Family Drama 4 E-Book Bundle (161 page)

‘There's a gramophone in the parlour,' he suggested. ‘We could polish the floor with our feet.'

‘You can't dance,' she snapped, laughing. ‘Last time you nearly broke my toes.'

‘I can boogie-woogie. We used to go to the dance hall in York.'

‘Oh, aye? What was her name?'

‘Sheila…Sheila Hayes. Her brother worked with me on the farm. He's coming to Oz with us.'

‘And Sheila?'

‘She's a teacher in York, not interested.'

‘You trod on her toes once too often then?'
Mirren was teasing him, seeing his discomfort. Sheila was only ever a friend but he was not going to tell her that. There were other girls he had met in York who'd shown him what's what in a much earthier way, taught him a thing or two about female anatomy, shown him some tricks, but he wasn't going to tell her about them either.

‘Go on then, you've twisted my arm.' She sprang up. ‘But only for a few minutes. It'll be freezing in there and my chilblains are itching.'

Ben made a foray into the big parlour. It was damp and musty, well shuttered. There was a piano in the corner and a wind-up gramophone with a cabinet full of 78s, mostly classical music, quite a bit of Handel. It was Grandpa's collection, but if Ben recalled right, tucked at the side were some of his Joe Loss Band records and some Anne Shelton tunes. Then he found the country dances and put one on for fun.

‘This takes me back,' Mirren smiled, holding out her hand to him. ‘Two steps forward, one step back and twirl in the church hall with Miss Bickerstaffe on wet playtimes.'

They pranced around, bumping into furniture, acting silly like children of the storm, kindred spirits shut off from the real world, dancing without a care, making fools of themselves. He could go on dancing like this for ever. He could feel her breath on his cheek, the warmth of her
hand in his as they swirled, and the daft dog jumping up to join in. For a few minutes they could forget the terrible havoc being wreaked over the dale and the stranded sheep and the suffering, and everything could be as it once was.

What am I doing, prancing like an idiot? Mirren gasped, out of breath at all their silliness. If Florrie could see the two of them messing about in the best room, letting the dust fly and the dog loose on her sofa, she'd go wild. The feast had been a success and Ben had lapped up her cooking with relish. His beard was frosted with cream and for a second she'd wanted to kiss it off his lips until common sense got the better of her. He was her cousin, for God's sake.

This was Lanky Ben of the size twelve boots, who even now was careering round like a mad thing. How could she be thinking of him like that? It was when he mentioned his girlfriend in York that she had felt a dart of panic. Why shouldn't he be courting? Once he got to Australia some farmer's daughter would soon get her hands on him.

How strange that her body should be coming alive to the notion of romancing with someone she'd known almost all her life? It must be the spicy juice she'd sipped that was making her silly. Who needed whisky to feel so giddy and light?

It was as if suddenly the snow was melting and
there was sunshine again and birdsong, and the earth was coming alive after a long sleep.

Ben was handsome in a gruff Yorkshire sort of way, tall, broad and fair. Perhaps he was the one man capable of melting the ice around her heart. Was that why he came back? For so long she'd felt nothing. It was as if she was a block of ice, frozen, unable to move, but now it was warm and things were shifting fast.

When was the last time she'd pranced around this room? She froze. It was when she had chased Sylvia around, playing catch-up, trying to get her dressed in time for the fancy-dress parade…What would her little girl think of all this? Were the ghosts of Cragside shaking their heads, wondering if she had gone mad at last?

‘Enough,' she said, stepping back and shaking her head. ‘This's not right–not here, not now.' She felt cold and shivery and backed away from Ben. ‘You wanted a photo, we'll have to find one somewhere. Stop here while I search.'

‘I'll come and help you,' he said, making for the door.

‘No, go and see to the fire. We don't want to let it down,' she snapped. There must be no more romancing. It wasn't right, not when her baby was lying in the frozen earth all on her own.

She raced up the stairs two at a time. The suitcases were in the top bedroom, the one they used
for junk. Florrie wouldn't have shoved stuff in the damp under a leaking roof. She went through each drawer in the bedrooms, one by one: clothes, shirts, old bed linen. She looked under the bed just in case there was something hidden beside the jerries. Florrie would have put the things in an orderly fashion.

Why, oh why had she never demanded all the stuff back to cherish? How blind she had been. When she was in drink she'd not cared about anything but being blotto. It had taken a mere man to remind her of how cruel she was, to shove her beautiful daughter out of sight so no one could share her.

A passionate energy tore through her limbs as she opened every cupboard, and then she realised that Florrie had taken them with her, all the little baby things, just in case. Perhaps she'd given them to a needy child in the village without her permission.

There was nowhere else to look now. Wardrobes and chests and blanket drawers held no treasures, for now she knew that that was what they were: her treasures so wantonly abandoned.

‘I can't find anything,' she sobbed, standing in the doorway, suddenly limp with frustration. ‘There's nothing left. Florrie took me at my word and destroyed everything, and I've only myself to blame. I'm sorry but there's nothing left.'

Everything went blurred and she was sobbing, and Ben was holding her tight and she buried her head into his chest with relief.

‘We'll find them. No one destroyed anything. I know Florrie. She'd do what you said but keep them safe for just the day when you were ready to have them back.'

‘I am so tired,' Mirren cried, going limp, leaning on him for strength.

‘I'll make us a brew and we'll sit by the fire and see if there's anywhere else we could look. Where are those old photo albums, the one with the eclipse in and Grandpa in the
Gazette
?'

‘Where they always are, on the shelf in the parlour,' she muttered. It had been the obvious place to look. They took their mugs back into the parlour and scoured the shelves to no avail, stopping every now and then to admire a snapshot of Joe and Adey. It was then she recalled Dad's tin box that she had brought, with the postcards from the front and Paddy Gilchrist in his uniform, and the one of Mum and Grantley Where had they gone?

Photos were important, especially of their family, she mused. These snaps brought back memories of the eclipse, of Jack as a lad, and Adey and Tom and Florrie. Seeing them all together brought them closer. It wasn't right to hide Sylvia away. She was as much a part of this old farm as Mirren herself was. As long as she and the others
were alive Sylvia would live on in their memory. But where was she now?

Ben was trying to be helpful, searching under the stairs, in all the nooks and crannies, but there was nothing.

‘Better sleep on it, love. You'll feel fresher in the morning.'

‘In the morning there'll be no time for searching. I have to find them now. Oh, if only I'd asked. How could I be so stupid?' she snapped.

‘You weren't stupid. It just wasn't the right time and now it is, and I'm glad 'cos it's cleared the air between us a bit. You can be a stickler once you get an idea in your head, Miriam. You go at it like a cock at a grozzit. It'll wait.'

‘Sylvia wasn't a Miriam, though. Jack wouldn't let me name her that,' she sighed.

‘She was a Yewell through and through, just like you and all the rest of the Miriams of the Dale. We even dressed her up…Oh, no!' Ben stopped, seeing her shaking her head. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘No…wait. That's it! Where's the one place I haven't looked?' she said, making strides across the room.

‘You've lost me there, Mirren,' he said, not understanding her excitement.

‘In here; the one thing that all the Miriams hand down from one to another. Look!' She stood before the dark oak carved table box, hardly daring to
breathe, undoing the clasps slowly and lifting the lid. ‘They're here. Oh, Ben, they're all here in the Miriam Box!'

She lifted out the frames and the snapshots and envelopes, clasping them to her chest with relief. She sat down and wept, and Ben gathered her into his chest again and wept with her.

‘I've been so stupid. I nearly lost her twice over with my stubbornness. Hold me while I look at her again.' They both gazed down through a mist of tears at the face looking back at them. ‘When does the aching stop?'

‘It never does, love, but it's better to share the pain with someone than carry it all on your own. She's found and you'll put her in her rightful place, on show, where everyone can see what a lovely little girl she was. That's the best we can do, I reckon.'

‘I'm so glad you came back,' she whispered. ‘You won't go away just yet, will you?'

‘What do you take me for, a masochist? Three steps out there and I'd sink without trace,' he laughed, wiping her eyes with his old hanky.

‘That's not what I meant,' she said.

‘I know, but I'll see you right before I make tracks, and that's a promise. And you can choose the picture for me, right?'

‘That's all right then.'

Mirren sat in the parlour, going through every
snap. Wartime film was precious, and there weren't as many as she hoped, but the little portrait done in Scarperton was still in its silver frame. Her birth certificate was in its envelope, and the little bag of silver threepenny bits, and a teaspoon someone had given for her christening. There was a lock of hair coiled round a cotton reel: little mementoes still intact and safe in the Miriam Box. And at the bottom were Dad's old photos and the postcards; all her treasures were secure.

She had never bothered much with the old oak chest until now. It was just something passed down and of not much interest. She fingered the carving lovingly, knowing she'd never be parted from it again. Perhaps one day she might even hand it over to another Miriam. This was her past but it promised a future too. She was young and healthy and on her own. Maybe it was time to look out instead of inwards.

She smiled, thinking of the banks of snowdrifts blocking the side door, the great tunnels of ice in the farmyard. It was all about survival now, and tomorrow she would have to try to save what was left of their stock.

It was Ben who heard the drone of a single-engine plane in the distance coming ever closer, breaking the silence of the snow. Curiosity made him scrape off the icy ferns at his bedroom window to search for the dot in the sky. Suddenly it was swooping down, fluttering leaflets, and he could see Mirren already up, racing to gather them in.

‘Mafeking is relieved. The RAF are going to drop supplies. It says we've to listen to the wireless for instructions. It'll depend on the weather. You remember they did it before? No, you weren't here. Just when I thought we were on our beam ends…no hay, nothing but sawdust left.'

He read the paper over and over. Bales of hay and emergency rations would be dropped to farms still cut off. Instructions would be announced on the
Farming Programme.
They must make some way of identifying the drop zone on the day of their delivery. There was hope after all.

‘Where shall we put it?' she cried, her cheeks burning pink in the chill air.

‘Not too close to the house or they might drop on the slates and go through the roof. Better out by the far barn, if we can dig ourselves through the drifts. This calls for a celebration,' Ben shouted. ‘Salty bacon or salty bacon?'

Their food supplies were running low. Most nights they dined on vegetables and bacon, and rice pudding sweetened with treacle.

Mirren was leaping round in circles, excited like a child at Christmas, as if all the old tensions had evaporated. But there were still the sick beasts and the remnants of their flock to feed until then.

Ben's favourite time was when they sat together and tried to bolster their flagging spirits. Last week the postman got through to the lane end but no further, and they stood on the walls and signalled that all was well and to tell the other Yewells that Mirren was safe. There were diggers doing their best to open the tracks but Cragside was not a priority yet.

There was no snow that night. The clouds were high but still looking heavy. Mirren was glued to the wireless, hoping the batteries wouldn't choose now to conk out. For three mornings she listened but there was no announcement. She and Ben began to think it would never be their turn, and then on the fourth day, the West Riding Dales were
named and they both jumped up. Mirren was all for going out there and then to make their pyre, but Ben held her back.

‘Don't be daft. It's still dark. Get some food inside you and pretend it's just another day in case they don't have time to reach us.'

‘But they've got to come now. What if the cloud drops and they miss us?' she moaned.

‘Hold your sweat. I'll make a pyre to guide them in. We did it in the Home Guard,' he ordered, not telling her he'd been trained to lure enemy aircraft down onto rocks.

He gathered all the dry provender sacks from the inside of the door and laid them in a great cross over the field. The snow was hard and compacted, and he could just see the outline of stone walls beneath his feet. They kept watch all morning, looking to the east towards the RAF base at Dishforth, but there wasn't even a bird on the wing.

It was mid-afternoon when he soaked the sacks in old engine oil so they would flare up quickly and lit the match to the cross so it blazed out with black smoke and flames just as the sound of engines droned ever closer. He could see the smoke rising in the distance from Scar Head. Uncle Tom would have a good feast tonight.