Yeland. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll expect you to be a bit dozy. Interesting that he knows that someone has been warned about blabbing. We know who it is. Interesting, too, that he knows about Beth. Someone in Massingham has eyes on you all, but who?’

  Yeland was speaking to someone else, quietly. Ralph couldn’t make out the words.

  ‘I’ll get back to you,’ Yeland said. ‘Don’t know where, don’t know when, as the song goes. Aft shift, aren’t you? Keep going. You’re doing fine.’

  ‘I will.’


  Click.

  Ralph carried his goblet into the sitting room and poured another brandy. He watched the glow fading from the embers. The loose mouth could only be Amelia. So, someone in the cell had eyes on things in the Factory, and in Massingham. He was pleased the curtains were drawn.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  One week later

  At four o’clock in the afternoon, Ralph was talking to his father in the study when the telephone rang. They looked at one another. Ralph sighed. ‘I do hope it’s not Tim.’

  His father shook his head. ‘It’s too early, surely. The little beggar usually phones about nine, or later.’

  The telephone was still ringing.

  As his father went to answer the phone, Ralph leaned back in his chair, trying to look relaxed, for he’d no news for Tim. He couldn’t hear anything on the screens, only lip-read, and there’d been no snippets, anywhere. Besides, if there was anything of real interest, he’d pass it to Smythe, not Swinton. Tim would only receive useless fragments.

  ‘Ah, it’s you, Auberon,’ said Reginald. ‘Yes, yes, Sophia is fine, blooming, in fact. Well, we think in the autumn.’ There was a pause. ‘Indeed, we will have to keep the little rascal well wrapped and the others under control, but don’t you worry, we have Viola, and we’re on the hunt for another lass.’ His father paused again, then laughed. ‘The co-op are on the case, God bless them. Yes, he’s here.’

  Ralph took the receiver from his father, who rose, but Ralph waved him down, saying, with his hand over the mouthpiece, ‘We have no secrets. Do stay.’

  Auberon was saying, ‘Are you there, Ralph? Just a quick call, since Yeland and I thought you should know the result of our own investigation into the roof fall And don’t panic, this is now a safe line. Just to say we have news that will be welcome to you, but in solving one issue, it opens the way for a bigger question. It seems there were two charges laid, yours and one other. Clearly, you could not be trusted to bring the whole lot down, for your charge wouldn’t have troubled a gnat’s house, but by having you commit the act, or at least thinking you had, Tim Swinton knew he’d have you over a barrel. The bonus of two surveyors being there, when it was thought they would work at night must have been a delightful additional gift for such a worm: Ralph Massingham, the murderer of two men.’

  Ralph listened, trying to make sense of what Smythe was saying, but the man was rattling on. ‘But no, it was a further charge two props along that was the widow-maker. This charge was laid, we assume by a pitman who actually knew what he was doing. It is he who is culpable. On his shoulders lies the tragedy. You were but a pawn in the game, a foolish one it must be said, but you are not a murderer.’

  Ralph was staring at his father, trying to absorb the words. He heard Auberon say into the silence, ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was all he could say, but then his mind raced on, and he added, ‘Nonetheless, I was prepared to commit sabotage, I knew—’

  Auberon’s sigh was heavy. ‘Oh, do grow up. You intended to bring down the roof, yes. They knew it was unlikely you would succeed – perhaps the timing would be wrong, the fuse wire too long, too short, or you would panic and not do it at all. So, they left the materials for you, as they said. You didn’t have the experience to know it would do little more than go pop, for there was barely any explosive in the stick of dynamite, our experts decided. I repeat, someone else did the deed. You were the sacrificial lamb should anything go wrong and questions be asked.’

  ‘I see, I see.’ Ralph did, at last. It was not he who had killed those two fine men. Yes, he was guilty because he could have, but, in fact, he hadn’t. What’s more, he was attempting in every way possible, even risking his own life, to destroy those traitors who would damage Britain. He stared at his father, who was looking at him intently. Ralph asked the question that begged to be answered: ‘The question is, who did?’

  ‘Indeed. We have a name. Just a floating name, which might be something, it might be nothing, but keep your eyes and ears open for anything you hear about an Eddie Corbitt.’

  Ralph felt his mouth drop open.

  ‘Have a good evening, Ralph. A really good evening. Put me back to your father. Ears open, now, and mouth closed, for I took a gamble in telling you this, knowing you might feel you could walk away from us.’

  Ralph laughed, feeling a million tons of grief lift from him. ‘You’d let me do that? Besides, there’s no way I’m walking away from these beggars. They must be stopped.’

  Smythe said quietly, ‘I can’t answer the first part, but I am pleased to hear the determination in your voice. Your father, please. I will tell him the news, if that is satisfactory?’

  Ralph smiled at his father. ‘Thank you. More than satisfactory. Here he is.’

  He handed over the receiver and hurried from the room, across the hall and down the stairs into the kitchen, because there was now someone he could see, talk to, kiss, walk with, eat with and not just long for, because he had killed no one.

  Viola was there, helping Sophia to clear the dishes while the children did their homework. He grabbed her hand, and dragged her out of the back door.

  ‘Mr Ralph, what are you doing?’ called Eva.

  ‘Not now, Eva. I’ll talk to you later. I have to ask Viola a question.’

  Viola was laughing as he pulled her up the steps into the late-afternoon sunlight of the yard. He turned, holding on to her hand. ‘I’ve not asked you out. I just felt I couldn’t. I had …’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter, but Viola, can we go to the Rising Sun for a drink, or spam fritters, or some other delight? Just the two of us, no children, no marrers, just us.’

  He waited for her answer to the question he felt he could now ask. Yes, he’d wanted to bring the roof down – then. He would rather die than do such a thing – now. But someone else had, not intending death, but it had happened. He, Ralph Massingham, would carry his mistake for the rest of his life, but he would spend that life making restitution.

  But Eddie Corbitt? He brushed the thought aside – for now. Only for now, because Viola was smiling at him. She reached up and laid her hand on his face. She said, ‘We laid our hands on your cheek after your accident, to let you know we were there and you were not alone. And you’re not now. For I’m here, and yes, I’ll come for a drink, but I just want to know why the bliddy hell you’ve left it so long?’

  He kissed her then, and her lips were soft and he knew that she was the person he could never be without. It was then they heard the whistle, and sprang apart. Alfie whistled again and called from the garage, ‘In front of the bairns, too.’

  They turned from him to the steps, and there they all were, with Eva in the lead, her arms crossed, shaking her head. ‘You took your time, Mr Ralph.’

  The three girls had been on the fore shift again, which they preferred, and the bus was quiet by the time they arrived back at Massingham at four. The bus juddered to a halt. ‘All disembark from the Skylark, if you please.’

  Mrs Oborne heaved herself up, the right side of her face still sore She’d been in the detonator workshop when a detonator had been dropped. This time, miraculously, no one was really hurt, it was just a bit of a flash.

  They’d heard the bang in the pellet section, and had waited. Miss Ellington had nipped in with the news that all was well, though Tilly looked as if she’d had a bit too much sun on her left side. Fran had stepped back, relieved, and brushed aside a strand of her streaked hair that was catching her face, near her eye. The SO Miss Jenkins had shouted too late, ‘No, Fran.’

  Fran had hurried to the water tank, annoyed with herself for such a basic mistake. Miss Jenkins was ready and bathed her eye and cheek clear of chemicals, then patted her dry with a threadbare towel. They stood together as Mr Swinton entered and saw them both. He’d called, ‘You all right?’ Fran had nodded and resumed her place. It was all in a day’s work, and, what’s more, a timely reminder to concentrate.

  Back in Massingham now, everyone que
ued to leave the bus and Mrs Oborne took her place at the end of the slow-moving crocodile. She glanced at the three girls still sitting on the back seat with Cyn Ellington.

  ‘Are you waiting there till Bert takes the charabanc to the depot?’

  ‘No,’ said Beth, ‘just waiting for the hoi polloi to leave a way clear for the princesses.’

  Tilly Oborne laughed. ‘That’ll be the day. Off you get or have your ears skelped.’

  Fran was up in a minute and hurried towards Tilly, hugging her. ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘We all do, and you need to get a bit of a tan on the other side, to even things up. It’s a great life if you don’t weaken, eh?’

  For a moment Mrs Oborne rested against her, and Fran felt her trembling. She hugged her tighter. ‘You need a drink of elderberry,’ she whispered.

  Mrs Oborne stepped away. ‘Howay, I need to bathe in it, like Cleopatra,’ she said, heading down the aisle at a trot.

  They followed, Beth calling, ‘That was asses’ milk.’

  ‘I have me own version,’ Tilly yelled. She drew level with the cab.

  ‘You take care of yourself, our Tilly,’ muttered Bert. ‘At least it weren’t your arse.’

  At that, the girls grinned at one another, for this was their world: narrow squeaks, worse ones, and the worst. This was almost nothing, so it was a good day.

  Mrs Oborne clipped Bert’s ear, and then again. ‘That’s because I can skelp you,’ she said. ‘For you’re a gentleman and canna skelp me back when I’m a wounded wee lass.’

  She eased herself down the steps. Bert looked at Fran. ‘You take care of her. Best bliddy harridan in Massingham, she is, and bliddy lucky into the bargain.’

  Fran squeezed his hand. ‘She was, and is, the best.’ They both laughed.

  Stan and the marrers were waiting on the pavement and it was only then that they realised Cyn wasn’t with them. ‘She’ll come. Dropped her pass,’ said Beth. Sarah walked into Stan’s arms, while Norm and Sid pulled Fran and Beth into the bus shelter, handing out cigarettes. Fran drew on her Woodbine, longing to be held by Davey, and Beth no doubt by Bob the Bastard.