Girls on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  Ah, if Mr Massingham had suggested it, well and good, he could accept that, and what’s more so could his da, Stan thought. Besides, it would help no one to set himself against the whelp, as Ralph was commonly known – without affection. He nodded. ‘All reet, Mr Massingham. Thank you kindly.’ In spite of intending to assert his roots, he thought he still sounded like Uriah Heep. Any minute now he’d wring his hands.

  He sorted out his carpet bag, rescued his gas mask from it, and settled himself in the passenger seat, tightening his scarf and tugging down his cap as Ralph pulled into the traffic.

  Chapter Six

  Ralph drove like a blithering maniac, just like he always had around Massingham, roaring round bends, screeching to a halt at junctions and scaring the horses of the milk vans they sped past. Stan made himself stare ahead impassively, refusing to be scared or embarrassed as they were cursed. On and on they motored, heading across country and then setting course for the north.

  Ralph talked for the first hour about Classics, about which it became evident he knew bugger all, so Stan merely nodded and said every so often, ‘Oh really.’ By the time they were beyond Birmingham, Ralph had quietened down, and once past Leicester he was ready to find some lunch. ‘What about you, old boy? Fancy a bit of tucker at some roadside hostelry?’

  Stan had his sandwiches in his carpet bag but could hardly sit in the car stuffing his face while the master took luncheon, so he agreed and did the polite thing by offering to pay, hoping that Ralph would find some sort of a café. Not a bit of it. He swept through the arch of a coaching inn and skidded to a halt in front of a glass-walled restaurant, showering gravel everywhere. Ralph didn’t bother to open the door, but vaulted out of the car and strode towards the double doors without a backward glance.

  Stan’s vaulting days had ended with the roof fall in Sour Seam a couple of years ago, so he opened the door and eased himself out, trying to straighten up without appearing to wince. He shook his leg, then headed into the restaurant, checking his watch. Davey had said Stan’s da was on the fore-shift when he’d telephoned the Porters’ Lodge yesterday evening, so at least they could have the face-to-face row over and done with before bedtime.

  Ralph was sitting in an alcove, his cap and jacket being borne away by the waiter. He beckoned to Stan, who joined him. A large a la carte menu was placed before each of them. A multitude of knives and forks glinted either side of the place settings. Stan sighed, and hoped the menu wasn’t too extensive, which usually meant expensive. Though how could it be, with rationing beginning to bite? But he was wrong. Three courses later, with Ralph having chosen the most expensive dishes from each, as well as a beer, though no wine, thank heavens, they left, Stan’s wallet some pounds lighter.

  But Stan had also had a beer and it loosened his tongue as they continued to fly along, his fury at the price of lunch adding a touch of venom. ‘So, Ralph,’ he shouted above the throaty roar of the roadster, ‘you were in Germany for the Olympics with Swinton’s boy, Tim, weren’t you?’

  Ralph stared ahead, but Stan caught the momentary tightening of his grip on the steering wheel. There, you bugger, he thought, that’ll teach you to cost me an arm and a leg. Unwilling to let the venom seep away just yet, Stan added, ‘With some group or other, wasn’t it?’

  Stan knew perfectly well there were suspicions the group had been allied to the Blackshirts, or, in other words, the British Union of Fascists. Why on earth had Massingham senior allowed that? The talk was that he hadn’t realised the connection and once he’d cottoned on, it had been the end of all such nonsense.

  Ralph drew his silver cigarette case from the breast pocket of his tweed jacket. ‘Take one out for me, would you, Stan? And have one yourself.’ He tossed it onto Stan’s lap.

  Stan eased one out part way and waved the case in front of Ralph, who placed the cigarette in his mouth before dragging out his lighter and flicking it alight. Stan closed the case with a click and returned it, taking out his own Woodbines and lighting one with a match as Ralph said, ‘Yes, a few chums and I got together and off we went. Seemed a shame to miss all that sport. Tim Swinton came along to make up the numbers. He’s a handy boxer, don’t you know, so a good man to have around if things get out of hand. Not that they should – can’t think why I said that.’

  Oh, good catch, Stan thought. Smoothly done. A few chums indeed, what utter tripe, and you can’t think why things should ‘get out of hand’ …? But he moved on. ‘So, what did you feel about the Jewish situation, and Freemasons? What about—’

  Ralph was laughing. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, young Stanhope. The publicity about the situation bore no resemblance to what it was actually like. We were there for the Olympics, and the beauty of Berlin. I remember a bit about youths in uniform, but they were merely Scouts. The press made their usual fuss about things – it’s naive to believe all their rubbish. Besides, I was a mere lad. It was a few years ago, laddie. Good God, thousands were there. The British participated, that shows it was all right.’

  ‘What was Berlin like then?’ Stan asked.

  ‘Like any city. I particularly liked the wide streets and, quite frankly, the sense of order. But let’s talk about you for a moment. Never been to Russia? I heard you were at some Communist rallies – or do we call them “anti-Fascist”?’

  ‘One. I was curious. But there’s little to choose between the Fascists and the anti-Fascists, quite frankly. Load of buffoons, the lot of them, throwing their weight around, saying they know best, but each meaning they would stuff in a dictator and get rid of those they don’t like.’

  ‘So speaks the great scholarship boy, eh? A statement, not a discussion.’

  Stan looked sideways at Ralph. ‘You’re right, it was a statement, but look at what’s happened: Stalin and Hitler, two dictators up to no good, just showing they’re greedy bastards intent on ruling the bliddy world, no matter the cost.’

  Ralph flicked his cigarette stub into the road. Stan’s Woodbine had burned down long ago. ‘Stan, war is such a bore, don’t you think? Much better to make some sort of compromise peace and all just get on in one Western big empire, with some sensible people with proper ideas at the top. Then at least the trains would run on time and the West could stand against the East. Or that’s some of the thinking a while ago, so I gather.’ He flashed a look at Stan, who was shaking his head in disbelief. Ralph laughed. ‘Don’t worry, old boy, only jesting.’

  Stan said nothing. What on earth was the point? And perhaps the idiot was only jesting. On and on they travelled. After they had tucked Ripon, with its tiny cathedral, behind them, Ralph said quietly, ‘I met a nice girl – Dagmar was her name. I was sixteen, as was she. I thought I loved her, but of course I couldn’t have. Far too young, and best not pursued under the circumstances. Lord knows what she’s doing now, probably wedded to some burly officer.’

  Stan said, ‘In Ripon?’

  Ralph shook his head. ‘Berlin, idiot.’

  ‘Ah.’

  The wind was bitter now, the sky clouding over, and as he thought of Ralph missing Dagmar, Stan faced what – or who – he had been pushing away since he’d decided to return: Beth. He swallowed. It was her existence that had almost changed his decision to return because he didn’t know how he’d feel to be near her, and he couldn’t bear the pain to start all over again. He stared at the countryside, anything, to steady himself. ‘I heard they tidied up the place, pulled down the Nazi posters for the visitors,’ he said.

  Ralph’s laugh was hearty. ‘In Ripon?’

  I’ll give you that one, Stan thought, happy to fence with him if it pushed away Beth, which it did.

  ‘Berlin during the Olympics.’

  ‘Lord, how should I know? They certainly weren’t in evidence when I was there, but we had a trip out to see the autobahn. We could do with a few straight roads like that, let me tell you.’

  ‘You’re tired? Shall I take over?’

  Ralph snatched a look at Stan through his goggles. ‘Can y
ou drive, old boy?’

  ‘Of course. It’s not just philosophy, politics and economics I’ve picked up from the Prof, you know.’

  Ralph seemed to be considering, but finally shook his head. ‘I’ll give it a bit longer.’

  The light was fading as they approached Durham, and Ralph said, ‘It’s all right, I’ll drive on. I prefer to be in control. But perhaps if we do it again?’

  ‘Aye, but we won’t, not until the war is over, and Lord knows when that will be. But thanks for the ride, and to your da for suggesting it.’

  They drove on, past fields with stone walls, and then headed through pit villages, skirting the slag heaps, and Ralph said suddenly, ‘It’s such a bloody mess, isn’t it? And it stinks.’

  ‘Aye, but it’s what keeps the country going.’ Stan had been going to say that it kept Ralph in nice cars and all, but it sounded petty.

  At last, as the evening fell, they approached Massingham, with its smouldering slag heaps and the pithead with its winding gear against the skyline. Stan said just as they reached the outskirts, ‘Drop me here, if you would, Ralph. I’ll head down the lane and can cut across to the village.’ In the distance he heard the whistle of the train taking coal to the main line and realised just how much he’d missed it, and the smell – all the things that bothered Ralph so much.

  ‘Lord, no. I’ll take you to your door, old boy. Leadenhall Street, isn’t it? But perhaps no one will be at home. Your sister works at the Ordnance Factory now, and the lad is still at school?’

  Stan swung round to stare at Ralph. ‘Fran? How did you—’ He stopped. No one should know. How the hell had Ralph heard? If he blabbed, Fran could get the sack.

  Ralph shook his head, as though irritated, and muttered, ‘Sorry about that. Er, I shouldn’t say who …’

  ‘Oh, your da? Yes, I see,’ Stan said.

  Ralph smiled, then, his voice eager, said, ‘Yes, that’s right. But … don’t say I said anything. I’m a bloody fool. I usually know when to keep my mouth shut. Bit weary is all, old boy.’

  Ralph turned left off Main Street into Leadenhall Street, cruising slowly along the row of terraced houses, pulling up at number 14. Stan hardly ever used their front door and it felt odd, as though he was a visitor. Well, he wasn’t. He was home where he should be. He dragged money out of his wallet for the petrol, and said, ‘He told you where we lived an’ all, did he?’

  Ralph had vaulted over the door again. ‘What is this, an interrogation? Where you live is hardly new to me; after all, we own the house.’ This was said quietly, coldly.

  Stan said, ‘Aye, and we work for it an’ all, so it’s you scratch our back, we’ll scratch yours, I reckon.’

  The two stared at one another and Stan realised that Ralph hadn’t changed one whit from the jumped-up little snot he’d been as a boy, the one who’d waltz through the village bragging about whatever his new toy was that week. Well, Davey’d shown him back then what was what good and proper when the whelp had deliberately destroyed their papier-mâché footie, the twerp.

  Stan opened the door and stepped from the car, praying his leg would take his weight after being cramped for so long. It did, just as Ralph laughed, ‘I owe you a lunch. A good one.’

  Stan unstrapped his carpet bag and gas mask. ‘Nay, lad, no need. And I need to give you money for petrol.’ He came around to the whelp and handed him a few notes. Ralph hesitated, then took them.

  Behind Ralph, the front door opened. Stan saw Fran standing there and his heart lifted. Ralph turned and snatched off his cap. ‘Ah, Fran Hall. Delighted to renew our acquaintance. I was just telling your brother that I owe him lunch, so do come too.’

  Fran looked from one to the other, taking in the notes in Ralph’s hand, and the car, and raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t have time to eat dinner in a restaurant, thank you, Mr Massingham. Hello, Stan, brought door to door, eh? Getting ideas above yer station, lad? Though I see you’re paying for the pleasure.’

  At that, Ralph looked down at the money in his hand and passed it back. ‘Certainly not, old boy. You had already bought your train ticket.’

  Stan shook Ralph’s hand. ‘Don’t fret about a meal in return. Good luck, and see you in the pit sometime.’

  Ralph smiled. ‘Oh, you will, you will. Elliott has agreed that you’ll be my marrer, Stan. I asked; he obeyed like the good manager he is. Seems like a good idea, don’t you think, as we have a bit of a bond already? Oxford, you know.’

  Ralph walked with Stan to the front door and held out his hand to Fran. ‘And I hope that we’ll meet again soon, Fran Hall.’

  Fran shook his hand. ‘The name’s Frances, Mr Massingham.’

  Stan moved to kiss her, and as he did he whispered, ‘Remember, he’s the boss’s son, and owns our house.’

  She merely looked at Ralph. ‘Nice of you to bring our lad back, Mr Massingham, but I expect you’re tired and your da will have a nice glass of wine picked out for you and will be wondering where you’ve got to. Best not to come in and keep him waiting. You and Stan can catch up at t’pit Monday morning – fore shift, or so Davey’s heard. You remember Davey? He took your football after you, the boss’s son, busted ours up good and proper down the back alley. Best you get some rest tomorrow. You’ll need to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’

  Stan recognised the suppressed fury in her voice and suspected some of it was really directed at him; the football incident had been years ago. He did wish she hadn’t said it, though, for Ralph was—But Fran was grabbing Stan by his sleeve and hauling him in through the door, calling over her shoulder, ‘You take care now, Mr Massingham.’

  Stan’s thanks joined his sister’s as she slammed the door.

  As Ralph climbed back into his roadster he smiled, but there was no humour in it. That was one lass he needed to get to know again, indeed he did. Not only was there a lingering sore of a score to be settled with Davey, but Fran Almighty Hall’s bloody rudeness back then, and now, had just been added to the bill. By God, it had.

  Fran shook her head at Stan as they stood in the passage at the foot of the stairs. ‘Well, our lad, not quite the way to come home, is it? Tucked up in a roadster in the company of the boss’s son. Not exactly set to please our da, but then you’ve not pleased him, nor me.’

  Stan dropped his carpet bag and held out his arms. ‘Don’t give me a hard time, for the love of God, our Franny. I’ve been all day in that damned car when I could have been reading on the train an’ all because Mr Massingham senior thought it a good idea. Give us a hug. Your big brother is home, pet.’

  She shook her head. ‘You’re a great dolt, you know that? So I’ve to worry about you an’ all now.’

  He pulled her close and hugged her so tight she could hardly breathe. Finally she hugged him back and laid her head on his strong, familiar shoulder, but there was no pit smell, just a clean college smell. She said into his jacket, ‘So, it’s because of the war that you’re back, nowt else?’

  Stan eased her away. ‘What else could there be, except I want to see you all, especially our mam. How’s she looking, Fran?’

  The door to the kitchen opened and their mam stood there, saying, ‘Ask her yourself, bonny lad.’

  He stepped into the warmth and light of the kitchen and held her in his arms before swinging her around. ‘By, you’re looking grand, Mam. Better’n I hoped.’

  A voice came from Joe’s armchair. ‘So, you’ve given it all up, eh, to grub in the coal when you could have got away?’

  As Stan turned to face him, his da rose and stood by the fireplace. Stan recognised the action and braced himself for the row, recognising the pain in his da’s face. It was the same pain he’d felt when he caught Beth lying in the corn with Bob Jones, knowing he’d lost her and his future.

  ‘I’m going back, Da, when the war’s done. Mr Massingham is holding the scholarship over, so I still have my future.’

  His da kept his back to him and Stan waited as he packed his pipe with baccy, lit it and dre
w on it until it glowed red. Only then did he turn. ‘So, yer think you’ll survive, do yer, to have a bliddy future? Down there, with the coal squeezing, and the tubs roaring along the rails. What makes yer so different from the rest of us, Stanhope Hall? What makes yer such a damned fool as to give up that world and come back here?’

  Stan knew that Fran had followed him in and was waiting near the kitchen table, but his mam had retreated to the scullery, which was wise. ‘I have to do my bit, Da. Even the Prof’s lad is. How can I not, when I’m yer son?’

  His father jabbed his pipe at him. ‘So, yer’ll go on shifts, yer’ll forget the look o’ the sun. Yer’ll start to cough. Yer’ll forget yer book learnin’ cos you’ll be too damned tired, and are yer forgetting the blacklocks? Them damned beetles that march on yer bait, yer drinks … What about the stink of pee cos yer divint have a netty down there? And the dust which’ll blind yer, fill yer hair, the coal that’ll cut yer and most likely muck up yer other leg?’

  Stan wanted to go to him, hold him close, because the pain was still there in this man whose chest he could hear rattling from where he stood. ‘Da, I—’

  ‘Da nothing,’ roared his father. ‘Don’t come here with your posh ways, driven to the door by the boss’s boy, that namby-pamby, bloody Fascist. What t’hell be he doing back?’

  ‘Da, he went to a couple of Fascist meetings and the Olympics, that’s all, like lots of us did. Remember, I went to a Commie one to see what was what, and stuck me head into a Fascist one. Load of buggers, the lot o’ them. Ralph’s come back to the pit cos he wants to do his bit. His da seems to think it fine, anyway, and what can we say or do about it when they own the house? Think on it, Da. Perhaps he’s changed from the spoilt brat he was?’ Though even as he said it, Stan didn’t believe it.

  His da was shaking his head. ‘I divint heard such bollocks in the whole of me life. Changed? Do his bit? What does he know about doing his bit, wi’ his soft hands on the pick. But I divint care about the lad, it’s you, yer damned great fool, I’m shoutin’ at because it’s not too late.’