‘At first I thought the worst had happened.’ Joyce sat with Evelyn and Alma in the kitchen of Black Crag Farm as the first grey streaks of dawn light appeared in the sky. She’d heard Cliff’s agonized cry and seen him fall. Then silence, darkness; nothing.
Laurence had got to him first and by the time Joyce had scrambled down the slope to join him, he’d been crouched over him, undoing the top button of his shirt. Cliff lay on his back, features contorted into a grimace and his limbs twisted under him.
In the Bradleys’ kitchen Evelyn pictured the fall, the loss of control, the flash of fear. She hung her head and sobbed.
Alma put an arm around her shoulder. ‘Hush,’ she murmured. ‘There, there.’ Then she turned to Joyce. ‘You say that Laurence has driven him to Dr Brownlee’s?’
Joyce nodded. ‘He asked me to let Bernard and Dorothy know. That’s my next job.’
‘How bad did it look?’ Evelyn asked between sobs. She was swaddled in blankets, still clutching at her torn shirt, remembering Cliff’s hands on her body and seeing his cruel eyes. ‘Could you tell?’
‘He was conscious,’ Joyce replied. ‘He said he couldn’t walk so Mr Bradley and I decided to carry him here, then drive him on to the doctor’s house. Dr Brownlee will be able to check the damage and call for an ambulance if necessary.’ Her weary muscles felt the effect of Cliff’s sagging, broken weight as they’d brought him down the hill.
‘I wish …’ Evelyn drew a deep breath. ‘This isn’t the way I wanted it to end.’
‘We know that. But try not to worry too much. Doctors can work wonders these days.’ Without really believing it, Joyce spoke words of comfort, hoping to distance herself from the sound of Cliff’s cry as he’d lost his grip and fallen, from the black space, from the fear in his eyes as Laurence loosened his collar. The knowledge that he might never be whole again.
Joyce rode her bike through the half-light along the dirt track towards Shawcross. She reached Garthside Farm as the cock crowed and the goat began to bray. There was a light on in an upstairs window.
From his bedroom Bernard watched Joyce lean her bike against a low wall. He knew something bad had happened and it was to do with Cliff, who had set off for Acklam at around noon yesterday and hadn’t returned. Steeling himself, the old farmer got dressed and crept downstairs, careful not to wake Dorothy. He went out without his coat into a world not yet fully light.
Joyce took a deep breath before delivering the bad news.
Bernard approached with certainty in his heart. ‘Is it my lad?’
‘It is.’
‘I knew it.’
‘He fell from the top of the crag and hurt himself.’
‘Not dead?’
‘No, he’s alive. Mr Bradley has taken him to Dr Brownlee’s.’
Bernard didn’t speak but he swayed and had to steady himself against the wall top.
‘The doctors; they can work wonders—’
Cliff’s father put up his hand to stop her. ‘I’ll have to tell his sister.’
‘The police will be involved.’
A slight nod indicated that he’d heard. ‘How did it happen?’
‘It started with a fight between him and Evelyn. I don’t know much more than that.’
In the heavy silence that followed, the beam from a torch flickered towards them. Dorothy had woken to the sound of her father descending the stairs and had followed him. She’d overheard Joyce say the name ‘Evelyn’ and drawn her own conclusions. ‘What has my silly fool of a brother done now?’ she demanded, her voice trembling. ‘Come on, Dad; spit it out. Whatever it is, we’ll face it together, you and I.’
‘And how is Evelyn?’ It was Christmas Eve and Brenda sat with Joyce in the Blacksmith’s Arms in Burnside. She’d headed there soon after saying goodbye to Les at Rixley station and she’d just learned from Joyce that Cliff Huby was likely to be in hospital for weeks, if not months, and that the doctors were still not sure if he would ever walk again. Meanwhile, in a final act of unparalleled spite, his wife Gladys had announced that she was filing for divorce.
‘Evelyn is coming round slowly,’ Joyce reported as she looked around for Grace and Una, who were soon to join them. For now, however, the two women enjoyed the warmth of the fire and the comforting hum of conversation at the bar.
Joyce took her time to reflect on the events of the last few days. ‘I was there in the sitting room at New Hall when she talked to the police.’
‘The poor thing.’ Brenda sipped her drink. ‘That can’t have been easy.’
‘Yes, and you know that better than most.’ Joyce recalled how Brenda had felt when she’d reported John Mackenzie’s attack to Squadron Leader Jim Aldridge.
‘You know it wasn’t your fault; it was his. But you feel …’
‘Ashamed?’ Joyce prompted.
‘Yes. And guilty.’ Brenda remembered the way mean-spirited people looked at you afterwards – how they made you partly to blame.
‘But you know Evelyn. She’s like you – you’re both made of stern stuff. She got through the police interview pretty well.’ Only stumbling when it came to her account of how Cliff had thrown her down and torn her shirt and exposed her flesh, looking to Joyce for support while the police sergeant had written it down. ‘Then she had to sit through me giving my version of what happened to Cliff at Black Crag. Geoff stood by with stiff whiskies all round after the police left. He says Evelyn can spend Christmas with him if she wants.’
‘Give that man a medal.’
‘I know. What would we have done without him? Anyway, how was Hettie’s funeral?’
‘Big. The church was full – people came from as far away as Northgate to pay their respects. Les saw to it that there were yellow roses on her coffin.’ Brenda had sat with the family in the front pew, sharing her order of service with Arnold, helping him to stand for the hymns, holding his trembling hand as Donald delivered the eulogy. Full-throated organ music had risen to the rafters as the mourners had followed the coffin into the churchyard. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
‘And afterwards?’
‘Tea and sandwiches at Dale End. Old school friends swapped stories about Hettie being the bossiest class monitor in the history of the school, neighbours remembered how she was the backbone of Attercliffe WI, organizing village galas and so on. It ended up quite cheerful.’
‘I meant you and Les. How were you?’
Brenda paused then gave Joyce a quiet smile that said it all.
‘And now we have to keep our fingers crossed.’ That Les would rejoin his ship and stay safe, that Joyce’s own Edgar would soar over enemy territory and return unscathed – day after day, night after night until the fight against Herr Hitler was won.
Joyce and Brenda savoured the quiet moment. ‘It makes you think,’ Joyce continued after a while. ‘There we all were in the Cross Keys, not too long ago, making our Christmas wishes.’
‘Ah, yes.’ The memory brought a smile to Brenda’s face. ‘Dorothy hankered after going to see Aladdin.’
‘And Evelyn was all for equal pay with men, and quite right too.’ So much water had flowed under the bridge since then, Joyce realized.
‘But you were the one who hit the nail on the head.’ Brenda leaned forward to place her hand over Joyce’s. ‘You wished for all our loved ones to stay safe … and so far, so good!’
‘Yes, thank heavens.’ It was the only wish that truly mattered. ‘Let’s hope it’ll all be over by this time next year.’ By Christmas 1943 – surely, surely …
The door opened and Grace and Una came in. In the middle stage of her pregnancy Grace lived up to her name. In a flowing dark blue dress with white collar and cuffs, with her fair hair pinned back, she glided serenely towards Joyce and Brenda’s table while Una bent to remove her bicycle clips then straighten her blouse.
‘Guess who else has just got here,’ Grace announced as she sat down next to Joyce.
‘Let’s see now – Father Christmas?’ Brenda suggested.
‘Wrong.’ Una joined them, the wind still in her hair and roses in her cheeks after her ride from Fieldhead. ‘Guess again.’
‘We don’t know – we give in.’
The door opened a second time and Alma came in ahead of Evelyn. Under scrutiny from the farmers gathered at the bar, she strode towards their group, head up and with a confident swing of her hips. Evelyn followed more quietly but still attracting attention in her tailored grey jacket and a green dress.
‘Don’t look so surprised,’ Alma told Joyce and Brenda as she dangled a car key in front of them.
‘You drove all this way?’ Joyce opened her eyes wide.
‘Only from New Hall, with a little help and advice from me,’ Evelyn confirmed. ‘After she and Laurence dropped by and she made me come with her. She said it would do me good. It turns out Alma can be quite the bossyboots when she wants to be.’
Chairs were drawn up and Grace went behind the bar to pour glasses of sherry all round – an inch of tawny liquid in six small crystal glasses.
‘To celebrate Christmas,’ she told them when she returned with the drinks.
Evelyn took her glass and raised it. ‘Here’s to a better year ahead of us,’ she said quietly then added, ‘By the way, I thought you’d like to know – Walter Rigg has finally been knocked off his perch.’
Brenda and Joyce gasped. They shot back questions at Evelyn – who, when, why?
‘The bishop’s office issued an order with immediate effect – no more evacuees, no more Reverend Rigg, thank you very much. The vicarage is locked up and Charles Nicholls from St Margaret’s will stand in for tomorrow’s Christmas services.’
‘Praise be!’ Brenda and Joyce both raised their glasses.
‘What else is new?’ Joyce glanced around the table until her eyes rested on Una.
‘Angelo sent me this.’ She drew a card from her pocket with a robin redbreast in the centre, surrounded by a filigree pattern of cut paper. The signature inside was surrounded by red hearts. ‘Drawn with his own fair hand,’ she said softly as she handed it round to murmurs of approval.
‘Grace?’ Joyce prompted.
‘A long letter from Bill with this lock of his hair.’ She opened the locket dangling from a chain around her neck. Inside was a curl of jet black hair.
Brenda squeezed her hand. ‘Will the baby take after him, I wonder?’ She thought of Les heading for his narrow bunk bed, under new orders to set sail on steel-grey waters on board a cargo ship loaded with supplies for forces in the Med – ammunition, bombs, torpedoes and fuel. Then she set her mind back on the here and now. ‘Which would you prefer – boy or girl?’
Grace blushed at the attention. ‘I don’t mind. Either. Maybe one of each.’
There was another gasp and a chorus of ‘Never!’, ‘Good heavens!’ and a ‘Blimey!’, that last from Brenda.
‘Is it really twins?’ Joyce asked.
The secret was out. ‘We think it might be. We hope so.’
Light from the fire reflected in the cut-glass surfaces as Alma and Evelyn raised their glasses for a toast.
Brenda stood up and the others followed. ‘We wish you and Bill all the best!’
Glasses chinked. The sherry was sweet on the tongue, hot on the back of the throat.
‘And Happy Christmas, everyone.’ Joyce spoke quietly as she smiled at Alma and then at Evelyn. The circle of women drank again. A new year beckoned – new jobs, firm friendships, babies to be born and perhaps wedding invitations to be sent – grief for some and joy for others.
‘Happy Christmas,’ Alma whispered to Joyce who leaned in towards Evelyn and repeated the message.
‘Thank you,’ Evelyn replied. She drank again. Look to the future, deal with the past.
Soon the days would lengthen. Meanwhile, there were warm fires and friendship to light their way.