Above the Bright Blue Sky

by Margaret Thornton

  How lovely it would be to live in the countryside with woods and fields all around, instead of rows and rows of red-brick houses which all looked alike, thought Maisie. But would she, perhaps, find it all too quiet? said a small voice inside her. This, after all, was her home. She had known nothing else but this humble house surrounded by factory chimneys and built almost in the shadow of Armley Jail. The only green she saw was in the nearby cemetery, and across the main road, near to where the posher people lived, there was a park. The kids from Maisie’s area, though, were not encouraged to play there. They were chased away by rival gangs whenever they ventured near and fights sometimes ensued. Maisie had learned to keep to her own neck of the woods.

  She would miss her mum, she told herself now, feeling ashamed that she had thought, for a moment, that she might not do so. But perhaps her mother would be able to come and visit her, if she was not too far away. And, she reminded herself again, it would he heaven to get away from those other two, her step-father and Percy. And maybe, by the time she returned from wherever she was going, a miracle would have happened and they would no longer be there… But what she had in mind she was not quite sure.

  She made herself think of pleasant things – of woods and fields, trees and flowers – and at last she fell asleep. But thoughts of the dreadful Percy and the fervent hope that he would not disturb her that night were not far below the surface of her dreaming.

  Lily, also, was thinking of her step-son, Percy, and the remarks that her husband had made.

  Sid, after fetching his cigarettes from upstairs, had gone out immediately to the Rose and Crown down the road. He would not be back until after closing time and, if he followed his usual procedure he would expect – or, more likely, demand – what he called his marital rights, whether she happened to be awake or asleep. Lily was usually awake, waiting for his lumbering steps on the stairs, or sometimes the sound of him stumbling and crashing around, if he had had too much of a skinfull. If that was the case, she would breathe a sigh of relief. It meant that he would be incapable of making love to her, although his abuse of her could in no way be credited with such a name. There was nothing in his almost nightly routine that resembled love, or even tenderness or respect, nor had it done for almost as long as she could remember. Sometimes he didn’t even make it up the stairs, then she would find him crashed out on the sofa in the morning, his clothes and the cushions stained with his own vomit.

  What was that remark he had made? Lily pondered, as she sat by the burnt out embers of the fire; that Percy had taken quite a fancy to Nellie – or Maisie, as she liked to be called – but that he would have to wait until she grew up a bit. Over my dead body! she thought with feeling. It wasn’t the first time she had heard Sid hint that the lad was taking an interest in the little girl, but she had, until now, not taken a great deal of notice. As far as she was concerned the two of them – step-sister and step-brother, as they were in actuality – ignored one another as much as was possible and their dislike seemed to be a mutual thing. Now she began to wonder. She recalled Sid’s sneering grin and the sardonic gleam in his pale blue eyes when he mentioned his son and her daughter; and, she recalled, she had seen the selfsame mocking expression on Percy’s face, too. And it was true that Maisie did, at times, appear afraid of the lad. Lily had sometimes seen her cast nervous glances in his direction, unaware she was being noticed.

  But why, then, had the child not said something, if the boy was tormenting her…or worse? Or had she, Lily, become so apathetic, so bogged down with her own concerns that she had failed to notice that her daughter might be in danger? Suddenly, a paroxysm of anger seized hold of her. If he ever lays a finger on my little girl, then – God help me! – I will kill him, she vowed.

  She stared unseeingly into the faintly glowing cinders, then, as her rage subsided a little she began to consider – as she had done so many times before – however she had come to be in this pathetic and parlous state. Married to a husband for whom she had no feeling whatsoever other than contempt and, sometimes, fear; with two toddlers who resembled him, rather than herself, in all ways, and for whom, to her shame, she found it hard at times to summon up any maternal feelings; a step-son who treated her with indifference; and a house which had become a prison rather than a home, and a not very clean one at that. Set against all this, of course, was her first born child, Eleanor May, whom she and Davey had loved so very much. Lily still loved the child – of course she did – but she seemed to have lost her, gradually, as all her anxieties and hardships threatened to submerge her. And now, if she allowed her to go away as an evacuee, she would lose her completely.

  She knew it was futile to look back, remembering the few happy years she had spent with Davey, then cursing her foolishness in getting married again. She had been desperately unhappy and lonely after Davey had died, as the result of influenza turning to pneumonia – it had happened so suddenly – and she had found herself in dire straits, too. She had been obliged to go out to work to pay the rent, taking Eleanor May with her, as the child was not then old enough for school. She had gone cleaning at some of the posher houses near to the park, and it was on one lunchtime break that she had met Sidney Bragg.

  Such a tall, swarthily handsome man he had been, well built, with yellowish hair and rather prominent blue eyes; and how pleasant he had seemed. He had taken a fancy to the young widow, and he had been friendly towards her little girl, too, which had pleased Lily. She had soon learned, as he continued to meet her each day in the park – he was between jobs, he told her – that he was a widower, seventeen years older than herself. Lily was twenty-three at that time. His two eldest children had ‘flown the nest’ as he put it, and now there was only himself and his younger son, Percy, living in temporary lodgings. He led Lily to believe he had owned his own house; it was only later that she learned he had been evicted from a property, very similar to the one in which she lived, for non-payment of rent.

  She could not have explained to anyone how, or why, it had happened, and so quickly, too. But she had married him, and he and his son had moved in with her and Eleanor May; soon to become Nellie, and destined to become a drudge, which was what her mother had very soon turned into.

  Sid managed to find a job in another woollen mill – she was to learn, also, that he had been sacked from his previous employment, although she never knew why – as did Percy when he left school. Lily, in less than two years, had two babies, as well as a growing girl, to say nothing of two males who could eat whatever she put in front of them twice over, and then ask for more. She found it hard to make ends meet, particularly as a large share of Sid’s weekly wage went into the coffers of the Rose and Crown. She was forced to go out cleaning again when the children were old enough to take with her, sometimes to the annoyance of her employers. But they found that Lily Bragg was a hard worker who took a pride in making the furniture and paintwork, the glass and silverware in the houses of her affluent clients gleam with care and attention.

  So much so that her own home, of which she had once been so proud, had deteriorated. Lily was often too tired and dispirited to give the place more than a cursory wipe with a duster or floor cloth. The furniture and wallpaper, the carpets and curtains all became shabby and soiled, but there was never enough money to buy replacements. Nor did Lily feel any incentive to do so.

  A glance in the mirror, something she seldom bothered to do, told her that she looked older than her twenty-eight years. She had put on weight since having the babies and no longer had the slim waistline and hips of which she had used to be so proud. Her dark hair was already greying slightly at the temples and it no longer curled alluringly as it had done when she was younger. It hung now in greasy strands to her shoulders, or sometimes she pinned it back with a few kirby grips. It was such a palaver to wash her hair at the kitchen sink, which was why she did not now do so as often as she knew she should; although it had never seemed any bother to keep her hair clean and shining when Davey was alive, she recalled. Sh
e was still meticulous, however, about keeping her body and face clean, and she had a strip-wash by the sink every day when Sid and Percy were out of the way. And once a week, again making sure the menfolk were nowhere about, she took the zinc bath down from the nail on which it hung outside the back door. She then filled it with buckets of water from the kitchen tap, plus a few kettlefuls of boiling water heated on the open fire, and luxuriated in a long soak, washing herself well all over with pink carbolic soap. This was when the two little ones and Nellie had gone to bed.

  The children shared a bath on another night of the week. Nellie used the water first – she was by far the cleanest of the three of them – followed by her two siblings. This was the only time during the week when Joanie and Jimmy could be said to be really clean. The rest of the time it was an uphill struggle to keep their noses wiped and their bottoms clean or to wash their continually grubby hands and faces.

  Fortunately the house had an outside lavatory with what was known as a tippler system, flushed by water that had been used previously in the house. This was a vast improvement on Lily’s childhood memory of the Corporation ‘dirt cart’ coming once a week to empty the night soil and the ash-pit. She longed at times, pointless though she knew it was, for a proper indoor bathroom and lavatory, such as the ones in the houses she cleaned; with gleaming white tiles and a tablet of lavender-scented soap in a shell-shaped dish; that, indeed, would be luxury beyond measure.

  What Sid and Percy did about their ablutions she neither knew nor cared. She guessed they visited the public baths occasionally; but Sid washed and shaved every evening when they had finished their meal, standing over the kitchen slop-stone splashing and puffing, and cursing whenever he cut himself with his open razor. The sight of him in his grubby vest with his braces dangling down revolted her.

  Thinking of him now, Lily found herself wishing that she, too, could get away from it all; escape to the countryside, or wherever, with Nellie. Poor Nellie – Maisie – tried her best, her mother knew, to keep herself nice and clean. But many of the children in her school lived in far worse conditions than did her own family, so it probably didn’t matter too much to her if she was rather less than sparkling bright. And just recently the poor lass had caught head lice from the girl she sat next to in class. Lily had been forced to cut her dark hair very short, and she knew she had not made a good job of it either. It stuck out from her head in uneven spikes and Sid had laughed tauntingly and told her she looked like a hedgehog. Lily knew, though, that nothing could detract from the child’s true loveliness. Maisie had an inward beauty that shone from her deep brown eyes and lit up her rosy complexioned face when she smiled. Her smiles, however, had been all too rare of late. Lily found her thoughts returning again to Percy. Yes, she vowed, if I ever find him touching my child I will kill him; I really will…

  No sooner had the thought formed in her head than the door burst open and her husband entered the room. He was far earlier than she had expected; she liked to be in bed, feigning sleep, if possible, before he came back from the pub.

  ‘You’re early,’ she said bravely, trying to force a smile to her lips. He was not as drunk as he usually was; in fact he seemed quite sober.

  ‘Aye, so I am. Pleased to see me, are yer?’ He leered at her, but she looked away, not answering.

  ‘Get yerself upstairs then…my Lily of Laguna.’ He gave a sardonic laugh. That was what he had used to call her when they were first married; a term of endearment that she hadn’t heard on his lips for a long time. ‘I thought we’d have an early night.’

  She glanced at him apprehensively, thinking she might see a glimmer of affection in his eyes, but, as she had feared, there was nothing there but lust and a mocking smile.

  ‘Where’s…where’s Percy?’ she asked.

  ‘Why? What’s it to you?’

  ‘Nothing…I just wondered if he had got his key, that’s all.’

  ‘Of course he’s got his key, you silly cow. But he won’t be needing it. He’s going home with his mate, young Bertie, and he’ll be staying there the night, so he says. They’re three sheets to the wind already, the silly young divils.’ Sid laughed good-humouredly. Under-age drinking did not worry Percy, nor, it seemed, did it bother his father or the landlord.

  ‘Put t’ bolt on t’ door and get yerself movin’, lass. Ah’m as randy as a dog on heat tonight…’

  Lily did as she was bid. Her little girl would be safe for tonight at least, but as for herself… She dreaded what was to come, knowing that, tonight, Sid was not likely to be hindered by his customary inebriation. The thought of escaping from everything was becoming even more tempting.

  Chapter Two

  ‘We’re goin’ tomorrer,’ said Esme, the girl who shared a double desk with Maisie. ‘You know – on that evacuation thingy. I’m dead excited, me. I can’t wait to gerraway, can you?’

  ‘How d’you know we’re going?’ asked Maisie. ‘They haven’t said so yet, not definitely. Anyroad, I don’t know whether I’m going or not. Me mam hasn’t made up her mind.’

  ‘I ’eard two o’ t’ teachers talking in t’ yard at playtime,’ replied Esme. ‘Aye, it’s right. We’re goin’ in t’ mornin’. You’d best tell yer mam to make up ’er mind quick, or else you’ll be bombed to blazes. That’s what me dad says. Old ’Itler, he can’t wait to start droppin’ ’is bombs on all t’ cities.’

  ‘Esme Clough and Nellie Jackson, stop that talking at once!’ yelled Miss Patterdale, their teacher. ‘Have you finished writing out the list of spellings on the board?’

  ‘No, Miss.’ Both girls shook their heads.

  ‘Then get on with it, and in silence. I’ve told you all, I don’t want to hear a sound.’

  Maisie put her dark head down and resumed her task. She didn’t want to talk to Esme Clough anyway. She was the one who had given her nits, but Miss Patterdale had not seen that as any reason to separate the pair of them. Several of the children in the class had head lice. Maisie didn’t like Esme very much. The girl was a cheat and a telltale and, because of that, was not popular with a lot of the girls – and the boys as well – who had their own code of honour. You didn’t try to get others into trouble, nor did you snitch at other kids’ answers. Maisie was surprised that Miss Patterdale had not cottoned on to the fact that Esme frequently copied the answers to her sums, not because Esme was a ‘thickie’, to use the common idiom, but because she was too lazy to think for herself.

  Or maybe Miss Patterdale was not a very good teacher… Maisie had sometimes seen her reading a copy of Woman’s Weekly behind the teachers’ desk whilst the class was occupied in composition or sums. She was sure that this was ‘not on’, and she had once seen the teacher quickly cover the magazine with the class register when Mr Ormerod, the headmaster, had unexpectedly entered the room.

  ‘I ’ope she’s not goin’ with us, the miserable old cow!’ Esme ventured another whispered remark under cover of the desk lid, to which Maisie just gave a brief nod. It was a good job Miss Patterdale had not noticed, or Esme might have got the cane.

  Maisie, in point of fact, agreed with Esme. She hoped, too, that their own class teacher would not be going with them to…wherever they were going. Maisie had already made up her mind that she would tell her mother that she wanted to go. She did not want to miss out on the adventure, as well as her desire to get away from the two awful menfolk in the house. She felt worried, though, about what Esme had said about the bombs. If her mother was left behind then she would be in danger, and so would the little ’uns, Joanie and Jimmy. Still, Esme was known to exaggerate; more than that, she told whopping big lies sometimes, so it might not be as bad as she made out. Anyway, they still hadn’t been told definitely that they were going tomorrow. That might well be another of Esme’s yarns.

  At the start of the afternoon session, however, all the classes were summoned into the school hall where the headmaster, Mr Ormerod, told them that the evacuation scheme was to be put in force the very next day. Those ch
ildren whose parents wished them to go were to be at school by half-past eight, with their luggage, of course, and then they would be taken by bus to Leeds City Station.

  ‘Where are we goin’, Sir?’ piped up one of the smallest boys on the front row. Maisie thought he was very brave. It was not done to shout out like that in assembly, especially to Mr Ormerod, who, at six feet tall, with a beaked nose and a glowering expression, was not someone to mess around with.

  However, it seemed that today might be an exception, because the headmaster actually smiled. ‘That I can’t tell you, laddie,’ he replied, ‘because I don’t know myself. All will be revealed to you in due course. Now…will you all return to your classrooms, quietly please. Any talking about this can wait till playtime…’

  Maisie’s class was normally subdued, under the eagle eye of Miss Patterdale who did not allow talking in lesson time. Only occasionally, when the children were engaged in more recreational pursuits, such as drawing – very seldom painting, because Maisie guessed their teacher would think that too messy – or sewing (or raffia work for the boys) they might be permitted to talk very quietly. This afternoon was one of those occasions, it being Friday and a time for a slightly more free and easy mood. Miss Patterdale had placed a few brightly coloured dahlias in a vase on her desk and instructed the children to make a drawing of them, which they could then colour with the pencil crayons. This was quite an event; very rarely did the crayons leave the big tall stock cupboard at the back of the room. But this, apparently, was a day on which to relax the usually strict environment of the clasroom; to enable the children to forget what was to happen on the following day, maybe.