Christmas Past (6 page)

‘Oh, Tom, it’s beautiful. But I can’t let you buy it – you can’t afford it.’

‘Who says I can’t? I’ve never been one to throw my money around, and anyway there’ll be nothing else to spend it on where I’m going. We’ll take it.’ He
turned to the assistant, who visibly relaxed then uncertainly told him the price.

Tom fished for his wallet and counted out the money, then placed his arm round Mary’s waist and led her outside. He drew her towards him and searched her face closely, hoping to imprint
the loveliness of her deep within his memory, knowing it would be a long time before he saw her again.

‘I love yer, Mary, never forget that. Whatever happens, however long I’m away, I love yer.’

Then he kissed her, right there in the street.

Suddenly she wanted to cry. Sadness swept over her, and than a sudden coldness, as though something terrible was about to happen. She clung to Tom, unwilling to release him. He gave her a final
squeeze and then smiled down at her.

‘Come on, love,’ he said. ‘We should be celebrating instead of standing here with faces as long as fiddles.’ He threw his kitbag on his back. ‘We’ve just time
for a cup of tea.’

They set off in search of the station refreshment room. ‘We should be drinking champagne instead of this stuff,’ he joked, when they were finally sitting at a table. ‘It tastes
more like washing-up water than tea.’

Mary forced herself to smile, weeping inside, knowing that in another twenty minutes he would be on the train. How long would it be before she saw this beloved man again?

Longfield might have been immune from the war. Only Tom and one other young man had been of an age to enlist. The older men were either working their own land or holding key
positions in the steel mills and could not be spared. In Sheffield, women were recruited by the hospital to replace the men who had joined up, and the doctor was full of praise for them as they
learned to drive vans and ambulances in preparation for the inevitable attack. Dr Roberts was rarely home now until late and to Mary the atmosphere of the house seemed to have changed.

At first Tom’s letters came frequently and then in April they suddenly ceased, leaving Mary anxiously awaiting news. She redoubled her efforts both indoors and out. The garden was turned
over, the outbuildings whitewashed and the house spring-cleaned, and still Mary was left with a useless feeling. In the end she reluctantly revealed to Gladys her need to be doing something
worthwhile.

‘Perhaps I ought to go home and find a job there,’ she said. ‘I know I’ve been treated like a daughter by you and Dr Roberts, but I don’t feel it would be right for
me to take an outside job whilst I’m living here. After all, you only took me in in the first place as a servant.’

Gladys, who had half expected something like this to happen after Tom’s departure, chose her words with care.

‘Look, my love,’ she said, ‘maybe we did take you on to help in the house, but that’s all changed now. To us you are a daughter, and this is your home for as long as you
want it. If you’d be happier doing some kind of war work then go ahead, so long as you come home each night. There’s not a lot to do in the house at present. You’ve kept it like a
new pin, and now young Cyril Downing’s helping out a bit after school with the poultry and the garden we’re well organised, as you know. Why don’t you ask Rowland about doing
something at the hospital?’

Mary considered that possibility, but found herself cringing at the thought of the hospital atmosphere. Instead, she discussed with Bessie the idea of going into the steel works at Millington;
both Tom’s sisters worked there and apart from the five-mile bicycle ride there and back they seemed happy enough.

Gladys didn’t much care for the idea. She would hardly see Mary if they put her on shift work, and the long journey would mean a ten-hour day. She discussed Mary’s plan with Rowland,
anxious that the closed-in factory atmosphere might not be good for her.

Rowland had been worried about Mary for some weeks. The girl hadn’t been herself since Tom’s departure. He had found her at the station buffet sobbing her heart out and although she
had bravely tried to hide her tears he had taken her in his arms, and just like a father encouraged her to cry out her grief. Afterwards she had seemed calm enough, but he thought now it might be a
good thing for her to get amongst some young company.

‘Well, I don’t like it at all,’ Gladys fretted. ‘What if her health deteriorates again?’

‘We can keep an eye on her,’ Rowland said. ‘Better a bit of hard work than a nervous condition. Besides, I have a notion that if she doesn’t do something to occupy her
mind she might take it into her head to go home.’

Gladys had also been afraid that that might happen, feeling that if she did she might decide to stay now that Tom wasn’t here. The offer of the fare to Newcastle was still open, but Gladys
silently prayed that she wouldn’t accept.

Going home was the last thing Mary wanted. Not only did she consider Moorland House her home now, but she needed to be near Tom’s family, on hand in case any news arrived. Even so she
missed her own family and felt rather guilty that she hadn’t written for some weeks, so she decided to make up for it with a long letter.

Mary finished off with a row of kisses and placed a ten shilling note inside the letter. She addressed the envelope to her mother, knowing that if her father opened it the hard-earned money
would be handed over the bar of the nearest public house.

The next day Mary posted her letter in Lower Longfield. Since rationing had begun she had been collecting the groceries from the village shop, enjoying the walk when the weather was fine. It had
been a hard winter but now the trees were in bud and fluffy pussy willows flourished in the hedgerow. Broken reflections danced on the reservoir and daffodils waved in the spring breeze.

Mary loved this place where Tom and she had walked, huddled together from the biting wind, singing in harmony and laughing when a huge brown cow had startled them with a long loud moooo. She
also loved the village shop, where Mrs Poppleton weighed up the sugar into blue bags, twelve ounces a person, and cut butter from a large round block, twelve ounces for the three of them.

Mary handed over the basket of eggs she had brought and the bill was adjusted accordingly. In summer Gladys would supply Mrs Poppleton with vegetables too but at present most of the buying was
done by Mary, glad of the opportunity to exchange gossip with the village wives who had watched her arrive from behind immaculate white net curtains and found some excuse to join her in the
shop.

‘Bad job about owd Joss Shepherd,’ said one of them now.

‘What’s up wi’ ’im this time?’ asked Mrs Poppleton. ‘Got canned up again and fallen down the Plough steps, has he?’

‘Not this time.’ The other laughed. ‘Their Annie ’ad sneaked out ladding when she was supposed to be in bed, an’ left the cellar grate off so she could sneak back
in again. Well, what wi’ the blackout and the drink, owd Joss staggering home never noticed, an’ next thing he knew he was down in’t cellar, one foot straight into’t heap of
coal only delivered yesterday. Twisted ‘is leg under ’im. Black and blue he is, what wi’ bruises an’ coal dust.’ She finished the story almost hysterical with
laughter, and then her face straightened again as she added, ‘Eeh, it’s their Annie I feel sorry for. She din’t ’alf cop it when she came ’ome. He took ‘is belt
off to ’er by all accounts – I’ll bet she doesn’t leave grate off again in a hurry. Eeh, I’d ’ave given owt to see ‘is face though when he disappeared dahn
that cellar.’

Mary almost wet her knickers laughing and had to ask Mrs Poppleton if she could use her lavatory out round the back.

After handing out a bit of news in exchange, about what was happening in Sheffield, Mary left for a visit to Tom’s mother, knowing that the kettle would be singing a welcome on the
blackleaded range and the brown teapot warming in the hearth. Mary loved the gentle woman, and enjoyed the quiet chat on a Friday morning whilst the girls were at work and Cyril was at school, and
only little Douglas was at home, playing with a small ginger kitten. Mr Downing was always busy outside on the farm, ploughing, milking or mucking out, helped by his old friend Sid who should have
retired years ago. From what Tom had told Mary his father made more out of the farm than he would admit, and the farmhouse was warm and comfortably furnished. In fact, the family didn’t seem
to want for anything.

Mrs Downing met Mary in the yard, asking immediately, ‘Any news, love?’ Her face fell when Mary shook her head. ‘Oh, well, no news is good news. I expect there’s a letter
on its way somewhere.’ She smiled at Mary. ‘Come in, love, and have a cup of tea.’ The aroma of baking bread greeted them as they entered the kitchen. ‘How about a warm oven
bottom cake with a spreading of rendered lard?’

Mary was almost tempted but declined the offer, knowing Gladys would have dinner ready on her return. ‘I really came to leave a message for Bessie and Lucy. I’ve decided to go after
a job in the works. I’ll ride over with them on Monday and see if they’ve anything to offer me.’

‘I’ll tell them to wait for you, then. At least it’s light in a morning, though it’ll not be very nice for you in winter coming round the reservoir on yer own.’

‘I’ll be all right. I think I know the road blindfold by now, and anyway I can’t go on hiding myself away up at the house, not now there’s a war on.’

‘You’ll need some thick trousers to protect yer legs. One of the girls lost a leg only last week on a length of steel strip so just you be prepared, and be careful.’

‘I’ll be all right.’ Mary smiled. ‘Anyway, I must be going. I’ll see you on Monday then. Bye bye, Douglas. He’s a lovely little boy, Mrs Downing.’

‘Aye. Came as a shock, he did, at my time of life, and so long after the others. Like a belated gift, yer might say, and he brought love with ’im just the same as the others did.
Ta-ra then, love. Take care.’

As Mary carried the groceries up the hill she marvelled at the friendliness of the people in this beautiful Yorkshire village, and thought she could quite happily stay here for ever. How Tom
must be missing it all. She prayed silently that he would return safely, and her stomach turned over as she remembered she hadn’t attended Mass since Christmas. Somehow she couldn’t
bring herself to confess a sin that didn’t seem like a sin at all.

If only Father Flynn was here. She thought she could have made him understand. Oh, well, perhaps she would ride up to the convent next week. There again, she might not have time if she began her
new job.

She started to sing to herself as she walked along the lane, a hymn she’d heard on the wireless, and somehow she gained comfort from the words.

By the time Mary saw Millington for the first time she thought her legs didn’t belong to her. The journey had consisted of the hill down into Longfield, then up past the
convent and down into the next valley, which Mary learned was called Cowholes. Then, they had yet another hill to climb and she found it impossible to pedal more than halfway up.

‘Come on, buck up, we’re going to be late,’ Bessie called. ‘It won’t be so bad after today, it’s just that you haven’t had enough practise on yer
bike.’

‘I feel as though I’ve walked five hundred miles,’ said Mary. ‘I’m beginning to hope I don’t get the job if it’s going to be like this every
day.’

Lucy laughed. ‘Never mind, it’s all downhill from now on. Can you see the works down in the bottom?’

The road wound down past a church and through street after street of grey stone houses. In the bottom a row of stark black chimneys belched out smoke from the steelworks, which stretched the
length of the valley, separated from the main street by the river. Mary’s stomach churned nervously. She hadn’t realised how vast the factory would be. Crowds of workers made their way
silently in the direction of the entrance.

Bessie told Mary where to go and whom to ask for, and then she and Lucy hurried away through a pair of swing doors. Mary parked her bike, walked across some railway lines and knocked on a door
marked
PERSONNEL
. A voice boomed out for her to enter and her stomach gave another lurch.

‘Well?’ said the voice, its owner not looking up from the desk.

‘I – I’d like a job,’ Mary faltered.

‘What can yer do?’ asked the balding head.

‘I don’t know. I haven’t worked in a factory before.’

The man looked up at last, appraising her as though she had been dragged in by the cat. ‘Been mollycoddled, have yer? How old are yer?’