Darkest Before Dawn (50 page)

Now, having watched the young couple out of sight, Martha turned back into the shop. It was always quiet after Christmas. Arthur was restocking the shelves and Mrs Bunwell was mopping the floor, wielding the mop with great vigour in order, Martha suspected, to keep herself warm, for it was bitterly cold and the tiny paraffin stove, which was the only form of heating in the shop, could not combat the chill.

Arthur looked up as Martha came behind the counter. ‘We'll close and go up and have a decent hot meal since there's few customers around,' he remarked. ‘It'll be a bit warmer up there, though not a lot. Everyone's complainin' that there's norrenough coal to go round but we can huddle over the fire and hot up some soup.' He smiled lovingly at his wife. ‘You make the best vegetable soup in Liverpool, Mrs Wilmslow.'

‘And the best potato pie,' Martha said, grinning at Mrs Bunwell. ‘And if I could get my hands on some decent ingredients . . .'

Mrs Bunwell hurried across the shop and put up the ‘Closed' sign, shooting the top bolt across as she did so. ‘Do you want me this afternoon?' she asked. ‘Only it's that quiet and I could do wi' an afternoon in me own home.'

Martha went into the stockroom and fetched Mrs Bunwell's hat, coat and thick woollen muffler, carrying them across to the old woman as Arthur said: ‘You're right, Mrs B., there's no work for two of us, lerralone three. You go off now and we'll see you Sat'day.'

Martha helped Mrs Bunwell into her coat, then unbolted the door for the other woman to slip through. After that, she rebolted it and she and Arthur made their way up to the flat. It had been some time since they had been able to keep the stove burning all day and the kitchen seemed cold and unwelcoming, but Martha balanced the pan of soup on the Primus stove, pumped it up and lit it, and very soon the delicious smell of the vegetables and the flickering of the flame gave the room at least the illusion of warmth and cheerfulness.

Martha cut each of them a thick slice off the loaf and when the soup was simmering, poured it into two bowls. She turned down the Primus but left it on for a little warmth. Then she sat down, opposite her husband, and began to eat.

‘This is grand,' Arthur said contentedly, spooning his portion. He cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘I always make meself scarce when you and Seraphina are having a heart to heart, but I reckon you won't think I'm poking me nose in if I says I like young Eddie and I'm glad they're intendin' to get wed.'

Martha leaned across the table and gave the hand not engaged with the soup spoon a squeeze. ‘You are a dear, Arthur Wilmslow. I agree that they're doing the right thing,' she said. ‘As soon as Seraphina's divorce comes through, they'll name the day. And if they're half as happy as you and I, they'll be very happy indeed,' she ended.

Opposite her, Mr Wilmslow ducked his head and she saw that his eyes had filled with tears. ‘That's the nicest thing you could have said to me, old lady,' he said huskily. ‘You mean all the world to me, Martha Wilmslow . . . and your cooking ain't bad, either. Here, you make the tea while I wash the crocks.'

Chapter Fifteen

February 1947

Toby woke when his alarm went off and reached out a groping hand, hastily, to turn it off, then cuddled even further down the bed for five delicious minutes. He always tried to turn the alarm off promptly since the fragile walls of his tiny bedroom meant that Mrs Wetherspoon could easily be woken when she had no need to rouse herself. At present, he and his mate were doing twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week, because the weather was so severe that their relief had not managed to get through. Toby leaned up on one elbow and peered out through the darkened pane. It was snowing again; the flakes whirled thickly and Toby, sighing, swung his legs out of bed, wincing as his warm feet met the cold boards. He knew he ought to have a thorough wash but, predictably, the water in his ewer was frozen solid, so he just scrambled into his uniform, adding an enormous thick jersey which Martha and Evie between them had knitted him for Christmas, and made for the stairs. Stumbling down, he fished out his heavy gunmetal watch and checked the time. In this sort of weather, a bicycle was not much use. Instead, this morning he intended to walk, carrying a big coal shovel with him in case he had to fight his way through drifts, and that meant that in order to reach the signal box to relieve Tom at eight o'clock, he needed to leave the house at six. Since it was now half-past five, he would have time to boil the kettle, cut himself a thick slice of bread and marge, and maybe even do a carry-out. This task was usually performed by Mrs Wetherspoon, but because he was leaving home an hour earlier he imagined he would have to do for himself this morning. Halfway down the stairs, he knew he was mistaken. Warmth crept towards him and the good smell of cooking, and when he reached the kitchen Mrs Wetherspoon greeted him with a beaming smile, a large plateful of scrambled eggs on toast and an enamel mug of steaming tea.

‘Gosh,' Toby said inadequately. ‘You are good, Mrs Wetherspoon, but you needn't have got up. I'd have managed.'

His landlady shook her head wisely. ‘Thy stomach'll need a good lining on a day like this,' she observed. ‘An' what's more, I've packed up all the food I can spare 'cos I reckon if thou reaches that box, tha'll be stuck there until the blizzard eases. I've lived here all me life but I've never known a winter like this one, an' I'm sure the wind's set in for a day or two. Now stop argufying and get outside o' this little lot.'

Toby sat down, only too glad to obey, though his eyes opened a little when he saw the box of provisions she expected him to take. ‘I can't deprive you, Mrs Wetherspoon,' he said reproachfully. ‘If you really think it's going to snow me in, then it'll likely do the same to you. Just put a loaf, a tin of corned beef, some baked beans and a screw of tea and sugar in a bag and that'll do me fine.'

Mrs Wetherspoon, however, shook her head firmly. ‘Nay, lad, there's nowt in that box that I can't manage very well wi'out. We're not like the rest of the country; up here int fells we're used to this sort of weather most winters, but, like I said, not normally this bad. They've rationed spuds to two pounds a head in some cities, cut the meat ration to a bob, and they say they'll likely cut bread ration an' all. An' there's no fish 'cos o' the weather, an' precious few vegetables, I guess. But here in the country we grow our own spuds – I've a hundredweight sack in the shed, to say nothing of a big pile of carrots, swedes and turnips. I gleaned a sack of grain when harvest was over, so me hens are still laying, though not as good as in the summertime, and though the Ministry would have me shot at dawn if they knew, I've still the best part of a haunch of salt pork stowed away in me cellar, so I'll not be short of meat for a few weeks yet.'

‘Well, if you're sure . . .' Toby mumbled, finishing his breakfast and standing down his empty mug. He got to his feet, and taking down his coat began to struggle into it. His peaked cap would soon have been whirled away by the wind, but the woolly hat Evie had knitted – which looked remarkably like a tea cosy to him – could be pulled right down over his ears and could not possibly blow away. Then he wrapped his big muffler twice round his neck and put on his marvellously warm sheepskin mittens. He was already wearing two pairs of thick socks and stepped into his wellingtons, hating the chill of them but knowing they were a deal more suitable in this sort of weather than his regulation boots.

‘I guess I'm ready now, Mrs Wetherspoon,' he said cheerfully, pulling open the back door and gasping as icy wind and snow swept into the room.

The shovel was almost three feet deep in snow, but he pulled it out of the drift, tucked it under his arm, and pulled the door to whilst he reached for the box of food. Mrs Wetherspoon lifted it, then eyed him doubtfully. ‘I don't know . . .' she was beginning, and then her face cleared. ‘Hold still a moment,' she said, and presently reappeared with an old canvas rucksack. She tipped the contents of the box unceremoniously into the pack, then helped Toby to loop it over his shoulders. ‘Happen that'll be easier for thee,' she said, as Toby opened the kitchen door once more. ‘Go careful now,' she urged him, ‘and God speed.'

Despite his best efforts, it took Toby almost three hours to reach the signal box. Half the time he was walking along ways he had once known well which now were only marked out by the tops of the high hedges. He had to dig his way through half a dozen drifts but at least the digging warmed him up for a short while, though he thought, dismally, that his feet might have belonged to someone else altogether, and his fingertips and the end of his nose ached with the cold.

As he got within sight of the signal box, which was perched on an embankment, the blizzard eased and he saw the small figure of Tom, booted and coated, coming to meet him. Tom was a man in his early forties, friendly and easy-going, but now his face was creased in a worried frown. ‘I saw you coming like a little black beetle in the snow,' he said, as soon as greetings had been exchanged. ‘There's no trains come through since yesterday evening, and I'm keen to be off 'cos when I left home last night Susan – she's me youngest – had croup and my Mary were fair worried out of her life. Whether I'll get home or not, I can't say, but you got through, so why not me?'

‘You live further off,' Toby reminded him. He stuck his shovel into the snow and slid the rucksack off his back. Delving around in it he found a Mars bar which Mrs Wetherspoon had popped in at the last moment and handed it to the other man. ‘Here, take this. Mrs Wetherspoon gave me enough food for a week, I should think, so I shan't miss it. See you tonight, Tom!'

The two men went their separate ways and Toby, climbing the steps to the signal box, saw that the line was deep in snow and wondered how long it would be before a snow plough came through. One thing was certain: he need not worry about the signals, or anything of that nature. No engine could possibly get through in either direction until the line had been cleared.

He opened the door and let himself into the box and was immediately surrounded by delicious warmth, for the ubiquitous Russell stove burned brightly, keeping the windows clear of snow, and enabling him to see a good way down the line in either direction. Not that it would do him much good, not whilst the road remained snowbound.

Toby stood down the rucksack and began to take off his outer garments. He and Tom had rigged up a line so that they might dry wet clothing and he pegged out his clothes, then turned his attention to the big water container, checking that there was enough water left to make a journey to the nearby stream unnecessary. To his relief, the container was nearly full and he was pleased to see that Tom must have spent a good while fetching in coal from the nearby dump, for there was fuel enough to last several days, if they were careful.

Toby glanced around him. The signal lamps stood on their bench, filled and cleaned, ready for action when the snow cleared and night came. Everything else was as it should be, and when he lifted the small tin kettle that, too, had been filled, so he only had to perch it on the stove to start preparations for a cup of tea.

As the warmth gradually seeped through him, Toby's fingers began to ache and the chilblains on his wrists to itch and burn, but this was a pain he knew would pass. He fished out the bottle of milk Mrs Wetherspoon had provided, poured some into his enamel mug, and then stood the bottle outside, in a box they kept for that purpose. Who needed a refrigerator when the snow would do the job for nothing?

Presently, sipping a mug of tea, he got out the big exercise book in which they wrote down anything of moment which happened. Later, when he had nothing much to do, he would consult this book when writing his letters. He filled in the date and the fact that it had taken him three hours to reach the box through the blizzard, then decided he would write to Evie. She had enjoyed his letters and he had told her he loved getting hers, which were always full of news and gossip, though God knew when this one would get through in these conditions. Still, he would ask his landlady to post it when he returned to the village tonight. He supposed, glumly, that Tom would not make it back before nine o'clock at the earliest, so if you added another three hours for Toby's own homeward journey, that would make it . . . gracious, well after midnight before he reached his lodgings. He had a key, of course, so would not have to wake Mrs Wetherspoon, but the whole idea was daft because he would have to be up again and on his way only four or five hours later. Tom would realise this, of course, so Toby decided he might as well make up his mind he would be working a double shift. Not that it was work, exactly, for no one had appeared to clear the line, but you never knew. By morning, a freak wind might have carried the blizzard elsewhere, enabling a train with a snow plough before it to come chugging up from Settle or Carlisle.

At two o'clock, Toby made himself a jam sandwich and ate an apple. At seven o'clock, he had mashed potato and corned beef with HP Sauce sprinkled all over it and at midnight, having waited in vain for a sign of Tom's approach, he pulled his chair up close to the stove, rolled his muffler into a small pillow, draped himself in his heavy overcoat, and went off to sleep, tired as much by boredom as by the small activities in which he had engaged.

Martha, Arthur and Evie were sitting round the table, eating potato pie and cabbage by candlelight, when somebody rattled the back door. They were all in their overcoats, hats and gloves, because they had so little coal left that they dared not light the stove, and the electricity cuts, which seemed to come at the most inconvenient times, meant that one was reliant upon candles indoors and an electric torch without – if you could get hold of the batteries, that was.