How could Margaret explain without hurting him or his family? It wasn’t that she was ashamed of Denaby. She had experienced nothing but kindness since she arrived, but she wasn’t alone in her quest for a better future. Many brave men returned from the war actively seeking something other than the pit for their sons. Jack and Claudette had gone to London with Daisy’s blessing and if Tommy hadn’t had his accident?
It was no use thinking what might have been but the labour government and trade unions were changing the country. There was a free health service and scholarships for miners’ children who passed the Eleven Plus Examination. Bursaries had taken Margaret as far as University. One day, the ‘Scholarship’ might do the same for Elizabeth. Until then, Margaret must be strong and somehow get them out of Denaby.
* * * * *
Florrie’s husband left her. Broken hearted, unable to pay the rent and with no man working at the pit, she was evicted and landed on the doorstep with four young children. At night during the week they slept in Albert’s bed. In the morning they got up and he got in. At weekends Albert and Tommy shared a room with Florrie’s boys. Margaret and Florrie shared with the girls.
Florrie cooked, cleaned and ran the house. Up at five, she battled boiling water, scrubbing, mangling and rinsing clothes; stringing a line of washing across the backs before seven o’ clock in the morning. They were overcrowded but Florrie’s good nature, Tommy’s affection for his sister and Margaret’s willingness to compromise kept relationships steady. The price was the terrible toll on Tommy’s health.
* * * * *
The local council had started building houses in Conisbrough, high above the rocky limestone ridge of the Crags, overlooking Denaby. Smog and dense chimney smoke was blown away over the other side of the Don Valley. Margaret added their name to the ever-growing housing waiting list.
* * * * *
The parish priest arranged a pilgrimage to a holy shrine at Walsingham to pray for a house for Tommy and Margaret. Donations from religious denominations, pubs, clubs, and the National Union of Mineworkers financed the venture. The selfless generosity of Denaby people was worth more than the empty words of politicians who so often maligned them.
Four months later Tommy and Margaret walked hand in hand up the Crags to see the progress on their house. Singing skylarks soared from nests in the swaying grass, cream and purple clover burst over variegated grey rocks, buttercups spilled onto the rocky paths dividing the two communities. Men exercising their dogs called out ‘All the best Tommy’, or stopped and shook his hand. It was almost too good to be true.
Chapter 37
Conisbrough 1948-1956
The new house in Conisbrough boasted a bathroom with a door that locked. There was no abrasive coal grit to scratch Margaret’s legs in the smooth white bath, no one waiting impatiently for their turn and no shared tepid water. All she had to do was turn on the tap for a constant flow of hot water.
Jean had sent her a round art deco blue and gold tin of talcum with a velvety powder puff and matching Lily of the Valley bath cubes. Margaret crumbled these into the hot water, squashing them with her toes. She stretched out, sinking into the milky scented water. She thought of the luxurious baths prepared by Muni, of girls talk, relaxing massages and idling the day away. One more cherished memory to let go. These days there was scarcely time to wash her face.
Left alone while Margaret was at work Tommy became moody, with no sense of purpose, wandering back to Denaby, taking Elizabeth. The ad hoc arrangements with Daisy had worked when they lived in Cliff View but she was seventy seven and Margaret couldn’t expect her to step in until Elizabeth started school. It was no use asking Peggy and Michael who lived next door. They were willing to help but couldn’t provide the extensive support Tommy required to keep him stable.
The pension’s tribunal categorized him as 100% disabled. The findings listed him as having: ‘ . . . lost his right eye: sustained gunshot wounds to the wrist: wounds to the head and face: confused: rather simple and childish: obviously mentally deteriorated . . . ’
Margaret couldn’t read any more but the facts were daily in front of her. There was nothing mentioned about Tommy’s courage. They’d written him off. Well she wouldn’t! She hid the letter with the tribunal’s findings.
Margaret had longed to have Tommy and Elizabeth to herself, without Albert. She’d felt mean about it. He’d been so kind to them but she genuinely believed Tommy might make more progress without his father always helping him. The last few weeks made her realise she was wrong. It was wishful thinking, made more painful by the acknowledgement that Tommy needed all the help he could get to function normally. If Margaret was to be able to work, she would have to ask Albert to live with them.
Tommy’s dad was looking for an excuse to be with his son. He signed over his house in Cliff View to Florrie and Matt, a soft spoken Irish miner, who was courting Florrie.
* * * * *
Tommy was happy to have Albert living with them, a boy chumming up with his dad, who would do anything to please his son. They set to digging and planting potatoes to clean the garden soil. Carrots, onions, leeks, sprouts, French beans, peas, lettuce and radishes were planted according to the season. Rhubarb, raspberries, gooseberries, black and red currants, interlaced with a netting of twisted paper and string to keep off the birds. There were lawns and rose beds, sweet peas, lavender and lilac trees and Elizabeth’s patch of garden with a giant scarecrow.
Seeds sprouted on every window ledge. Albert rotated the trays to catch the sun, commandeering the kitchen table for potting up. Compost, plant pots and twine were likely to become the meal of the day. Margaret banished them outside. Albert bought a green house.
* * * * *
Margaret’s father came from Scotland to stay. The two old men’s pipes sat adjacent in the ashtray on the mantelpiece next to Tommy’s cigarettes. There was a stream of visitors, friends of the men. Florrie was seldom away. She had married Matt and flitted to Conisbrough. Their family had increased to six, too many children for Cliff View.
Tommy attended Doncaster Infirmary for physio-therapy. Albert took him to the hospital and the men made a day of it, having a couple of pints in the town. It wasn’t enough for Tommy. He combed the district knocking on doors, searching for a job. The local post master asked Margaret if Tommy could manage to deliver the post in Conisbrough. It would be temporary, for six weeks. Albert offered to carry the post bag.
In uniform, with the peaked hat set jauntily hiding his missing eye, Tommy was a man again. Up at five o’clock whistling his way to work, back home for a cup of tea about eleven. Dinner cooked by Albert at one. Out again for the afternoon collection, calling at Florrie’s for home baked buns and tarts.
He took messages; was first with the news of marriages,
births and deaths. Handed in the milk off the doorstep and checked on the sick and elderly. Tommy didn’t need Albert to help him. The whole of Conisbrough watched out for him.
The annulment of Margaret’s marriage to Ben freed her to discreetly marry Tommy in the vestry of Saint Alban’s Catholic Church, and make peace with God.
The pension board reduced Tommy’s meagre allowance because he was working. Margaret continued saving; enough for a washing machine and a holiday with Jean, Nan and Rosemary, Nan’s youngest daughter.
* * * * *
The glittering globe at Blackpool Tower threw coloured lights across the polished ballroom, highlighting Tommy’s smile and Margaret’s gold satin dress, made from material stored in one of the suitcases. He confidently waltzed her round the floor. They made plans. Perhaps they should buy a house or a car. She’d drive. It looked easy. Tommy teased, “Driving easy… like roller skating?”
“Well I can’t be much worse at driving.”
“Just let me know when you plan to start, so I can get my bike off the road.”
&n
bsp; Nan, Jean and the girls were fast asleep when Tommy and Margaret got back to the boarding house. “Another day to look forward to tomorrow,” Tommy whispered.
The rest of the week the weather was perfect. They reclined in deck chairs on the beach. Tommy built sand castles with the children and buried the women’s feet in the sand. He rode beside Elizabeth and Rosemary on the donkeys, making his go faster across the sand. Margaret and her sisters were certain he’d fall off, but he didn’t. He bought plaster figurines and heaps of bargains at auction houses on the sea front, too many to fit in the cases. He gave them to the landlady to keep until next year. Stress-free and golden brown, they were sorry when the holiday ended.
* * * * *
Tommy’s job, as a postman, was made permanent so Elizabeth spent the school holidays in Scotland with Nan. Margaret put her on the train at Doncaster and she was collected in Edinburgh. Sometimes Margaret wished her daughter wasn’t quite so enthusiastic to go, but there were outings to the seaside at Gullane and Portobello and the companionship of her cousins. Elizabeth liked Mary’s boys. They were full of bright ideas and things to do.
The year Elizabeth was nine Tommy missed her terribly and kept asking when she was coming back, “I don’t like it when Elizabeth’s away. She’s my little ray of sunshine on bad days.”
Margaret agreed. Their daughter was a distraction from the fact that Tommy’s condition was rapidly deterio-
rating. It was as if he was unravelling. His stammering was hardly noticeable unless he was under stress but his unpredictable temper was easily triggered, and innumerable murderous headaches sent him stumbling upstairs to lie down.
He pleaded, “Don’t let me lose my mind Margaret! I couldn’t stand it.” Her heart went out to him as he fought to retain his loving personality, “I don’t want you looking after a gibbering wreck and I don’t want Elizabeth to see me like that. Promise me you’ll put me down first.”
“Tommy Waters we’ll have no more talk like that. Elizabeth loves you. I love you.”
“But it’s not going to make me better?” There was nothing she could say.
“I’ve been lucky to have these years,” he said thinking aloud.
“There’s lot more to come,” she said, trying to focus on the future, “Wait until Elizabeth goes to university.”
“Do you think she will?”
“She’s your daughter and…” Tommy joined in, finishing the sentence “only the best will do.” Margaret’s lion-hearted husband laughed and kissed her.
Bringing Elizabeth home early was easily remedied but was it right to keep the severity of Tommy’s condition from him? Margaret was convinced he was aware of what was happening. It was almost as if he’d read the years of detailed assessments, securely hidden in the tin hat box, each one worse than the last. He had unknowingly defied the experts by leading a worthwhile life, but how long could it last?
Chapter 38
Elizabeth raced down the garden path. “Daddy I’m
home…” but the door was locked. She rattled the handle; “Granddad it’s me! Let me in! Let me in,” but no one came. “Mum where are they?”
Margaret was fearful of the answer. She put the suitcases in the outside toilet and, fending off more questions from Elizabeth, went to find out. Florrie caught up with her before she reached Peggy’s gate.
“Margaret, it’s Tommy… He’s in hospital but they’re moving him to Sheffield.”
“Whatever for…”
“There’s been an accident. Dad’s with him.” Florrie’s tense anxious face said it all.
Margaret hesitated, she’d have to go. She’d ask Peggy if she could phone for a taxi but Peggy came out to meet her.
“Margaret I’m so sorry. When you’re ready we’ll run you to the hospital in the car.”
“Go Margaret,” Florrie said urgently, “Leave Elizabeth with me. She’ll be alright with Aunt Florrie til ’er dad comes home.”
* * * * *
Tommy was cocooned in intensive care. How peaceful he looked. Margaret lightly swept his lips with hers; wanting to feel him, let him know she was there. She talked to him, on and on, meaningless words to bring him back to her. She mimicked Elizabeth’s reaction to having her hair trimmed in Edinburgh, “Wait ’til my daddy sees this. He said my hair was to grow and grow until I could sit on it like an Indian girl.”
Dearest Tommy, he thought they should tell Elizabeth about Pavia and the boys but Margaret wouldn’t. Life was complicated enough without adding more problems.
She was grateful that the hospital staff allowed her to nurse him; smooth his bed, nestle his helpless hands against her face, hands that had taken lives, but were equally capable of wiping away tears and gently brushing his daughter’s waist-length hair.
Visiting was strictly observed. Dad didn’t come but Jean and Florrie brought clean clothes for Margaret who hadn’t changed for three days. The women weren’t allowed onto the ward. She met them outside. Tommy’s father had taken it badly, not sleeping or eating, staring out of the widow. Calvary must have been like this.
Tommy’s eyelids flickered. Margaret heard again his cheerful whistling, felt a bristly kiss on her cheek. How many times had she told him he needed a shave? His answer had been to tease her by gently rubbing his whiskery face against hers.
“I love you Tommy. Don’t leave me… please… I’m not ready.”
Margaret tried to bargain with God but the doctors said that the accident had dislodged the metal plates in Tommy’s head. If he lived, he would be paralysed and they doubted he’d recognise anyone. Tommy, who wasn’t afraid of anything, had always been afraid of this.
“Your husband is dying,” the nurse said softly.
“I know nurse. I know…” Margaret said, “It’s just…”
But as if choosing the moment, Tommy sighed long and deep and was gone. The swiftness of his death stole their tomorrows.
Matt took Margaret’s phone call. He broke down as she spoke. Florrie wept loudly. Her children wailed. Elizabeth shrank into silence.
Chapter 39
The coroner gave a measured account of the accident. It was lunch time. Tommy had finished work but volunteered to deliver some urgent letters on his way home. Margaret pictured him crossing Doncaster Road near the XL crisp factory. The turbaned girls sitting on the wall, taking a break, watching the world go by. They’d cheekily call out to him. He’d reply, making them laugh. They’d call out some more. The lorry speeding down the hill, the careless young driver, distracted by the waving girls, Tommy pushing his bike into the road, burning rubber, mangled metal, sickening screams.
The coroner said he was sorry. The accident took place on Tommy’s blind side. It would have helped if the driver had shown some remorse but he took his instructions from his solicitor. Margaret’s anger burned.
* * * * *
Florrie brought Elizabeth home the night before the funeral. Margaret was barely functioning. She mechanically made cocoa and took her daughter upstairs. It had been over two months since Elizabeth’s bed was slept in. She slid between the chilly sheets and burst into tears when her feet touched the cold hot water bottle. “Daddy…”
Tommy’s last act of love had been to air the bed for his daughter’s return from Scotland.
Elizabeth sobbed, “Why… ?”
“I don’t know,” Margaret answered.
“It’s not fair” Elizabeth said, reaching for her mother’s hand. “Make it go away.”
“Oh Elizabeth if only I could…” She let her daughter cry on until there were no tears left.
“Sing to me like you did when I was little and frightened of the dark.”
The song came slowly, Margaret’s voice trembling, “Golden slumbers kiss your eyes. Smiles awake you when you rise. Sleep pretty baby do not cry and I will sing . . .” What woul
d she sing now?
* * * * *
Summer was on the turn and autumn tiptoed in with a crisp bright morning, but there was no fire in the grate. Wreaths rested on the piano. Wall hanging photographs were draped in black. In place of parties, Tommy’s open coffin filled the front room. The slumberous scent of white lilies and deep purple violets made it difficult for Margaret to breathe. She had taken part in an all night vigil by the coffin. Nan and Jean repetitively chanted the rosary, emptying her mind of everything but the prayerful drone.
The kitchen was filled with women in pressed aprons brewing a constant supply of funeral tea; so many sad eyed figures with not enough chairs to sit down.
A never-ending queue filed past the marbled body that once housed Tommy. Inconsolable, his sisters kissed the corpse wishing their brother goodnight and sweet dreams. They expected Margaret to copy them but she recoiled, her voice breaking, “I can’t…”
The undertaker screwed down the coffin lid twisting every nerve in Margaret’s body. Albert pinned Tommy’s medals on the front of Elizabeth’s navy blue jacket. They hung like monstrous pendants across her flat chest. Margaret gathered her close and felt the strip of black ribbon someone had sewn on the sleeve.
Tommy’s Union flag draped coffin was carried to the flower-laden hearse on the stout shoulders of his brothers-in-law and friends. Their campaign medals flashed in the rays of sunshine. Hunched women leaned on each other, handkerchiefs fluttering like doves. Men self-consciously stamped and blew their nose. No one knew what to do or say.
A tattoo of soldiers’ boots and the voice of a sergeant cut through the mourning, “Squad ‘shun!” The clasping rasping of rifles dragged Margaret out of her stupor.
The Letter Page 19