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CHAPTER 1

Violet tasted the tang of his sweat, yeasty and sour. He was only feet away, inching towards her; a twinge in the small of her back rippled to become a pulse in her neck. He leaned in, right up to her ear and whispered in his reedy voice, 'I've got you under my skin, Violet.'

It was all she could do to sit still, trying to look like she didn't care.

'Get lost, Sidney,' she said, making light of it with a half laugh and a shrug of her shoulders. She didn't want his attention, this daft lad with his baggy pullover, so she kept her eyes on the rack in front of her, filled with spikes and live filaments on which she tested each bulb. The good ones she put in their individual hole in the tray on her left, the duds in a basket by her right knee. It was clean work, the factory was quiet enough to hear the wireless, and it paid better than the Tin Can Works.

Sidney sloped off with a full basket of duds, and Violet settled into her rhythm. She could do it now without thinking, which meant she was able to think about something else. Or somebody else. Clark Gable with his dark hair and eyes and that gorgeous smile in a rugged face was her favourite. He put her in mind of Tommy Hayes; they could be brothers. If anybody accused her of it she would deny it, but she did have her eye on Tommy. He was younger than her, but because of his build he could get away with going with older girls. Not that there was much between them, six months or so. She'd spoken to him once or twice, he'd said something cheeky, and looked her up and down, as if he knew what was on offer. It made her smile, but she'd run a mile if he tried anything.

From across the bench, Myrna asked her if she would be coming out later. It was a free night at Marshall's dance hall. Myrna had made herself a new frock, and asked Violet if she wanted to borrow her old one, if she was stuck for something.

Myrna had to raise her voice to get a response from Violet.

'What do you think, Vi, fancy coming out?'

'Ma's not well.'

'Is she no better?' Myrna did a good sympathy face but had no more to say.

Violet bit her tongue, wishing she hadn't mentioned it. Her poor mother was in her final days, and the doctor said there wasn't long to go now. It was a curse. There was that little bird that had come down the chimney, oh, months ago.

Myrna got up to find a new packing box; Violet tried to set her mind on the task in front of her. Taking a fresh bulb from the rack she placed it over the filament. It stayed dark. She picked it off as she might dead-head a late summer flower. As she moved to throw it in the basket, it crumbled into fine splinters in her hand. She was sad to see the ruined light, dead without ever being lit. Her mother, Peggy, was a warm light. As a little girl, Violet would run in with half the kids from the street, asking for a slice of bread or a twist of sugar. She remembered other times when her mother had read stories to them, lying on the day bed in the parlour, as she recovered from an infection or some other setback. A constant light, but fading now; Violet pictured Peggy's bedroom, the curtains half drawn.

Somebody prodded at her back. Myrna.

'Come for a cig, Vi, ten minutes.'

Glad of the break and the chance to stretch her arms and back, Violet felt drained as if she had worked all day, but it was only halfway through the morning. When they walked out into the yard, the daylight blinded them, until they found a gloomy corner and lit up. Myrna sucked in her cheeks and told Violet she looked like death's door. Violet let out her smoke with a sigh.

'Thanks, Myrna.'

'Well, you do. Sorry about your Ma, an' all that, but when you've got to go ...'

She drew on her cigarette, deep red lipstick staining the tip. Myrna liked to give the impression she was a woman of the world, though she'd never set foot outside Barnsfield. Violet turned towards her with the beginning of a smile on her face.

'You're a right cow, Myrna.'

'Ha! I know. Look, love, I'm sorry, it's awful, but I've had to get used to being without my Ma since I was ten years old. You're not a bairn, Vi. You'll get over it.'

Would she get over it? Drawing on her cigarette, Violet's lips were loose, and a puff of ash shed onto her collar. She tossed her head, letting her dark red curls bounce to hide the shudder that took over her body, and leant back on the wall to steady herself.

'I'm not sure I will, you know, Myrna. I won't know what I'll do with myself when it happens.' Put a good front on, that's what she'd do. She wouldn't want anybody to think she was soft.

'Deep down, I don't think I'll ever get over it. To tell you the truth, my Ma's the only one who knows me. Not even our Daisy can cheer me up like she does or slap me down if I get too full of myself. Do you know what I mean?'

'Yes, I do.' Myrna arched her back and laughed.

Violet pretended offence, raising her eyebrows. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Well, you've a mind of your own, you know, Violet.'

'No more than you have, Myrna.'

They laughed and fell back into their smoke, pulling hard on the cork tips, until the tar reached the bottom of their lungs. They each blew out a long plume, Violet's straight in front, Myrna's disappearing into the air above them, both aware of how they looked, and who might be looking. Violet held herself in a serious pose, hoping it was glamorous enough to impress a handsome lad crossing the yard, trying to push her mother to the back of her mind.

'I needed that.'

Myrna looked at her straight on, 'You know I don't mean everything I say, don't you?

Violet smiled, and Myrna saw her chance. 'Will you come out tonight now?'

'I can't ...'

'You can, Vi, you must. There's all this talk of a war, you can't rely on a toff like Chamberlain to stop it. Folks are saying we could be carrying round gas masks before long. Anyway, there's a chance you might meet somebody, you know, a nice lad. Somebody like Tommy Hayes, mentioning no names. I'll bet he offers to do more than whisper in your ear.'

Few lads had whispered in Violet's ear. Though she did a good job of pretending otherwise. Violet responded with a raw laugh.

'Myrna, you're a scandal!'

'Will you meet me at eight at the Clock? Bring Daisy if she wants to come.'

'She won't.' Her sister wasn't one for going out, and especially not now. Violet did feel guilty, but a night out after a hard week was too much to resist.

'All right, if everything's quiet, I'll come.'

'Good girl, we'll have a bloody good time, won't we?'

* * *

Violet's feet dragged down the cinder path, her shoulders hunched, her head drooping. She had an urge to turn under the bridge at the bottom of the hill and wander off through the last of the uncut barley. She would have hidden in the golden fronds, breathing the dusty dryness of the earth, letting sleep come. Her work wasn't hard, not as hard as other work she'd had, but the idea of what might be waiting at home exhausted her.

She was close now. The estate of miners' cottages sat in a clearing in the woods. Chestnut Avenue, Beechwood Road, Elm Avenue, Oakwood Close. Paths twisted through dark tree canopies where she and her sister had played as children. It felt like Thorndale, and so different. When they came here to Barnsfield, they had a new house with two big bedrooms and a small room for Frank. The toilet had a bath in it (you must call it the bathroom, Violet). There was a parlour room at the front, clean and quiet where Ma could rest, away from the smell of cooking, and the fuss of Pop having a wash after work: he had never lost the habit of washing at the kitchen sink. Or him coming in singing after a session at the pub. Or shouting if he'd lost all his money. When they came here, it was thrilling and worrying all at once. She and Daisy laughed one day and cried the next.

She found Daisy in the kitchen, tipping away the enamel bowl of grey water that Pop had used to get the worst of the pit dust off himself. The curdled smell of the dairy was still on Daisy. She would have been up since four o'clock this morning, bottling milk, churning butter, making cheese. By midday she would be home to give Ma something to eat, soup or porridge. Then she would do the chores until Pop and Violet got home. She'd make them all six o'clock supper and be in bed herself by seven, dog-tired. No wonder Violet couldn't ever get her out to a dance. Violet stood, her waist against the stone sink, and watched Daisy drying her sore hands. It was like looking in a mirror, her twin was so much like her. Though the mirror seemed to have been broken and put back together wrong. They had the same features, green eyes and flaming red hair, but Ma's porcelain skin blessed Violet, while poor Daisy had Pop's coarse skin, moulded from rough clay.

'How is she?'

Daisy shook her head, her eyes lowered.

'Oh God help us, Daisy.'

Violet stretched her back and rubbed at the little knots in the muscles around her hairline. She wasn't used to her job yet. She had hoped it might be a cushy one, sitting down all day. But the reaching and pulling seemed to be as tiring as standing at a metal press, stamping out tin lids. Daisy turned to her.

'I've finished here, let's see if she wants a bit of supper.'

* * *

Ma and Pop's back bedroom was dark in the evening shadows. Violet went in first, easing the door. Peggy lay curled at one edge, leaving as much space as she could for Pop, who was spark out and sprawled on top of the covers.

'What a selfish bugger,' Violet muttered under her breath, barely mouthing the words. 'Why can't he kip on the chair in the parlour?' Daisy hushed her, and perched at the foot of the bed, inside the footboard. Violet sat down on the little stool at the side of the bed and reached up to hold her mother's hand. It was stone cold. Peggy opened her eyes.

'Daisy?' she asked. Violet winced. Peggy she would have known which of them it was, if she had been well; she knew their touch, their breath.

'It's Violet, Ma. Daisy's here, look.'

'Ah, Violet.'

Peggy's skin was like wax paper, the last of the light flecked her russet hair, its curly wisps damp around her face. Her lace bed jacket was salmon pink. Violet would have liked her to change it for the lilac one; it wouldn't have drained so much colour from her mother's face.

'How are you, Ma? What can we get you?'

Peggy smiled, her lids drooping. 'There's naught to do, my love. Pop has picked up the Brompton Mixture.' Violet caught the whiff of gin and cherry syrup on her mother's breath. She wondered how Pop had managed to spend his money at the chemist rather than at The Crown. Still, he had seen to his own needs as well as Ma's by the sight of him. She held on to Peggy's bony fingers, trying to share her pain. Daisy smoothed the satin eiderdown over Peggy's thin legs and bony feet. Violet struggled to keep her head up, her eyes welling, her nose starting to run. Then she sniffed, her nostrils flaring at a bad smell. She looked across at Daisy, lips pursed.

'He's farted.'

Pop's backside was pointing their way, the foul smell of sour food hissing through his long saggy underpants. Daisy leaned to prod him. He grumbled and let out an almighty trump, which dealt with the fermentation in his gut and he settled back down again.

'The old bugger.'

'Leave him,' breathed Peggy. 'He's tired.'

'Drunk, more like.'

'Violet,' Peggy struggled to lift herself up an inch. Her speech was soft, but deliberate. 'I'll not have that. He's been working. A working man deserves a drink.'

Violet would have left the bedroom in disgust, but she couldn't defy her mother, not on her death bed. Angry tears pricked at her eyes, and she looked down to hide them.

'Sorry, Ma.'

'Don't sulk, Violet.'

'No, Ma.'

'Are you out tonight? Get on with you now, let me sleep.'

Peggy was still in charge, but she only had to make the slightest effort before she fell back on her pillows. The last few weeks had shrunk her body, her skin puckering where the flesh had melted. As a child Violet feared losing her mother in a crowd. She couldn't leave now.

'Well ... no, not with you so bad.'

'Don't be daft, lass. I'll not die tonight.'

Daisy stiffened, her hands gripping the bedclothes. 'Ma, don't say that.'

'Now, Daisy, no need to upset yourself. I'm as well as I can be. Let Violet go out for an hour, she'll be no use fidgeting about the place. Always had too much of the fidget about her. You stop and read to me, eh?'

'I will, Ma.'

'My good girl.'

Violet cast her eye over at Daisy. She would feel how Peggy had slighted Violet, and it would hurt her too, so she might as well go out now and enjoy herself a bit. She'd made her offer and would get no thanks for staying.

* * *

The heat was coming from Marshall's before she got to the door. It was where everybody went on a Friday night; the lads paid a tanner, the lasses, being part of the draw, got in free. Most of the lasses danced together, even when there were spare men. Young lads with flat feet and too much colour in their faces hung around the edges of the hall. Each of them held a bottle of pop in his sweaty fist. Marshall's catered for the young crowd, too young to be drinking in public houses. Violet wasn't keen on getting into pubs anyway, they were full of old men like her father. Marshall's was a teetotal hall, not that some of them didn't come well tanked-up in advance, leaving empty pop bottles stinking of beer by the door.

Violet was dancing with Myrna. They were showing off their foxtrot. Myrna was in a flowery dress with puffy sleeves, the hem finishing below her knees. Violet was wearing Daisy's green polka dot shirt-waister, which was short in the length, and had a lovely swing to it. Both had set their hair in loose waves and had rouged their cheeks and lips. Myrna couldn't keep her head still. She was asking Violet who she had her eye on. Violet looked peeved.

'I've got my eye on nobody. Nobody in particular.'

'Tommy Hayes?'

'He's a bairn, still only seventeen.'

'And you're an old lady of eighteen.'

Violet tried not to rise to it. She let go of Myrna's hand and pulled her friend's head round to face her. 'Stop looking, Myrna, keep that head up and straight.'

'He's looking at you. Look. Look now.'

Violet couldn't help it, she snatched a glance at Tommy, leaning against the back wall. For a young lad, he was already tall and broad. There wasn't much Violet didn't know about Tommy. He lived a few streets away at the bottom end of town, had been working at the pit for a while over three years, and was well known for being able to keep up with the more experienced miners. She'd heard Pop mention him now and again. He did have that Clark Gable look, though his mother had patched the elbows of his jacket and darned the pockets.

Myrna was laughing. 'Eyes front, Violet!'

Tommy had spotted Violet. Pushing himself off the wall, he edged over, weaving through the crowd. A fast-paced tune she recognised, but couldn't have named, was playing through a loudspeaker, saving the price of a band for the night. Violet followed Tommy's shiny black hair bobbing over the dancers. She tracked him, a magpie flitting through the trees.

'I'm off,' whispered Myrna, leaving Violet stranded a couple of beats before Tommy arrived to pick up her hands. He said nothing, pressing his hand on her lower back, spreading his fingers up and along her spine. He was a terrible dancer, jerky in front of the rhythm, and his hold was too firm, but Violet didn't mind. She felt light on her feet, aware only of the warmth of him and his earthy, underground smell. Leaning into him and breathing out, she wondered if this could be it, the night they got together. It had been coming for weeks, a look here, a wink there. A mate of his had dropped a hint a couple of weeks ago and she'd been on tenterhooks ever since. When the song ended, Tommy stopped dead while Violet drifted on, swaying.

'Fancy a breather?' he asked, tugging her through the solid crowd. This was a good sign, but it was making her heart beat so fast she could hardly breathe. She wasn't prepared. She had imagined it would be later, after a few dances, with a slow one to build up the mood. He held her hand tight, hurting her. She dodged around the dancers to avoid having her feet trodden on, trying to keep her mind on what might come next. The kiss. She hoped to God she wouldn't make a mess of it; she tried to imagine what Carole Lombard would do.

The dance hall's main door was on Egton Street opposite the new Town Hall, but Tommy barged through a side door. He dragged Violet out into a passage where people were smoking. The smell made her desperate for a ciggie, but Tommy pulled her down into a small dark yard. It seemed deserted, though the whiff of scent, cigarettes and sweat hung in the air. He pushed her against one of the high brick walls. She felt annoyed and pushed back.

'Eh, lad, steady on!'

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Excerpted from "The Peacemaker"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Janet Dean Knight.
Excerpted by permission of John Hunt Publishing Ltd..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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