She turned her face up to the sun. Today was going to be a scorcher. She must remember to tell Marianne to wear her sunhat when she went with Peggy’s daughter and her children to Brooke Leas, a popular swimming hole further up the valley. Cally longed to go too but unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, for she needed all the business she could get, she had to stay and welcome a party of ramblers from York.
Conscious time was pressing, she hurried back inside to the kitchen where Peggy Murgatroyd, glad to exchange munitions for employment as a cook once again, was working her magic. As the delicious aroma of braised rabbit reached Cally’s nose, she said, ‘That smells good, Peggy.’
‘It’s as well it does,’ Peggy replied dourly as she stirred the stew on the stove. ‘It’s all we’ve got on offer. I’m doin’ a huggin o’ Jim’s peas an’ some mashed carrot an’ turnip.’ She sighed. ‘Who’d a thought we’d still be on rations?’
‘It might not be for much longer,’ Cally consoled her before exiting the kitchen to run across the yard to the coach-house.
Marianne was trying to stuff a large ball into a bag along with her towel. ‘I’m sorry I can’t come with you, love. It’ll be lovely up there on a day like this,’ said Cally, deftly inserting both towel and ball into the bag.
‘It’s alright,’ Marianne assured her, ‘I know you’ve got to wait for the ramblers. It’s going to be such fun though, I’m sorry you’ll miss it; Jean’s dad’s coming. He got demobbed last week.’ She gazed wistfully at Cally. ‘Jean’s lucky. She got her dad back. When will mine come home?’
‘It shouldn’t be long, love,’ replied Cally, scraping margarine on slices of bread. ‘His last letter said it could be any day soon. In the meantime…’ She went over to the cupboard and came back with a bar of chocolate. ‘Here. Share that with Jean and her family.’
Marianne’s eyes opened wide. ‘Where did you get it?’ she gasped, breathless with wonderment.
Cally laughed. ‘That commercial traveller who stayed here last week? He got it from an American soldier in Liverpool. I was keeping it for a special occasion; I think today qualifies.’
Marianne stowed it in the bag along with her towel, ball and sandwiches, Cally thinking it doesn’t take much to make some people deliriously happy, as she watched her daughter bounce with joy. ‘Swim carefully,’ she advised, as Marianne departed in a flurry of kisses.
The ramblers arrived in time for lunch and after they had eaten and set out on the first walk of their itinerary, Cally decided to make the most of the free hours and the sunshine before preparing the evening meal: sausage roll, more carrots, parsley potatoes and jam rolypoly.
In a secluded corner of the lawn she stretched out on the grass. The heat of the sun feeling good on her face and bare arms she hitched up her skirt, exposing her bare legs. She lowered her eyelids, the penetrating rays of sunlight a kaleidoscope of shapes and colours. Fascinated, Cally watched them float and whirl until a sudden shadow blocked the direct line of the sun. She opened her eyes.
Red smiled his familiar, lazy smile. ‘You were flat on your back with your skirt up round your middle the first time I met you. Remember?’
Cally nodded, unable to speak as breath caught in her throat and a rush of hot blood coursed through her veins. Red gazed at her, drinking in the beauty of her features; the luminous dark eyes, the honey coloured skin, the sinuous contours of her body. She gazed back. He looked the same, yet different: leaner, his muscles toned to steel, his face hard and lined where once it had been soft and smooth. He’s changed from a boy into a man, thought Cally, struggling to rise. He stayed her with his hand.
‘Don’t get up,’ he whispered, lowering his frame and stretching out next to her. For a while he simply laid pressed against her, shoulder brushing shoulder and thigh warming thigh. Cally’s body tingled and her blood pulsed.
Red raised himself up on one elbow and leaned over, his eyes boring into hers as he brushed a tendril of hair from her brow. He bent his head and kissed her, long and hard. She kissed him back, opening her mouth to taste the well remembered sweetness of him.
At last he drew back. ‘You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited to do that. I dreamed of this moment. It was one of the things that kept me going, the thought that one day I’d come back and find you waiting for me.’
*
The months following Red’s return were a revelation. He was working as an aerial photographer for a small company that made documentaries, and now, with organised precision he divided his time between Copley House and different film set locations, juggling work and home with consummate ease, achieving success in whichever place he happened to be, the change in him remarkable. Cally found it hard to believe that this decisive, sagacious man had once been the indolent, unsure boy she had fallen in love with all those years before.
Whenever he was at home he worked alongside her, charming the guests and entertaining them royally, for he had not lost his quirky sense of humour. And if problems arose he dealt with them. Wisely, Cally stepped back and let him get on with it. She recognised his worth and gave him his place, theirs now a truly equal and loving relationship.
Marianne adored her father and he returned that love, fulsomely. The day Red presented Marianne with a Brownie box camera brought them even closer, hours spent seeking out locations to photograph then later the excitement of developing film to see what they had captured. Sometimes, as Cally watched them set off on one of their jaunts, hand in hand, she pined for Richard. He should have been with them. She knew Red thought the same.
*
Copley House was eerily silent as Cally, alone in the kitchen, filled a wicker creel with the table linen and towels she had just washed and mangled. With Red away on location and Sally at home with her new baby there was no lively banter to accompany the chores. Cally missed the gossip and the giggles; she missed Emma too, more than she would have thought possible.
Emma had been gone almost two weeks, taking the lively Olly with her much to Marianne’s dismay. Cally smiled as she shook towels free of creases, thinking how wonderfully strange were life’s twists and turns. If Emma hadn’t taken her in that day in Bradford when she’d lost everything, she’d never have met Henry and Dolly Brook. And if she’d never met them she wouldn’t have met the Balmforths and come to Copley House: life was all a matter of ifs.
Emma had fitted in at Copley House like feet in comfortable shoes, popular with the convalescents and the Balmforths. She had been a great help to Sykes and Cally in the last weeks of Mary’s life, and the bond Cally and Emma had formed as young girls flourished again.
It was during that time that Peter O’Hagan had arrived at Copley House. He was a Regimental Sergeant Major with the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers, an Irish regiment, and had lost an eye and an arm in the battle for Anzio.
From the start he was a difficult patient. Unable to come to terms with his disabilities he roared and ranted, refusing assistance and causing everyone untold misery until Emma worked her magic on him. Slowly but surely she had calmed him, and blind to his facial disfigurement and his incapacity she had fallen in love. The big, rough Irishman had responded likewise. It soon became obvious that Emma, Peter and Olly were a package, each delighting in the others company. He’d taken Emma and Olly back with him to Ireland, Cally sad for herself but overjoyed for Emma.
‘I never knew I’d be so lucky,’ Emma had confided as she stood with Cally on Huddersfield Station, waiting for the boat train to Liverpool. ‘And it’s all thanks to you. If you’d never come for me in Bradford I’d never have met Pete; to think somebody as grand as ’im could love me an’ our Olly after all I’ve done, beggars belief.’
Cally had hugged Emma close, pleased to have finally returned the favour.
Emma got her second chance and so have I, thought Cally, as she pegged out the washing. Her mind full of good intentions, Cally emptied the wicker basket at her feet. Overhead, the sky was a clear, blue sheet. Cally wondered if somewhere in the heavens Red wa
s capturing images with his beloved cine camera. She sent up a silent prayer asking for his safe return: please God, send him back to me. I’ve learned my lesson, and for the rest of my life I’ll recognise his worth and the all-important part he plays: I love him.
The insistent ring of the telephone broke the silence in the yard. Cally hurried indoors to answer it. She snatched up the receiver. A voice she hadn’t heard for some time crackled down the line.
‘It’s me, Daisy. I’m just ringing to let you know me dad’s dead. T’funeral’s tomorrow if you want to come.’
Stunned, Cally made no reply. George was dead. The receiver slipped from her grasp and rattled against the wall, the noise bringing her back to the moment. She pulled it up by the twisted cord, Daisy’s words ‘me dad’ echoing in her mind. She wanted to shout, ‘He was my dad as well: my dad.’
‘Are you still there, Cally?’ The faint words tinkled in the receiver. She placed it to her ear.
‘I’m still here,’ she whispered, her throat choked with tears. ‘When did you say he died?’
‘Last Friday,’ Daisy replied, ‘There wa’ an accident in t’pit. They took him to Barnsley Beckett but he died t’day after.’
‘Why didn’t you ring me as soon as it happened?’ cried Cally, distraught to think she might have been with George before he died.
‘We were all that shocked we never thought, an’ then what wi’ goin’ to t’hospital, nobody remembered you till today. That’s why I’m ringin’ now.’
A knife twisted in Cally’s heart. They had forgotten she was his daughter, his first child. She felt like yelling, he loved me and I loved him, how could you forget? Instead she asked, ‘What time’s the funeral?’
*
Cally parked the car in School Road then walked under the arch and down Jackson’s Yard to number eleven. The house was packed with mourners. Roughened colliers, caps in hand, filled the small kitchen and spilled out into the rear yard, and in the parlour Annie, surrounded by women, perched on a chair by the fireside accepting condolences. She dabbed her eyes and sniffed pitifully; every inch the grieving widow. Amongst the women were some who had spurned her but now, a pit death affecting them all, old enmities were cast aside. Daisy, Bernard and Arthur hovered behind Annie’s chair, sharing the commiserations. George’s coffin was on trestles by the window.
No one paid heed to Cally as she slipped inside. Colliers’ mothers, wives and daughters, they were too busy dealing with the tragedy, each in their own way. Some had experienced the death of a loved one in a mining accident; others lived each day with the dread of it.
Cally gazed about the room, unsure what to do first. Should she go and stand by the coffin or offer Annie her sympathy.
‘Eeh, look who’s here, Annie,’ cried Lizzie Stott, ‘it’s your Cally.’
Cally stood in front of Annie and held out her hand. Annie stared stonily at her for a second or two then turned her head and addressed Bernard. ‘Go and tell the undertaker we’re ready.’
Rebuffed, Cally withdrew her hand. A woman who hadn’t witnessed Annie’s rejection called out, ‘There now, Annie, in’t that lovely? You’ve all your childer round you now your Cally’s here.’
‘She’s not mine,’ snapped Annie. ‘She never was and she never will be. She doesn’t belong to my family.’ She stood abruptly, the women standing back to let her pass then straggling out behind her.
Cally crossed the emptying room to the coffin and gazed into George’s face. The swarthy, saturnine features brought to mind an Egyptian sarcophagus, features hard as stone. Even in death his mouth had the mocking twist he had so often employed in life. Although his eyes were closed she imagined they still glittered blackly, and she wondered what he would have made of Annie’s rejection had he been aware of it. She could almost hear him saying, ‘The spiteful bitch; she never bloody alters.’
She stooped and kissed his brow, cold against her lips. ‘This life never played you fair, Dad,’ she whispered, ‘maybe the next one will. Rest in peace, I love you.’
The undertaker gave a discreet cough. ‘We’re ready to remove the deceased, miss.’ Cally stood to one side and the undertaker and his assistant moved into position, one at each end of the coffin.
‘Did you know him well?’ The undertaker raised his end of the coffin.
‘Yes. I’m his daughter.’
‘His daughter?’ Perplexed, the undertaker rested the coffin back on the trestle. ‘Then you should be in the family car.’ He bit his lip, annoyed to think he had been remiss in his duties. ‘I understood from Mrs Manfield that she only had the two lads and Daisy; she never mentioned you.’
‘She wouldn’t. I’m George’s daughter; not hers.’ Swinging on her heel, Cally left them to their business.
Out on the street she joined the procession of mourners, walking behind the hearse and the family car with Lizzie and Jimmy Stott. She asked how George had met his end.
Jimmy’s face crumpled. ‘We were rippin’ out in t’Thorncliffe seam, an’ Alfie Gough, t’deputy, told a couple o’ them bloody Bevin Boys to prop up. They were makin’ an arse o’ t’job so George went in to give ’em a hand. T’shot-firers had been down earlier on that mornin’ an’—’ Jimmy paused, choking on his words, ‘an’ they must o’ loosened this here big stone. It fell on him, poor bugger. It weighed nigh on six ton. He didn’t stand a chance.’
Cally felt faint.
‘It didn’t kill him outright though,’ said Lizzie, ‘he hung on for a day.’
‘Aye, he wa’ a tough bugger wa’ George, an’ he wa’ a bloody good collier an’ a bloody good mate.’ Jimmy spat viciously, his eyes brimming with tears.
A day, thought Cally, a day when I could have been at his side, if only someone had let me know.
After the burial Cally walked down Church Lane, alone. She wouldn’t go back to the house. As Annie had said, she wasn’t part of that family. Instead she walked on the wasteland by the ash pits for the last time. George’s gone she told the distant slag heaps, and with him all the ties that bind me to this place.
At the far side of the wasteland she rested on the same low wall they had shared the day she came from Bradford to see him. She had learned more about her father then than at any other time in her life: his love for her mother and her, his remorse at having to marry Annie. Now he was gone, but the memory of that day would linger with her forever. Walking back, past the ash pits, she thought fondly of the shelter they had so often provided in her darkest hours. Then, quickening her pace, she hurried up Jackson’s Yard, eager to return to the haven that was Copley House.
She drove out of Calthorpe thinking how peculiar life is. It’s under no obligation to give us what we expect, and we can’t change fate, she mused. Joys and sorrows come and go, and whatever life has in store I’ll make the best of it; like my mam said, we make our own happiness.
Acknowledgements
First and foremost I thank my agent, Judith Murdoch. Her sound advice and encouragement keeps me going. I am also extremely grateful to the team at HoZ/Aria for their friendly guidance, particularly my fantastic editors, Rhea Kurien, Rose Fox, Sue Lamprell and David Boxell; as usual, their sharp eyes and broad vocabularies improve any story.
As always, my sincere thanks to my son, Charles, and his wife, Martina, whose daily love and support make it all worthwhile. To my brother, John Manion, and to Paul and Annemarie Downey, June Shields and Elizabeth Rice for reading first drafts and patiently listening to me as I tell the tale. Special thanks to Helen Oldroyd for her loyal friendship and the interest she takes in my writing; she’s another good listener. To Andrew and Sharon Downey for jogging my geographical memory of West Yorkshire; to the Tolson Museum, Dalton, Huddersfield for its wealth of WW1 information; and Thomas Duffy for locally promoting my books. A huge thanks to all those who read my first novel, The Girl from the Mill, and gave me such encouraging feedback; your support is invaluable. Finally, thanks to my grandson Harry Walsh and the Downey boys, Jack, Matthew, Lew
is and Alex for making me a proud and happy grandmother.
About the Author
Born and raised in West Yorkshire, Chrissie Walsh trained to be a singer and cellist before becoming a teacher. When she married her trawler skipper husband, they moved to a little fishing village in N. Ireland. Chrissie is passionate about history and that passion and knowledge shine through in her writing.
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The Child from the Ash Pits Page 27