‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. There’s nobody here.’
‘That caan’t be true, lass,’ a broad Yorkshire voice replied. ‘Tha’s answered it. Soombody must be there. . . . Here’s our order for t’week. . . .’
‘But,’ protested Becky, ‘I’m just. . . .’
‘Tell Henrietta we want twenty bags of t’ usual, an’. . . .’
‘Twenty bags of what?’
‘Animal feed. Thingie. Was on tip o’ tongue, a minute ago.’
‘Hold on . . . let me find some paper . . . a biro. . . . OK, who am I talking to?’
‘Who else but me, lass? Tim Barnaby from Cobblestones, oop t’Dales.’
Becky nudged the phone into a more comfortable place between shoulder and ear, held down the sheet of invoice paper – already full on the other side – and began to write. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Give me your order. But slowly. I’m only passing by, and I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘You’re doing reet fine,’ the hearty voice replied. ‘Champion. Now, here’s order . . . give a shout, if I’m goin’ too fast. . . .’
The dictated list went on and on. Becky read it back to Barnaby, when it was finally completed. She had to amend a couple of items. She stared at it, as the phone clicked off. If that was a single farm, and this a regular order, then this strange, amalgamated business was likely to be busy after all.
She sat in the office chair, laid the borrowed biro down on the mess of papers, and looked at the order she had taken. How, out of the chaos which was piled high on the desk, was she going to bring this to the owner’s attention? If she laid it down anywhere, it would instantly merge into anonymity amidst the other papers scattered there.
Sellotape it to the phone? Where, in this mess, would there be Sellotape?
Becky shuffled the piles of paperwork around. Nothing. Reluctantly, she gripped the handle of the top drawer. She didn’t like this at all: it made her feel like a burglar. If anyone were to come in. . . .
The doorway darkened.
Becky looked up to see a small, square woman, black with coal dust, a battered and scuffed leather apron strapped onto broad shoulders and back.
The two women stared at each other.
‘Who the heck are you?’ the coal-black figure demanded. ‘And what the devil are you doing, raking through my desk? Step back, I’m going to phone the police.’ Fearless eyes gleamed in the black and sweat-streaked face. ‘Don’t try to run,’ she warned. ‘You’re nicked! Caught in the very act of stealing. . . .’
Chapter 4
‘I am not a thief!’ Becky said indignantly. ‘I came here to buy coal. The place was deserted. When your phone rang, I tried to help. I was looking for Sellotape to stick this farmer’s order onto your phone. Here!’ she flicked the order form across the cluttered desk. ‘It’s yours – do what you want with it!’ She rose, pink-faced and furious. ‘Now, better check your desk,’ she said angrily. ‘Make sure there’s nothing missing, before I leave.’
A slow smile broke out on the coal-stained face. Absently, the woman picked up the order form and glanced at it. ‘You write neat,’ she said.
‘And I don’t steal.’
A coal-blackened hand waved placatingly. ‘I hear you. Do you drink tea? I came in to make a brew and wash down t’dust.’ The smile became a white-toothed grin, startling against the dirty face. ‘That is, if I can find the kettle . . . a bit of a shambles, isn’t it?’
A bit, Becky thought incredulously. ‘On that shelf over there,’ she pointed.
‘So it is. There’s a kitchen sink through in the other room, if you want to fill t’kettle. I’ll find a home for this.’
Becky lifted the plastic kettle and went through. It was more a cupboard than a kitchen, but was spotlessly clean and well organized. Maybe it was desk-work rather than untidiness which was the problem. She filled the kettle, found a socket and plugged in.
‘Tea or coffee?’ she called through.
‘Tea. Black as it comes – and no sugar.’
Becky picked up two spotless mugs and busied herself. When she came through with a mug in each hand, she found the coal-woman sitting wearily at the desk, the order form still in hand.
‘Sit down,’ the woman said. ‘Sorry, we got off on the wrong foot. My fault, jumping to conclusions. Henrietta is the name, Henrietta Yates. And you are?’
‘Rebecca Calderwood.’
The older woman took the mug of scalding tea, and half-emptied its contents in a single gulp. ‘That’s better,’ she sighed. ‘You don’t look like a Rebecca?’
‘People call me Becky.’
‘Good. Less frightening.’
‘Less frightening!’ Becky exclaimed. ‘You come storming in through the door, and call me frightening?’
Again that lovely white-toothed grin. ‘Well, you were. Sitting there, looking all posh and disapproving. . . .’
‘I couldn’t find the Sellotape.’
‘No more can I. It’s been lost these last three months.’ The rest of the mug was drained. ‘I’m off to make another? Yourself?’
‘I haven’t even started.’
‘Hang about. Won’t be a second. . . .’ For a few minutes there were busy noises and running water in the kitchen. When Henrietta came out, she was not only carrying a fresh mug of tea, but had also washed her face and hands and removed the coal-carrier’s leather shield. ‘No point in taking a bath or changing, until the deliveries are finished,’ she excused. ‘You said you wanted coal?’
‘Two bags, please.’
‘Where?’
‘Down at the canal – the Ella Mae. We can bring her up to the bridge-side, and transfer the coal from there.’
With a sigh, Henrietta settled down in her leather chair. ‘Let’s get tea down us, first,’ she said. She shuffled the littered papers with her free hand. ‘I’m ashamed of this,’ she admitted. ‘Never was much good at paperwork. Broad shoulders and a weak brain. It was my dad who did the paperwork at nights. He wasn’t much better, but we bumbled through. Since he died, three months ago . . . the whole place has sort of got away from me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Becky said automatically.
‘About Dad? A real character. Could barely read and write, let alone keep the books. But he never landed us in prison, yet. I’m not sure folks will be able to say the same about me.’
‘Why don’t you employ a bookkeeper?’ Becky asked.
‘Not enough work for one. And we’ve always kept business in t’family.’
‘Fair enough – but why not get someone in, to sort out this mess? Then start again?’
The light blue eyes grew thoughtful. ‘We’ve hired casual labour,’ Henrietta nodded. ‘Cover for emergencies, like. Can you hire a bookkeeper like that?’
Becky shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’
Henrietta sipped tea, her eyes never leaving Becky’s. ‘Are you passing through, or stopping?’ she finally asked.
‘Stopping for a bit. Then heading down through Skipton towards Keighley and Bradford. I need to find a job.’
A long silence.
‘Ever kept books?’
‘I’m a teacher – I was a teacher. Now I’m looking for work.’
‘And I’m offering. Three days a week, for two weeks. Then we’ll see where we are, and take it from there. Can’t do full-time. But it would be good to have this mess cleared up.’
Becky was tempted. What had Noel said? Take any sort of job, while you look for a better one. Any port in a storm.
‘I wouldn’t know where to start,’ she warned.
That wonderful flashing smile again. ‘Neither do I!’
‘I might make a right old cobblers of it.’
‘I already have.’
Becky was warming to this woman – the most direct person she had ever met. ‘I can only try,’ she cautioned.
‘That’s good enough. A deal, then?’
‘It’s a deal.’
Henrietta rose from behind th
e desk. ‘Up here we usually spit on our hands then shake them, to seal the deal,’ she smiled. ‘No written contracts ever. But I will waive the spitting bit for you.’
‘Does that make it any less binding?’ Becky laughed.
‘Don’t know. Only ever done it our way.’
Becky took a deep breath. ‘OK,’ she said, spitting on her hand. ‘Why change the habits of a lifetime. . . ?’
Kathy went over to the classroom window. Evening was falling fast, and the empty school had all sorts of eerie noises – almost echoes of the generations of kids who had rioted through the place. She turned away, as the first of the four-by-fours rolled up, and three children got out. Restlessly, she flipped through her notes for the night ahead, although she already knew these off by heart.
She had forgotten how it felt to be a teacher – balancing on a high wire between exhilaration and pure stage fright. A real adrenalin buzz. She twitched, as more car doors slammed.
Would her idea work, she wondered. Giving the kids a few days, to read the plays’ outlines and cast of characters, listen to the CDs of songs they would have to sing, then choose? A wry smile touched her lips. Christine was right: this would be a play with a difference.
Kathy was running on instinct. From last year’s work with the Drama Club, she knew that the main problem was the tattered and stodgy play: written by an adult for adults to perform, then somehow cut down and put into short trousers by someone in education, for kids to take over the acting. Boring. At times, it had been like trying to flog a dead horse into life, getting the kids to believe in what they were doing and show enthusiasm.
Culminating in a show which had – even more than usual – seemed only like people going through the motions. A stilted and pedestrian performance, followed by dutiful applause from parents and grandmothers.
It could all be so much better if you could spark, then harness, kids’ interest and commitment. The internet was full of new plays and events, written specifically for kids. The three outlines and opening scenes she had selected from Playz4kidz were more musicals than plays, with lots of good ensemble numbers. Making minimal demands for sets and costumes, because the kids would mostly be playing themselves. And structured not simply for a leading lady and a leading man, but with everybody a hero, and an equal part. Saving all the squabbles and jostling from kids each of whom was treated as the Centre of the Universe at home.
But would it work? Could 10 and 11-year-olds take on the responsibility of choosing their own play, then throwing themselves into bringing it to life?
Kathy believed they could.
The Drama Club trooped in, a defensive bunch. Kathy did a quick mental head count. All present: they had gathered outside and come in gang-handed. As nervous of her as she was of them – maybe because they had never before had to take the responsibility for choosing their own play, then making that work.
She had organized the classroom so that everyone was sitting round a large discussion table, made up of desks. Not quite as round as King Arthur’s from the legend, but with the same objective in mind: no obvious leaders.
‘Well,’ Kathy said briskly. ‘Have you read the plays?’
A collective nod.
‘And have you talked about which play you want to do?’
Lots of shifty side glances, then a reluctant nod.
‘And?’ Kathy waited, heart pounding.
Eyes studiously avoided any form of contact, with her or each other. The silence lengthened. This would never do. . . .
‘C’mon, guys!’ she said. ‘Somebody tell me what the others think.’
One of the older boys looked up. ‘Do we call you Miss?’ he asked.
Kathy gambled. ‘It’s outside school hours. We’ll be working on this for weeks as a team together. So you can call me Miss, or you can call me Kathy – your choice. Let’s vote on it. Right . . . how many for Miss?’
One small girl’s hand went up, hesitated, then crept back down again.
‘How many for Kathy?’ She wanted to cross her fingers and pray, because this was the crucial moment which would make or break the relationship she needed to forge with them.
After twenty racing heartbeats, one hand rose. The boy’s, who had asked the question. Two others followed: his mates. Then, one by one, the others joined them. The small girl’s hand the last to rise.
‘Then Kathy it is,’ she said briskly. ‘Now tell me yours – there are three of you from last year’s production, but I don’t know the rest. You’re Donald,’ she said, pointing. ‘And you keep forgetting your lines. . . .’
This brought a rueful grin. ‘They were boring, Miss.’
‘Kathy.’
‘Well, they were . . . Kathy. Nothing like these plays you gave us to look at.’
‘Cool,’ said the first boy. ‘I’m Jim. All the new plays are dead brilliant.’
Suddenly, the room was filled by a chorus of voices – the children’s names and the merits and demerits of the three plays all shouted at the same time. Kathy heaved a sigh of relief. She could pick up the kids’ names later. The important thing was that the ice was broken, and they liked her choice of plays.
‘OK, OK,’ she called, waving down the volume. ‘So are you going to vote for which play we will buy to rehearse?’
‘No need. We’ve chosen it.’
‘And it’s?’
‘Almost-But-Not-Quite-Happy Families . . . it’s great.’
‘Anybody against?’ she asked. Firm head-shakes all round. ‘Fine, why did you pick that one?’
‘It’s like seriously cool.’
‘It’s dead funny. . . .’
‘It’s about kids just like us. . . .’
‘They’re like our family – and I want to be the family dog.’
‘The songs are great – can I bring my guitar?’
‘Hold on,’ laughed Kathy. ‘Have you sorted out who is going to play which character yet? Or do you all want to be the same one?’
‘I want to be the family dog, Kathy. It’s only fair, I asked first.’
‘Does anybody else want to be the family dog?’ Kathy asked.
Head-shakes all round.
‘Well, we’ve cast our first character,’ sighed Kathy. ‘Now we’d better get down to sorting out the rest. . . .’
‘Where’s Becky?’
Noel looked up from his book, to see a coal-smudged face peering down into the cabin from the steering well.
‘She’s gone off to Foulridge in the bus,’ he replied. ‘You’re Henrietta?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘I’m psychic. Plus the coal dust is a bit of a giveaway.’
A startlingly white grin split the dirty face. ‘On Mondays and on Tuesdays, it’s coal. So I’m black from head to foot. On Wednesdays through to Saturdays, it’s farmstuff, so I’m white with grain and animal-feed dust. The only time I see my own skin is nights and mornings. Where do you want the coal?’
‘In the bunker here. If you hand down. . . .’
‘Look, I was carrying coal for my dad, when I was still in nappies – just give me space to fetch it through.’
The small square figure was much more nimble than Noel expected. She came quickly down into the cabin, reached up to take a fistful of coarse bag in each hand, then grunted. The canal boat rocked slightly, as she lifted the bag from the top of the steps and carried it by arm strength alone through the cabin to the bunker at the side of the stove.
‘Tally-ho,’ she said, emptying the coal. ‘One more, to go.’
When she was finished, she folded the dirty bags up in the steering well.
‘How much do I owe?’ Noel asked.
‘Nothing. That’s an advance on Becky’s wages.’
‘Ah. She said you’d given her a job, to clear up your paperwork.’
‘That’s putting it mildly,’ Henrietta smiled. ‘It’s a bulldozer she needs to get started. Well, I’m off. Who’s the boy down in the cabin?’
‘Jonathon. Becky’s
son.’
‘What’s he doing there? Drawing? On holiday?’
‘He’s doing his schoolwork, as set by his mum. She’s a teacher.’
‘So she said. Was she a good ’un?’
‘If conscientious is good, then she’s good. If breaking the material down into understandable soundbites for a child is good, then she’s good. And if keeping Jon’s nose to the grindstone until he finds a new school is good. . . .’
‘OK. I get the message. She’s good. Could be interesting. . . .’
An experienced reporter, Noel simply tilted his head: people say more, when they’re talking freely, than they ever do in answer to a question. He became aware that Henrietta was watching him sardonically.
‘Think I came floating down the canal in a biscuit barrel?’ she demanded.
He shrugged. ‘I was waiting to hear what you were going to say.’
‘Not yet. Need to think on it.’ Henrietta’s smile disappeared. ‘You used to come through here regular,’ she said. ‘I’ve loaded coal into this boat before.’
‘I’ve had a brainwave,’ said Noel. ‘How about us playing this game? You be the ruthless tabloid journalist, and I will be the victim. . . .’
Henrietta threw back her head and laughed. ‘Well it’s true, isn’t it? I never forget a face, or an order. But I haven’t seen you around here in years. You used to pass through, with a. . . .’ Her eyes widened, as realization dawned. ‘Oh, I’m sorry . . . it’s your wife, isn’t it? She’s gone now? It’s the one thing we do well, up here in Yorkshire . . . open our mouth, then stick both feet in it.’
‘It’s all right,’ Noel said. ‘I lost Ella three years ago. I’ve been a bit like old Queen Victoria, I think – let my mourning period go on too long, until it took over and nearly ruined my life.’
‘That’s the danger,’ said Henrietta. ‘I’ve just lost my dad.’
She sniffed, and cuffed her face. Leaving a new white smear against the black smudges on her cheek. ‘There’s only ever been my dad and me, since I was a tiny kid. Leaves a gaping, Dad-sized hole beside you,’ she said unsteadily. ‘Takes a bit of getting used to, don’t it?’
‘That hits the nail on the head,’ said Noel quietly. ‘I was just going to put the kettle on . . . fancy a cup of tea?’
Another Chance, Another Life Page 6