by Annie Clarke
‘Got an eyeful, have yer, Franny?’ Mrs Wilks said.
Fran came back to the present. ‘Sorry, I was just thinking …’
‘Aye, we heard your Stanhope were on his way back. Bit of a facer for yer da, I ’spect.’
‘Oh aye, more than a bit. I could strangle the beggar, Stan, not me da.’
Bert was driving down Main Street and then out into the countryside, leaving Massingham behind. They winced as he bumped in and out of the potholes. Everything was as usual, but then again it wasn’t. What was Sylv doing, and her bairn not yet two? And what about Stan? Had he left Oxford and its spires yet?
Fran sighed and stared ahead, thinking again of Mrs Wilks’s innards, then the canaries in the shed, and remembered the day her da had sold his pigeons and gone over to canaries, as Tom had done. He and Tom Bedley were like twins, so if one did something, the other followed. It was Tom who’d sold up his pigeon loft first, saying it was too much of a do to take them out in their baskets to the start of the race, and then wait for them to return and clock them in.
As Sarah said, it wouldn’t have bothered him if he’d got a good racer, but he hadn’t, and the pair of them had laughed because neither had Franny’s da. The two marrers had then joined forces with Simon Parrot. They made a bit of money, breeding and selling them on.
Would that happen to the pit ponies, too, one day, when they weren’t used any more? Would the pitmen who ran them, and who looked after them on their summer holidays, buy them up and keep them bankside to gallop, toss their heads and generally live in clover?
At Sledgeford, Beth clambered on with a wide smile. Sarah turned and smiled at Fran, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Fran sighed, and watched as Beth headed for her, knowing Sarah was worried that Beth and Stan might spark up again. Where would that get anyone? Nowhere, except pain and chaos all round, and it seemed to be niggling at Sarah like an open wound.
Amelia followed, and then Valerie with her thumbs up for all to see. For a moment Sarah and Fran were puzzled and then Valerie shouted, ‘Me mam’s taking in Amelia.’
Mrs Oborne shouted, ‘No more shoe-leather suppers for her, then. But maybe she should have stuck it out and started a cobblers?’
They set off again and the sing-song began – of course it did. In spite of Jimmy dying and Sylv being hurt, the world had to go on, and the work too. Fran sang to stop the thought of Stan in the pit, as though it wasn’t bad enough with her da and the lad she loved being down there already. And what about Sarah, Beth and all the other friends who handled explosives? Whichever way any of them turned, there was—
Beth nudged her. ‘Sing up, pet. We need your voice today of all days.’
Fran sang and soon she thought of Stan back in the gang, and the beck that they must go to tomorrow, as they were all off work. Should she ask Beth to cycle over from Sledgeford? But that decision had to wait.
She began to hum and, tucking her arm in Beth’s, the two of them stood and swayed to the rhythm of ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’. Maisie and Sarah rose as well, and soon all of them were singing, with Bert hooting from time to time to keep them company.
In Oxford the same day, Stanhope Hall slung his carpet bag over his shoulder, feeling it thud across his back. He loped down the last flight of the stairs leading to the Porters’ Lodge. The door into the quadrangle was open and the early-morning light flooded in. The air in Oxford was clean and clear; standing in the doorway, he drew in a great lungful, enough to last for as long as the war. He then smacked on the porters’ bell. Mr Carter came from the back, where he had been sorting the letters that had arrived. He took Stan’s keys and said, ‘Good luck to you, Mr Hall. You take care now.’
Stan smiled. ‘Thanks for all you’ve done, Mr Carter. I hope your son makes it through – keeps his head down, in other words.’ He left some pound notes on the counter.
‘That’s uncommonly civil of you, sir, but I think you might be needing these yourself.’ Mr Carter pushed them back. ‘And may I say that in that colliery of yours, I hope you keep your head down, and don’t knock it against anything sharp. I have to say I admire you, and it’s Oxford’s loss.’
Stan tipped his cap, picked up two pounds and left two. ‘Let’s divvy it up, eh. Your words are kind, but I’ll see you again when this lot is over.’
Mr Carter smiled. ‘I’ll be here, sir, never fear. Perhaps you’ll have the same room.’
Stan grinned. ‘You never know. Must go, I have a train to catch and then a sister to beard. Right angry she is an’ all. Thinks I should have told Mam and Da meself, or so Davey, her lad, warned when he rang me last night to confirm I was coming, and hadn’t changed my mind.’
Mr Carter laughed. ‘The female of the species tend to take their pound of flesh, Mr Hall, then forgive you.’
Stan nodded. ‘This one will certainly take a great mouthful, but as for forgiving … The jury’s out on that.’
He waved, turned and headed out without a backward look, mostly because he felt sick every time he moved his head. This morning the green of the lawn seemed brighter than ever, the lavender in the corner beds still buzzed with bees and the central fountain trickled. It reminded him of the beer he had sunk with Professor Smythe, but he needed to get back in training if he was to go not only to the club after his shift but down Auld Hilda too and not make a fool of himself before his marrers, Sid, Norm and Davey. Something struck him then. That’s if they still were his marrers? He’d walked away … The thought bothered him far more than leaving this place.
Last evening, Professor Smythe had insisted on pint after watery pint to thank Stan for being his wingman, as he was wont to put things now his son was in the RAF. Stan strode through the arch to his left and along the gravel drive, forcing himself to appear fine while it felt like a sledgehammer was destroying his skull from inside. The Oxford wind was battering his sinuses into the bargain too. It was a hangover the likes of which he hadn’t had since he’d staggered home from the Miners’ Club every Friday night, only to wake in the morning wishing he were dead.
He reached the road, grateful that the prof had not only paid him for his vacation work, but had rammed £10 into his hand as they separated outside the pub, saying, ‘You’d better return to us, Stanhope Hall. You’re bound for a first if I know anything about anything. Shame to let it slip away, eh? Think of me when everyone’s back for the Michaelmas term including the freshers, expecting praise just for breathing.’
Stan was about to cross the road and head for the bus stop when a red roadster swept towards the kerb and screeched to a halt in front of him. The wheel arches gleamed, and Ralph Massingham’s white teeth weren’t far behind. Stan sighed. They’d managed to avoid one another since they’d started at Oxford in the same year, as they were at different colleges, so what did the jumped-up bugger want?
Stan checked his watch, then half saluted Ralph, who had a case strapped to the rack on the sloping rear of the two-seater, open-topped monster, whose engine he hadn’t yet cut.
‘’Ow do?’ Stan said.
There was something about the son of the mine owner that still, after all the years he’d had the misfortune to know him, set Stan’s teeth on edge and made him more of a Geordie pitman than ever.
Ralph drawled, in a way that made Stan want to punch out his perfect teeth, ‘Good morning to you, Stanhope. I heard you were heading off about now so I parked further along and waited out of the way of a delivery van for some considerable time, I might add. You see, I have a better idea for you than the train. It’ll save you a fare, which no doubt will be a source of relief to you.’
Stan shook his head. ‘I’ve booked.’
Ralph’s flashing smile faltered.
Just then, from further up the road, they heard, ‘Hello … I say, hang on.’ Both turned as Professor Smythe waved frantically from about thirty yards up the slope. ‘Still here, Stan, no chocks away as yet? Good. Good. You see, I meant to say last night …’ Professor Smythe broke into a trot, but pedalle
d back to a walk almost immediately, which was a relief because the old boy’s stomach was stressing his waistcoat buttons.
Stan smiled, pleased to see this man again, a man who had nurtured him since his arrival. It was part of Smythe’s duties as Mr Massingham’s scholarship liaison officer, but he’d gone above and beyond. Apparently, he’d been given that duty because he and Massingham were members of the same club in London and, like Reginald Massingham, Smythe was passionate about the fulfilment of potential, no matter what the background. Somehow, the professor had the ability to make his scholarship boys feel like they were on a par with any one of the privileged students, and in a very short time they all came to love and respect his incisive mind, foibles and all.
‘Oh God, not Father’s bumbling chum,’ Ralph muttered. His remark incensed Stan and he hurried to meet Smythe, his carpet bag banging as he ran; eager as much as anything to get some distance between him and Ralph.
Professor Smythe stopped, pressing his hands on his knees and panting. When Stan arrived, he straightened. ‘Splendid, my boy, saves me toiling all the way down and spending more time than I need to with that totally irritating whelp of dear Reginald’s. His mere presence on this earth is a great waste of oxygen and one wonders how he can be so unlike his father. The apple has undoubtedly fallen far, far from the tree on this occasion. It’s the car I recognised – can’t see the visage under that tweed cap. Such a large peak, don’t you think? Indicative of rather a small … Well, let’s leave it there.’
‘What can I do for you, sir?’ Stan murmured, trying not to smile and mindful that time was passing and he needed to catch the train.
Professor Smythe held up a finger. ‘I just remembered I should have said that your crossword friend, David Bedley, must contact me if he feels he would like to reconsider the opportunity of a scholarship after this wretched Hitler business is sorted. You see, I had to discuss one or two things with dear old Massingham in the club last week and he reminded me that there was a draw in the exam, with you two lads coming up equal trumps, which, sad to say, had slipped my mind.’
Stan nodded. ‘I did tell you, Professor. I still feel bad about it.’
Professor Smythe looked amazed. ‘No, don’t. It was his decision and it seems to me he is making good use of his brains, no doubt while he’s hacking away at the coal. Oh my word, what ideas must be churning in his head with each bash of the pick, for he sets such intriguing crosswords. Dear boy, I do thank you for showing me the magazine to which he contributes. I of course mentioned it to Reggie Massingham, who even took the magazine away …’ He drifted off, then muttered, ‘I say, I really must get it back.’
Stan prompted. ‘So, what was it you forgot, sir?’
Professor Smythe turned back to him, as though not quite sure who he was, but then gathered himself. ‘Ah yes, Reggie made it clear that he would be more than happy to provide a subsequent scholarship for your marrer – that is what you pitmen call your friends, isn’t it? Oh, but I’ve already touched on that. What was it I wanted …?’
Stan forced himself not to look at his watch because he owed a lot to this man who had encouraged him to push himself further than he thought he could go. But Professor Smythe’s eyes had yet again taken on the distracted gaze that meant his mind was toying with some irrelevance, as though the world did not exist. But exist it did, as pedestrians wove round them, their gas masks over their shoulders and sometimes nudging the two men. The bus to the station passed by, but there was another due in ten minutes, and if he caught that he could still get his train.
The professor tapped Stan’s arm. ‘Yes, that’s it – marrer. Named thus, I seem to remember, because the roots of the marrow grow underground.’ He frowned and stared earnestly at Stan. ‘But surely don’t the roots of all plants? However, let me not travel along unnecessary trails of thought.’
Oh, please not, thought Stan. The professor suddenly focused, his finger in the air, ignoring a drayman carrying a barrel on his back from the brewers’ lorry parked alongside, who bellowed, ‘Mind yer back, matey.’
‘I know what it was, Stan. I’d so like you to give this little missive to your marrer David. It is a page or two of jottings on what I think could be an effective improvement on the setting of his recent fascinating and original form of crossword that’s to be placed in the column for advanced aficionados. You know, the one in which the clues are virtually a code one has to break? I have suggested moving said clues up a level, using a key. There are several that contain such a wonderful use of anagrams, but Bedley’s are more than that – they are more demanding. Yes, indeed. I’ve provided just the merest of nudges, for I am no expert. Indeed, I bow to his expertise and should he wish to correspond …’
The professor paused, this time dodging out of the way of the returning drayman, presumably carrying an empty barrel this time. ‘It does make one think …’ He stopped again, with a look on his face that indicated he was indeed about to plough along yet another furrow.
Stan took the notebook from the professor’s hand and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. The professor came back to earth and they shook hands.
‘I must go, sir. Many thanks for all your help – I mean it.’
Professor Smythe held on to his hand for a moment, looking at the blue pitman scars, and a sadness seemed to sweep over him. ‘Such is the badge of a miner – trapped coal in your wounds. May you return, dear boy. You must all return to us, you simply must. But I do believe that young David Bedley would be most useful to the war doing … Ah well, I will be discussing this more with Massingham. Senior, of course.’
He looked beyond Stan to the car and tutted, then turned on his heels and wafted back towards the centre of town, his scarf somehow billowing, though the wind had died. Stan stared after him. He loved the fellow, but he simply couldn’t stay in Oxford. How could he, and call himself a man, when there was work to be done at the pit now so many young pitmen had left to join the war? Besides, he was trained to lie on his side or his back, or to kneel, as he forced his pick into the living, breathing coal. For that’s what he felt it was: a real and worthy opponent that he could face up to, even with his damaged leg – an appendage that was no use on the front line, apparently.
Stan checked his watch again and decided to walk to the station. He turned just as the blast of a car horn alerted him to the fact that Ralph Massingham was still parked at the side of the road. He was beckoning to Stan, waving the peaked Harris tweed cap and revealing goggles hitched up onto his forehead. Stan sighed, but the boss’s son was still that, and it was the boss who controlled whether Stan’s family had work and a house, or not.
He still had time to catch the bus, so he sauntered back towards Ralph. The cap had now been replaced, but the goggles remained on the lad’s forehead and his scarf was still wound several layers deep round his neck. The fact that he looked like an idiot was neither here nor there, though the fact that he had suspect political affiliations wasn’t. Or was Stan being unfair? He drew near enough to hear the engine as it ticked over. After all, Stan had been to a Communist meeting. But that didn’t make him a leftie; in fact, he’d thought the speaker a thug and a dreamer, if you could be both … He stopped himself from playing with the notion, or else he’d become like Professor Smythe – unfit to survive anywhere but in a seminar at precious Oxford University.
He came to a halt by the side of the roadster.
‘What was it you were saying, Mr Massingham? I’ve not seen hide nor hair of you since we both arrived, and now I’m off home and you are not, so whatever you need I doubt I can help. Or was it something you’d like me to take to your family? I’m sorry to be rude, but could you make it snappy, because I must get my train.’
Ralph patted the passenger seat beside him. ‘Au contraire, mon brave. It is I who can do something for you. I heard on the grapevine that a Massingham scholar, a known clever clogs, was tossing up these esoteric dreaming spires in favour of returning to the murky depths of my father’s pit.
I knew it could only be you, as Pater has held over the Massingham scholarship examination for the duration of the war. Your pure and patriotic gesture made me feel it was incumbent on the son of said Massingham Colliery owner to relinquish his place here for the interim and do the same – do my bit, as it were. You shamed me, my hewer friend. So, although you said you had booked your ticket, do just strap your little bag and gas mask on top of my case and we’ll set off.’ Ralph revved the car and dropped his goggles over his eyes.
Stan stared at the pit owner’s son and was careful in his reply. If it had been the senior Mr Massingham he would have leapt into the car, for the man was a decent and good bloke. ‘Kind of you, Mr Massingham, but I repeat that I have a ticket, so won’t trouble you with my little bag and my hewer’s arse on your fine leather.’
He stopped. Good Lord, he was getting as bad as Fran. The thought conjured up an image of him arriving at the door of number 14 Leadenhall Terrace in the owner’s son’s car. It would make the row that was to come a million times worse.
To his surprise, Ralph laughed, and again patted the seat. ‘There’s room for your hewer’s arse, lad. Besides, Father said to pick you up and we don’t ignore his wishes, do we, and frankly it’s a good idea to have company on a long drive, don’t you think? If you’re worried about a chill, we can draw the hood up and protect your chestnut locks.’ Ralph’s eyes had become like cold grey stones. It was his familiar look when issuing instructions to ‘commoners’.