Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

‘Bet you get bloody fed up around here,’ Phoebe guessed, still managing to look poised in her working dungarees and headscarf. They sheltered under a copper-coloured rowan tree in the drizzle.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Sara admitted. ‘I was working in a shop down in Whitton Grange until Mam had her fall.’

  ‘That sounds more fun. What were you selling? Corsets or pipe tobacco?’

  Sara laughed. ‘Mainly pipe tobacco.’

  ‘God, will my hands ever be smooth again?’ Phoebe flexed her slim, grubby fingers and sighed over her broken nails.

  ‘Tell me about your home,’ Sara urged, ‘the parties and dances and things.’

  Phoebe needed little encouragement to describe a rich world of country houseparties, summer balls and winter hunts at her parents’ estate in Northumberland and when the cold drizzle turned to relentless rain, they hurried for the farm.

  ‘There’s that boy again.’ Phoebe pointed out a bedraggled figure on the lip of the hill. ‘He’s always skulking after you. Is he your boyfriend or something?’

  Sara squinted through the rain and recognised Sid Gibson, drenched and looking forlornly after her.

  ‘Used to be,’ Sara answered briefly.

  ‘Does he know he’s in the past tense?’ Phoebe asked bluntly.

  ‘I’m not sure…’ Sara felt uncomfortable at the thought. She had shirked meeting Sid on several occasions and had never allowed them to be alone.

  ‘Well, I think you should tell the poor boy, it’s game, set and match as far as he’s concerned,’ her friend was brisk. ‘Stop him pining about the hills like a lost sheep dog.’

  Sara blushed at the rebuke and hurried home.

  Mary gave birth to a baby girl, Florence, the following month and Sara’s mother went into hospital to have her plaster cast removed, so Sara found herself running the household. Her days were filled with catering for the hungry farm workers, rising early in the icy cold, while the nights were punctured by the wails of baby Florence.

  In December, the christening brought a welcome relief from the daily drudgery and Phoebe helped her decorate the kitchen-cum-parlour with festive holly.

  ‘Dip it in Epsom Salts,’ the dark-haired girl instructed, ‘makes the leaves sparkle - nanny taught me.’ To Sara’s surprise the solution dried like white frost and Mary was delighted with the cheerful sight.

  The neighbours from several miles around were invited to celebrate at Stout House after the chapel service at Lowbeck. The Metcalfes and the Gibsons came and Mary’s parents from Stanhope and Beth Lawson and baby Daniel from Rillhope. Beth crammed herself full of the homemade broth, game pie and winter vegetables and complained about her husband John who had run off and joined the navy.

  ‘I blame Tom,’ Beth told Sara, while Daniel explored the hearth and tumbled over Cath the dog. ‘He turned his head about going to fight the Germans. When he’s sober he’s a coward - but three pints of home-brew and John’s off to enlist.’

  ‘Have you heard from him yet?’ Sara asked.

  ‘Got a postcard from Portsmouth - they’ve taken him, though he’s never been on a boat in his life. Don’t know when we’ll see him again,’ Beth sighed, ‘and me with Daniel to feed.’

  ‘I’m sure the Gibsons would give you a bit of milk for the bairn,’ Sara reassured. ‘I’ll have a word with Sid about it if you like.’

  Beth gave her a squint, considering look. ‘So you are still courting?’

  Sara did not answer.

  ‘Tell him to his face,’ Beth was brusque. ‘It’s the kindest way.’

  After the party had dispersed and the clearing up was finished, Sara went out to find Sid. His father said he was tending a sickly newborn calf and she fumbled her way in the dark to the barn furthest from the Gibsons’ large house at Highbeck. A storm lantern swung in the blast of cold air as she pushed her way in, sending weird shadows across the dimly lit byre. It was cosy inside with the smell of warm flesh and hay.

  ‘Sid?’ she called.

  There was a rustling from one of the stalls and he appeared with sleeves rolled up and straw stuck in his thick fair hair. He was startled when he realised who it was and Sara plunged into her request for milk for Daniel.

  ‘Of course we can spare a bit,’ he agreed. They stood exchanging embarrassed looks.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you, Sid,’ Sara confessed, ‘I’ve not known what to say. Things have changed while I’ve been away. I should have said something sooner—’

  ‘You don’t have to explain,’ Sid’s ruddy face was shadowed. ‘I hear there’s someone else.’

  Sara flushed, cursing Mary for her interference. ‘Was someone else,’ she said quietly with a forlorn shrug. Sid said nothing. ‘Things are too uncertain with this war - I think it’s best just to be single, don’t you?’

  Sid raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re different - you wouldn’t have said that a few months ago with all your talk about Heathcliffe and your romantic books.’ With relief, Sara saw he was smiling. He seemed to be accepting the situation quite calmly so perhaps he had not missed her as much as everyone said.

  ‘Still friends?’ Sara asked shyly.

  ‘Aye, friends,’ he said with a note of mockery in his voice.

  ‘I’ll be off then,’ Sara turned quickly for the door and, in her eagerness to be gone, dropped a glove. She was halfway across the yard before she realised her loss. At the risk of appearing foolish, she returned to claim it and heard laughter the minute she entered the byre.

  Sid was standing under the lamplight, cuddling a half-undressed girl whose dungaree braces trailed in the straw.

  Sara was too astonished to say a word, but Phoebe flicked her dark hair away and smiled.

  ‘Bad timing, darling,’ she said with unconcern.

  ‘Aye, I - I dropped me glove,’ Sara stuttered. ‘I didn’t realise…’

  ‘No?’ Phoebe sounded disbelieving. ‘I thought you must have done. And, as your interests lie elsewhere, there didn’t seem to be any harm done. Sid’s too much of a man to waste being celibate, darling.’

  Sara felt her cheeks burn. With one glance at the embarrassed Sid, she picked up her glove and fled, to the sound of Phoebe’s laughter.

  Only later, as she rubbed her frozen feet together under the cold sheets, did Sara’s anger at Phoebe’s behaviour subside. She had, in fact, done her a favour by telling Sid about Joe and ending any thought he still harboured about marriage. She had never been deserving of Sid’s admiration and she knew that she had never loved him. If she could not have Joe Dimarco, she wanted no one.

  The discovery of Sid and Phoebe’s affair prompted Sara to write to Louie Ritson, asking about her friends in the village and confessing to the older woman how much she missed the place. She asked for news of Joe and Rosa and wrote again with Christmas wishes, begging for news, but heard nothing in return. Her card to Rosa went unanswered, too.

  Christmas and New Year were spent quietly thinking of Tom and his regiment far away in France and few people went first-footing in deference to those in the forces who were not with them. So when a letter came out of the blue from Louie Ritson, in childish copper-plate, telling her that Dolly Sergeant was looking for help in the shop again, Sara needed no further encouragement to return to Whitton Grange.

  ‘… that lad Eric got a job at the pit. I said you would be pleased to have your old job back and Dolly asked me to write to you. You can stop with us if you like. Joe Dimarco sends his regards.’

  Regards was better than nothing Sara thought, gripping the letter to her and feeling a prick of grateful tears. Dear, kind-hearted Louie, she thought excitedly, was offering her a way to return without being dependent on her uncle. Her mother agreed resignedly and quashed any complaints from Mary that Sara should not be allowed to go.

  ‘We can manage fine now I’m back on my feet,’ she declared. ‘It’s the first time Sara’s had any spark in her eyes for months so you go, pet, and be a help where you can.’

  Sara wrote to Loui
e and said she was coming, then severe weather set in and the farm was cut off by snow drifts for a week while Sara fretted at the delay. Finally, at the end of the month, she got a lift with Dr Hall as far as Stanhope and boarded a crowded bus for Whitton Grange.

  Clambering off outside The Palace cinema, she breathed in the delightful smell of coal fires and relished the bustle around her once more. Turning with her case, she caught sight of a motorcycle parked by the kerb and, with hammering heart, she saw Joe astride it, watching for someone.

  He smiled straight at her. ‘Louie told me you were coming. Want a lift?’

  ‘Aye,’ Sara gulped, her eyes smarting, ‘please.’

  ‘By heck, I’ve missed you, pet,’ he said, slipping off the cycle and seizing her hands.

  ‘Oh, me too, Joe. Me too!’ Sara blinked back tears of relief and their arms went round each other in a joyful hug.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sara was given a warm welcome at Hawthorn Street and Louie made up the pull-out bed from the old dresser in the kitchen corner for her use. Upstairs was shared by old Jacob and Raymond and a cheerful evacuee with a grating cough called Stan.

  ‘Are you sure I won’t be in the way? Once I’m earning I can find lodgings,’ Sara suggested to Louie, aware of the extra strain she was placing on the household.

  ‘You stop with us as long as you want, pet,’ Louie insisted, as she fried up some potato scones. ‘We’ve had more than this to feed in worse times, believe me. And if Sam gets called up shortly, I’ll be glad of the company.’

  Sara glanced up as she spread the tablecloth and saw a worried frown flit across Louie’s face.

  ‘They might take him on at the pit yet,’ Sara tried to sound optimistic. Louie shook her head in disbelief and returned to her cooking while Sara busied herself setting the table for Raymond returning from the pit and Sam who was changing into his uniform to go on duty with the local defence volunteers.

  ‘Give me that letter, pet, before me da comes in,’ Louie instructed. Sara picked up an opened letter from the table and handed it to Louie who shoved it behind the tea caddy on the mantelpiece.

  ‘It’s from my brother Eb,’ Louie told her, ‘he’s an artist - professional like.’

  ‘The brother you’re not allowed to mention in front of Mr Kirkup?’ Sara asked.

  ‘Aye,’ Louie sighed. ‘It seems daft now - but we were that upset when Eb went off with Eleanor Seward-Scott. She was still the boss’s wife then and Mam and Dad thought it all very improper. They never got over the disgrace of the affair.’

  ‘But Eb and Eleanor got married in the end?’ Sara queried.

  ‘Aye, once her divorce came through. And they’ve a lad not much younger than Raymond who Da’s never seen, more’s the pity.’

  ‘Do you see him?’ Sara paused over the table setting.

  ‘Rupert? Hardly ever.’ Louie’s face was downcast. ‘They can’t come here and I get into Durham once in a blue moon. That’s why Eb writes to us. Hildy visits now and then, though. Eb’s anti-war paintings were right popular till a few months back, now Hildy says he might go to prison for being a conchie. It’s a topsy-turvy world.’

  How sad it was, Sara thought, that Louie should be denied the company of her brother and nephew because of stubborn family pride. Sara felt vexed at the futility of such prejudice. Had her own uncle not done his best to ruin her relationship with Joe with his bigotry? she thought angrily. But for Louie’s intervention, they might have remained apart. She looked at the homely, compassionate woman making the tea and felt a rush of gratitude.

  ‘Thanks for telling Joe I was coming back.’

  ‘I’ve been around long enough to know when two people care for each other,’ Louie said, matter-of-factly. ‘I could tell from your letter you were missing the lad - and he’s been moping around here getting under my feet for months.’

  Sara laughed, ‘Good! I’d hate to think he hadn’t missed me.’

  ‘Missed you? He’s met every bus from Weardale this week,’ Louie chuckled. ‘Mind you,’ her face grew troubled, ‘I think the parlour’s suffering - Joe says the blackout’s killed the evening business stone dead. And it’s going to be harder for everyone to get supplies now this rationing’s coming in.’

  ‘I’m going to see the Dimarcos on Saturday - Joe’s taking me,’ Sara’s smile was triumphant. ‘No more sneaking around the hillside.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Louie smiled and shovelled the potato scones on to a plate with crisp bacon rinds just as Raymond clumped in the back door, grinning at them both with his coal-ingrained face.

  The next day Sara started back at Dolly Sergeant’s and the elderly grocer looked almost pleased to see her.

  ‘You’re in charge of deliveries now, lass,’ she told her, ‘and I know you’ll make a better job of it than that useless lad Eric. Bobby Dimarco was round here every other day mending his punctures. Now off with you to Mrs Naylor’s and take care.’

  Sara was aghast at how the prices of goods had risen already and, riding around the village, she became aware of other changes. Half of the park had been dug up and prepared for the planting of extra vegetables that spring. Gleaming Anderson shelters had sprouted where people possessed gardens, while those without hurried to the large dug-out in the council schoolyard where hordes of children ran around in the crisp air with footballs and skipping ropes. Tynesiders like Stan, Louie’s other lodger, tended to stick together, Sara noticed, while the local boys asserted their right to play around the block of outside toilets where a goal had been chalked on to the solid brick.

  There was a bustling energy about Whitton Grange that raised the spirits. The two gaunt pits that loomed over the village at the top of the steep bank, no longer wheezed sleepily as before. Both were in full production, clanking and sighing with exertion to fuel the war effort.

  That evening Sam Ritson came bursting into the kitchen like a run- away train.

  ‘What in the wide world’s happened?’ Louie gasped in shock as her husband took her by the arms and shook her. Sara and Joe glanced at each other apprehensively, the teasing intimacy of moments before shattered.

  ‘He’s given in!’ he shouted, almost incoherent with excitement.

  ‘Who has?’ Louie demanded. ‘Hitler?’

  ‘No, Seward-Scott! The management are taking me back. Louie, I start at the Eleanor the morra!’ He lifted his wife into the air and spun her around.

  ‘Eeh, Sam!’ she screeched. ‘Sam!’ She smacked him a kiss on his lips.

  ‘And I’ll be hewing at the bloody face!’ he laughed. ‘Oh aye and we’ll get the wage rise we’re after an’ all. Us pitmen will work like the devil to beat Hitler and his fascists - give up our holidays and work all the hours God’s sends - but they’ll pay us a decent wage for our toil.’

  Joe and Sara grinned at each other to hear him so happy.

  ‘Sam Ritson talking about God,’ Louie teased. ‘Whatever next?’

  ‘Oh Louie!’ Sam ignored the jibe and hugged her again. ‘I’ll be using these arms to graft again, not just parade around with a broomstick like a tinpot soldier. I’m a worker, Louie, a worker.’

  Sara thought the hardened fighter before her would burst into tears with joy.

  Joe nodded at Sara and she followed him to the door, grabbing a winter coat she had inherited from Mary.

  ‘Just going for a walk,’ she said, slipping out, but the Ritsons were hardly aware of their going.

  Sara snuggled under Joe’s arm as they stepped on to the frosty cobbles of the back lane. At first all was black as they blinked in the dark and slithered about on the icy path. Apart from going to fetch Sara from the bus, Joe had hardly used his motorcycle since the New Year. Fuel was scarce, petrol about to be rationed.

  They reached the fish and chip shop, lurid under dim blue lighting, and Joe paid for a bag of chips. As they shared out the steaming food, Sara told him, ‘I can’t wait to see Rosa again. How is she? She never wrote like she promised.’


  Joe pulled a face. ‘She took the Emilio thing very badly - blamed Mam and Dad for not allowing her to marry the lad. So it’s their fault he went back to Italy without her.’

  ‘She must have been very hurt,’ Sara sympathised. ‘Is she over him now?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ Joe shrugged. ‘She never talks about him. In fact, she never talks about anything very much. Just sits around the house eating and snapping at anybody who speaks to her. She and Sylvia fight like cats when Paolo or Dad aren’t around and Mam hardly notices - she’s lost without Granny and Domenica for company. She always got on best with Domenica. And she works that hard in the shop she doesn’t know the half of it.’ Joe licked his fingers and smiled at Sara in the darkness. ‘It’ll do Rosa good to see you, cheer her up no end.’

  But Sara’s visit to the parlour that Saturday was a disappointment. She had thought about the place for so long that it appeared smaller and less exotic than she had remembered. The shelves in front of the long mirrors were depleted of sweets and cigarettes and the half-empty shop window was filled with cheap cardboard advertisements in place of fancy goods. The Dimarcos were still making ice-cream, but the over-riding smell was of potato and onion pies and fried food for which there appeared to be more demand.

  Mr Dimarco, however, looked just as smart in his waistcoat and apron and greeted her courteously, as did Paolo. But Anna Dimarco gave her the briefest of nods and hurried into the back-shop, her face drawn, her movements quick and tense.

  ‘You are living with the Ritsons now, Joseph tells me,’ Mr Dimarco smiled.

  ‘Yes,’ Sara answered, ‘they’ve been very kind.’

  Arturo carefully wiped a glass to a sparkle before voicing what concerned him. ‘And your uncle…?’

  ‘I wrote to say I was coming back,’ Sara told him, ‘but he hasn’t been in touch. I’ll pop round and see Aunt Ida before long. You mustn’t worry about Uncle Alfred,’ Sara said defiantly, ‘he’s not responsible for me anymore and he can’t stop me seeing Joe.’

  Arturo raised his eyebrows in perplexity but said no more. This girl of Joe’s was too modern in her ways. Yet she was pretty and friendly and Joe’s temper had improved since her reappearance, so he would content himself with that. By March, his son would be called up for military service and no doubt the friendship would fizzle out, so why spoil their happiness now? He hoped Alfred Cummings would be as philosophical.