One evening, leaving Mary to babysit, they all went to the cinema. It was the first showing of Anthony Adverse and whilst Red worked in the projection room, Cally sat in the audience with Barty and Wilf. Afterwards, back at the coach-house, the film’s plot uppermost in their minds, they discussed hopes and dreams. Barty smiled quizzically as he asked, ‘What are yours, Cally?’
‘I think I’ve found mine,’ she answered, lightly. ‘I’m happy with what I have; Copley House and the kids are more than I ever hoped for.’
Red’s eyes fleetingly met hers then he looked away, a hurt expression on his face. Cally pretended not to notice. Barty, dissatisfied by her answer pressed her again. ‘Be honest now. What do you want most in life?’
‘The impossible,’ she quipped, jumping up to make a fresh pot of tea. She wouldn’t put a damper on the fun by admitting she’d like a man for a husband, instead of a boy. She set the kettle to boil, calling out, ‘Now it’s Wilf’s turn.’
Wilf sighed. ‘My dream would be to marry Myrna Loy. I fell in love with her when she starred in Manhattan Melodrama; I just wish I were Clark Gable.’
Barty hooted derisively, then said, ‘Your turn, Red. What’s it to be, old chap?’
Red didn’t reply immediately. When he did, he spoke wistfully. ‘Well, – if I’d endless pots of cash… and wasn’t tied down with a wife and kids… I suppose I’d explore the Amazon or maybe the rose-red city of Petra, filming everything I saw. Or maybe I’d buzz off to Hollywood and take my chances there.’
Cally couldn’t bear to look at him, the tone of his voice and the thoughtless words taking her from a bright, warm place and plunging her into chilling blackness. Without wishing any of them goodnight, she stormed off to bed.
Tied down! How dare he say such a thing? Fuming, she undressed and climbed into bed, thumping the pillow for good measure. She laid flat on her back staring at the ceiling, tears sliding sideways out of her eyes. Red was spoiled and selfish; he’d never change.
*
After that evening, Cally was so hurt by Red’s comments that when it was her next day off she refused to spend it with him. Instead, she took the children to visit her dad. Once there, she thought about telling George what Red had said, but not wanting to burden him with the unhappy state of her marriage and spoil the time they spent together, she kept quiet.
George loved his grandchildren and delighted in taking Richard to see his pigeons or playing hide-and-seek up by the ash pits; something he had never done with Cally when she was a child.
‘You’re a lucky lass,’ George said, as Cally and the children were leaving. ‘You’ve made a success of everything; a good marriage and two lovely bairns and a job for life.’
Cally forced a smile and drove away, thinking that at least two of the things George believed in were true.
25
‘They’ve issued all t’youngsters wi’ gas masks,’ Peggy remarked one morning in September, 1938, as she bustled into the kitchen at Copley House. ‘Me grandchildren got theirs yesterday. They’ve to carry ’em to school every day.’
‘What are they like?’ asked Susan, single and childless.
Peggy sniffed. ‘They’re funny lookin’ red and blue rubber and canvas things wi’ straps, in brown cardboard boxes.’
‘They’ll not need ’em, not here,’ Sally declared, ‘the war’s miles away from Copley. It’ll not hurt us.’
Mary didn’t look so sure. ‘The last war affected us all one way or another. We might not have seen any fighting but we certainly saw the results of it.’ She set aside the whisk she was using to make a batter, sighing heavily. ‘There was hardly a family in Copley didn’t lose a son, a husband or a father. You must have heard about that,’ she said, looking from Susan to Sally, the younger members of staff. They nodded solemnly.
‘Aye, they called it the war to end all wars,’ Jim Gibson remarked wryly. ‘It were only twenty-one years ago an’ now we’re at it again, never mind Mr Chamberlain tellin’ us we’ll have Peace in our Time.’
Cally listened, her spirits drooping. ‘My dad fought in the last war,’ she said, ‘he was in France. I was only a baby when he went and I didn’t know who he was when he came back.’
‘Aye, it were like that for a lot o’ childer; and there were them whose dads never came back,’ Jim intoned dismally.
Cally dwelt on Jim’s remark as she leafed through a pile of invoices. Would Red have to fight if war were declared? Would she miss him if he went away? The anger she had felt the night Red had aired his hopes and dreams still niggled, as did their frequent rows. She tried hard not to feel disgruntled but one argument led to another and she had grown more disillusioned with each passing month. Hurt by Red’s lack of understanding she’d allowed their relationship to wither yet again, and had lost faith in it. Red accepted it in much the same way as before, his apathy irritating Cally beyond bearing; they were together but not together.
*
Throughout the uneasy spring and summer of 1939 it was business as usual at Copley House, although now they paid far more attention to news on the wireless or in the papers. ‘The Prime Minister’s pledged Britain to defend France and Belgium,’ Sykes reported, as he strode into the kitchen for his morning coffee.
Peggy snorted. ‘Neville Chamberlain has no right takin’ us into a war that’s nowt to do with us.’
Sykes disagreed. ‘German troops have occupied Austria. If they move into France and Belgium there’s only the channel between us and them.’
‘Ooh, Mr Balmforth, do you think they’ll come as far as Copley?’ Frightened, Sally dropped the pan she was holding, splattering turnip onto the flags.
‘Maybe not Copley, Sally, but London, yes.’
As Cally helped clear up the mess, she said, ‘If that happens it’ll change everything. War interrupts business, and, worst of all, it ruins lives.’
This sober statement stayed with them all over the coming weeks, Cally’s anxiety was exacerbated by news bulletins on the wireless, yet she was gripped by the need to listen to them. On learning the Royal Air Force had ordered one thousand Spitfire aeroplanes and air raid shelters to be built in the towns and cities the Government deemed most likely to be bombed, she bowed to the inevitable. War was on their doorstep and they could do nothing to prevent it.
‘What we must do is stand fast against all the inconvenience and hardships,’ Cally told the gathering in Copley House kitchen, there to celebrate another successful summer season. ‘If we pull together, as we have in the past, we’ll survive.’
‘Hear, hear,’ cheered Sykes, raising his glass. Mary, Peggy, Sally, Susan, Jim Gibson and Red raised theirs accordingly.
‘We’ll definitely see a downturn in business,’ Cally remarked, ‘holidays are the last thing people think of when a country’s at war. We might even have to shut up shop for a while if the worst comes to the worst.’ Their crestfallen expressions forced her to take a lighter tone.
‘Don’t look so downcast. We at Copley House lead a charmed life. Nothing bad can happen to us.’ Lifting her glass she swigged her drink nonchalantly, completely unaware how wrong she was.
26
It was a glorious autumn day, the moor and woodland a blaze of russet and yellow and the courtyard at the rear of Copley House bright with balloons and streamers. On the paved area between the coach-house and the main house the grown-ups sat in convivial groups at tables piled high with tempting fare, whilst excited children played bat and ball on the grass.
Earlier in the day Red and Cally had taken the children to one of Richard’s favourite places: Tunnel End. Here two tunnels had been excavated under the Pennine Hills, one for the railway lines and the other for the canal. It was one of the greatest engineering feats in the north of England. Richard loved to watch the canal barges gliding majestically along the slick waters or the clickety-clacking trains as they disappeared into or appeared out of their designated tunnels. It had been a splendid start to the day; a day that could only get bett
er, mused Cally, as she helped serve drinks to the assembled company; all happy and smiling despite the declaration of war less than two weeks before.
Marianne was the centre of attention. It was her second birthday and this was her party.
Resplendent in a frilled, pink frock with ribbons and socks to match she tottered from one group of adults to another.
‘Oh, but aren’t you a pretty girl,’ Mary said, scooping Marianne onto her knee. Marianne allowed Mary to plop a kiss on her chubby cheek then, spying Richard, she struggled to be released. Like a patch of summer sky in his new blue shirt and shorts, Richard chased after Peggy’s grandsons, Marianne toddling after him much to his annoyance.
‘Go away, Marianne, you’re too little,’ he cried, for though he loved her dearly, at five he considered himself ‘a big boy’ and, in the company of other boys as he was today, he found it irksome to have her dogging his every move.
‘Mind out,’ he shouted, booting a football to the far end of the lawn then running after it, calling for Peggy’s grandsons to get the ball. Marianne, unperturbed by his bullish behaviour, trotted after him.
Mary smiled indulgently. ‘He’s a real little rascal, is our Richard. He gets up to all sorts. Why, only the other day he painted Marianne’s toenails with Cally’s varnish. Her toes are still bright red.’ Lucy, Red’s youngest sister, gave a shocked if somewhat distracted response, her attention focused on her own son and daughter.
‘Stanley! Joan! Please,’ she tweeted, ‘don’t steal all the sweeties; it isn’t good manners.’ She turned her attention back to Mary. ‘Really,’ she simpered, ‘anyone would think they’d never seen sweets before.’
They probably haven’t, thought Mary, Cally having made her wise to Lucy’s peculiar ideas on child rearing.
Mary chuckled. ‘Let them be; a few sweets never harmed any child.’ She gazed fondly at Richard, rolling in the grass with Freddy and Tom Murgatroyd, then looked pityingly at Joan and Stanley who were sitting, cowed, at their mother’s feet. ‘Let them go and play. It’s a day for having fun. Goodness knows if there’ll be either sweets or fun once this war gets going.’
‘It’s too dreadful to contemplate,’ sighed Lucy, nibbling delicately at a butterfly bun. ‘How will one manage if one’s deprived of life’s little luxuries?’
‘Not to mention those who will be deprived of their lives,’ retorted Mary. Tired of Lucy’s vacuous snobbery she abruptly got to her feet and walked over to where Red sat with Sybil and Wilf: maybe the talk at this table would be more entertaining.
‘It’s mobilisation of the forces,’ Wilf was saying, ‘they’ll call up the reserves and after that it’ll be conscription.’
‘Nonsense, it won’t come to that,’ Sybil brayed, and glancing at Red added, ‘and if it does, you won’t have to go. Farmers are exempt.’
Red widened his eyes. ‘I’m not a farmer.’
Sybil puffed herself up importantly. ‘You will be if they try to enlist you. We’ll make sure of it.’
Wilf looked pointedly at Red. ‘We’ll all be expected to join up, no exceptions – unless you’re a conchie.’
Mary shuddered. War talk worried her. Leaving them to it she drifted over to Sykes’ table and sat down next to Elizabeth Blackstone. Mary wondered vaguely what Elizabeth made of her daughters these days: silly Lucy and obnoxious Sybil. Unlike them, Elizabeth was a lovely woman; charming and well balanced, at ease in her own skin: rather like Cally, she mused. Was that what had attracted Red? Did he see the same strength of character in his wife as he saw in his mother?
As Mary struck up a conversation with Elizabeth her eyes sought Cally out. She saw her at the coach-house doorway with Barty, and judging by her peals of laughter they were sharing a joke.
In actual fact Barty was bemoaning his lot. ‘It’s true, Cally. I do wish I had a girl like you. Red’s a lucky fellow; he doesn’t realise how lucky. I’m not a bad chap yet I never meet nice girls.’
Cally responded with a moue, her eyes glittering wickedly. ‘You don’t frequent the right sort of places to meet nice girls,’ she chided, ‘it’s all pubs, bookies and racetracks with you, Barty.’
Crestfallen, he shrugged pathetically. ‘I know. I know,’ he said, taking a long swig from the glass in his hand, ‘but I enjoy a few pints of the old gargle and a good gamble; it helps ease the boredom.’
Cally gazed at Barty’s fleshy face, pink from too much alcohol. An overgrown schoolboy just like Red, she thought, not unkindly. Life’s been made too easy. He’s never had to work a day in his life. There’s no fight in him, no struggle to achieve, no goals to aim for.
It was true. Heir to the fortune of the two spinster aunts with whom he lived, Barty had never known hardship. They doled out a generous allowance each month and cosseted him like a child, totally emasculating him into the bargain.
‘You know what, Barty; you should have cut loose long ago, found a job and a place of your own. If you had it ’ud be another story. No sensible girl would take on an idle man and two old aunties. As for meeting nice girls, you need to go to the right places, not dens of iniquity.’
Barty raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m not that bad,’ he riposted.
‘I know you’re not. You’re a lovely fellow but you don’t show yourself in a good light. Sort yourself out, Barty, do something positive with your life: you’ve only got one.’
Barty drained his glass. ‘There’s something I’d positively like to do right now,’ he slurred. ‘What do you say to me and you having a bit of fun?’ He tugged at her hand, his cheeky expression suggesting they sneak indoors.
Cally snatched her hand away and gave him a push. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Barty! Go and play with the kids; you belong with them.’
Barty gave her a hurt look, then shambled across the courtyard and onto the grass. Cally, exasperated by his self-pity and his sleazy proposition stamped indoors and automatically began tidying the sitting room. Were all men weaklings one way or another, she fumed, picking up the brightly coloured papers that had wrapped Marianne’s gifts? There was Barty, lonely and bored, but too idle to change his pampered lifestyle. Then George, who let Annie ride roughshod over him at the expense of his and her, Cally’s, happiness. And more importantly Red; afraid to take responsibility, make decisions and lead the way. The stronger sex, she jeered inwardly; women were tougher by far.
‘Ah, there you are Cally!’
Sykes’ anxious cry interrupting Cally’s mental tirade, she turned to greet him. His handsome face was creased with consternation.
‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Barty’s throwing Richard up in the air, and I don’t like it. I’ve already spoken to him but he deliberately ignored me. It’s dangerous, and he’s had too much to drink to be trusted.’
Cally rolled her eyes in disbelief. ‘I see Barty took my advice literally,’ she said, hurrying outside.
‘Barty! Stop that this minute,’ she bawled, as Richard soared up from Barty’s arms and back flipped down into them. Cally dashed down the steps and across the courtyard to where Barty now stood with Richard at his side. ‘Don’t throw him up again. He’ll be sick after all the ice cream and sweets he’s eaten.’
‘But he likes it. It’s fun.’ Barty, flushed and exhilarated by his popularity with young Richard, grabbed hold of him again.
Cally pulled Richard back then stood feet apart, hands on hips, her small frame diminished by Barty’s bulk. ‘Well, I don’t like it; and it isn’t funny, it’s dangerous.’
Barty saluted mockingly, then feigning contrition, he jibed, ‘Sorry, miss. I won’t do it again.’
‘You’d better not,’ Cally snapped, and wagging a threatening finger under Richard’s nose, she added, ‘No more, Richard; leave Barty alone.’
‘But Mam—’
Ignoring Richard’s pleas she took him by the hand and led him over to where Red was sitting with Sybil and Wilf.
‘Keep your eye on him,’ she said to Red, ‘and don’t let Barty near him.’<
br />
She stamped back indoors feeling utterly frazzled. As she bathed her face with cool water she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Bitter lines etched her mouth. Was she turning into a nagging shrew, she wondered, one who found fault in everybody? Was she becoming another Annie? God forbid!
Suddenly she wanted this day, a day that had started out as glorious fun, to be over and done with. Maybe it was lack of sleep had her feeling this way, or the sheer effort of making sure everyone had been catered for. She decided to redo her hair. She’d recently taken to wearing it looped up on top in loose curls, exposing her slender neck and enhancing her high cheekbones. Deftly she began to remove the pins.
Meanwhile, in a sulk, Barty staggered along the granite path edging the lawn, away from the chattering adults and tired children now lolling on the knees of their parents or sitting quietly on the grass. Through a haze of alcohol and too much rich food, he indulged in self-pity. ‘Nobody likes me,’ he moaned to no one in particular.
Partway along the path he stopped, lost in the pathos of the moment until he felt something tug at his trouser leg. He looked down to find Richard grinning up at him. He smiled blearily at the little boy. Richard’s blue eyes sparkled and pleaded at one and the same time. ‘Do it again, Uncle Barty. Throw me up and catch me.’
Barty hesitated. Cally wouldn’t like it. He glanced towards the courtyard; Cally wasn’t there. In fact no one appeared to be paying attention to either him or Richard. Richard likes me, thought Barty; he thinks I’m a jolly good chap. He stooped to Richard’s height.
‘This is the very last time,’ he slurred. ‘We are under strict orders from your dear mama not to do it again. She doesn’t like it. But we do, don’t we?’ Barty’s voice rising to a roar he grabbed Richard in his meaty hands and held him aloft, laughing up into the child’s face; a face full of anticipation.
Barty flexed his knees and heaved. Richard soared high into the air, Barty tilting his head to follow the child’s ascent. Then, staggering backwards under the force of the throw and temporarily blinded by the rays of the late afternoon sun he blundered forwards, arms outstretched.
The Child from the Ash Pits Page 22