Lemon Sherbet and Dolly Blue (34 page)

At Wheeldon Mill, someone had scrawled ‘Jam Rag' across Mrs Sugsby's coalhouse door. The lettering was patchy, but the chalked words were clear enough. Noreen Carter explained to Cora that Nella Sugsby had a terrible disease which made her feet bleed and meant she had to wear special bandages.

When not gossiping, misleading one another or engaging in general misrule, there was time to sit on the causey edge and teach one another the latest songs. The Mill kids taught Cora ‘Home-town' and other popular tunes, which they sang while walking along the canal path and when waiting to be picked at rounders. They showed Cora how to flick her wrist so the dice landed on the back of her hand in a game of snobs and took turns in swigging from one of Mrs Spencer's halfpenny bottles of nettle beer while ‘pickin flies off folk' (noting adults' peculiarities): Mrs Taylor carrying her handbag as if her arm were in a sling; Mrs Rudge with her
suspiciously black hair, or Violet Jakes taking the downhill slant of Station Road at full tilt: ‘me 'ead's 'ere and me arse is comin”.

Most of Cora's friends at Wheeldon Mill were older than her; and some too old to ever be considered playmates. But whatever their age, they all underwent an immediate transformation on starting work. Boys who had dammed the riverbank and scudded stones across the water one day were wrenched from childhood the next. Equipped with a jacket and one of their father's old belts with new holes punched in it for this occasion, they instantly left their younger selves behind. From that day on, they formed part of the adult ranks, with rarely more than a cursory glance for those remaining on the other side. With girls, the change was even more startling: they seemed to burst from their childhood chrysalis into women, and, in the case of young women, could be just as easily crushed.

There was a new vitality about Amy Foster as soon as she started work. With a home perm and a smart dress – not one her mam had made over – she seemed to blossom into herself. Amy and her siblings had always had a sullen appearance; everything in their lives was scarce or begrudged, but, for a few short months, that changed. Amy splashed out on a studio photograph to record her brand-new self, but, in no time at all, she'd a ring on her finger and, all too soon, a baby, her new-found freedom erased as easily as the lipstick she no longer had much call to wear.

Or there was Sarah Cooper, with her broad, slow smile, too smiling always, too ready to placate. Running to catch up in every sense, she was included in childhood games as much through sympathy as friendship. As she grew older, Sarah found new ways of making friends; she became very pally with one boy in particular. They were often seen together on the grassy bank,
insufficiently screened by the trees. ‘I see Sarah's down the canal again,' someone would say to Betsy, who'd draw in her breath and shake her head. What prospects for a big slow girl – hardly a young woman – with a too ready grin and an eagerness to please that made you fearful on her behalf? Most neighbours felt sorry for the girl and turned a blind eye, though some objected: it's not nice, this canoodling; a disgrace. Then, the inevitable happened: she became pregnant. That was the last my great-grandma saw of Sarah Cooper.

There was much to discuss in the corner shop as the thirties drew to a close, and little of it optimistic. In October 1938, an accident at the Markham Colliery, some two miles away, brought death to the neighbourhood in the worst mining disaster Derbyshire had witnessed to date. At 5.30 a.m. on 10 May, 171 men were nearing the end of the night shift when an explosion blasted the Blackshale Seam; seventy-nine were killed and forty injured. One of the deceased, Alfred Furness, had lived at Wheeldon Mill. Annie and Eva took Cora to the graves so they could pay their respects. Those who lived within the shadow of a colliery never forgot what coal could do.

The last gypsies to arrive at the Mill before the Second World War were very different from Bud and his family. There was no scope for romantic illusions about gypsy idylls this time round. The Darbys camped in more or less the same spot as the previous family, but they lived in a trailer with tiny windows, the two oldest boys sleeping in a small tent pitched beside it. There were no grazing horses this time either: the Darbys' trailer was towed by a beat-up old car.

As with other visiting Romanies, Betsy and Eva supplemented Mrs Darby's meagre purchasing with anything they could spare from the shop, but her permanently weary expression showed how difficult it was to bring up five children by herself. When the family first pitched camp, some said her husband was in jail; on the few occasions he did appear, he stayed only a few days, looking almost as grey as his suit.

The most significant difference between the two gypsy families, as far as the Mill kids were concerned, was that most of the Darbys were old enough to join their games. There was nearly always one of them looking to play and generally two: Harry and Marky.

Harry was the oldest of the children; he shared his mother's dark colouring and features, whereas Marky had blue eyes and auburn hair. Though they did not look alike, the brothers were close in age and of a similar height and build, and so, initially, were assumed to be twins. They dressed alike too, which re inforced this impression. Their clothing also distinguished them from the Mill kids. At a time when most boys their age dressed in grey shorts, nondescript shirts and pullovers, Harry and Marky wore long black trousers and ginger shirts. More significant still, the brothers were inseparable and, even on the occasions when their behaviour was perfectly innocent (although, admittedly, there were fewer of those), looked as if they were up to mischief.

Marky introduced himself and his siblings to Cora. She could hardly believe the grandeur of his full name – Marcus Cornelious Darby – yet knew he was telling the truth. Most of the time, however, Marcus was plain Marky and, sometimes, ‘that damn Marky' was nearer to it.

The brothers were unlikely to sit quietly in a classroom, but they could certainly write and spell four-letter words. If any adult
reprimanded them, their lavatory door bore the brunt of it the following day. Knowing who was responsible was one thing, catching them red-handed quite another. No one ever saw them at their chalking and each was capable of denying anything with the straightest face. Harry and Marky's vocabulary further set them apart: the Mill kids' swore, but their repertoire was less extensive. And, as for my mum, Betsy made it very clear: ‘They swear. You don't.'

The two boys joined in with all the Mill games, were fast runners and eager playmates, but adults regarded them differently. Several neighbours complained to Betsy and Eva about those two young scoundrels. There was no prank Harry and Marky would not contemplate; no devilment was beyond them. They behaved themselves in the shop, however, thanks to Betsy's usual tactics: ‘Now then, Marky, what is it you're after?' the friendly but firm greeting conveying, ‘And don't think I haven't got my eye on you.' She adopted the same tack when talking to Punka Stokes, especially after he passed Cora a counterfeit pound note (which she, having never held such a large sum of money, immediately gave to her grandma). Betsy liked Punka but was nobody's fool; she was also a match for Harry and Marky.

One of the houses opposite the gypsy field was occupied by Mrs Lane, a middle-aged woman who looked much older because of her scrunched-up face: she was constantly angry about something. One day, inevitably, her anger was directed at Harry and Marky. Though they could swear, and excelled at it as far as the local children were concerned, they did not have Mrs Lane's years of practice. No one was more proficient at hurling abuse. She raged at them across her garden fence and when the boys ignored her, chased them towards the corner shop, shouting and waving her arms.

The following morning, two brown steaming parcels appeared on Mrs Lane's doorstep. It was not difficult to guess who had deposited them (two piles being something of a clue) but, as with the over-night chalking, there was no proof. Everyone expressed their disgust and disapproval, but there were one or two private smiles at the thought of cantankerous Mrs Lane being the recipient of Harry and Marky's summary justice.

One weekend, however, the Darby boys went too far. Cora arrived at Wheeldon Mill to be told that, this time, they were in real trouble: Mrs Jenkinson had received a lewd note and marched straight round to Mrs Darby's trailer. Mrs Jenkinson played merry hell and did not care who heard her. If those lads did not sort themselves out, she was going to the police. The family left the Mill shortly afterwards.

A few months later, Cora was standing outside the Lyceum waiting for Annie when Harry came out of the chip shop. ‘Marky wants to give you a kiss,' he said, smiling, and they chatted until Annie joined Cora for the film. That was the last she saw of the Darbys, who disappeared again as quickly as they'd reappeared.

Their story has a terrible coda. During the 1950s, my mum saw an article in Annie's
Daily Express
. A young woman had been strangled on her first date and Marcus Cornelious Darby arrested for her murder. For all his misdemeanours, Cora could not believe this of Marky; the picture did not fit with the boy who'd joined in with the Mill kids' songs. Week after week, she scoured the paper, looking for a further report. Eventually, Cora found one: ‘Gypsies Weep for Killer.' Marcus Cornelious Darby was hanged at Strangeways Prison.

F
OR TWO OR THREE YEARS BEFORE THE WAR, THE WOMEN OF
Brimington and Wheeldon Mill enjoyed a late summer mystery tour. Annie and Eva booked places for themselves and Cora. The price of a charabanc ticket bought a drive through Derbyshire, the sightseeing an excuse for a port and lemon in a country pub and a singsong on the way home, following a rare afternoon free of responsibilities. Ashover, Bakewell, the plague village of Eyam, Monsal Dale, the stone circle at Arbor Low. Meandering through millstone grit and limestone, past acres of rolling green before rising on to bleak moorland, the White Peak succumbing to the Dark. No matter how many times you saw it, Surprise View was always as exhilarating as its name, and there was the bubbling softness of Burbage Brook and the elegant stature of Chatsworth House, sitting low but commandingly within ancient parkland, the tip of its hunting lodge peering through the treetops.

The trip reaffirmed a sense of belonging, of being stitched into the landscape, that tug of knowing those Derbyshire miles were home. Mistress of ceremonies, Mrs Clark paraded the aisle issuing
jokes and the introductory lines of songs which she proceeded to conduct with the tip of her feather boa; chatting to neighbours, Maud Cartwright, Kathleen Driver and Ellen Taylor, leading them in holiday revelry, until, with a growing piquancy, in 1939, the post-pub singsong swelled into ‘Jerusalem', as the clock counted down through that last hot summer.

Annie took Cora to London in August 1939. She wanted her to see the capital city before who knew what destruction befell it. It was my mum's first sight of London, or so she thought, and Annie did not contradict her. As far as Cora was aware, her mam was also seeing London for the very first time. They saluted the Changing of the Guard and stood where Charles I had stood in Westminster Hall; they gazed at the Houses of Parliament, attempted to count all the windows in Buckingham Palace, and even made their way to Dirty Dick's pub, but the highlight of their day, as far as Annie was concerned, was 145 Piccadilly, home to the King and Queen when they were Duke and Duchess of York. There, Annie and Cora saw the childhood bedroom of the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret Rose, its sky-blue ceiling pricked out with yellow stars.

Theirs was a whistle-stop tour, something to remember if the worst came to the worst, a phrase often repeated, though never fully explained to Cora. On the way home, just when it seemed all treats had been exhausted, they discovered
The Adventures of Robin Hood
on a St Pancras bookstall. Glorious technicolour pictures of Olivia de Havilland, Basil Rathbone and Errol Flynn. Cora spent the return journey in silent rapture.

My mum was sitting with Annie and Willie when Mrs Blake knocked, but came into the house without pausing. Britain was
at war. She had just heard the news on the wireless. Almost as memorable as the announcement was the look of horror on her face.

Official advice recommended that, regardless of whether or not they were going to be evacuated, a child's name and address should be written on a luggage label or envelope and pinned to a piece of clothing where it could not be removed. Annie and Willie thought that idea shoddy and inadequate, and ordered a silver expanding bracelet with a silver identity disc for my mum. Cora was also taught to memorise her identity number: RBGO219/3, the /3 indicating her position in the family. But what do the letters stand for, she wanted to know. ‘It means you're a rum bugger, good for nothing,' Willie said and winked. All three of them laughed; Annie, grateful for once, for Willie's insistence on seeing the joke.