She’d managed to snatch a cup of tea and a slice of toast by the time Red appeared. Bleary eyed, he lolled in the doorway watching her struggle Richard into a romper suit. ‘Is there any tea left in the pot?’
Cally shot him an exasperated glare. ‘Help yourself. I’m too busy to see to you as well as Richard today. It’ll be murder once I get over there.’ She waved a hand in the direction of the main house.
Red strolled over to the stove and lifted the teapot, asking, ‘Why the panic?’
Cally let out a frustrated cry. ‘Oh Red, you can’t have forgotten what today is. It’s the Silver Jubilee. The hotel’s packed to the gills, we’ve extra people for a Jubilee Lunch and then we’ve the special Jubilee Dinner. It’ll be non-stop all day.’
‘What time do King George and Queen Mary arrive?’
‘Fool!’ Cally laughed at the nonsensical question but irritation lurked behind the smile.
Red sprawled in a chair at the table, a cup of tea in his hand. Cally dumped Richard in his pram then dashed into the bathroom, her reflection in the mirror above the basin evidence of late nights and broken sleep. She dabbed face powder under her eyes to mask the purple shadows, at the same time wondering how Red would spend the day. It certainly won’t be as arduous as mine, she thought bitterly, stabbing pins into coils of hair.
When Cally went back into the kitchen Red was still slumped at the table reading a motor magazine. Seeing him there, so unconcerned, ugly thoughts were about to become cruel remarks; but before she could utter them Red surprised her.
‘Hey Cally, what do you say to me taking Richard for the day, seeing as how you’ll be so busy?’ I’m going to Hargreaves Mill to look at that machine he wants fixing. What with today being a holiday they’ll not be using it.’
Cally stared, open-mouthed. She wasn’t used to Red being so thoughtful. He rarely considered how hard she worked. ‘That… that ’ud be wonderful,’ she stuttered.
Red warmed to the idea. ‘It might encourage old Hargreaves to throw a bit more work my way, and if I take Richard with me I can show him what he’ll end up doing if he doesn’t pay attention to the finer art of making a living. We don’t want him ending up like me, do we?’ Red’s expression resembled that of a naughty schoolboy.
Conscious he was making an effort to please her, Cally threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. Red returned the embrace and as they clung to each other Cally thought, he’s never grown up and I wonder if he ever will. Red, reluctant to let her go, tightened his hold.
She pushed him away. ‘I don’t have time for this.’ Red let go.
Cally headed for the door. ‘Richard will enjoy the walk, not that he’ll be doing much walking in the pram,’ she said, giggling at the paradox. ‘Make sure you’re back by twelve. You don’t want him screaming the place down with hunger.’
Red gave a mock salute, and adopting an American accent drawled, ‘Orders received and understood, ma’am.’
Cally laughed out loud. ‘You know what your trouble is,’ she chided, ‘you watch too many films. You’re beginning to act like Cary Grant.’
‘Only far better looking,’ quipped Red, ‘and in great demand at Hargreaves Mill.’ He glanced at Richard, a shadow of doubt masking his face. ‘Although what I’ll do with him—’
Before Red could renege, Cally blurted ‘You’ll think of something,’ and made good her escape.
*
Red walked down Manchester Road to Marsden, the sprung wheels on the Silver Cross pram making light work of the ruts in the pavement, the constant motion lulling Richard to sleep. Every now and then Red paused to acknowledge acquaintances, the subject of these brief exchanges his son’s progress, the Silver Jubilee or what was showing at the Cinema.
Marsden was a riot of colour and anticipation, its public buildings, pubs and shops bedecked with large Union Jacks. Excited schoolchildren waving small replicas crowded the pavement, making the most of this special holiday. In the side streets housewives were tying bunting to the lamp posts in readiness for the street parties later in the day. Everywhere Red looked, people were preparing to celebrate the Silver Jubilee: everybody but him.
It’s that damned job of Cally’s, he sulked, she should be with me enjoying the festivities instead of running round making sure other people have a good time. Feeling thoroughly cheated he mooched onwards, the pleasure gone out of the day.
Red smelled Hargreaves Mill long before he reached its gates, the manufacture of shoddy mungo permeating the air with a rank, greasy stink. Arriving at the dismal grey building he pushed the pram up to the gate, thanking God he didn’t work in such a place every day.
The wizened gatekeeper came out of his hut. ‘Is that a babby i’ that pram?’
Red, taken aback by the inanity of the question affirmed it was, his astonishment so apparent that his harsh tones wakened Richard.
The old fellow hobbled closer and peered into the pram. After a lengthy perusal he withdrew his head and rubbed his grizzled chin. ‘You’ll not rear him,’ he remarked dolefully. ‘Leastways, he’ll not live to be a man.’
Red gaped, aghast. ‘What are you blathering about, you old fool? Why did you say that? What do you mean by it?’ His voice shook.
‘Just what I said; I can tell be lookin’ at him. I can see it in his eyes.’
Red peered into the pram. Richard’s innocent blue eyes gazed back. The old fellow peered too. ‘See what I mean?’ he said.
Furious, Red turned the pram so quickly he almost knocked the old chap off his feet.
‘I’m never wrong,’ the gatekeeper called after him, ‘I can allus tell.’
The machine forgotten; Red hurried back the way he had come. He needed reassurance that the old fool of a gatekeeper was wrong. He had to get home, back to Cally.
*
‘It’s just an old man’s ramblings,’ Cally remonstrated. ‘Nobody can tell whether a person’s going to live or die just by looking at them; unless of course they’re dying already. He’s probably barmy, and a spiteful old bugger into the bargain. People like him should be locked up.’ She pushed past Red in answer to Peggy’s call from inside the kitchen. ‘Look, I don’t really have time to worry about it, or to listen to you getting all het up.’
‘You never do,’ muttered Red to Cally’s departing back.
‘I hope you told the old sod where to get off,’ Cally called back over her shoulder.
Red couldn’t honestly say he had. He’d been too shocked to retaliate. Left alone, gazing into the pram at his sleeping son and reflecting on the gatekeeper’s prediction and the awful possibility of it coming true, he wondered if it would be God’s way of punishing him for being a failure. For that’s what he thought he was: a useless husband and father. That’s how Cally saw him, and right now that was how he saw himself.
The pram’s wheels spinning, he set off to Blackstone Farm and his mother.
*
Whatever Red might have thought, or not thought, on the day of the Silver Jubilee, from that day on there was a marked change in him.
‘You don’t seriously intend going out again, do you? You’ve been out almost every night for the past six months.’
Red fastened his coat. ‘Barty and Wilf are expecting me,’ he replied truculently. ‘We’re going to the opening of that new pub in Huddersfield.’
Cally snorted derisively. ‘They’re single men. They shouldn’t expect you to join them on all their jaunts. You have a family who need you.’ She softened her tone, adding, ‘It’s my night off. Stay in with me and Richard.’
Red gave a pathetic shrug and a mildly apologetic smile. ‘I’ve promised them I’d go,’ he said, ducking out of the door.
And so it went on. In the end, tired of nagging and far more concerned with the success of Copley House than the failings in her marriage, Cally chose to ignore Red’s lack of commitment. He, in turn, interpreted this as acceptance of his fecklessness, but deep down he felt impotent. It hurt to see Cally running a successful b
usiness that put bread in their mouths whilst he pottered about trying to drum up repair jobs, and worse still, he felt utterly disregarded; a second fiddle to Copley House.
Although they were both aware that their marriage was falling apart, they adopted a capricious approach to their predicament. On the surface they pretended all was well, but underneath the festering discontent that smouldered in their hearts frequently exploded into monumental rows.
‘You’ve done what?’ Cally’s screech rattled the rafters of the coach-house, her expression a mixture of disbelief and disgust. ‘You’ve put a deposit on a car costing over three hundred pounds?’
Red was unabashed. ‘Not just any car, Cally,’ he enthused, ‘this one’s a Jaguar, the star of the Motor Show. It’s my dream car.’
‘Dream car indeed,’ she spat. ‘You must be dreaming if you think you’re keeping it.’
‘Think of it, Cally. Richard would love it. We could take him to the seaside on your days off.’
Cally’s lip curled. ‘If you spent half as much time with him as you do drooling over fancy cars you’d be a better father. As it is you let the rest of us take full responsibility for him. He’s passed round like a parcel from me to Mary, or whoever else has time to mind him. You’d be better employed looking after your son than traipsing over to your workshop. After all, it’s not as though anything you do there brings in a fortune.’
Crippled by her rejection, Red digested her words. ‘It was just something nice I thought we could share,’ he mumbled.
‘You’re not Donald Campbell,’ Cally retorted tartly. Campbell, one of Red’s heroes, had just broken another land speed record. ‘In fact, when I come to think of it you’re not much of anything. There’s nothing record breaking about you.’
Afterwards, the order for the Jaguar cancelled, Cally regretted the cruel comments but remained resolute, convinced it was for Red’s own good. He had to grow up.
24
It was a breezy October morning in 1936, and Cally was at the clothes line in the courtyard. Sykes, just back from the village, joined her there, newspaper in one hand and a packet of Senior Service in the other. Although Cally acknowledged his presence with a smile there was nothing in it of the lively, cheerful girl Sykes and Mary had grown to love. The Balmforths looked on Cally as a daughter and the miserable state of her marriage troubled them.
Sykes perched on a stone bench against the stable wall and lit a cigarette. ‘I see Oswald Mosley and his ‘Blackshirts’ are causing bother again,’ he said, flourishing the newspaper to attract Cally’s attention.
She gave a distracted nod and continued pegging. Sykes tried again. ‘That man’s vitriolic rhetoric against the Jewish community causes untold damage.’ He tapped the newspaper, ‘It says here that he thinks they’re a “malign influence” on society.’
Cally paused, peg in hand. ‘There were lots of Jews in Bradford. I only hope for their sakes Mosley’s words fall on deaf ears.’ She looked directly at Sykes for the first time since his arrival, her face lined with misery. ‘The world’s changing, Sykes; and not for the better.’
The coach-house door opened and Red stepped out. Giving barely imperceptible nods to Sykes and Cally he walked across the yard towards the paddock and his workshop. They watched him go, Cally murmuring, ‘Don’t men like that realise the harm they do?’
Sykes, unsure if the remark referred to Mosley or Red, decided on the latter. ‘Cally, this problem with you and Red needs sorting before it’s too late. You must—’
Cally grabbed the empty clothes basket, seeking refuge in the kitchen rather than stay and discuss her troubled marriage.
*
Autumn’s glory faded and died, Cally’s failing marriage and changes in the wider world boding ill for the future.
One miserable day in early November, Cally chanced to be in Huddersfield when the men from Jarrow marched through the town. The sight of these jobless, bedraggled creatures wrenched at her heart. Whilst she was aware of mass unemployment throughout the country she had not given it any deep consideration. Now she realised what a charmed life they led in Copley House. Admittedly, her marriage wasn’t perfect and business wasn’t flourishing, but they never went short of anything. These men were fighting for their very existence whilst she was contemplating buying a new winter coat.
Instead, she rushed into the nearest baker’s shop and ordered the assistant to fill lots of paper bags with teacakes, biscuits and buns. Back out on the street she ran along the line of marchers thrusting bags into hands, the grateful cries of ‘God bless ye, hinny’ and ‘Howay bonny lass,’ bringing tears to her eyes.
The new coat forgotten she returned home, diminished by the incident and determined to fight, not for a job – she had one – but for her marriage: faced with the plight of those poor men her problems seemed trivial – and she knew what she must do to address them.
‘We’ve only a handful of guests booked in from now until Christmas,’ she told Sykes and Mary, ‘so I’m taking a back seat for a while. Sally and Susan can do my job. I want to spend more time with Red and Richard.’
Mary and Sykes smiled at one another triumphantly: at last Cally was seeing sense.
By the time King Edward signed the instrument of abdication and renounced the throne on the tenth of December, Cally had gone some way towards healing the rift. More time spent with Red and Richard forged a rekindling of their relationship, although Red’s initial response had been cautious, for he knew once the Christmas season was in full swing he would, yet again, take third place in Cally’s affections. However, he was in for a surprise. Come Christmas week, Cally spent most evenings at home. On the night before Christmas Eve, as they were sitting on the settee close to the cosy fire, Red asked. ‘Shouldn’t you be over there?’ He meant Copley House.
Cally moved closer, snuggling into his side. ‘They can manage without me, there’s only a dozen guests, and anyway you’re my priority, you and Richard. Christmas is family time.’ Red placed his arm across her shoulders and dropped a kiss on her cheek. She knew he was pleased. In return, Red spent every night at home instead of out with Barty and Wilf.
The year might have ended on a sad note as far as the rest of the population of England were concerned, but not for Cally and Red. Over the festive season and in the months that followed, Cally no longer put the demands of Copley House before her own family and Red no longer felt like a background player in the performance of her life. By the time Edward, Duke of Windsor as he was now titled, married Mrs Simpson and his brother, George, was crowned king, Cally was five months pregnant.
On that night before Christmas when Cally had told Red that he and Richard were her priority she’d meant every word, but come June, her words didn’t ring quite so true.
‘Of course I’m needed over there. We’ve a party coming in from Manchester and the ramblers are out in full force: it’s the busiest time of year.’ She made for the door, ready to cross the courtyard to the main house. ‘It can’t be helped. It’s my job to see to the guests. You take Richard and I’ll try to—’ She got no further.
‘You and your bloody job,’ yelled Red, ‘I knew it was too good to last. All you think about is Copley House and your own importance. “Madam Cally, the great I am”. The rest of us can go to hell as far as you’re concerned.’
Red grabbed his coat and slammed out, Richard forgotten. He flounced across the paddock cursing Copley House and everyone in it.
Once again Cally and Red were at an impasse, Cally treating him with cool disdain and he finding solace in Barty and Wilf’s company.
*
After yet another evening of racing between the main house and the coach-house, attending to guests and checking on Richard asleep in his cot, a heavily pregnant Cally listlessly oversaw the last of the diners. It was the 3rd of July 1937, the topic of conversation in the dining room, the royal wedding that had just taken place that day.
‘It must be wonderful to be loved by someone prepared to give
up a kingdom for you,’ gushed an elderly dowager. ‘I do hope Mrs Simpson appreciates what he’s done for her.’
When Cally relayed the remark to the kitchen staff, Peggy snorted derisively. ‘Wallis Simpson! She’s only marryin’ him for his brass, an’ he’s more than likely given up the throne so he can act the playboy. We all know he likes the good life.’
‘He’s not the only one,’ thought Cally, and saying goodnight to the kitchen staff she made her way back to the coach-house, wondering where Red was and how much would he give up for the love of her: certainly not his own selfish desires – or his jaunts with Barty and Wilf. It did not occur to her that she also had some giving to do.
*
Marianne Blackstone had her mother’s features, her swarthy complexion and black hair. Richard adored her and kept her endlessly amused, much to Cally’s delight and relief. Red was also smitten. Apart from the two nights he worked at the cinema, he stayed at home, finally content to forego his outings with Barty and Wilf. Instead they took to visiting him. After a few drinks in Sykes’s bar they’d drop into the coach-house, Cally joining them when work was finished for the night. They were likable fellows and she did not object to their company.
Barty and Wilf were inseparable, and although Barty had been Red’s best man at their wedding, Cally had never really got to know either of them. Now, the more time she spent in their company the more she understood why Red had maintained this boyhood friendship. Whenever the four of them were together, conversation and laughter flowed freely.
Red kept them amused with his versions of scenes from the films he showed in the cinema, his action replay of Captains Courageous making them roar with mirth. Although Cally laughed at Red’s antics she couldn’t help but draw parallels between Red and the spoiled rich boy in the film.
Elephant Boy was another source of amusement; Barty’s bulk suiting the role of Kala Nag the elephant. And with Wilf’s slight stature reminiscent of that of Sabu they galumphed about the room, Wilf astride Barty’s broad back.
The Child from the Ash Pits Page 21