by Pam Weaver
No child of Mirren’s would ever want for books and learning, girl or boy. She wanted Sylvia to be free to go to college when the time came, even if it meant fighting the Yewell family tradition that farming must always come first and foremost.
It was hard to recall she’d passed her matriculation, had attended the teacher training college in Ripon and had plans to become a proper teacher. That was another lifetime ago but it didn’t stop her love of novels and biographies from the circulating library. Now the chance to teach was a distant dream. The war must have scuppered so many well-made plans, but it was over at last and her heart was leaping with relief.
Time to turn back to her task. Trifle was a fiddle to make when you were in a hurry; sponge fingers to soak, home-made custard to boil, fresh cream to skim, soft fruit to poach, and they wanted to be down in the village hall by mid-afternoon before the concert and fancy-dress parade. Her back was giving her gip again. Tiredness swept over her like a wave and she had to sit down, feeling faint.
So victory was here at long last but there was a bit of her feeling empty inside. This was a day to remember, with bonfires and bells pealing, bunting in the streets, but even though Ben had promised to help with the milking, there were still chores to do.
What a big fuss they were making down in the village. Not that she was against all the patriotism or the end of hostilities but it was making such a lot of extra work. There was the sports day to come, the pageant and gala procession, the massed school choir festival in Scarperton, the Brownie fancy-dress float, a dancing display and WI events and competitions, baking for the children’s bun feast on the green and the old folk’s treat, the refreshments for the Crazy Cricket match with men dressed as women and women as men, and a half-made fancy-dress outfit for Sylvia to finish before this afternoon.
Sylvia had begged for a special outfit for the day but Mirren’s mind was blank until she saw a bit of the old grey cloth left from the barrage balloon. Why not dress her as her own namesake, Miriam, the famous ancestor of the dale, in a little grey frock and white Quaker collar? Florrie could make the collar and cap out of a linen napkin, and Tom would find a little lantern for her to carry. Everyone knew the story of how her ancestor kept the school children in the chimney, safe from the blizzard and fallen roof. It was quite an original idea, she mused, laying out the costume on the bed. Better to wait until the last moment to dress her up. The little monkey could get filthy in two minutes.
Ben was too busy to make the trip down to the village but there was going to be a lamb roast outside The Fleece later in the evening, and that would be more his scene.
There was a damp raw edge to the morning, and Mirren caught snatches on the wireless of the sound of excited crowds cheering at anything that moved, braving the rain with the usual British stoicism. There was no May sunshine up here. It was more like autumn than spring. What did they expect, living so high up, making do with nine months’ winter and three months’ bad weather as the old joke went.
As long as the kids got their party and could run off steam with sports and dancing, they would have honoured the day. If the weather did its worst then everyone would be shovelled into the village hall to put the trestle tables up there. What would they do without their patched-up gaberdines and macs, umbrellas and leaking gumboots?
The sheep and cows didn’t know it was VE Day and still needed their routine, so life at Cragside Farm would go on as normal. Bank holiday or not, the stock must come first. Lambing was in full swing and there were orphans drying off in the barn, makeshift pens of suspect mothers that needed coaxing to feed their lambs, calves and piglets running amok given half a chance.
But Mirren had to admit to a tinge of excitement about this special holiday and the chance to have an afternoon crack with her friends in the grey stone village full of cottages. There was something about the way that Windebank nestled under the big hill that comforted her. Small as it was, they’d all pulled together in the war, welcomed strangers, raised a staggering amount of savings bonds, supported their shops and deserved a day off for all their combined efforts.
Her life was a predictable round of seasonal chores: lambing, clipping, haytiming, gathering, tupping, muck spreading and lambing. Anything that made a change–market day, visitors, Christmas–was always welcome.
She hoped that for Jack and her, life would be settled and more stable now. Their new baby would be born in peacetime. Her husband would be demobbed and rationing would end. Farmers would get the recognition for all the hard work they had done in keeping Britain fuelled with food; the worst of the wartime regulations would end, surely.
How much would little Sylvia remember of all this? All she could think about was the party and treats and playing with her friends. No wonder she was as high as a kite with impatience. What it is to be young, Mirren sighed, looking at her daughter with pride, with all your life ahead of you.
Down on the green it was like Merrie England at play. The eaves were draped with bunting and the flags were flying from windows. The dark clouds were holding off but Ben didn’t think for much longer. There was such a feeling of relief that it was all over but not for those poor souls out in the Far East.
He had made a fruitless trip into Scarperton to pick up some milk powder for hand-feeding the weaker lambs but everything was shut and it was a waste of petrol. Jack had been holding court as usual outside The Fleece, chewing the ear of the landlord, but at least he was being a little less sharp with Mirren, in public at least.
He had to leave the couple to make up and go their own gait but it wasn’t easy when he was so protective of her. There was something about Jack he didn’t trust, especially when he had the drink on him. He turned into a violent bully, the charm mask slipped and he was quick with his fists. Better to get him back home before he got blathered and spoiled the afternoon, he thought, waving to him and offering him a lift back to the farm.
‘I’ll walk,’ Jack waved back but Ben stopped the truck.
‘Mirren’ll need a hand with the kiddy while she finishes off,’ he said, more as an order than an offer. Jack rose from his bench, pulled a face and trundled across.
They drove back in silence. Jack had already had a skinful and was just about the right side of merry. ‘I could’ve walked,’ was all he said.
When they got back Sylvia was having a tantrum, not wanting to put on the dress.
‘If you don’t wear your costume, there’s no party for you, my lady!’ said Mirren. She turned, looking to Ben, but he just shook his head and sucked on his pipe. She turned to Jack, who shook his head too.
‘Do as yer mother says,’ he said. ‘That’s her department, not mine.’ And that was that, no arguing when they all put up a united front.
Sylvia reappeared in her costume and Uncle Tom found his Box Brownie and took a snap of her scowling by the barn door.
Now it was almost time to go and everyone was rushing round finishing off chores. Jack was hanging about, getting in the way so Ben told him to shift the Fordson into the barn, back it down out of the way so they could park up the truck, get the horse and cart loaded up and then he could get on with the afternoon in peace.
Ben himself would rather come down later for the feast. Kids’ stuff was for parents and grandparents, not for him.
He was making for the gate when he heard Jack brum-brumming the tractor engine as if it was a racing car. He smiled. Jack was a big kid, still trying to impress everyone. One day that guy would grow up and find he had a wife and two kiddies to support, not burn good rubber. ‘Cut it out!’ he yelled in annoyance. It was only a borrowed tractor and not theirs to fool about with. Better to do the job himself, he thought, and turned back. He didn’t want any scraped paint.
There was no one else in the yard but the tractor was parked up by the barn door so Jack was clambering down from the seat to open the big doors. He could see Sylvia standing with her hands on her hips, watching them from the kitchen door.
‘I’ll do it…you’r
e not supposed to leave it running,’ he shouted.
Jack ignored his call and made back for the seat with that cheeky grin on his mug that seemed to charm the girls but left him cold. Tractors were temperamental and could cut out or be flooded. It was daft asking Jack to do anything. What did he know about this sort of machinery?
‘I can do it, no problem,’ Jack yelled back. The engine stalled and juddered.
‘Jack, you’re too tiddly. Let me sort it.’ Ben moved up to pull him off.
‘Bugger off, Lanky!’ He was fiddling with the gear stick and yanking the knobs in fury, and the key was in the engine so he twiddled that too just to annoy him. The tractor roared up and then jumped back and there was a bump, shooting him with a jerk, and he couldn’t stop it and was thrown sideways with the shock of it. He was sliding and clinging on but the tractor was going backwards into the wall. Ben was yelling and everyone came running, rushing past him.
It was then, when Ben turned, that he saw a pair of black wellies lying on the floor and there were legs in the wellies and a grey dress in the mud.
Mirren came running and screaming, and suddenly Tom and Ben were tugging at the wheels and taking the controls and shunting the tractor forward. There was a lot of shouting and Jack was dragged inside out of their way by Florrie. The door was slammed behind him.
Everything was in slow motion but Ben and Tom strained and strained until the wretched machine was pulled clear. How they did it, the strength they found, the pumping desperation and the sounds of Mirren screaming, he would never forget.
There was no telephone and someone had to race down to the village and raise the alarm. Tom was in no fit state so Ben backed the truck and raced off, leaving them.
Jack was sitting in total shock, unaware of anything. He kept seeing the wellies, Sylvia’s little wellies. One minute she was standing by the kitchen door and then she was…why didn’t she jump out of the way? They hadn’t seen her. Speeding towards the village, Ben felt so cold and shaky and very calm. It was all his fault. If he only had left Jack in the pub and not interfered…
It was the sound of the argy-bargy outside that made Mirren leave her baking table and go outside to see what the fuss was about. It was the roar of the tractor when she knew Ben was in the byland somewhere that didn’t feel right. Tom was there first, pulling the wheel of the tractor away from the barn door, straining with all his might to pull something free from its grip…one of the dogs. No, oh, no, her baby! She was trapped between the wheel and the barn door, crushed by the force and speed of the accident.
Suddenly everything went blurry, fuzzy round the edge. She could see the grey patchy sky and hear the blackbird pinking on the roof of the barn, see the straw and muddy tyre wheels, smell the burning rubber in her nostrils. Everything was alive and loud and clear and she saw herself looking down at her beautiful daughter and her muddy costume, white, grey and blood.
Florrie bundled Jack away from the scene and Ben came running, suddenly looking every one of his twenty-eight years.
‘Do something, Uncle Tom,’ she heard herself screaming as she looked down at Sylvia’s bloodstained face, bruised and an odd colour. She was so still and silent, which was not like her at all. There was a trickle of blood coming out of her ear and Mirren began to shake and shake.
‘Do something, Ben. Do something, somebody…please.’ She was screaming so loud she thought the whole dale would hear her cry for help.
Tom’s face was grey and hard. He cradled Sylvia in his arms and she saw tears rolling down his cheeks. It was the sight of those tears that turned her heart to stone.
‘Ben’s going for the doctor,’ offered Daisy, but Mirren couldn’t take it in.
‘Well, don’t just sit there like a statue. Bring her inside and let’s get her warmed up. The kettle’s boiled we can give her some tea,’ Mirren bustled, suddenly alive with possibilities. ‘I’ll rub some life into her. Get her away from that damn tractor.’
Still Uncle Tom did not move but he looked up. ‘It’s too late, love, she’s gone. Sylvia’s been taken from us.’
‘Don’t be daft, she’s just out cold,’ she was arguing. ‘Bring her into the warmth. She’ll catch a chill with just that skimpy dress on. Bring her inside and we’ll happen patch her up.’ She could hear her own voice as if from a distance, so brisk, so cold, so businesslike.
‘What do men know of these things, Sylvia? I’ll soon have you up and running. You’re just winded. Mum’ll see you right.’
Tom carried Sylvia into the kitchen and Mirren brushed all her baking out of the way, spreading a cloth so the girl could lie close to the range. She covered her in blankets and a warm rug. Her face was blue and purple and grey in patches and her eyes were tight shut. She looked so tiny under all that bedding. She busied herself with a sponge cloth and bowl of Dettol, wiping away the gunge and grime from her head, rubbing her cold fingers with all the love she could muster but still she did not wake up.
‘Come on, Sylvie, wakey wakey…It’s VE Day and we’ve got a party to go to,’ she urged, hearing the cheering coming from the wireless. ‘You don’t want to miss the party, do you? Where’s Jack? Why isn’t Jack here to help me?’
‘Switch that bloody thing off!’ Tom screamed. She could see he was distraught but it didn’t register. Nothing was registering, only that Sylvia was fast asleep and in no hurry to wake up.
‘No, don’t switch it off. Sylvia wants to listen to it. She wants to hear all the bells ringing. Turn it up.’
Then Ben was standing in the doorway, looking at her. His face was grey. He switched the wireless off and grabbed her arm. ‘Stop it, Mirren, stop this. I’m so sorry, love. It’s all my fault…She’s gone and there’s no life in her now,’ he said.
‘Don’t you dare tell me there’s no life in my daughter. Look, she’s warm. She’ll come round soon. Don’t you touch her!’ She was shooing them all away and still guarding her when Dr Murray came through the door, grim-faced, with the police constable carrying his hat under his arm.
‘Come on, Mrs Sowerby, let me examine Sylvia.’ He stepped closer and she smiled.
‘I’m so glad you’re here. Perhaps you can put some sense into this lot. They think Sylvia is dead but she’s just sleeping. There’s hardly a mark on her. She wouldn’t leave us on VE Day, now, would she? See, she’s all dressed up ready to go,’ she said shaking her head. ‘I’ll have to sit down. I’ve got a right pain in my back now with standing.’
Someone gave her a drink that made her mouth go dry and the room spin, and suddenly she could hardly keep her eyes open. The rest was a blur of nothingness. There was pain and stabs in her groin and a gush of something warm and wet in her legs. Somewhere in the fug was pain and cramps and more pain. Her belly went flat and her breasts leaked and then she knew that the baby was coming too soon, but when she looked there was nothing there, just towels and the smell of Dettol and a huge emptiness in her body. She couldn’t raise her head from the pillow.
In the days afterwards she crawled out of bed hoping for oblivion, praying for the celebration day to come again so she could rearrange it differently but as each new dawn crept into the sky, she crawled down again, hoping for night never to end.
Of Jack there was no sign. He hadn’t spoken a word since the accident, the terrible accident that had robbed her of two lives. The doctor had sent him into the hospital to bring him round. It was as if he had never come home.
All Mirren knew was that Sylvia was taken and she would never see her again. She had gone to a place where she couldn’t follow. One morning they were dressing up to go to the biggest party in the village and then she disappeared from them.
Florrie and Daisy had taken all Sylvia’s clothes and the toys from her bedroom and stripped it bare, and the door was locked on it to make it easier for them to bear. Mirren hadn’t the strength to protest. It was all she could do to put one foot after the other and creep from room to room, calling her name in case she was hiding from them.
&nbs
p; In chapel, funereal voices whispered all around her. It was no comfort to say Sylvia had gone to a better home and only the good die young. It was no comfort that her little body was put in a box in the churchyard out of sight where it was windy and chilly. When she wanted to call out her name, someone whispered, ‘Hush, don’t upset yourself. Crying won’t bring her back. Time’s a great healer…You’ll have other children one day.’ ‘How dare you say that? I want Sylvia!’ she screamed out, and everyone heard her pain. Jack was too sick even to hold her up. It was Ben who kept her upright at the graveside.
It was as if Sylvia had never lived in Cragside, never kicked the banisters and got told off for picking the plaster from the wall, never sang in her bath or raced over the fields chasing sheep. There were no photographs and she was never spoken of in front of Mirren except in hushed tones. Friends passed her on market day in the street rather than face her raw grieving.
‘Our Sylvia was too good for this world so she was taken, not spared. It didn’t make any sense. She was taken for an angel in Heaven,’ wept Florrie with a quiet voice, not looking at her.
Mirren spent hours sitting up in her eyrie at World’s End, the wind battering her and rain pouring down on her face, but she didn’t care. Ruins were what suited her now. The nights when sleep wouldn’t come she spent looking at the photograph, the only one she salvaged, the one Jack kept in his pocket, creased with looking at: a baby shot of Sylvia smiling. She was never for sharing after that, and she hid it in Dad’s tin box under her bed.
Sometimes she forgot and when it was dusk she looked for her coming down from the top field on Ben’s shoulders, coming through the kitchen door full of chatter. It was hard waiting for that little voice to shout, ‘What’s for tea?’ and her saying, ‘Wipe your feet!’ But it never came.
There were no words to explain that terrible moment when life’s gone from a body or any sense in the death of a precious child. It took only seconds for Sylvia to leave them, ribs crushed and skull broken, and for Mirren’s world to end. To bury her precious kiddy was an abomination on the face of the earth and she would never get over it as long as she lived. It went against nature. It was agony to speak even her name in company.