Girls on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  He kissed her hand. ‘Don’t be. We’d have drifted on, I might not have gone to Oxford, and maybe we wouldn’t have worked after all.’ Stan grinned and dug his hands into his pockets, then grimaced, then called across to the others. ‘Nothing’s as bliddy awful as wet pockets.’

  ‘Language. Yer said never in front of a lady,’ Ben yelled.

  The others shouted, ‘Where’s the lady?’ and they all laughed.

  Over by the fire Sarah watched Stan and Beth, and Fran sighed, adding more wood to the fire, muttering, ‘They were holding hands. He kissed hers. It’s all going to start again.’

  ‘It wasn’t that kind of kiss. I reckon he were saying goodbye,’ Davey said.

  Sarah hung on his words, but she didn’t really believe her brother, and in that moment she hated Beth with such a passion that she shocked herself.

  As Stan and Beth joined them, Davey drew out one of the sticks he was turning to charcoal. He examined it, and shoved it back into the ash while Beth collected the bait tins from the pile by the bikes and distributed them.

  ‘Well, so where does today leave you two?’ Fran asked, her voice almost rough.

  Stan laughed. ‘You’re so tactful, Franny, so delicate, so—’

  ‘Shut up and tell us,’ Davey said. ‘Am I right and you’ve got yourselves sorted, and we’re back to the gang? Or are we all going to have to tiptoe about being embarrassed and—’

  ‘The village women gossiping, and the girls on the bus, and Beth being smug …’ interrupted Sarah.

  They all stared at her, as startled by Sarah’s sharpness as she was herself.

  Stan laughed. ‘Shut up, all of you. We’re friends, just like we used to be, so that’s that. Eat your hard-boiled eggs and whatever else you’ve got.’

  Ben was already sitting down, opening his tin and scoffing his bread and dripping. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re all talking about.’

  ‘Language,’ they shouted in unison.

  Beth was still looking at Sarah, and then she saw it, the love in Sarah’s eyes as she looked at Stan, and Beth clenched her fists against the jealousy that overtook her. It was this girl’s breath that had taken him away from her, but what if it was the girl herself? Her heart seemed to shrink inside her chest, her eyes filled. She looked away, at the bridge, the beck, the willow, swallowing, seeing the tremble in her hands. She clenched them and lifted her chin, for what did Sarah know of Stan? It was she, Beth Smith who had felt his hands on her body, his mouth on hers …

  The afternoon wore on, the sun finally came out again and, in spite of it being late summer, it still helped dry them. They scoured the beck from the bridge, looking for minnows. As Fran leaned on the parapet, the lichen rubbed off on her arms. She brushed it away just as the kingfisher swooped from the willow where the beck started its long bend, soaring almost to the bridge. They fell silent as it dived, found the minnow they hadn’t, and flew off.

  ‘It’s still here, just like us,’ breathed Fran as they all stared, first at the water and then along the bank, towards the willow.

  ‘Aye, you’re right, isn’t she, Stan? It is still here, just like it’s always been, so everything is still the same,’ Beth said in an urgent whisper, but Stan, looking along the beck, didn’t answer.

  Davey slipped his arm around Fran and leaned in to kiss her neck, but before he could there was a hail from the lane where it met the beck path.

  ‘I say, your mother told me you’d be here, Fran. Thought you might like a ride home as the day is cooling.’

  They all turned at the sound of Ralph’s voice. ‘Why would she want a lift when she’s got her bike?’ Ben called.

  Ralph sauntered towards the bridge as they all straightened, looking up, and Stan muttered, ‘Remember his da owns our house and gives us our jobs, young Ben. You too, Fran, hard though it is to tolerate.’

  Ralph kept walking and came to stand with them. ‘Six people and five bikes. Who’s had a free ride then?’

  ‘I have, Mr Ralph. On the crossbar,’ Ben muttered.

  ‘Uncomfortable, I bet.’

  ‘Not so bad, Mr Ralph, but since you’re offering, a ride back would suit me right proper.’

  Ralph looked taken aback, but no one laughed or smiled, just nodded. Fran thought she’d have to slip Ben a bob for that was a right canny move.

  ‘That’d be kind of you, Mr Ralph,’ Fran said and thought she might just tug her forelock, but a look from Stan put a stop to such doings.

  Ralph stared at them all, one by one, then smiled. ‘Even better would be to let the little lad ride your bike back, Fran. Better for him to get the hang of it, and you can come with me. As you know, your Stanhope is to be my marrer, so it’s as well I learn all about him, and you can fill me in.’

  Fran shook her head. ‘I couldn’t possibly put my damp arse on your passenger seat, Mr Ralph, I just couldn’t. So if it would be better for little Ben to cycle, please take Beth.’

  Sarah joined in. ‘She has to get back to Sledgeford and it’s no time in the car, but a bit of a slog after a full day. What do you say, Beth?’

  Beth nodded, but glared at Sarah, because this would leave the field clear for her and Stan, who also nodded, then smiled. ‘Good idea. It’s a hell of a ride back, Beth, and you’ve work tomorrow.’

  So he did care. She said, ‘I’d be right grateful. Ben can ride me bike back to Fran’s and I’ll pick it up another day, or shall we put it on the back of the car? You’ve a luggage rack, I think? We could tie it on. Or hang on, Stan could cycle it across sometime. Aye, that might be better.’

  Sarah nodded at Ralph. ‘Beth can fill you in about Stan – she used to know him quite well. And if you take the bus to us tomorrow after work, Beth, then Stan doesn’t have to bike it across after his first day back in the pit. In fact, it needn’t be tomorrow. You can pick it up any time.’

  Fran agreed. ‘Good idea. That solves it then.’

  Ralph looked at Fran, his smile strained. ‘Very well, this time.’ He nodded to them all, his gaze lingering on Davey. He followed Beth, who was striding towards his car.

  The others watched, and Sarah said, ‘Sorry if I butted in, Stan, but cycling two bikes across is a lot after a day at work.’

  Stan looked at Sarah and nodded. ‘I’m glad, lass. Butt in all you like. Besides, best she has a lift back, it’s been a bit of a day.’

  As they cycled home, Davey thought of that long look from Ralph, so cold, so dark, knowing he’d seen it before. They cycled on, alongside the drystone walls, the shadows of the trees long in the waning sun, and he remembered now. It was when the whelp had kicked his footie at their goal, chalked on the Halls’ back lane wall, and missed. The bet he and Ralph had made was that if Ralph missed, he forfeited his ball. Of course they’d have given it back, especially as it was his ma’s present the year she died.

  He remembered dashing off to collect the ball after the show-off had missed. It was right grand, leather and like gold dust in a colliery village, for who could afford such a thing? He was just about to hand the ball back when the whelp picked up their papier-mâché ball, made by Grandpa Percy, when he was dying from the black lung. Davey had yelled, ‘Here’s yer ball. It weren’t a real bet. We was always going to give it yer back. That’s the ball me Granpa made when he were dying, so tek this one, eh?’

  But the whelp had looked at him like he’d just done now and kicked Grandpa Percy’s ball as hard as he could at the wall, again and again, then stamped on it until it was in shreds. The gang, and the marrers, had been stunned into immobility, but then Davey had run at him. Ralph held him off; then Sarah, Fran, Stan and the marrers had started to run at the whelp too, but he had held up his hand and shouted, ‘One step more and I’ll get me da to take your houses.’

  It had stopped them, and he’d gone on kicking and digging his studs into Grandpa Percy’s ball until the scraps of papier mâché were scattered across the cobbles of the back lane. ‘There,’ he’d said. ‘Dead like yer grandpa. Th
at’ll teach you to cheek your betters. I’ll have my ball back now.’

  Davey had fought back his tears while Sarah cried. He’d picked up the ball, taken a step towards the whelp, and then the lad had laughed. So Davey had hunkered down, dragged his penknife from his pocket and stabbed the leather ball, wishing it was the whelp himself. As the air hissed, he threw it. ‘Catch then, Master bliddy Massingham. I wouldn’t have kept it, never would I do that, but …’ He’d run out of words.

  The whelp had just looked at it, then at Davey. ‘You’ll regret this,’ he’d said. ‘You better look after your things, cos I’ll take them from you, every last ruddy one, you mark my words.’

  ‘Penny for them,’ Fran said, ringing her bell as she cycled beside him.

  ‘When I saw his look it reminded me of when we were bairns and he brought his bliddy ball to show off. I had forgotten. But you know, the thought of it makes me ashamed. I stabbed a leather football his mam gave him, so I were no better’n him.’

  Sarah drew alongside Ben and muttered, ‘He started it.’

  They were entering the outskirts of Massingham as Davey replied, ‘Well, I made the bet.’

  Stan drew alongside now there was room, so that they were cycling five abreast. ‘He didn’t have to take it. I just wish I’d got meself into gear, but I were so stunned. He were a weasel then, and probably still is. But we were bairns. He won’t remember, surely. He’s just kept the look, daft beggar and dusts it off whenever he can. Think of me at the pit with him. It won’t be easy, cos the men aren’t happy he’s coming.’

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, before dawn broke, Fran slipped up the attic ladder and poked her head through the hatchway into the darkness. ‘Are you awake, bonny lad? No sleeping, it’s heading for four in the morning and this isn’t a place for dreaming about spires, or whatever it is you do.’

  She heard Ben’s grunt. ‘Aw, shut up, Fran. He’s downstairs and he trod on me on the way, so he did. I might not have his cold feet, I just have him steppin’ on me, daft beggar.’

  ‘Go back to sleep, lad.’ Fran edged back down the ladder and then the stairs in her threadbare dressing gown, her bare feet making no noise. Her da would be asleep as he was on the afternoon shift, and hopefully her mam was still dead to the world too. Fran tiptoed along the passage, avoiding the holes worn in the linoleum. She thought they should take it up and just leave the wooden floor, but her mam said the dirt got in between the boards and wasn’t hygienic. She neared the kitchen door, wondering why on earth she was doing this when she could be sleeping too, since she was on the aft shift, but it was two years since Stan had been in the pit, and the thought of the dangers for him had kept her awake. The least she could do was brew him some tea and make bread and dripping.

  As she reached the kitchen she heard a murmur of voices, and eased open the door to see her da standing at the range with a frying pan full of bread and dripping and a piece or two of black pudding. He wore his old mackintosh and had bare feet. ‘Da? I thought you were on late, like me?’ Fran whispered.

  Stan sat at the table looking embarrassed. ‘He is, and he should be asleep.’

  Her da didn’t turn but just poked at the fried bread. ‘Your brother’s old enough and stupid enough to make up his own mind, I daresay, and if he wants to gan into the pit, then the least he needs is food in his belly.’ He shrugged with embarrassment. ‘And before yer start, our Franny, sit yerself down and yer can have a piece an’ all, but put a lock on yer mouth and let your mam sleep. This isn’t a party.’

  Her da stood looking at her for a moment. Fran obeyed, winking at Stan, who said, ‘Well, just hurry yer bliddy self then, Da. Else I’ll be late.’

  It broke the strangeness, and all three laughed. Fran watched as Da put a couple of slices on a plate and placed it in front of her, and then another plate of the same in front of Stan. He then pointed to Stan’s old bait tin. ‘Just for today, lad, I’ve put yer bait up. Two jam sandwiches and cold tea. Tomorrow yer can get theesel’ out of the house, and be quiet about it.’

  He disappeared into the scullery and washed up the frying pan. It was the first time she’d seen in him there since he’d done this for her on her first day at the Factory, though that time he hadn’t spoken a word to her, not even to wish her safe. But they were weeks further on, and something in her da had softened into an acceptance of his bairns. She now realised that the words hadn’t been important – it was the doing that had wished her safe. She shook her head. What a child she had been; it was as though the Factory was dragging her into adulthood.

  As he came out of the scullery, wiping his hands on the old towel before draping it on the airer above the range, he passed her and she leapt to her feet and hugged him. ‘I love you, Da, with all me heart. I’m careful, and Stan will be too.’

  After a moment her da’s arms came around her and he rested his head on hers. ‘Yer my bairns, see. Yer my reason …’ He trailed off, patted her, then let her go and walked to the door. As he opened it he called to Stan, his voice back to normal. ‘Yer go to the pit clean if yer go from this house, and when you come back yer wash yerself clean of Auld Hilda’s muck afore yer go into the rest of yer mam’s house.’

  Stan was standing, watching him. ‘I remember, Da. You taught me well when I started in the pit after me schooling.’

  ‘Well, Stanhope Hall, let me remind yer, you belong to our name, and will all yer life, and yer past will travel with you. As for you, our Franny, you will change yours, likely to Bedley. So behave yerself and bring no dishonour to the name yer brothers’ll have to carry.’

  He stuck his chin in the air and left, closing the door quietly. Fran looked at Stan, startled. ‘What was all that about?’

  Stan was wrapping the muffler round his neck that his mam had knitted and which he had worn for the two years he had worked in the pit, then slipped into his jacket. He opened the back door and took his boots from beneath the old vegetable box Da had found for his son’s footwear. Standing on the step, he rammed in his feet. ‘He’d just told us he loved us, and that we three bairns are his world. So, he had to break hard on us to pull himself together.’

  Fran could hear the beat of boots along the back lane. ‘Best get going, lad. Be safe.’

  He set off across the yard, then turned, but Fran already had his bait tin and was waving it about. ‘I don’t know, you men. You’d forget your heads if they weren’t stuck on.’

  His laugh followed her as she made her way upstairs, hoping for a bit more sleep, but doubting she’d get it. Stan was facing the pit, and at last she understood her da’s fury at his bairns putting themselves in danger. But in war, what else could you do?

  Stan caught up with Davey, Sid and Norman, who’d said they’d wait on the corner. Together they strode to Auld Hilda, which took longer than usual as he was hailed by what seemed like the whole of the shift weaving in and out around them, and then by the night workers who were streaming back. ‘’ow do?’ they called.

  ‘Champion,’ he replied as the wind snatched at his cap and he burned through his Dunhill, a packet of which his da had given him.

  ‘Not for long, our Stan.’

  ‘Any minute now you’ll be like the rest of us.’

  ‘Old afore our time.’

  Laughter filled the early hours. His boots rubbed – he was used to wearing shoes with socks, but couldn’t bear the trapped coal and preferred bare feet with his boots – yet he realised with a start that he really was happy to be back here with Davey and his marrers. He’d known he would be, but not quite so much.

  As though he could read Stan’s mind, Davey said as they walked, ‘By, man, we’ve missed you, haven’t we, lads?’

  Sid shook his head, giving him a sideways look. ‘Howay, not a bit, why would we?’

  Norm muttered, ‘It’s them long words from yer our Davey’s missed, used ’em for his crosswords, so he did, Stan, lad. It were like working with a bliddy dictionary so it were back then, so we’ll b
e back to not making head nor tail o’ a word yer say, man.’

  They all laughed and within twenty minutes were entering the pit yard, and it was like it always was. He was home. Then he heard his name being called by the bank overman, Tom Higgins.

  ‘Hoy, Stan Hall, come back here, lad. No going down the pit yet awhile. Got to break yer in, so Elliot says it’s the screens for yer.’

  Davey spun round, walking backwards to keep up with the marrers as Stan headed towards the office near the gates. ‘What? He’s one of our best bliddy hewers, man.’

  All around, the men were coming or going and the winding gear was busy – the wind, too, as it whistled through its struts – while up above it all was the waning moon.

  ‘Not today, nor this week, then we’ll see. Procedure, and he’s to babysit you-know-who. Them’s God’s orders which were passed down to Elliot.’

  ‘Reet, I’d forgotten. Short straw, I reckon, but catch yer later,’ Davey called. ‘Enjoy the screens, our Stan.’ The men grumbled as Stan threaded his way through them towards Tom, and some whacked him on the shoulder.

  ‘Bloody waste, we need you on the face.’

  ‘Bliddy ridiculous, and who needs the whelp anywhere near here? It’ll be bad bliddy luck.’

  ‘Like a woman in the mine, him be. Aye, bad bliddy luck.’

  Someone else spat then muttered, ‘Him and his Blackshirt ideas shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Aye, bring even more bad luck, it will.’

  ‘Hush your rubbish. His da owns our houses.’

  ‘Aye, well, his da’s welcome here any day, yer know that.’

  Tom the overman raised his eyebrows as Stan finally reached him. ‘Sorry, lad, orders is orders. It needs someone he knows to keep an eye, and one trusted enough not to throw the little bollock under a pile of coal.’

  Tom laughed and Stan grinned, though it was hard, for he had hoped the pairing had been forgotten about. ‘Where is he?’