Finally, Kelly slept.
Chapter Five
It was the corgi toast rack that finally did it, Carol realised. London was swamped by Silver Jubilee memorabilia: mugs, aprons, T-shirts, chamber pots and even a £30,000 Jubilee bed. When her Auntie Jean suggested that she should paint her shell jewellery red, white and blue or stick medallions of the Queen and Prince Philip on to her lampstands, Carol knew she could take no more of it.
‘They’d sell like hotcakes,’ Jean had declared as she sewed silver ribbon on to her new range of Jubilee patchwork floppy hats.
‘You’ve sold your artistic soul,’ Carol teased. ‘And the whole of London’s gone crackers.’
‘It’s all a bit of harmless fun,’ her aunt had defended herself and her adopted home, ‘and you’re enjoying all the partying as much as anyone.’
Carol had to admit that was true. She had been to several open-air parties and even one on the river, despite the unseasonably cold start to June. The carnival atmosphere was infectious, but it had left her feeling strangely restless and unsettled for the first time in the ten months she had been away. She couldn’t help wondering what celebrations were being planned in Brassbank or imagining what everyone was doing. Kelly, her main source of news, had hardly written since February. Recently Auntie Jean had had several phone calls from Nancy, urging her to get Carol to return for the Jubilee.
‘She’s persuaded your dad to have a garden party on the day,’ Jean had told her, ‘and she thinks it would be the right time for you to come home. It’s their wedding anniversary as well that week, remember. It’s to be a joint party. Nancy thinks it would be the ideal time for you to patch things up with your dad.’
Carol had been adamantly against the idea at first; she couldn’t bear the thought of being paraded in front of all her parents’ city friends. Why was it that the only friends they seemed to have were from their early married days in Newcastle and not from Brassbank?
‘Not a chance!’ she had snorted. ‘Dad will be hating the whole idea of a party in his garden - he can’t stand entertaining and he’ll worry the whole time about people trampling on his borders. He’ll be in a bad enough mood without me appearing like Rumpelstiltskin.’
To Carol’s astonishment Jean had burst into laughter. That’s how you look these days with your orange spiky hair! Yes, you could be right about not going home just yet.’
Perhaps because her aunt had let the matter drop or maybe because talk of home had stirred up a buried yearning for Brassbank, Carol’s longing for something other than the bustle of London grew daily until she could settle to nothing. Her evening craft classes had finished in the spring, she had grown bored with her cafe job and the Australian barman who had been taking her out had borrowed her brother’s backpack and disappeared. Even her crafts weren’t selling on Auntie Jean’s Saturday market stall because of the tide of Jubilee knick-knackery.
On the eve of the Silver Jubilee, Jean came home with some news. Ted Laws was down with a coach tour that had booked into the hotel where she worked.
‘They’re here for a shopping trip, heading back tomorrow. They want to be home for their street parties. Why don’t you get a lift with them? Ted said he’d squeeze you on. You could go back for a week or two and see how it goes.’
Carol was immediately excited by the idea. ‘It’s not that I don’t like living here with you, Auntie Jean, it’s been smashing. But. . .’
Jean swung an arm round her shoulders and squeezed them. ‘I know. You’re homesick, I can see that. Went through it myself when I first came down. Difference is, I wouldn’t live anywhere else but London now. But I think you’re too much of a northerner to settle here, Carol.’
Carol felt a wave of gratitude towards her aunt. Jean was right. She was homesick for Brassbank; that’s what had been eating away at her these past weeks. As the days had lengthened, memories of the village in summertime had plagued her thoughts; the sound of the sea rolling up on to the beach and the cry of gulls, the children playing out in the back lanes and the shopkeepers winding out their faded awnings in the clear early morning light. She missed the smell of the sea and the waft from coal fires, the clank of the pit like a reassuring pulse and the quickfire chatter between neighbours across the street.
Jean helped Carol pack up her few belongings into an ethnic carpet bag and a tartan duffel bag and took her to the coach the next morning. Ted Laws greeted them with his habitual scowl, while Jean kissed her niece and wished her good luck.
‘You can come back any time, there’s always a home for you here, pet!’ she called, waving Carol away. And Carol had found it hard to keep back the tears as she waved and the bus swung round and raced out of London. Jean had accepted her without criticism all those months ago when she’d turned up unannounced on her doorstep and had made her feel at home as if she really enjoyed her company. Carol realised she had never been made to feel like that before and it left an empty ache to know what being wanted and loved could really be like.
Then her pang of regret at leaving her aunt was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder and a friendly voice saying, ‘Is that you, Carol?’
She turned to find Lesley Paxton smiling beneath a neat, dark fringe. She was a good friend of her old employer, Val Bowman, and worked at the pit canteen. Lesley had often come into the boutique for a chat and to try on dresses that she thought might galvanise Eddy Todd into ‘popping the question’.
‘Eeh, you look that different!’ Lesley exclaimed, staring at Carol’s punk hairstyle and darkly made-up eyes. Carol could see she was struggling not to comment on the safety-pin earrings and laughed.
‘Go on; tell me I look a sight. I’ll have to get used to the verbal abuse now I’m on me way home.’
‘No, you look - well, trendy like,’ Lesley stuttered. ‘Anyways, it’s grand to see you again. Val’s missed you in the shop - Kelly too. It’ll cheer her up no end you coming home.’
Carol was taken aback to think she might have been missed. ‘How is Kelly?’
‘Quietened down a bit, I’d say. Not like when you were around. She was courting Eddy’s nephew Mick over the winter, but Val says that’s been off for a while now.’
Carol felt herself blushing at the mention of the Todds and the unwanted memory of her final night in Brassbank.
‘Suppose my name is still muck around the Todd household?’ Carol grimaced.
‘Not with my Eddy,’ Lesley assured her. ‘He thinks the world of you after what you did for him, and so do I. Eddy doesn’t let family differences stand in the way of things like his brother Charlie does. And don’t you worry about Lotty, she talks a good fight but she’s soft as butter underneath. She knows what a good turn you did by fishing Eddy out the water and she’ll not forget it.’
Carol felt encouraged by Lesley’s words, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask what Mick Todd’s opinion of her might be. The journey passed quickly, as Carol talked about London and caught up on months of gossip from Lesley. Val Bowman was expanding her business to include bridal hire and her own sister, Fay, had opened up a second health food shop, this time in Brassy. Vic Proud was now running bus trips to the Rhine as well as Spain and Kelly had cut her hair into a short bob and lost two stones in weight.
It was early evening when the coach finally pulled into Brassbank, having meandered around the coastal villages dropping off tired shoppers. They alighted outside Proud’s Travel Agency and Carol helped Lesley with her packages. She breathed in deeply, revelling in the smell of damp sea air, hot fish and chips and smoking fires. It was drizzling lightly, the air was cold and grey clouds frowned over the village. Marshall’s general store was bedecked in Union Jacks above a new neon sign and the park gates had been freshly painted. But otherwise the streets looked achingly familiar, the shops and pubs and the vast redbrick Welfare Hall standing patiently like old friends to welcome her.
Carol refused a lift in Lesley’s yellow Mini and on impulse asked Ted Laws if she could go home with him to see Kelly. He seemed
surprised by the request but shrugged in assent.
‘If she’s there, but.’
Kelly was there. She was half dressed for a night out and shrieked in disbelief and delight to see her old friend. They hugged warmly and Kelly pulled Carol upstairs to her bedroom like old times.
‘What the hell have you done to your hair? It shows off your face, but. And I love the straight-legged jeans - and the leather jacket. Not sure about the safety pins, mind. Long as you don’t put them in your nose - Brassbank’s not ready for that. Eeh, I’ve missed you, Carol man!’
‘Me too,’ Carol grinned. ‘You’re a lousy letter writer. Two postcards in three months. Too busy enjoying yourself, eh?’ She looked at Kelly’s new slim figure and trim bob of red hair. Her friend looked prettier and her figure-hugging clothes now fitted her, yet there was a drawn look to her once plump face. Carol decided she looked older.
Kelly turned away and busied herself looking for shoes under her bed. ‘Yeah, well, I was never as good at writing stuff as you.’
‘So who’s the lucky lad tonight?’ Carol teased.
‘No one yet,’ Kelly said breezily, retrieving a pair of wedge-heeled sandals. ‘Still looking for Mr Special. All I’ve found so far is Mr Average, Mr Dead Loss and Mr Just For Tonight.’
Carol laughed. ‘So Mick Todd wasn’t the one then?’
Kelly’s face went tight as she gave a bitter little laugh. ‘He was a real dead loss. Mick Todd’s idea of a good night out was a game of backgammon with his Uncle Eddy in The Ship. God, even the music there was rubbish! No, I was well shot of him. He was no good in the passion department either.’
Carol flushed. All at once she felt uncomfortable at such talk. She remembered how she had felt that time on the beach with Mick’s arms round her, rubbing her warm. For some reason she didn’t like to hear him being criticised so savagely.
‘So what’s on tonight, then?’ she changed the subject swiftly.
‘Disco at the Welfare, then the bonfire’s being lit in the park at eleven. They’re laying on fireworks and free beer,’ Kelly said, with her old enthusiasm. ‘You’ll come along, won’t you?’
Carol hesitated. ‘I should really go home first - get the Spanish Inquisition over with.’
‘Well, come later on then,’ Kelly insisted. ‘It’ll be great. And tomorrow we’re having a street party, whatever the weather. I’m really glad you’re back for all this, Carol.’
‘Hey, I nearly forgot.’ Carol rummaged in her duffel bag and pulled out a tiny present wrapped in newspaper.
Kelly took it suspiciously. ‘It’s not a piece of bicycle chain to hang from me nose, is it?’
‘Open it. It’s just right for a Jubilee nutter like you!’
Kelly unravelled the newspaper to find two miniature corgi earrings with green jewelled eyes.
‘Snazzy, eh?’ Carol joked.
‘Eeh, I love them!’ Kelly squealed, rushing to the mirror to try them on.
‘Thought you would,’ Carol smirked and felt Kelly’s excitement quicken her own. Tonight she was going to enjoy the start of the celebrations. Brassbank had accepted her back, she was home at last.
Trudging home from the pit, Mick stopped at the yard gate and chuckled. One half of the kitchen window was almost invisible under the dressing of bunting and miniature Union Jacks and silver tinsel. The other half was starkly plain, except for a hand-written poster proclaiming, ‘Stuff the Jubilee.’
So his parents had reached a democratic compromise, Mick thought with amusement. For the past week, his mother had been itching to put up some festive decorations and had spent hours preparing and freezing cakes and scones for the street party. But his father had resolutely refused to have anything to do with such royalist indulgence and had stumped off to the allotment in disgust whenever the Jubilee was mentioned on the television.
Things had come to a head when Linda had returned home with a school essay entitled ‘What would I do if I were Queen?’ Charlie had come in from the pit to hear his thirteen-year-old daughter discussing trips to Disneyland on the royal yacht.
‘All this preparation reminds me of the Coronation,’ Lotty had said fondly. ‘Remember the parties we had then, Charlie, before the bairns were born?’
Charlie had snorted. ‘They’re just a drain on the nation! All that ridiculous pomp and ceremony. We’re paying for all those palaces and princes and cousins of princes and dogs and horses of princes. By heck, we should’ve got shot of them centuries ago like the French did.’
‘Oh, Dad!’ Linda had gone off in a huff.
‘Well, I don’t see the harm in it,’ Lotty had replied. ‘The Queen’s a hard-working woman. She’s done a grand job and raised four children at the same time. I don’t begrudge her a party every twenty-five years.’
‘Hard-working?’ Charlie scoffed. ‘She’s got more staff and courtiers than she knows what to do with. All she does is gan round the country opening things. We pay millions a year for a royal wave and a royal handshake, that’s what.’
‘So you’re not keen on having a bit of bunting in the window then?’
Mick had seen the disappointment on his mother’s face and unwisely intervened. ‘It doesn’t mean anything, Dad. It’s not as if the monarchy has any power over us these days.’
His father had exploded. ‘Nee power? What Tory nonsense is that? The Queen’s the head of state; she can dissolve parliaments and appoint prime ministers! And what about the honours lists? All part of a corrupt establishment pressing down on the people, that’s what!’
Mick had exchanged wary looks with his mother and decided to say no more. Shortly afterwards his father had stormed off to the allotment (Eddy had nicknamed it Toddy’s Republic) and stayed there until dark.
But looking at the kitchen window now, Mick guessed that Val or Eddy must have mediated in the dispute. Usually solid in their support for each other, his parents had agreed to differ on this one thorny issue of royalty and the kitchen window displayed their opposing views. Mick heard his mother humming. Peace had been restored.
‘Your father’s agreed to take me to the party at the Welfare,’ Lotty said cheerfully as he entered. ‘As long as he doesn’t have to stand for the national anthem.’
Mick raised his eyebrows at his father. ‘Delaying the revolution?’ he teased.
‘Just for a night,’ Charlie declared. ‘Your mam doesn’t get out that often.’
Mick grinned as Lotty winked at him.
‘But I want it known that I go under protest,’ Charlie blustered.
Mick nodded. ‘We’ll have it announced at the interval, Dad.’
Lotty laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’ Charlie demanded.
Lotty went over and kissed him. ‘You are. But come the revolution, I’ll still love you. You get my vote for President.’
Mick saw his father blush at his mother’s open affection but knew that he enjoyed it. They were so at ease with each other, like a worn pair of gloves, familiar and complementary. After twenty-seven years of marriage they still enjoyed one another’s company, still loved one another. It was something to marvel at, Mick thought. He’d never gone out with anyone who he hadn’t tired of before twenty-seven days were up, let alone found a woman he’d want to spend a lifetime with.
At that moment there was a clatter at the back steps and they all turned to see Linda appear with her friend Denise. There was a gasp of horror from around the tea table and a muffled expletive from her father. Mick looked in astonishment at his skinny sister, grinning at them. Her hair was sprayed blue and her face had been painted with the Union Jack. She wore a long blue dressing-gown and wobbled on high heels. Her friend shuffled in behind wearing black bin liners and her face blackened with boot polish.
‘I’m Britannia,’ Linda giggled. ‘Denise is a lump of coal. Do you think we’ll win the fancy dress?’
‘Not if your father’s judging,’ Lotty said, stifling a laugh.
Mick chuckled, grabbing Denise and thr
owing her over his shoulder like a sack of coal. She squealed in protest and Linda screamed in delight. ‘Haway then, girls, let’s get along to the party!’
It was raining steadily by the time Carol reached the gates of Granville House. The delicate flowers on the rhododendron bushes in the driveway were being battered by the wind. In the evening gloom, Carol could see a marquee flapping forlornly on the main lawn and fairy lights strung in the trees. Her mother would be inside fussing over last minute details for tomorrow’s big garden party, while her father grew agitated at the disruption to his routine. Carol almost turned and fled.
Then a car purred in behind her and caught her like a startled rabbit in its headlights. She jumped out of the way, but the car braked abruptly on the gravel and a window slid down on the driver’s side.
‘It is her!’ a deep voice chuckled. ‘The prodigal daughter returns, eh?’
Carol recognised Vic’s bearded face, his lips very red as he smiled at her. Before she could answer, Fay had jumped out of the passenger side and was running round to meet her.
‘Carol! You could have told us you would be here. Mum never said.’ She brushed her younger sister with a cheek.
‘Mum doesn’t know.’ Carol looked sheepish.
‘Typical! You’ve caused no end of worry to us all, I hope you realise. You ruined our honeymoon in Barbados, you know. Mum was in a terrible state when I rang up. You really picked your moment, didn’t you?’
Vic came to her rescue, abandoning the car on one of Ben’s manicured verges.
‘Hey, give her a break, doll. Carol’s come back to us, full of repentance, I bet.’ He leaned towards her and kissed her on the mouth. ‘I like the hair, little sister.’ He swept her with an appreciative look. ‘Yes, very nice.’
Carol felt ridiculously gauche in their presence and doubted whether coming home was a good idea after all. But they swept her in with them, Vic grabbing her bags and Fay taking her firmly by the arm.
‘Simon’s bringing his new girlfriend. Just a small family dinner party. At least you’ve remembered it’s Mum and Dad’s wedding anniversary. I suppose you’ve brought them something nice from London.’
Durham Trilogy 03. Never Stand Alone Page 7