Christmas Past (21 page)

After a few weeks, in which Miss Robinson realised the little Holmes girl’s potential, it was decided that all the girls would knit a dishcloth and the boys make objects with cardboard and
glue. Most of the girls, after being shown how to cast on the stitches by winding the thick cotton yarn round their thumbs, soon got the hang of it, and were knitting away after one or two lessons.
Unfortunately knitting to Jacqueline was a nightmare, owing mainly to the fact that she was left-handed. Pam, seeing her friend attempt the task, decided to help whilst Miss Robinson’s
attention was elsewhere, and soon the wool was in a hopeless tangle.

Jacqueline became more and more panic-stricken as the dishcloth, nothing more than a mass of dropped stitches and knots, became impossible to untangle, and at the end of the lesson she smuggled
the whole miserable mess into her shoulder bag, which normally contained nothing except a clean hanky and her dinner money on a Monday morning. She whispered to Pam that her mammy would make it
right, but Pam began to wish her friend had let Miss Robinson sort out the mess. Miss Robinson would have had to be blind not to have noticed the two pairs of huge wooden needles protruding from
the shoulder bag.

‘Jacqueline Holmes, come back here,’ she roared, as the two girls sneaked guiltily past her desk. The whole class came back, inquisitive to find out if cleverdick Jacqueline had at
last done something wrong.

‘Open your bag,’ Miss Robinson snapped, and Jacqueline felt the blood rush to her face.

‘Please Miss,’ she stammered, ‘I want to leave the room.’ It was the expression everyone used for going to the lavatory.

‘You’ll go when I say so.’ Miss Robinson came down from her desk, looming like a menacing monster over the scared little girl. Pam clung tighter to her friend’s hand.

‘Please Miss,’ she volunteered, ‘our knitting’s all tangled up.’

‘You speak when you’re spoken to. Give me the dishcloth,’ she demanded. Jacqueline handed over the knitting to the woman, the work slipping from the needles as she did so.

‘And what, may I ask, do you call this, girl?’ Miss Robinson’s eyes blazed with anger and Jacqueline could see a mass of pimples and a few black hairs on the woman’s chin
as the face came closer. She began to cry and suddenly a warm stream of urine began to seep from her navy blue knickers and run down her legs to the floor.

‘I couldn’t help it. I told you I wanted to leave the room,’ she sobbed. ‘Besides, I was only taking our knitting home for my mammy to mend.’

A small boy in the watching crowd suddenly said in a whisper loud enough for the whole class to hear, ‘Jacqueline Holmes has peed her knickers.’

Miss Robinson, exasperated now beyond all reason, screamed, ‘Get out the lot of you this minute.’

Pam began to cry too, and then tried to explain. ‘She can’t help it. It’s not her fault her hands are back to front.’

Miss Robinson suddenly saw the funny side of the child’s remark. She pursed her lips in an effort to stifle the laughter which was threatening to crack her normally dour countenance, then
said, ‘Go home, both of you. I’ll begin a new dishcloth for you, Pamela, in the next handicraft lesson, and you, Jacqueline, if you find the knitting too difficult, may join the boys
with their modelling.’

Jacqueline felt a wave of relief wash over her and stared open mouthed.

‘Well, go home then, child, and don’t wait until the last minute in future before asking to leave the room.’

The two girls scurried out and rushed to the cloakroom before the woman changed her mind and brought out the ruler, or worse still the cane from behind her desk.

Miss Robinson found a cloth to remove all traces of the accident and suddenly admitted to herself that she would have objected to the child’s being excused anyway, so close to home time.
She really must try to be more tolerant, especially of the little Holmes girl who had the makings of a scholar, while her friend seemed to have the makings of a comedienne. She chuckled to herself
and popped the hopelessly tangled knitting in the waste-paper basket, guessing the cleaning woman would probably retrieve it, being blessed no doubt with enough patience to unwind and reuse the
yarn. That was unless the woman was unfortunate enough to have hands which were back to front.

The headmistress was passing Miss Robinson’s room on the way from her office when she heard a sound she had never heard before. She came back, unable to believe her ears. It was true. Miss
Robinson was actually laughing.

Mary decided it was time to discuss Caroline with her daughter and did so the next time Jacqueline asked Caroline which bedtime story she would like.

‘Jacqueline, I know Caroline has chosen you for her very best friend and you can see her. That’s because you’re a very special little girl, but no one else can see her. You
might see more people like Caroline one day. I’ve seen some myself. But as it’s a special thing it’s nice to keep it just between the two of you and not share her with anybody
else. They might think it’s strange if you’re speaking to someone they can’t see.’

‘All right. She gets me in trouble with Miss Robinson anyway. You can go away, Caroline, if you like. I’ve got Pam for a friend now.’

Mary smiled. ‘Don’t forget, only special people have friends no one else can see.’ She sighed with relief. She didn’t expect Caroline to be banished immediately, but it
was a start. Jacqueline yawned and closed her eyes, bedtime story forgotten.

Ada Banwell inspected her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. The bruise on her cheekbone had faded from an angry reddish purple to a jaundiced yellow, and her lip was
almost down to its normal size. Considering the injuries her husband had inflicted on Harry Holmes she knew she was fortunate to have escaped so lightly.

She was growing her hair back to its original colour and at present it was an assortment of shades, ranging from grey at the temples to brown roots and blonde ends. No wonder Harry had found
himself a new girl, twenty years younger than herself. He deserved the chance of a good marriage and Ada had no regrets. The affair had been sensational while it lasted, and besides, he had given
her the child she had longed for throughout her marriage.

After her husband’s drunken attack on her, Ada had managed to lure the sailor back into her bed, and all that remained to be done now was to post off a letter containing news of the
forthcoming event, to the man whose already inflated ego would no doubt swell to bursting point as he boasted of his wife’s condition. Ada herself was elated. After all the years of hoping,
and suffering the accusations of being the barren one, she now knew it was her husband’s fault that their dreams of a child had for so long been unfulfilled. Not that he would ever know. It
was a secret only she and Harry Holmes would share, and though rumours would no doubt spread, and the gossips would have a field day, no one would ever be able to prove that the child was not a
premature result of the Christmas leave.

Ada was content at last. No more brash clothing or frequenting the Sun – from now on she was a respectable married mother-to-be, and the years of loneliness as a regular marine’s
wife were almost at an end. She patted her bloated stomach. All the gossipmongers in the world weren’t going to be allowed to destroy the joy her child would bring. She smiled as she slipped
into her nightie. Ada had been a perfect lover over the years; now she was about to become a perfect mother.

St George’s Road boasted only three shops, the fish shop, the off-licence and Baraclough’s, which was supposed to be a butcher’s and grocer’s, but sold
almost everything under the sun. Mr Baraclough was his own perfect advert, having at least three chins and a rosy full-moon face. His blue and white butcher’s smock was clean on each morning,
and the bench in the corner where he cut the meat was scrubbed every evening so the wood was almost white.

Mr Baraclough could change character at the drop of a hat, or the swing of a cleaver to be more precise, adopting a posh accent for customers such as Mrs Davenport or Dr Sellers, dropping
everything to give them his full attention so they were made to feel like VIPs. They were always served the crustiest loaf of bread or the tenderest joint and so charming was his manner that they
never noticed the knack he had of throwing the merchandise on to the scale with enough force to weigh it down to the bottom, lifting it off, and wrapping it all in one action. It would often be a
couple of ounces light, but his rich customers never questioned the jovial shopkeeper.

On the other hand Mr Baraclough was never happier than when he could be his normal self, and then his broad Yorkshire accent would surface, so that his poorest customers could enjoy a good
gossip and a risque joke or two. He was always good for a bit of credit towards the end of the week, when the bill would be entered in a tattered old accounts book which was kept beneath the
counter. Being something of a Robin Hood, he would pop a free cow heel, a bacon hock which was beginning to turn or a bag of day or two old fancy cakes in with the orders for his worst-off
customers, and many a good meal would be enjoyed by the poorest families thanks to his generosity.

Just inside the shop door, next to the Rinso and the Lifebuoy, was a noticeboard on which customers could display small adverts free of charge. Mr Baraclough found a drawing pin as Mary produced
a small slip of paper.

‘What are we selling today then, Mary lass?’ he enquired.

‘Only my services, Mr Baraclough.’ Mary smiled.

‘Oh, taking up in business, are yer, lass? Don’t let my missus see this or she’ll be wanting another new frock.’ He laughed.

Mrs Baraclough came out from the back. ‘Is he talking about me again?’ she said, smiling at Mary.

‘Mary’s taking up dressmaking, love,’ he said.

‘Well, if the dresses yon little lass wears are anything to go by she should do very well,’ his wife said.

‘I’m not doing too badly already,’ Mary said proudly. ‘I’ve even made curtains for Mrs Davenport this week. The trouble is I’ve no idea what to
charge.’

‘Aye, well, don’t go underselling yerself. Start as yer mean to go on. An hour’s work deserves an hour’s pay, and don’t you forget it.’

‘That’s what Jack says.’ Mary helped herself to a bottle of dandelion and burdock. ‘Can I have half an ounce of thin twist, please?’ She placed the bottle on the
counter.

‘By, but it must be heartbreaking going down the pit this weather. We don’t get many days like this.’ Mr Baraclough looked out at the bright sunshine.

‘I know,’ said Mary. ‘Our Jacqueline’s changed into white ankle socks, though I think it’s a bit early yet.’

‘They’re all alike. The first warm day and they think it’s summer. Well, let’s hope they’re right and it keeps like this for Whitsuntide.’

Mrs Baraclough was weighing up two pound bags of sugar, meticulously placing an empty bag on the scale with the weights, so making sure that the bags contained exactly the right amount. One
never knew when the weights and measures man was going to pop in, and unlike her husband she wasn’t willing to take any risks.

Mary paid her bill and went home, wondering if she’d done the right thing by starting to advertise. It had been Gladys’s suggestion, after Mary had run up a pair of pillow cases for
one of her neighbours.

‘You should start up in business, Mary. Your needlework is first class and there are always people wanting good quality garments, particularly for weddings.’

Mary had laughed but had thought about it afterwards, then decided nothing ventured nothing gained.

Jack wished secretly that Gladys had kept her mouth shut. The confounded machine had already taken over the front room, and the continuous droning noise was beginning to affect his nerves.
Besides, until he had bought the thing Mary had always been eager to join him in bed for an hour when he was on night shift, if Alan happened to have an afternoon nap. Now he was lucky if he got
chance of a quick cuddle in the mornings, before Jacqueline had to be woken for school.

There was no doubt about it, the bloody machine was coming between him and his love life. He thought about what his father was always threatening. ‘I’m going to put my foot down with
a firm hand.’ He grinned to himself. The old man had about as much chance of laying down the law to his wife as Jack had to Mary, for if she made up her mind to do something neither Jack nor
the devil himself would stop her doing it. Still, he did miss a bit of a cuddle in the afternoon, and now she had gone and bloody advertised.

Aye, thought Jack, reasonable to the customer perhaps, but what about me?

Mary was quite oblivious of Jack’s inner thoughts and only conscious that the biscuit barrel used as her piggy bank was becoming heavier. Every penny she earned from her sewing went into
the barrel, and her aim was to save for a holiday with her parents. Jack was also halfway towards being able to afford the holiday and was already planning things for the last week in July and the
first in August.

At first it had been meant to be a surprise for Mary and the children, who had never seen their maternal grandparents or aunts and uncles, though the wedding day photographs had familiarised the
children with Mary’s family, and presents were exchanged regularly. Jack had booked two caravans for the works holiday weeks on the east coast, after arranging with Mick O’Connor by
letter that the two families would meet at the coast. But Mary, becoming suspicious of the communication, had wheedled out the secret, and was now working harder than ever, intent upon making the
holiday a memorable one for all concerned.

But first there was Whitsuntide, and that in itself was a source of excitement for Jacqueline and Alan.

Jacqueline was sitting high on the counter in Miss Judith McCall’s, which was the most exclusive ladies’ shop outside the city. The little girl had often pressed her nose up to the
glass, admiring the display of ladies’ wear in one window and children’s in the other. She was fascinated, not so much by the garments as by the colour schemes. She had already noticed
there were never more than two colours in the displays at any one time, and had noted mentally how this added to the effect, rather than the hotch-potch of colours mixed together in the Co-op.