Durham Trilogy 03. Never Stand Alone Read online

  ‘Come on Auntie Carol,’ David said, ‘we’ve got to go in the cupboard now.’

  She had hardly been aware of the marriage ceremony and now it was over; Fay, Vic and her father were heading for the vestry. Guiltily she grabbed the boys’ hands. Fay was so garrulous with relief and Vic his usual jovial self that Carol did not have to say anything or pretend it had been a wonderful moment. And yet, in a strange way it had been. Carol laughed at herself; must have had a touch of the sun.

  Following the jubilant bride and groom out of the vestry and past the throng of floppy wedding hats and eager faces, Carol squeezed the hands of her new nephews and grinned in anticipation of the expensive reception at Brandon Castle.

  Mick Todd climbed from the diesel train that had taken him five miles from the coalface and got into the two-decker cage. With a signal from the onsetter, the men coming off shift rocketed up the shaft to the surface and emerged, hot and grimy, in the blinding sun.

  ‘Out the night?’ he asked his friend, Sid Armstrong, as they made their way towards the newly refurbished pithead baths. His head still rang with the underground noises of cutting machines and water sprays, diesel locomotives and the whir of the belt conveyors. His orange overalls stuck to his broad back and sweat trickled in rivulets down his blackened face. The thought of a Saturday night’s drinking quickened his step.

  ‘Aye,’ Sid agreed, spitting dust out of his parched throat. ‘Fancy a trip over Quarryhill? Or we could gan on the bike to Whittledene and drink round the pubs there.’

  ‘I was thinking of a quiet pint at the club and a game of pool,’ Mick snorted, as they trudged past the preparation plant, ‘not driving you all over County Durham on my bike.’

  ‘Where’s your sense of adventure, Toddy man? We can take my Capri if you like. I know,’ Sid’s dirty face broke into a grin under his thin moustache, ‘let’s gan over to Brandon Castle and gate-crash the wedding.’

  In front of them a train emerged slowly from the towering coal bunker, its trucks loaded with coal, and drowned out Mick’s blunt reply. They continued to argue as they peeled off wet overalls and scrubbed off the day’s grime in the showers.

  ‘We might get a few free drinks out of old man Shannon – he’s bound to be in a good mood with having Vic Proud’s bank balance in the family,’ Sid said, pulling on clean jeans and a short-sleeved t-shirt with a faded Genesis motif.

  Mick rubbed vigorously at his long fair hair. ‘You’ll not catch me scrounging off the Shannons; just a bunch of jumped-up snobs whose family sold out to the bosses years ago.’

  ‘Bloody hell, you sound just like your old man,’ Sid laughed. ‘I don’t give a toss who’s not speaking to who, as long as there’s free booze flowing. All that carry-on between your dad and Shannon is ancient history anyway.’

  ‘Not to my dad, it’s not,’ Mick answered with a stubborn look on his clean-shaven face. He laced up his trainers and pulled on his worn leather jacket, not bothering to comb his hair, waiting while Sid combed his dark hair in the mirror. Mick was resigned to his hair receding, but his workmate spent anxious minutes every day checking his temples for signs of premature ageing. Sid had done so since their days in secondary school, Mick thought with amusement, and would probably continue to do so until they came to cart him off to the old folks’ home.

  Sid inspected his comb for fallen hairs. ‘Well if you won’t come I’ll find someone who’s willing.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ Mick snorted, ‘like Kelly Laws, you mean.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sid flushed. ‘At least that lass knows how to have a good time, which is more than can be said for you, you miserable bugger.’

  Mick sprang over and ruffled Sid’s hair, pulling him backwards. Mick was smaller but stocky and well-muscled and deceptively strong. They were on the floor and wrestling in seconds.

  ‘Lay off us man!’ Sid shouted, struggling off the wet floor. He grabbed a can of shaving foam and aimed it at Mick. Mick retaliated with a wet towel and brought him down again.

  ‘Steady lads,’ Stan Savage, one of the older face workers, warned them. ‘I wish you showed half as much talent on the rugby pitch.’

  Mick swore cheerfully at their team coach but released Sid from an arm lock. The men grabbed their kit bags and swung out of the mine gates together into the baked streets of Brassbank. The heat hung hazily over the village and the sea had disappeared in mist. The monotonous bellow of a fog horn competed with the merry jingles of an ice-cream van somewhere in the maze of terraced streets. Children were in the back lanes playing hopscotch and French skipping and banging footballs off yard walls where goal mouths had been chalked. Two girls sped by on roller skates, blowing balloons of bubble gum as puce as their hot cheeks. One of them waved but was gone before Mick realised it was his younger sister Linda. Doors and windows stood open gasping for air and bleached, bone-dry washing hung in yards.

  As the men went up the street, they saw that a group of drinkers at the Red Lion, rosy-cheeked from sunburn and liquor, had spilled outside with their pints. The smell of hops wafted to them on the hot air and beckoned them to quench their thirst.

  ‘Just one, eh?’ Sid suggested, already dropping his bag from his shoulder.

  Mick grinned, thinking this was how so many Saturday night binges with Sid had started in the past.

  ‘Aye, just one.’

  By the time Mick reached home, the intense heat had gone out of the day and he found his mother and Auntie Val sitting on the back steps of the neat yard, smoking in the evening sun. His motorbike leant against the wall, covered in tarpaulin and surrounded by pungent-smelling boxes of red and white geraniums.

  ‘I’ve got to say, she was a lovely bride,’ Val chattered. ‘That dress must’ve cost a fortune - I’d say hundreds – and that’s just for starters.’

  ‘Yes,’ his mother agreed. ‘Think of the pageboys’ outfits.’

  ‘I wish she’d bought them at my boutique,’ Val said ruefully. ‘And the bridesmaid’s dress was a picture. Funny seeing Carol Shannon in a dress – doesn’t happen often.’

  Lotty Todd gave a short laugh. ‘Looked like butter wouldn’t melt! But we all know better. I don’t know why you let her work in the shop. You say she’s always late or skiving off.’

  ‘Carol’s a nice girl underneath the wild image,’ Val defended. ‘And I bet she wouldn’t act so daft if her parents paid her an ounce of attention.’

  Lotty ground out her cigarette and stood up to greet her son, pulling at her short cotton skirt.

  ‘Hello pet, tea’s in the fridge; ham salad and potatoes. I didn’t want it curling up in the heat. Been for a drink with Sid?’

  Mick nodded and grinned. ‘And you’ve been nosing at all the posh folk, by the sounds of it. Don’t let Dad hear.’

  Lotty fiddled with her fading fair hair. ‘Oh, what’s the harm in it? Anyway, your father’s been up at the allotment all day. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was keeping a woman up there, the hours he spends.’

  ‘Honestly Lotty,’ Val laughed, ‘he’s making the most of the good weather.’

  Mick kept to himself that his father spent most of his time with his feet up, reading newspapers and library books in his corrugated shed. He followed his mother into the kitchen. In the late sixties, when the Coal Board had installed inside toilets and bathrooms in the houses in Septimus Street, they had knocked the tiny scullery and kitchen into one. His mother got rid of the old range that she had battled with for over twenty years and installed a new gas cooker, as well as a fridge instead of the cold slab in the larder. Lotty was keen on any gadgetry going: an electric mixer two years ago, a telephone at the bottom of the stairs and a teasmaid in the bedroom last Christmas. Mick recalled recent skirmishes with his father over gas central heating.

  ‘Nice and clean, Charlie,’ Lotty had argued. ‘No more coal dust or need to decorate every year.’

  ‘We work down a pit,’ Charlie had protested. ‘Coal is a perk of the job – keeps the boiler red-hot. Whoeve
r heard of a colliery house without coal?’

  ‘We could still keep a coal fire for winter evenings,’ she had bargained. But Charlie had refused to discuss it further and gone off to the allotment muttering, ‘Gas, you bugger.’

  Mick slung his leather jacket over the back of a chair and sat down while his mother fetched his tea. Val followed, tidying up from the table the Simplicity dress pattern she had brought to show her sister. She hung Mick’s jacket on a peg behind the door, with a look that said he should have done it himself, then spoke.

  ‘There’s a new three-screen cinema opened in Whittledene, Lesley was saying.’

  Mick knew his aunt was about to organise him into taking her. ‘You and Mam should get yourselves over there and see something then,’ he answered, starting on the buttered bread. ‘Dad down the club now? Thought I might join him for a pint.’

  Yes,’ Lotty said, ‘he’s been over to fetch Grandda and take him for a game of dominoes.’ She poured him a mug of tea. ‘You’re not meeting Sid again?’

  ‘No, he’s got this daft idea of going over to Brandon Castle and the wedding reception.’

  Val gave a throaty laugh. ‘He can’t do that; he’s not invited.’

  ‘Anything for a free drink,’ Mick grunted, tucking into his food.

  His mother sighed, ‘I worry for that lad. He used to be sensible at school, but since he started mixing with Kelly Laws and her type, he’s gone off the rails.’

  ‘He’s just going to scrounge and drink or two,’ Mick defended, ‘hardly a hanging offence.’

  ‘And there’s that time with the motorbike,’ she reminded. ‘He had no right to take it without you knowing – could’ve killed himself or that lass.’

  ‘All right, let’s not drag that up again. Sid paid for the repairs.’

  But his appetite faded with the reminder of Sid’s recklessness. They’d gone drinking at neighbouring village Quarryhill and he’d decided to abandon the bike for the night. Somehow Sid got hold of the keys, driven it home with Kelly on the back and crashed into a ditch. Miraculously, both had walked away with only cuts and bruises, yet it had shaken Mick more than his friend, haunted by the thought that someone could have been killed. If he hadn’t drunk so much he could have driven the bike safely home himself.

  Kelly was bad-mouthed by many in the village – branded wayward and loose – but Mick quite liked her. She’d had a hard time, losing her mother as a small child and coping with a drunkard for a father. People didn’t make enough allowance for Kelly having to grow up too quickly.

  Mick pushed his plate away, noticing the look passing between mother and aunt. Was it so obvious that he avoided taking the bike out these days? Both Val and Sid kept thinking up excuses to get him out on it again. Well, he hadn’t lost his nerve, he just wasn’t going to take anyone for a spin when he’d had a few pints already.

  ‘I said I’d meet some of the lads for a game of pool,’ he said, getting up and grabbing his jacket. ‘See you later.’

  As he left he heard his mother say, ‘I’ll fetch Linda in and we can all go to the pictures. It’ll have to be local – I don’t want the bairn out too late – and Charlie’ll want his supper later.’

  Mick felt a stab of guilt and hesitated on the back steps. Lotty added, ‘Thanks for trying, Val. I don’t know why he’s so sensitive about the bike; it’s not as if he was even on it when it crashed. What’s the use of having it standing in the yard unused?’

  Mick strode across the yard without a glance at his neglected Yamaha, jacket over shoulder. Lotty watched him go from the kitchen window.

  ‘Well, it’s up to him what he does with it,’ Val said.

  Lotty sighed, saddened for her son. He had always been the easy one, unlike her forthright husband or rebellious cheeky daughter. Mick was uncomplicated and bashfully affectionate; popular with the other men because he fitted in. He would never be a leader like his father, but always a loyal and reliable follower and a good team member, as he had proved with the village rugby team. Until the motorbike episode, Mick had been as happy-go-lucky as Sid; now his youthfulness was dented and at twenty-three he seemed to carry the cares of the world. This sensitivity had surprised Lotty and she wondered if there was a side to Mick that had gone unnoticed in those busy years of rearing her family.

  Just then, she heard someone whistling an Elvis song and Eddy Todd, her brother-in-law, went swaggering past the gate in his outdated winkle-picker shoes and velvet-collared jacket; his sideburns grey but dark hair still slicked back with Brylcreem. He caught her looking and blew a kiss. Eddy in turned-up, well-pressed jeans, ready for a night out, could always lift the spirits. She waved back. He was an irresponsible spendthrift, an ageing Teddy Boy whom kids on their chopper bikes would trail and exchange good-humoured insults, yet Lotty knew he was the kind of man who would do anything for anyone.

  ‘There goes Eddy off to paint the town red.’

  ‘Lesley with him?’ asked Val, coming to the window.

  ‘No, Lesley was invited to the wedding disco remember?’

  ‘I think it was small-minded not inviting Eddy with her – they’ve been going out for donkey’s years.’

  ‘Yes, she deserves a long-service medal,’ laughed Lotty. ‘But it’s no surprise; he’s a Todd. Shannons wouldn’t want one of us within a hundred miles of their precious wedding.’

  ‘It hurts you, doesn’t it? Specially us being cousins of Nancy’s. I shouldn’t have dragged you up there to see it; I was just been nosy.’

  ‘Course you were; so was I. You wouldn’t think Nancy and I had been close - went to Sunday school together. But she’s wiped twenty years of growing up from her memory. I can’t stand that in people – being ashamed of where they come from. So don’t worry, I wanted to be standing as near Nancy Shannon as I could and let her see that there’s no getting away from the past – at least not from Lotty Todd.’

  Val gave her sister’s arm a squeeze; she always covered her hurt with fighting words. ‘Let me treat you to the pictures.’

  Lotty smiled, smoothing hands over her piled up hair. One day soon she really must get rid of her beehive hairstyle; Charlie had never approved of it even in the sixties when it was fashionable.

  ‘Give me a minute to change skirts. Haven’t been out to the films since that one with Robert Redford – The Buzz or something.’

  The Sting,’ Val laughed. ‘It’s time you had a night out; I’ll go and fetch Linda.’

  Lotty hurried upstairs, thinking defiantly that however much Nancy was lording it over Brassbank today with her expensive clothes and flashy cars, Lotty was the richer woman when it came to family. She loved her children with a passion. Not for the world would she swap them for the snobbish Fay or that wild, feckless one with the way-out clothes: Carol.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The champagne had gone to Carol’s head. She had allowed herself to dance to Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep with Vic’s spotty fifteen year-old cousin, Dan Hardman, and now he was dragging her out of her seat again for the Bay City Rollers.

  She had long discarded her hairband of fake flowers and ankle-strap shoes, but Fay had insisted she keep wearing her bridesmaid’s dress until after she’d gone. It was nearly nine in the evening and Fay and Vic were still here.

  ‘Let’s dance all night,’ Dan shouted as he bumped into people on the polished dance floor.

  Carol watched him play air guitar under the swirling disco lights, thinking it must still be light outside. The room, with its mock medieval tapestries and prickly velvet seats, was stifling. Her father was quick-stepping among the disco dancers, red face running with sweat, while her mother held court among Vic’s family. She had been imprisoned in the banqueting hall for hours; two suits of armour at the door had cigars stuck through their visors and somehow her crown of silk flowers had ended up on a helmet.

  When the music changed tempo, Carol extracted herself from Dan, bellowing in his ear that she needed the bathroom and would be gone ages because of the d
ress. Hoisting up her skirts, she ran past a room full of diners in medieval costume and bibs throwing food at each other and upstairs, searching in vain for the room where she’d left her white jeans and cheesecloth shirt. Giving up, she returned below just as her friend Kelly was trying to talk her way in at the entrance.

  ‘But we’re not wearing jeans,’ Kelly was protesting, bulging out of a red skirt and stripy t-shirt.

  ‘The gentleman is wearing a denim jacket,’ said the doorman.

  ‘He’ll take it off then.’

  Carol saw Kelly pull the sleeve of the man beside her, recognising the handsome miner, Sid Armstrong from Mafeking Terrace where Kelly lived. A few years their senior, Kelly had begun to see more of him since some incident with a motorbike about which her friend had been evasive.

  ‘And no training shoes allowed,’ the doorman added.

  Carol thought Sid was about to lose his temper, so hurried forward, tripping on her hem.

  ‘They’re with me,’ she cried, almost falling headlong into them. ‘Shannons’ wedding – they’re evening guests.’

  Kelly struggled to keep a straight face; Carol knew she must look like a dishevelled pantomime fairy. The doorman hesitated, then without a change to his superior expression, stood aside. ‘On you go then,’ he sniffed and turned his back.

  ‘You look like you’ve been pushed in the pool.’ Kelly giggled.

  ‘I know, I’m lathered,’ Carol said, feeling her damp hair, quite fallen out of its ponytail and linked an arm through her friend’s.