Jacqueline noticed the tray of newly baked biscuits. ‘I’m going to ask my mam to make some biscuits like yours,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ said Marjory, trying not to smile. ‘Why, would you like one?’
‘Yes please, but will you tell my mam I didn’t ask? She says I haven’t got to ask.’
‘But you didn’t ask, did you?’
‘No, but will you tell my mam?’
‘OK. Is she nearly ready?’
‘She’s just changing our Alan’s cardy, then she’s coming.’
The squeaking of the pushchair along the flags heralded their arrival and Marjory poured the tea.
The pile of biscuits soon diminished in size and Marjory wondered how to get Mary on her own for a heart to heart. She knew Jacqueline never missed a thing and didn’t want her niece to hear the conversation. ‘Do you want to feed the chickens while we finish our tea?’ she said, handing the little girl a newspaper containing some scraps. Jacqueline took the parcel eagerly and made her way out through the front room to the garden beyond.
Each of the houses in Barker’s Row had a neatly kept garden, divided by pathways edged by brown glazed tiles. Along the bottom was an iron railing dividing the gardens from Barker’s Fields. Across the meadow stood the farm, with one corner of the grass partitioned off for the chicken houses, the rest being pastureland for the large herd of cattle. Higher up the fields were already sprouting oats, barley and root vegetables.
Jacqueline squeezed herself through the railings, not flinching at all when a number of cows, heavy with milk, ambled towards her. She trod carefully, avoiding the large sloppy cowpats, and made her way to the chicken run. Farmer Barker had told her the names of all the clucking creatures and she lifted the latch of the wooden door in the netting and stepped inside. The birds, some running, others flapping their large white wings in an attempt to fly, almost knocked her off her feet, pecking at her coat bottom and devouring the scraps before she could even let go of them. Jacqueline chided the birds and laughed with glee.
‘Get away, Cissy, you silly old hen,’ she shouted, backing out of the coop and closing the door carefully behind her. She decided to gather a bunch of daisies for Auntie Marjory.
Taking advantage of Jacqueline’s absence, Marjory poured two more cups of tea and mentioned that Mary looked rather pale.
‘You are OK, aren’t you? I mean you’re not poorly or anything?’
Mary made an effort to smile. ‘Course I’m not ill. Why do you ask?’ She settled Alan more comfortably, sleeping soundly in his pushchair.
‘Well, I don’t know, you’ve been looking rather miserable lately and you used to be so cheerful. You know, Mary, if anything’s bothering you, I’d like to think I’m a good enough friend for you to confide in, especially as your own sisters are so far away.’
Mary got up and carried the empty cups to the sink, placing them in the enamel bowl. She kept her back to Marjory, and suddenly her sister-in-law realised that her visitor was in tears. She walked over and placed her hand tenderly on Mary’s arm, leading her back to her chair by the table.
‘Come on, love, let’s get it out in the open. There’s no good comes of bottling things up.’ It suddenly occurred to her what might be wrong. ‘You’re not expecting again, are you?’
Mary was hardly able to speak for the choking tears. ‘Not much chance of that,’ she managed.
Marjory misunderstood. ‘But surely that’s not the trouble? You’re not trying for another baby, are you?’
‘No, it’s not that, it’s just that Jack doesn’t make love to me any more.’
‘What? Oh, come on, our Jack idolises you.’ Marjory stared at Mary in disbelief.
‘He did, but not any more. All he does is ignore me. He doesn’t even talk about it any more, and it’s been three months now.’
‘Well.’ Marjory looked perplexed. ‘Is he ill or what?’
Mary thought she might as well come out with it straight. ‘It’s all my fault. I won’t let him take precautions, so he doesn’t do anything.’
Marjory almost laughed. ‘Is that all?’
‘Isn’t it enough?’
‘But everyone uses something these days, unless they want a houseful of kids, and who can afford that?’ She suddenly tumbled to what the problem was. ‘Oh, I see. Of course, you’re a Catholic’
‘And Jack isn’t,’ said Mary glumly.
‘So you’re going to ruin a perfectly good marriage for the sake of the Church. It’s our Jack who cares for you, not the bloody priest.’
‘Marjory!’ Mary sounded shocked.
‘Well, sorry about that, but I’m right, you know I am. Who was it went without sleep for weeks on end, caring for our Jacqueline when she was ill? Not the priest. Not once did he come near, give you a bit of comfort or hope. In fact, the only Catholic to come and offer you any help at all was Theresa Murphy, and she’d be the last one to advise you to have a houseful of kids. You didn’t see that family when they were all small, Mary, but I did. I remember when the walls in their house were down to the bare brick, and the only drinking utensils they owned were jam jars.
‘Our Jack says your family didn’t have much back in Newcastle, but I’m telling you, Mary, the Murphys weren’t just poor, they were destitute. The old man out every day looking for work – that was before the poor old soul had his heart attack, and then they had to go on relief, and that desperate woman had to trek a good eight miles to be means-tested. Many a day the poor thing’s feet were so swollen she couldn’t get her shoes off when she got home, and it was only for half a crown.’
Mary looked subdued as Marjory continued. ‘I’m telling you, Mary, even though the family was starving the priest still called for the church collection every week, virtually taking the food out of the kids’ mouths.’
Mary blinked hard and blew her nose loudly. ‘But Father Flynn wasn’t like that.’
‘Maybe not, but I’m telling you, you should think yourself fortunate our Jack has the common sense to want to use contraceptives.’
‘You don’t think our Jacqueline’s illness could have been a judgement then, for me not keeping up with the faith?’
‘Now that’s the daftest thing I’ve ever heard. Do what you think is right, go to church if you like, but don’t for God’s sake let it ruin your love life and your marriage, love.’
‘You don’t think it’s wrong then, using contraceptives?’
‘Well, Bill and me have been using them ever since our Una was born and nothing bad has befallen her.’
Mary began to look more cheerful, just as Jacqueline came running in asking if they were ready. Mary put the flower heads to float in a glass of water.
‘Can Alan and me buy a windwill?’ the little girl asked.
‘Windmill,’ corrected Mary. ‘I’ll see, if you behave.’
‘Win win, win win,’ Alan chanted.
‘All right, all right, you can have one too.’
‘And a windmill for Una,’ Jacqueline insisted.
‘And one for Una.’ Mary laughed. ‘I think Jack’s right,’ she said. ‘I don’t think we could keep the kids in windmills if I had my way.’
‘Thank God for that,’ said Marjory. ‘Come on, or our Una’ll be home from school whilst we’re still at the market.’
St George’s Road ran for about half a mile along the bottom of Barker’s Row, curving down at both ends to join the main road deep in the valley. Though the road was lined with houses, some terraced and some large semis, the hillside lower down was tree covered, known as the Donkey Wood. It was through the Donkey Wood that Mary, Marjory and the children took a short cut, through a turnstile gate and down a steep cobbled path.
No one was certain how the name of the wood originated. Some said it was because of the stream which ran underneath the cellars of Barker’s Row, emerging in the wood to meet other streams and form the shape of a key before gushing down the hillside to join the River Don down by the works. But Jacqueline chose to believe
that a donkey lived in the wood, and hoped some day it would appear. Until then, she was content, as today, to run on ahead down the Donkey Path, searching for the Donkey Stone, a flat square stone on which some unknown person had carved a donkey many years ago.
When they reached the market the queue at the biscuit stall stretched almost to the gate. Mary joined it, hoping the square tins containing wafer, arrowroot and other tempting varieties would not be empty by the time her turn came. Marjory took her place at the sweet stall, where she intended to buy a bag of mixed boiled sweets, pear drops, humbugs and mint rock, which she would make last until next month’s ration.
Jacqueline waited patiently, watching the comings and goings of the market traders. She was fascinated by the greengrocer juggling with four large potatoes, even as she tried to keep her eyes on the corner stall where brightly coloured windmills spun gaily on their sticks, fearful lest they should all be sold before her mother was served at the biscuit counter.
She could see old Misery’s stall at the far side where socks of all sizes hung on the wooden canopy, alongside pants and stockings. Old Misery, according to Auntie Marjory, had a face as long as Woodhead tunnel and Jacqueline watched to see if he knew how to smile. She also hung on to Alan’s pushchair, fearful lest old Misery’s wife should come and try to buy her brother again. She would never forget the first time they wheeled him here in his pram and the woman came to look at him. ‘Now then,’ she had said, ‘how about selling me your new baby? I’ll give you a silver sixpence for him.’ She had laughed loudly when Jacqueline started to cry, and the little girl had never liked the woman since. She supposed old Misery didn’t have much to smile about married to her.
She looked up to where her mam was laughing at a joke made by the biscuit man. For the first time in ages her mam looked happy. Jacqueline gave Alan a kiss and knew that all was well with her world.
Apart from the time a doodlebug swooped down low over the hillside with a screech almost loud enough to awaken the dead, causing Grandma Holmes to jump out of bed and stub her toe on the warming brick, and the time the row of old stone cottages was bombed early in 1941, Millington didn’t fare too badly in the war. There was an attempt to destroy the reservoir at Longfield which caused havoc in the village, not that there were any casualties, but most of the dwellings suffered broken windows and a fall of soot, which meant that an extra spring-clean had been necessary. Not a welcome disruption except to the children who embraced any occurrence which meant a holiday from school.
It was, however, with even greater joy that the announcement of Victory in Europe was received, and on Barker’s Row it was decided that a street party would be arranged as part of the celebrations. It was to be held in the old washhouses, which Mary and Marjory began to clean out without delay. Rations were pooled and some of the people in St George’s Road were invited to join in. Even the staid middle-aged couple in the house between Mary and Marjory offered to contribute a few goodies and the use of their crockery, and astounded everyone by turning up with a couple of chairs to join in the revelry. Mrs Broomsgrove suffered from a phobia which caused her to spend all her days cleaning everything over and over again. Sometimes her doorstep would have been scrubbed two or three times by breakfast time, and it was washed again each time anyone walked across the flags. After that the yard broom and bucket would have to be scoured, and lastly even the scrubbing brush. It was rumoured that even the coal scuttle was rinsed every time it was emptied, and even Mr Broomsgrove looked scrubbed almost to the bone, poor man. Nevertheless, they attended the party without a tablet of soap in sight.
When darkness descended on the town the menfolk, who had been far from idle during the day, set alight a magnificent bonfire on the spare ground adjoining Barker’s Row. None of the children had ever seen a bonfire and the little ones had no idea what to expect, but as the flames reached upwards to join the rose-tinged glow from other fires across the valley they were caught up in the excitement and danced with merriment, joining in the games of the older children. A bullrope was brought out and the parents skipped alongside their offspring, to the accompanying strains of ‘Roll Out The Barrel’, and ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’.
It was almost midnight when the news reached Barker’s Row that celebrations were in full swing down in the yard at the steel works, and the whole party made their way in a long line of the conga down the Donkey Path.
Little Alan, high on his father’s shoulders, watched the festivities wide-eyed, and Mary and Jacqueline joined the line which was wending its way, like a trail of ants, laughing and singing, down to the works.
The music could be heard across the valley, and everyone who possessed a musical instrument of any description seemed to be part of the entertainment. The Lord Mayor, high on a makeshift platform, was organising everyone willing to do a turn, and a number of would-be comedians who had already consumed a great deal of liquid refreshment were taking the stage. Una nudged Jacqueline and giggled at some of the jokes, which were rather crude, but Jacqueline didn’t understand most of them. She did however laugh at the man in the lady’s dress and make-up. He had a pair of balloons pushed down his bodice, and she thought it hilarious when his partner burst them one at a time.
The show seemed to go on for hours, and finished off with the vicar leading hymn-singing, a prayer of thanksgiving, and finally a rousing rendition of ‘Land Of Hope And Glory’ and ‘God Save The King’.
Jacqueline couldn’t understand why her mother was crying, but when she looked round she noticed that many others in the crowd were crying too. She couldn’t know of the many men and boys who would never come home. She couldn’t know that until there was peace in the Pacific tears would continue to be shed, and she knew nothing of Tom Downing.
She watched her father shift the weight of her sleeping brother, and circle her mother with his free arm in an effort to comfort her. She thought how silly grown-ups were, to be crying on such a happy night as this, and she knew that even if she lived to be as old as Grandad Holmes she would remember this night for ever.
George and Millie Barker, up at the farm, took a liking to the little Holmes girl, with her large brown eyes and shock of dark bouncing curls. She was all they would have wished for in a daughter. Sadly, their only child Charles, who was now ten, was what the locals described as not a full shilling. Some said the child had been a victim of complications at birth, and blamed the midwife for refusing to call the doctor, but others old enough to remember the boy’s grandparents said the condition ran in the family. Nevertheless Charles was a happy child, strong as a horse and worth his weight in gold to his parents. He could lift a hundredweight sack of potatoes on to the cart with no trouble at all, and seemed to be almost able to communicate with the livestock, knowing instinctively when one of the horses was under the weather, and proving to be the only one able to control the bad-tempered old boar. Yet the child could neither read, write, nor even speak in proper sentences. Until Jacqueline Holmes came along, only one other child had ever been able to make sense of anything Charlie was trying to say, a young girl on Potter’s Row. Jacqueline didn’t seem to notice anything different about the boy. It was the older children who upset him, delighting in calling after him whenever they passed the farm, ‘Charlie Charlie chuck chuck chuck, went to bed with three white ducks.’
Charles would naturally lose his temper, and on one occasion he retaliated by throwing a stone which gashed the head of a departing youth. When the local bobby was called all hell broke loose between George Barker and the lad’s father – until little Jacqueline intervened.
‘It was his fault,’ she shouted, ‘he was tormenting Charlie. You ought to smack his bottom, didn’t he, Mr Barker?’ The sight of the skinny little girl with the flashing eyes waving her fist at the scowling, bandaged youth stopped the men in their tracks, and suddenly Constable Jones started to laugh. This only made Jacqueline even more angry. She stamped her foot in its black shiny Wellington boot, turned red in the face, and, sounding e
xactly like Grandad Holmes, cried ‘If he was my little boy he would get his arse tanned.’
This was too much for the feuding men, who suddenly began to roar with laughter. The policeman, almost overcome by hysterics by this time, controlled himself for a moment and stood to attention. He looked at the little girl and said seriously, ‘Madam, I’m inclined to agree with you.’
The boy with the gashed head backed away from the glowering bobby and began to howl loudly, ‘My head hurts, my head hurts.’
His father, now in control of himself, took him by the collar and lifted him off his feet. ‘It’ll not be the only thing that hurts when I get you home, yer mardy bugger. Yon little lass has more guts in her little finger than you have in yer whole bloody body.’ Then he marched his son through the yard, out of the gate and down the lane.
The policeman rocked back on his heels and looked at Charlie, cowering behind his father. ‘I don’t think you’ll have any more bother from that quarter, Charlie lad, my owd son,’ he said. His face broke into a grin. ‘Eeh, George lad, I don’t know about thee but that’s the best laugh I’ve had for ages.’
‘Aye,’ said George Barker. ‘To look at her you wouldn’t think candyfloss’d melt in her mouth, would yer?’ He started to chuckle again. ‘Come inside,’ he said. ‘I’ve a bit of ’ome-fed bacon tha can ’ave, providing tha doesn’t let on to anybody.’
‘ Yer can count on me, George.’ The bobby smiled. ‘But I don’t know about this little miss.’ But Jacqueline was already busy collecting the eggs with a smiling Charlie.
Mary was none too pleased when she heard about the incident across at the farm. Jacqueline was the centre of attention for a few days and though Mary admired her kindness to Charlie, she was determined her children would grow up speaking correctly, and was furious when she heard about the language. She knew where Jacqueline had picked it up, and much as she loved her father-in-law she didn’t like him swearing in front of the children. Jack on the other hand thought it was hilarious. ‘Even Constable Jones couldn’t help laughing,’ he pointed out. ‘In fact he congratulated me on having such a bonny little lass.’
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