Northern Girl

by Fadette Marie Marcelle Cripps

  He looked quickly at the church on his left as he walked by, but it was only a glance. Unlike his mother, he had never had much time for religion. He had even less now, since seeing what he had, in this world supposedly looked after by God. He just couldn’t believe in an invisible and supposedly loving force that had allowed such things to happen, and more often than not to innocent folk.

  Again, he had to give his head a little shake to rid himself of the visions, sounds and odours that crept into his mind unexpectedly: weeping children; tanks on fire with men screaming inside; the smell and sight of rotting flesh. They gave him so many nightmares that he was afraid to sleep.

  He looked up, and saw that just above the downstairs window of the end terrace house was the metal sign he’d visualized so many times, still clinging on to the red brick wall with its rusty old screws. Even the badly faded blue lettering couldn’t obliterate the words he’d longed to read: GLAMIS TERRACE. Here it was, his street … the only one in the village with a strip of land along the front, which the proud residents had turned into gardens.

  As he got closer he slowed right down. Only a few more steps to go, and even before he raised his eyes he knew she’d be there. Slowly, he looked up, and there she was, his mam … just as he’d pictured her so many times, waiting on the doorstep.

  He cleared the lump from his throat and walked towards her, and before he could get there, her arms reached out to him. Without a word, Tom dropped his kitbag to the ground and fell into them. They clung together for a few moments, before Tom, in an attempt to stifle the emotion threatening to overwhelm him, held her at arms’ length and questioned light-heartedly, ‘Nice pinny, Mam. For something special, is it?’

  She smiled through her tears, and, giving him a playful shove, answered, ‘Yer know fine well that ah always wear me best pinny on special days, our Tom.’

  ‘Aye, I do, Mam, but why you wear your best pinny over your best dress when you can’t see the dress for the pinny, like, I’ll never know.’

  ‘Ay our Tom, yer still the same, pet, never serious.’ She laughed. ‘Anyway, what are we doin’ out here talking about me pinny, when yer must be soaked ter the skin? Get yerself in here,’ she said, pulling him none too gently towards the front room. ‘And get in front of the fire while ah make us a nice cup of tea. That’ll soon warm yer up. Then we’ll have a good old chinwag, an yer can tell uz all about what yer’ve been up to. The bits yer didn’t tell us in the letters, like!’ she added with meaning.

  It didn’t escape him that, as she scuttled towards the scullery, she grabbed the bottom of her pinny and pulled it up to her eyes in a discreet attempt to wipe away the tears. Tom dropped his wet coat on the floor and flopped down into the armchair, looking around appreciatively.

  The room gleamed, and a cheering blaze glowed red against the black-leaded fire-surround. There was a shining hob and oven, and a brass fender to catch any coals that fell. He called out, ‘Are you all right in there, Mam?’

  ‘Yes, pet, ah’ll be there in just a minute,’ she called back hurriedly.

  Tom relaxed into the chair, relishing the cosiness of the house, which he felt was unique. He’d never come across anything like it anywhere else. Not even at Madeleine’s, and that certainly hadn’t been on account of her family, who he had gradually grown to … yes, love, he supposed. But French homes were much more sparsely furnished, and their tiled floors could be cold. Although at Madeleine’s house there were rugs on the floor.

  That thought prompted him to look down at the mat under his feet. How many long winter nights had been spent making it? he wondered. He remembered how his mam – and sometimes the neighbours – had sat on high stools years ago, leaning over a large wooden frame. Sacking was stretched tightly across it, and with their ‘prodders’ they’d busily poke clippings – small strips of material – down through the hessian and back up again, the clippings being packed in tight against each other. Everyone had worked on their own little area, until, eventually, the whole of the sacking was hidden by brightly-coloured clippings. It had been a long laborious job, but they’d obviously made the best of it, because he remembered lots of laughter and chat.

  Frustratingly, the grown-ups had never explained what they were laughing about, they’d said he was too young – but he certainly hadn’t been too small to help cut the clippings! In fact, anybody who called at the house while the mat-making was going on got drawn in. Hannah, his mam would hand them a pair of scissors and some bits of fabric and old woollen clothes and set them to work. She said she liked woollen clippings best, because they were the warmest underfoot.

  That must have been about sixteen years ago, he thought, as he bent forward and dug his fingers into the rug. ‘Why it’s still like new!’ he said out loud, surprised.

  ‘What’s that? Were yer talking ter me, our Tom?’ Hannah called from the scullery.

  ‘No, Mam, just muttering to myself,’ he called back.

  ‘There’s places fer people like you, yer know.’ She laughed.

  ‘I was just thinking about how you used to let me have a go with the prodder, when you were making all those mats in the old days,’ he called.

  ‘Aye, ah remember that all right. Yer were a right little bugger then. Hang on a sec, Tom, ah can’t be doin’ with shoutin’ through the walls, ah won’t be a minute. Just waitin fer the tea ter mash.’

  Comforted by the familiarity of his mam having a go at him – and the promise of a sweet, warming mug of tea – he stretched his feet out. Poor Mam, he thought, I did lead her a bit of a song and dance when I was a nipper, I suppose. He could see why she’d sometimes lost her rag with him. Like that time when, feeling left out of the mat-making, he’d pestered her to let him use the prodder. She’d finally given in, but he’d soon got bored with pushing tiny bits of material through the sacking, and found it much more amusing to run around jabbing everything with the prodder, including the sideboard and the table. Worse, he’d accidentally jabbed someone’s backside, which hadn’t gone down too well with the neighbour concerned. Needless to say, he’d never been allowed to prod again!

  Still unable to believe that he was really home, he stared into the blazing fire. It all seemed like a dream. He looked across the room at the old grandfather clock, standing where it always had in the corner, and listened to its non-stop pendulum swing back and forth. The sound always used to calm him, but today the ‘tick tock, tick tock’ suddenly grated. It was too loud and heavy in his head, so much so that when Hannah came into the sitting room with the tea he said, ‘How on earth did that clock in there keep going through the war, Mam? I’ve come home to the same old pit chimney, same old bus shelter, same old clock. Why, the whole of the village is untouched, it’s as if nothing’s happened at all!’

  Luckily, Hannah had talked to some of the other folks in the village whose lads had come back from the war, and was prepared for him to be unsettled and disorientated. Some of the lads had terrible physical injuries, and others had them in the mind – and these were, of course, far harder to assess. She was grateful that her Tom was sound in his body, but worried about what might be going on in his head. All she knew was that he, like so many others, had been through a torment that would make his old life seem abnormal; it was going to take time for him to calm down. She also knew that she had to be careful what she said.

  So, as casually as she could, she answered, ‘Like us all, lad, the clock kept on going, just as we’ve all had to, ah suppose. And we’ve had our moments, believe me!’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, let’s not worry about that old clock just now. Yer must be shattered, and yer’ll need ter get them damp clothes off before yer catch yer death of cold! Why don’t yer go up ter yer room?’ She added with a smile, ‘That’s still in the same place as well! And get some dry clothes on while yer there! But hurry up, because ah’m desperate ter have a good talk with yer before yer da gets in from work causin’ his usual trouble!’

  Tom grinned at the thought of his da, and got up and hugged Hanna
h again. He said, ‘OK, then, I’ll not be a minute.’ At the bottom of the stairs, he turned and looked at her. ‘It’s so good to be home, Mam. I can’t tell you what it’s been like out there.’

  Close to tears, she replied lovingly, ‘No need, lad, not till yer ready.’ She made an effort to sound light-hearted, ‘Now you get up them stairs, and you’ll find all yer clothes where they always were an’ all. Let’s hope they still fit. Looks like yer’ve lost a bit of weight, mind! Then yer can come and sit by the fire while we have our cup of tea. So hurry up before it gets cold.’ She playfully shoved Tom further towards the stairs, adding, ‘Go on then, and be quick about it!’

  ‘OK, OK! I’m going. Keep your hair on, Mam,’ he teased.

  ‘Get on with yer.’ Hannah flapped the tea towel at him as he climbed the stairs. She headed back towards the fire, beaming with joy and thanking God for getting Tom home safely.

  Tom rushed into his room and threw himself on the bed. He bounced on his backside, revelling in the comfort of the mattress, before laying himself down with a contented sigh, his head for once empty of anything as he folded his arms behind it and stared up at the ceiling. The promised mug of tea far from his mind, he just lay there staring blankly. Then, aware his eyes were becoming heavy, he told himself he wasn’t to sleep, and sat up quickly, leaning against the headboard while he pulled himself together.

  He put his hand into his pocket where the damp Woodbines and matches were, and after several unsuccessful attempts to strike a match on the collapsed soggy box, cursed and gave up. Defeated, he wriggled himself down the bed until he was on his back again. This time his eyes rested on the old oak chest to his left, and for some reason he was gratified to see that it was still missing a handle on the bottom drawer. He felt panicky about his own thoughts. Why was he getting so upset about things that didn’t matter: like clocks and handles? He’d only noticed this since arriving home; he was sure he hadn’t felt like it in France or any of the other places he’d been. I’ve got to get this rubbish out of my head, he thought.

  As he lay there, he found he had to open his eyes wider and wider to stop them feeling dry, and, realizing that he was losing the battle to stay awake, he made a move to get up, but he was suddenly as helpless as if he was drunk. The last thing he was aware of was smiling with pleasure at being home.

  ‘Tom! Come on lad, wake up!’ The voice seemed to be coming from some distant planet, until he felt a hand on his shoulder gently shaking him. He tried hard to resist coming round from what, for the first time for six years, had been a deep and peaceful sleep.

  ‘Eee, yer’ve been out like a light this last hour or so, son! So ah left yer in peace, but ah thought yer’d want ter be awake afore yer da gets home.’

  Tom sat up, squinted at his mam, then, after a loud and exaggerated yawn, said, ‘Ay, Mam, I don’t know what happened there! I was just having a lie on me bed, and the next minute there was you shaking me brains out!’ He looked at his watch. ‘I suppose the tea’s gone cold, then?’

  Laughing, she pushed him back on the bed. ‘Get yersel’ down stairs, and come and see all the bakin’ ah did this mornin’ ready fer yer homecoming!’

  ‘It’s funny, you know, Mam,’ he said, getting up and following her downstairs, ‘because whenever I used to think of you when I was away, you were always bakin’, and sometimes if I tried really hard, I could smell the teacakes!’

  Hannah turned at the bottom of the stairs to see his mischievous grin. ‘Eee, yer daft, you are,’ she said, giving him another shove. ‘And yer must think ah’m as daft as a brush an’ all. Anyway, come an’ have a look!’

  Tom followed her to the scullery, where she lifted the clean starched tea towels which covered her day’s baking. Tom stood open-mouthed for a second or two. ‘Blimey, Mam!’ he said, staring at the array of cakes, jam tarts, iced buns, scones, meat pies, sausage rolls, and God knows what else.

  ‘Mam! For goodness’ sake! When are we going to eat this lot?’ he said, picking up an iced bun.

  ‘Well yer know what ah’m like, pet, ah like ter keep busy. And ah was so nervous this morning that ah couldn’t stop. And ah’ll be givin’ some of it away more than likely ter old Missus Hurd next door.’ She leaned towards him and whispered, as if divulging a great secret. ‘She’s never got any money, yer know!’ Then, as if she needed to explain herself to Tom, she went on, ‘Some of the other folk lent me their ration books ter get extra flour and sugar and butter, among other things. They all chipped in, so if there’s anything left they can help themselves. Anyway, ah can’t see you complainin’, when it comes ter fillin’ yer belly!’ she joked. Then she laughed and added, ‘Unless yer’ve changed, of course?’

  Tom’s eyes glazed for a moment, before he said, in all seriousness, ‘Well, I think I have changed, Mam. Oh, not in the way you’re talking about, but there’s so much happened, I couldn’t help but be altered by it …’ He stopped abruptly, and remained deep in thought until he noticed the look of concern on her face. Quickly, he added, ‘It’s not all bad, mind!’ Immediately he thought of Maddie, and shivered with excitement. He remembered how honoured he’d felt when she’d liked the way he had shortened her name, especially as no one else had called her that. And she was such a bonny lass! How he’d loved to show her off. He’d always noticed other chaps looking at her at the dances they’d gone to in Calais. Why, even officers had been queuing up to ask her for a dance, although, he reminded himself, he’d not been so keen on that!

  He’d just put a freshly made mug of tea to his mouth when the clatter of the back door latch stopped him dead in his tracks. He turned, and there in front of him stood his da, his smiling face as black as coal. The whites of Jack Dawson’s twinkling blue eyes and the pink of his lips stood out against the coal dust. Father and son stood face to face, both too overcome to speak. Without a word they moved towards each other, and for a split second faltered, before flinging their arms around each other so tightly that it was painful.

  Tom, almost overcome by love for his da, said, his voice breaking, ‘I’ve so much ter tell yer, Da.’

  Jack glanced at Hannah for advice, and, picking up from the discreet shake of her head that now wasn’t the right time, responded as casually as he could, ‘All in good time, lad, all in good time. But fer now just let me get used ter havin’ yer back home, eh? We never thought we’d see this day, son.’ He patted Tom on the back.

  Then, to avoid the danger of becoming emotional again, he pulled away and walked into the sitting room, where he began undressing. He climbed into the metal bath that was steaming before the fire and tactfully changed the subject with the comment, ‘Ah see yer mam’s been bakin’ enough fer an army again. She must have thought yer were bringing them all back with yer!’

  Tom laughed. ‘Ay, Da, you haven’t changed a bit,’ he said.

  Jack laughed loudly and said, ‘Who are you talkin’ to, lad, in that posh showin’-off accent? Is that from serving with all them army lads from down there in the South, like?’

  ‘You’d better watch your P’s and Q’s now, Da, because I’ve P’d and Q’d with the best of them now, you know. And most especially I’ve peed!’ Tom said teasingly.

  Jack was really getting in to the banter now as he winked at Tom and shouted to the kitchen, ‘Here, Hannah Dawson! Come and scrub me back, will yer?’

  ‘Get our Tom ter do it,’ came the reply. ‘Ah haven’t got time fer your shenanigans. Ah’ll be dishin’ yer tea out in a minute, so get yer skates on!’

  ‘Eee, lass, ah wuz just havin’ a bit crack with yer, so yer didn’t feel left out in the scullery there, all on yer own! Dinnet worry, ah’ll be washed an’ out a here before yer’ve got the kettle boiled, that’s if yer ever get it put on, instead of yer mitherin’.’

  A few seconds later Hannah came through into the living room, squeezing herself between the table and the bath tin, which as usual was taking up most of the space in the room. It hadn’t struck Tom until that moment that his mam must h
ave heated, on the fire, the endless pans of water required to fill up the bath all on her own. Damn it! How selfish of me to have fallen asleep like that, he thought angrily. I could have been helping her just like I used to in the old days. I used to love fetching that old bath tin through from the back yard. He stared at the rust on it. That’s when I finally managed to get the thing off the bloody great nail that it was hanging on out there! Why had they always called it the ‘bath tin’, and not the tin bath? he wondered, for the first time. I remember the carry-on I had trying to drag it through the scullery into the living room, not that it was heavy, but I was only a bairn, and when I’d got it to the right position I’d just plonk it down there in front of the roaring fire, and me and Mam used to have a hell of a time filling the thing. I don’t know how we lifted those heavy boiling pans off the fire. How on earth had Mam managed on her own all this time? he wondered.

  ‘Hey, lad! When yer’ve finished yer day-dreamin’ give us a hand here, will yer?’

  ‘Sorry, Da, I keep doing that. My mind wanders,’ Tom apologized, taking the huge bar of carbolic soap and rough flannel from Jack.

  ‘It’s all right, lad, it’ll take time. We know that,’ Jack answered.

  Tom lathered the soap on the flannel and started to wash his dad’s back with vigour. A pained shout brought him to a sudden halt.

  ‘Ay, steady on, lad. You’ll scrub me away if yer not careful!’

  Tom had been so overcome by being at home with his mam and da at last, that in an effort to quell the tears he’d scrubbed too vigorously. His da’s back was red.

  Hannah pushed her way through once more, this time with an armful of crockery she’d collected from the sideboard under the window. As she passed, she squeezed Tom’s arm to reassure him.

  Tom was about to apologize to his da when Jack, drying himself, said, ‘Come on, son, I think we’re in need of a stiff drink while yer mam gets the dinner out. There’s a drop of whisky in the sideboard, but don’t tell anybody, mind!’ He winked. ‘Else they’ll all be round expectin’ their glasses ter be filled up!