Let it Shine Read online

  While Sylvia went to the scullery for the tea and barmcakes, Mick set to with the tree. ‘Right, girls!’ With the bucket in one hand and a scuttle of logs in the other, he glanced round the parlour. It was a cosy enough little room, with two soft, squashy armchairs, a small, deep sofa, and a solid sideboard polished till you could see your face in it. Around the walls were pictures of family, a ticking mantelpiece clock surrounded by bric-a-brac and, enfolding all that, a warm, cheery fire crackling up the chimney. ‘Where d’you want me to set this tree?’

  Ellie wanted it by the window; Betsy wanted it beside the fire. Mick solved the problem by tactfully suggesting he should place it midway. ‘Then we won’t have to move your dad’s armchair from the fireside, and we won’t be blocking the light from the window. What d’you say?’ He gave a sigh of relief when the girls agreed. ‘I’d best be quick then,’ he joked, ‘before you change your minds!’

  With the twins giving instructions: ‘Go left… Go right. It’s crooked,’ he wedged the tree in with the logs, driving one in here… filling a gap there, until the tree was upright, and secure in the bucket. ‘There you are. Now you can put your trimmings on.’

  While the twins busied themselves dressing the tree, Sylvia chatted to Mick, amazed by the speed with which he demolished the barmcakes. ‘Good God! Anybody would think you hadn’t eaten for days.’

  ‘They’d be right an’ all.’

  Sylvia was shocked. ‘You mean you haven’t eaten for days?’

  ‘’Fraid not.’ He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. ‘When you’re on your own, you tend not to look after yourself properly.’

  Mick’s downcast face touched her deeply. ‘You really miss your mam, don’t you?’ she said gently.

  It took a moment for him to gather his emotions before answering. ‘I’ll always miss her,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s been ten years since the pneumonia took her, and if I close my eyes, it seems like only yesterday.’

  ‘Have you heard from your dad?’

  Mick shook his head. ‘No, and I don’t want to.’ His voice hardened with bitterness. ‘He made his choice. Oh, I know he desperately missed our mam, but then so did I – and I was only a kid, still at school, when she died. It was hard for both of us, but he seemed to go right off the rails, out every night of the week, boozing and womanising.’ He paused, remembering with shame. ‘We had the worst row of our lives, but he still wouldn’t see sense. I never thought he’d leave. Not with that little slag anyway. She was out to spend every last penny of his savings. I told him, “When the good times stop, she’ll dump you like a sack o’ bloody coal.” But would he listen? Would he hell as like! He went off with her all the same. So good luck to him, and if she breaks his heart all over again, it’s only what he deserves!’

  ‘If he came knocking at your door, would you turn him away?’ Sylvia knew all about it, and it saddened her.

  Mick was adamant. ‘Without a second thought. Like they say, he’s made his bed. Besides, he’s not likely to come knocking. Since I took over the tenancy, I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him, and nor do I want to!’

  ‘I’m sure he can’t be that far away.’

  ‘He can be at the other side of the world for all I care.’ ‘He hurt you bad, didn’t he, love?’

  ‘Bad enough.’

  ‘And now you’re not looking after yourself properly?’

  ‘I get by.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mick, I had no idea. From now on, I want you to come over here every night and sit down with the rest of us. I keep a good table and there’s more than enough to share with a friend.’

  ‘I can’t let you do that, Mrs Bolton.’ He felt embarrassed. ‘I wish I’d kept my big mouth shut now.’

  ‘It’s the least I can do. I should have realised… you’re like a beanpole up and down, and no wonder. Not eating proper – shame on you. And shame on me!’ She wouldn’t take no for an answer. ‘I mean what I say, Mick. I want you over here every night at seven o’clock, or I’ll come looking for you, mark my words.’

  The arrangement was made and Mick knew better than to argue. In fact, deep down he was delighted. A hot meal, regular every night, was something to look forward to. ‘But not tonight,’ he said. ‘I’ve got two meat and ’tater pies in the oven. In fact, if I don’t get off, they’ll be burned to a crisp.’ Sylvia thanked him again for helping with the tree. ‘Like you say, you’d best be off. But you’re not to forget our arrangement.’

  ‘I won’t.’ In two strides he was at the door. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Tell Larry I’ll be ready about eight o’clock.’ With that he was gone, leaving Sylvia blaming herself for having neglected him.

  For a while she helped the twins to trim the tree. When the mantel-clock chimed five times, she left them to it. Put the heavy baubles on the bottom, and the trimmings from the top,’ she told them and, while they got on with it, she hurried to the scullery to organise the evening meal.

  She peeled the potatoes and onions, then wiped a small measure of lard over the bottom of a big brown dish; that done, she sliced the potatoes and onions evenly into the dish and covered them with water from the kettle. On top of that she piled a generous layer of minced beef and, on top of that, yet another layer of potatoes, then a second layer of meat and onions, and to finish, a thicker layer of sliced potatoes. Next came a drop of cornflour gravy, then an offering of salt and pepper, and beaten egg for browning.

  She carried the dish through to the parlour, where she put it in the oven; the range had been lit all day and was fired up nicely. Glancing at the tree, she saw how the girls were making a wonderful job of it. ‘My! Your dad will be pleased,’ she said, and went away, quietly smiling.

  Once back in the scullery, she tore the washed cauliflower into natural chunks and dropped them into a deep earthenware dish. She sprinkled them with salt, covered them with water, replaced the lid and took it to the range, sliding it carefully onto the lower shelf, where it would cook slower than the casserole. Returning to the scullery, she prepared the rice pudding.

  When all was done, she gathered the peelings and scraps into a folded newspaper. Taking it down the back steps and into the yard, she dropped it in the midden. As she turned away, she heard a scuffling noise, then another, softer sound – a cry of pain, or so she imagined.

  Thinking it might be a child, or someone hurt, she hurried across the yard, cursing when she slid in the snow and almost fell over the clothes prop, which was lying on the ground. Picking it up, she stood it against the lavvy wall. That done, she wrenched open the back-yard gate and peered along the alley – and there, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the shadow of a man… or it could have been a woman. Limping badly, the figure rounded the corner and disappeared. ‘Who’s that?’ Sylvia’s voice echoed eerily through the night air. There was no answer; she didn’t really expect one.

  It was when she turned to close the back gate that she saw the half-brick protruding through the snow. Stooping to pick it up, she realised it must have come from the top of their wall. ‘That’s strange,’ she muttered. ‘Jim’s only just repaired that wall.’ Feeling threatened and vulnerable in the half-light, she quickly closed and bolted the gate, before making her way across the yard and into the scullery.

  Safely inside, she leaned for a moment against the door, her nerves jangling and her heart beating fifteen to the dozen. Had the shadowy figure been looking into their yard? But why would anyone want to do that? It wasn’t as if they’d got anything worth stealing. All the same… it was odd.

  Deciding a brew of tea would calm her down, she went to the sink. When she reached out to turn on the tap, she was horrified to see her hand all smeared in blood. Good God! How had it happened? She couldn’t recall cutting herself. Feverishly washing her hand under the tap, she looked for a cut, a wound of some sort, but there was none. ‘That’s strange!’ She tried to rationalise her thoughts and, for some inexplicable reason, they flew to the alley, and the shadowy figure.

  Un
able to rest, she lit the tilly lamp and returned to the yard. Raising the lamp, she examined the wall. Nothing amiss there, she thought. The brick was in place and tomorrow, Jim would have to cement it safely back; she didn’t want it falling on the children.

  Wait a minute! A thought occurred to her. She looked on the other side of the brick, and there was her answer; the surface was stained with blood. ‘Not mine,’ she murmured. And if it wasn’t hers, then whose was it?

  Lowering the lamp, she looked down to the spot where she had found the brick. Now, in the pool of light, she saw something else – a small, dark patch of blood staining the snow. ‘I was right!’ She glanced about, but there was no one in sight. ‘Whoever it was had been looking into our yard!’

  She worked it out in her imagination. He or she had climbed up the wall to see over; the brick slipped, they lost their grip and fell to the ground. The brick must have sliced into them when it came crashing down – splitting open an ankle, maybe? That would explain why the intruder was limping.

  Afraid of her own shadow by this time, she went at a run into the scullery, where she secured herself and the children inside. Having time enough before the men arrived home from work, Sylvia washed her hands again and made herself a brew. Afterwards, she sat by the fire; the heat washed over her face, warm and soothing, making her sleepy.

  But her mind wouldn’t let her rest; she was too disturbed by what had happened. Somebody had been spying on them. What were they doing, looking into the Boltons’ yard? What were they after? The incident had deeply unnerved her.

  Suddenly, laughing and screeching, the twins were dragging her out of the chair. ‘Come and see, Mam!’ they cried and, for a while, she had to suppress her fears.

  The tree was delightful. Flowing with paper streamers and dressed with silver-foil baubles made last year, the tree had brought Christmas into their little parlour. ‘Oh, you’ve done a wonderful job!’ Sylvia gave them each a well-deserved hug. ‘Wait till Dad and Larry see it. They won’t believe their eyes.’

  ‘Can we bring the presents down?’

  ‘No.’ Sylvia was adamant. ‘You know the presents don’t go under the tree until Christmas Eve.’ The girls didn’t argue; not even when told to wash their hands and face. ‘Dinner will be on the table in ten minutes.’

  By the time they’d washed and put the plates out for their mammy, Larry walked through the door and, looking at him now, Sylvia’s heart swelled with pride. Not only was Larry a good son, he was a friend. He was also a fine-looking young man. Tall and slim, with thick, wayward brown hair and serious green eyes, he was a catch for any woman. Besides which, at twenty-four years of age, he was mature and responsible.

  ‘Hiya, Mam.’ Having shaken his coat and flat cap at the front door, he now hung them on the nail behind the parlour door. ‘It’s started snowing again.’ Clapping his hands together he strolled to the fireplace, where he rubbed the warmth back into his fists.

  ‘Hello, son.’ As always, Sylvia raised her face for a kiss, which was cheerfully given. ‘Your dinner won’t be long.’

  ‘Whatever it is, it smells good.’ The air was now heavy with the aroma of meat gravy and onions. ‘Where’s the kids?’ Glancing over to the tree, Sylvia could see them crouching down, hiding; Ellie had her finger to her lips, urging her mam not to tell.

  Sylvia didn’t give them away. Instead she answered, ‘Hmh. That’s funny, they were here a minute ago.’ And before she could say any more, the two of them sprang out from behind the tree, taking Larry by surprise. ‘COME AND SEE THE TREE!’ Catching hold of his hands, they gave him little choice.

  ‘It’s the best tree in Lancashire,’ he said, and one by one, he swung them into his arms and hugged them till they squealed.

  ‘Bet you can’t guess who put the streamers on and who put the baubles on,’ they challenged.

  ‘Let me see…’ He sat on the floor and they knelt beside him. When he pretended not to know that Ellie always put the streamers on and Betsy the baubles, they leaped on him, and he screamed in mock terror.

  When the fun was over, Larry brought down his ‘going-out’ clothes from upstairs. While his mother dished up a piping hot meal, he stripped off his shirt and washed at the scullery sink.

  With the day’s grime washed away, Larry entered the parlour. His wayward brown hair shone like chestnuts, and he seemed suddenly taller and younger. ‘Up to the table you two,’ he growled at the twins. ‘You’d best be quick! I’ve a lion’s appetite tonight. I bet I could eat your dinner as well as my own.’

  Before he’d finished speaking, they were seated at the table. ‘You wouldn’t!’ Betsy believed him, but Ellie knew different. ‘He were only joking,’ she said, and laughed out loud when he made a dive at her.

  Sylvia smiled to see their antics. Larry loved the girls and they loved him, but there had always been something extra special between him and Ellie. Open and honest, the older twin would confide her childish dreams and fears to Larry, while Betsy kept her own counsel, often choosing to sulk rather than get things off her chest and out into the open.

  ‘Mick came round earlier.’ Scooping up a ladleful of meat and potatoes, Sylvia dropped it skilfully onto his plate.

  ‘What did he have to say?’ Jabbing his fork into a potato, Larry popped it into his mouth, gasping for air when it proved to be hotter than he’d anticipated.

  ‘He’ll be ready for you at eight o’clock.’ Next came the cauliflower, and a rap on the knuckles for starting before she’d finished serving him. ‘Burned your mouth, did it? Well, it serves you right. You might wait till I’m finished dishing up in future. Your father will be in at any moment and we don’t want to start without him.’

  ‘Sorry, Mam. Trouble is, it’s too good to resist.’ He winked at the girls, who sniggered and tried to wink back, but they hadn’t yet got the knack. When Ellie ended up cross-eyed, Betsy couldn’t stop laughing –until Sylvia gave her a look that said, ‘That’s enough.’

  ‘Is that all he said – that he’d be ready for eight?’

  ‘That’s all. Except he helped put up the tree, and finished off two of my barmcakes and a mug o’ tea – though I’m glad of that, ’cause it turns out he’s not eating properly.’

  ‘Huh! You should see him polish off a pie and pint at the pub.’ But Larry knew what she meant. ‘You’re right, though. He’s never got any food in the house.’

  ‘You should have told me.’

  ‘I never thought.’

  ‘Well, he’ll be coming here for his dinner from now on, and no argument!’

  Larry approved, and told her so with a compliment. ‘When you produce grub like this, it’s a wonder the whole street doesn’t turn up for dinner.’

  ‘There’s far better cooks than me down this street,’ she answered stoutly, putting her own share of dinner on her plate, and it was left at that.

  She had just finished dishing up when they heard Jim’s key turn in the lock. ‘Your dad’s home,’ she told the girls, and they raced down the passage to greet him.

  Knowing his routine like it was her own, Sylvia knew it would be a moment or two before Jim showed his face in the parlour. He would close the door, give it another push to make sure it was properly shut. Then he would take off his cap and fold it carefully with the neb tucked inside. Next, he would squeeze the cap into his overcoat pocket. Then he would hang up his coat, afterwards folding the pockets and arms neatly in. That done, he would run both his hands through his hair, which was wispy and brown, like Betsy’s, and present himself to Sylvia with a broad grin and the fond question: ‘How’s my girl then?’ His routine never varied.

  So now, when Jim came into the room, the girls on either side of him, and all three struggling with a Christmas tree, Sylvia was taken by surprise. ‘I found this on the doorstep,’ he told her.

  ‘It’s mine,’ Larry explained. ‘I bought it from the market this dinner-time. I meant to put it up later on, only you’d already got one.’

  ‘Oh, that wa
s thoughtful of you, son.’ Sylvia groaned. ‘I wish you’d said, though. Me and the girls wouldn’t have struggled home with that great thing.’

  Betsy chipped in with, ‘You won’t change it, will you, Mam?’

  ‘No, not now you and Ellie have put all the trimmings on.’

  ‘Good! Anyway, our tree’s bigger!’

  ‘No matter, son. I’m sure there’s somebody along the street who’ll be glad of a Christmas tree.’ Seeing how the tree was dripping snow onto the lino, she urged, ‘Look, Jim, you’d best put it back outside for now.’ Gesturing to the girls, she told them, ‘You two, come and sit down afore your dinner gets cold.’

  ‘Aye.’ Jim went away to put the tree out. ‘Afore all our dinners get cold.’

  As soon as the girls had finished their meal, they asked to leave the table, and were soon engrossed in deciding what else they could do to the tree.

  Keeping her voice low so they couldn’t hear, Sylvia told the two men about the intruder. ‘He must have been looking into our yard.’ She described the brick and the blood, and how the runaway figure was limping.

  Jim was up in arms. ‘What? I’ll mek the bugger limp if I get hold of him!’

  Larry wondered if they ought to mention it to the police. ‘You happened to scare him off, Mam, but somebody else might not be so lucky.’

  They were still deciding what to do, when a knock came on the door. ‘That’ll be Mick,’ Larry said. ‘He’s early.’ The mantel-clock showed ten minutes to eight.

  Flinging open the front door, he was surprised to see his grandfather standing on the step. Sylvia’s father, Bertie Hill, was a big fellow, turned seventy, with a mop of grey hair and baby-blue eyes, which at the minute were weeping from the cold. ‘Hello, Grandad.’ Larry urged him inside out of the weather. ‘I didn’t know you were coming over today.’

  Taking off his long-coat, the older man handed it to Larry, who hung it next to his own. ‘I hadn’t planned to come over,’ Bertie confessed, ‘but I were at a loose end so I thought I’d pop round and see how you all are.’ He glanced backwards. ‘What’s been going on out there?’