‘I joined the army,’ Barty called back. ‘We both did; we leave for France on Monday morning.’ They headed for the door into Copley House, big, bluff Barty and short, neat Wilf. Cally smiled wryly. What an incongruous pair, she thought.
‘Be lucky,’ she called after them, ‘Watch out for those French mademoiselles.’ They both turned, grinning.
She never saw Barty again.
*
‘This war gets worse be the day,’ Peggy complained, eyeing the small amount of sugar left in the crock. ‘This won’t see us to the end of week.’
‘It’s a good job we’ve only two guests then,’ said Cally, ‘and they’re only here for two nights.’
‘Are there any bookings next week?’ Sally asked anxiously, conscious her job was in jeopardy. Peggy and Susan looked expectantly at Cally.
Cally set the teapot she’d just filled on a tray for the newly arrived guests. ‘I’m sorry to say there aren’t,’ she replied, her expression mirroring Sally’s. ‘In fact, it looks as though we’ll have to revert to your coming in as and when you’re needed; like we did when we first opened.’ There was a collective sigh.
Peggy carefully sprinkled sugar over the last of the apples Jim Gibson had stored over winter. ‘If them Jerries keep sinking our ships there’ll be nowt to feed guests on, even if we had ’em.’ She handed Marianne a slice of apple.
Cally placed two scones on a plate then plopped two small pats of butter in a dish beside them. ‘Thank God Mrs Haigh still makes her own butter, and for Harry Bradshaw and that nice fat grouse; at least we’ve got summat to give ’em for their dinner.’
Peggy pulled a wry face at the small package wrapped in greaseproof paper that Cally had fetched that morning. ‘That’ll not go far.’
‘I’ll thank you to know we trudged half way across the moor to get that butter, didn’t we, Marianne?’ Cally’s grin showed she intended no reprimand.
‘Aye, well, you’ll have a longer walk if you’re to get coffee for their breakfasts,’ Peggy rejoined.
Cally chuckled. ‘They’ll just have to make do with tea.’ She handed the tray to Susan. ‘Take this through and make sure you get their bloody coupons off ’em.’ The tedious exchange of rationing coupons was a nightmare of bureaucracy and Cally hated the practice with a passion.
‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ Susan exclaimed, ‘Sam Bragg left a rabbit an’ some eggs.’
Cally made another pot of tea and, leaving Marianne in Susan’s care, went in search of Sykes and Mary silently blessing the farmers and the older men of the village who, armed with shotguns, kept Copley House supplied with provender.
Mary was counting clothing coupons in the little book she held close to her failing eyes. ‘I need a new vest and knickers but I don’t think I’ve enough coupons for both,’ she complained.
Sykes harrumphed. ‘Make do with what you’ve got.’
‘I’ll lend you my coupons,’ Cally volunteered, setting the teapot between them.
‘We can all make do and mend as far as clothing’s concerned,’ said Sykes, ‘but if petrol gets any scarcer I’ll be housebound.’ He poured tea into the cups Mary had fetched from the sideboard.
‘I suppose you heard the bad news,’ Sykes said to Cally. ‘Jack Hargreaves is devastated.’
Cally nodded solemnly, a host of memories, still painfully raw, invading her. ‘Peggy told me earlier. Losing your only son is beyond bearing.’ She paused, lost in thought and close to tears, then said, ‘All those wonderful young men who’ll never come home again. Have you noticed how empty the streets are now all the lads are away?’
She thought sadly of Tommy Hargreaves, the butcher’s son, and other eager, young faces that would no longer be seen in Copley village, and more sadly of one particular face she would never see again except in her dreams. What were they doing now? The world had changed for them as it had for everyone.
Mary began to cry. ‘I just want it to be over, get back to the way we were. We can’t buy clothes without coupons, every mouthful we eat is rationed and those awful wailing sirens keep me awake at night.’
Although the fear of Copley village being bombed was remote and air raid precautions few, they could still hear the sirens wailing in Huddersfield whenever the Germans attempted to bomb the British Dyes or Brooks or Brown’s engineering plants. Other than that the inhabitants of Copley could have been forgiven for thinking the country wasn’t at war at all.
Leaving Sykes and Mary to drown their sorrows in weak, unsweetened tea, Cally went back to the kitchen to carry on the daily struggle of keeping a dwindling business viable.
She no sooner arrived in the kitchen than Jim Gibson entered, ushering in two boys and two girls aged somewhere between five and ten in front of him. ‘These are the Rudges from Coventry,’ Jim announced.
Cally and the rest of the staff greeted them with bemused expressions on their faces. Jim and his wife, Jenny, soon satisfied their curiosity.
‘I’m too old to go to war but I want to do my bit, so I volunteered to take ’em in,’ said Jim.
Jenny nodded. ‘What with our three lads off in France we’ve plenty of room and they’ll be safe from the bombing up here.’
Peggy set out biscuits and milk, the Rudges eagerly tucking in as Jenny clucked over them like a mother hen, and everyone was entertained by their strange accents and city ways. Marianne was thrilled; new playmates were always welcome.
That night, Marianne in bed, Cally sat at the table in the coach-house, a cup of tea at her elbow and paper and pen to hand. As she sipped, she mulled over the events of the past few hours. She’d learned of the death of a young man she’d known and liked and she’d met her first evacuees: both experiences compounding the awfulness of war.
Cally picked up the pen and wrote to Red, Marianne’s progress the main subject, followed by news from Copley House and the village. The pleasure she derived from this weekly exercise had taken her by surprise; it brought Red closer in a new and positive way. She always wrote at length, the letters friendly and chatty; but they were not love letters.
In return he replied with light-hearted tales of life in the squadron and, on a more serious note, the new and exciting opportunities the RAF afforded him. He sounded to be in good spirits.
I’m putting my experience as a projectionist in the Electric Cinema to good use, he wrote.
It’s landed me the job of showing films made for training purposes to my fellow airmen. Not only that, I’m making my own films with a cine camera. It’s fantastic. I’m due to go to the Orkneys and the Hebrides to show propaganda films, in order to keep the inhabitants of those far flung outposts loyal to the British cause, should the Germans invade.
Whenever Cally read newspaper reports or listened to wireless bulletins on the news she thanked God Red had joined the RAF and not the navy, for British ships in the Atlantic convoys were regularly sunk by the German’s new magnetic mines. He was now in Farnborough, training to be an aerial photographer; so far his war had been safe.
Barty, somewhere in France, scrawled a note to Cally telling her his unit was billeted in a barn. The Brass obviously know we’re animals he’d written. Cally smiled fondly as she read it; poor, foolish Barty.
Red managed two ‘home leaves’ in 1940, and whilst they did not resume their marital relationship, he and Cally were easy in each other’s company. Marianne was thrilled to see her daddy in uniform and Cally had to admit, when he arrived home on the second occasion, not only did he look handsome, he seemed more mature, more sure of himself.
Gone was the sheepish, almost reluctant attitude he used to employ when offering to do some task. Now he just got on and did it – like a man. Furthermore, whilst they spent time with Red’s parents, if Sybil was there he no longer allowed her to dominate him.
‘Shut up, Sybil. Don’t pontificate on things you know nothing about,’ Red had told her when she tried to goad Cally into admitting Copley House couldn’t survive without custom. ‘You know what your proble
m is, Sybil. You’ve lived your entire life in your own selfish, spiteful bubble thinking you have the right to tell other people how to live theirs. Well, take a look at yourself; whenever did you do anything worthwhile?’
Sybil’s jaw had dropped and she had made a hasty departure, leaving Cally, Red and Marianne to enjoy Elizabeth and Gilmore’s company in peace.
Cally admired the change in Red and was sorry when the leave ended. She agreed to visit him at the base in Chester and a few weeks later she and Marianne made the journey by train. Neither of them had ever been so far from home before.
On the train to Chester they sat opposite a young soldier returning to camp. He chatted to Cally as the train trundled southwards, Cally enjoying the company but at the same time thinking how unfortunate the young lad was to have such a bulbous, ugly red nose. He’ll not attract many French mademoiselles, she thought sadly.
Shortly before the train reached Chester, Marianne, who had been sitting quietly staring at the soldier for some time, slipped off her seat to stand in front of him. ‘Bend down,’ she said, gazing seriously up into his face. The lad obliged.
‘Marianne!’ Cally expostulated, as her daughter sank her teeth into his nose. She spent what remained of the journey apologising, the soldier assuring her it didn’t matter.
On the platform in Chester, Cally asked, ‘Why did you do that?’
Marianne shrugged. ‘It just looked as though it needed biting.’
Red laughed until he cried when he heard of his daughter’s exploits. ‘She gets more like you every day,’ he said. Cally was unsure of what he meant by the remark.
Cally enjoyed the visit. Confident and happy, Red showed her round the camp and introduced her to some of his colleagues; he appeared extremely popular. This insight into Red’s life in the RAF not only provided Cally with memories to carry away and replay whilst they were apart, it gave her a special pride in the force.
Afterwards, when she heard Winston Churchill’s speech on the wireless, praising RAF pilots with the words ‘never was so much owed by so many to so few’ her pride knew no bounds. Although Red wasn’t a pilot she felt that Mr Churchill had somehow included him when he spoke.
Towards the end of 1940 Wilf called at Copley House. It was a miserable day in October, the chilled air heavy with autumn mist. Cally hurried him indoors and sat him close to the fire. His already diminutive stature seemed shrunken and his face was grey with weariness. He’d been whisked from the front line in France, suffering from a burst appendix. ‘I report back for duty next week,’ he said, his tone indicating dread. Over a cup of tea and several tots of whisky he told her about Barty.
‘We stuck together, me and Barty; ended up in the same unit. We fought in Belgium and France, him covering my back and me watching out for him, right back to the beaches at Dunkirk.’ Cally listened, fascinated and horrified as he described the living hell of troops under a constant bombardment of Stukas and heavy artillery fire. ‘We formed lines out into the sea, all of us desperate to board one of the little boats that had come to rescue us.’ Wilf paused, the memory too painful.
‘There was a young Welsh lad called Trevor Hughes in our regiment. Barty took a shine to him; we both watched out for him. We were fighting our way towards the water’s edge, Jerry firing rakes of bullets. Trevor fell. When the gunner fired again, Barty threw himself over Trevor’s body, shielding him from the blast.’ Wilf paused to glug a mouthful of whisky. ‘Barty died instantly but Trevor was dragged to safety. We made it back to Dover on board a pleasure ferry. Me and Trevor lived to fight another day – but not poor old Barty, God bless him.’
By the time Wilf finished his story, both he and Cally were in tears. ‘Poor Barty, brave foolish Barty,’ said Cally, her voice roughened with grief. ‘He achieved atonement in the end.’
*
The war dragged on, three long years of hardship taking their toll. Mary became unwell. ‘It’s her heart,’ the doctor told Sykes, ‘she needs rest, and no unnecessary climbing of stairs.’ Willingly, Cally attended to her every need for Mary was like a mother to her. Her condition deteriorating, Mary rarely left the rooms she and Sykes occupied, her preoccupation with the war and its attendant problems increasing. She worried unreasonably about rationing, the lack of visitors, money matters and Marianne.
‘Suppose the Germans decide to drop bombs on one of the big mills and overshoot their target, they might bomb the Infant School instead. Make sure Marianne has her gas mask.’ Or at other times, ‘What if they blow our roof off and let the rain in again?’ These repetitive, nonsensical notions used up every ounce of Cally and Sykes’s patience.
‘Have we any bread?’ Mary asked for the umpteenth time that afternoon. Cally assured her there was plenty, and did the same when butter, potatoes and bacon were mentioned. ‘What about cheese?’ Mary persisted. ‘Have we any cheese?’
Afraid she might be asked to produce a cheese sandwich, Cally answered honestly. ‘No, we don’t have cheese but we should get some next week.’
The front door bell clanged, Cally glad of the opportunity to escape. Hurrying across the room she turned the knob on the wireless: the strains of Music While You Work filled the room. It was Mary’s favourite programme. Cheese forgotten, she hummed along with the music. Cally ran to the front door, coming face to face with an officious looking man wearing an ARP uniform. He saluted briskly.
‘Good day to you, ma’am; I’m here to check on your precautions in case of an air raid in the district.’ His high, nasal tones detracted from the authority he hoped to convey
Cally eyed him warily. Air Raid Precaution, a branch of the Home Guard, consisted of men too old or too young for conscription, or men employed in essential ‘reserved occupations.’ This being their only opportunity to defend British territory, many of them carried out their duties zealously. Cally could tell that the chap standing to attention on the top step of Copley House was just such a one. She hid a smile as best she could.
From the hallway, Cally took him into the kitchen and down into the cellars. ‘We were advised we would be safe down here if the house were to receive a direct hit,’ she told him, chuckling as she added, ‘though I doubt it. We’d probably be buried alive.’
The ARP warden bristled visibly. ‘It’s nothing to laugh about,’ he remonstrated. ‘Air Raid Precaution’s a serious matter.’ Cally mumbled an apology.
He smirked. ‘Can I see your blackout provisions? They must be in place at all windows. Shining a light can lead an enemy plane to its target, you know.’
Cally guided him through the ground floor, swathes of black curtaining at every window. Somewhat mollified, he relaxed a little. When they arrived in Mary’s sitting room he greeted the elderly woman above the racket of ‘We’re Going to Hang Out the Washing on the Siegfried Line’: Mary sang along merrily, totally oblivious to his presence.
On the way upstairs the ARP man asked, ‘is your husband away fighting?’
‘Yes. He’s in the RAF.’ Cally regretted the words the second they left her mouth. She was fast developing an aversion to this officious warden.
‘You must be lonely, what with your man away for months on end,’ the ARP man leered. Cally speedily brought the inspection to an end.
He called again two days later on some trumped-up excuse. ‘Stanley Witherspoon at your service, ma’am.’ He applied pressure to the word ‘service’ and asked to check the cellars. Reluctantly, Cally led the way. A few moments later, Stanley Witherspoon hastily left Copley House, his shins stinging and his nose and left eye swelling.
The following week Copley House was fined two shillings at the court hearing in Huddersfield for infringing the blackout. ‘Revenge,’ giggled Cally, joking about the hidden dangers lurking on the Home Front. ‘He reminded me of Willie Cratchley. Maybe I should have warned Stanley Witherspoon that I’m used to handling blighters like him.’
30
Towards the end of 1943, Copley House was given a new lease of life. ‘We’ve got
confirmation from the Ministry of Defence,’ Cally cried, walking into Sykes and Mary’s sitting room triumphantly waving a long brown envelope.
Sykes sprang to his feet. ‘That’s marvellous news. Do you hear that, Mary?’ he shouted, ‘We’re to be used as a convalescent home for wounded servicemen.’
Mary, frail and hard of hearing, looked up from the jigsaw she was doing. ‘Wooden what, dear?’
Sykes repeated the information, Cally adding, ‘It’ll be grand to have the house full again. I’ve missed the holidaymakers something shocking, not to mention the money they brought in. We’ll still be hard up but with the Ministry paying for the upkeep of the house we’ll be better off than we are now. It’ll keep us afloat until this bloody war is over.’
The first batch of convalescents arrived as autumn pursued its annual business, burnishing the moorland to richest copper, the woodlands yellow and gold. The damaged visitors, relieved from the burden of warfare, revelled in their new surroundings. They were a friendly bunch and none of them too ill or incapacitated to require constant medical treatment: that had been dealt with before they were dispatched to Copley. Those suffering battle fatigue and less serious injuries expected to return to their units; the amputees and the permanently damaged were building up their strength before returning home.
Shortly after their arrival, Peggy Murgatroyd and Susan Wadsworth paid one of their regular visits. ‘Working in munitions might pay more but it’s a damned sight harder than working here,’ Peggy grumbled as, like old times, she made a pot of tea.
‘Aye, it’s not fair,’ moaned Susan. ‘We miss all the fun.’ She winked at Cally. ‘Here you are, larking about with a bunch of young fellows while I’m tamping bullets an’ shells till me arms drop off.’
The Child from the Ash Pits Page 25