Family Drama 4 E-Book Bundle (133 page)
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Authors: Pam Weaver
LEAH FLEMING
The Girl From World’s
End
In memory of Kathleen, who loved these hills.
…grief has no wings. She is the unwelcome lodger that squats on the hearthstone between us and the fire and will not be moved…
Arthur Quiller-Couch
Armistice Day Sermon, November 1927
Contents
West Riding of Yorkshire, 1926
A girl of about eight sat swinging her legs to and fro to keep them from going numb, watching the sky growing dark above. The weak December sun dipped behind the high moor and soon the cobbled streets would be crusted with frost. When was Father going to come out of the Green Man and take her home? The church clock had struck half-past four. Soon the mill hooter would buzz across the rooftops and the clatter of clogs would deafen the streets.
It had been a grand afternoon: one of the good days when Paddy Gilchrist woke up by himself, whistling and promising her a ride on a tram to Bradford to look in the shop windows and hear the Christmas brass bands. They had got as far as the park, where he’d pushed her on the swings and slides, but then they’d made a detour through the back streets of Scarperton.
‘I’ll not be a minute, Mirren. Time for my
medicine–just a wee nip to keep me warm,’ he laughed, his dark eyes pleading as he saw the little blue ribbon on her coat lapel and the wince of disapproval on her face.
She was proud of that badge and the signed certificate from the Band of Hope that said not a drop of liquor would ever pass the lips of Miriam Ellen Gilchrist.
‘Don’t be long,’ she pleaded, trying not to pout as her lips trembled. ‘You promised me a ride up to town.’
‘Aye, I know, lassie, but you don’t begrudge yer dad a little comfort now, do you? You sit tight and I’ll buy you some sweeties when I’ve had my snifter.’
She had sat on this bench so many times, dreading that the father who went in standing would be the one who’d come out on all fours. The Green Man was that sort of pub.
Paddy and Mirren didn’t live alone. There was a master in their rooms: one who ruled over them night and day, whose presence lurked like a ghost in the corner of the compartments of the disused railway carriage that was now their home. He was a magician, full of piss and wind and wild schemes, who could turn her dad into John Barleycorn, the drunken sot who needed a guiding hand to round the corners on his way home, knocking folk off the pavement as he sang out of tune at the top of his voice. Sometimes she opened
the latch and he fell through the door, stiff like a board.
John Barleycorn had stale breath and leaking pants. He stole her father’s hard-earned wage and the food from their table, shaming her before school pals playing in the street, who would look up and snigger as she and her demon-possessed father wound their way down the ginnels from the pub, Mirren staggering under the weight of him. She worshipped her father–he was tall, handsome and strong–but she hated John Barleycorn, the drinker who was so weak and silly.
Demon Drink was not like the pantomime devil with horns and a forked tale, all red and black, shouting from a stage, or the wily tempter from the pages of her Sunday school prize book, with forked tongue and goatee beard. He came and went for no reason.
Sometimes he disappeared for weeks and gave her back the father she loved: the Paddy Gilchrist who had wooed and won young Ellie Yewell away from her farming family in the big Yorkshire Dales farmhouse, the railway navvy with his squeeze-box and fancy dancing and Scottish charm, who promised her the moon, sun and stars if she would be his bride. Then he went off to war, leaving his new bride with a bairn, Mirren’s angel brother, Grantley, and with no family to support them until he returned wounded right badly in the leg.
If only Mother and little Grant hadn’t died in the terrible sickness that came when she was a baby, leaving her motherless. How she wished they were all together, snug by their fireside of an evening, not freezing to death outside a public house.
Now the lamps were lit and Mirren was fed up of waiting. He’d forgotten she was there again and at the mercy of rough lads, making fun of her for being ‘Jill all alone’. Soon Woodbine Winnie would be touting for business and taking men in mufflers down the alleyway to lift up her skirts–to do quite what Mirren wasn’t sure, but it was something sinful.
At last Mirren recognised one of the men coming out of the pub as Mr Ackroyd, who lived in one of the far carriages that made up their row of houses in Chapelside Cuttings; old rolling stock being the only homes left for returning heroes from the war. Some wags laughingly called them ‘the Rabbit Hutches’, but Dad shrugged off the gibe and so did she.
Living in a neat line of compartments with steps up to their railway carriage was better than living back to back, up a steep hill with no garden to play in. She could sit for hours watching the engines shunting up and down the line, engine drivers waving and hooting. She knew the names of all the great iron boilers puffing and snorting out of the station on their way to Scotland and London;
Duchess of Hamilton
was her favourite.
Dad was a ganger on the line repairing the track. When he was in work there was always plenty of coal for the stove and treats. When there were layoffs they still had vegetables from the allotment and eggs from the chicken coop, but money was always a worry. Granny Simms, who lived next door with her son and his one leg, cooked for them and took in the washing in return for coal and treats, baccy and beer for Big Brian, who hobbled about the town on crutches, begging.
In Mirren’s life Granny Simms was a guiding light like the moon peeping through clouds. A neighbour who was mother, friend and comforter, she would know what to do. On nights like this Mirren could always knock on the window and Granny would open up, wrapped against the cold in the faded shawl she wore summer and winter, the long printed pinny with rubbed-out patches. Her face was leathery and lined with soot, hair scraped back in a knot, and she wore iron clogs, which rattled on the wooden carriage floor, and rolled-up stockings. She would take the little girl in and shove a fat rascal bun in her hand, spicy and full of currants.
It was Granny who taught her to knit, to peg a rug and bake bread, railway slice and dumplings. She saw that she got a proper schooling at St Mary’s and was turned out neat to all Sunday school treats going in the town.
‘He can’t help himself, Mirren,’ Granny Simms would sigh, showing empty gums with two yellow cracked front teeth. ‘Drink is a terrible thing. There’s many a red nose makes a ragged back in this town. It’s a pity the Paddy Gilchrist what came back from France was not the young lad who went to war, nor the man yer mam wed. A wild-eyed stranger he returned, not able to keep down a job, but she got him straight again. But when the Spanish flu came to visit us, it went through the town like a dose of Epsom salts. Yer dad just couldn’t get his head round that carry-on. He did his best with you, but men are useless when it comes to babbies. It’s a terrible temptation to drown yer sorrows, lass.’
These words made Mirren sad, for she knew her love would never be enough to mend her father’s heart. What he needed was the Word of God in his life, like the pastor in Sunday school preached, but Dad just laughed at her pleas for him to go to church.
‘Where was God when we needed him in the Battle of Arras? Where was he when the Angel of Death knocked at our front door? Ask your preacher man that!’ he would scoff. She had learned not to talk to him in drink but to hide in the little bench bed, under the quilt and blankets, pretending she couldn’t hear his sobs and rantings, praying that he would be in time to go to his work in the morning. Without work there was
no rent money and no rent money would lead to the workhouse and pull them apart.
Then, without explanation, the sun would rise in the morning, bright and dazzling, full of promise when her real dad rose, bleary-eyed but ready for work, unaided, bringing home gobstoppers and fish and chips. She would dress quickly and take his hand before the clouds came back.
On such days Mirren could go to school and learn her tables and not worry about him being sent home. She liked to bury her head in a reading book and pretend she was the Little Princess in the attic or one of the Railway Children. On such days Dad would swing her round to ‘Charlie Is my Darling’ and call her his ‘own wee darling’, telling her she was pretty like her mother and what a lucky chap he was to have such a beautiful, clever daughter. When he held her hand and whistled to himself, she felt so safe until they stopped by the pub door and her heart sank with fear.
Now, tonight, was going to be another of the bad nights.
‘Is my dad still inside?’ she asked the old neighbour, Mr Ackroyd, as he passed.
‘Aye, lass, stuck to the bench a while yet. There’s some as never knows when they’ve had enough. Better get off home now. It’s no night to be out in the cold. Happen you’d better come along with me.’
‘Thank you, but I said I’d wait,’ she smiled, torn
between wanting the warmth of Granny Simms’s iron stove and the need to see her dad home safely. Why should she wait when he didn’t care? Why should she believe any of his broken promises? He deserved to slip on the ice and crack his head but then he wouldn’t get to work on time and would be laid off and soon it would be Christmas and she had seen a little doll in the window of Bell’s Emporium with a sticky-out skirt and real hair.
But what was the point? He’d already spent his wages supping with his cronies. It was always the same palaver: he’d be ashamed and crawl home to sleep off the drink when she wasn’t looking, and then pretend none of this had happened.
Why should she wait a minute longer when there was someone at hand to guide her through the dark streets?
‘Wait, Mr Ackroyd, I’ll come with you…’
She spent the night at Granny Simms’s, sleeping in the chair. When it was morning, and there was no sign of Dad’s return, Mirren thought he would be lying snug in one of the refuge huts on the side of the railway track, hiding until he was sober enough to face her sullen anger. So she went to school with a heavy heart and thought no more about it.
She ran home at dinner break, hoping there would be smoke coming out of the carriage, but there were strangers waiting on the doorstep with
Granny Simms, who nodded gravely as she saw her. There was a funny look in her eyes as Mirren approached more slowly.
She recognised Constable Fletcher, who was kind. He took off his helmet as he spoke.
‘You’ll have to be brave, lass. There’s been a terrible accident. Yer dad got knocked over on the track.’
Mirren shook her head, not wanting to hear what was coming next, wanting to run, but her legs had turned to jelly so she shoved her hands over her ears. It was Granny who put her arms around her shoulders and held her tight.
‘He wouldn’t’ve known a thing, love. He fell asleep on the line. He must have taken a short cut and slipped.’ Her eyes were full of tears.
Mirren couldn’t believe what she was saying. ‘Dad’d never cross the line at night. He said I must never do that. Where did it happen? You’ve got it all wrong. The track’s miles from the Green Man.’
‘I’m sorry, lass, but he must have been taking a short cut down the line in the early hours. He was hit on the down line–the night sleeper from Glasgow and him Scotch-born and all…Let yer granny make you a cup of tea,’ said the constable.
‘She’s not my granny,’ Mirren screamed in fury. ‘My real granny lives up the dale on a farm.’ At Christmas there was usually a parcel of clothes from Grandma, which never fitted, and a printed
card from the Yewells of Cragside Farm. The rest of the year there was nothing.
‘I want to see my dad.’
‘That’ll not be possible,’ whispered the constable. ‘There has to be an investigation.’
‘I have to go and see if it’s him. It might not be him,’ Mirren said, not listening. This was all some strange nightmare she was living in and soon she would wake up. How could her dad be gone and have left her all alone?
