The Most Precious Thing Read online

  Carrie darted across the living room, opened the front door and peered up and down the street before giving a little squeal. ‘He’s coming! Norman’s coming, Renee. You’ll have to make him wait a few minutes to give me time to get to the church. Oh, where’s my coat? I left it on the chair by the door.’

  ‘Here, lass.’ Sandy reached out to a small cracket tucked by the side of the range and handed the coat to her. ‘It got moved when old Mrs Duncan brought in a plate of somethin’. Can’t go more than a step or two without havin’ to sit down now, poor old gal, but she makes a canny seed cake.’

  ‘Aye.’ Carrie paused in the act of pulling on her coat, a coat which had fitted her perfectly three years before but which now was at least six inches too short and had her arms sticking out of the sleeves in a way she knew looked ludicrous. She turned to survey the square kitchen table, resplendent in its Sunday cloth and groaning under a load of food the likes of which it hadn’t borne in years. ‘Aren’t people kind? Everyone’s brought something.’

  ‘Everyone from this end of the street,’ Renee put in flatly. She caught her father’s eye as she spoke, and for once the two were of like mind.

  To those who didn’t live there, James Armitage Street might look like a street of identical, small, single-storey terraced houses with three rooms and a scullery but its inhabitants knew that the top end was considered vastly superior to the bottom end. The top end led out into Fulwell Road and the cricket ground and then a sprawling farm or two, while the bottom bordered Cornhill Terrace and eastwards the grid of mean streets stretching north from Wearmouth colliery. Those at the top end would tell anyone that this area was almost lower middle class - didn’t a policeman live just a few doors away? And there was a professional family or two in Hawthorn Street and Clarendon Street, which were only separated from James Armitage Street by Fulwell Road. And how many bairns from the bottom end passed to go to Houghton Secondary or, if they did pass, could be spared by a family eager for another wage-earner? Not many. Oh no, not many. And Walter’s family lived within spitting distance of Fulwell Road.

  This last fact had been at the forefront of the minds of all the women who had popped in that morning with ‘just a little something for the table, lass’. Them at the top end might think they were God’s gift and gold-wrapped with it, but they’d soon see the bottom end knew how to put on a good spread and look after their own.

  ‘You’ll wait a while so I can get to the church before you?’ Carrie asked again. She grinned her thanks as Renee nodded and then she dived out of the door into the frosty December air. It had snowed heavily on and off all through November and the first week of December, thawing slightly, freezing, then snowing again, until the ground resembled a skating rink and Sunderland infirmary’s trade in broken limbs trebled. Olive Sutton, Walter’s mother, had been like a dog with two tails, according to Renee, taking every opportunity to remind all and sundry that she had said a December wedding was a mistake and that it would have been better to wait until the spring. Renee had become tight-lipped and snappy, especially when she returned home after an evening at Walter’s.

  And then, thank goodness, Carrie thought as she hurried along in the bitterly cold morning, a persistent thaw ten days ago followed by fresh dry winds and weak winter sunshine had taken care of every last flake of snow. Suddenly Renee had been all smiles again and an uneasy excitement had taken hold of the house. It was a shame that in the last twenty-four hours the weather had turned raw once more, with the sky so low you could reach up and touch it, but it wasn’t snowing yet, that was the thing, and Renee could have her horse and trap and turn up at the church in style.

  Carrie smiled to herself and blew hard on hands already turning a mottled shade of blue. She’d set her heart on that, had Renee, and it would be one in the eye for Walter’s mam. As was often the case when her mind touched on Renee’s future mother-in-law, Carrie’s next thought was, with all she’s got, a lovely family and a nice home and all, why does she have to be so crabby all the time? Mr Sutton wasn’t nasty or bad-tempered, salt of the earth she’d heard her da describe Walter’s da more than once, but her. And like her mam said, Olive Sutton had nothing to be uppity about. Wasn’t her man a miner born and bred, and hadn’t the bairns all played together and gone to the same schools, and didn’t their Lillian spend more time at the McDarmount household than she ever did in her own?

  ‘Yoohoo! Carrie!’

  It was as though the thought of her best friend had conjured her up. Lillian was beyond the end of Cornhill Terrace on the old village green straight ahead. She was jumping from one foot to the other, not so much to get Carrie’s attention as to keep warm, and now she came running across, firing a barrage of questions as she did so.

  ‘Where on earth have you been? I thought you were going to be late! Do you know there’s only five minutes to go? Where’s your Renee? Is anything wrong? Didn’t Norman turn up?’

  Carrie didn’t interrupt the flow. When Lillian reached her she smiled, her voice warm as she said, ‘Thanks for waiting for me, lass. Everything’s fine. Renee just wanted to talk a bit after I’d helped her get ready.’

  ‘She’s goin’ to turn up, isn’t she?’

  ‘Course she’s going to turn up, don’t be so daft.’

  They grinned at each other and then hurried on the way Lillian had just come, past the chapel and the Green. Not until they came to the end of Town Street and the Holy Trinity Church was in front of them did their pace slacken.

  ‘Our Walter and your Renee getting married.’ There was a lilt in Lillian’s voice and her plain, good-natured face was alight. ‘That means our families are linked, you thought of that? We’ll both be aunty to their bairns.’

  ‘Give ’em a chance, they aren’t even married yet.’ They were giggling as they reached the church door and had to wait a moment or two to compose their faces before they entered Holy Trinity.

  Carrie loved the feeling the inside of the church always gave her; its familiarity never failed to cheer her. She had been coming with her parents and the rest of the family on Sunday mornings for as long as she could remember. Church in the morning, Sunday School in the afternoon in the old National School at the bottom of Stoney Lane, and then there was the Boys’ Brigade, the Girl Guides, the Girls’ Friendly Society and the church choir at various times during the week. All her friends were in the same groups and she had never questioned this, or why it was that the bairns who went to St Hilda’s, the Catholic church, were barely known to her, in spite of there being plenty up and down the street. Sunday School treats, Christmas parties, concerts held in the Mission Hall at Low Southwick, whist drives, fêtes, parish teas were all tied up with belonging to Holy Trinity, and going along to the Church Institute - again held in the old National School - to play table tennis and other games had been part and parcel of her childhood.

  Both girls quietly sidled up the aisle, smiling at each other before they slid into the seats their respective families had saved for them.

  ‘Everything all right, hinny?’

  Her mother’s voice was hushed like everyone’s was in church. Well, everyone but her da, Carrie qualified silently. However he tried, her da couldn’t seem to whisper and her mam had long since given up attempting to get him to lower his voice.

  Carrie smiled and nodded at her mother who was sitting with the twins either side of her. They had disgraced themselves earlier that morning by arguing over some comics they had swapped with Archie Flack, two doors up. It hadn’t been the squabble that had caused their long-suffering mother to whip down their trousers and apply her hand with devastating vigour to each small backside, but the fact that the altercation had suddenly degenerated into a dogfight punctuated with words their mother would have sworn on oath neither of them had ever heard, just as Mrs Hayes, the verger’s wife, had called with a plate of ham and egg pie for the table. Neither of the small boys raised their heads now but Billy, seated next to Len, winked at Carrie. She smiled and looked away.
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  Carrie sat staring ahead for a few seconds, nerving herself for the moment when she would glance across the aisle to the Sutton pew where Walter’s parents, his two brothers and Lillian were sitting. Walter and his best man, Joe Gill, were stiff figures in the row in front. Her stomach quivered when she turned her head, her eyes passing over Mr and Mrs Sutton, Lillian and David - at eighteen the youngest Sutton brother and a childhood playmate and friend - before her gaze came to rest on the object of all her dreams and desires for the last twelve months.

  Alec Sutton. The most wonderful, the most handsome lad in all the world. Although he wasn’t a lad, not really, not at twenty.

  Carrie swallowed, knowing she was staring shamelessly but unable to look away. It was rare she got the opportunity to feast her eyes on him like this; normally it was just a quick shy glance and a muttered hello in the street if he happened to pass her coming to or from work. He always looked so smart on those occasions, his clothes immaculate and the trilby hat he’d taken to wearing of late perched at a jaunty angle on his head. But then he didn’t work down the pit like his da and brothers, she reminded herself, as though her thoughts had been a criticism of the others and her own menfolk. Alec could afford to be always well turned out.

  Carrie suddenly became aware of a small movement; her eyes left Alec’s profile and were caught and held by those of his mother. Deep blue eyes met cold glassy green, and such was the expression on Olive Sutton’s unprepossessing face as she purposely let her gaze move up and down the young girl in the opposite pew, that Carrie could feel her cheeks burning. She quickly turned her head away.

  Oh, she hated Mrs Sutton, she agreed with Renee on this. Walter’s mam had a way of looking at you that made you sort of shrivel up inside. She was cruel, spiteful.

  Suddenly the excitement of the day drained away, along with the thrill of the new dress she was wearing under her old coat, the coat Mrs Sutton’s face had reminded her was faded and shabby. She should have bought a coat, she told herself miserably, her mind going back to the lunch hour a week or so before when she had been browsing in the Old Market in Sunderland’s East End, but the dress had been so bonny.

  She had virtually pounced on it when she’d spotted the eggshell-blue brocade material among the usual motley collection of second-hand clothes. The feel of the rich cloth beneath her fingers told her the dress was a good one, even before the stallholder assured her it came from one of the big houses Hendon way. ‘Only put it out ten minutes ago, lass, an’ it’s a bargain at three bob. You couldn’t buy the material for less than three times that, I’m tellin’ you straight. Quality it is, from one of them fine London shops. You seen the label? Here, look. Beautiful dress, eh, lass? Beautiful.’

  Carrie had agreed with him. The dress was beautiful, but three shillings was still three shillings and she was saving every penny she had left from her one shilling and fourpence, after she’d bought her toiletries and stockings and slipped the twins a Saturday penny, for a new winter coat.

  She’d stood dithering for more than ten minutes, the dress still clutched between her fingers and the stallholder, sensing a sale, keeping up a steady stream of banter. Perfect though the dress would be for Renee’s wedding, she could buy a new lace collar and cuffs for her Sunday dress and make do, although the Sunday dress was two years old and showed where the hem had been let down twice. It was long overdue for being consigned to weekday use. In the end she’d bought the dress simply because she had not been able to bear the thought of walking away without it.

  A rustle from the back of the building announcing the arrival of the bride cleared Carrie’s mind of everything but Renee, and the next moment the organ had struck up and her sister was walking up the aisle on the arm of their father. Carrie turned along with everyone else to watch, thinking again how bonny Renee looked, sort of glowing. A beautiful bride.

  Carrie had walked into the fields beyond the Carley Hill Waggonway the day before, collecting ivy, red hawthorn berries, nipplewort and the seed vessels of rosebay willowherb and beaked parsley to make a wreath to hold Renee’s veil in place. She had worked on it for hours until she was satisfied the delicate ring was a thing of beauty. Now she was aware of a choked feeling as she recalled Renee’s ecstatic pleasure at the surprise gift and the way her sister had cried and hugged her. For the first time it dawned on her just how much she was going to miss Renee’s buoyant presence at home.

  Carrie blinked hard, telling herself not to be so silly. She would still see her sister every day at the firework factory, and Pilgrim Street, where Renee and Walter were renting their house, was only a ten-minute walk from James Armitage Street. She and Renee would still have their cracks, and Renee had already said umpteen times she must come and visit them often. Yes, she was being daft, likely because Mrs Sutton had made her feel funny, but she wouldn’t give Walter’s mam the satisfaction of ruining the day for her. She was going to have a lovely time, she was or her name wasn’t Carrie McDarmount!

  ‘Look here, I’m tellin’ you, Paddy, Mick’ll knock Gussie Hogg into next weekend. Wind an’ water, Silksworth’s bloke.’

  ‘Says you.’

  ‘Aye, says me, an’ if you’re not of like mind it might be better for you to get your backside down to Silksworth an’ ask if they want a hewer.’

  ‘Don’t you come that tack with me, Ned Sutton. I’ll put me money on Mick same as the rest, but it don’t mean I can’t see what’s under me nose. Gussie Hogg’s a mean ’un an’ his right hook is vicious. He’ll take Mick out in the first round, that’s all I’m sayin’.’

  ‘You’re sayin’ a sight too much if you ask me.’

  The two miners’ voices were rising, and as Carrie and Lillian saw Olive Sutton put a hand on her husband’s shoulder, squeezing it until her nails were digging into his shoulder if his pained expression was anything to go by, Lillian said flatly, ‘By, lass, me da’s going to be in for it when we get home. He’s verging on mortalious and me mam won’t let him forget that in a hurry.’

  Carrie said nothing but the irony of the situation didn’t escape her. Here was her da, sober as a judge even with the drink flowing, and poor Mr Sutton well and truly pickled. Remembering the times - and they were many - when Lillian had made no reference to the fact that her father had been singing in the street with enough gusto to wake the dead, Carrie now said quietly, ‘It’s a wedding, lass. Everyone gets tipsy at a wedding.’

  ‘Aye, well, you try telling that to me mam. She’s a bitter pill as you well know and she don’t hold with gambling neither. He must be three parts cut to talk about the fight like that.’

  Poor Mr Sutton. Carrie glanced at Lillian’s father again. He was a good-looking man, short and stocky and with a mass of thick curly hair which was still as black as the ace of spades and nut-brown eyes which surveyed the world from under brows as bushy as her da’s moustache. Everyone knew Mr Sutton liked to bet, everyone except his wife that was, and her da said it was Ned Sutton’s passion for boxing that had stopped him murdering his shrew of a wife years ago. Without that the man would have nothing, her da had argued when her mam had murmured it wasn’t right to keep Olive in the dark about her husband’s gambling.

  Every pit had its own boxing champion, even the different religions had them, and they were very nearly all Irish by birth. The fights were real sporting events and because they represented the honour of the pit everyone was expected to support them, again according to her da, so Ned Sutton had a point. The boxers would train, members of the community paid for tickets to see the fight and the purse could be as much as a golden guinea.

  Billy had been to a few fights in the two years since he had been down the pit, and when Carrie had said she couldn’t imagine the easygoing, mild Mr Sutton enjoying such violence, her brother had laughed fit to burst. ‘What?’ he’d mocked. ‘You don’t know the half, lass. He goes fair barmy, calling the bloke from the other pit all the names under the sun and insulting the referee right, left and centre. How do you think he g
ot that black eye last week? You didn’t believe the story about the pit prop, did you? He’d been yelling at the two in the ring that it was supposed to be a fight not the last flaming waltz and that he could do better with one hand tied behind his back when a big fella from Harton way got fed up with listening to him and laid him out cold. One of our lads then took this bloke on and before you knew it all hell was let loose. Damn good night, that was,’ her brother had added reflectively - and quite mystifyingly as far as Carrie was concerned.

  ‘Here, Carrie.’ Lillian nudged Carrie in the ribs and brought her attention back to herself. ‘You ever tried sloe gin?’ And then because she knew the answer, she continued with hardly a pause, ‘I’ve nabbed a bottle me granny brought. What say we oil our wigs with the rest of them?’ She nodded at what Carrie could now make out was a bottle-shaped lump under her cardigan.

  Carrie grinned into the plain little face, a spirit of recklessness taking hold. They had been packed like sardines in this room and the scullery, and at times one person pressing past another had only been achieved by indrawn breath, but not once through the hours since the wedding ceremony had Alec so much as smiled at her. David, along with Mr Sutton and others, had told her she looked bonny in the new dress but as far as she was aware Alec hadn’t even noticed she was there. He thought she was a bairn, that was the thing, but she wasn’t. She would be sixteen in just over six weeks’ time, the same age Renee had been when she’d started courting with Walter.