The Ever Open Door

by Glenice Crossland

  ‘We’re lost, what are we going to do now?’ Daisy worried.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Norah consoled her cousin. ‘I can still see our banner. All we have to do is join in behind and hope Mrs Smith doesn’t notice our cornets.’

  By the time they reached the chapel, Daisy’s lovely new dress was stained all down the front, her bonnet strings stiff from hanging in the ice-cream. Even her socks were dripped on. However, the procession was over for another year so no one would care, and now for potted meat sandwiches and a yummy iced bun, followed by jelly – not quite set – and custard. By the time lunch was over no doubt a few of them would be feeling rather sick, Daisy included, but it was Whitsuntide so nobody cared.

  Sally could always expect some of her cousins to turn up on Whit Monday, so lunch would usually consist of sandwiches and pickles. Afterwards everyone would make their way to the sports field where games and skipping would be organised. The men, after a few pints to slaken the dust, would no doubt show themselves up in the sack race. The ladies would show off their stocking tops during the skipping games, and the children would have the time of their lives.

  After the relatives had made their way home, some to walk several miles, Sally’s best dress would be hung in mothballs, Jim’s suit pressed and put away for the next special occasion, be it wedding or funeral, and Daisy’s dress washed and ironed ready for next Sunday. Her blisters would be treated with Germolene and her shoes packed with damp paper to stretch them. The most exciting day of the year – apart from Christmas – would be over. It would perhaps be another year before Daisy tasted ice-cream again.

  In fact, it was banned altogether four months later, for the duration of the war. Daisy and Norah had sneaked one just in time!

  Chapter Seven

  CHARLOTTE KAYE WENT to the surgery on Tuesday morning. All she told Dr North was that she couldn’t sleep, not mentioning her dread of night-time or the hauntings. He prescribed something to help her sleep, and a tonic. When Mark arrived home she begged him once again to remove the panelling and take away the pictures.

  ‘All in good time,’ he promised. His wife had to be satisfied with that for now. When the clock struck one she simply reached for the sleeping pills and took another. Mark didn’t see her. He was in the other room, fast asleep.

  Ernest Denman was celebrating with a lime juice, triumphant that their raid over Cologne had destroyed two hundred factories. Being a Yorkshire man, he considered it fair retribution for Hitler’s bombing of the fifteenth-century Guildhall in York, a month earlier.

  Ernest was the life and soul of the NAAFI. It was only later, in the privacy of his bed, that he gave in and cried for the loss of comrades he had grown to love and respect for their friendship and courage. Ernest wanted to go home. He wanted his parents. He yearned to be back in Millington. This bugger of a war had gone on long enough and it wasn’t over yet, not by a long chalk.

  All Daisy’s class were moving to the juniors. They were waiting at the end of the infants’ corridor. Daisy and Carol waited together. They watched a class of junior children file out and into the next room. A teacher came out then and began calling names from a list. Daisy Butler was one of the first to be called and went to join a new line.

  ‘Now,’ said the teacher, ‘my name is Miss Moran, you will come with me. Your new form is 1A. The rest of you will wait here until your teacher comes. Your form will be 1B.’

  Horror of horrors, for the first time Carol and Daisy were separated! Daisy looked around her frantically and was relieved to see Jean, the girl with no toys, in the same line. They moved into their new classroom, apprehensive about this unknown teacher. Miss Moran turned out to be all right, though. Daisy studied hard and enjoyed the work, which seemed much more difficult than last year’s.

  On the other hand, she was filled with terror on approaching the assembly hall to see a buck and a horse in readiness for gymnastics, and a huge pile of mats for forward rolls. Her stomach lurched at the thought of more PT lessons, and she felt sick at the sight of all that apparatus. Apart from that, she enjoyed the juniors.

  Little Miss Broadway was on at the Palace. Pat was taking Norah and Daisy, who couldn’t wait to see Shirley Temple again. She had already seen Poor Little Rich Girl and The Little Princess. Shirley Temple was Daisy’s heroine. She had scrutinised herself in Mam’s wardrobe mirror and did indeed look like the film star, especially in her new frock. The first supporting picture was Abbott and Costello, and Daisy was so enthralled with the programme that she left her cardigan behind. It was brand new, knitted by Grandma Butler.

  Sally was livid with her. ‘You don’t value anything!’ she shouted at her daughter. ‘The trouble is, you get too much. You lose one more thing and there’ll be no more pictures, even if it is a Shirley Temple film.’

  The following Monday Daisy was skipping to school, swinging her shoulder bag in the air, when suddenly the press stud snapped open. The two-shilling piece destined for the Yorkshire Penny Bank flew out of her bag and rolled into a drain by the side of the footpath. Daisy looked down into the water but the coin had disappeared. She knew how angry her mother would be. Losing money was even worse than losing cardigans and pixie hats. Daisy knew she would be shouted at and then there would be no more visits to the cinema.

  She worried about it all day, then on the way home came up with a solution. If she entered the sum of two shillings in the bank book as usual, and copied Miss Moran’s initials in the margin, her mam would never know. Of course, if Sally had checked the entry in the book she would have recognised the childish writing, but she didn’t.

  It was Miss Moran, the following Monday, who noticed. Daisy had joined the savings queue, having forgotten all about the lost money by now. Miss Moran took one look at the book, checked it against her ledger and walked out of the room. After a short while she came back.

  ‘Go to Mr Bramwell’s room,’ she ordered Daisy.

  A visit to Mr Bramwell, known as Daddy Bramwell by the boys, was a rarity, reserved for exceptionally good behaviour or extremely serious trouble. Daisy realised it could only be the latter and felt she wanted to be sick as she tapped on the headmaster’s door.

  ‘Enter!’

  Daisy went in and stood white-faced before his desk. She could see a cane propped up in the corner and trembled as she wondered what a whipping would feel like. The ruler was bad enough, Miss Moran had rapped everybody across the knuckles one day when no one had owned up to drawing a picture of her on the blackboard. She was easily recognisable with her big nose and the wart on the end of it.

  ‘Right.’ Mr Bramwell glared from beneath his thick thatch of hairs combed forward in a fringe. ‘Who wrote this in your savings book?’

  ‘Me, sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I lost my money, sir.’

  ‘That’s no excuse for forgery.’

  Daisy wondered what forgery meant, it sounded very serious.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell your mother?’

  ‘I thought she’d be mad, sir.’

  ‘Of course she’d be mad, but not half as mad as she will be now.’ He began to write a note then handed it to Daisy.

  ‘Take that to your mother. I wish to see her.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, now.’

  Daisy ran all the way home before remembering her mother would be at Miss Appleby’s today. She couldn’t face Miss Appleby after the incident with the rabbit. Instead she went to Grandma Butler’s.

  ‘What’s to do, love?’ Amy knew something was amiss by the look on her grand-daughter’s face.

  ‘I want me mam but she’ll be at Miss Appleby’s. Can you fetch her for me?’

  ‘Not till ten. She’ll be at home still now, I should think.’ Daisy was off through the gap and across the field, desperate to find her mam and get back to school. She didn’t want to make things worse for herself by taking a long time over it. She handed the note to Sally, so out of breath she couldn’t speak. Sally enquired what
was wrong, but Daisy was already dragging her mother by the hand back towards the school.

  In his office Mr Bramwell told Sally to be seated. He explained what her daughter had done and asked why Daisy had been afraid to tell her mother about the lost florin. Sally told him she had no idea.

  ‘I hope you don’t think she has any reason to be afraid of me. I very rarely punish her since she very rarely needs it. Daisy’s not a naughty child usually.’ Then Sally thought about the incident at Miss Appleby’s and wondered what possessed her daughter at times.

  Mr Bramwell stared hard at Daisy. ‘Did you really lose the money or did you spend it?’

  ‘No, sir, I lost it down a grate on the estate.’

  ‘Well, what you have done is extremely serious. If you were older you would be in grave trouble. However, since you are usually a quiet, well-behaved and studious child, we’ll say no more about the incident. Go back to your class – and do not forge anyone’s signature ever again!’

  ‘No, I won’t, sir.’ And Daisy was off along the corridor before he could change his mind. Miss Moran never mentioned the incident again. Daisy dreaded hometime, though, afraid her visits to the Palace would be at an end. They were.

  When Sally paid another visit to Danny Powell, she was gratified to see his face light up at the sight of her.

  ‘Eeh, lass, come in.’ He hobbled over on his crutches to let her in and went back to his kitchen chair. ‘I’ve just been sat ’ere thinking about when your little lass come to me aid. I should ’ave been laid theer still if she ’adn’t fetched yer.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad she did. Anyway, how are you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m right enough. I told yer, I’m as fit as a fiddle, I am.’

  ‘You must be. Some folk would have ended up with pneumonia, lying there for two hours.’

  ‘Not me, though.’

  ‘Has anybody been? The Salvation Army lady?’

  ‘No, only the lass from the Co-op wi’ me rations.’ He indicated the door that led into the pantry. The rations were arranged on a shelf amongst an odd assortment of tools. The whole pantry looked more like a junk cupboard, containing as it did a stepladder, old rolls of wallpaper, a fishing rod and a rolled-up tent.

  ‘Hasn’t she brought you any vegetables or meat?’

  ‘Aye, some corned beef and some sausages – I expect they’re more bread than meat, though. I don’t bother with vegetables.’

  ‘Well, you should, they’re good for you.’

  Danny laughed. ‘I’m good enough, wi’out vegetables!’

  ‘Would you like me to tidy up for you?’

  ‘Eeh, lass, I don’t want to be a nuisance …’

  ‘You won’t be, it won’t take me long.’ Sally washed up, using the wire wool she’d brought, then she mopped the floor and scrubbed the oilcloth-covered table. ‘Do you always sit in the kitchen?’ she enquired.

  ‘Oh, aye. It’s warmer in ’ere.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in an easy chair?’

  ‘Aye, I would, but it’s not easy moving furniture wi’ me leg.’

  ‘I could do it, though.’

  ‘Nay, lass, it’s no job for a woman.’

  Sally went to the door she guessed led to the sitting-room.

  ‘Do you mind if I go through?’

  ‘Nay, lass, go wherever yer like.’ Danny grinned. ‘It’s all’t same to me.’

  Sally thought the room could not have been used for years. It smelled of mildew and felt freezing cold. There were, however, some lovely pieces of furniture there and a leather-covered three-piece suite. She went back to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m going to bring a comfortable chair in here for you.’ Sally moved the table from the middle of the room to beside one wall, and carried two of the kitchen chairs in to the other room. Then she struggled with one of the easy chairs and manoeuvred it into the kitchen.

  ‘Don’t you go lugging heavy things about or yer’ll end up wi’ piles!’ Danny sounded most concerned for her. Sally just smiled and wondered what he would come out with next. She placed the chair to one side of the fire. ‘There, how’s that?’ She fluffed up the cushions and a cloud of dust pothered out, so she took them outside and beat them before placing them back in the chair. ‘Come on then, let’s have you settled before I go.’

  Danny rose up on his crutches then sank down in the chair by the fire.

  ‘Eeh, lass, that’s a comfort to me owd back.’

  Sally smiled. ‘Good. Now let’s sort you out something to eat …’

  ‘Nay, I can manage me food, lass. It wouldn’t be good for me, sitting on me arse all day.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Tha’s done more than enough for one morning.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be going then. I’ve to go to Ida Appleby’s at ten.’

  ‘Ida Appleby, off Potters Row?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know her?’

  ‘Know ’er? I used to fancy ’er before I met my lass. Eeh, Ida Appleby. Smartest lass in Millington, she was.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, ah. Could ’ave ’ad pick of all’t lads in Millington, and she ’ad to get lumbered wi’ Doug Fletcher. Still, I blamed her father.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Rottenest bugger in’t place … pardon me language but ’e were. It was said ’e used to beat her black and blue.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh, aye, and her mother.’ Danny looked thoughtful. ‘I expect Doug Fletcher were nice to ’er so she fell for the first one who were. A good-natured lad were Doug … if ’e could ’ave kept his cock under control.’

  Sally bit her lip to prevent herself from giggling. ‘Well, I’m going now.’

  ‘Here, let me pay yer.’ Danny felt in his pocket and brought out a huge wad of notes. He offered two to Sally.

  ‘No! I don’t want paying.’

  ‘Well, when you come again, we’ll sort summat out.’

  ‘I will come and see you again, but I won’t want paying.’ She went to the door.

  ‘Give Ida my love, will yer?’

  ‘I will.’ But she wondered what Miss Appleby would have to say to that.

  Sally was so taken aback by the sight of Ida she forgot all about Danny’s message. Today she was dressed in her best frock and her Cuban-heeled shoes.

  ‘Well! You look nice. Is it a special occasion?’ Sally asked.

  ‘I’ve decided I’m going down Millington.’

  ‘What? To the shops?’

  ‘Aye, if yer don’t mind taking me?’ Ida powdered her nose in front of the mirror. ‘I want some more library books.’

  ‘I can bring those for you.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve read most of the ones you bring. Besides, I want to go to Whitaker’s and get me shoes soled and heeled.’

  ‘Right, I’ll not take my coat off then, if we’re going out again.’

  ‘Can yer fetch me my handbag?’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Under the edge of me mattress. It’s safe there.’

  Sally fetched the handbag and Ida’s coat, which hadn’t seen daylight for months, if not years. She looked at the fancy shoes. ‘Don’t you have any flat ones? It’s quite a walk down the hill and back again.’

  ‘Aye, yer might be right, I’ll wear me flat heels. Although if we go along St George’s, it won’t be as steep as the Donkey Path.’

  ‘Right.’ Sally helped her on with her coat and off they went. Ida never once complained about her legs and chatted all the way down to the main road. Sally couldn’t believe the change in her. The strain of trying to cover up the secret of her illegitimate son must have been more than the poor woman could bear. No wonder she had been so embittered. If Danny Powell was right, she must have suffered terribly when she was young, and the relief of it all being out in the open must be tremendous.

  ‘I could do with a cup of tea,’ Ida said after they’d chatted to Mr Whitaker and exchanged the library books.

  ‘There’s a litt
le cafe down the hill by the smithy, but it’s mostly used by the steelworkers.’

  ‘I don’t care who it’s used by so long as they sell tea.’

  ‘Right, let’s go and have a look.’ Sally was surprised to see that the cafe had started doing a wartime lunch for a shilling, consisting of roast beef, roast potatoes and peas, followed by gooseberry tart and custard.

  She thought the rough and ready atmosphere would have put Ida off, but she only said, ‘Well, now we’re here we might as well have our dinners.’ While they were eating, Ida said, ‘I’m going to come here again when I fetch me shoes back. Will yer come with me? Just till I get used to coming out again. I’ll pay.’

  ‘You don’t need to pay. It’s just that I won’t get much cleaning done if I’m sitting in here.’

  ‘Oh …’ Ida waved her hand in the air ‘… forget about the cleaning. I’ve wasted enough of me life worrying about things that don’t matter, life’s too short to be bothering about stuff like that. You’re making an owd woman happy by just being me friend.’ She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye then. ‘The Lord knows, I haven’t many. Never did have. Me father never let me make any friends.’

  ‘Why not? That’s terrible.’

  ‘He was jealous of anyone me or me mother spoke to, and if I wanted to meet anyone it had to be in secret. He wouldn’t even let me go to work. Thank God he died when I was seventeen!’ She looked Sally in the eye then. ‘Oh, don’t look so shocked. He only got what he deserved.

  ‘He’d bullied a young lad unmercifully, a lad in his employ. The lad’s brothers found out and waited for him one dark night. They beat ’im up and dumped ’im in the stream down the Donkey Wood. By the time ’e was found, ’e was dead as a dodo. When the constable came to tell us, my mother breathed a sigh of relief. She asked if he was sure that my dad was dead, and when he said he was afraid so, my mother said, “Thank God for that!” That’s when I went to work at the White Hart. I loved working there … all the lads fancied me. Well, I weren’t bad-looking at that time.’