by Annie Clarke
‘Well, I damned well hope so,’ Fran said. ‘It’s a long time to hold a grudge, and a long time to behave like a spoilt brat.’
‘He’s an idiot,’ Sarah muttered. ‘I’m off. I want to get to me bed. Davey, don’t delay our Fran, she’s fair done in. We all are.’
As Sarah walked off, Fran heard Stan’s voice calling from the direction of the club, ‘Hang on, Sarah. I’ll walk you back. I’ve been helping me da with the sickness divvy.’
Fran smiled. For ages Stan had been too busy to spend time with any of them, but here he was. Would Sarah realise how much she liked Stan, not just as a friend but something more, or was Fran quite wrong? It would be so much better if Beth had heard from Bob, then everyone would settle down, so where the hell was he? She shook her head free of questions because there were no answers and it only made her more tired. Davey walked her back and left her in the yard.
‘Go to bed, pet. You and Sarah look real tired.’
The back door opened, and Fran saw her mam framed by the doorway. ‘Hey, Mam, you’ll have Mrs Clarke calling you out for showing a light, and you an ARP warden an’ all.’
‘Hush your noise, Fran Hall. I’ll do your itch and then you get to bed. How did you get on with the bottle of water? Away in, and let’s hear all about it. And the whelp? Any sign? You’ve done as you was told, Davey, and given her a word about not being out late after the Saturday dance coming up, have yer?’
Fran kissed Davey, staying against his mouth so he didn’t have to confess that he hadn’t.
He kissed her hard, then held her close. ‘You mean the world to me, bonny lass, and I should have said more about the dance. Now in you get.’
As Davey left, Stan came in the back gate, but instead of coming into the house, they stood out in the lane, smoking and talking, and Fran heard Davey say, ‘I reckon that the pit’s done the trick and Ralph’s got over whatever it was.’
Chapter Twelve
Sledgeford Village Hall showed no lights the following Saturday evening as Fran and Sarah pedalled towards it. Even with the wind behind them, they were grateful to finally dismount and lean their bikes against the wooden building. No lights perhaps, but there were the sounds of a piano and a saxophone warming up. Fran grinned across at Sarah by the light of the half-moon. ‘Got your dancing shoes, lass?’
Sarah laughed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. Bare legs, gravy browning, a pencil line down the back, and me old court shoes. What’s more, I bet I can outdance you, bonny lass.’
Fran held out her hand. Sarah slapped it, asking, ‘How much?’
‘Tuppence.’
‘Howay with you. Threepence at least.’
Fran spat on her hand, and held it out again.
Sarah shook her head. ‘Urgh, tuppence it is, then, skinflint.’
Laughing, they entered, dodging through the dark lobby into the muted light of the hall. Beth called them over, her green-tinged auburn hair glinting and falling in large curls, her pale blue eyes almost dancing. She wore a red and green pleated skirt. Fran pointed from her hair to her skirt. ‘By, a right good match, pet.’
Beth grinned. ‘Aye, maybe, but it’s our Bob’s favourite for the dancing and it swings just right, and makes me almost remember his—’ She stopped. ‘Come on, we need to set out the tables.’
The small round tables were stacked in a room to the right of the stage and Valerie’s mother, Mrs Hatfield, wanted one put out under the hatch into the kitchen, which was where the Women’s Institute made jam for the war effort, using the extra rations of sugar they were awarded by the government.
‘Right, lasses,’ Mrs Hatfield ordered, signalling to them as though they were cars at a crossroads. ‘Now you’ve set that one up, tek them other tables over yonder, quick as you can. See the time? It waits for no man.’ She jerked her head towards the clock on the wall, which was showing six thirty. ‘And a word of warning. You girls have to do a Sunday morning shift at the Factory tomorrow, so don’t get yourselves too tired, eh?’
The girls lugged the tables out and placed them where she directed, and then sufficient chairs for those who wanted to rest their corns. Valerie and Amelia arrived with stacked cardboard boxes, each containing sandwiches on plates covered in greaseproof paper.
‘A smearing of pickle and a sliver of cheese on slices of bread which were showed the butter,’ Amelia muttered, ‘but sad to say the pickle looked rather dry and old. Mrs Hatfield had a taste last night and it hasn’t come back to greet her, so it must be all right. The Sledgeford corner shop donated it from some they made a couple of years ago. I have to say it’s not the sort of “do” I’m used to, but it might be fun.’ She walked off.
The musicians were resting on the stage on straight-backed chairs, surreptitiously sipping from flasks. Valerie winked at Sarah, Beth and Fran. ‘I think we could do with some of that after our Amelia’s comments. Tea doesn’t touch the spot, does it?’
Fran grinned. ‘What is it the men are drinking and where did they get it?’
Beth shrugged. ‘Oh, don’t ask, but if you go down into the Sledgeford pub cellar you’ll remember there were a grand harvest of elderberries in ’39. And back then there were still plenty of sugar which leads me da to say whenever anyone mentions Sledgeford: “That wine fair teks the top o’ yer ’ead off, lass.”’
‘How is he?’ Sarah and Fran asked together.
Beth just shrugged again. What could you say about black lung when it had got you good and proper? Fran thought of her own da and his black phlegm and knew it was what he and Tom Bedley dreaded above all else. ‘A clean death is what I want,’ her da had said more than once, adding with a cackle, ‘Well, it’d probably be bloody dirty, but quick, eh. And not yet, if yer listening yer lordship.’ He’d always look up at the sky then.
By eight the room was ready, the band, fully lubricated and red cheeked, were having a last-minute warm-up, and people had started arriving, including some from the after shift at the Factory, for they had started the shift early, as required, and finished early, as had been arranged. Fran was on the door with the draught whipping at her legs while Sarah and Beth helped Mrs Hatfield in the kitchen before bringing out the cups of tea on trays.
Fran took the money, and even made the vicar pay. He grinned as Fran said, ‘Fair’s fair, Vicar Walters: half for your plate, half for the war. And who knows, you might win the quickstep competition and get a sixpence back. Then you can let go a few hallelujahs in St Oswald’s, or maybe a peal of bells.’
He smiled. ‘Ah, Fran, you’re forgetting the bells have to wait for victory, but I’ll take the hallelujahs.’
Miss Walters, his sister, arrived in a flurry, pushing past the queue, snatching up the vicar and dragging him onwards. ‘He will chat so, Fran. Thinks he’s giving a sermon, but he’s nifty with his footwork, so I keep him on at the vicarage, so I do. I’ve joined your mam’s rug-making co-op when teaching allows …’ But then she was gone.
The queue continued, the sixpences kept coming, and when someone couldn’t afford it, what did it matter, they were waved in anyway. Fran handed out a ticket to Mrs Oborne and her husband, a blue-scarred miner who could dance a nifty samba and then always grumbled about his back, loudly, which always made them laugh. If he did it tonight, she wondered if Mrs Oborne would tell him to show some gumption?
She was about to call after them when she heard Davey out in the lobby, berating Stan. ‘You didna beat me, we got here even-stevens, and so, no, I won’t pay yer entry, yer daft skinflint.’
They entered, all the marrers together, jostling their way through the door. Sid and Norm were in the rear, stuffing beer bottles in their pockets. Davey smiled. ‘Ah, a pretty wench on the door, eh?’
Stan elbowed him. ‘Nay, there are prettier ones on the floor, just waiting for us, bonny lad.’
Fran said, ‘Remind me to skelp yer for yer cheek when we get home.’ But Stan was staring at Sarah and Beth, who were taking their tea trays from table to table. Which one was he
looking at? wondered Fran.
Sid shoved Stan from behind. ‘Then pay up, get out me way, and let me at ’em.’
The boys were washed and in their best bib and tucker, their hair shining, though tiredness dragged at their faces. When she looked around, though, Fran realised that everyone was tired. ‘But we’re all alive,’ she murmured aloud.
‘Hey, Franny,’ called Stan, ‘are you just going to talk to yoursel’, lass, or will you take our money?’
She held out her hand. They each paid their sixpence and Stan, Sid and Norm went onto the floor, while Davey stood beside her. As always, she felt complete when he was there and she repeated silently, ‘Alive, all of us.’ She put the money in the tin cashbox, and her hands were less yellow, because they had been moved on to the detonators, but the rash was worse. She grinned to herself: best not to be thinking about hands; they were the bits you were most likely to lose on the detonators.
In a lull, while the band was playing ‘It Had to Be You’, Davey slipped his arm around her and she leaned into him; he kissed the top of her head. ‘Your hair’s getting towards its proper colour, bonny lass, and look at Sarah’s – not bad at all.’
Fran wanted to say that they’d escaped the yellow for a while, but of course she couldn’t. Then another thought caught at her. ‘Is Ralph coming, d’you reckon?’ she asked, straightening up.
Davey shook his head, pulling her back. ‘He said nowt, and we were careful not to an’ all. I reckon he’s hunkered down at the Hall. Why would he trip the light fantastic amongst the ‘common folk’ unless his da laid down the law? Unless he’s about to start up his haunting of us, that is, and I reckon he’s found better things to do with his time. It’s been a few days now since the bus shelter’s seen him. By, it’s like Christmas without him.’
Just then the soldiers from the nearby training camp entered, their khaki spotted with rain, their boots clattering on the hall floor and so polished you could see your face in them, Fran reckoned. They paid, then tossed their berets onto a couple of chairs lined up against the wall to the right of the door and headed for the group of girls chatting by the stage. Soon they were dancing as the band seemed to come alive. Fran left the door and she and Davey waltzed to the music, humming along as they did so. Fran rested her head on Davey’s shoulder, and he kissed her hair.
‘Oh, bonny, bonny Fran, I don’t half love you.’
‘Aye, I do you an’ all,’ she murmured, and on and on they danced, she on feet that ached from standing at the detonator bench, but it didn’t matter a jot when she was in his arms.
Sarah was dancing with a lance corporal from the camp. His uniform was prickly but his smile kind. He said, ‘I’m from Worcester, and I miss me girl some’at chronic.’ Sarah looked up at him just as he trod on her foot. She hoped she hadn’t winced too obviously.
‘She’ll be missing you. I expect she’s written?’ she said.
‘Oh yes, almost daily, but it’s not the same.’
Sarah nodded, wishing she had someone who ached for her, as this lad did for his lass, as she did for—No, none of that, though the thought made her look around for Beth, but she couldn’t see her amongst the swirling dancers. The music ended, and the soldier left to return to his friends. She swung round, banging into Stan. ‘Look where you’re going, you daft whatnot,’ she laughed, sidestepping him, but he did the same. She went back the other way, and he copied. Finally, as the band began ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’, she grabbed hold of his arms. ‘Right, lad, you stay still and I’ll go t’right.’
She went right, but again Stan moved to his left. She laughed up at him. ‘Pin back your lugs, lad.’
But he wasn’t laughing, he was looking at her, just her. For a moment it was the same as it had been in the beck, deep down in the water, and though people were bumping into them, the room seemed to have faded into quiet. At last he said, ‘Dance with me, bonny Sarah.’
She did, and it was a foxtrot, and then a waltz. Neither of them spoke, and slowly Sarah found herself leaning into him. He spoke quietly now, his breath rustling her hair, which she had looped up for the evening. ‘You need to cut this hair, Sarah.’
He was touching it, then her cheek, gently. She felt the shock and the warmth as he ran his finger down and onto her neck, and she stared up at him. She struggled to find words, but when she did, they sounded strange – hesitant, reluctant – because all she wanted was to stay in his arms. ‘The music’s good.’ He said nothing, just looked at her. She felt as she had done when he led the gang – safe, happy, complete, but there was love too, an all encompassing love and it was as though she’d waited for this moment all her life …
But what about Beth? The thought stopped the rush of feelings. They still danced, but she kept air between them and said, ‘I like me hair, so keep yer opinions to yourself, our Stan. You might be leader of the gang, but—’
She couldn’t go on because he was tilting her head. She tried to pull away. He whispered, ‘You see, I couldn’t bear it to catch in the machinery and you to be hurt in any way. I think I’ve known that all me life, but only just seen that all I really want is right here: you, and me family, but most of all, you.’
She stared up at him, unable to speak. She watched his lips and felt his breath, beer-tinged, on her face as he said, ‘Something happened to me at the beck, in the water. I looked at you and knew I loved you properly, deeply. That’s all I’m saying. There’s no need for you to love me, but there is a need for you to stay safe.’
The music stopped. He dropped his arms and walked away. She walked after him, but before she could reach him, she saw Beth turn to talk to a young soldier and bump into Stan. He reached out to stop her from falling and she looked up at him, laughing. Sarah felt sick. What the hell was Stan playing at with his fine words? Was he really still holding a candle for Beth and just making do with little Sarah Bedley? The music began again, but Stan walked on with Beth towards the hatch, without a backward glance.
But Beth was called back to take someone’s cup, and before she could stop herself, Sarah was half running across the floor. She snatched the cup from Beth and half shouted, ‘You’ve got a husband. Stan’s just said he loves me. Give us a chance, for God’s sake, Beth. Just leave him be.’
Beth stared at her and tried to snatch the cup back, but Sarah hung on to it. Beth struggled to be heard against the music. ‘You don’t understand, Sarah. I canna remember what Bob looks like, but I’ve never forgotten what Stan looks, and feels, like. His kisses, his words. He’s back, and why d’you think he’s back? It’s got to be for me, it’s got to be.’
They were both almost crying, and although people danced around them, they stayed still, each with a hand on the cup and the anguish in Beth’s voice was reflected in her pale blue eyes. Sarah recoiled, shocked, half wanting to hold the girl, half wanting to slap her.
It was then that the hall door opened. Behind Beth, Sarah saw a sailor in his naval uniform walk in on crutches. His white rollneck sweater was smudged with grime and he stood there watching the dancers before he was lost from view.
Amelia passed, carrying a cup of tea and one of Mrs Hatfield’s biscuits. ‘Hey, best get off the dance floor, you two, you’ll get jostled. I’m sitting this one out. These squaddies aren’t quite the thing, are they? Shame there are no officers.’ She jerked her head towards the door. ‘Someone should get the matelot to pay. We’ve no time for gatecrashers.’
Feeling as though she’d been whacked back into the real world, Sarah let go of the cup. Matelot? Oh, the sailor. But a gatecrasher? She shouted after Amelia, ‘Every serviceman is entitled to come in here, and a matelot is as good as an officer any day. They’re all fighting for you and me and everyone here.’ She turned to Beth who was stalking off, heading for the kitchen.
Amelia had hesitated, and now came back. ‘I’m sorry. I had a sip from the saxophonist’s flask, it’s made me silly.’
She walked on, Sarah looking after her. She knew that Amel
ia didn’t think of herself as a factory girl but for goodness’ sake … If she ever did get into the office, what a treat the others had in store. The music was getting louder, and Sarah threaded her way through the dancers, heading for the sailor to see if he wanted a cup of tea.
She was almost there when she saw Fran approaching from the stage area, Davey in her wake. But before any of them could reach the sailor, Stan materialised from the centre of the room and tossed the servicemen’s caps off the nearest chair onto a vacant one. He gripped the matelot’s arm and guided him towards it.
Sarah arrived. ‘What …?’
The lad lifted his head, ‘Ta, Stan. Could do with a sit-down, man.’
It was Bob Jones, Beth’s husband. But he was drawn, tired, old. Stan rested the crutches against the wall. ‘First things first, lad.’
He turned to Sarah and his voice grew softer. ‘Bonny lass, find Beth, eh? But wait one—’ It was love she heard in his voice, and saw in his eyes, and it held Sarah breathless. But was it really for her?
Then Stan asked Bob, ‘Beer, Beth or tea?’ and the two men smiled at one another.
‘Aye, a beer’d be grand,’ Bob nodded. ‘But Beth first, lad, and I’m right sorry about all that …’
Before she left to find Beth, Sarah saw Stan shaking Bob’s hand, and heard him say, ‘By, lad, all in the past. I’m sorted at last, if our Sarah’ll have me.’
The music had stopped and the dancers made their way to the tables. Sarah’s legs felt weak as she headed towards the stage, where Beth was talking to the vicar. ‘Beth, our Beth,’ she called. ‘You have a canny visitor.’
Her shout caused people to turn at the same time Beth did, and they all followed Sarah’s waving arm. Then Beth let out a cry and ran full pelt across the length of the hall to Bob, falling to her knees and holding him. He laid his head on hers and Stan rose, patting Bob on the shoulder before heading across the hall, straight to Sarah. He took her in his arms in front of everyone, then stepped back, grabbed her hand and led her outside.