‘You’ll have to come an’ give us a hand, love. There’s a right crowd in what with it bein’ Harvest Bank Holiday, an’ I’m runnin’ short o’ glasses.’
Henry’s request was Cally’s introduction to the licensed trade. Up until now she had simply cleaned the bar and helped Dolly with the shopping and cooking but now, with Dolly unwell, Henry required her assistance.
Cally collected and washed dozens of glasses, the noise and the smell of smoke making her head swim. When an impatient customer asked for two Johnnie Walkers, she glanced tentatively at Henry. He handed her a shiny silver measure from a collection ranged along the back shelf of the bar and then pointed out a bottle.
Nervously, Cally selected what she hoped were the correct glasses and opened the bottle. As the amber liquid streamed from bottle to measure and then to each glass, a frisson of excitement flowed through her veins. Proudly she set the glasses on the counter and asked for payment. Before the night was over she was pulling frothy pints of mild and bitter, twisting open bottles of stout and measuring spirits like a professional. As her confidence grew she chatted to the customers, enjoying the merry banter; it didn’t seem like work at all.
‘Born barmaid, she is,’ said Henry, when they joined Dolly in the kitchen at closing time. ‘You should o’ seen her pullin’ pints. Got a right good head on ’em, so she did. What’s more, she livened up the bar. The young chaps appreciated her, I could tell.’
Cally blushed at his fulsome praise and hoped Dolly would not take amiss the flattering remarks. Sure enough, Dolly did no such thing. Instead she grinned, even though her legs were paining her badly.
‘I knew she was a good ’un from first time I met her,’ she boasted, ‘an’ that’s what we need: a bit o’ young stuff to liven t’place up. You’re a good lass, Cally, and you’ve done us proud what with all the help you’ve been. It was our lucky night when yon nasty sod brought you to our door.’
In that moment Cally resolved to make them even prouder. She’d turn The Royal Oak back into the thriving establishment it had once been.
Two months later the guest bedrooms were, once again, ready for occupation. ‘I’ve made enquiries about getting gas fires fitted,’ she told Henry and Dolly one evening.
‘Gas fires,’ exclaimed Henry, baulking at the expenditure.
Cally grinned. ‘I’ve promised Tommy Ward who works at the gasworks that I’ll walk out with him if he’ll fit fires and gas rings in every room on the cheap. Winter’s fast approaching and a warm, comfortable room where a traveller can make himself a hot drink at night will be good for custom.’ Henry, seeing the wisdom in this, relented.
Next, Cally created a dining room in the unused snug. ‘We’ll serve food in here to anyone who fancies some good home cooking,’ she told Henry and Dolly. Finally she hand wrote a dozen white cards. In bold capitals she wrote:
THE ROYAL OAK
RESIDENTIAL HOTEL AND PUBLIC HOUSE
ACCOMMODATION FOR DISCERNING CUSTOMERS
COMFORTABLE HEATED ROOMS
Underneath in smaller letters she wrote;
Enjoy a drink in our lively public bar or a home-cooked meal in our dining room
At the foot of the card she wrote out the tariff, undercutting similar establishments in the city by several shillings.
She placed an advertisement in the Telegraph and Argus and asked local shopkeepers, most of whom she knew by now, to display the cards in their windows in return for a few pence. No one refused. Elated, she waited for the first paying guest to appear.
November crawled by, the city shrouded in sleet and fog. Whilst the miserable weather enticed customers to partake of tasty hotpots and pies served each day in the snug, none required overnight accommodation.
‘We were rushed off us feet today in the dining room,’ Dolly remarked one evening. ‘Your idea to serve grub’s payin’ off.’
‘I’m glad something is,’ Cally retorted crossly. Consumed with guilt at having spent the Brook’s hard-earned money on refurbishments, she admitted to having overplayed her hand.
In December, Bradford city prepared to celebrate Christmas as usual, the larger stores decorating their windows with gold and silver baubles and delectable gifts. One frosty morning Cally window shopped at Brown Muffs, gazing in awe at the seasonal motifs and the display of fine clothing. One day she’d wear garments like that, she vowed; just not this year.
In the market she purchased gloves for Henry and a warm, knitted wrap for Dolly, its autumnal colours reminiscent of her hair. For herself she bought a real leather purse. The stallholder, smitten by her pretty face and trim figure popped in a shiny new sixpence and snapped the clasp. ‘There you are, darlin’, a lucky sixpence. From now on your purse’ll never be empty.’
Cally beamed her gratitude, wished him a Merry Christmas and sauntered back to The Royal Oak. Henry dashed from behind the bar immediately he saw her. ‘We’ve a customer,’ he gasped, ‘Dolly’s showing him the rooms.’
Cally pushed her parcels into Henry’s arms and raced upstairs, her heart thumping. Guided by the sound of Dolly’s voice she strode into the room, a welcoming smile on her face. Dolly, flushed with exertion, said, ‘She’s here now, sir. She’ll let you know how good the rooms an’ service are at The Royal Oak.’ With that she bobbed a curtsy, nodded meaningfully at Cally and puffed out of the room.
The man’s worsted overcoat, homburg hat and fine leather gloves indicated a gentleman of quality. Cally thrust out her hand. ‘I’m Cally Manfield, and you, sir?’
‘Josiah Wormald, manufacturer of the finest soap in the north of England.’ He grinned at his boast. ‘I’m here to visit the stores I supply; making sure they’re displaying my products to the best advantage. I’ve a list of clients to see, so three nights will be ample.’
Three nights: not just one. Cally’s spirits soared.
‘Three nights,’ she exulted, on her return to the kitchen. ‘I knew it would take off, Dolly. All we have to do is treat them the best then they’ll tell their friends and you’ll be back in business.’
Dolly rubbed her swollen fingers and frowned. ‘I hope it’s not throwin’ too much work your way, Cally love. I’m not much use any more. Them stairs kill me, an’ as for waitin’ on at tables, me hands aren’t as steady as they should be.’
Cally quelled Dolly’s doubts with a swift hug. ‘I’ll manage as long as you help with the cooking. I’m so excited I could burst.’ As the last words left her mouth the door into the kitchen opened. It was Henry.
‘Aye, well, don’t go burstin’ just yet,’ he chortled. ‘You’ve another customer lookin’ for a room.’
*
‘Who’d o’ thought we’d do so well,’ remarked Dolly, some six months later as she helped Cally change beds in readiness for the regular flow of guests, ‘an’ now there’s this.’ She fished in her apron pocket for the letter she had received that morning. It was from Bobby, the Brooks’ only son.
‘Fancy him being in Australia,’ she marvelled for the umpteenth time, as she shucked a pillow into its case. ‘The last we heard he was in London.’
‘He sounds to be a bit of a lad, does your Bobby,’ said Cally, vigorously plumping a pillow.
Dolly’s smile slipped. ‘Aye, he were always wayward, but I’m pleased to hear he’s safe and well. I still worry about him though.’ She gave Cally a meaningful look. ‘I expect your dad worries about you?’
Cally clutched the pillow to her chest. ‘I don’t think so,’ she murmured.
Dolly plopped down on the bed. ‘Look, love, I know it’s none of my business but I don’t think it’s right you never go an’ see him.’ She raised her hand as though to silence Cally, although Cally hadn’t said a word. ‘Oh, I know you had a fall out an’ all that, but you’ll come to regret it if you don’t try an’ make up.’
Cally smiled wanly. ‘Maybe you’re right, Dolly. I regret it already. If I’m ever to learn the truth, he’s the only one I can ask.’ She shrugged disconsolately. ‘I’m just scared he really did want rid of me.’
‘The only way you’ll find out is to go an’ ask him.’
*
The train clacked its way steadily towards Barnsley, Cally gazing out at the flashing scenery and thinking over what she was about to do. Suppose her dad refused to see her; or worse still he might confirm what Annie had told her, that he really did want rid of her. Did I really spoil his life, she thought? Well, if did I might as well face it; find out one way or the other. It’s too late to turn back.
At Calthorpe crossroads Cally alighted from the bus. She didn’t walk away immediately. Instead, she let her gaze roam the familiar surroundings; slag heaps, the pithead winding gear, the church spire and the houses on either side of School Road. Nothing had changed. It was as though she had never been away. She sauntered down the steep incline and under the arch into Jackson’s Yard, pausing to straighten her new straw hat and brush the creases from the skirt of her blue cotton frock. Confident of her appearance yet inwardly quaking, she walked down the yard to number eleven. She’d have to brazen it out.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I used to live here, remember?’ said Cally, pleased by Annie’s shocked expression. ‘I’ve come to see my dad. Is he in?’
Somewhat overawed by Cally’s forthright approach and attractive appearance, Annie nodded her head in the direction of the parlour. Yet again, just as she had with Harriet, Annie felt envious and disadvantaged when faced with someone who appeared to have achieved much more in life than she had. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting a cup of tea,’ she said, ungraciously.
‘If it’s no trouble.’ Cally was enjoying Annie’s chagrin. ‘If you’re too busy I can make it myself. I know where things are.’
Annie flushed and turned away to put the kettle on.
Cally sashayed across the kitchen and into the parlour where her father was sitting reading a paper in a chair by the window. He glanced up, his eyes widening in surprise and his jaw slackening. Cally hadn’t noticed any change in the village but she immediately saw a change in her dad. He looked much older than she remembered, his face was more lined, his sideburns flecked with silver.
‘Hello, Dad; I’m off for the weekend so I thought I’d come to see how you are.’ Now for the moment of truth, she thought.
George tossed the paper aside, jumped to his feet and swooped Cally up into his arms. ‘By, lass, but it’s good to see you. I thought you’d forgotten all about us.’ He stepped back and gazed at her. ’You’re as pretty as a picture. You look just like your mam.’
Cally sagged with relief. A warm welcome and a mention of her mam; she couldn’t have wished for better. ‘It’s good to see you, too,’ she said, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak.
Annie stamped in with a mug of tea in either hand and then dumped them unceremoniously on the hearth. ‘I can make a sandwich if you want, that’s if you’re stopping.’
‘Course she’s stoppin’, aren’t you, lass?’ George glanced at Cally for confirmation.
‘If you’ll have me: I don’t have to be back till tomorrow night. I can stop over,’ she turned to Annie, ‘if that’s alright with you.’
Annie shrugged. ‘You’ll have to share a bed with our Daisy.’
‘I shared with her before,’ chirped Cally.
Annie clumped back into the kitchen and George smiled ruefully. ‘She doesn’t alter,’ he said, and gestured towards the tea. ‘Sit yourself down, luv, an’ tell me what you’ve been up to since I last saw you. I was fair shocked when I came home from work an’ found you’d gone.’
The tea in Cally’s mouth turned acid. She swallowed noisily; like a fool she’d believed Annie’s lies. ‘Did you want me to stay at home, Dad?’
George raised his eyebrows. ‘Course I did. I was fair bothered when Annie told me you’d up and left. Mind you, I don’t blame you. Things were bad back then, what wi’ Annie carryin’ on an’ me like a bear wi’ a sore arse.’
‘Was it my fault?’
George looked utterly perplexed. ‘Nay lass, it were nowt to do wi’ you; it wa’ other stuff – bad stuff.’ He rubbed a hand over his face as if to wipe away bitter memories, then in a low voice he said, ‘I didn’t do right by you when your mam died, an’ afore that I didn’t do right by her or Annie; it bothered me.’ He forced a wry smile. ‘Mind you, Annie’s made me pay for it ever since.’
He leapt up, the confines of the room suddenly repressive. ‘Let’s go for a walk, lass. There’s stuff needs to be said.’
The wasteland behind the ash pits was a riot of wild flowers and the air was scented with the sharp, homely smell of coal dust. Greyish-blue smoke spiralled slowly upwards from the giant slag heaps. To Cally it seemed like heaven after the noise and bustle of the city. A lark soared high above their heads, his song pure and full of hope and Cally’s heart rose along with it.
At the edge of the wasteland they rested on a low wall, George chewing contemplatively on a blade of grass. Up till now, little of any consequence had been said. Cally idly watched the pithead winding gear perform its lazy circles and waited for George to speak.
He lit a cigarette, dragging on it and gazing into the distance. ‘I know I wa’ a bloody useless father what never took enough notice on you, but why did you go off like that wi’out tellin’ me?’
Cally’s chest tightened. In low tones she recounted the events of the day of her fourteenth birthday.
George exhaled gustily, the smoke pluming round his head. ‘The scheming bitch!’ he growled. ‘I never said owt o’ t’sort.’
Cally desperately wanted to believe him. ‘So you never told Annie you wanted rid of me? That it was me caused all the problems.’
George’s features contorted. ‘Did I bloody hell. I wa’ heartbroken when I found you’d gone.’
Cally’s heart leapt. ‘I should have known better than to believe Annie,’ she cried, ‘she’s made fools of both of us.’
George nodded, a wry smile quirking his lips. ‘Aye, she’s good at that, is Annie.’
‘Why did you not answer my letters?’
George looked puzzled. ‘What letters? I never got any.’ Fumbling for another cigarette, he lit it and then puffed out a cloud of angry smoke. ‘The cunnin’ bitch. She never alters. She’s never happy unless she’s makin’ somebody else miserable.’
‘Why did you marry her?’
George covered his eyes with his hand and bowed his head. ‘I had to. I got her in’t family way. There wa’ nowt else for it.’
He drew a sketchy version of events leading up to Ada’s death, shame and remorse diminishing him. He could not bring himself to admit that his actions had possibly contributed to it. Cally would never forgive him.
Cally reached out and stroked the back of his exposed neck. ‘It’s all right, Dad. It was a long time ago. Sometimes we can’t help what we do. We all make mistakes.’
‘Aye, you’re right there,’ George agreed, bitterly. ‘An’ when George Manfield makes a mistake, he makes a bloody big ’un. What me an’ Annie did spoiled the memory of your mam, an’ I’ll live wi’ that for the rest of my life.’ He shook himself like an angry bear. ‘As for Annie, she blames you for being stuck here in Calthorpe wi’ me. She made a bloody hash o’ your life an’ I let her, God forgive me.’
Savagely stubbing out his cigarette he got to his feet, chin jutted upwards as he stared into the distance, struggling to regain composure. Cally scrambled to her feet and embraced him. He held her close, begging forgiveness.
Cally absolved him.
They walked back across the wasteland, the blue sky faded to purple and the setting sun banding it with rosy streaks. As they neared the ash pits, Cally recalled the times she had sought sanctuary there. To banish sad memories and lighten the mood, she told George about her job at the Cratchley’s, George laughing at her finely drawn caricatures of Dora and Mrs Fogarty. She purposely did not mention William’s attempt to rape her or how she had dealt with it. Neither did she go into too much detail when she told him about her brief stay with Emma and Bella. She didn’t want to besmirch the day with such unsavoury topics. But she did tell him about Henry and Dolly Brook and the wonderful job she had at The Royal Oak, trying not to sound too boastful when she talked about the changes she had made to that establishment. George swelled with pride as he listened.
‘You’ve done alright, our Cally, even if you did have a bloody rotten rearin’ after your mam died.’ He shook his head to dispel the painful memories, then said, ‘You make me proud, even though I don’t deserve it.’ His words made Cally’s heart sing.
They clambered down the steps into Jackson’s Yard, George’s step and his heart light. ‘You must come an’ see us more often now we’ve sorted things out. It doesn’t take that long to get here on t’train. In my young days it took all day: we never thought then that we’d be travelling at such speed. T’Flying Scotsman can go from London to Edinburgh in less than six hours you know. It’s a changing world, our Cally. You make sure you keep up wi’ it.’
Cally laughed. ‘I’ll run as fast as I can, and let nothing pass me by.’
‘I’m sure you will, lass. I’m sure you will.’
They stood in the yard in silence enjoying the last heat of the day, Cally rejoicing in the outcome of her visit. The sun sank below the horizon and only the cawing of distant rooks could be heard.
*
The next day, in Barnsley bus station, on her way back to Bradford, who should Cally meet but Gertie Snell. ‘Was it you told Annie about the job at Cratchley’s?’ Cally asked forthrightly. ‘And did you tell her why Betty had to leave?’
Gertie flushed and then blustered, ‘Aye, what if I did?’ Shamefaced, she pushed past Cally and boarded the bus to Calthorpe.
Thoroughly dejected, Cally walked to the railway station. How could Annie have had so little regard for her? She’d known of the danger, yet she had left Cally at the mercy of William Cratchley. How could anyone be so wicked?