Family Drama 4 E-Book Bundle (155 page)

‘Get in!’ he shouted, leaning across the seat. ‘What the hell are you doing at this time of night? Do you want to get run over?’

‘I’m fine,’ she smiled. ‘The fresh air has done me good. I went to the pictures and fell asleep through the second house.’ She smiled sweetly, looking at the road ahead, not at him and he knew she lied.

‘What did you see?’ he snapped, knowing it would be
Brief Encounter
on at the Plaza too.

‘Oh, I don’t know, some cowboy so boring I dozed off. The usherette woke me up. It’s been a long day,’ she sighed.

‘Don’t tell me lies. You’ve been in the pub, drinking.’

‘Why, Ben, what a cruel thing to say. You know I don’t drink. I’d never go in one of those places,’ she replied without a shake in her voice.

‘So how come you’ve been seen going in the Golden Lion, regular as clockwork?’ His voice was cracked with fury.

‘I just popped in to sell them some eggs, didn’t I tell you? I’ve got quite a little round going.’ She had an excuse for everything.

‘Oh, you’ve had a round or two, I can smell it on your breath. I didn’t come up the Wharfe on a biscuit tin. You stink of smoke and there’s whisky on your breath, not just on your clothes.’

‘I had just the one to tide me over. Jack’s visits
are such a strain and I was frozen. It seemed like a good idea. No harm done…’ Her excuses drained away.

‘Pull the other one, Mirren. I wasn’t born yesterday, you must be tipsy to be taking a risk like this,’ he said. His hands were gripping the wheel. He wanted to shake her.

‘Oh, shut up! Don’t be so po-faced. You sound like my Sunday school teacher. Did little Miss Lorna give you the push? Have I spoiled your evening?’

‘Mirren, this isn’t you talking. If you’re in trouble you only have to talk to me about it, not bottle things up and drink it. Nothing good comes out of those sort of bottles. How many times’ve you told me? It’s a mug’s game,’ he pleaded.

‘Oh, but it does, you’re wrong. It’s only medicine. It calms me down and gets me to sleep and makes me forget. There’s no harm in a nip or two and I’m not bothering anyone else,’ she said with her arms folded in defiance or defence–he wasn’t sure which.

‘But you bother me, wasting petrol coming to find you. Don’t you think I’d rather be doing something else than ferreting around looking for you?’

‘I didn’t ask you to come. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Is that enough? Now shut up and let me sleep.’

What else could he say? Lorna was right. The gossip was true. He was too stunned by her casualness, her lies to argue. She was drunk
enough to be beyond reach and soon she was snoring away, flopping her head on the side window all the way home.

Ben drew up in the yard, lifted her out of the truck and carried her upstairs. No one was up. He took off her stockings, loosened her jacket and blouse. She looked so peaceful, lying there. He felt such a desire rise up but he daren’t do anything. How he longed to hold her close and take this terrible pain away from her, the pain she was trying to blot out. If she had his love wrapped around her, there would be no need for whisky or booze. They would fight the demons together.

Mirren woke with a fuzzy head and a tongue like cork matting. The room spun around her and she lifted herself slowly. How had she got back home? Her clothes were crumpled up, her stockings were in tatters on the chair. She could recall going into the pub and chatting to Monica, the barmaid. Then they were chucked out at closing time and the station was shuttered. How had she managed to get back here?

There was the long black road, headlamps, a stretch of stars torching her path. It was like a jigsaw all broken up with a few corners filled in. There was an argument and a man’s voice…

Her watch said ten o’clock in the morning. Hellfire, she’d missed morning milking again and
it was Sunday. There’d be ructions. Time to pull off her suit and girdle, throw on her farm stuff. Aiming for the door, she banged her shins. Blood and sand! I’m in for it, she thought.

She crept down the grand stairs slowly, not wanting to trip. Florrie was bustling about singing hymn tunes in her best frock. Since Sylvia died she’d taken to chapel big time and would be off to the service.

‘You’re up then? Ben said you were unwell and he had to fetch you…a bit of a tummy upset, was it? How’s Jack?’ No further questions so all was well there then.

‘He’s fine. The treatment is making him remember stuff,’ she smiled. Jack was slowly coming round–well, a version of Jack, not the one she used to know; a bit like herself. She was forgetting the Mirren she used to be. ‘It was just a gippy tummy but I’m fine now. I’d better get cracking. I owe Ben a favour. Is he doing his rounds?’

‘No, he’s up the tops, as usual. I’m glad you’re feeling better. He said you were right poorly in the night. Would you like to go to chapel?’

Mirren shook her head and patted her stomach. ‘No, I daren’t risk it,’ she lied. All she could think about was making sure Ben hadn’t spilled the beans. She must apologise to him and put things right, but first there was another thing she must do.

She crept back up the dark oak staircase to her room and rummaged in her basket, just in case he’d spotted her medicine. There was nothing there and she felt panic rising. She rifled through her wardrobe and the drawer of empties, then her knicker drawer–all her private places–but there was nothing and she began to shake.

Then she remembered the last resort, the tin box under her bed. Opening the tin she grabbed the spare bottle but not before she saw Sylvia’s face in that photograph looking up, scowling, the last one they ever had, and she slammed down the lid, swallowing her whisky quickly. This was going to have to last.

It was time to get out into the field and find Ben. There must be no tales told out of school. As she trudged up the track, there was no sign of him walling, just Dieter who was waving frantically and running over, but she dodged him and took a short cut over a stone stile. Onwards and upwards to the high fells where the air would clear her head, fresh and cool. The loose limestone scree slowed her down. It was a long time since she’d visited World’s End–not since VE Day. For a while it had been her refuge but lately it was too much bother. Let it go to rack and ruin, she didn’t care. All the days were the same, grey, flat and empty, since Sylvia left them.

At least in Scarperton she could meet new
people and be one of a crowd who laughed and worked in the mills and shops, clocking on and off, not like farmers who never got a chance to clock off.

Perhaps when Jack came out they would have a change of sky, as Granny Simms used to say. Funny how she could hardly recall any of that time, as if there was a wall between her and her childhood with no door in it.

She panted up the hill, unused to its steepness, and then stopped in shock at the sight before her, not sure if she had come to the right place.

The ruin was no more, but in its place was a fine cottage with a roof, new windows, signs of building rubble and activity. Someone had been hard at work rebuilding World’s End and they were making a fine job of it too. She walked around, stunned at the detail and effort into the little place that had saved her life so many years before.

She could hardly bear to look. No one had said anything about it being renovated but it was months since she’d bothered to come. Funny how she’d always thought of it as her World’s End, but the land probably belonged to Lord Benton. The Yewells must only rent it and now it was taken back.

She trekked back down the hill disconsolate, her insides churning like a butter tub. Who would go to all the trouble? She spotted Dieter in his
battledress with the yellow circle at his back. He was waiting for her, cap in hand.

‘Who is building up there?’ she said in schoolgirl German. He smiled at her effort and answered in good English. ‘I help Herr Ben for his sweetheart, I think.’ He patted his chest. ‘He make new home, I think, but it is top secret, I think.’

Mirren took in his information in one gulp. How dare he? How dare Ben go behind her back and take her dream and make it his own? Behind her back take Miss Goody Two-Shoes Dinsdale and live up there all cosy and lovey-dovey. It was not his World’s End, it was hers!

She was so angry she forgot her mission to find him. If she saw him she would have screamed at him. Best to avoid him, the serpent, getting wed and not telling her. How could he steal her dream? The tears dripped down her cheeks but she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing she knew his little secret. All she needed was a drink. She raced back to Cragside and hid in her bedroom all afternoon, burying her head in the pillow, sick at heart. World’s End had been her secret refuge and now it was gone.

‘Jack’s coming home for the weekend. We’ve had a telegram,’ yelled Florrie from the foot of the stairs, rushing round giving everyone the good news. They were busy getting the beef stock ready
for the Christmas fat stock show. It was all hands to the pump in the rush to make them secure in the cattle truck.

Ben watched Mirren’s face drop at the news. ‘It’s too soon, surely. Who said he could come out?’

‘The Polish chap, the nice doctor with the beard. I heard he was rescued from one of them concentration camps, poor devil. There’s a few of them round Leeds doing a good job, if our Jack’s anything to go by. Dr Murray says if he settles he’ll come out for Christmas too,’ Florrie beamed. ‘It’s an answer to prayer.’

Mirren shook her head. ‘You and Tom’ll have to go and fetch him then. We’re too busy with all this palaver, aren’t we, Ben?’ She looked him straight in the eye for the first time in weeks. He’d begun to think she was avoiding him and he put it down to her shame at being caught drunk. They’d not talked since, but she was careful to show him how sober she was and she was back on form for the cattle show, which was a relief.

‘We’ll be proud to bring him home in the van. He needs a rest and feeding up. The sight of these hills will perk him up, and your cheery face, Mirren. I’m going to bake a right big sponge if I can find some eggs. I’ll be wringing their necks if those hens don’t do their duty. We allus seem short these days,’ she sighed.

Ben looked at Mirren, willing her to own up to
her secret egg round but she looked away with pink cheeks.

Having Jack back would be the best medicine, Ben thought. Then he would show them his surprise and give them a chance to get to know each other again. No more trips to hospital and no temptation for Mirren. He’d not smelled spirits on her breath, just mint imperials, which she sucked furiously, perhaps to give her mouth something to chew on. If she was making an effort he wasn’t going to tell tales.

It had been such a bad year and now she was seeing sense. The egg episode would stop now that winter was on them. Mirren was sensible. She knew enough was enough, but even he knew this weekend visit would be difficult for all of them. It was the first time Jack had faced the farm since the accident.

It was hard not to feel sorry for him. He wouldn’t wish Mirren and Jack’s suffering on his worst enemy. It still felt like some nightmare. They were dreading Christmas without the fun of seeing a little kiddy opening her presents and her stocking. Children made Christmas special.

His mam and dad were coming, and maybe Bert with his foreign fiancée, Irina, if he could get her into the country. They’d met when his camp was liberated. She was an interpreter. It was the talk of the district how he’d come home safe at last
with a pretty foreign bride in tow. Her arrival was going to take some stomaching for some, seeing as she was German. She’d helped Bert after the war and now he was going back into teaching woodwork. Ben couldn’t wait to see his brother again.

The war had changed them all but drawn them closer as a family. His mother and dad were full of Bert’s adventures. He hoped family closeness would hold up Jack and Mirren at the worst time of the year.

‘Come on, slow coach,’ yelled Mirren. ‘We’ll be late. I want a rosette at least out of this lot. This is the first big show since hostilities ceased,’ she laughed. ‘Mind you, there’ll be a few hostilities in the auction ring when the judges give their verdict.’

‘That’s my girl,’ Ben sighed with relief, she was back to her old self. How silly he was to think she wouldn’t straighten herself out, given time and some understanding.

Scarperton Auction Mart was buzzing with good humour. The white coats were parading their beasts round the ring, heifers, bulls, calves, all rippling with good meat. Local farmers in tweeds were gathered in flat caps, chewing over the entries, eyeing up the opposition. Butchers were out in force choosing their Christmas stock while the auctioneer rattled off the prices. There were stalls
of produce, farm wear and fancy goods, and wives with baskets, on the prowl for a bargain.

The Yewells were grooming the last of their beefers, polishing them off to show off their haunches but all Mirren could think of was Jack coming home and having to share her bed. How would she take her medicine with him around the room?

She’d have to shift her dwindling supplies. Her nerves jangled every time she thought of him coming home for good: all of them together and no Sylvia.

She couldn’t bear the thought of her lying in the ground and not jumping on their bed with glee on Christmas morning. She just wanted to forget the whole damn business. This wretched season ought to be banned.

She’d made sure in the past weeks to avoid the toy shop windows, the Christmas displays and festive decorations, meagre though the post-war ones were. To see children pointing out Dinky toys and dolls in boxes, toy prams and dressing-up clothes was agony.

She was going to need supplies to get her through the coming weeks, and there were no spare eggs or provisions to barter, just the brooch that had belonged to Gran, the one she’d have passed on to Sylvie, had she lived. What was the point now? Better to buy medicine and give everyone a hearty
Christmas. If she dulled the pain, she’d be better company, but pawning her brooch for drink didn’t sit easy. Gran would turn in her grave.

She slipped away from the Auction Mart in the centre of town, down to the old second-hand shop at the back of the Town Hall where Sam Layberg sold watches, second-hand jewellery and junk. There was a discreet sign with three golden balls over the door. She slipped into the shop and produced the brooch from its box: a large amethyst surrounded by seed pearls in a gold setting.