A nature film followed, about wild animals in the grasslands of Africa, during which the audience grew a mite restless, stamping their feet and beginning to chatter. They were waiting for the main feature, the Charlie Chaplin film, and when the title appeared there was a massive roar of approval. The ridiculous little man with his bowler hat and walking stick, his toothbrush moustache and his waddling way of walking, had them all in fits of laughter. There was no real story to speak of, only a series of absurd slapstick encounters which made them shriek and shout until they almost raised the roof.
It had all been ‘dead good…terrific…smashing…’ they told one another as they jostled and shoved their way out of the cinema and into the street, into the coldness of the mid-aftenoon. It was still only half-past three, but already the light was beginning to fade.
‘Hurry along now, get yerselves home before it goes dark…and let’s have no snowball fights,’ said the cinema commissionaire, a rather short, self-important man with a silly little moustache; like Charlie Chaplin’s, and like Hitler’s, too, thought Maisie. He was dressed in a maroon jacket with brass buttons and a peaked cap, and he strutted up and down the pavement fronting the cinema as proudly as though it were the Odeon in Leeds City Square. But the children did seem to be taking notice of him and, on the whole, were dispersing without too much fuss.
Maisie and Audrey, linking arms, were just turning to make their way towards the High Street when a snowball hit Maisie in the middle of her back. ‘Hey, give over!’ she shouted, starting to turn round. ‘You heard what that man said. We’ve not to… Oh, it’s you…’
Sure enough, it was Gertie Flint, cackling gleefully, her arm upraised to throw another snowball, and behind her Esme, Paula and Norma. The next missile hit Audrey on the shoulder, followed my two more aimed at Doris and Ivy. All the girls were armed and they had obviously been ready and waiting to attack as soon as their rivals appeared.
Never mind what that pompous little man had said, Maisie was not going to let Gertie and her gang have it all their own way. ‘Come on, Audrey,’ she said. ‘Don’t be soft. Stick up for yerself; why don’t yer? If we don’t do owt they’ll just laugh at us, an’ they’ll only follow us. Come on girls, let ’em have it!’
Timothy began to whimper and he cowered close to his sister, his bravery in the confines of the cinema clearly forgotten now in the face of a real attack.
‘Aw, diddums! Doesn’t he like the snow then?’ jeered Esme. ‘Poor little boy! Here y’are; catch, Tim.’ She hurled a snowball which hit him on the side of his face, nearly knocking his glasses off.
‘Hey! Leave him alone!’ shouted Ivy. ‘He’s only little. It’s not fair. You’re just a big bully, Esme Clough, fighting a little boy.’
‘We’re not fighting; we’re only playing,’ said Paula. ‘What’s up? Don’t yer like a bit o’ fun? Come on, you lot. Let’s chase ’em…’
But suddenly the man with the peaked cap appeared on the scene. He had gone into the cinema, believing that most of the children had gone, but the sounds of ribaldry had brought him out again. ‘Get off with you!’ he yelled. ‘Get off home. I’ve told you before… How dare you behave like that in front of my cinema…’
Shouting and laughing – at least some of them were laughing – they slithered and slushed their way across the street through the now partially melted snow. Timothy, frightened and cold, with driblets of snow running down his neck, managed to get away in front of the others whilst the girls re-armed themselves. He ran blindly, across the street and into a builder’s yard directly opposite the cinema. He did not see the notice, KEEP OUT, but he did see a pile of bricks which he could hide behind until the others had gone past. He knew Ivy would come and look for him if she hadn’t noticed where he had gone; and if she didn’t, then he could easily find his own way home; it wasn’t far.
But his sister had noticed and she followed him. ‘Tim, Tim…come back. You’re not to go in there…’ And close behind her came the others, her own three friends and their assailants.
‘Look, there he is!’ yelled Gertie. ‘Behind them bricks…’ What might have started off as a game had now turned into something far more menacing. ‘Let’s get ’im…’
Tim ran out, racing across the yard. There was a patch of ice on the ground, in the shadow of a wall where the sun had not reached, and it was there that he lost his footing. He collided with a second pile of bricks and fell to the ground. The top layer of bricks tottered and then fell, one of them landing with a glancing blow on the side of the little boy’s head. His glasses fell off and shattered, and he lay motionless, blood trickling from a wound on his temple. He looked deathly pale and his eyes were closed.
All the girls stood there, staring at his still form in horror.
‘He’s dead, he’s dead!’ shouted Ivy. ‘Oh…oh, what are we going to do?’ She burst into tears, then knelt on the ground, pulling at his arm. ‘Tim! Tim, come on… Wake up!’ But he did not stir. ‘Oh, he’s dead; I know he is!’
‘We never meant it,’ said Norma, in a tiny voice. ‘But he can’t be dead… He can’t be!’
‘We were only mucking about,’ said Esme. ‘We didn’t meant to ki…to hurt him.’
‘Oh, shut up, you lot!’ snapped Maisie. ‘We’ve got to do summat, quick. Look…oh look, Ivy! He’s not dead; he’s moving a bit…’ Sure enough, Tim’s arm was moving a fraction, but his eyes were still closed. Maisie quickly took charge of the situation. ‘Doris,’ she ordered. ‘Go and tell that feller; you know, the one that shouted at us. He’ll help us. He’ll have to if you tell him what’s happened. We might have to get an ambulance…’
‘Yeah, OK,’ said Doris. ‘He’s all right really. He’s called Mr Lucas and me dad knows him.’ She ran off and the others stood there waiting, watching Tim and talking in hushed voices.
‘It weren’t our fault,’ said Gertie. ‘We didn’t make him come ’ere…’
‘Oh yes it was,’ retorted Ivy. ‘It’s all your fault!’
‘Yes…it is,’ said Norma, nodding sadly. ‘It’s our fault. We chased him…and we’re dead sorry, Ivy. Aren’t we, Gertie?’
Gertie shrugged. ‘He’ll be OK. He’s got to be…’
It seemed ages, although it could only have been a few minutes, before Doris returned, running, with the cinema man, Mr Lucas, close behind her. He wasn’t cross and bossy now. As Doris had said, he was all right really, and he had known her since she was a tiny girl.
‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Let’s have a look at this little chap then. What’s he called? Tim, did you say?’ He knelt at the side of the boy, gently touching his face. ‘Tim…Tim, lad; can you hear me?’ The girls, all staring at the prostrate figure, and at the little man, as though he were a miracle worker, saw Tim’s eyelids begin to flutter, and then he opened his eyes, blinking rapidly.
‘He’s waking up!’ shouted Ivy. ‘Look…Tim, Tim…’
Mr Lucas turned round briefly, casting an admonitory glance at the girls whom he guessed to be the culprits; he had heard a garbled version of the tale from Doris. ‘Yes, he seems to be waking up. And aren’t you lucky that he is? I did warn you about these silly snowball fights. Sometimes they get out of hand, like this one did.’ Those were the only words of rebuke he uttered. He turned back to Tim.
‘Come on now, laddy. You’ve had a bit of a tumble, but you’re going to be OK. Steady now; let’s see if you can sit up. Gently now.’ He put his arm around the child, propping him against his shoulder.
‘Me head hurts,’ said Tim, shakily, ‘and me arm an’ all…’ Indeed, his arm, the one on which he had fallen, was lying at a strange angle.
‘Shouldn’t we get an ambulance?’ said Maisie. ‘See; he’s bleeding.’
‘I think it’s only a surface wound,’ replied Mr Lucas. ‘His arm though…I don’t like the look of that. But I think it would be best to get him home first. Where does he live?’ He looked enquiringly at the girls.
‘I’ll show yo
u,’ said Ivy. ‘It’s only just down the street and round the next corner. I’m his sister. We’re evacuees, y’see, and…and I’m supposed to look after him.’ Her eyes filled with tears again.
‘I’m sure you did your best,’ said the man, kindly. ‘But accidents do happen. Come along, young feller-me-lad, let’s be having you.’ Even though Mr Lucas was small in stature he was strong, and he lifted Tim from the ground, carefully and gently, supporting his weight with both his arms. ‘Now, young lady, you can show me the way home… And the rest of you, you’d better run along an’ all. And let this be a lesson to you.’
The four girls who had been responsible in the first place for the snowball fight exchanged sheepish looks and skulked away. It was only Norma who was muttering, ‘We’re real sorry; honest we are…’
Maisie, Audrey and Doris looked at one another. ‘Poor Tim,’ said Audrey. ‘D’you think he’ll be all right?’
‘I hope so.’ Doris shuffled her feet. ‘All of us might get into trouble, ’specially if he’s badly hurt.’
‘But it wasn’t our fault,’ said Audrey. ‘It was that other lot.’
‘But we joined in, didn’t we?’ said Maisie. ‘And it was me that said we should. I’m going to tell Aunty Patience all about it. I’ll feel better if I tell somebody.’
Audrey nodded. ‘Yes, she’ll understand, won’t she?’
‘Me dad’ll be mad with me if he finds out,’ said Doris. ‘He gets real cross sometimes, does me dad.’
‘Does he often see that Mr Lucas?’
‘No, I don’t think so…’
‘Well, don’t say anything then, an’ he might never know… Come on, let’s get going,’ said Maisie. They walked dejectedly up the High Street, saying goodbye to Doris at the village green.
Patience listened and understood how upset they were. ‘No one is to blame, not really,’ she said. ‘No one wanted Tim to get hurt, and accidents do happen. But let’s hope it puts an end to all this silly rivalry.’ It was surprising how Patience knew what was going on without being told. ‘I must admit that I’ve been watching Gertie Flint for quite some time. She’s becoming a very wild sort of girl… Anyway, I’m sure Luke will pop down after tea to see Mr and Mrs Roystone and find out how Tim is going on.’
It was obvious to his guardians when they looked at him that Tim had broken his arm. Mr Lucas rang from the nearest phone box for an ambulance and the little boy was taken to the hospital on the outskirts of Middlebeck. What with the broken arm and the cut and bump on his head – he was still complaining of feeling dizzy – he was kept in overnight. The overnight stay was extended to two days, just to be on the safe side, although it was believed that he had suffered no serious injuries.
But his mother arrived, post-haste, on the Monday, and insisted on taking both Timothy and Ivy back home to Hull. She had intended having them at home for Christmas anyway, but now she announced, in high dudgeon, that they were going immediately.
‘And they will not be coming back!’ she declared to the confused and unhappy couple who had looked after them. ‘I trusted my children to your care, and look what has happened. I know you say that you can’t watch them every minute of the day and I know you are sorry, but it’s clear that they have been allowed to run wild. I’m taking them home with me, back to Hull where they will be safe. This ’ere war is showing no signs of getting going at any rate.’
‘Never mind, Mabel,’ said her husband when Mrs Clegg and the children had gone. ‘We did our best…’
But they had had to say goodbye to two children of whom they had grown very fond and their lives felt empty at their departure. And Maisie, Audrey and Doris had lost a very good friend.
‘There’s only us three now,’ said Maisie. ‘Ivy says she’ll write to us. I wonder if she will… You’re all right, Doris, ’cause you live here, but I hope me and Audrey don’t have to go back to Leeds.’
Audrey hoped so too. She missed her mum and dad, but she did so enjoy living in Middlebeck, now she was with Aunty Patience and Luke and Maisie. Her mum was coming to see her again though, before Christmas, with Maisie’s mum. She had promised that she would…
Chapter Sixteen
Lily was finding life a little more tolerable. She had learned to close her mind to Sid’s insults and his bad temper, although it had to be admitted that he was still leaving her pretty well alone. They seldom spoke to one another, neither did he bother to speak very much any more to Joanie and Jimmy. Lily was sure, in her own mind, that he was seeing someone else; he might even be consoling himself with ‘ladies of the night’, several of whom hung around the mean streets of Armley. The thought of it made her shudder; on the other hand she was thankful that her body was now her own.
She was contented, also, that Maisie was so happy in north Yorkshire; although Lily had missed her even more after she and Edith had visited Middlebeck, and she had seen how her daughter had matured and was growing into a most attractive and spirited girl.
Please God, don’t let us be apart for too long…she often prayed, fearing that the prolonged absence might mean, in the end, that she would lose her beloved daughter. But she knew there was no way, at the moment, that they could be together. Nothing but a miracle would bring their separation to an end.
Her friendship with Edith Dennison, which had started so surprisingly, and then, since their return home, had flourished, was a comfort to Lily. And she realised that it was as pleasing to Edith as it was to her, Lily. The older woman did not appear to have many friends, only neighbours with whom she was on civil, rather than intimate, terms, and neither she nor her husband, Alf, had any close relations.
Lily and Edith saw one another a couple of times a week for a cup of tea and a chat. It was usually Lily who visited Edith’s home, often calling on the way back from one of her cleaning jobs. Of course, she always had the children with her, but Edith, far from finding them to be a nuisance, enjoyed seeing them, and they had soon started to call her Aunty Edie.
The two women had decided, at Patience Fairchild’s and their own two daughters’ persuasion – although they had not needed much persuading – to pay another visit to Middlebeck before Christmas. Thursday, the twenty-first of December, seemed like a good choice of date. Christmas fell on a Monday that year and the trains were likely to be crowded beyond belief at the weekend. To Lily’s surprise, Alf Dennison had decided to accompany them.
‘I must see my little lass before Christmas,’ he told Lily. ‘Three months it is since I set eyes on her…’ His eyes, blue like his daughter’s, had started to brim with tears which he hastily tried to blink away. ‘Look at me,’ he joked. ‘What an old softie I am, to be sure, but Edith here tells me how much she’s grown, and grown up an’ all. And I do miss her; I do that!’
‘She’ll be pleased to see you,’ said Lily. ‘Have you told her you’re going as well as Edith?’
‘Aye…’ He nodded. ‘Well, I’ve said I might. No doubt I’ll get upset – that’s what I’m afraid of – and want to bring her back home with us. But we’ve decided it’s best to leave her there. The Germans won’t wait much longer before they do summat drastic, I feel sure of that. Besides, my wife is still having this treatment, and it takes it out of her something shocking. In some ways it would be a comfort to her to have Audrey here with us; but Edith gets so tired, and our little girl seems happy where she is.’
Edith, indeed, looked dreadful at times. Her skin still had a yellowish pallor that Lily did not like the look of at all, but Edith usually insisted that she was all right, if a little tired. It was obvious, however, when Lily called to see her on the day before their proposed visit, that she was far from well. Her treatment at the hospital the previous day had made her feel even worse than ever, and, on top of that, she had developed a cold and was coughing and sneezing alarmingly.
She was not in bed, but sitting by the fire, wrapped in a tartan blanket. Edith was one of that breed of woman who believed that you died in bed, and seldom could she be persu
aded to spend even a day there. Her operation and its aftermath, of course, had been an exception to this principle of hers.
‘Oh, Lily love, don’t come too near me,’ she croaked. ‘And keep those little bairns away from me. I don’t want to sneeze all over them. I’m trying to get myself better for tomorrow.’
‘Don’t be silly, love,’ said her husband, but very kindly. ‘We can’t go, and that’s that.’
‘But I might feel better in the morning, and our Audrey’ll be so upset.’
Lily shook her head. ‘You’re not fit to go, Edith love,’ she said. ‘Even I can see that. You’d make yerself worse if you tried to go.’ Edith’s eyes were red-rimmed and moist, not just with the cold, but with tears of disappointment. ‘Never mind; there’ll be another time, perhaps soon after Christmas. What about that?’
‘That’s what I’ve been telling her,’ said Alf.
‘And I suppose I know you’re right,’ sniffed Edith. ‘I was looking forward to seeing her so much, but I know when I’m beaten. You’ll take our presents with you, won’t you, Lily?’
‘Of course I will,’ replied Lily. ‘What are you going to do? Shall you write and tell Audrey? If I get a letter in the post for you straight away, she should get it in the morning.’
‘I don’t know.’ Alf shook his head. ‘It’s bound to upset her. But a telegram would be even worse. Telegrams always mean bad news, don’t they? I think we’ll have to leave it to you, Lily, to explain to her that her mum’s real poorly…’
‘But we’ve tried to keep it from her, haven’t we, Alf, how bad I’ve been?’ said Edith. ‘I don’t want our Audrey to think I’m dying.’ Lily felt herself turn cold.
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