Christmas Past (22 page)

Now she was actually sitting on the counter trying on bonnets which tied under the chin with pretty satin ribbons, and were trimmed with rosebuds in contrasting colours.

‘What do you think?’ Mary asked the elegantly dressed middle-aged proprietress.

‘With her dark curls I would definitely say the pink,’ said Miss McCall, to Jacqueline’s dismay.

Mary had brought with her a sample of the organdie which was to be made into the Whitsuntide dress. It was the most delicate shade of blue with tiny sprigs of white flowers.

‘Ah,’ said Judith McCall. ‘Then I would suggest the blue.’

‘I like that one.’ Jacqueline pointed to a lemon one sitting on top of a hat box.

‘Oh, I don’t really think so, dear, not with blue.’

‘But I like it. That’s Caroline’s favourite colour.’

The woman glanced at Mary, who changed the subject abruptly. ‘We shall need two pairs of socks. Plain white, I think.’

‘Oh, definitely.’ Miss McCall went to a drawer and brought out two pairs of snowy white cotton socks.

‘Thank you,’ said Mary. ‘And we’ll take the blue bonnet.’

Jacqueline opened her mouth to protest but closed it again when she saw the look on her mother’s face. Mary lifted her daughter down.

‘And now it’s Alan’s turn.’ Alan, unlike his sister, hated new clothes. Mary had already made up a pair of green trousers and intended to buy a green and white checked
shirt which had caught her eye in the window. She knew she could have run one up more cheaply at home but she had been unable to find a similar pattern. She would be able to use this one to cut out
another couple for Alan for when he began school after Christmas. Miss McCall suspected what Mary was up to but was biding her time. Mrs Holmes was making quite a name for herself amongst the
locals, and having inspected some of her handiwork Miss McCall was considering offering to sell some of Mary’s garments for her. Of course, they would have to be one-off designs – Miss
McCall would never risk her reputation for exclusivity – but she prided herself on recognising good work when she saw it.

‘I’ll take this,’ her customer was saying now. ‘And socks for Alan too.’

‘I’ve just the thing.’ This time the socks Miss McCall brought out were white but with green stripes round the top.

‘There you are,’ Mary said to her son. ‘Now you’ll be all posh for the procession.’ Alan was unimpressed.

‘I do hope the weather holds,’ Miss McCall said.

Mary paid for her goods, which were placed in bags bearing Judith McCall’s name, and Alan skipped out of the door with relief.

‘Caroline doesn’t like blue,’ said Jacqueline, but Mary noticed she opened the bag to peep at the bonnet at least four times before they reached the top of the Donkey Path.

Whit Monday dawned with the sun already warm and the sky clear and cloudless. The children couldn’t wait to be dressed and Jacqueline refused to eat breakfast in her excitement, although
nothing would put Alan off his food. The children were to gather at the various churches throughout the area, and then the procession would set off, each church joining in on the way, to assemble
at the sports field where the singing would take place. St Catherine’s was the exception: the Catholic children walked alone, along the road and back again. Una said the large communal
procession was far more exciting. But first they were to go along Barker’s Row showing off their new clothes to the neighbours, who would admire the children’s apparel and place a few
coppers in any available pockets. Mary had been embarrassed last year when Una had introduced the children to the ritual but Jack did not agree that it was tantamount to begging, and pointed out
that the tradition was as old as the hills themselves.

Alan, who could now count up to five, sat down on the doorstep outside Mrs Broomsgrove’s and became more and more confused as his pennies amounted to more than he could tally. He consoled
himself by counting the threepenny bits, knowing that each of those would buy one large cornet from the ice-cream man.

Jacqueline held her pennies tightly in her hand and wondered where Tittle Harry was wandering off to, down in the direction of St George’s Road. She called his name but he trotted
determinedly on his way. Jacqueline went after him. He had been lost once before and the whole family had spent a couple of hours searching for him until he was found sleeping inside Mrs
Broomsgrove’s washing basket, curled up amongst the newly laundered sheets. The woman had almost suffered a seizure at the thought of a few dog hairs and had washed the whole lot again.

Tittle Harry wandered across the road and climbed on to the low drystone wall overlooking the river, where it emerged from beneath the wall to flow in the direction of the Donkey Wood.

When Jacqueline reached the wall and looked over, she saw that the spaniel had jumped down and was on his way to the water. Jacqueline called his name, afraid he would drown if he reached the
river. She wondered what to do. The wall was far too deep for her to get down. Then she noticed the heap of black pebbles piled against the wall, and lowered herself over the topping stones before
letting herself fall the last few feet.

Then, horror of horrors, she found herself sinking down until she was waist high in the pile, which was not pebbles but soot from a newly swept chimney. The soot rose in a cloud, covering her
dress, her face and catastrophically her lovely new bonnet. She began to wail and Tittle Harry ran in her direction, barking as he came face to face with the black figure. Jacqueline didn’t
go over the wall this time but followed the path to the turnstile. Up Barker’s Row she went, the dog circling her then backing away, not sure that he liked this screaming, soot-coated
Jacqueline. Everyone in Barker’s Row came out to stare, unable to believe the immaculate little girl could have changed into the grotesque object which was yelling now fit to awaken the
dead.

Mary didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, or where to begin cleaning up her daughter. She untied the bonnet and took off the once beautiful dress. Even the underclothes were black, so she
removed them too, then lifted her naked daughter up into the stone sink in the corner of the kitchen, and began to scrub the yelling child as best she could. Jack watched helplessly, then went
upstairs for a clean dress and underwear. Jacqueline cried louder at the sight of them.

‘I don’t want to wear them old things. I want my new dress and my new bonnet and my new shiny shoes.’

‘You’ll have to wear your pink dress,’ Mary stated. ‘It’s almost new; nobody will know.’

Jack got out the blacking and brushes and cleaned up the shoes.

‘I don’t want to go in the parade in these old things.’

‘It’s too late for the parade. They’ll have set off from St Catherine’s ten minutes ago,’ Mary said.

Jacqueline seemed to cheer up at that. ‘I didn’t want to walk with them anyway,’ she said. ‘I wanted to walk with Pam.’

Jack began to grin. ‘I don’t think Father would like that,’ he said. ‘A Catholic marching with the Sally Army.’ He lifted his daughter down and wrapped her in a
towel, warm from the fire guard. ‘Never mind, sweetheart, you’ll look just as good in your pink, and we’ll go and stand at the bottom of the Donkey Path. From there you’ll
be able to wave to our Una, and Pam, and everybody else in the procession. Besides, if you’re not in the parade we’ll be first at the ice-cream cart.’

Alan’s face lit up. He hadn’t fancied marching anywhere, and besides, now he would be able to see the band. ‘But what about our dinner?’ he worried.

‘Well, I’m sure you won’t starve, just because you can’t go to Sunday school for a potted meat sandwich and a bun. I’ll tell you what, we’ll all go to Grandma
Holmes’s for our dinners. And up to the cricket field afterwards for the games as usual.’ He caught sight of Mary, adjusting her new hat in the mirror, and at the sight of her thanked
God that he wasn’t on night shift for another two weeks.

Tittle Harry chewed another flower off the blue bonnet.

‘Oh, you naughty boy,’ Jacqueline cried as he tussled with it under the table.

‘Never mind,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll buy you a new one when the shop opens after the holiday.’

‘Can I have a yellow one?’

‘Any colour you like,’ Jack said. Jacqueline jumped with delight.

He’s going to spoil that child, Mary thought. It’s a good thing it’s Whitsuntide or she’d have had a jolly good hiding. Then they set off down the Donkey Path to watch
the Whit Monday walk.

The pile of cold meat sandwiches was colossal and the jar of pickled onions opened ready for the makeshift dinner. Most of the men had called at the miners’ club for a
couple of drinks and the wives and children were already gathered round the table. Grandma Holmes had pulled out a couple of drawers in the dresser and placed a cushion on top of each to create two
extra seats for the little ones. She mashed the tea and poured it thick and strong into the best china cups. There was nothing she enjoyed more than seeing all her family together, and this was an
extra special occasion because Harry was back amongst them, and almost his old self again. Sally was now a regular visitor and although the Holmeses suspected he wasn’t quite what her parents
had hoped for, Sally had given them no option but to accept him. At least they admitted he was a likeable chap, and seemed to be good for their daughter.

At the table Great-aunt Edie and Great-aunt Nellie, who had walked several miles with the great uncles for their annual visit, were already tucking into the sandwiches. Jacqueline couldn’t
help but laugh as Auntie Edie sweetened her tea with salt from the huge open salt pot instead of sugar. Then Auntie Nellie stabbed a pickled onion and sent it flying into the air, to land with a
plop in Auntie Margaret’s tea. Jacqueline liked the great-aunts, who reminded her of Cissie and Susie, two of Farmer Barker’s hens, mainly because they always wore brown hats trimmed
with feathers, and seemed to nod their heads each time they spoke. Alan was also glad to see the great-aunts, who seemed to have a never-ending supply of mint humbugs in their large, closely
guarded handbags. Grandma Holmes said Great-aunt Nellie always carried her last will and testament in her bag, and never let it out of her sight for a minute, but Jacqueline didn’t know what
a last will and testament was. She would ask her dad when they got home. If it was something very special perhaps they could buy Mammy one for Christmas.

The men could be heard long before they came into view. Grandma Holmes said they were hypocrites to be singing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ when everyone knew what their views on
religion were, but seeing as it was Whit Monday she didn’t intend risking a discussion on the clergy and the afterlife, so she let their hymn singing pass without comment.

After dinner the whole family made their way up to the field, which was already crowded in anticipation of the races and games. Jack was chosen for the cricket team and Mary organised a game of
skipping for the women and children. Others were lining up for the obstacle race and the older folk made themselves comfortable on the grandstand to watch the fun and wish they were twenty years
younger.

It wasn’t until much later that Mary noticed that Jack was out of the game and went in search of him.

‘Have you seen your brother, Harry?’ she called. Harry looked a little uncomfortable as he denied having done so. ‘Er, not for some time,’ he said. ‘He was bowled
out early on.’

Mary smiled and circled the field in search of her husband. Perhaps he had taken the children for refreshments. She went towards the pavilion, then stopped. There, stretched out on the grass,
was Jack. By his side was a young woman. Mary couldn’t quite place her, but had seen her before, noticing how attractive the girl was, and today with the sun playing in her long fair hair she
looked even more beautiful. She was holding a buttercup beneath Jack’s chin and the pair were laughing, with eyes only for each other. Mary was at a loss what to do. Should she go to them,
break up the conversation, or walk away? Her stomach was churning. Had it been Harry she could have understood it, but not Jack, please God, not Jack. She looked round for the children. They were
watching the Punch and Judy show; she heard their cries ‘He’s behind you’ as if in a daze.

Please not Jack. Then she questioned herself, ‘Why not Jack?’ He was a hot-blooded man, wasn’t he, a highly sexed man, until recently. She was shocked when she realised it had
been a couple of weeks now. Last week had been the morning shift but even then she had stayed up till all hours finishing off the orders for Whitsuntide, children’s dresses, a suit for Mrs
Baraclough; it had been early morning by the time she crept into bed beside her sound asleep husband. And the week before he had been on the afternoon shift. Why, she couldn’t remember the
last time she’d snuggled up with Jack for a cuddle. What a fool she had been. She felt a stirring in her loins and turned in the direction of Jack and the girl. He sat up in a rush as she
approached.

‘Oh, there you are.’ Mary fixed a smile on her face. ‘Do you mind if I reclaim my husband?’ she said pleasantly to the girl. ‘I think it’s time for
tea.’

Jack jumped up and brushed the grass from his best suit. ‘I was just coming, love,’ he stammered.

‘Good,’ said Mary, taking his hand. ‘The fresh air has made me quite hungry, and all that skipping seems to have been good for me. I’m quite looking forward to an early
night. How about you?’

Jack grinned. ‘Ready when you are,’ he said. Then they went hand in hand to find the children.

It was only after the early night that Jack began to analyse Mary’s lack of concern at discovering him and Joan Edwards frolicking on the grass. The flirting had all been
on Joan’s part and meant nothing to Jack, he being a little tipsy after a few beers, but Mary hadn’t been aware of that. If only she’d looked slightly upset, or ranted and raved
at him afterwards. He told himself it was good that his wife trusted him, but that gave him little consolation. In fact for someone who was supposed to love him, he considered it bloody unnatural
not to be just a tiny little bit jealous.