Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  So she answered carefully, ‘When I was delivering coffee to that ice-cream parlour. Mr Turnbull was talking to the proprietor. They seemed friendly. Mr Dimarco’s daughter Rosa is going, so it’s all quite respectable. Mr Turnbull thought we should all go together - as long as you agree, of course, Uncle Alfred.’

  ‘Turnbull said that, did he?’ His indignation subsiding at the mention of the policeman. ‘I’m surprised at him.’ Sara waited, seeing the confusion on his face. ‘No doubt he has his reasons for being civil to those foreigners,’ he grunted. Sara held her breath. ‘Well, just this once I suppose - and as long as you’re back before eleven. And you’re not to make a spectacle of yourself doing these modern dances. You’re to behave yourself, do you hear?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle Alfred,’ Sara smiled, hiding her impatience.

  ‘And I don’t want you getting too friendly with this Italian lass, either.’

  Sara feigned tiredness and escaped upstairs, exultant, before her uncle changed his mind.

  Saturday seemed interminable as Sara was confined for half the day to the shop. She and Raymond had persuaded a reluctant Mrs Sergeant to agree to decorating the outside in festive greenery and flowers that Sara gathered from the dene. With Hilda Kirkup’s help, she had been allowed some hothouse blooms from Greenbrae to display in the window and attract the admiring attention of passers-by. Raymond’s leg had made a dramatic recovery, or so it appeared to a sceptical Sara as she saw him wobble off on the bicycle with produce for the Naylors, his head no longer bandaged, but his eye a glory of purple and yellow bruises. Ignoring his protests, she had bedecked the bicycle in coloured ribbon and daisy chains and told him to enter the competition for the ‘best dressed bike’.

  At ten o’clock Mrs Sergeant allowed her to stand at the shop door and watch the charity floats rumble past, bearing councillors and local dignitaries in fancy dress. The colliery band marched past, drums booming and brass instruments glinting in the sun, with villagers flocking behind. The Boys’ Brigade came next, succeeded by a girls’ jazz band playing jaunty kazoos. Sara yearned to be able to join in, waving at the throngs of holidaymakers rushing to see the children’s fancy-dress parade and the three-legged race in the park.

  ‘Go and watch the judging of the jam making, Mrs Sergeant,’ Sara urged on her return. ‘I can look after the shop for half an hour.’

  To her surprise, Dolly Sergeant needed little persuasion to abandon her post to watch the judging. She returned, her jowly face triumphant, with a first prize in the jam and a third in the marmalade. Seeing that no catastrophe had occurred in her absence, Dolly Sergeant decided to allow Sara away early.

  Sara rushed to the park to view the stalls and sideshows where boys attempted to knock coconuts from their perches and girls squealed with delight in the shuggy boats. Sara found Aunt Ida in the tea tent and in good humour, so was treated to a slice of sponge cake and a cup of tea, before dashing off to meet Rosa and try on one of Domenica’s dresses.

  For the first time, Rosa led her up the dark stairway to the Dimarcos’ flat above the shop. Not knowing what to expect, Sara was struck by the spartan furniture in the living-room-cum-kitchen, functional rather than chosen for comfort. But the floor and table and large stove were spotlessly clean and there were touches of homely decoration in the lace coverings over the chair arms and arrays of family photographs proudly displayed on the mantelpiece and dresser.

  Rosa’s grandmother nodded at her with a toothless smile when Sara said hello. She had seen her knitting outside in the yard in the sunshine the day before, her face like a wrinkled plum. Then Sara’s stomach lurched as the tall girl at the stove turned around and she recognised the girl Joe had taken to the pictures.

  ‘Sara’s come to try on the dresses,’ Rosa said brightly to the pretty girl with the short wavy hair.

  ‘Hello, Sara,’ she smiled warmly. ‘It’s nice to meet you at last.’

  ‘Hello,’ Sara replied, her voice tense.

  ‘Domenica’s looked a couple out for you,’ Rosa continued, ‘so come into our bedroom and try them on.’ She led the way into a tiny back room with two narrow beds and a chest of drawers squeezed in behind the door.

  ‘They’re lovely!’ Sara gasped, touching the cotton dresses laid out on the far bed. Then she realised she had seen one of them before; the waisted floral dress was the one Joe’s girlfriend had been wearing as she came out of the cinema.

  ‘This is Domenica’s?’ Sara asked, puzzled.

  ‘Yes,’ Rosa nodded. ‘It’s new but she doesn’t mind you borrowing it for one evening. Ask her if you don’t believe me.’ Rosa jerked her thumb towards the kitchen.

  Realisation dawned on Sara; how stupid she had been!

  ‘That’s Domenica in there?’ she almost choked with relief.

  ‘Of course it is. Who else could it be?’ Rosa asked baffled.

  ‘Nobody.’ Sara laughed with relief. ‘Help me with the frock, Rosa.’

  The first dress was too tight about the hips, but the second was belted, with a wide skirt that flattered Sara’s fuller shape.

  ‘Is it a bit long?’ Sara asked, glancing down at the green striped dress.

  ‘No, it looks lovely on you - and your legs wouldn’t suit anything too short,’ Rosa answered candidly.

  Sara laughed, ‘That’s honest.’

  ‘Go and have a look at yourself in the mirror,’ Rosa pushed her towards the door. ‘There’s one in my parents’ bedroom.’

  Sara did as she was told, emerging to the interested eyes of Domenica and her grandmother. The old woman said something in her own language and Domenica translated.

  ‘She says it was made for you, green is your colour.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Sara grinned with pleasure at the grey-haired woman and hurried after Rosa. In the half mirror on the Dimarcos’ bedroom wall, Sara admired the effect of the fashionable dress. The top was yoked and buttoned over the breast with small false pearls, the sleeves short over her rounded arms. It was gathered at the waist by a white belt and then flowed out over her hips, accentuating her womanly figure. With her hair brushed loose, Sara thought happily, she would look quite grown up.

  Giggling, she and Rosa pushed each other back into the living-room. ‘You try yours on now,’ Sara grinned, piling her hair on top of her head. She stopped short, aware that someone else had come into the room.

  In the open doorway Joe stood in rolled-up sleeves, his muscled arms defined from the exertions of stirring a new batch of ice-cream. Wayward strands of his black hair stuck damp to his tanned brow and his grandmother shouted at him in Italian.

  ‘Go away, Joe!’ Domenica laughed. ‘The girls are trying on their frocks for the dance.’

  ‘Doesn’t Sara look nice, Joe?’ Rosa asked him innocently, proud to have a friend who looked as sophisticated as Sara suddenly did. Sara gulped and grew hot under his scrutiny, dropping her hands and letting her hair fall about her shoulders. For a few seconds he just stared at her as if he had never seen her before. Then he recovered his poise.

  ‘Bellissima,’ he smiled, continuing to regard her with admiring brown eyes. ‘Very beautiful.’

  ‘Go, Joe,’ Domenica commanded. ‘Paolo’s waiting for that ice-cream.’

  ‘Paolo can wait - I need to sit down,’ he grinned, pulling out a chair, still regarding Sara.

  Granny Maria rattled off a sharp reply and he laughed, raising his hands in submission. ‘I’m going, I’m going. See how I am ruled by these women, Sara,’ he appealed to her. ‘I’m free to do nothing.’

  ‘And mostly he does nothing!’ came Domenica’s riposte.

  ‘Ciao, girls, see you later,’ he grinned and was gone. It was several minutes before Sara’s pulse had returned to its normal pace and she left soon after to make ready for the dance.

  Chapter Ten

  To avoid the Cummingses, Raymond met Sara at the top of the street. He was glancing around nervously and fidgeting with his second-hand suit, his floppy cap pulled down over his
black eye, when Sara appeared. He looked in alarm at her glamorous green dress, bare legs and honey-coloured hair loose and sleek over her shoulders. Raymond started walking as soon as she drew near to prevent the embarrassment of her slipping a hand through his arm.

  ‘Free at last,’ Sara grinned, falling in beside him. ‘How’s your leg?’

  ‘I’ll not be up to much dancing,’ Raymond muttered.

  ‘I hope you’re going to cheer yourself up,’ Sara nudged him. ‘Rosa’s looking forward to seeing you.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know why,’ Raymond said, thrusting his hands deeper into voluminous pockets. ‘I hardly know the lass - and don’t you go pushing us together.’

  He ducked his head as a group of lads overtook them. Sara shot him a surprised look.

  ‘What’s wrong, Raymond?’ she hissed. ‘You’ve been that nervy lately. There’s not going to be any trouble tonight is there?’

  ‘There’s nowt wrong with me.’ He quickened his pace.

  Sara grabbed his arm and stopped him. ‘There’s something else,’ she said looking directly into his face. ‘I know you got beaten up the other Saturday and I want to know why.’

  Raymond gave her a fierce look. ‘I get picked on because me father was a scab - a strike breaker - the bosses’ man. It’s the lowest of the low in a pit village - specially a radical village like Whitton. And there are lads like Normy Bell and Dick Scott who’ll use any excuse just to give someone a good hiding.’

  ‘You mean you get the blame for something your father did years ago?’ Sara asked, incredulous.

  ‘Aye,’ Raymond said tersely. He did not want to tell Sara of the threats against him for being friends with Joe Dimarco. He was scared, but Joe had saved him from a worse beating and he could not disown him. He would do anything for Joe now.

  ‘And that’s why your Uncle Sam and my Uncle Alfred don’t get on - because of the strike?’

  Raymond nodded. There was no point telling Sara that the enmity went deeper and that the Ritsons blamed Cummings for the death of his father.

  ‘Why can’t they let bygones be bygones?’ Sara asked, feeling utterly depressed.

  Raymond saw her sadness. ‘Haway,’ he brightened, shaking off his sense of foreboding, ‘forget our uncles. Let’s have a bit fun.’

  Sara was pleased to let the matter drop as they joined the crowds of people making their way into South Street, heading for the grand Memorial Hall. Raymond slid her a look.

  ‘I’ll tell you some’at, though. It was Joe Dimarco saved me from a bad hidin’ by Normy and his lot. Rode his motorbike right at them and they scarpered like frightened rats with him chasing.’

  ‘Joe did?’ Sara gasped. ‘So that’s what Turnbull was giving Mr Dimarco a hard time about.’

  ‘Aye,’ Raymond looked ashamed. ‘Joe got into bother with the police for that ‘cos Normy Bell’s a cousin of Turnbull’s and he knackered his ankle jumping over the dene. Serve the bugger right! I’d stick up for Joe in any fight after he did that for me,’ Raymond said with vehemence.

  Sara felt a flood of admiration for Joe. Why had he not told her about his brave rescue instead of letting her think the worst of him? Sara wondered.

  The carnival decorations above the closed shops and outside the public houses heightened the festive air in the dusty town. There were many who had been celebrating all day who were weaving about the streets, arm in arm, singing at the tops of their voices. As they reached the Memorial Hall, Sara caught her breath at the sight of the colourful flags and bunting almost hiding the solid building with its sweep of stone steps and pillared entrance. Lights shone from inside, beckoning in the dancers, and she rushed a limping Raymond up the steps in her keenness to be a part of the celebrations.

  They made their way into the large hall, festooned in flowers and paper streamers, five musicians making ready to play on the far stage. Around the room, hard wooden chairs and plain tables had been arranged, with embroidered tablecloths hiding their bareness. Opposite the stage, open double doors led into a further room where Sara glimpsed long trestle tables covered with white linen cloths laden with sandwiches and jugs of juice.

  ‘Sara!’ someone called from a table in the corner and she turned to see Rosa waving them over. Already seated beside her were Domenica in a lemon skirt and white blouse and her sister-in-law Sylvia, looking demure but happy in a blue and white checked dress. Rosa was wearing the peach dress that suited her so well. Nonna Maria sat like a Victorian matron, swathed in black and presiding over her family.

  ‘I didn’t know the old witch would be here,’ Raymond grunted.

  ‘She’s canny, come on,’ Sara nudged him and he slunk behind her, hands firmly plunged in the pockets of his over-large suit.

  Rosa made room for them on the bench beside her. ‘Joe and Paolo are bringing in the ice-cream for the interval,’ Rosa explained, putting Sara out of her suspense. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ the dark-haired girl marvelled at the decorations above them.

  ‘It’s not as grand as the fascio in Sunderland,’ Domenica said with a superior look. ‘They had a ten-man band at the dances I went to.’

  Rosa pulled a face and told Sara, ‘Nothing’s as good as Sunderland according to my sister. She can’t wait to go and live there.’

  ‘It must be an exciting thought,’ Sara agreed, smiling at Domenica. She could understand Domenica’s yearning to live in a sophisticated city and was impressed the older girl had been there. It showed in her style of clothes and her self-confident poise. ‘What’s the fascio?’ Sara asked, intrigued.

  ‘It’s the Italian club,’ Domenica explained with a condescending smile. ‘All the families meet there socially. They have the best dances I’ve ever been to.’

  ‘Have you been to many, like?’ Raymond asked sceptically.

  ‘Well no,’ Domenica pouted. ‘But I know they’re the best.’

  Rosa giggled. ‘My sister’s a know-all, Raymond. Are you feeling better?’ she asked, abruptly changing the subject.

  He flushed at her interest, still hiding beneath his grey cap. ‘Aye, on the mend.’

  Nonna Maria said something in Italian to Rosa and her chattering ceased.

  ‘Here is Paolo.’ Sylvia smiled shyly to see her small, dapper husband appear through the open doors of the supper room in a smart pin-striped suit and freshly shaven face, his thin moustache neatly trimmed. Sara’s pulse began a rapid beating to see Joe at his side, a good head taller and not nearly so smart in a pair of old flannel trousers and open-neck shirt, with the tattered pigskin jacket he wore when motorcycling. It was torn and faded as if he had just scrambled through brambles, Sara thought disapprovingly. He had made no effort to dress up for the occasion, whereas she had spent ages on her appearance. Well, if he saw this dance as so unimportant, thought Sara, she would not let him guess how much she had been looking forward to it.

  Paolo came and sat close to Sylvia and they exchanged a few words in Italian.

  Rosa leaned towards Sara and whispered, ‘It’s the first time Sylvia and Paolo have been out anywhere since Linda was born.’

  ‘They look happy,’ Sara said, noticing the affectionate looks passing between the couple. While Rosa chattered about her niece and nephew, Sara was acutely aware of Joe beside her discussing the charity boxing competition with Raymond in which Joe appeared to have won his fight.

  ‘Pat and the lads have just come in,’ Joe nodded over to a group of youths standing at one side of the hall. ‘Coming over, Raymond?’ Joe asked. The younger boy accepted with alacrity, feeling quite out of his depth sitting among a group of girls talking about dancing and bairns.

  Sara hid her disappointment as the boys crossed the room to speak to their friends. But soon her attention was diverted by the entrance of the Carnival Queen, dressed in flouncy pink and white with a huge headdress of flowers and attended by several other girls with garlands in their hair. The band played them in and then a square-jawed man in a smart suit was invited by the mayor to open the
dance.

  ‘I’m very pleased to be back in Whitton,’ the important guest spoke stiltedly, ‘and to - er - start the dancin’. I hope you all have a good night.’ Amid enthusiastic applause, he went over to the Carnival Queen and, as the band struck up, they began to waltz around the hall.

  ‘Who is he?’ Sara quizzed Rosa. Her friend shrugged.

  ‘He’s a famous football star,’ Domenica told them. ‘Plays for Sunderland now.’

  ‘Does Pasquale know him?’ Rosa asked naively.

  ‘No,’ Domenica had to admit. ‘Sunderland’s a big place, you know. But Pasquale has seen him play, and I’ve seen his picture in the papers,’ she added triumphantly and Rosa looked impressed.

  Sara and Rosa were quickly immersed in the scene before them. Older couples took to the floor and executed perfect foxtrots, while the girls commented on their dresses and questioned Paolo on who was who, as most of them had patronised the parlour at some time or another. As the dance progressed, the youths of Whitton Grange grew bolder and began to cross the room to ask the opposite rows of single girls to dance. Sara glanced over surreptitiously at Joe and Raymond, but they were part of a crowd who had gathered admiringly about the professional footballer and were joining in a heated discussion with the ginger-haired friend she had seen riding on Joe’s motorcycle, whom Rosa told her was Pat Slattery.

  When Paolo and Sylvia danced a waltz, a young pitman came up to ask Domenica to dance, but she shook her head and told him she was already spoken for.

  ‘The next time I dance will be at my wedding,’ she sighed dreamily and began a litany of the arrangements which Rosa had heard countless times before. But Sara was eager to hear about Pasquale and the style of Domenica’s dress and every detail of the romantic day.

  ‘I’m so excited for you,’ she beamed and Domenica seemed pleased at her interest.

  ‘Can Sara come to the wedding?’ Rosa asked unexpectedly. ‘As my friend. You would like that wouldn’t you, Sara?’