Family Drama 4 E-Book Bundle (151 page)

She waited and waited in her best red frock. She
had cooked a rabbit pie with her best topping, and a blackberry and apple crumble. She watched the clock crawl round to nine o’clock. She felt sick and anxious and unnerved, hurt and then cross. The supper was put back on top of the stove and she undressed, climbed into bed with acid in her throat. How could he spoil a wonderful night? She waited and waited until he crept up the stairs and fell through the door drunk, smelling of a taproom; the smell that took her back to being a child and frightened her.

‘You are my Lily of Laguna!’ he sang, lurching forward to kiss her.

‘Shush! You’ll wake everyone. Where’ve you been till this hour?’

‘Having a good time for once…’ His speech was slurred.

‘I cooked you a lovely meal,’ she whispered. ‘I waited and waited…’

‘Don’t nag…not back five minutes and I’ve got a nagging wife,’ he said.

‘I’m not nagging. I wanted tonight to be special,’ she replied.

Jack leaned over and grabbed her arm. The stench from his mouth was stale. ‘Come and make your hero happy again,’ he laughed, trying to ease himself over her.

‘No! Not like this and you, drunk. I’m too tired and not in the mood.’

‘I didn’t come all the way through Europe, ducking and diving with the devil’s fire bursting over my head…enemy fire, with half a dozen bloody buzzards hovering, wanting to peck the feathers off my back, darting from hedge to hedge with guns blasting us to kingdom come…running like hell. I didn’t come all this way home to a wife who was too tired, so get on your back and do your duty for once!’

‘Jack! Don’t talk to me like that!’

‘Like what?’

‘As if you hate me. I didn’t start this war. You could’ve stayed here on the farm. I’m so proud of you doing your duty but I’ve never seen you so angry. Don’t blame me!’

‘You’d be angry if you’d seen what I’ve seen…I want to just blot it out,’ he said, and for a second she saw the old Jack in his eyes: Jack who hid the kittens from the drowning bucket; who wiped her tears when Jip, her collie, died; who sat with her at World’s End after Dunkirk, who’d promised her the moon, the sun and the stars if she’d only be his wife.

‘But getting blathered isn’t the answer,’ she offered and then wished she hadn’t.

His body stiffened at her reproach. ‘What do you know about it?’ His voice was angry and hard, the voice of a stranger, and he held her so tight that her body recoiled at his embrace. There was no point
in struggling. He wanted comfort in the only way he knew. No point in resisting, and she felt used, opened up and rammed by his hard demanding sex. There was no love, no tenderness, just brute force.

Mirren lay there afterwards, shocked, trying to understand. He’d suffered and he was still suffering. She must make allowances for his drunkenness. This was not the real Jack but a wounded Jack, and he needed understanding not rejection. Why did it feel as if she was being punished? What had she done wrong?

She waved him off at Scarperton with a heavy heart, his last words ringing in her ears.

‘When I come home again I want them all out, all them Yewells. If I hear that child call Ben her dad one more time…It makes me wonder what you’ve been up to behind my back!’ he said, gripping her tightly on the arm.

‘Oh, Jack, how could you even think that?’ Mirren’s eyes were brimming with tears and her arm bruised from his grip. He was so rough when he held her, as if she was his possession, not his loving wife.

‘Think on…I need some peace and quiet, not a house full of strangers. And tidy the place up a bit. It looks like Paddy’s market.’

This was not the Jack she had yearned for, this sad, angry soldier. Even his own mother said he had changed and not for the better.

‘He’s that sour, he’d turn milk. He doesn’t listen to a word his mam says. He’s not right in the head, anyone can see that. You’ll have to be patient with him.’

Every night Mirren had tried to reach out to him, suffering his rough lovemaking without protest, but it had done nothing to bring them closer together. Now the thought of Jack returning for good filled her with unease. Perhaps when the war was over, with fresh air and good food, the old Jack would return once more.

As the train chuffed out of the station she turned her back on the smoke and soot with relief. Time to climb back to Windebank and normality. Six weeks later she realised she was pregnant again. This time there was no joy, only fury that she’d been caught and trapped. Christmas was coming soon; another wartime Christmas and bad weather to come. Only the thought of Sylvia’s excitement gave her any incentive to plan ahead. She wasn’t bothered if Jack came home or not, and that was what shocked her most of all.

It was another hard winter with blizzards and hard frost. Ben sensed that Jack’s visit had not gone well and Mirren dragged herself around, not looking him in the face when he asked if she was OK to lift loads. It was as if she didn’t care what happened to the coming baby.

Margery and the boys went home to London and Uncle Tom decided to return to Scar Head. Now that Jack would be home soon, it was felt the couple needed time to settle down. There were wild tales of Jack’s drinking sprees down at The Fleece on his leave. Nothing escaped the gossips of Windebank: how he came out on all fours one night and jumped on someone’s motor bike and left it in a hedge; how he had a fight with one of the lads from the artillery battery and left him with a bloody nose; how he was a barstool bore and cadged drinks in exchange for gruesome war tales; how he could sort out the army better than Monty himself. If only half of them were true, Mirren was in for a rough time.

War had done terrible things to Jack and Ben wished he could talk to him, but the fact that Sylvia clung around Ben’s legs had not gone down well. Sometimes he thought he saw a flash of hate in his eyes. When Jack returned he was going to keep a weather eye on him.

Once they were settled, though, Ben had his own plans to leave. It was time to train himself up. They were advertising for trainers in the college near York; to find experienced workers who could get agricultural courses onto a better footing. He fancied a change away from all that held him at Cragside. Mirren needed time to lick her husband back into shape and he needed a change of sky.

Funny how he had always thought his life would be forever at Cragside, but once Jack returned he would not be welcome. Sylvia must learn to turn to her dad for comfort and treats, not him. The new baby would have a father around and would get a better start. Mirren could run the farm with Uncle Tom just as well as he could.

Two’s company, three’s a crowd, they said, and it was true, but he would see to things for awhile longer, make sure Mirren got her proper rest. She was her own worst enemy, always on the go, skipping meals when everyone else sat down.

He hoped Jack appreciated what he’d found in her. She was a farmer’s wife without equal in his eyes. None of the girls she’d thrown at him could measure up to her standards and he wouldn’t settle for less.

Mirren took her troubles to World’s End, climbing high away from the farmhouse, leaving Sylvia with Granny Florrie. Most days now she felt stiff and sore, and angry inside. Nothing was turning out as she planned for her family. How she wished she could have turned back the clock to when Gran and Grandpa were alive, when things seemed simpler and Jack was Jack-the-lad, shinning down the window on a sheet, when they were all full of dreams and schemes.

Now Sylvia needed new clogs and gumboots.

There was a new coat to buy and eventually another baby to clothe. Why did she resent now having to do it all on her own?

Why did Jack now get mixed up with her own dad in her dreams? It was weird and scary. Had she married a man like Paddy, who made promises and never kept them, who spent pound notes as if they were loose change? Oh God, she was going crazy! Her stomach tightened like a drum skin and she was afraid. If the two of them did leave Cragside how would they manage?

12

VE Day, 8 May 1945

There was so much to do before the afternoon’s party on the village green, and Mirren was that thronged with jobs she did not know where to start first. There was a bowl of trifle to be made for a start.

Jack was making himself useful, building the great scaffold arch out of greenery and flags that was the centre piece of the display on Windebank Green, giving a hand loading trestles and chairs onto the back of their wagon, from the church hall down the road. No doubt he’d drop in to The Fleece for a quick half before he came to collect the family for the fun and games.

He was home on leave and seemed to have turned a corner since his last visit, thrilled at the prospect of another baby on the way. There was no talk of moving away and his mother seemed to have talked some sense into him, telling her son
they were much better off living in the country for the moment, with a roof over their heads and an income from the farm.

Even Sylvia was getting used to him sleeping in her mother’s bed. Jack’s seeing her alongside Uncle Ben always stirred things up for the worse, though.

If ever there was a young farmer in the making, it was Sylvia. In her corduroys and wellies with a flat tweed cap cut to size and a pretend crook, she looked like a miniature shepherd. So far she showed no leanings at all to wear pretty dresses, even for the afternoon party. If it didn’t have four wheels or four legs she wasn’t interested.

Jack looked on in dismay but held his peace, leaving her well alone, and she in turn began to answer when he called her and take his hand now and then. Mirren decided long ago not to keep her child too close to the hearth as some farmers’ wives did with their daughters. They made cakes and buns together and went walking the fields but Sylvia was shared out between the grown-ups. Jack was persuaded to read to her each night.

No child of Mirren’s would ever want for books and learning, girl or boy. She wanted Sylvia to be free to go to college when the time came, even if it meant fighting the Yewell family tradition that farming must always come first and foremost.

It was hard to recall she’d passed her matriculation, had attended the teacher training college
in Ripon and had plans to become a proper teacher. That was another lifetime ago but it didn’t stop her love of novels and biographies from the circulating library. Now the chance to teach was a distant dream. The war must have scuppered so many well-made plans, but it was over at last and her heart was leaping with relief.

Time to turn back to her task. Trifle was a fiddle to make when you were in a hurry; sponge fingers to soak, home-made custard to boil, fresh cream to skim, soft fruit to poach, and they wanted to be down in the village hall by mid-afternoon before the concert and fancy-dress parade. Her back was giving her gip again. Tiredness swept over her like a wave and she had to sit down, feeling faint.

So victory was here at long last but there was a bit of her feeling empty inside. This was a day to remember, with bonfires and bells pealing, bunting in the streets, but even though Ben had promised to help with the milking, there were still chores to do.

What a big fuss they were making down in the village. Not that she was against all the patriotism or the end of hostilities but it was making such a lot of extra work. There was the sports day to come, the pageant and gala procession, the massed school choir festival in Scarperton, the Brownie fancy-dress float, a dancing display and WI events
and competitions, baking for the children’s bun feast on the green and the old folk’s treat, the refreshments for the Crazy Cricket match with men dressed as women and women as men, and a half-made fancy-dress outfit for Sylvia to finish before this afternoon.

Sylvia had begged for a special outfit for the day but Mirren’s mind was blank until she saw a bit of the old grey cloth left from the barrage balloon. Why not dress her as her own namesake, Miriam, the famous ancestor of the dale, in a little grey frock and white Quaker collar? Florrie could make the collar and cap out of a linen napkin, and Tom would find a little lantern for her to carry. Everyone knew the story of how her ancestor kept the school children in the chimney, safe from the blizzard and fallen roof. It was quite an original idea, she mused, laying out the costume on the bed. Better to wait until the last moment to dress her up. The little monkey could get filthy in two minutes.

Ben was too busy to make the trip down to the village but there was going to be a lamb roast outside The Fleece later in the evening, and that would be more his scene.

There was a damp raw edge to the morning, and Mirren caught snatches on the wireless of the sound of excited crowds cheering at anything that moved, braving the rain with the usual British stoicism. There was no May sunshine up here. It
was more like autumn than spring. What did they expect, living so high up, making do with nine months’ winter and three months’ bad weather as the old joke went.

As long as the kids got their party and could run off steam with sports and dancing, they would have honoured the day. If the weather did its worst then everyone would be shovelled into the village hall to put the trestle tables up there. What would they do without their patched-up gaberdines and macs, umbrellas and leaking gumboots?

The sheep and cows didn’t know it was VE Day and still needed their routine, so life at Cragside Farm would go on as normal. Bank holiday or not, the stock must come first. Lambing was in full swing and there were orphans drying off in the barn, makeshift pens of suspect mothers that needed coaxing to feed their lambs, calves and piglets running amok given half a chance.

But Mirren had to admit to a tinge of excitement about this special holiday and the chance to have an afternoon crack with her friends in the grey stone village full of cottages. There was something about the way that Windebank nestled under the big hill that comforted her. Small as it was, they’d all pulled together in the war, welcomed strangers, raised a staggering amount of savings bonds, supported their shops and deserved a day off for all their combined efforts.