by Annie Clarke
The girls cut out the patterns for the blue overalls on the wide tables though Amelia refused to sit with Fran and Sarah because she blamed them as well as Beth. In the end, they stopped smiling and just ignored her, realising there was nothing they could say or do that would make a difference. Instead, Fran let herself enjoy the crunch of scissors through cotton.
All around them, the ticketty-tick of the sewing machines made a soothing sound, and suddenly, for no reason other than she was happy to be away from the powder, Fran started to sing ‘Blue moon, you saw me standing alone …’ Within a few bars all the others were joining in. Sarah sang harmony, and the only thing missing was Beth’s contralto. Amelia could have made up for her, for she was a contralto too, but she chose to work on, silently.
The singing continued most of the night. Some of the older women nodded off over their machines, but here they could, for there was no danger of causing an explosion. As they left the next morning at six o’clock, Mrs Brown, the supervisor and an ex-seamstress, pulled Fran to one side.
‘I’m not sure if you have heard that the wireless show Workers’ Playtime might well come our way, or so a little bird has told me? Even though they’ve their own comedians, and singers, they like to feature budding talent and Miss Ellington is going to try to get a choir ready just in case they do come. Her idea is to get all of the various departments to put up a group of singers, and she’ll then hold a competition to find the winner. She says we should be prepared for possible opportunities, like the Scouts.’
The two of them laughed. Mrs Brown went on, ‘You and your friends’d be right canny, and I reckon you should be putting together some singers. Have a think, and I daresay Miss Ellington’ll say more, if it’s likely to happen.’
Fran watched the others disappearing into the changing rooms. The tannoy was giving out a message for the next shift, which was already at work throughout the Factory. Why not? Just think, they could be on the wireless. What would Davey say, and her mam? Thrilled, they’d be.
Mrs Brown raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, are you too jiggered to answer?’
‘Too excited, I reckon,’ Fran said. ‘Just think, Workers’ Playtime might be here.’
Mrs Brown shook her head, and walked along with her. ‘Might be, that’s all, pet.’
They smiled at each other. As they reached the changing room, a lass hurried out, scampering towards the sewing shop followed by a security officer, and calling to Mrs Brown, ‘I’m late for me shift, lost me purse, and it were in the safe box all along. Daft I am, up with the bairns most of the night. Who’s on, missus? Will I get a bollocking?’
‘Fore shift is Mrs Easton, so aye, reckon you will. Tell her I had it, and forgot to tell yer, eh?’
The girl grinned. ‘You’re a pal.’
‘I’m not,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘I’m your supervisor, not your pal, so don’t you forget it.’
But the girl had wrenched open the door and disappeared, with the security officer on her heels. Fran said, as she was reaching for the changing-room door. ‘It’ll be grand, Mrs Brown, and aye, we’ve lots of good voices. There’s Beth, when she’s back, Sarah, and Amelia, if she feels she can join in, and then Mary and Sylv.’
Mrs Brown nodded. ‘That’s sorted then, so get some songs sorted, Fran, and it won’t hurt to start rehearsing, just in case. We can have the competition in the canteen at dinner times should we get good news. After all, why shouldn’t our lasses cheer up the nation, as well as get ill for it, eh? I daresay if it seems likely to happen Miss Ellington will find you one dinner time, with some music, so be ready to push the others to think it a good idea. You can read music, can’t you? We hear you, Sarah and Beth were in St Oswald’s choir.’ With that, she whooshed off, probably in search of further prey, Fran thought.
After Fran had changed in the now nearly empty room and gathered up her belongings while a security officer waited to accompany her to the gates, she caught up with Mrs Oborne, who was trailing the rest, and in the moonlight she suddenly remembered the fury on the face of the woman in Newcastle. Well, if Fran Hall was a warmonger, so be it. They were going to win this war if it was the last thing she did, and she’d be singing all the way.
At the siding, Robert, the night-shift driver, was idling the engine. He flashed his lights, leaned out of the window and yelled, ‘On yer hop, our Franny, and you too, Mrs Oborne. You won’t hear anything above the snores.’
She clambered on board and he was right. Most were asleep, their chins on their chests. He drew away gently. She edged up the aisle as Sarah waved, and slumped down next to her. Across the way sat Valerie and Amelia. Amelia was asleep, her mouth hanging open. Soon all would lose their yellow, the sheets would be white in the morning, and everyone would be fit for the harder sectors. And in time, they could all go back to being normal.
‘What did Mrs Brown want?’ Sarah whispered.
Fran whispered the news and Sarah said, ‘By, that’d be a bit of fun, and just imagine being heard by so many. We could wear a big badge that says “We’re famous, bow to us”.’
The two girls laughed softly as their lids grew heavy, and then they slept and Fran dreamed of being the singer she’d always wanted to be. Singing while Davey worked on his magazine, both of them safe.
Chapter Fourteen
One week later
Davey watched Stan piling out of his backyard on the heels of his da and called out, ‘’Ow do.’
They both turned and Mr Hall replied, ‘You lads be safe, or I’ll tan yer backsides.’
Beside Davey, Sid laughed. ‘You too, Mr Hall,’ Norm called.
Joe Hall clattered on, catching up with Tom Bedley, but he shouted back, ‘Yer keep yer hands off me backside, lad, or I’ll be ’aving yer.’
Davey grinned and tugged down his cap in the keen wind, Fran’s kiss still light on his lips. Stan joined them, and they carried along in the clomping stream.
‘I had to sort out the hens, so I missed Sarah at the bus stop,’ Stan grumbled.
Davey nodded. ‘Aye, and if you think she didn’t notice, you’ve a shock coming, bonny lad. It will be discussed good and proper, and a pound of your flesh will be paid.’
Ahead of them, Norm was walking backwards. ‘Such a frown there were on that pretty young face, Stan, lad. Bit of a grovel needed, I reckon.’
Davey winked at Stan as Norm spun on his heels and waited for them, then they all marched along to the pithead. ‘I reckon we could outmarch them army lads who came t’village hall, and we’d all be made up to corporal in no time,’ Sid muttered.
‘Aye, ’appen you’re right,’ Norm laughed, winking at Davey and Stan. ‘You tell ’em that when they come to the next dance. It’s to collect extra for yer mams’ co-op charity, in’t it? I hear the girls will be singing. Be grand if they get asked to do a few more bookings, cos they’re as good as them you hear on the wireless, and I reckon they love doing it. Nice of the Sledgeford lot to ask ’em. Word’s bound to get around?’
Davey said, ‘Aye, they’re the best, and I reckon we could put a bucket for change on the stage. It’s for furniture for them that’s been bombed out, me mam says. Crikey, them women ’ave the wind in their sails, right enough. Rugs, wall thingies and now helping them poor buggers.’
The noise of the pithead closed in on them and they joined the slow-moving queue heading for the gates, with no sign of Ralph yet.
‘I heard tell Massingham has taken in some bairns?’ yelled Sid.
‘Bet that didn’t bring a smile to you-know-who,’ Davey muttered to Stan.
‘Still a no-show, so where the hell is he?’ he replied. ‘He can’t be late again.’
Davey gave a quick look around, for Ralph had a way of sliding up when you least expected it. It was the same with the tubs when he shoved them to the main seam and then took for ever to come back. Sid reckoned he got himself in a funk down the seams and had to keep doing a piddle out of fright, which was why it took him so long.
The wind was whippi
ng at their scarves. It was still dark, but the slag heap smouldered as always, and sulphur was heavy on the air as the miners dragged on the last of their Woodbines. They stamped slowly up the incline and into the yard, past the gateman, calling their numbers to the overman.
Amongst the scrabble to stub out cigarettes, they heard the calls of those on bikes telling them to ‘shift yer arses out t’way’. One of them was Ralph, who slammed his bike into the hut with the others and joined them. He now wore boots and old trousers, and had tied string below his knees, but only after a mouse had dashed up his leg when he was shoving a full tub. The men had laughed as he bellowed, until he let go the tub, so it nearly crashed into the Galloway pony hauling the tub train.
The hewers had sworn at him, so the story went, and the lad on the pony ‘train’ had yelled, ‘If it’d hit us or gone faster you’d have a bloody accident on yer hands, cos it’ve jumped the bleedin’ rails, and I’m not having Blossom hurt, not for you, nor no one, and I don’t care if your da’s the Queen of bleedin’ Sheba.’
Davey smiled at the memory and Ralph tipped his cap, which looked like it had last been worn while shooting grouse, but at least he was trying to fit in.
‘’Ow do,’ Davey called, the others murmuring the same, not breaking stride as they headed for the lamp room.
‘Good morning to you all.’
Stan groaned. ‘That’s all we damned well need, someone chipper in this bliddy wind, at this bliddy time of day.’
The laughter was kind towards Ralph, but not yet familiar. Davey wondered if it ever would be. The boss’s son was always the boss’s son, and although he’d stopped the bus-shelter nonsense, it had not been forgotten. They picked up their lamps and tokens, and with their bait tins hanging from their belts, they nodded to the banksman and entered the cage.
Davey thought about Fran and Sarah and felt more relaxed. They were in the sewing section now and were not just safe, but would also feel better right soon. He looked across at Stan, who was squashed between Ralph and Norm. Stan raised his eyebrows, shaking his head slightly as the cage whooshed down. There was a look about the lad, Davey thought, an ‘all’s right with the world’ look, and he knew he carried that same one with him.
Steve Oborne’s lad, Colin, was humming next to him. He always did or else he’d say again and again, ‘I hate this bliddy cage’, or stot and jig and end up stomping on someone’s feet. The humming was preferable. Now, thought Davey, preferable’s a good word for three across. He needed a clue before Monday, when his setting was to go to the magazine.
They were slowing, then jerked to a stop. The chain was released and they headed down the roadway, which as always was damned noisy, but then main seams were. Ralph walked in front and kicked up dust for those following, as usual. Did he do it deliberately? Well, none of them were about to give him the satisfaction of asking.
The men were peeling off down half-worked seams, which the manager was opening up willy-bliddy-nilly because of the need for more coal, but nonetheless Elliott was a good one and wouldn’t take chances. Davey knew he sent in the old hands first to check the props and make sure there was nothing wrong. If there was, then they or the night shift would set up new props and roof planks. Davey’s da was one of the old hands, Stan’s too. They were also the ones who’d be first in if there was a fall, directing everyone and remaining calm.
They walked on to their own seam, the Mary Lou, which was a way ahead. Lord knew why it was called that. He listened to the crash and screech of tubs, the whack of picks, and the shouts of the men from the off seams. On they went, coughing in the dust and settling with their own thoughts. Davey would have sworn he could feel the squeezing of the coal against the pit props, hear the sighing of the roof and the scuttle of the rats. But of course it was his imagination, because he couldn’t possibly hear anything above the noise.
The heat was rising, his sweat was falling and still he fiddled in his bonce for a clue to set this crossword. Maybe a numbered word clue, superimposing numbers instead of letters? He stooped as the ceiling lowered and the jagged coal caught his shoulder, ripping his jacket. Pretty soon there’d be no jacket, just a few threads. He felt the dampness of blood. Bugger. He moved on, able to straighten as they neared the face.
Aye, there’d have to be a key in the clue, he thought. Yes, that’s what Professor Smythe had written in that little book he’d sent up with Stan. Find the key to a code, and then you’d break it. You needed to look for a letter or cipher that repeated, and that’s what he had to create for his readers. Most often, the Prof said, you could find it in a short word, for example ‘for’. If you gave the ‘o’ a number such as 6 when you superimposed numbers on the letters of your clue, you could track the 6 to see the short words. So ‘to’ or ‘for’ would have a 6 for the ‘o’. Once you had one letter in your head, the rest happened. The repeater was your key. Always the repeater, and you couldn’t work anything out without the key. Though as the Prof said, this was the simple version. Well, he’d leave his brain to work something out. It usually did, and Halford, the editor, always liked the coded clues.
‘Wake up, for the love of Mike,’ shouted Stan, stumbling alongside, then catching himself. He whacked Davey’s back. ‘Howay, lad, listen up, cos I was asking yer if Sarah was really down on me.’
Davey grinned, holding up his lamp as the seam grew darker. ‘Right steamin’ she were.’
‘Bliddy hell.’ Stan held up his lamp towards the roof. ‘Did you hear that?’
Davey laughed. ‘Stop changing the subject. I can hear nowt but the bloody tubs crackin’ along the rails.’
Stan shrugged. ‘Aye, well, she means the world to me, Davey. I reckon she always has, but I didn’t know it. Bloody blind, deaf—’
‘And stupid,’ Davey interrupted as they reached the face at last. ‘Aye, well, I were only yanking your leg. She’s a pitman’s daughter, for heaven’s sake, and she knew you’d make it if you could, but messing around with hens, bonny lad? Better bring her an egg at least when you meet the bus.’ He lowered his voice at the end, because he didn’t want the whelp hearing, just in case it got the lad going again.
Davey threw his pick to the ground, shook off most of his clothes and set to work in his drawers, just as Stan shouted at Ralph, ‘We’re to take it turn and turn about as your minder, Ralph, so says the deputy manager. Good practice for us all. Davey’s your minder today, lad. All right with that, Davey?’
Ralph grabbed the empty tub and heaved it to where he’d fill it with their coal, shouting back, ‘I understand.’
He was streaming with sweat but wouldn’t take off his trousers. He just tied the string good and tight because he’d said he wasn’t having any more damned rodents taking liberties, ever again. At ten o’clock, they sat for a cold tea with their backs against the props and Stan looked around. ‘Ralph should be back with the tub by now,’ he said.
Davey struggled to hear him against the background noise that carried along the seam and yelled, ‘Did he take another break? He needs to get his waterworks looked at.’
Sid dragged his hand across his mouth, then hung his head, sweat dripping onto the ground. ‘He was shoving the tub up the slope to the roadway last I saws of him. So aye, I reckon he’s doing another Jimmy Riddle on the way to the main seam, but he better hurry himself if he does want a drink, or a bit of bait.’
Stan groaned. ‘Best you go and see if he’s all right, Davey, and before you moan, that’s been my job since he started.’
Davey eased his cut shoulder. ‘Aye, right you are. Another mouse might have gone up his leg, chewed through the string, and is playing merry hell with his crown jewels and he’s having a right hop and skip.’
They laughed. Davey limped off into the darkness, his old injury aching today, for whatever reason, and headed along the uphill slope. He cursed himself for leaving his lamp with his bait tin. It was so dark that his eyes wouldn’t get accustomed, so he just kept to one side of the tub rails. He guessed where t
he roof would lower and ducked. He was right and then he limped on.
He bent lower still, thanking whoever was up above this world that he wasn’t a putter any longer, for it was no joke shoving the tub along.
He cupped his hands and called, ‘Ralph, Ralph Massingham.’ Nothing. On he trudged, hating the pit when he was alone; not like Stan, who seemed to think the pit talked to him with its sighs and creaks. How he could hear it, he didn’t know. He laughed slightly, and called, ‘Ralph, come on, lad. Pull your drawers up and get to work.’
There was no reply and now he was worried. What if the bugger was hurt, and on his watch an’ all? But just then, in the distance, he thought he saw a lamp glowing low, jiggling as someone walked, but then it disappeared – how, when there was no bend up there? He yelled over the noise: ‘That you, Ralph? Get a wriggle on with your tub onto the roadway and come back, or if ’tis empty, get yer arse back here and tek a drink and some bait with us, cos there’ll be coal piling up.’
He wasn’t sure the lad could hear him, but he listened as he walked and it was then that he heard the rumble of the tub. Well, he was on his way then. He stood still, shading his eyes, calling the lad, but no answer. Was the bliddy thing loose? He touched the rails and they were vibrating. The rumble got louder and he knew it was the tub and it was too fast for a putter to be with it. ‘Loose tub,’ he called in warning to the marrers at the coalface. But was it empty or full? He tried to hear from the rumble, but there was too much noise. If it was empty it would build up a sway and could come off either side. If it was full, he reckoned it would go off right or even hold its course and head straight through. But where was Ralph? Hurt? Had it knocked him sideways?
‘Tub loose,’ he yelled again to the others. ‘Bliddy tub loose, Ralph, wherever the hell you are. Stand aside. Tub loose. Yell if you’re all right?’ Had they all heard and where the hell was Ralph? He turned to run, but why? It was too late, because he could hear it good and proper now. He had to guess where was safe. He listened, his mouth dry. Aye, it was empty. Or was it? ‘For Pete’s sake, decide, yer bliddy fool,’ he shouted at himself, and jumped left, cramming himself against the side and screaming, ‘Tub loose. Stand aside. Ralph, stand aside, lads.’