by Annie Clarke
The women were laughing as the four of them left, but Mrs Bedley called, ‘And no more language, if you please, our Davey. Bliddy hewers, indeed.’ The laughter grew and only faded slowly for they kept to Davey’s pace. They turned into Beth’s back alley and collected her. She should hear the news too.
It was gone five in the afternoon and the darkness was deepening as the early November frost settled, but they’d run through these alleys for enough years to find their way blindfolded. At the allotment shed they tapped and entered. Davey had thrust the telegram into his pocket and just told the men that he was off to London, to push a pen. His da nodded. ‘Aye, well, we’ll miss you hard, our lad, but at least if you stay out of the way of them bliddy bombers, you’ll be safe.’
Fran’s da came to shake Davey’s hand. ‘Aye, ’tis best you use your noddle, lad, instead of fiddling about on them screens.’ Joe’s voice was gruff.
Mr Parrot said much the same, but instead of shaking Davey’s hand he gave him chickweed. ‘Best you feed them for one last time, eh?’
The others all sat on old tubs, chairs and boxes, and watched. An oil lamp burned behind the blacked-out windows and Fran felt that this image would remain with her for as long as it had to: all of them here, with the birds, the cock singing his heart out.
On Sunday, the three families set off for the beck as Davey was to take the train to London early the next day. The parents walked whilst the young cycled ahead, even Davey, who sat on Stan’s handlebars, his leg stuck out before him. Ben rode Davey’s bike, bequeathed to him for the duration, though it was on its last legs, as Ben muttered repeatedly, until Stan told him to put a sock in it or walk with the old ‘uns. Ben put a sock in it.
They rode into the wind, which held a hint of sleet. Fran cycled alongside, watching the two boys, now men, and realised from the set of Stan’s face that she would not be the only one to feel the loss.
She listened to the low murmur from both of them, the talk of the future and of the past, the scrumping they had done, the minnows they had caught, and the swimming lessons their fathers had given them, after which they had taught the girls. They spoke of their first day at the pit: the blacklocks, the rats, the mice, the bait, the sweat streaming down their bodies and the blue ‘buttons’ they had from scraping their backs on the jagged coal as the roof lowered, narrowed and compressed. Stan said, ‘The buttons and scars are a sort of code, aren’t they? To the past, to something shared. The minute you see ’em on someone, you know the key to them – they’re pitmen.’
‘By,’ Davey laughed, ‘we’ll have you –’ he paused ‘– setting crosswords any day now, lad.’ He snatched a look at Fran and she guessed he’d been about to say ‘breaking codes any day now’. Secrecy, deceit, pretence didn’t come easily. She wondered how many there were about the place who were doing the same, and what those secrets were? The thought was unsettling.
They stood on the pedals, crested the bridge and then freewheeled down, lifting their legs. With the wind in their faces, they all cried, ‘Yay, yay.’ The seagulls flew overhead as though leading the way, and the cyclists followed along the road, heads down, the lads whistling. On either side ploughed fields glistened, and ice lay in the furrows. Sarah and Beth drew up alongside Fran. ‘It’ll be like Stan has lost an arm,’ Sarah muttered.
Just then a voice whooped from behind, and Sid and then Norm swept past them. ‘Thought you’d leave us out, did you?’
They carried rucksacks on their backs, and Beth, cycling to Fran’s right, panted, ‘I heard the clink of beer bottles. I reckon they’ll all be walking back. Either that or wobbling all over the road.’
They freewheeled down the next hill too, and turned off onto the lane, bumping in and over the tractor’s ruts, arriving at the beck at last. Propping their bikes against the hawthorn hedge the girls joined the men, who were already collecting sticks for a fire. They built it and Davey held the match to the newspaper they’d brought. The fire caught, driven by the wind; the flames licked and soon roared.
Fran grabbed the rugs rolled up tightly in the saddlebags and baskets and then they all sat in the shelter of the hedge and talked of the times they’d had. In particular, they remembered Miss Stephens, the headmistress of their small school, who had brought cocoa so that in the winter they all had a hot milky drink, which she maintained built healthy bones and able brains.
Sid nudged Davey, who was sitting with Fran. ‘Reckon she were right. Either that or you and Stan pinched our share, for you’re a good few inches taller, as well as having brains a couple of pounds heavier.’ They laughed and while the girls drank tea the lads drank beer, and then they played ducks and drakes on the beck pool by the bridge. They watched the rope swinging as the wind caught it, and remembered so much. They fell silent suddenly, all of them, for the past had been good and the future unknown.
Then the parents arrived, the mothers with baskets of food and even some ham in the sandwiches, and biscuits made with honey. Best of all was the remains of a bottle of sweet sherry, which had been hoarded for cooking. ‘Aye, but I reckon we should slurp it down as there’re no cherries to soak in it, anyhows,’ Mrs Bedley said.
She poured an inch in the bottom of the women’s tin mugs, and they all bunched up on the blankets. The boys, young and old, kept with the beer and gave Ben half a mug. The girls sipped their sherry, feeling its warmth in their throats. They listened to the parents, whose turn it was to reminisce over their years at school, when they’d all been together until Beth’s grandda had taken off for Darlington. Today, Beth’s da had stayed at home by the kitchen range to help his cough, but they all knew nothing could. It was the last stages of black lung and that was that, and a neighbour would pop in and out to check on him.
They moved on to their singing, but as always tried to keep the details of the competition to the minimum, unless they won, in which case they would tell the date, time and that it was the Home Service.
Mr Bedley smiled at Davey. ‘Reckon we should all hear it, lad?’
Davey raised his beer bottle. ‘Oh aye, then we’ll know that if they don’t get chosen for whatever it is, that it were fixed. If we have to stuff our fingers in our lugs, the girls’ll know they have more work to do.’
The three girls and the mothers shook their fists, Audrey Smith whispering, ‘Sing up, lasses. Show these clodhoppers what’s what, eh. Them talk as though they’re the experts, but nay, they couldn’t sing in tune if their lives depended on it.’
Though Audrey was smiling, her eyes were as sad as Beth’s had become over the last few days as her da slipped downhill. Somewhere a pheasant called. Davey kissed the top of Fran’s head and her neck, nuzzling her while her da looked away, embarrassed. Davey whispered, ‘You sing out, Fran. Give me something more to remember, as though all this isn’t enough.’ He waved at everyone sitting around the fire.
Fran scrambled to her feet, pointing to each of her friends. ‘Come on, bonny lasses, time this rabble was taught some manners and had their eyes opened.’
Fran’s mam called, ‘Never mind their eyes, open their lugs, eh?’
The girls were all word-perfect and had been working hard on harmonising while the ‘select choir’, as the others had elected to be called, supported them under the waving arms of Mrs Oborne. Two ‘drums’ were enough, it seemed and Mrs Oborne was not to be budged.
Fran counted them in. ‘One, two, three …’ They were off. ‘All or nothing at all, half a love, never appealed to me …’
On they went, soaring over the heightening wind and the crackling of the fire as sleet fell, and the mothers looked at one another, smiling, and then gazed into the flames while the men stared at the girls. Fran sang for Davey, whose face showed his love. Sarah nudged her as Stan moved closer to Davey, gripping his shoulder, whispering something. Davey nodded, his mouth set firmly. The girls slowed, lowered their voices, and sang the finale they had devised for their choir. ‘So you see, I’ve got to say no, no, all or nothing at all. Nothing, ab
solutely nothing at all.’
They repeated the last line and fell silent. No one moved for a moment, but then, after applauding along with the men, the three mothers began to sing, lifting their faces to the sleet, which was lessening, ‘When they begin the beguine, it brings back the sound of music so tender’. They sat on their blanket and swayed as they sang, and the daughters, taking their places on the blankets, joined in, repeating the final lines: ‘And we suddenly know, what heaven we’re in, When they begin the beguine.’
There was no time for applause for Mr Bedley began, ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go.’ The other men joined in. ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary, to the sweetest girl I know.’ Mr Bedley looked at his wife all the time he sang.
Fran listened to their singing, and it was so strange to think that such a short time ago these men had been in a different war – a war to end all wars. How awful it must be for them to know their daughters and sons were involved in another one, and their efforts had failed. At last she really understood her father’s fury when she had signed up for the Factory. She left Davey then, and sat beside her da. He slipped his arm around her as he sang with his old friend, his mug full of beer, and now the girls joined in. As the fire died so did their singing, but it left peace of a sort.
The next day, Monday, Fran, Sarah and Beth clambered on board the bus for the fore-shift, having been rotated away from the night shift, in order to replace workers hit by the influenza which was sweeping the Factory. Stan had been at the bus shelter and he’d hugged them each, then passed on with Sid and Norm. For the first time, there was no Davey. Fran watched the three marrers walk towards the back alley, and the tightness in her chest grew. Her love would be on the train by now, trundling down to Buckinghamshire, for he had shared that much with her. As they left Massingham and she watched the countryside unwinding, she was bereft, but in another way she felt that yesterday she had at last grown up.
The day ran much as it always did, with their full concentration on the pellets, which was where they were today. They pasted the paper around the fuse pellets, their fingers already tinged with yellow and sticky from the chemicals, and laid them gently in their trays, and then another, and another. After they had bolted down their dinner of tasteless grey mince and mash, which stung Fran’s and Sarah’s pellet-induced mouth ulcers, they had their final rehearsal for Workers’ Playtime in the side room.
Mrs Oborne’s conducting had become more and more controlled over the last few days, with her downward stroke exactly on the beat. She brought in the sopranos, hushing them like a professional before bringing in Fran, Beth and Sarah to sing their lines to the quiet humming of the choir and the bursts of repeated staccato drumbeats from Valerie and Marjorie. The song ran through Fran’s head as they returned to the fuse pellets, pasting fluted paper with a paintbrush, wrapping the pellet, then placing it in the tray, even when there was a great bang at one thirty from somewhere in the Factory grounds. On they pasted, hundreds of the little beggars, Fran thought, hating the stickiness of her fingers, so coated with the paste that she could almost feel her rash spread, and her hair become more obviously streaked.
Fran worked on, as did the others, just like machines: collecting the pot of paste if more was needed, dipping in the brush, pasting the paper, wrapping it around the pellet as though it was a sweet. It was ironic, because where were sweets in wartime? Pasting, papering, wrapping and placing in the trays until Sarah began to hum, and then sing, and the whole of the bus team joined in – sopranos, contraltos, drums. Every run-through was close to perfect, but still they pasted, still they sang, until finally, the clock showed 2 p.m.
They moved away from the workbench, allowing the next shift to take over before they trailed to the changing rooms, talking about the progress they’d made. But were they ready enough? ‘Who knows,’ said Mrs Oborne. ‘We’ll do our best, and that’s all we can do.’
Once they had closed the changing-room door behind them, Miss Ellington appeared, along with a new security officer, Mrs Costello, to check that there were no pellets being taken from the Factory. Why would anyone? Fran wondered, as she always did, but this time she also wondered where Davey was.
As they slipped into their tatty shoes and shabby macs, the door opened again and in slipped Amelia. They seldom saw her these days, though it seemed she was still practising hard with the office choir, or so she mentioned as she flitted about with her clipboard, delivering messages to foremen or security staff, or passing on bad news from home. Now, the women stood still, wondering why, who, what? All looked on as Amelia spoke to Miss Ellington and nodded towards Beth, who was tying her headscarf under her chin. Fran and Sarah instinctively moved towards their friend, Sarah whispering to Fran, ‘I wonder if he’s gone right down. Mam said it looked as though he wouldn’t last more’n a couple of days.’
Miss Ellington made her way over and gently took Beth aside. Her da had been taken proper poorly, so Bert would get his foot down. Miss Ellington raised her voice. ‘Beth needs to get back quick as possible, ladies, so …’ She had no need to say more, because the women left the sector, their scarves still in their hands, accompanied by Mrs Costello, and ran out through the gates, only to be called back to be checked and counted out.
Mrs Oborne yelled to the guard, ‘Get a bliddy move on, you auld fool, someone’s dying.’
Frank Winslow just nodded. ‘Aye, we heard, ducks. You know we have to do this, but see, quick as a wink we are today.’
He was and they rushed on towards the bus, Mrs Costello calling, ‘I hope … Well, take care, Beth.’
The women shoved Beth on first. The journey was quiet, and those dropped en route were up and ready by the door before the bus had stopped and hurried off, with Bert leaving almost before the last woman was out. When they arrived at Massingham, Fran and Sarah ran with Beth to her home and waited in the kitchen for hours. They made tea and left it to mash in case it was needed. The doctor came, bustled through the kitchen and up the stairs, then back down. They’d poured him a cup and he slurped it down before rushing out, shaking his head and whispering, ‘It’s not good.’
Again it was quiet except for the awful coughing from upstairs. Sarah whispered, ‘Me da said Mr Smith has paid into the sickness fund, so the doctor is sorted.’
Fran saw quite clearly the account book her da wedged onto the mantelpiece. She remembered her da’s cough and couldn’t bear it, so dragged into her mind the image of Davey instead, out of the pit for now. But where?
They poured more boiling water onto the mashed tea leaves, for the caddy was empty. Sarah looked at her. ‘There’s a war on.’ They grinned wryly, picturing the ration cards.
‘Aye, well, Mrs Smith’ll have some drying from yesterday.’ They found them at the back of the range and tipped them into the caddy, then sat round the table where Mrs Smith’s proggy frame lay. It was cool away from the range but they couldn’t bring themselves to sit in Mr Smith’s armchair. Mrs Smith came down the stairs and poured tea for Mrs Heath, who acted as midwife, nurse and the woman who laid out the bodies.
‘You and Beth must have some tea too,’ Fran said.
As though she was in a dream, Mrs Smith poured two more. Sarah fetched a tray and Fran placed the three cups and saucers on it, the best bone china, as befitted a death. Mrs Smith stared at the tea and the rising steam, smiling a little at something only she could remember. She said, touching the rim of one, ‘That was me bottom drawer – not summat sensible like sheets, but bone china. By, it’s kept us going, just seeing it. You remember that, pets. Get yourselves summat beautiful that brings you joy. It’ll see you through a lot, you ken?’
They did. Mrs Smith continued, ‘You get on home now, pets, you have work in the morning and need your rest. Nothing will happen for a while.’
As they left, one co-op lady after another filed in through the backyard with food and their frames. Mrs Smith and Beth would not be alone through the long night. Fran caught hold of her mam.
‘Mam, they’ve no tea leaves left, so we put the dried and used ones in the caddy. Shall I bring some of ours over?’
Mrs Hall said, ‘Aye, if you would. Get a paper twist from us, and one from Sarah’s. I’ll tell Mrs Bedley. Hurry now.’
They did, and returned, each with a twist of tea, and they waited in the kitchen with the other women until four in the morning, when it was time for Sarah and Fran to head for the bus, with Fran scratching Sarah’s back where the rash had spread. Bert drove at his usual calm pace, which was a relief because their heads throbbed and their eyes were dry and sore. Their friends were quiet as they travelled, waiting, knowing that as the darkness lifted, Mr Smith’s spirit was likely to fly free. Dawn finally rose, and as one they closed their eyes and wished Tubby Smith Godspeed. Sarah whispered, ‘He’ll not hear his Beth on the wireless if we win.’
Mrs Oborne turned round. ‘Oh aye, he’ll hear, never you fret.’
All morning they worked, with Mr Swinton pacing and looking over them while they tried not to think of the competition which Miss Ellington had announced would be held today over the dinner time, and during the meal breaks of the other shifts. Neither did they think of Tubby Smith, because they couldn’t afford to be distracted, or slowed down as they had to make up for Beth’s absence and finish more pellets to meet their target. Fran felt dead on her feet, and beside her Sarah sighed and said, ‘By, I can hardly keep me eyes open. How are we going to be any good at singing feeling like this? And what’s more, it’ll be a duo, not a trio, so it’ll sound as thin as powdered milk.’
Fran pasted the paper and wrapped it around the pellet, remembering the twist of paper filled with tea leaves, and she smiled to herself. She did the same with another pellet, and thought about the packet of mischief she held in her fingers that worked with the detonator to activate explosives such as TNT to make a shell go ‘pop goes the weasel’. How did people learn to invent these things? Through wars, she supposed.