Christmas Past (17 page)

Mary began to look more cheerful, just as Jacqueline came running in asking if they were ready. Mary put the flower heads to float in a glass of water.

‘Can Alan and me buy a windwill?’ the little girl asked.

‘Windmill,’ corrected Mary. ‘I’ll see, if you behave.’

‘Win win, win win,’ Alan chanted.

‘All right, all right, you can have one too.’

‘And a windmill for Una,’ Jacqueline insisted.

‘And one for Una.’ Mary laughed. ‘I think Jack’s right,’ she said. ‘I don’t think we could keep the kids in windmills if I had my way.’

‘Thank God for that,’ said Marjory. ‘Come on, or our Una’ll be home from school whilst we’re still at the market.’

St George’s Road ran for about half a mile along the bottom of Barker’s Row, curving down at both ends to join the main road deep in the valley. Though the road was
lined with houses, some terraced and some large semis, the hillside lower down was tree covered, known as the Donkey Wood. It was through the Donkey Wood that Mary, Marjory and the children took a
short cut, through a turnstile gate and down a steep cobbled path.

No one was certain how the name of the wood originated. Some said it was because of the stream which ran underneath the cellars of Barker’s Row, emerging in the wood to meet other streams
and form the shape of a key before gushing down the hillside to join the River Don down by the works. But Jacqueline chose to believe that a donkey lived in the wood, and hoped some day it would
appear. Until then, she was content, as today, to run on ahead down the Donkey Path, searching for the Donkey Stone, a flat square stone on which some unknown person had carved a donkey many years
ago.

When they reached the market the queue at the biscuit stall stretched almost to the gate. Mary joined it, hoping the square tins containing wafer, arrowroot and other tempting varieties would
not be empty by the time her turn came. Marjory took her place at the sweet stall, where she intended to buy a bag of mixed boiled sweets, pear drops, humbugs and mint rock, which she would make
last until next month’s ration.

Jacqueline waited patiently, watching the comings and goings of the market traders. She was fascinated by the greengrocer juggling with four large potatoes, even as she tried to keep her eyes on
the corner stall where brightly coloured windmills spun gaily on their sticks, fearful lest they should all be sold before her mother was served at the biscuit counter.

She could see old Misery’s stall at the far side where socks of all sizes hung on the wooden canopy, alongside pants and stockings. Old Misery, according to Auntie Marjory, had a face as
long as Woodhead tunnel and Jacqueline watched to see if he knew how to smile. She also hung on to Alan’s pushchair, fearful lest old Misery’s wife should come and try to buy her
brother again. She would never forget the first time they wheeled him here in his pram and the woman came to look at him. ‘Now then,’ she had said, ‘how about selling me your new
baby? I’ll give you a silver sixpence for him.’ She had laughed loudly when Jacqueline started to cry, and the little girl had never liked the woman since. She supposed old Misery
didn’t have much to smile about married to her.

She looked up to where her mam was laughing at a joke made by the biscuit man. For the first time in ages her mam looked happy. Jacqueline gave Alan a kiss and knew that all was well with her
world.

Apart from the time a doodlebug swooped down low over the hillside with a screech almost loud enough to awaken the dead, causing Grandma Holmes to jump out of bed and stub her
toe on the warming brick, and the time the row of old stone cottages was bombed early in 1941, Millington didn’t fare too badly in the war. There was an attempt to destroy the reservoir at
Longfield which caused havoc in the village, not that there were any casualties, but most of the dwellings suffered broken windows and a fall of soot, which meant that an extra spring-clean had
been necessary. Not a welcome disruption except to the children who embraced any occurrence which meant a holiday from school.

It was, however, with even greater joy that the announcement of Victory in Europe was received, and on Barker’s Row it was decided that a street party would be arranged as part of the
celebrations. It was to be held in the old washhouses, which Mary and Marjory began to clean out without delay. Rations were pooled and some of the people in St George’s Road were invited to
join in. Even the staid middle-aged couple in the house between Mary and Marjory offered to contribute a few goodies and the use of their crockery, and astounded everyone by turning up with a
couple of chairs to join in the revelry. Mrs Broomsgrove suffered from a phobia which caused her to spend all her days cleaning everything over and over again. Sometimes her doorstep would have
been scrubbed two or three times by breakfast time, and it was washed again each time anyone walked across the flags. After that the yard broom and bucket would have to be scoured, and lastly even
the scrubbing brush. It was rumoured that even the coal scuttle was rinsed every time it was emptied, and even Mr Broomsgrove looked scrubbed almost to the bone, poor man. Nevertheless, they
attended the party without a tablet of soap in sight.

When darkness descended on the town the menfolk, who had been far from idle during the day, set alight a magnificent bonfire on the spare ground adjoining Barker’s Row. None of the
children had ever seen a bonfire and the little ones had no idea what to expect, but as the flames reached upwards to join the rose-tinged glow from other fires across the valley they were caught
up in the excitement and danced with merriment, joining in the games of the older children. A bullrope was brought out and the parents skipped alongside their offspring, to the accompanying strains
of ‘Roll Out The Barrel’, and ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’.

It was almost midnight when the news reached Barker’s Row that celebrations were in full swing down in the yard at the steel works, and the whole party made their way in a long line of the
conga down the Donkey Path.

Little Alan, high on his father’s shoulders, watched the festivities wide-eyed, and Mary and Jacqueline joined the line which was wending its way, like a trail of ants, laughing and
singing, down to the works.

The music could be heard across the valley, and everyone who possessed a musical instrument of any description seemed to be part of the entertainment. The Lord Mayor, high on a makeshift
platform, was organising everyone willing to do a turn, and a number of would-be comedians who had already consumed a great deal of liquid refreshment were taking the stage. Una nudged Jacqueline
and giggled at some of the jokes, which were rather crude, but Jacqueline didn’t understand most of them. She did however laugh at the man in the lady’s dress and make-up. He had a pair
of balloons pushed down his bodice, and she thought it hilarious when his partner burst them one at a time.

The show seemed to go on for hours, and finished off with the vicar leading hymn-singing, a prayer of thanksgiving, and finally a rousing rendition of ‘Land Of Hope And Glory’ and
‘God Save The King’.

Jacqueline couldn’t understand why her mother was crying, but when she looked round she noticed that many others in the crowd were crying too. She couldn’t know of the many men and
boys who would never come home. She couldn’t know that until there was peace in the Pacific tears would continue to be shed, and she knew nothing of Tom Downing.

She watched her father shift the weight of her sleeping brother, and circle her mother with his free arm in an effort to comfort her. She thought how silly grown-ups were, to be crying on such a
happy night as this, and she knew that even if she lived to be as old as Grandad Holmes she would remember this night for ever.

George and Millie Barker, up at the farm, took a liking to the little Holmes girl, with her large brown eyes and shock of dark bouncing curls. She was all they would have
wished for in a daughter. Sadly, their only child Charles, who was now ten, was what the locals described as not a full shilling. Some said the child had been a victim of complications at birth,
and blamed the midwife for refusing to call the doctor, but others old enough to remember the boy’s grandparents said the condition ran in the family. Nevertheless Charles was a happy child,
strong as a horse and worth his weight in gold to his parents. He could lift a hundredweight sack of potatoes on to the cart with no trouble at all, and seemed to be almost able to communicate with
the livestock, knowing instinctively when one of the horses was under the weather, and proving to be the only one able to control the bad-tempered old boar. Yet the child could neither read, write,
nor even speak in proper sentences. Until Jacqueline Holmes came along, only one other child had ever been able to make sense of anything Charlie was trying to say, a young girl on Potter’s
Row. Jacqueline didn’t seem to notice anything different about the boy. It was the older children who upset him, delighting in calling after him whenever they passed the farm, ‘Charlie
Charlie chuck chuck chuck, went to bed with three white ducks.’

Charles would naturally lose his temper, and on one occasion he retaliated by throwing a stone which gashed the head of a departing youth. When the local bobby was called all hell broke loose
between George Barker and the lad’s father – until little Jacqueline intervened.

‘It was his fault,’ she shouted, ‘he was tormenting Charlie. You ought to smack his bottom, didn’t he, Mr Barker?’ The sight of the skinny little girl with the
flashing eyes waving her fist at the scowling, bandaged youth stopped the men in their tracks, and suddenly Constable Jones started to laugh. This only made Jacqueline even more angry. She stamped
her foot in its black shiny Wellington boot, turned red in the face, and, sounding exactly like Grandad Holmes, cried ‘If he was my little boy he would get his arse tanned.’

This was too much for the feuding men, who suddenly began to roar with laughter. The policeman, almost overcome by hysterics by this time, controlled himself for a moment and stood to attention.
He looked at the little girl and said seriously, ‘Madam, I’m inclined to agree with you.’

The boy with the gashed head backed away from the glowering bobby and began to howl loudly, ‘My head hurts, my head hurts.’

His father, now in control of himself, took him by the collar and lifted him off his feet. ‘It’ll not be the only thing that hurts when I get you home, yer mardy bugger. Yon little
lass has more guts in her little finger than you have in yer whole bloody body.’ Then he marched his son through the yard, out of the gate and down the lane.

The policeman rocked back on his heels and looked at Charlie, cowering behind his father. ‘I don’t think you’ll have any more bother from that quarter, Charlie lad, my owd
son,’ he said. His face broke into a grin. ‘Eeh, George lad, I don’t know about thee but that’s the best laugh I’ve had for ages.’

‘Aye,’ said George Barker. ‘To look at her you wouldn’t think candyfloss’d melt in her mouth, would yer?’ He started to chuckle again. ‘Come
inside,’ he said. ‘I’ve a bit of ’ome-fed bacon tha can ’ave, providing tha doesn’t let on to anybody.’

‘ Yer can count on me, George.’ The bobby smiled. ‘But I don’t know about this little miss.’ But Jacqueline was already busy collecting the eggs with a smiling
Charlie.

Mary was none too pleased when she heard about the incident across at the farm. Jacqueline was the centre of attention for a few days and though Mary admired her kindness to Charlie, she was
determined her children would grow up speaking correctly, and was furious when she heard about the language. She knew where Jacqueline had picked it up, and much as she loved her father-in-law she
didn’t like him swearing in front of the children. Jack on the other hand thought it was hilarious. ‘Even Constable Jones couldn’t help laughing,’ he pointed out. ‘In
fact he congratulated me on having such a bonny little lass.’

‘He would,’ retorted Mary. ‘By what I’ve heard he can swear like a trooper himself.’

‘Oh, come on, love, there are worse things in life than a bit of bad language.’

‘Maybe, but my kids are not going to use it. There’s enough cursing going on in the family with your father.’

‘All right, all right, I’ll have a word with him,’ Jack said. But they both knew it would be a waste of time, and it wasn’t until Jack had gone on night shift and Mary
was alone in the privacy of their bed that she began to chuckle to herself, as she imagined her slip of a daughter standing up to three burly men. For someone not yet five Jacqueline was certainly
a character, and Mary couldn’t help thinking that she and Jack were going to have then work cut out if they were to keep their daughter under control. Oh well, they could only do then best, and
she was damned if she was going to upset Grandad Holmes, who idolised his grandchildren, just for the sake of a few swear words.

Grandma Holmes pegged the last bit into the canvas and twisted the wooden cog on the frame, turning the half-finished rug on to the next row. The room was cosy with the glow
from the fire and the flicker of gas light.

‘Can we start the diamond in the middle now, Grandma?’ Una asked as she worked at the other end of the frame.

‘Not quite, love. Another three rows and then we can.’ Mrs Holmes looked round at her grandchildren, all so beautiful yet so different. Una, tall for her age and blossoming already
into a little beauty, was the lively one, forever contorting her body into the splits, doing handstands, or showing off the steps from her dancing lessons. She was the one who always came first in
the school sports, landed the lead in the Christmas play, and was invited to every birthday party because she was such fun to have around.

Then there was Jacqueline, so much like her father in looks that each time the child gazed at her with her large brown eyes her grandmother was reminded of the years when her own children were
small. Jacqueline was a character and no mistake, and seemed happier in the company of animals than humans. She could occupy herself for hours on end with a drawing book and a tin of paints. The
magic paint books she had enjoyed colouring in with water when she was Alan’s age were now considered babyish, and she preferred drawing her own pictures and colouring them in herself.