The next morning, Sunday, Fran was at the box-room window as the miners on the extra shift clattered towards the pit. Da should be one of them, Tom Bedley too, but Da and Stan had been bellowing at one another for the last hour. Suddenly there was silence and Fran held her breath, waiting.
She heard Stan shout, ‘I’m staying, Da, and that’s that. Besides, Mr Massingham wants me to partner the whelp until he gets the hang of things, and I owe the man, but not the son. And you remember that difference, Da.’
Her da’s reply was so loud the whole of those along the back lane must have heard. ‘The whelp will only cause bliddy havoc wherever he bliddy well puts his bliddy great feet, and that’s a good reason, if you won’t listen to owt else, for going back to bliddy Oxford, and taking him with you.’
Stan bellowed back, ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Da.’
Silence again. The pitmen were still passing and she heard one of them shout, ‘Howay, Joe Hall, Tom’s on his way. Save your breath for Auld Hilda.’
Fran agreed with her da. No one in their right mind would want that nincompoop anywhere near where real pitmen worked because he couldn’t have changed that much from childhood. What a pillock he’d been, lording it over them on his school holidays. But the owner was the owner, and the order had come down, so that was that.
She heard the back door slam and peered through the window. Her da was crossing the yard, stopping by the hen-feed barrel and throwing grain through the chicken wire. For a moment he watched the hens come from the old pigeon loft with a fluffing of feathers, then he threw the scoop back into the barrel and slammed the lid down. He clumped to the gate and opened it. She pressed her nose against the glass, seeing him meet Tom Bedley, who looked so like Davey and Sarah, and the two of them set off towards the mine, heads down, talking, her da gesticulating.
She waited a minute, opening the window and leaning out to make sure that her da wasn’t going to spring back in like some jack-in-a-box and start another round of bellowing, then headed downstairs for her own bread and dripping. She met Ben on the landing. ‘By, Franny, they were loud enough to wake the whole bliddy village, that they were.’
‘Don’t swear,’ she muttered, pulling him back by the collar. ‘Ladies first.’
He came down behind her, muttering, ‘There’s no lady anywhere near me, that there isn’t.’
She said nothing until they reached the passage, then she whipped round, grabbed his ear and laughed. ‘Take that back or I’ll skelp you, you little toerag.’
Ben squirmed. ‘Pax, pax, you’re the best lady there’s ever been, and I want me bread and dripping, so get off.’
‘Don’t you two ever grow up?’ Stan called from the kitchen.
Ben tore ahead of Fran, who yelled, ‘What happened to ladies first?’
‘That was then,’ Ben yelled, bursting into the kitchen and hiding behind their mam.
Fran followed. ‘I’ll swing for you one day.’
Stan was sitting on his chair at the table and slurping his tea. ‘Swing? Aye, that’s an idea. Let’s get on to the beck, and see if the rope’s still there. Maybe the kingfisher, or his bairn at least, will be there too. Mam, are you coming? We’ll take a bit of bait and spend the day out. What d’you reckon?’
Fran, who was chewing her bread and dripping, thanked her mam for the mug of tea she set before her and added, ‘Oh, we’ll get Davey and Sarah too – it’ll be the gang, plus Ben. Ben, d’you feel like scooting round and getting them sorted? Tell Davey to make his own bait; he’s got a pair of hands, same as Sarah.’
Ben was off and out of the house, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
Fran looked at her mam. ‘Come too, Mam. The sun’s out and it’s right nice.’
‘Nay, lass, Mrs Bedley’s on her way and we’ll work on sorting our proggies. If we’re selling to the big stores direct, we reckon on starting a cooperative of workers to produce the goods, but their work ’as to be good enough. We’ve drawn up a list of the lasses we think will be happy to do it.’
Her mam was pulling out her proggy frame and putting it on the end of the table. Stan leapt to his feet and helped, while both Fran and he grinned at one another.
Stan said, ‘Aye, we’ve bred our own boss, an’ all. What d’you think you’ve been and gone and done, our Fran? There’ll be no peace now. She’ll have us cutting up the blankets once she’s dyed them, see if she doesn’t. It’ll be like we’re bairns again.’
‘Aye,’ said their mam, ‘and any nonsense from the pair of you, and it’ll be a clip behind the ear, let me tell you.’
At the Bedley house, Sarah was helping her mam lay out a finished proggy rug on the existing kitchen rug to see how it looked when it was down. ‘It’s grand, Mam, just right, but listen, are you and Mrs Hall sure you want to do this, get a group together, have Briddlestone’s expecting delivery, that sort of thing? You work hard enough as it is.’
‘Oh, stop your mithering, pet. I make them anyway, so why not get paid proper for doing it? And it’ll be reet good because while we’re all working together we can have a bit of a natter. It’s what we need, you know – something to think about other than the war, and the pit, and yon Factory place. It’ll be canny, you mark my words.’
‘Are you putting all the money into a pot and divvying it up? Or is everyone getting paid for what they produce?’ Sarah asked, sitting back on her heels as Mrs Bedley eased herself to her feet.
‘Mrs Hall and me’ll have to sort that out in some way that’s fair, then put it to the others and see what’s what.’
Sarah, still hunkered down, traced the pattern, smoothing the strips of rag she and her mam had cut from old blankets and felted jumpers. She realised the blue sweater of hers that had felted in the wash had been incorporated into the centre of the design.
Mrs Bedley went on, ‘Mrs Hall telephoned the man at Briddlestone’s about their needs and he said they’re thinking of using them for wall hangings in London and want the shaggy and the smooth, so they’ve asked us to make some samples of both. We’ve got Mrs Smith – Beth’s mam – from Langton Terrace, too, and a few more, including Mrs Oborne when she’s off shift. Some of them have young bairns an’ all, and as they need the money most, we reckon to take ’em on. Their men can help to make the frames, if the lasses can’t do it.’
There was a knock at the back door and Sarah sprang to her feet, finding Ben stotting and jiggling on the back step. The lad always made her smile because he was so like Fran, with the same grin and enough energy to turn the world around.
‘Sarah, our Fran said we were all to go to the beck for t’day. So, put yourself some bait together, and Davey must too. She says you’re not to do his, cos he has mitts too. Where’s he, anyways?’
Davey had crept up behind the lad and now yelled, ‘Right behind yer, Ben.’
Ben jumped sky-high, then turned. ‘That’s bliddy dangerous. I could have fell and broke me legs, Davey.’
‘Language, young Ben,’ Mrs Bedley called.
‘But Mrs Bedley—’
Davey lifted up the lad and whirled him around, Ben shouting, ‘Let me go, I’m not a bairn.’
Davey put him down, ruffling the lad’s hair. Ben shrugged himself out of Davey’s reach, sticking his hands in his pockets. ‘Don’t know why I came to ask you, because you don’t deserve to come to the beck, so you don’t, Davey Bedley.’
‘Howay with you, our Ben,’ Davey laughed. ‘If your sister’s going, d’you think wild horses’d keep me away?’
Ben grimaced. ‘I don’t want any kissing and hugging. It’s daft, and right soppy.’
Sarah stood watching these two, loving every second. It was as it always was, and now Stan was back it would be even better. In fact, it would be perfect, especially if …
‘Stan’s coming too?’ she asked.
Ben was backing towards the gate, smoothing his hair, which would not lie flat, just like Fran’s. ‘Oh aye, we’re all going.’
‘All?’ Sarah asked.
Davey pulled a face. ‘What, you don’t want our Ben? But he’s part of the gang.’
Sarah grinned. ‘Aye, wouldn’t go without the lad. Just checking.’
For a moment she’d thought Ben had meant Beth too and something had twisted inside her.