Girls on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  His father’s eyes were sharp as he trailed into silence, just staring at Ralph, who grew cold again, unable to breathe for he had indeed cut the prop after speaking to someone – he knew not who, for it was on the telephone, but someone within the group – to establish that a tub would career off just as had actually happened. He forced a breath, then another. Thank God these things were ‘muddied’. He threw his cigarette in the fire, watching it, not his father.

  ‘Ah well, mines are damnable things,’ his father continued. ‘There’s a creak, a groan and the whole lot comes down. It doesn’t necessarily need help to do that.’ He looked at his son, his eyes hard, but worried. ‘You look relieved – why?’

  ‘Relieved? Oh, because it was nothing to do with the two families. They’ve had enough with the accident.’

  Ralph drew out his cigarette case for something to do, waved it at his father who shook his head. Ralph didn’t want yet another, but lit up anyway as the front door banged open and the boys barged across the hall. Sophia, her voice full of laughter, called after them, ‘Is that really wiping your feet, boys? I think not. Return and do it properly.’

  Ralph watched the joy light up his father’s face, and knew he had to be quick if he was to sort Davey Bedley’s future. ‘So, Father, back to Davey? I can’t cope with thinking that I contributed to the accident in any way. After all, if he hadn’t been there, it wouldn’t have happened … That’s why I attempted to see if Smythe knew of some way of using the lad’s skills for the war effort, or of simply admitting him to Oxford once he’s fit enough. He has a good brain; he drew with Stan on the scholarship, after all.’

  His father strode across the room as Sophia entered. She raised her head for his kiss. She was elegant, her dark hair up in a French pleat, and her deep brown eyes danced as Fran’s did when she looked at Davey, and how one day they might when Fran, Davey’s most precious possession, looked at Ralph. Then he could unpin her hair and it would fall as Sophia’s had when she had calmed his childhood nightmares and told him everything would be all right, even though his mother had died. It was the only time he had not felt alone, during that period of time.

  ‘Father?’ Ralph called.

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ his father said as he hugged Sophia. ‘And as it happens, I’m off to see the lad soon with a few ideas of my own. I’ll add yours to my fevered brain so I have something coherent … Thank you, Ralph, for your concern. It cheers me immensely. Now, let’s all three retire to the drawing room for a drink. Sophia, darling, slip out of your coat, and join us.’

  Sophia waved to Ralph as she left the study, saying over her shoulder, ‘Ralph, dear. I hope you had a good day and managed to see the Bedley boy? I also hope he’s a bit better, at the very least.’

  The boys rushed past her, up the stairs. ‘That’s better,’ she called after them. ‘Now Nanny will give you hot milk and biscuits in the nursery and I will be up to kiss you goodnight.’

  The pang that cut through Ralph was sharp and long-lasting, because once that had been the two of them. He watched as she graced both men with her smile, which was beautiful and kind in a way his mother had not been. But again, that was enough. First Davey and Fran. Then the war, to help bring about Hitler’s victory.

  Chapter Eighteen

  At the start of the following week, Annie Hall put more coal on the range and then poured the co-op ladies’ tea. She smiled at Madge, whose eyepatch today was green for Monday. Madge had told them a few years ago how she’d been pedalling like a wild thing over Minton’s beck bridge as a new bride when ‘crash, bang wallop’. The hospital had done what they could, but she had arrived in Massingham with Rob, now her ex-husband, and an eyepatch. Annie stopped her train of thought. Not hospitals, anything but that.

  She cleared her throat. ‘We must send our twenty wall coverings to Briddlestone’s tomorrow, but we only have eighteen. Mrs Oborne is working the afternoon shift at the moment at you-know-where, so she says she’ll try and work into the night on her return to finish hers, and in the morning too, if need be. We, ladies, must finish Mrs Bedley’s.’

  Just then, Audrey Smith, Beth’s mam, knocked on the back door and hurtled in. ‘Sorry to be late. I travelled with Maud Bedley to the hospital this afternoon, and sat a while. Fran and Sarah nipped in this morning with Mr Bedley as them’re all on aft-shift, but you’ll know that.’

  She stripped off her coat and unwrapped a wall hanging. It was a Christmas scene. ‘I picked this up from the Bedleys’ old pigeon house. Maud left it for us, God bless her, so I’ll work on it now, as she’s told me what colours go where. She says her Sarah and Fran cut up strips before they went to work yesterday.’

  She settled on a spare chair while Annie poured another cup of tea. ‘Here you are, lass.’

  Audrey slurped it down, quick as a flash. She was about to set to work, but then dug in her handbag, bringing out some coins. ‘The Miners’ Club had a collection for the bus and train fares to the hospital. Who’s going with Maud tomorrow?’

  Madge said, ‘I’m on the rota for it, I reckon?’ It was a question and Annie snatched a look at the names on the wall, which she had listed on the back of a piece of wallpaper the corner shop had donated. When Annie had left the shop with it, Mrs Adams, Maisie’s mam, had called, ‘Wait on, Annie.’ She’d dipped into the broken-biscuit tin on the counter and bagged up several handfuls. ‘To be taken to the hospital for the lad.’

  There it was: Tuesday – Madge.

  Annie smiled. ‘That’ll be the navy blue eyepatch, then, Madge?’

  Madge laughed. ‘It will an’ all, poor bairn.’

  The women settled and worked solidly for the next hour or two. Only when Mrs Bedley’s was finished did they call it a night.

  Madge stayed on to help Annie wash the pots and whilst they were busy they talked about Davey, and mithered about the future. ‘I worry about those girls too,’ Annie said. ‘They hadn’t lost the colour before they were sent back where … Oh well, never mind, and then there’s this Davey business, and … By, I don’t know, pet. It’s all a bit of a do.’

  ‘There’s nowt we can do about any of it, is there? All a bit of a mishmash, isn’t it.’ Madge put the last of the cups on the shelf. ‘What’d do those two some good would be for Sarah to have her brother back, and Fran to have her man home. Or, let’s face it, a bliddy good piece of right red meat.’

  The two of them laughed, and Annie said, ‘Aye, that’s what most need and won’t get, but it’s good to dream.’

  After their shift at the mine, Tom Bedley and Joe Hall sat in the canaries’ shed. Tom eased his back, his strong fingers sorting through the seed, listening as their latest cock warbled, his neck stretched and his throat throbbing. ‘A beauty,’ Tom whispered, as though he didn’t want to disturb the song.

  Joe Hall listened with him, finally murmuring, ‘Reckon he’s not a patch on them three girls. Did you hear the lasses singing in the backyard? Word-perfect, they are. Mind, it helps having Beth back staying with her mam at Langton Terrace. And it’s company for Audrey, with Tubby reet poorly. Saves the pennies, too.’

  ‘Aye, the lasses could teach the old bird a few tricks, right enough. D’you remember poor auld Tubby’s voice? He were a great tenor, he were. Bloody black lung,’ Tom said, coughing. The two men looked at one another and laughed.

  ‘Have a fag,’ Joe muttered, throwing him a pack of Woodbines.

  ‘Not in wi’ the birds, what’s the matter wi’ yer?’

  Joe nodded. ‘Aye, yer right, so chuck ’em back then.’

  He caught the pack and pushed it into his pocket as Tom said, ‘I canna get that prop out me ’ead.’

  Joe rose and stuffed chickweed in the wire of the cages. ‘Aye, so you’ve said, lad, more’n once.’

  ‘But it’s that cut, it divint make sense. The gouge would if it had been hit by a tub, but there weren’t a tub near, so ’tis said. The whelp had hold, and it were let go with the sound of the fall. But that still leaves the cut �
��’

  Joe took more chickweed from the bucket and did the top tier of cages. ‘So what’re you saying?’

  Tom joined him, sighing again. ‘I don’t rightly know, our Joe. It just divint feel right.’

  ‘Ah, but is that because it’s your lad in the hospital? The coal can squeeze something powerful, lad, and just snap the buggers, yer know it. And the cut could have been done when t’prop were put up.’

  Neither of them spoke as they continued prodding in the chickweed, then Joe started laughing. Tom put up with it for as long as he could, then said, ‘For the love of God, what’s the matter wi’ ye?’

  ‘I’m thinking that we’re getting so good at prodding in the weed we could be part of the co-op our lasses have put together. If the mine ever folds, anyways.’

  Simon Parrot spoke from the doorway. ‘Fat chance of that, lads. I just heard in the club they’re opening up all the really old seams, the ones that are more’n half used up, not just about half used up. The government management want every spare bit of coal found, so you two’ll be too bliddy busy checking them out to be prodding strips through hessian. Sorted the seed, ’ave ye?’

  ‘Ah, so you’ve come, eh. Been reading the newspapers at the club, no doubt, instead o’ pulling your weight here. Tell us then what’s happening, and then happen we’ll tell yer what we’ve been up to.’

  The three of them sat down again and Simon rabbited on about the Russians and their war, and the Royal Navy’s first successful Arctic convoy. All the while, Joe thought about his lad in the mine, his lass in the Factory and his boy at school, and Tom chased his thoughts about the gouged and cut pit prop and his poor bairn of a boy in his hospital bed. And worried about what the hell Davey was going to do to earn some bliddy money for his future.

  On Wednesday Mr Massingham finally arrived at the Royal Victoria Infirmary and waited in the corridor to see Dr Wilson, who had been caring for the Bedley lad. The chairs were lined up hard against the green-tiled wall. He’d sat on chairs like this at school when he’d waited for the cane for kicking the football and breaking the large glasshouse window. He’d been made to pick up the pieces and then report for punishment.

  At the memory he worried again about his son. Should he, as his father, have insisted Ralph went to help pick up the shredded papier-mâché football with the other lads all those years ago? Might it have created some common ground, and drawn a line under the incident, which seemed to have left such a seething fury in the boy? Massingham shifted on the chair. But he hadn’t, what he’d done was to try to explain to Ralph that the Bedley boy had been within his rights to damage the football in retaliation. It was easily repaired after all. But Ralph had just seen it as his father taking sides against him.

  Reginald Massingham eased his arse again. Lord above, he needed to put on a bit of weight, or the hospital needed to provide cushions. Mark you, he thought that every time he came to visit his injured pitmen, so it was about time he did something about it. He found his pen and made a note in his diary to offer the funds and was checking his watch for the third time when he heard a bevy of voices. Wilson was leading a phalanx of doctors and nurses along the corridor towards the ward. He hesitated when he saw Mr Massingham, then had a quick word with the white-coated doctor on his right, who nodded and carried on.

  Dr Wilson stopped and held out his hand. Massingham shook it. ‘Good to see you again, and equally good of you to spare me a moment,’ Massingham said, only then remembering his homburg, whipping it off and throwing it on the chair on which he’d just been sitting.

  Dr Wilson smiled. ‘It will be only a moment, I’m afraid, but I’m relieved to talk about the Bedley boy. Walk with me?’

  Massingham left his hat where it was; he couldn’t be up and down like a jack-in-the-box. They walked towards the ward, but just before they reached it, Wilson turned right into his office, shutting the door behind them. He pointed to a chair in front of his desk, whilst he took his place behind it, drawing a file from a pile and scanning it quickly. He tapped it and, with his eyes on Massingham, said: ‘There’s a slight chance Bedley’ll be back in the mine, but only slight, and not for quite a while.’ Wilson placed his hands flat on the desk. ‘I was in two minds whether to put in a telephone call to you, Mr Massingham, so I’m pleased you beat me to it.’

  Massingham looked at the doctor, interested. Suddenly he was not in such a hurry and hoped the doc wasn’t either. He found himself feeling relieved just to be sitting here, on the other side of someone’s desk, and not having to think about his factories or his family or various wartime concerns that were landing on his lap, courtesy of Professor Smythe who seemed to be tinkering about here and there, but mainly in intelligence. He sighed, half smiling, for Professor Smythe was a force of nature and impossible to dodge.

  ‘Carry on,’ Massingham said, crossing his legs.

  Wilson withdrew a crossword magazine from his pocket and placed it on the desk between them. ‘Please look at page six.’

  Massingham did so, and saw that the page was given over to D. Bedley’s crosswords. He nodded, for this wasn’t new to him. He looked at the doctor with renewed interest.

  ‘That lad is wasted here,’ said Wilson. ‘I happen to know you—’ He stopped. ‘Well, how can I put this—’

  Massingham interrupted. ‘You think I might have a contact?’

  Wilson looked surprised. ‘Contact? Er, no. I was talking to Davey’s friend, Stan, who tells me there was an examination for a scholarship …?’

  Massingham nodded. Stanhope Hall, of course. He smiled. He liked loyalty between friends, and those two boys had been competitors as well as friends. They had stayed marrers, in spite of one of them taking the prize and the other forfeiting it. He smiled again. Ah, forfeiting for the sake of the feisty young Frances Hall … he admired that too.

  Massingham stood. Wilson looked surprised, then embarrassed. ‘Ah, I’ve overstepped the mark.’

  Massingham shook his head. ‘On the contrary. I applaud your care for the whole person, Dr Wilson. Leave it with me. Let’s see what can be done for the lad, eh? I can slip in and see him, I presume?’

  Dr Wilson was up and dashing to the door to usher Mr Massingham out. ‘By all means. Sister Newsome will be happy to show you to his bed, though you can’t miss him as he’s the one with his leg in the air, with a plaster covered with rude messages from his friends. You might like to add one yourself. I daresay you’ll have to beard Sister Newsome’s wrath if you don’t. She’s quite a tartar, in her own way.’ For a moment Dr Wilson looked preoccupied, and murmured, ‘And she has the most amazing eyes and cheekbones.’

  Reginald Massingham found himself roaring with laughter as he shook the doctor’s hand. ‘Ah, so obedience is the order of the day, eh? And I suggest you discuss Sister Newsome’s eyes and cheekbones with her personally. You never know, she might admire your stethoscope in return.’ It was the doctor’s turn to laugh and, indeed, blush.

  As they approached the ward, the phalanx of doctors and nurses burst back through the swing doors. Wilson swerved, took up his place at their head and led his ducklings off at a cracking pace. Left on his own, Reginald Massingham entered the ward, only to be accosted by a slim, dark-haired sister who held out her arms as though daring him to pass. ‘These are not visiting hours,’ she snapped.

  ‘Dr Wilson gave me permission. I have just been speaking with him. I need to see young Davey Bedley you see,’ Reginald said meekly.

  Sister Newsome flashed a look at the ward clock. ‘Ten minutes. We’ve just had the chaos of doctors’ rounds, and we have bedpans to do, and those wait for no man, trust me. Better in the pan than the bed.’

  Reginald blanched, and promised. ‘Ten minutes only.’

  He spied the raised leg in plaster and headed in that direction, settling himself down on the chair beside the bed as Davey tried to heave himself upright from the stacked pillows. ‘Steady, no need to sit to attention, though I can see why you feel you might have to,’ Regin
ald muttered, nodding towards Sister Newsome. He and Davey shared a grin. ‘We have ten minutes before the bedpans are produced, and I have no intention of being here when they are.’

  Davey smiled. ‘Good of you to come, sir.’

  Reginald shook his head. ‘I usually pop in to see how my men are doing.’ He paused, not quite sure how to go on. ‘Er, I’ve been wondering …’ Someone shouted out and there was a kerfuffle with Sister Newsome and a nurse striding down the ward, sweeping past Davey’s bed, towards the patient in question.

  Yes, Massingham thought, he had indeed been wondering – even before the accident – about young Bedley, and had actually spoken to the owners of the publishing house that produced the magazine, after a conversation about intelligence gathering at one of his, or rather Smythe’s, meetings in Whitehall. Upon hearing of the respect in which Bedley was held by the owner of the magazine, Smythe and he had spoken further at their club about a place called Bletchley Park and were on the point of pursuing the matter with Bedley, when the accident had occurred.

  Now he talked to Davey of the need to gather information in a war, information that was of course in another language, and in code which did not make it a simple matter to understand but progress was being made. He was, as Smythe had insisted, careful not to mention the names of places or people. He ended: ‘Your days in the mine are over for now, but your country needs you in other ways, perhaps.’ He emphasised ‘perhaps’. ‘I have a suggestion, therefore. As you have been here a week or some such, and have made rapid progress, I feel that you are no doubt champing at the bit to be out, and busy.’

  Davey nodded, looking puzzled. ‘Aye, sir, you could say that. Gets a—’

  Reginald raised his hand. ‘If I may continue.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘I can say little more because of the Official Secrets Act, but I am in fact driving down to London in two days’ time as I have a meeting, and I have had the temerity to arrange an appointment for you to have a chat about this and that at the Foreign Office. You will accompany me, if you so wish, and if I may say so, I do feel you should.’