by Ruth Sutton
‘Mebbe so, Dad. But I don’t want just anyone. That was the problem last time. Thought I ought to be wed, all that. I was too young, and so was ’e. I’ll fix the door, you just tell me what to do.’
She felt a cold draught round her ankles. ‘Wind’s got up. Southerly. I can feel it. Allus makes the front door whistle.’
‘God knows why we ’ave to live in the windiest spot in Cumberland,’ said her father, going back his newspaper. ‘If your mam weren’t so stubborn we’d’ve shifted years ago. Even round the corner would be something, away from wind straight off t’sea and under t’door.’
‘She’ll never shift,’ said Maggie. ‘They’ll carry ’er out of ’ere in a box first. Did she tell you about the dog?’
‘Aye. What a carry on. Bet Geordie was mad.’
‘Too scared to say so, though.’
‘You women’d scare anybody,’ said Frank. ‘Should’ve sent you lot in on D-Day. Bloody Nazis would’ve run away.’
The disputed door opened and Judith stood, raising her hand to herald an important question.
‘When’s tea? I’m starving.’
Maggie pulled the child towards her and sat back on Frank’s bed.
‘No tea for you unless you tell me summat you learned at school today, summat interesting.’
‘Oh no,’ groaned the child. ‘Do I ’ave to?’
‘Come on,’ said Maggie. ‘One interesting thing.’
‘Mr Huntley were going on,’ Judith began, after a pause to think back over the day.
‘Was going on,’ Maggie corrected her.
‘Mr Huntley was going on about somebody running all the pits, everywhere.’
‘Did he say who?’ asked Maggie.
‘National something,’ said Judith.
‘No sign of ’em ’ere yet,’ said Frank, looking over the top of his paper. ‘Still same old bosses ’ere. Won’t feel much different when National Coal Board does come, I reckon. Your work won’t change, Maggie. Someone ’as to dig the black stuff out like I did, and then sort it. Won’t find yon bosses getting their ’ands dirty, whoever they are.’
‘It’ll be better, Dad,’ Maggie said, looking carefully at Judith’s hair. ‘Has to be. They’re talking about pit-head baths, more safety, all that.’
‘Safety,’ snorted Frank. ‘These pits’ll never be safe. Tunnels out under t’sea, miles from t’shaft, no proper ventilation. Death traps, allus were, allus will be.’
‘So why do we work in them?’ asked Maggie, knowing the answer.
‘Money, love,’ said her father. ‘It’s a job.’
‘Can I work with you and Gran, Mam, when I’m older?’ said Judith pushing herself off Maggie’s knee.
‘Over my dead body,’ said Maggie. ‘You’ll carry on at school, like I would’ve done if I’d had me ’ead screwed on better. No getting married for you. Look after yourself, do the studying, get a good job, keep your ’ands clean, not like mine.’
Maggie pointed at the jar of Vaseline standing on the shelf over the fire. ‘Come on,’ she said, holding out her ravaged hands. Judith stretched for the jar, unscrewed the lid, scooped some out and took her mother’s hands one at a time, rubbing in the soothing gel with her soft chubby fingers.
It was the following Saturday when Maggie saw the new lad again. She had pushed her dad’s wheelchair along to the rugby field to watch the match. The ground was rough and muddy and she was struggling with the chair when she heard a voice behind her.
‘Can I help you with that?’
She let go of the wheelchair and turned around. It was him, the big lad she’d seen in the shed. He was standing just behind her, not too close, and smiling down at her. She noticed his height and his wide-brimmed hat, and the red scarf at his neck. He was a good-looking chap, no mistake, a bit stylish. Didn’t see much of that in Kells.
‘I’m sure you can manage,’ he said, ‘but it looks awkward.’
She was about to argue, then decided against it and stood back, yielding the handles of the chair to John with a slight nod of her head. Her hair was pulled back, but wisps were escaping in the wind and she tried to tuck them back into place while the young man manoeuvred the chair to the edge of the pitch. Frank McSherry turned to see where the extra impetus was coming from. Once the chair was settled, John stood back and moved away, but only a yard or two.
The two guardians of the wheelchair stood side by side, watching as the torrent of men flowed past them down the field.
‘Don’t know why we bother,’ she said, without looking across. ‘Too cold to be out, but ’e hates being cooped all day, and at least there’s a bit o’ sun.’
‘Wind’s swung round,’ said John, watching clouds passing far over their heads.
This was her chance. ‘You from round ’ere?’ she asked.
‘Ehyup, lass,’ said her father, as the rugby ball fell out of the rushing sky towards them. John stretched out his arms instinctively and the ball fell into his hands. The referee blew his whistle, a player snatched the ball out of his hands and the game continued.
‘Tha’ should play cricket, lad,’ said Frank. ‘Grand catch, that. Would’ve ’it me right on the ’ead. ‘
He twisted round in his seat towards John, and stretched out his hand. ‘Frank McSherry,’ he said.
‘John Pharaoh,’ said John.
‘From round ’ere then,’ said Frank, recognising the name.
‘No, not the Whitehaven Pharaohs,’ said John, ‘Barrow, then Ulverston.’
‘What’s tha doing up ’ere?’ said Frank.
‘I live up here now, working at the Haig,’ said John, pointing vaguely towards the north.
‘Office?’ said Frank.
Maggie stepped behind John and shook her head furiously at her father.
‘What’s up wi’ you, lass?’ Frank squinted into the low October sunlight. ‘And this is my lass, Maggie. Margaret for best.’
John turned. ‘Nice to meet you, Margaret.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Maggie, echoing the politeness. She couldn’t work out whether John was really posh or just putting it on. She liked it anyway. At half-time John offered to buy the Bovril, but it was cold and the home team were getting beaten. Frank wanted to go home and Maggie was definitely ready to take him. She and John pushed the heavy chair to the relatively flat surface of the street.
‘I can manage from here,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Mr Pharaoh.’
‘John, please,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘And do let me walk with you. It’s on my way home.’
‘Where …?’
‘Sandwith.’
‘Right,’ she said, recalling that there were some tidy little houses in Sandwith.
It wasn’t far to the corner of North Row. When they reached it, John stopped and bent over the chair to speak to Frank. ‘I’ll leave you now, Mr McSherry, if that’s OK. Can you manage?’
He wanted to speak to Maggie, but now he wasn’t sure what to call her. Maggie sounded too casual but Margaret wasn’t right either. He was never sure about these things.
Frank relieved him of the decision. ‘Nay, lad, you’ll come in for a brew. That’s the least we can do as thanks for the ’elp. That’s right, Maggie?’
‘Aye, Dad, but let me run on and tell our Mam. Tell ’er someone’s coming.’
‘Go on then,’ said her father. ‘Tell ’er it’s not the bloody king.’ He turned to John. ‘Women, eh. Never work ’em out. You married, lad?’
‘No,’ said John. ‘I never …’
‘Very wise.’
This brief exchange was all the time Maggie needed. She ran to the house, pushed open the front door, and called to her mother.
‘Dad’s asked somebody in, Mam. A man from work, he was at the rugby. E’s posh.’
Violet McSherry came in from the back yard, wiping her hands on a large grey cloth by the back door. ‘What d’ye mean, posh?’
‘He works in t’wages office at pit. He was in the shed the day we found the dog,
standing on the gantry with Geordie. You’ll know ’im when you see ’im. Doesn’t recognise me, thank God. Don’t tell ’im, Mam, please. Talk about summat else, but don’t mention work. Please.’
The front door opened again, and they could hear John coaxing the wheelchair over the step.
‘I’m back,’ called Frank to his wife. ‘Get kettle on, love, we got company.’
Maggie mouthed ‘Please’ at her mother. ‘Judith!’ she called up the narrow stairs. ‘Come down pet, and meet somebody.’
A small child came slowly down the stairs, with one hand pressed against the wall. Auburn-haired like her mother, with a floppy bow to one side of her head, and a grave blue-eyed expression, she gazed at the stranger standing by the door.
‘Say hello to Mr Pharaoh, Judith,’ said Maggie.
‘Hello,’ said Judith.
‘Your sister?’ said John.
Maggie laughed. ‘My daughter. She’s nearly seven now, aren’t you pet. Doing well at school.’
‘Clever, like her mam,’ said a woman from the doorway of the backroom.
‘This is the wife,’ said Frank. ‘Vi, this is John Pharaoh. Met ’im at rugby and he ’elped Maggie push me ’ome. Asked him in for a brew.’
‘Tea, Mr Pharaoh?’ said Violet, reaching for the best cups off the top shelf.
‘Steady on, love,’ said Frank. ‘No need for best china. John lives round ’ere, can’t be that posh.’
‘In Sandwith, Mam,’ said Maggie, with emphasis. ‘Get up Judith, and help your gran. We’ll need a few plates, and fetch the cake tin down. That wind’s made us hungry.’
They were sitting drinking tea, eating Violet’s attempt at shortbread, and making safe conversation about nothing very much when there was a loud crash from upstairs. They all ducked as dust rained down from the ceiling above their heads.
‘Bloody ’ell,’ Frank shouted, covering his head with his hands. ‘Thought war were over.’
‘Mam,’ wailed Judith, and Maggie pulled the child to her, brushing dust from her hair. John jumped to his feet.
‘Upstairs,’ said Violet, and John took them two at a time.
When he came back into the kitchen, John was carrying something wrapped in a cloth that had once been white but was covered in dust and bits of plaster.
‘Something’s come through the ceiling upstairs,’ said John. ‘Landed on one of the beds. Real mess. Plaster all over the place.’
‘That’s our bed, Mam,’ said the child, turning her face into Maggie’s shoulder and sobbing. ‘Where will we sleep now?’
‘I told you!’ Violet shouted at her husband, taking the bundle from John and brushing away some of the dust and plaster. ‘I told you no good would come of it. You and your schemes. Now what’ve we got, a bloody great ’ole in the bedroom ceiling and dust all over.’ She stopped and looked at John, then at Maggie.
‘You might as well know, Mr Pharaoh …’ she said.
‘John, please,’ said John.
‘Well John, you might as well know, but this is between us. For God’s sake don’t tell anyone.’
‘Tell them what?’ asked John, still mystified.
‘About this,’ she said. ‘The ham. It were hung up in the loft, out of sight. We got it off Frank’s cousin up Ennerdale, under the counter like. Saving it for Christmas, and now look at it.’
‘Give it ’ere,’ said Frank. ‘Look at rope, it’s eaten through. Bloody mice. Ate through rope and the damn thing crashed down through t’ceiling. Could’ve killed our Judith.’
Judith wailed more loudly.
‘Hush, Dad, for pity’s sake,’ said Maggie, putting her hands over Judith’s ears. She’ll ’ave nightmares for weeks if you carry on. You don’t ’ave to sleep with her.’
‘Well,’ said John, ‘I’ve heard of flying pigs, but this takes the bacon.’
‘Takes the bacon,’ said Frank, hitting his hand on his knee. ‘That’s a good one. Did you ’ear that, Mother?
They all laughed, as much at Frank as at John’s joke.
John and Maggie went up to the ravaged bedroom to clear up the mess. Maggie wasn’t sure what to say, but John took a chance. ‘Judith’s father?’ he began.
‘El Alamein,’ said Maggie, without looking up. ‘We’d only been married a year. He never saw Judith.’
‘I’m so sorry. How do you manage?’
‘We manage. Me sister offered to take Judith in but I said never. She were still a babby and wouldn’t’ve known any different, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t just give ’er away.’
‘No,’ said John. ‘Of course you couldn’t.’
They cleared as much of the mess as they could. Maggie noticed that John had gone quiet. Maybe he was shocked about the ham and was wondering what to do. When they went downstairs again he seemed uneasy, saying that the dust had got on his chest. Maggie watched him carefully. Maybe he was sick.
Within a few minutes John had put on his coat and hat, thanked them for the hospitality and left the house. As the door closed behind him, the McSherrys looked at each other.
‘Well, ’e’s a strange one,’ said Violet. ‘One minute cracking jokes, and the next scuttling off home with ’is tail between ’is legs. What ’appened upstairs? What did you say to ’im? I thought you liked the lad.’
‘I do like ’im,’ said Maggie, shaking her head at her mother as Judith sat listening attentively to their conversation. ‘Something must’ve upset ’im, but it wasn’t me.’
‘Nice lad, that,’ said Frank. ‘Not many like ’im round ’ere, our Maggie. Worth a second look, I’d say.’
‘Dad,’ said Maggie. ‘Give o’er.’
Judith looked at each of them, wondering.
CHAPTER 6
JOHN WALKED QUICKLY AWAY from West Row, back towards Sandwith, breathing in the cool air and letting his mind settle. What Maggie had said about her child had hit him like a blow to the chest. She could never have let someone else raise her child, she’d said, not even her own sister. He slowed his pace a little, and thought about Maggie. That hair – he imagined it loose, falling onto her shoulders, and pushed the thought away. They were probably laughing at him now, her and her mother. Not Frank, he was alright. But the women – like those women in the screen shed – they seemed to laugh at everything. He liked Maggie. Maybe she could like him, too. He could ask her to take a walk with him, maybe. Nothing too serious, not at night. Or the pictures – a matinee – but that might be too public, too obvious. If she said no, it would be hard to backtrack. But maybe she might say yes?
Sitting alone at the little table in his kitchen, his supper steaming on the plate in front of him, he thought about her again. Why not? Too many times over the years he’d thought of asking to see a girl again, but backed away, afraid of being laughed at. He wasn’t good-looking, but he wasn’t ugly, and he had a decent job and his own house. That had to count for something. He liked her. She was straightforward and strong, like Hannah. And she was beautiful. There must be men lining up for her; maybe the child would put them off. But how to do it? He could call in, casual like, on his way home from work one day. Frank would be there, and he could see how the land lay. If there were other people around when he asked her out, maybe she would be polite, even if she said no.
It was a few weeks before John summoned the confidence to put this plan into action. Winter was coming. The trees along his route as he walked to work in the mornings were raining brown and orange leaves, which the rain turned to a slippery mess under his feet. The wind blew sharp and straight from the north-west most mornings: he felt the prickle of rain on the side of his face as he turned into West Row one afternoon around five. The light was already fading. He knocked on the front door and waited. A voice called from inside. ‘Door’s open, come away in.’
John did as he was bid, and found Frank McSherry coming backwards in his wheelchair towards him. Frank turned round enough to see who it was and smiled as John tried to help him in the small space.
‘Why it’
s Mr Pharaoh from Ulverston,’ said Frank. ‘Shut door lad, afore wind blows it open again.’
‘Call me John, please,’ said John, ‘and I’ve not lived in Ulverston for a few years now. Have an aunt and uncle there but don’t see them very often.’
‘No family with you, then,’ said Frank, pointing at the armchair by the meagre fire.
‘Can I help with the fire?’ John asked.
‘Only if you can rustle up some more coal, lad. We’ve used all the lasses’ allowance until end o’ week. Got some that fell off back of a lorry you might say, but it’s poor stuff, mostly dust.’
‘It’s hard, isn’t it,’ said John, ‘not having enough when we’re practically sitting on it, all those seams, running out to sea.’
‘Bloody is,’ said Frank, ‘but bugger all to do about it. Seems to go on and on. And now bread’s rationed too. Who’d’ve thought it, eh?’
The two men sank into silence for a moment. John knew he had to speak.
‘Is Margaret at home, Mr McSherry?’ he said, as casually as he could muster.
‘Margaret? Oh, Maggie. Aye, she’s home, out back somewhere. Try back door, she was getting washing off t’green.’
John opened the back door and looked across the green. Maggie was walking towards him, carrying a large basket, as spots of rain splattered at an angle on the outhouse wall. She saw him, and stopped. John closed the door behind him and walked across to her, taking the basket out of her hands without a word. He didn’t know what to say, and the rain was getting heavier. She ran past him and held the door as he struggled into the tiny back room.
‘Just in time,’ she said. ‘I could see rain coming. Thanks. It was ’eavy. Just put it down in t’corner there.’
When he straightened up she was looking up at him.
‘Did you want summat? Mam’s down in town with Judith.’