Red Sky in the Morning
Read Red Sky in the Morning Online
Authors: Margaret Dickinson
Red Sky in
the Morning
PAN BOOKS
For Zoë and Scott,
my daughter and son-in-law
1946
One
The girl was standing in the middle of the cobbled marketplace. She had been there for hours whilst the busy market bustled around her. All day the raucous shouts of the
stallholders had rung out, each vying with the others to attract the attention of the shoppers, but they had not gained hers. It was two weeks before Christmas and the stalls were laden with holly
wreaths and mistletoe, bringing colour to a drab, wet day.
Now it was growing dark and the traders were packing up and going home. Home to a warm fire and a hot drink, no doubt liberally laced with whisky to drive out the chill and to thaw frozen hands
and feet. The rain had been falling steadily since early morning and the girl, just standing there so quiet and still, staring ahead of her and looking neither to right nor left, was soaked to her
skin. Her long black hair was plastered against her head. The bottom button of the shapeless coat she wore was missing and the garment flapped open, revealing the swelling mound of her belly. Yet
she didn’t seem to care about her condition, or even about the discomfort she must be feeling. She seemed unaware of everything and everyone around her. Her thin face was white and pinched
with cold, and devoid of expression. Her blue eyes, so dark they were almost violet, were lifeless.
‘A’ ya goin’ to stand there all night, lass?’ The last market trader to load his wares into the back of an old van shouted across the wet cobblestones, shining now in the
pale glow from the street lamp. She did not even glance in his direction. It was as if she hadn’t heard him. The man wiped the back of his hand across his face and shrugged. ‘Please
ya’sen,’ he muttered and turned away. He looked longingly towards the public house, the Shepherd’s Crook. Even out here in the cold and the wet, the buzz of conversation could be
heard through the open door. A haze of pipe and cigarette smoke drifted out into the night air. The market trader hesitated for a moment, seemingly torn between the inviting hospitality the place
offered and the thought of home, where his wife would be waiting with a hot meal and warm slippers. The pull of home won and he bent to swing the starting handle of his battered van. The engine
spluttered into life and he moved to the driver’s side of the vehicle, slinging the starting handle into the well in front of the passenger seat. He glanced across at the girl, then shrugged
again and climbed into the van.
When the noise of the motor had died away the marketplace was deserted, except for the girl. The only other living creature was a pony, harnessed to an old-fashioned trap and tethered outside
the Shepherd’s Crook. It looked as wet and miserable as the girl felt. Just once she licked her lips, tasting the rain.
The laughter and the noise from the pub spilled into the street as three men came out, lurching along the pavement, bumping into one another, laughing and joking and filled with the merriment of
the festive season. They didn’t even notice her. More men left the pub in twos and threes, yet the pony still stood there, occasionally pawing the ground, his metal-clad hoof scraping the
cobbles. He shook his head and water droplets showered from his rain-soaked mane.
‘Time to go home, Eddie. You can’t stay here all night.’ There was a disturbance in the doorway of the pub and, for the first time, the girl’s glance focused on the two
men there. One was very unsteady, reeling from side to side and being steered towards the waiting pony and trap by the other. ‘Come on. Your pony’ll tek you home. Good job he knows the
way better’n you when you’re in this state, in’t it?’
For a moment the drunken man leant against the trap, then he grasped the side and, with the aid of the other man, heaved himself into the back. The pony lifted his head, perking up at once now
his warm stable was almost in sight.
‘On you go, then.’ The publican raised his hand, about to untether the pony and slap its rump to send it on its way, when the man in the back mumbled, ‘Wait. Wait a
mo’.’
Through the blur of drink and the steadily falling rain, he had caught a glimpse of the girl standing in the middle of the square. He raised a shaking finger and pointed. ‘Who’s
that?’
‘Eh?’ The landlord glanced over his shoulder. ‘Oh, her. Bin there hours. Some tramp beggin’, I ’spect. Well, she needn’t think she’s goin’ to get
a bed at my place.’
Eddie was scrambling out of the trap again.
‘Now, now,’ the other man remonstrated. ‘On you go home, Eddie. You’re goin’ to be in enough trouble with your missis as it is. Don’t be bothering yourself
with the likes of that little trollop.’
Eddie shook off the man’s restraining hand. ‘You can’t leave a poor lass standing there in this weather,’ he mumbled and began to shamble towards the girl. The landlord
shrugged. ‘Have it your way, then. I’ve better things to do with me time. Goodnight to you, Eddie Appleyard.’
The landlord went inside and slammed the heavy door of the public house. The sound of the bolts being shot home echoed in the silence.
Still the girl had not moved as Eddie reached her and stood before her, swaying slightly. He peered at her through the gloom. ‘Nowhere to go, lass?’ His voice was gentle and caring
and the girl, who had thought she was empty of all emotion, felt tears prickle behind her eyelids. It was the first kind word she had heard in weeks, months even. Slowly, she shook her head.
He touched her arm lightly. ‘Then you’d best come home with me.’ Without waiting for any sign of agreement or otherwise from her, Eddie turned and reeled back towards the trap.
But before he reached it, he stumbled and fell to the cobbles. The girl watched for a moment and then, when he made no attempt to rise, she moved at last. Her limbs were stiff with cold and for the
first few steps she hobbled like an old woman. She bent and grasped his arm. He grunted and, leaning heavily on her, struggled to his feet. They staggered towards the trap. The man scrambled into
the back and then turned, holding out his hand towards her. ‘Come on, lass. You can’t stay out here all night.’
She hesitated and then put her hand into his. When she was sitting beside him on the floor he said, ‘Giddup, Duke.’ The pony moved and, as the trap swayed, the girl clung on to the
side, but the man merely shifted himself into a more comfortable position. Curling his body to fit into the confined space, he lay down. With a satisfied grunt, he rested his head on her lap and,
almost at once, began to snore.
The pony bent its head against the driving rain as it plodded up the steep hill, leaving the lights of the town behind them. Beneath the slight shelter the sides of the trap afforded and with
the warmth of the man close to her seeping into her chilled being, the girl’s eyelids closed. Her head drooped forward and soon, draped across the man, she too slept.
‘Who the hell’s this?’
A woman’s strident voice startled the girl awake. The pony and trap had come to a halt in the middle of a farmyard. Farm buildings and a house loomed through the darkness. The woman, a
raincoat over her head, was standing at the back of the trap, poking the sleeping man with her forefinger.
‘Eddie – wake up. Who’s this, I’d like to know? Some trollop you’ve picked up at the market?’ She prodded him viciously. ‘You’ve a nerve and no
mistake. Come on.’ She began to pull at him. ‘Stir ya’sen. I want an explanation. And it’d better be good.’
The man grunted and lifted his head. His face now on a level with the woman’s, he murmured, ‘Bertha, my dearly beloved wife.’ He grinned foolishly, but even in his drunken
state the girl could detect the sarcasm in his tone.
‘I’ll “beloved wife” you,’ the woman shrilled as she dragged him from the trap. He fell to the ground on his hands and knees, but she made no effort to help him up.
Instead she pushed him with her toe. ‘Get up, ya daft beggar. And as for you,’ she added, glaring up at the girl still sitting on the floor of the trap, ‘you can be on ya
way—’
‘No – no.’ Hanging on to the back of the trap, the man dragged himself upright. He swayed slightly, but his voice was less slurred now. ‘No, she’s stayin’.
She’s nowhere to go.’
‘What’s that to do with you? Who is she?’
The man shrugged. ‘Dunno. She was standing in the marketplace getting soaking wet, so I brought her home.’
‘Oh, a real knight in shining armour, aren’t ya? Get on inside.’ The woman pushed him again. Then she jabbed her finger towards the girl. ‘And you. You’d better
come inside an’ all. Only for a minute, mind. I want to get to the bottom of this.’
The woman, small and very overweight, nevertheless marched towards the back door of the farmhouse with surprising agility.
‘Come on, lass,’ Eddie said. ‘We’d better do as she says.’ He held out his hand to her and, stiffly, she climbed out of the trap. As they began to walk towards the
house, the girl spoke for the first time. Her voice was low and husky.
‘What about the pony?’
‘Eh?’ Eddie blinked. ‘Oh aye.’ He lurched back towards the animal, still waiting patiently, and patted its neck. ‘Poor old Duke. You always get the rough end of the
stick, don’t you?’ His voice was low as he muttered, ‘Reckon we both do.’
The man began to grapple with the harness and the girl moved to help him. As soon as the pony felt himself released from the shafts, he trotted towards the building on the right-hand side of the
yard. The man gave a wry laugh. ‘He knows his way home all right.’
They left the trap in the middle of the yard and went towards the house.
‘If she – if she won’t let you stay in the house, lass, the hayloft above Duke’s stable is dry and in the morning—’ He wiped his hand across his face and then
shook his head as if trying to clear it. ‘I’m not thinking too straight, but I’ll sort summat out for you in the morning.’ They stepped into a scullery and through that into
a warm kitchen, where the smell of freshly baked mince pies still lingered. ‘I’ll see if I can get her to—’
‘So? What’s all this about?’ Bertha was standing with her fat arms folded across her bosom. Her mousy coloured hair was straight and roughly cut into an untidy bob. Parted on
one side, the long section of hair was held back from her face by a grip. Her florid cheeks were lined with tiny red veins and her mouth was small, the thin lips lost in the fatness of her face.
Only in her mid-thirties, yet already she had a double chin. As she stood awaiting her husband’s explanation, her pale hazel eyes sparked with anger.
Behind the woman, in the doorway leading further into the house, stood a young boy in striped flannelette pyjamas. He was no more than ten years old and his large brown eyes were darting from
one to the other between his parents, but they seemed oblivious to his presence.
The girl shivered and glanced towards the glowing fire, longing to kneel before it and hold out her hands to its heat.
‘Well? I’m waiting.’ The woman’s glance raked the girl, taking in her bedraggled state. Then her mouth turned down in disgust. ‘I might ’ave known.
She’s in the family way. Is it yours, Eddie Appleyard?’
‘Don’t talk daft, woman.’ Her accusation brought a brief spark of retaliation. ‘I ain’t even seen her afore tonight.’
‘Huh! Expect me to believe that.’ She stepped towards the girl. ‘Well, you can be on your way, whoever you are.’
The man said nothing, but he made a motion with his head as if to remind the girl of his earlier offer for her to sleep in the hayloft.
‘I saw that. Ee, there’s more going on here than you’re letting on. I can tell.’
