by Jenny Holmes
‘What do you suggest instead?’
‘You must go out to the telephone box on Ghyll Road and call for an ambulance.’ Hazel overrode Sylvia’s feeble protest. ‘Ask them to get here as quickly as they can. I’ll wait here and do whatever I can.’
Mabel grunted and shook her head. ‘You’re sure? Remember, this kind of thing goes on hundreds of times every day, up and down the country.’
‘Do it,’ Hazel insisted, waiting until Mabel had fetched her hat and coat then plodded off down the hallway. Left alone with Sylvia, she persuaded her to allow the examination to take place. ‘Let me at least see if you’re bleeding. It won’t hurt, I promise.’
Weak and dazed, Sylvia agreed. With hardly the strength to turn onto her back and raise her knees, she cried softly when Hazel told her that there was no sign of blood or any discharge. ‘That means it hasn’t worked, doesn’t it?’
Hazel agreed. ‘But you still have to go to the hospital. What you’ve taken is poisonous – it may have lead in it, or turpentine. That’s what’s made you sick.’
‘Oh!’ Sylvia sighed, her cheeks wet with tears. ‘This means everyone will know.’
‘Yes, you can’t keep it a secret any more. Anyway, most of us have already guessed.’ Sylvia’s look of fraught concentration reminded Hazel of a child trying to work through her times tables. ‘All except Norman,’ she added.
Sylvia groaned again and she grasped Hazel’s hand. Her dilated pupils made her eyes seem huge. Her damp hair lay flat against her head. ‘I’m not going to die, am I?’
‘No. The doctors and nurses will look after you.’ Hazel prayed silently that she was right.
As Mabel returned with the news that the ambulance would soon be there, Sylvia’s grip on Hazel’s hand tightened. ‘Remember we’re flesh and blood,’ she wailed from the depths of pain and distress. ‘If you don’t stick by me, I don’t know who will.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The word was out. Sylvia was in hospital at risk of miscarriage. Norman was at her bedside.
Rose was the first to praise the part Hazel had played in events. ‘It’s a good job you stood up to Mabel and made her call the ambulance when you did,’ she told her amongst the sawdust and makeshift furniture of Sylvia and Norman’s kitchen. ‘Goodness knows what would have happened otherwise.’
‘Let’s all keep our fingers crossed,’ Robert added, still at work with saw and screwdriver. He’d stayed on after Norman had got the call to go to hospital, determined to get the place shipshape.
No one knew the real reason why things had gone wrong for Sylvia and, as always, Hazel kept her own counsel. She’d simply handed over the empty pill box to the ambulance driver and watched him take the patient away. Now it was in the hands of the doctors and all she could do was hope and pray.
‘What was Mabel thinking?’ Rose handed out the tea after she’d poured it from a vacuum flask. Then she picked up a broom and started to sweep. ‘Anyone could see that poor Sylvia was in a bad way.’
‘That’s the trouble with these old girls.’ Rarely one to criticize, on this occasion Robert considered their neighbour to be in the wrong. ‘They reckon they know everything and they’re too stubborn and set in their ways to call the doctor. But they only have herbal remedies and such like. What’s the use of them in this day and age?’
Hazel smiled warmly. It was a long speech from her father and showed touching faith in the training she’d gone through.
‘That’s right,’ Rose agreed. ‘I’ll make sure everyone knows how lucky it was for Sylvia that you were passing.’
‘I didn’t do much,’ Hazel pointed out. She looked out of the window at the gathering dusk and at a stray ginger cat weaving its way between over-filled dustbins. Through the open door she heard the sound of approaching footsteps then voices exchanging goodbyes. Soon after, a weary-looking Norman appeared in the doorway.
‘How is she?’ Rose rushed to greet him and made him sit down. ‘What did the doctor say?’
‘He gave her something to stop her being sick. They’re going to be all right – both her and the baby.’ Norman spoke the word ‘baby’ with an air of disbelief. ‘She just needs to rest.’
‘Was that Ethel we heard outside?’ Robert asked. ‘Was she at the hospital with you?’
‘Yes, there were three of us there – me, Sylvia’s mother and Gladys – all crowding round the bed. In the end they chucked us out so Sylvia could get some sleep.’
‘Right you are; I’ll make myself scarce.’ Deciding that Ethel would be a better source of more detailed information, Rose hurried away.
Hazel was about to follow her but was only a few steps across the yard when Norman came after her.
‘I want to say thank you,’ he began stiffly.
‘There’s no need – honestly.’
He chewed his lip and frowned. ‘You knew, didn’t you? That she’s having a baby, I mean.’
Hazel nodded.
‘So did every blighter except me, I reckon,’ he said with downcast eyes. ‘That must make me a laughing stock around here.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ she argued hastily. ‘It was Sylvia’s job to tell you, not anyone else’s. Anyway, we’re women – we pick up on these things sooner than you men.’
‘Maybe I did know it, thinking back. I’ve seen it with Mum often enough. Only, Sylvia didn’t say anything, so I pushed it to the back of my mind.’
Norman’s misery on what should have been a happy occasion made Hazel sad too. ‘Come on, do you fancy a walk on the Common before it gets dark?’ Without waiting for an answer, she led the way down the ginnel and up the street. ‘Let’s look on the bright side,’ she continued, crossing Overcliffe Road and striding out towards the bandstand where the Whitsuntide gala took place. ‘With luck Sylvia will be out of hospital in a couple of days and we’ll all be on hand to help her. By that time you and Dad will have got things straight in the house. Today has been a shock, but everything will settle down now, you wait and see.’
Norman walked by her side, hands in pockets, a thick scarf muffling the lower half of his face. ‘I’m not as daft as I look,’ he said suddenly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t buy it,’ he insisted. ‘There has to be a reason why she wouldn’t let me in on it.’
‘Maybe not.’ Hazel comforted Norman as best she could. ‘It could just be Sylvia seeing her life changing too fast then panicking and burying her head in the sand.’
‘No. There’s more to it.’ As he reached the bandstand he sighed deeply and sat down on the top step, hunched forward, arms resting on his thighs. ‘She’s been different since we got married. She’s not the girl I knew.’
Hazel’s heart sank but she sat down beside him, ready to hear him out.
‘I first met her by chance at the flicks. She was with a bunch of girls and she made a beeline straight for me, don’t ask me why. A proper little whirlwind – I hardly knew what hit me.’
‘That’s Sylvia,’ Hazel agreed.
‘Was,’ he corrected. ‘Not any more. Anyway, before I knew it we were courting. There was I, plain old Norman Bellamy, swanning around town with the girl of my dreams, not listening to anyone’s advice about slowing down and taking a cool, calm look at where we were headed. You don’t, do you?’
‘Not when you’re in love.’
‘I was. I still am. My mother was the one telling me to think twice.’
‘Is that why she didn’t come to the wedding?’
‘Yes. She met Sylvia just the once, at our house in Hadley, and straight away she said it was too soon to think about marrying. She still hasn’t come round to the idea.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
‘She relied on me, did Mum.’ Lost in thought and with his head bowed, Norman fell silent.
A boy on a bike rode by, whistling a tune. Behind them, the blackness of the moors threatened to envelop them.
‘Why did she pick me out from all the rest?’ Norman’s
mind was fixed on this one point.
‘Why not?’ Hazel murmured, sitting with him under the octagonal bandstand roof. ‘You’re nice-looking and you have a good heart. What more could a girl want in a husband?’
‘Five quid a week and a car to drive around in,’ he quipped. ‘That would go a long way towards keeping Sylvia happy.’
The sudden change of mood took her aback but she willingly went along with it. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘now you’re talking.’
He laughed then stood up. ‘Ta, anyway, Hazel.’
‘What for?’
‘For letting me get it off my chest.’
They began to walk back towards the town, facing a spider’s web of twinkling street lights in the gloomy valley.
‘I’m only sorry I haven’t got the answer,’ Hazel told him as she thought about the desperate measure that Sylvia had taken and the rocky road that still lay ahead for her and her new husband. ‘Let’s get her home and hope for the best, shall we?’
All might now be well, Hazel decided. After all, Norman was devoted to Sylvia and he seemed a steady type. In any case, there was nothing more she could do. Instead, she got up next morning with butterflies in her stomach about the forthcoming trip up the dale with John.
‘How do I look?’ she asked Jinny, appearing in the kitchen in her pink blouse and a grey skirt. She’d taken care with her hair and put on lipstick for the occasion.
‘You’ll do.’ Jinny’s reply was predictably downbeat as she went on spreading marmalade on her toast. Robert had already left for Norman and Sylvia’s house so an uneventful Sunday doing housework lay ahead of her unless she and Hazel arranged something nicer. Now it seemed that Hazel had made other plans.
The answer was much as Hazel had expected – a cool glance of approval and a curt remark. She picked up her flat brogues from the row of shoes placed neatly by the door. ‘Say ta to Dad,’ she said as she put them on.
‘What for?’
‘For polishing these for me.’ Then it was on with her best coat and hat, her leather gloves and silk scarf.
‘Anyway, who are you getting all dressed up for?’ Jinny wanted to know.
Hazel resisted the temptation to brush the question aside. ‘John Moxon has offered to drive me out into the countryside. Why?’
‘Has he, by Jove?’ Jinny’s surprise was genuine. ‘Just the two of you?’
‘Yes, but it’s nothing,’ Hazel assured her. ‘He’s only being friendly.’
‘John Moxon,’ Jinny echoed quietly as Hazel was on her way out. The door closed. Jinny frowned and put down her piece of toast. ‘That was quick,’ she muttered, cutting the uneaten toast into small squares to put out for the birds in the back yard. ‘Let’s hope you haven’t made poor Myra turn in her grave.’
Hazel’s butterflies increased as she walked up the hill. For two pins she would have backed out if John hadn’t already been waiting on the pavement, nattily dressed in a tweed sports jacket, brogues and twill trousers. He was bareheaded in spite of the cold, holding open the car door for her as she approached.
‘I thought you’d changed your mind,’ he said as he got in beside her.
‘Why – I’m not late, am I?’
‘No, bang on time, as it happens.’
The car’s gleaming dashboard with its mysterious dials and switches seemed to invite her into a more sophisticated world. ‘I could get used to this,’ she joked as they set off onto Overcliffe Road, gathering speed as they left the town behind. The were soon on the open road, bowling along under grey winter skies with heather moors to either side, then taking winding lanes through villages tucked away in narrow valleys between craggy hillsides.
‘I’d better hang onto my hat!’ Hazel laughed nervously as the lanes grew narrower, the villages more remote. ‘Anyway, where are you taking me?’
John drove carelessly through puddles, fairly zipping along between rough stone walls, barely avoiding a cock pheasant that pecked for seeds at the roadside. At the last second he braked and the bird flew up and away over the wall, clattering its wings as it went.
‘It’s all right – I know these lanes like the back of my hand,’ he assured her. ‘I used to cycle them every day on my way to school.’
He finally slowed down when they came to a hamlet with a church overlooking a fast-flowing stream and a village green bordered by poky grey cottages and a pub with a low, stone-slated roof.
‘This is it,’ he announced. ‘Shawcross.’
‘It’s small.’ It was tiny, in fact. A huddle of houses, a worn memorial cross on a plinth in the middle of the green, mossy gravestones in the church yard and a wild rush of water at its feet.
‘There’s not much here,’ he acknowledged. But he seemed proud of the place nonetheless and anxious for her to approve. ‘There’s a post box on the wall of the Red Lion – that was my only link with the outside world when I was growing up. Me and my mate, Alfred Jennings, we used to send off for stamps and stick them in an album. Stamps from France and Germany, even Africa – they were the colourful ones with birds and flowers on them that we’d never seen before.’
‘So you didn’t spend all your free time playing cricket?’
‘Hmm, let me think. No – only ninety-five per cent, I’d say. I squeezed in the stamp collecting in the remaining five per cent, in between scoring a century for England, close on the heels of Jack Hobbs and the great W. G. Grace. Only in my dreams, mind you.’
‘So where was your farm?’ Hazel asked. John had parked next to the church and so far they’d stayed in the car, looking out at the humble landmarks of John’s childhood. ‘Will you show me it?’
‘We’ll have to reach it on Shanks’s pony,’ he warned, leaning over to look down at her shoes. ‘Do you mind getting mucky?’
‘Not a bit. These can always be cleaned.’ She braced herself to face a biting wind and muddy tracks. ‘Lead on.’
So he walked her out past the pub, up an ancient lane used by drovers leading their flocks to market. They went high onto the fell, beneath a craggy overhang colonized by gulls, and on again to where the valley widened and stone barns were scattered across the hillsides. The wind blew in from the west and they had to lean into it, John going slightly ahead to shield her.
‘I’m not used to this,’ she confessed. The space and the wind made her shiver. ‘Dad used to bring me out on bike rides but we never got this far.’
‘Would you rather go back?’
Hazel shook her head. Despite the lowering clouds and the wild horizon, she was determined to carry on.
‘It’s not far now.’ On they went, battered by the wind, along the green lane with fields to either side until they came over the brow of a hill and looked down at a solitary farmhouse backed by three tall ash trees that leaned with the wind and provided the only shelter in the lonely landscape. ‘This is it – Dale Head Farm,’ John said quietly.
Hazel stood for a while without speaking, trying to picture what it must have been like to grow up here, without buses and trams, shops, factories, railways and canals – all the familiar sights and sounds of modern life. She shook her head and looked at him wide-eyed.
‘It’s not that bad.’ He made a joke of her amazement.
‘No, but it’s … different. I don’t know how you managed it.’
‘Up in all weathers – lambing in spring, digging sheep out of snow drifts in winter. That’s how it was.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Scout’s honour. I didn’t mind it. On the other hand, I didn’t want to stick around. As soon as I got the chance to leave, I grabbed it with both hands.’
‘And your dad?’
John glanced up at the sky then looked her steadily in the eye. ‘He had a heart attack. That was my chance. It sounds harsh, but Dad dying gave me my let-out.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Fifteen. I’d left school by then and was helping him here on the farm, fitting in the cricket at weekends.’
‘My own fathe
r died in the war just after I was born,’ she confided in turn. ‘I was five when Mum married again. Of course I don’t remember him.’
‘Is that right?’ John took the news and chewed it over before he spoke again. ‘Robert has made a good job of stepping into your dad’s shoes, I have to say.’
‘He has. We were lucky. Mum might not admit it, but we were.’
‘So was Robert. He had a ready-made family.’ Not like me, he thought. I’ve just lost mine.
‘Oh yes – me and Mum, Nana, Aunty Rose … need I go on?’
‘The Drummond family is a force to be reckoned with, eh?’ Pulling himself together and linking his arm through hers, John drew her close to shelter her from the wind. ‘Have you seen enough? Shall we go back?’
‘Yes, if you promise to fill in the gap between leaving Shawcross and playing for Yorkshire.’
Setting off arm in arm the way they’d come and with the wind behind them, John was happy to carry on talking. ‘You mean, how does a country bumpkin end up leading his team out to bat at Headingley? Hours of practice and a big dollop of luck – that’s how.’
‘I don’t know much about cricket, but Dan says you were one of the best.’
‘Hold on – don’t go making me a worse big-head than I already am.’
‘You don’t strike me as big-headed,’ she objected, steadying herself against him as they came to a narrow, rocky section of the track.
‘Not any more – maybe once upon a time I had ideas above my station.’ He concentrated on helping her find her footing. ‘These days there’s no reason to think I’m any better than the next chap.’
‘You still teach the youngsters, though.’
‘In the spring and summer. I drive to Leeds on a Tuesday and a Thursday after work, and sometimes on a weekend.’
‘So you’re passing on what you know. That’s worth doing, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe.’ As the village of Shawcross came into view, John’s high spirits seemed to sink. ‘I’m not sure if I’ll carry on with it next year, though. Things are different now.’