‘Well, we’ve never bothered for all those years,’ Alice pointed out. ‘I could have got caught at any time the way we’ve carried on.’ She blushed as she realised what she’d said.
‘I know.’ Joe frowned. ‘It just never occurred to me that we could have another. I thought somehow, with all the difficulty with our Joseph, that there wouldn’t be any more.’
‘Well, tha were right, Joe, but all that’s changed now. There’ll be nowt to prevent me from conceiving from now on.’ Alice’s eyes glistened and her face glowed with optimism.
‘I don’t know, lass. I thought I was about to lose you after our Joseph. And there’ll be no Old Mother to care for you this time.’
Alice grinned, ‘Why, what an old turncoat! Tha never wanted her to care for me in the first place.’
Joe squeezed her hand between his. ‘Aye, I know, but she did well for you, Alice, I admit that. But what if you have the same bother again?’
Alice brushed aside Joe’s worries. ‘I won’t. It’s never as bad with the second, and, oh, I do want another child, Joe. Our Joseph’s growing away from us now he’s working. Besides, it might be a little lass next time.’
‘Hey, don’t build up, lass. You have to get over the operation first, and even then we can’t be sure you’ll catch on.’
‘No, but I’ll tell thee something, Joe, if I don’t, it won’t be for the lack of trying, will it?’
Joe laughed. Alice never ceased to amaze him. Anyone looking at her would never believe how passionate she could be. He kissed her tenderly. ‘No, lass, it won’t be for the lack of trying. But not for a while. We’ve to get you back on yer feet first.’
‘Aye, Joe, but we’ll make up for lost time once I’m better. In fact I feel better already. I might even eat a few of those grapes tha’s brought me.’
‘I’m thinking it should be me eating grapes. It sounds as though I’ll be needing me strength building up.’
Alice giggled. ‘Here, then. We’ll share ’em between us.’ But the visiting time ended then with the jingling of the bell. Joe was last out of the ward, reluctant to leave the wife he was missing so badly.
Isaac was feeling happier and more useful than he had for years as he set off with Len Barrington for the British Hall and the meeting of the Local Defence Volunteers. As an old soldier he had been put in charge and was enjoying himself immensely. He had even been persuaded to call in at the Rag with the rest of the lads after the last training session, and though he had drunk no more than half of shandy he had joined in the lively gossip and gone home in a more cheerful frame of mind than Emily could ever remember. The next morning he had seemed embarrassed about having gone into a place he had so often frowned upon in the past. ‘What will folk think, Emily? Me, a chapelgoer, frequenting a public house?’
Emily had laughed at his unease. ‘Nobody’ll think anything. In fact I reckon you should have gone out and socialised years ago. Anyway, you seemed quite cheerful when you came home.’
‘Aye, well, they’re a lively lot, and none of them supped more than a couple.’
‘Well then, what are you worrying about?’
‘So tha won’t mind if I call again, then? Just for a bit of stimulating conversation like?’
Emily had smiled as she spread honey on Isaac’s bread. ‘Of course I won’t mind. It’ll do you a world of good.’ A damn sight more good than reading the Bible, she had thought. Isaac had cleaned out the bowl of his pipe and looked quite pleased with himself. It would be a change being able to discuss such things as who had won the darts match, and how the landlord had a parrot which mimicked George Formby. In the past he had felt rather left out of the railway gang’s conversation.
‘What’s on the agenda for tonight then, Isaac?’ Len enquired.
‘I’m to demonstrate how to use a stirrup pump,’ Isaac said.
‘That’ll not tek long then.’
‘No, I shouldn’t think so.’
‘We might ’ave time for a pint, then. Will tha be joining us for one?’
‘Aye, I don’t see why not.’ Isaac tried to sound casual, as if it were a regular occurrence. ‘Though only one, mind.’ After all, it was his duty to mix with his comrades, develop a culture of closeness. A vision of his mother suddenly came to mind, frowning and stony-faced. He dismissed it as suddenly as it had risen.
‘It’s a grand neet,’ Len remarked.
‘Aye,’ Isaac replied, ‘a right grand neet.’ He looked up at the clear starry sky and wondered how long it would be before it was filled with fighter planes. ‘We shall be ready for ’em when they come,’ he said.
Len looked at his friend. ‘Who? What tha talking about?’
‘Oh, I was just thinking out loud.’
‘Tha knows what they say – it’s first sign when tha starts talking to thisen.’ Len chuckled.
Isaac grinned. ‘Tha might be right at that.’ They passed Lizzie’s house at the bottom of Queen Victoria Street. He wondered if Harry was at home. The lad was already talking about joining up. The air force he was interested in. He must have a talk with him, persuade him to change his mind. After all, there were many responsible jobs for civil servants to do without dashing off to fight. But Isaac knew deep inside that he could talk from now to kingdom come and his grandson wouldn’t listen. His name might be Crossman, but he was a true Stanford, a chip off the old block, and like his grandfather he would go to war. Isaac wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. All the same, he would arrange that talk. It would give him the opportunity to spend some time with his grandson, for time was a scarce commodity in war, and must not be wasted.
Olive polished the heavy and ancient furniture with vinegar water. She loved Saturdays, when she would spend the afternoon cleaning Buttercup Cottage. Afterwards she would experiment with herbs and spices in the solitude of her cosy kitchen. With the cough syrup perfected and already in demand she was now concentrating on a perfume, consisting of herbs such as rosemary, mint, thyme and lavender. As usual she was finding it difficult to assess exactly the right amount of the main ingredient, which was to remain a secret from everyone except Billy from whom Olive had no secrets. When the perfume was perfected it would be coloured a delicate shade of blue, by adding cyanin obtained from cornflowers, but according to Olive that would be in the far distant future. In the meantime her weekends were spent working on her new project.
Tonight, however, she was to attend a war savings campaign meeting, where suggestions would be put forward and discussed, with a film show to follow. Olive had been persuaded to attend by the umbrella girls, though umbrellas had been set aside for the duration of the war and the mill turned over to the production of cartridge clips. The girls had welcomed the change and production was soaring as they sang, or listened to the wireless which had been brought in to keep up the workers’ spirits. Olive had also joined a first-aid class, where she had been praised – much to her embarrassment – for her patience and nursing manner by the officer in charge.
The truth was that Olive was enjoying life to the full, and only one cloud was casting a shadow over her busy and carefree existence: the fact that her father, at the age of thirty-nine, had been called up under the military training act. Her mother was distraught and no amount of reassurance could comfort her. George was relieved now the decision had been taken out of his hands. He had known all along that he would volunteer in the end and the only thing holding him back had been Lizzie and the children. He had dreaded breaking the news to her, and had been relieved when conscription was extended to all men between eighteen and forty-one.
The children had reacted in various ways to the news. Harry had shaken his father by the hand, assured him how proud he was, and promised to join up himself on his eighteenth birthday. Little Ernest Edward had cried, not because he understood what was happening, but because his mother was crying. Jimmy thought everything about the war was exciting, and because he knew he could get away with fewer reprimands with George out of the way he privately welco
med the news. Bessie, usually the most robust and easy-going of the Crossman brood, had taken it the hardest. She seemed to think the father she idolised was deserting his family, and because she was sharp as a needle she knew from listening to people like her grandfather that war was a dreadful thing, so for three days she withdrew into herself, ate very little and worried a lot. It was little Mary whom George dreaded parting from the most. Mary was the timid and frail member of the family. She had suffered every childhood illness which had done the rounds of Cottenly, and never seemed to recover from one before contracting another. Alice and Joe had taken her with them on their annual holiday, and even changed their resort from Scarborough to Southport because of the air, but little Mary was still underweight and pallid on her return. So it was with a heavy heart that George contemplated his departure and wished the bloodiness of war could be ended and his family back to their usual harmonious state.
Olive knew she would miss her father, but in her calm manner accepted his call to duty. She couldn’t help wondering what would happen to her inheritance, but hadn’t the heart to mention it. She no longer thought about the stall in Castle Market. The war had put paid to such schemes, and she knew she was trapped in the works for the duration. The only alternative would be to volunteer at the hospital in Sheffield, and Olive had already decided that was the course she would take. She had discussed her plan with Billy, who thought she would be highly suited to the healing profession. Of course in Billy’s eyes Olive could do no wrong: from the day she had promised to marry him at the tender age of five he had been her willing slave. And though they laughed now at his proposal, their friendship was still as strong as ever, not romantic in nature but of the most loyal and faithful kind. Sometimes Olive experienced a feeling of guilt, for though she loved her brothers and sisters and indeed her other cousins she could never bring herself to confide her innermost thoughts and dreams to anyone except Billy.
She locked the door with the large iron key and placed it in the hidey-hole in the wall, wondering what to wear for the film show. Not that she was over-interested in fashion, but she liked to look her best whenever possible, having no intention of resembling her Aunt Alice, who seemed to prefer dressing like a cross between a nun and a Quaker with her black dresses and severely coiled hair. Olive couldn’t help but compare her lovely mother and fascinating Auntie Ruth to the dismal, unfashionable Aunt Alice. She suddenly felt ashamed as she remembered the times her aunt had come to the rescue when the family was in need of assistance. The toys at Christmas; new shoes for Harry’s interview at the town hall. The offer of help so he could attend grammar school. The times Mary had been looked after whilst recuperating from her many illnesses. Why, Aunt Alice had even offered to adopt Mary as her own, in order to give her the best possible chance in life. The offer had almost caused friction between the two families as Lizzie had taken it as an insinuation that they were unable to care for Mary in a right and proper manner. Aunt Alice was a good and generous woman and Olive hoped she herself would be of the same strong character, but the way she dressed certainly left a lot to be desired. Still, Uncle Joe seemed to adore her. Perhaps she was different beneath the sombre garments. Olive blushed at her thoughts, which were filling her head more and more of late. Especially whenever she came into contact with Tom Baraclough.
The first time she ever set eyes on him was when she was called upon to practise her first aid. Attempting to follow instructions and administer artificial respiration, she had turned Tom on his stomach with his head on one side. Then came the embarrassing part of the exercise, when she had to kneel astride her patient and place her hands just above his waist. Olive’s dress had not been designed for such manoeuvres and had ridden up above her knees so that the tops of her stockings were in full view. As she had swung back and forth forcing the air from his lungs and allowing it to re-enter, she was sure Tom must be receiving an eyeful of her lithe young limbs. That everyone else in the room was witnessing her predicament hadn’t occurred to her. It was Tom alone, and the contact of her body against his, which disturbed her. The smell of fresh, clean sweat on his shirt and the muscles which seemed to ripple between her manipulating fingers were enough to turn her cheeks to flame and her limbs to jelly.
After that Olive had taken care never to volunteer unless she was suitably dressed, which brought her back to what to wear tonight, bearing in mind that Tom Baraclough would be present. She decided on her best costume and a broderie anglaise blouse which Grandma Stanford had made her. Joseph had giggled as he mentioned he could see her flesh through the holes, but she had noticed he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Perhaps Tom would find her attractive too. Olive sang to herself as she climbed the hill home and only became dispirited as she arrived and remembered her father’s approaching departure. The house didn’t seem the same any more; only Jimmy acted in his normal manner, and though his practical jokes and over-activity usually drove the household mad, Olive welcomed his good humour. As they sat down to tea, Olive thought the place would have resembled a morgue without Jimmy’s chatter.
‘Can I go to the pictures, Mam?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Lizzie answered, and Olive thought her mother hadn’t really been listening.
‘But Mam, everybody else is going.’
‘Another time,’ Lizzie said, hoping to silence him so she could sink back into her pool of self-pity. Olive frowned. It wasn’t like her mother to be like this.
‘Oh, Mam,’ she said, ‘I wish you’d cheer up. It’ll only make Dad miserable if he leaves you in this frame of mind.’
Lizzie burst into tears. That was happening a lot at present. At the sight of her tears Ernest Edward and little Mary began wailing too.
‘Come on, Mam, I didn’t mean to upset you, but we should try to be brave for Dad’s sake. He must feel bad enough as it is without us making it worse.’
Lizzie dabbed her eyes. The sobs seemed to come from way down inside her. Harry looked up from one of the books he read through every meal. ‘Our Olive’s right, you know. We should let him see how proud we are, and give him a good send-off.’
‘That’s right,’ Olive said. ‘Let him remember us as a happy family, not a load of miseries.’
Lizzie looked at her daughter and then from one to the other of her children. The anxious faces gazed back at her and suddenly she felt ashamed. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘We are a happy family. We always have been, and we shall be again when your father returns.’
George came through the door at that second. ‘Well, that’s the last of the beetroots. I suppose that’s the last the garden’ll see for a year or two.’ He handed the bucket to Lizzie, half full of large, perfect beetroot globes.
‘Oh no it isn’t. Our Harry and me’ll be growing them next year. Of course I expect you’ll be home by then anyway.’ Lizzie smiled.
Olive winked at her mother in approval. ‘And the dahlias?’ she asked.
‘Aye, and the dahlias,’ Lizzie said. ‘And now, for Heaven’s sake can we all sit down and eat our teas in peace.’
‘Can I go to’t pictures then?’ Jimmy enquired, adding ‘please’ to be on the safe side.
‘Oh, I suppose so.’ Lizzie even grinned and the atmosphere changed instantly. Their mother was once more her lovely, normal self.
Chapter Eight
It was a strange Christmas. Emily had trimmed the tree with cut out stars and bells, painted and covered in glitter by little Mary and Bessie on one of their Saturday visits. She had hung paper chains in the front room and made a special effort for the Christmas Day family gathering. George’s leave had coincided with the holiday, for which they were all thankful. But all the same, an uneasy atmosphere pervaded the party. Young Jimmy insisted on being told all the details of his father’s life as a soldier and was disappointed that no one had been shot yet, or blown to smithereens. Little Mary refused to be separated from George, lest he should leave again and next time fail to come back, whilst Bessie plied him with endless cups of tea and st
ood like a faithful servant by his chair. The atmosphere did lighten towards the evening when games like blind man’s buff, charades and a good old-fashioned sing-song began to progress. Isaac gave everyone quite a shock by producing a case of Nut Brown ale from the cellar, the first time as far as Emily could remember that any alcohol – except for medical purposes – had ever been allowed in the house.
‘Well, as I won it in a raffle I couldn’t very well refuse it. I mean, thar not supposed to give thi luck away, or so the saying goes.’ Ruth teased her father about joining a raffle so that they could all get drunk, but it was good-natured teasing and everybody except Alice was pleased at the change in Isaac. All in all it was a grand do, as Ruth remarked when the family took their leave, with the children hugging brand new dolls and games. Little Margaret chewed at a teddy bear’s ear as Jack carried her through the wood and across the fields, led by Billy with a new, slitted torch.
‘It’s the bestest Christmas I’ve ever had,’ remarked Frankie, as he struggled with the compendium which wouldn’t quite fit under his arm.
‘Me too,’ Sadie said. ‘Will we stay with my new daddy for ever?’
‘Of course.’ Ruth was taken aback by the question.
‘And our old daddy won’t ever come back, will he?’ the little girl asked anxiously.
‘Course he won’t. How can he when he’s dead?’ Frankie sounded disgusted. ‘How can girls be so dopey?’
‘I’m glad, because I love my new daddy.’
Jack almost choked on the lump in his throat, but he managed to mutter, ‘That’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me, love. The best Christmas present I could have wished for.’
‘I love yer as well.’ Frankie, not to be outdone, forced the words out of his mouth.
‘Cor blimey,’ Billy said. ‘Is it the Christmas spirit that’s making everybody so soppy?’ Then he added, ‘Why don’t we just say we’re the happiest family in Cottenly and have done with it.’
The Stanford Lasses Page 20