‘I’d love to have you back to help out,’ Cally said, ‘but I can’t afford you.’ Peggy and Susan nodded sagely.
Cally was now head cook and bottlewasher, ably assisted by Sally. Between them they concocted a variety of tasty recipes involving Spam, dried egg and whatever else was available. ‘I’m dying for a proper fruitcake,’ Cally moaned as she mixed an eggless sponge cake.
‘I miss oranges an’ chocolate,’ Sally complained, ‘an’ there’s only a certain amount of Lord Woolton pie a body can stomach.’
Cally agreed. ‘Still, we’ve plenty of fresh veg. Jim Gibson grows enough to feed an army.’
Sally grinned. ‘Wi’ this lot we need it.’ She gestured with a carving knife at the convalescents helping prepare dinner. Half a dozen men of varying ages and degrees of incapacity were busily occupied, amongst them Ronnie, who had lost one eye, happily peeling potatoes and Larry, a fragile young man from Berkshire, washing dishes; a job he’d do all day, had there been an endless supply. Larry suffered from a nervous disorder, twitching and shaking at any loud noise.
Sally finished placing sliced spam on a plate. ‘I’ll bring in the washing,’ she said, lifting a wicker basket and striding out into the garden. She returned, arms full, several minutes later.
Too late, Cally cried, ‘Don’t slam the—!’
Sally kicked the door shut with the heel of her shoe, sending Larry into a paroxysm of jitters that had him darting about the kitchen. Peggy and Susan looked on, amazed, as Cally led him back to the sink where a few minutes of dabbling his hands in warm water soon calmed him down.
‘Caring for convalescents bears no resemblance to entertaining guests but I love every minute of it,’ said Cally to Peggy and Susan in a deliberately low voice. ‘My admiration for these broken creatures grows by the day.’
Just as Peggy and Susan were about to take their leave, Reg Burrows and Denny Moxon breezed into the kitchen, Denny hopping alongside Reg’s wheelchair. Peggy’s and Susan’s eyes were drawn to the stumps of Reg’s legs and they looked away quickly, but not quickly enough for Reg not to have noticed. They flushed uncomfortably when he said, ‘Aye, it were a bit of shock to me an’ all. I lost ’em somewhere in France, courtesy of Mr Hitler, an’ if the blighters ever find ’em I hopes they send the buggers back to me.’ He spoke jovially to let them know he wasn’t offended. Peggy and Susan relaxed and then sat down again to chat with the two men.
Denny Moxon, a cheeky Cockney from London’s East End, and by far the most popular and lively member of this temporary family soon had them all laughing uproariously. Although he’d lost his right leg below the knee he clattered about the place on crutches as speedily as a man with two good feet. A handsome blonde giant of a man, he had smiles and witticisms for everyone but most of all for Sally. ‘We’re getting engaged at Christmas,’ she told Peggy and Susan as she accompanied them to the door.
*
In the New Year Cally drove to Calthorpe using most of her precious petrol allowance: a small price to pay to see her father. She hadn’t visited for several months as the demands of Copley House were so time consuming. George was, yet again, involved in his own war.
‘Bloody Bevin Boys,’ he growled, ‘they’re not fit to work underground.’ The introduction of inexperienced young conscripts forced to work in the mines to alleviate the shortage of experienced miners did not please him. ‘Ernest Bevin wants his bloody head examining,’ George complained, his opinion of the Minister for Labour and National Service derisory. ‘Six weeks bloody training an’ they’re expected to know how to hew coal.’
‘It can’t be easy for them, Dad,’ Cally reasoned, ‘I’m sure most of them don’t want to be there.’
George wasn’t pacified. ‘No, they should be at t’Front wi’ t’rest of ’em. Some of ’em are bloody conchies, they neither want to fight nor work down t’pit. They put a man’s life in danger.’
Cally drove back to Copley House with a smile on her face. It was good to see George animated, even if it was about something he didn’t agree with.
The convalescents arrived and departed with increasing regularity, each parting a wrench not only for the servicemen but also for the staff at Copley House. It was impossible not to form attachments to these stoic young men and Cally blessed the day the man from the Ministry had walked through the door. It had provided the means for keeping Copley House a viable concern.
‘That’s a bit of the castle,’ Mary said patiently as Bill Dobbs, a young lad suffering from shellshock, dithered over the jigsaw they were assembling. She gently guided his hand to put the piece in place. Over by the window Sykes was reading aloud from The Times to Scott Harrington, an officer blinded in an explosion. Many a long afternoon spent this way proved advantageous not only to Sykes and Mary, but the servicemen, too.
In this way the occupants of Copley House sat out a seemingly endless war, looking to the future with hearts filled with hope. But just when Cally thought she had put the past behind her, it caught up with her yet again.
It was a chill February morning, Cally was alone in Copley House kitchen enjoying the calm that always followed the hectic round of breakfasting a dozen or so hungry men. The convalescents, having eaten, had helped wash and dry the dishes and then wandered off in pursuit of their own entertainment.
Cally opened the newspaper one of the ambulant convalescents had brought back from his early morning walk to the village, and began to read. She was just skimming reportage on the battle at Monte Casino, the detail too painful to digest, when a small item in a side column caught her eye. In less than an hour she was on the train to Bradford, the brief explanation for her sudden departure leaving Sykes and Mary bewildered. But Cally had no time to tell lengthy stories from her past: she had to find Emma.
*
The train pulled in to Forster Square Station, Cally shuddering as she recalled the night spent in the alleyway behind it, the night William Cratchley had tried to rape her: the consequences of which had reunited her with Bella and Emma.
She climbed into a waiting cab, alighting several minutes later at 2, West Street, a dilapidated little house at the head of a straggling terrace. The house looked unoccupied, but in answer to Cally’s knock a pale, frowsy woman opened the door.
‘Emma?’ Cally enquired tentatively, for the woman bore little resemblance to the bubbly, blonde girl she remembered.
The woman stared. ‘Cally! Is it you?’ They fell into each other’s arms, laughing and crying as they renewed their acquaintance.
In the next hour Cally heard all the gory details of Bella’s demise, her heart aching for Emma’s sad loss.
‘That murdering swine, Alf Heppenstall,’ Emma said for the umpteenth time, ‘I told her not to have owt to do wi’ him, but she wouldn’t listen. Our Bella would have done owt for Alf, an’ look where it got her.’ She wiped fresh tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘It were him what kept her on the game an’ when she told him she’d had enough, he killed her.’ Cally shuddered at the mention of his name. She had never forgotten the night she escaped his clutches and was rescued by Henry and Dolly Brooks.
‘I’m glad you gave it up, Em,’ Cally said, having learned that Emma had put prostitution behind her and had been working as an orderly in St Luke’s Hospital for several years.
‘I had to once I had our Olly, an’ anyway I never really liked it. I only did it to keep in wi’ our Bella, an’ now it doesn’t matter any more; she’s gone.’ Emma started to cry again.
Cally wondered what Olly, now eight years old, was like. He’s the same age as Richard would have been, she thought, her heart twisting with the memory.
‘Why did you call him Oliver?’ Cally asked, in the hope of deflecting Emma’s tears. ‘Was it after his dad?’
‘No,’ replied Emma, looking askance at the idea, ‘it were after Oliver Hardy. I love him an’ Stan Laurel. They make me laugh.’
Cally grimaced: still the same old Emma, full of daft ideas.
One week late
r Cally met Emma and Oliver on Huddersfield Station. She stowed their bags and suitcase into the boot of the Morris and drove them to Copley House: they had come to stay.
*
On a bright Tuesday morning in May 1944, Mary suffered a stroke. She died three days later and Sykes was devastated. That night, Cally telephoned Red. ‘It’s like losing my mother all over again,’ she said, filling the next ten minutes talking of her love for Mary. ‘And it couldn’t have happened at a worse time. We’ve new convalescents arriving on Monday, Sally’s just given birth to her first child, and whilst Emma’s brilliant with the men – I put it down to the years she worked in St Luke’s – I feel as though I’m at my wit’s end.’
‘Chin up, it’ll all get sorted,’ said Red. They said goodnight, and as Cally hung up the receiver she couldn’t help thinking, still the same old easy going Red.
Two hectic days later, having been up at seven to cook breakfast for twelve hungry men, then help Emma change bedding and clean rooms, deliver Marianne and Oliver to school and visit the local undertaker, Cally arrived back at Copley House, exhausted.
Red was in the kitchen chatting to Emma and the convalescents who were preparing lunch. He grinned at Cally, giving her his old familiar wink. ‘Still running with the hare and the hounds, I see.’
Cally stared, the tiredness dropping away from her. She threw herself into his open arms and leaned on him, smelling the clean, masculine scent that was his alone.
‘Am I glad to see you,’ she gasped – and she meant it. Somehow, in the time they had been apart she had come to realise she needed Red to make her feel whole. It didn’t matter that he was irresponsible or lacking in ambition, he was the only man for her after all. She had forgiven his infidelity some time ago, knowing she was in some way to blame, her treatment of him after Richard’s death something she wasn’t proud of.
Now he was here, and she gladly took him by the hand over to the coach-house, their joy at meeting only slightly marred by Mary’s death. Over a cup of tea, Red listened carefully as Cally outlined the necessary arrangements she needed to attend to over the next two days.
‘I’ll do all that,’ he said confidently. ‘You just see to this place. I’ll deliver and collect the children from school, and make the funeral arrangements. I’m here for a couple of weeks: long embarkation leave before they send me to North Africa.’
True to his word, Red organised the funeral, attended to Sykes, cared for Marianne and assisted Cally whenever she needed him to. She accepted all he had to offer, amazed by the change in him. The uncertain young boy who had shied away from responsibility and decision making was gone, in his place a man who calmly and reliably removed the strain from her shoulders. Cally fell in love with him all over again.
Mary’s funeral, marred by heavy showers and a chill wind, was even more miserable than Cally had anticipated. She was wearing a black suit bought specially for the occasion, its knee length skirt much shorter than usual, wartime clothing restrictions demanding the use of less material. As they walked from the graveside, Red holding aloft an umbrella to shield her from the rain, he leaned close and whispered in her ear. ‘I know this is hardly the time or the place but there’s something I desperately need to tell you.’
Cally’s heart missed a beat. She stopped walking, waiting to hear what Red had to say; was he about to tell her their marriage was over? Was he tired of waiting for her to be his wife in every sense of the word? Had he met someone else? She wouldn’t be surprised; and she had only herself to blame. She raised her eyes to meet his. His expression was solemn.
‘I want you to know how sorry I am. I apologise from the bottom of my heart for my stupid, irresponsible behaviour in the past, and if I hurt you…’ He paused, biting his lip.
You’re going to hurt me now, Cally thought, I know what you’re about to say and I don’t want to hear it. She pulled away from him, prepared to run. Red held her back.
‘Listen to me, Cally,’ he pleaded, ‘Let me finish. I don’t want to go to Africa without telling you.’
Cally’s shoulders slumped and she sighed heavily. Best get it over with. She gazed into his handsome face, almost defiantly.
‘I said if I hurt you,’ Red continued, ‘I should have said when I hurt you, because I certainly did. I never knew how precious you are to me until now. You’re so strong and beautiful, battling on no matter what life throws at you, making the best of whatever it has to offer and I love you more than I ever did before, but this time I love you with the heart of a man, not a weak, spoiled boy. If you’ll have me I’ll show you exactly what my love is worth. I’ve fallen in love with you all over again; for real this time.’
Cally’s knees buckled. She flung her arms about Red’s neck, clinging to him as much to support herself as letting him know she accepted him. The umbrella fell to the ground as they kissed, several of the mourners smiling indulgently at this affectionate if somewhat unseemly display at a funeral.
‘By the way, Mrs Blackstone,’ he said teasingly, as they walked to the car, ‘I think maybe the short skirt might have influenced me a little bit.’
Cally laughed through her tears.
*
The day after the funeral the wind dropped and an uncertain sun shone on the cotton grass and heather, the peat drying to a shining black crust. It shone on Red and Cally’s faces, as hand in hand they trod the narrow path towards Pule Hill. Immediately in front of them a grouse burst upwards, then another and another, each bird whirring into the air then veering horizontally across the skyline. They stopped to watch.
Cally narrowed her eyes, following the flight path of the birds. ‘Is that what it’s like to fly in a plane?’
‘In a way, yes,’ replied Red. ‘It’s complete and utter freedom of the skies. Clouds above, clouds below, like giant puffs of cotton wool that look as though you can walk on them. The views are fantastic. It’s hard to imagine what a place looks like from above if you’ve never had a bird’s eye view; flying gives you that. We use a Vicker’s Valencia, a good old slow-moving plane, and we zoom in as low as we dare so that I can film what’s there, exactly as it is. Some of my footage has captured some pretty important stuff and I’m proud of it, even though I say so myself. Some of it’s even been used in newsreels shown in the cinema. It’s the best job I’ve ever done in my life.’
They talked as they walked, catching up with each other’s lives, recapturing the old closeness of the bond formed when they first met. But now it was stronger, encompassing all they had shared and learned in the intervening years.
At the top of the hill they sprawled on the heather, gazing out at the vista of moor and mountain. Red took Cally in his arms and kissed her with all the poignancy of a first kiss. She responded willingly, returning passion with desire. He covered her body with his and she felt the hardness of him on the outside and a moistening within. He covered her face with butterfly kisses then her breasts and the length of her body, fondling the intimate parts of her until she cried out. Together they rode the storm, their lovemaking expunging the anger and bitter memories that had so nearly destroyed them, and in its place a new awareness of the need for each other.
When passion was spent, they lay entwined, Cally saying softly, ‘Yesterday, you gave me your apology, now I’m going to give you mine for I am equally to blame.’
Red shook his head, refuting the idea, but Cally pressed on. ‘Listen. I know now where I went wrong. I never gave you the chance to lead the way, be the man of the house; take responsibility for our family. Me, and my job, decided the way we lived – I never gave yours a thought. I was too wrapped up in Copley House and the children to spend time on us. I’m not surprised you carried on living life as a single man; I made no room for change. Well, now I’ve been given a second chance and this time I’m going to get it right.’
‘Phew, Mrs Blackstone, that was some speech.’ Red kissed her passionately, Cally returning the kiss with equal fervour. ‘I’ll never let you down again,’ promised
Red.
Cally believed him.
31
Shafts of bright sunshine gave Cally a warm welcome as she strolled into the drawing room at Copley House. She was doing her morning rounds, casting a practiced eye over gleaming woodwork, twinkling silver and showy flower arrangements. Sally, now Mrs Denny Moxon and mother of Stephen Robert, was as efficient as ever.
Back in the hallway, Cally paused to admire the rainbow hues of patterns dancing on the staircase where the sun pierced the stained-glass window on the landing. Such a beautiful house, she thought fondly, and now it’s mine, thanks to dear Sykes. No matter that it sometimes feels like a mausoleum now the convalescents have gone, she mused, as she walked across the hall.
Sykes had passed away in the spring of 1945 leaving Cally the sole owner of Copley House Hotel. With the war ended, visitors were gradually returning to the moors and the valley and, somehow, Cally was managing to keep the hotel a going concern, but business was slow.
In the library or ‘the bar’ as Sykes had been wont to call it, Cally reflected fondly on his boyish excitement at its installation and his enthusiasm for dispensing drinks to the clientele. It also evoked fond memories of The Royal Oak and kindly Dolly and Henry Brook, the ideal publicans. That’s where my life really started, thought Cally, checking the contents of the bottles attached to the optics behind the bar. It was there I discovered what I wanted to do in life.
She had been saddened to learn of the Brooks’ deaths, although she knew from their infrequent letters they’d had a great life in Australia. In his last letter Bobby, now married to Noeleen and the father of two sons, had promised to visit Copley House in the near future. Remembering his erstwhile promises to visit Dolly and Henry, all broken bar one, Cally decided she wouldn’t hold her breath.
She stepped out to the terrace, wondering how different life would have been had she accepted Bobby’s proposal of marriage. I’m glad I turned him down, otherwise I would never have met Red, nor would I have been the mother of my dear, darling Richard or my beautiful Marianne – and I wouldn’t have had Copley House.
The Child from the Ash Pits Page 26