THE TYNESIDE SAGAS: Box set of three dramatic and emotional stories: A Handful of Stars, Chasing the Dream and For Love & Glory

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Mark tried to shout at them, ‘Where’s Skippy − Billy Jackson?’ But suffocating smoke was filling his lungs and rendering him speechless. He stumbled forward, disorientated in the half-dark and dizzy from smoke and fear at what he witnessed.

  On the point of giving up and turning to go, he heard someone cry out his name. Groping towards the sound, he caught sight of a stranger pinned under a girder. His flash hood must have been ripped off in the explosion, for his face was badly burnt. Then Mark recognised the terrified eyes.

  ‘Skippy!’ he gasped in horror.

  ‘Help me!’ his friend whimpered.

  Mark tore at the heavy girder like a madman, but could not shift it. He had to keep stopping for breath and it felt as if he was smothered in a heavy blanket, his actions slowed. All the time, Skippy’s unblinking look beseeched him to save him.

  ‘Shift, you bastard!’ Mark grunted as he threw all his might against the iron weight that pinned his friend to the deck. Unable to budge it, he looked around in panic and grabbed at a man staggering past.

  ‘Help me shift this!’ he gasped. But the seaman did not seem to hear him and carried on sightlessly. Mark felt a sharp pain in his hand and saw that the man’s smouldering overall had melted on to his palm. He winced at the burning sensation and turned back to Skippy, who was trying to say something. Mark leaned close.

  ‘Go!’ he was trying to mouth. ‘Bugger off!’

  Mark knew that if he did not do as his friend urged, he would die there with him in that hell-hole. The heat was unbearable and the black smoke swallowed up air like a hungry predator. Mark leaned forward and kissed Skippy. ‘I’m sorry!’ he sobbed in frustration. He thought his friend smiled, but it was difficult to know as his face contorted into a grimacing death mask.

  Then Mark was crawling along the deck where the smoke was not quite so thick, trying to find a way out. He wondered if he was going towards the fire, for the heat seemed even more intense and he could hear metal bolts blowing off and exploding like ammunition around him. Suddenly one caught him in the leg and he slumped forward, writhing in agony.

  He thought in panic that he was going to die after all and realised with a fierce yearning how much he wanted to live. Then someone was urging him forward in the smoky confusion.

  ‘There’s a hole in the bulkhead,’ the man said. ‘Keep crawling − follow me.’

  Mark could hardly see him, though his voice was familiar. He followed, dragging his throbbing leg. Suddenly there was a whiff of clear air in the dense smoke and Mark crawled towards it, gulping at its sweetness. Next he saw daylight through the gaping hole in the ship’s side, and heard the slosh of the sea twenty feet or more below.

  His energy was all but spent and his head swam with light-headed thoughts. Strangely, it was Jo’s face which came to him at that moment of half-fainting, half-consciousness. She was a girl again, swinging on the branch of a chestnut tree, grinning down at him.

  ‘Inflate your jacket!’ his rescuer ordered.

  Dazed, Mark did as he was told, wondering how he had the breath left to do so. His throat felt raw, but he managed the job.

  ‘Jump!’ the man shouted. Mark was suddenly paralysed with fear at the thought. The sea seemed so far away. He just wanted to lie down and close his eyes for a moment. ‘Jump, you bugger!’ came the voice again. Mark did not feel himself pushed, but the force of the seaman’s order stirred him. He crawled to the hole’s gaping edge, pulled himself up and jumped.

  The impact of the icy water on his scorched hands and face was agonising, yet brought him to full consciousness. He struck out in the water, away from the listing ship. His boots felt like lead weights and he did not seem to make any progress. Looking up, he could see the fire eating its way along the stricken vessel. High up, helicopters hovered, their blades beating in the dusk, the sun already retreating from the short afternoon.

  Mark glanced around for his rescuer, but he could see no one near by. Looking up at the black hole in the side of the ship, he watched for the other sailor to follow. No one else jumped. As he worried over the man’s disappearance, he became aware that he was sinking in the water. He must have failed to inflate his jacket sufficiently, for the weight of his clothes and boots seemed to be pulling him under. Water lapped around his ears and roared in his head. He felt a creeping numbness and knew he was drowning.

  As unconsciousness claimed him, Mark was suddenly aware of two things. In his mind’s eye, he could see Jo as clearly as if she bobbed next to him. ‘Race you to the end of the pool!’ she challenged, and started swimming. He splashed ineffectually after her, though he knew he was hallucinating. And as he fought against the frozen waters that tried to submerge him, it came to him that his rescuer was no stranger. He recognised the voice now, the familiar accent. It was Skippy’s.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was Alan’s birthday, and Jo had organised a meal out at an Italian restaurant in Jesmond. She had gone home briefly to shower and change, but had blasted the flat with a David Bowie tape while she got ready rather than listen to the news. Now that there was real war going on over the Falklands, she found herself listening anxiously to every news bulletin. She dreaded the telephone ringing in case it was her father with bad news of Colin − or Mark and Skippy. Jo still found it incredible that her brother and childhood friends were caught up in a war at all. It was something that happened in history, in Ivy’s generation, not her own.

  So on this day, Alan’s forty-first birthday, she was not going to spoil it for him with worrying about her brother. She put on a peasant-style red muslin dress that Alan liked, squirted on lots of musk perfume over her long hair and dashed out again. She had arranged for several of Alan’s friends to be at the restaurant as a surprise, one of whom, Frank, was to bring him there after he’d finished work.

  Alan was late arriving and Jo could tell he had been drinking somewhere first. They had delayed in ordering and the restaurant was now busy, Jo felt faint from lack of food.

  ‘Jo darling, this is wonderful!’ Alan gave her a beery kiss. ‘I didn’t think…’

  ‘Come and sit down,’ she smiled. ‘I’m starving − let’s order. Happy birthday, by the way!’

  More carafes of wine were brought to the table and soon the noise was deafening from the chatter and laughter. Finally the first course came and Jo munched hungrily at her plate of antipasto. The talk was of Alan’s latest production and the gossip surrounding some of the cast. Maya, Frank’s partner, knew everything about everybody. Jo joined in with anecdotes of her own and basked in how well the evening was going. So it surprised her when Alan squeezed her knee and asked, ‘You all right, girl?’

  Jo smiled at him quizzically. ‘Of course, why shouldn’t I be?’

  But he just patted her knee in relief. ‘That’s my Jo.’

  She might have thought no more about it, but for the look of warning she intercepted between Alan and Frank. The conversation flowed on around her and Jo did not want to question him in front of the others. Yet she felt he was keeping something back. She went off to the toilet. On her way back, she stopped at the bar and asked casually, ‘Has there been any news on the war, do you know?’ The barmaid gave her a blank look. ‘The Falklands?’ Jo prompted.

  ‘Oh, that!’ she said. ‘I did catch something before I came out; a ship sunk I’m afraid, lots of casualties they said.’

  Jo’s heart thumped. ‘Which ship?’ she asked.

  The girl frowned. ‘Don’t remember the name. Sorry. Do you know someone down there?’

  Jo gulped. ‘More than one.’

  ‘Sorry,’ the barmaid repeated, ‘terrible carry-on, isn’t it?’ Then she was serving someone else.

  Jo went straight to the payphone and dialled home, her heart thumping uncomfortably, but there was no reply. ‘Oh, God!’ she whispered, and tried Pearl’s number. Again it just rang out. If it was Mark’s ship, they might have gone to be with Brenda − or Ivy. Jo wondered which. She did not feel she could ring Brend
a, and Ivy was not on the telephone.

  Then suddenly Alan was standing over her. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked suspiciously.

  Jo looked at him guiltily, ‘Just ringing me dad to check…’ Then it dawned on her that Alan knew something and had not told her. She could tell by his face. ‘What’s happened?’ she demanded.

  ‘Come back to the table,’ Alan protested. ‘You’re spoiling the party.’

  ‘Tell me now!’ Jo replied, anger leaping inside. ‘You’ve heard something, haven’t you?’

  ‘I didn’t see any point in worrying you unnecessarily,’ Alan blustered, ‘when there’s nothing you can do.’ But her look made him relent. ‘Okay. There was a news bulletin in the pub; HMS Gateshead’s been hit. And a landing ship went on fire with troops on board.’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘They won’t say how many are dead.’

  Jo’s hands flew to her face. ‘Oh, no!’ she gasped. ‘Not Gateshead!’ She began to shake, unable to take it in. ‘And troops? What troops?’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Alan put a hand on her shoulder. ‘They were Welsh Guards.’

  For an instant, Jo felt a selfish wave of relief that it was not Colin’s outfit, then guilt gripped her at such a thought. The dead would be someone’s husband or son, someone’s heartache. She thought of her brother having to cope with the casualties. Then fear over Mark and Skippy engulfed her anew.

  ‘But Gateshead,’ she trembled, ‘I need to find out; there’s no reply at Dad’s or Pearl’s. That must be bad news, mustn’t it?’

  ‘No, it means they’re out, that’s all. Come on,’ Alan pleaded, ‘have another drink. We’ll ring them when we get back. There’s nothing we can do at the moment.’

  Jo felt torn between wanting to please Alan and yearning to be out of there. She went and sat down, but her mind was elsewhere and she could not join in their conversation. It all seemed so trivial now. To her annoyance, Alan invited their friends back for more coffee and drinks. While he poured out large brandies and Maya took over the coffee-making, Jo went to the bedroom to telephone. Finally her father answered.

  ‘I’ve just got in, pet,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Been down at Ivy’s.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Jo asked desperately.

  There was an agonising pause, then he said quietly, ‘Both Mark and Skippy are missing.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Jo moaned. ‘Oh, Dad!’

  ‘Ship’s sunk, but it doesn’t mean they weren’t picked up,’ he tried to reassure her. ‘Trouble is, survivors have been taken to different ships − it’ll take a while to account for them all. That’s why they can’t say for definite. Brenda’s mam’s been ringing the MoD for news. She’ll let us know when they hear anything more.’

  ‘What about Ivy?’ Jo asked, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.

  ‘Pearl’s stopping the night with her,’ Jack replied. ‘I said I’d go down as soon as there’s any news.’

  ‘I’ll come down,’ Jo said at once.

  ‘You don’t need to, pet…’

  ‘I want to. Dad,’ Jo insisted. ‘I want to be with you all.’

  ‘Well, go and keep Ivy company − she needs it most,’ Jack suggested wearily.

  Jo put down the telephone so he could not hear the sob that welled up in her throat. She thought of the inadequate, stilted letter she had composed for Mark after Ivy’s revelations, and then torn up and binned. In the end she had hurriedly bought two postcards of Wallsend library, because the corner shop had no others; one for Mark and one for Skippy. The meagre good luck she had scrawled on each seemed so inadequate now. Why had she not managed something warmer and more encouraging? she wondered. Packing a bag quickly, she ordered a taxi and went through to tell Alan she would stay the night in Wallsend.

  ‘It’s not as if it’s your brother,’ he complained drunkenly. ‘Why do you have to be so dramatic? You weren’t even speaking to those boys before they left.’

  Jo winced at his brutal frankness. ‘I still care,’ she said tensely.

  ‘Obviously!’ Alan cried. ‘I wish you showed as much concern over me.’

  She gave him a look of impatience. ‘Sorry if I’ve spoilt your precious party, but you haven’t been bombed out of the sea.’

  Maya intercepted. ‘I understand. You just go. We’ll look after this old sod,’ she smiled. Jo thanked her. The taxi hooted outside, and she went without giving Alan a kiss, the knot of anger inside too taut.

  The taxi dropped her off at the top of Nile Street and she walked down in the half-dark. She loved June, when it never really got pitch black at night. There was still a child out riding his bicycle at twenty minutes to midnight.

  Pearl answered the door. Jo fell into her arms and they hugged silently. Ivy looked up from her vigil by the fire. Her face broke into a smile of relief. ‘Eeh, hinny, I’ve been thinking of you. I’m that glad you’ve come!’ Jo went to her and put her arms around her plump comforting shoulders.

  ‘So am I,’ Jo croaked with emotion.

  They sat up through the night, talking and drinking tea and dozing. Ivy refused to go and lie down and Pearl kept them going with awful knock-knock jokes. Her aunt looked exhausted, her eyes dark-ringed, and Jo realised what a strain the past day must have been for her, trying to keep Ivy’s spirits up.

  ‘Why don’t you go and lie down for a bit?’ Jo coaxed. ‘I’ll sit up with Ivy.’

  To her surprise, Pearl nodded. ‘I think I will − just for a bit. You’ll wake me…?’

  ‘Course,’ Jo smiled.

  ‘She doesn’t show it,’ Ivy said heavily after Pearl had gone, ‘but she carries the world on her shoulders, that one.’

  Jo was too tired and anxious to ask her what she meant. But as she dozed on the settee, she realised that Ivy was right: Pearl was the rock on which all the family leaned. She had been a substitute mother, a glamorous aunt breezing in with foreign presents, a confidante and friend. She cheered them up, told them off and made them laugh in equal measure.

  ‘She certainly carries us Elliots,’ Jo said wryly, her eyes already closed. Then she slept.

  ***

  It seemed only minutes later, though it must have been hours, when a sharp hammering on the door woke Jo.

  Ivy was already standing, making toast, when Jack burst into the room.

  ‘They’ve heard!’ he cried. His face was contorted in either misery or relief, Jo could not make out which.

  ‘Mark?’ Ivy croaked. Jack nodded, gulping hard. Jo could tell he was struggling to get his words out. She leapt up and went to hold Mark’s grandmother.

  Tears spilled down her father’s face. ‘They picked him out the sea,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘He’s injured − but alive!’

  Ivy let out a sob and sank on to the arm of the chair as if her legs had been felled. ‘Thank the Lord!’ she wept.

  Jo kept looking at her father as she hugged Ivy. ‘Injured?’ she asked softly. ‘How badly?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘They don’t know − or wouldn’t say. There was a fire on board − he’s suffered burns, they know that much.’

  Jo felt sick at the thought of Mark suffering and so far from home. Her father just stood there, clutching his hands, his face still twisted with emotion.

  ‘What is it, Dad?’ she asked in alarm.

  ‘Where’s Pearl?’ he said fretfully.

  ‘Lying down,’ Jo answered. ‘Shall I get her?’ Jack nodded, his chin wobbling again. ‘Dad, tell us,’ Jo pleaded, going to him.

  ‘It’s Skippy,’ he mumbled. ‘The Jacksons heard this morning and rang Brenda.’

  ‘Skippy?’ Jo fumbled for words. ‘Is he…?’

  ‘Aye,’ her father rasped. ‘He went down with his ship.’

  Jo put her arms around him and they hugged each other fiercely. ‘Oh, no!’ Jo sobbed. ‘Oh, poor Skippy!’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mark was moved from the ship which had picked him up to the hospital ship, Uganda, a converted P&O liner. He remembered little of being pulled from t
he sea, only that someone had come down on the helicopter hawser, risking their life to save him, for he had passed out and been on the point of drowning. Coming round on the deck, he was told, ‘You’re lucky we spotted you − just saw your arms splashing at the last minute.’ Then the medic had jabbed some morphine in his arm and he had blacked out again.

  Now he lay in a ward with other survivors, the smell of singed flesh and sweaty bodies making him nauseous. Nurses bathed his hands and the right side of his face in Savlon solution and treated his leg. At first he had gabbled in relief with the others, each giving their story of escape, high on their own adrenaline. When he heard that Sir Galahad had been bombed, he questioned some of the men who had come from it.

  ‘Me mate’s a medic with Field Ambulance,’ Mark said anxiously. ‘Were any of them on board?’

  ‘Yes,’ a young Welsh Guardsman confirmed through cracked lips. ‘But they got off before the attack. That’s why so many of us were caught − all the lads − still waiting for the medical stuff to be taken off first.’ His voice was bitter.

  Another one agreed. ‘So your friend should be all right,’ he told Mark kindly. But their stories of the horrific fire on the bombed Sir Galahad brought back his own nightmare memories of charred corpses and the smell of burning flesh and oil. How come he could smell it all as if he were still there? he wondered in horror.

  Once the euphoria of being alive wore off, his leg and hands throbbed with pain and kept him from sleep. The ship’s surgeon told him they would need to operate on his leg to save it as it was becoming infected. But on the way to the operating theatre there was a red alert. Suddenly everyone was running around putting on life jackets and shouting orders. Mark found himself being covered with pillows on the stretcher and the orderlies taking cover beside him. The memory of those last nightmare hours on HMS Gateshead came back to him with brutal clarity and he was paralysed with fear.