Crossing The Line

by Laura Wilkinson

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Yorkshire, 1983. Miner's wife Mandy Walker lives a quiet life. She's hopeless at everything apart from looking after her boys and baking. Life is fine. But she knows it could be better. Her husband's a drinker, and her best friend Ruth is busy with a teaching career. Mandy dreams of a different life - an impossible, unachievable life. Only Ruth's husband Dan believes in her but, after serving during the Falklands war, he has problems of his own. When the men come out on strike, Mandy joins a support group. She finds friends and strength in surprising places. And secrets and enemies where she least expected them. Mandy must decide which side of the line to stand on.

Release date: March 27, 2014

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 250

Sample

Acknowledgements

I’ll begin by expressing my gratitude to you, lovely reader, for choosing to spend time with Mandy and friends. I appreciate it and hope you have enjoyed their stories.

Many people helped create, and relaunch, this book. I am indebted to them. Thanks to (big breath):

The team at Accent Press, especially powerhouse Hazel Cushion, Katrin Lloyd, Lauren Brinson and editor Greg Rees.

Incredible book bloggers – you are an awesome bunch, forces of nature who spread book love for pleasure, giving your time and expertise for free, to help authors, readers and bookish folk everywhere. The work you do means the world to me – whether you like my books or not. There are a great many of you but I have to choose a few for special thanks: Anne Cater at Random Things Through my Letterbox and the Facebook group Book Connectors, Anne Williams at Being Anne, Sonya Alford at A Lover of Books, Holly Kilminster at Bookaholic Holly, Jo Barton at Jaffa Reads Too, Tracy Terry at Pen and Paper, Tracy Fenton and Helen Boyce at THE Book Club, Wendy at Little Bookness Lane, Joanne Baird at Portobello Book Blog, Sandra Woodhead at Book Lover Worm, Sophie Hedley at Reviewed the Book, Rosie Amber and her team, Annette Hannah at Sincerely Book Angels, Vicki Bowles, Kaisha Holloway at The Writing Garnet and Linda Hill at Linda’s Book Bag.

Early readers Julie-Ann Corrigan, Norma Murray, SR, and Shirley Golden. Respect. Your suggestions made the book stronger. The Welsh Books Council for support.

John Markham of Combat Stress – www.combatstress.org.uk – for your time, insight and knowledge; for gun tips, as well as detailed information on PTSD. Any mistakes are my own.

Julia Cook for the loan of her 80s cookbooks and foodie tips.

David Farnham, Emeritus Professor at the University of Portsmouth.

There are gazillions of articles about the strike online -many of which I read – but special mention must go to Triona Holden, author of Queen Coal, Women of the Miners’ Strike and Brian Elliot, editor of The Miners’ Strike, Day by Day. Their books were so helpful. Any factual errors are my own.

My Twitter and Facebook friends and colleagues. You are fantastic cheerleaders. Too numerous to mention by name, I salute you all.

Marian Williams, Mike Williams and Helen Wilkinson for your encouragement. With love.

The BigFella, aka Fred Davies, for being the best partner a woman could wish for.

The Gingers, Morgan and Cameron, for being themselves and not caring about my work, just me.

To find out more about me, my work, future novels, information for reading groups, missing scenes and giveaways visit: laura-wilkinson.co.uk

When I was a girl Dad said that sometimes we need enemies more than we need friends; they’re often the ones to show us the way; that failure makes us stronger; that we find the best of ourselves in the strangest places, during the strangest times.

Chapter One

‘Mrs Walker! Your fingers are meant to float over the keyboard. Dewdrops landing on grass; a dancer’s feet brushing the stage. Not galumphing over it like a carthorse through mud.’ Eyes closed, the teacher demonstrated, sweeping her delicate hands across some imaginary typewriter.

‘That’s all well and good if you’ve fingers like twigs, mine are like skittles.’

‘It’s merely a question of relaxing the wrists, Mrs Walker.’ She strutted over, heels clickety-clacking on the parquet flooring, the sound fighting with key tapping as the rest of the class continued to wrestle with phrases from the books sitting on the desks. She rapped the back of my chair with her fingernails. ‘Back straight, shoulders square, elbows in, knees together.’

‘Knees together?’

‘Secretarial work is more than typing and taking dictation,’ she barked. ‘A good secretary will accompany her boss to important meetings, conferences. Appearance is important. How we carry ourselves – vital.’

‘And here was me thinking it were all about making cups of tea and knocking out the odd memo.’ I turned to a woman on my right whose name I repeatedly forgot; she was as hopeless as me, though she did at least look the part in her tartan skirt and sensible shoes. She giggled and pulled a face, as I knew she would.

Teacher was not best pleased. ‘Mrs Walker, you are here of your own volition, are you not? Do you or do you not want a qualification that will open the doors of opportunity? Afford a job for life?’

I lowered my eyes, humbled; a rock formed in my belly. What was the point in playing the class clown? No-one had forced me here. Was my path to be the same as my mother’s or Ethel Braithwaite’s? I stared out of the window at the distant hills; the pithead cast a long shadow. Pulling in my chair, I rolled my shoulders, lifted my chin, and hammered away at the keyboard.

I looked at the sheet poking up behind the ribbon. The xar sau int e mat. How now broan cowe, The red goc jumpef iver the brown gate. How ow broan cow> The cat sat ont eh mat. The red goc jumped over the browna hagte. The cat asua on the at;, How no brown cow?

Ruddy hell, is there any hope for me?

The White Lion was heaving, the slap of the beery atmosphere sharp as we pushed open the heavy saloon doors. It was rare for me to come to the pub after class, usually I skittered home double quick to relieve Mum of her babysitting duties, but there was nothing on telly, I fancied a shandy, and there was a darts match on. Rob was playing.

The Boar’s Head team perched at the bar; The Lion team sat with old man Braithwaite who looked as if he’d downed several jars already, though it was only shortly after nine. Same old faces everywhere. I shoved my way across to Rob.

‘To what do we owe this honour, Mand?’ he said, lighting a ciggie.

‘Delighted to see you too, love. Get us a drink, will you?’

Rob didn’t move. Old man Braithwaite got to his feet and gestured for me to sit. ‘I’ll get round in. By way of celebration.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Celebration?’

‘My lad’s coming home. Back to where he belongs. Bosom of his lovin’ family.’

He wandered to the bar, swaying occasionally. No-one said anything but they were as surprised as I was. Less than three years ago Dan Braithwaite had left for a career in the army. A lifelong career, his dad had boasted.

How is it possible to be discharged so quickly; isn’t three years the minimum you can sign up for?

I remembered seeing Dan when he was home on leave during training. He was in uniform, marching down the high street towards his mam’s house, looking handsome and proud. He never noticed me; I was six months pregnant, swallowed up in a dress that could have been pegged out as a marquee.

‘How is the returning hero?’ Rob asked, as old man Braithwaite plonked the drinks down. I detected a hint of irony in his tone, though thankfully no-one else seemed to notice. The old man was well-known for outbursts of violence, like most of the Braithwaites. Rob had never liked Dan; and though I’d not known Dan well, he’d struck me as arrogant. He kept his distance, like he was a cut above everyone else round Fenley Down.

I sipped at my drink, but it tasted right funny.

‘He’s bringing a bride back with him,’ the old man said. ‘Used to live here, left while at secondary school. Funny family, didn’t fit in.’ He slurped his bitter, downing the pint in one. ‘Break’s over. Let’s knock seven bells out of this sorry lot.’ He slammed the empty glass on the table and pointed to the opposing team, who were hovering by the board, flexing their wrists, replacing feathers in tips.

I sat bolt upright – my typing teacher would have been proud. ‘Ruth. Ruth Felix?’

He turned back to me. ‘That’s the one.’

‘When they back?’

‘Day after tomorrow.’ With that he staggered towards the darts board. Heaven knows how he thought they could win; he could barely stand.

Bloody hell, that’s quick. Why’s he said nowt till now?

My mind swirled with memories. Ruth Felix: the best friend in the whole wide world. At school she gave teachers lip but never got into trouble; she was the first to try a ciggie with the older lads at the back of the slag heap; she was popular and pretty, and I felt blessed that she considered me – plump, red-haired me – her friend. It made sense that Dan had married someone like her, someone different. Bit special. But coming back? Who’d have thought it?

Old man Braithwaite missed the board with his first shot but hit the bull’s eye with his next. The pub erupted with jeers and cheers. In the corner was a woman, unmoved by the commotion. She looked old, though she wasn’t much older than Mum. Fifty, maybe, bit overweight, with fading red hair and disappointment etched into her features. The missus of one of the team, she looked bored stiff, like she’d been sitting in that spot for most of her life. Stuck. My belly twisted, like a wrung-out rag.

It could be me, thirty years from now.

Our team lost and I left for home soon after, shandy untouched. Rob was pissed and I needed to get some sleep. Johnnie would be up demanding milk in a few hours, though he was way too old for that nonsense. Little blighter.

The day Dan and Ruth came back was sticky and still, grey clouds pressed down on the village; we waited, hoped, for the sound of distant thunder. A storm to break the clammy weather. It was such an ordinary day that I felt their arrival must have been delayed. There was no bunting, or marching band fanfare, sunlight bouncing off brass.

Not as if Braithwaites are royalty, though some of that family act like they are.

As usual, I dropped Mark at school. Through the wire mesh of the fence we watched him limping across the playground, one grey sock crumpled around his ankle. I nattered with the other mums, ignoring David’s yelps of boredom and Johnnie’s whining. Finally, to shut them up, I suggested we walk to the recreation ground for a play.

The rec was deserted. The climbing frame was wrapped in fraying plastic ribbons, a hand-written sign warning us not to use it. A wasp’s nest had been found there. The slide was covered in broken glass, a half empty bottle of cider stood at the base next to a pile of sick and a crushed pack of Embassy Number 6. Johnnie strained against his straps, fighting to get out of the buggy; I stood behind the swing, idly pushing David to and fro. He screamed, ‘Higher, higher,’ but I ignored his cries and soon he grew tired. Half an hour passed and he was moaning that he was bored. Johnnie had fallen asleep. We headed home.

The boys played in the back garden while I washed the pots. Barely twenty-three with a husband and three kids. What would Ruth make of my life? Perhaps she knew already. The Braithwaites were a gobby lot.

I tried to focus on my day, but it was just another brick piled on top of the others in the low wall that was my life: tidy the breakfast dishes, make the beds, break up a fight, have a brew, put the laundry on, feed the kids, hang out the washing, break up another fight, go down the shops, fetch Mark from school. Was this it for me? God help me, no. But what could I do? Nothing much.

After filling the paddling pool, I dragged out the old typewriter I’d picked up at the Sally Army and plonked it on the table.

I must practise, I must.

But it was too hot. After ten minutes my fingers and wrists ached and my head thumped. I decided to bake a cake. I loved cooking, especially baking. I took the yellow mixing bowl down from the top shelf. Made from ceramic, it was substantial and satisfying, unlike that expensive Tupperware rubbish. I ran my fingers along the heavily ridged edge, cut a slab of butter, and watched it slide off the knife. The bowl had belonged to my grandmother, four times winner of the ‘Best Apple Pie’ contest at the three villages’ summer fair. With my grandmother’s wooden spoon, I blended the caster sugar in the butter and added the eggs, enjoying the ease with which everything fused in the heat. No aching arms or sweating brow that day. I took my time sieving in the flour, folding it over and over and over. The consistency perfect. I took an orange and grated the peel into the mixture, my nose fizzing with the citrusy smell. David pattered in, water slapping on the tiled floor. Chubby fingers gripped the work surface and he asked if I was making chocolate cake.

‘Orange. Orange and lemon, petal.’

‘I hate lemon. It’s all sucky.’

He pulled his lips together, tight, and scrunched up his nose.

‘It’s your dad’s favourite.’

He pulled another face and tapped my generous bottom. Womanly, Rob called it.

I crouched on my haunches; my thighs gluing themselves to the back of my bare calves beneath my cotton frock. ‘I tell you what. How about I forget the lemon and make the buttercream chocolate? Chocolate orange cake?’

He nodded and padded back outside. After I’d prepared the tins, and before turning the oven on, I made the filling. Then I went to join the boys, noting the time first.

It was twenty-five past four but the heat pressed down, relentless. The grey clouds dropped lower and lower. The brittle grass crunched beneath the soles of my flip-flops. Our garden was small, south-facing, narrow without borders or flowerbeds, at the bottom was a pear tree so weedy its shade offered little relief. I paddled in the pool with the boys and pretended not to like it when they splashed me with the lukewarm, grassy water. In the end, laughing, drenched, and absolutely not thinking about Ruth and Dan – their exciting life and my really, really boring one – I sat down in the pool and watched water gather in the folds of my dress. A butterfly landed on the side and we stopped and stared. Black wings with dusty orange eyes folded together, its antennae quivering. All four of us silent, wondering what it might do next. It was David who spoke first.

‘What’s a group of butterflies called?’

‘I haven’t got a clue. Only butterfly I know is a cake.’

We fell silent again, watching, and it was then that I heard it: a banging, pushing through the sticky air. It sounded like the front door. I stood, gathered my skirt in my fists, wringing out as much water as I could, then stepped over the plastic rim and pushed my sopping feet into my flip-flops.

The hammering at the door grew more and more insistent as I padded through the back room and into the hall, water dripping on the bare concrete floor.

It was Phil Braithwaite, red-faced, a triangular patch of sweat on his t-shirt. He was an odd shade of grey and something in his eyes liquidised my insides. ‘There’s been an accident, at pit. Chance your Rob’s involved. I’ve come to get yer.’ He gestured to the red Ford Escort parked opposite and continued to speak, though I didn’t hear the words.

‘I’ll need to turn oven off,’ I said, waving him in. I staggered through the house to the garden, boneless. Mining was dangerous, everyone knew it. Dirty, risky work, even now. If it wasn’t the cause of Dad’s illness, it finished him off. But I’d never thought it would affect me again. Rob.

There was an invincible quality to Rob, though he wasn’t tough. Not in the way that the Braithwaite brothers were. He seemed to have a protective shield, like those children in the Ready Brek adverts; it’s what attracted me to him, this glow. I’d never considered, not for one moment, that Rob would ever get hurt. I couldn’t believe it; not even now.

The boys knew something was very wrong; they followed me without protest, cry or word, to Phil’s car. ‘Chance your Rob’s involved.’ The words ricocheted round my head.

So there’s a chance he might not be.

‘Is your mam at bakery? Can we drop lads there?’ Phil said, as the car screeched down the road. ‘Pit’s no place for them.’

‘No.’ I agreed.

Someone must have brought the news to Mum because she was waiting outside when we pulled up, face fixed with her cheeriest smile. ‘Ey up, lovelies. Look what Nana’s got for you.’ She waved a bag of goodies, crouched down, gathered all three boys in her arms and hugged them, nodding at me over Mark’s shoulder, wordlessly telling me not to worry about them, to get myself down to the pit.

Back in Phil’s car, with the children dispatched, I found my voice. ‘What happened? What about Rob’s mum and dad? Have they been told? Are you sure it’s him?’ The questions poured out of me.

‘Steady on, Mandy. I don’t know owt meself. Other than there’s been an explosion, at coal face, some of the men are out already. Me Dad’s down there an’ all. Was in same shaft as your Rob.’

‘Jesus, Phil, I’m sorry.’

We drove the rest of the short journey in silence, the car heavy with the smell of fear.

Outside the pit a small crowd had gathered, waiting wives, girlfriends, lovers, held at bay by sympathetic policemen. There were even a handful of children running between mounds of coke, faces smeared with sweat and black dust. Medics, firemen, and other rescue workers ferried between the pit head and their vehicles. I saw Ethel, Phil’s mum, amongst the crowd, wrapped in a headscarf, curlers poking out of the front. She walked over to where Phil and I stood, her face set in a mask of grim determination. I expected her to hug Phil, some sign of affection, but she merely nodded.

‘The twins?’ he said.

‘Fine. Different shaft. Michael, Richard, Stephen. All good,’ Ethel replied. Before I had a chance to speak, she looked at me and said, ‘No sign of Rob yet.’ She offered a bag of sweets. ‘Humbug?’

I shook my head.

And then we waited. Everyone hoping that their man would be one of those to make it out, even if it meant their neighbours’ loved one didn’t. Unspoken prayers. Fear making us selfish.

After a time, people began to talk. Hushed whispers from mouths hidden by cupped hands. Cigarettes and boiled sweets shared. One woman, hunched with age, even had a flask. She’d been here before. She offered me a cup of tea and I accepted it gratefully. It was cold and tinny tasting.

The first miner came out; the crowd surged, craning to see who lay on the stretcher. A raised arm, a wave, a cry of relief, moans of disappointment and dread.

By dusk there were only three left trapped in the tunnel: Rob, old Vince Braithwaite, and a man I didn’t know. We’d watched, hope fading, as the crowd peeled away, one after the other, separated from our neighbours by guilt and terror. No fatalities, so far. Food was delivered and taken away untouched. Blankets draped over our shoulders. Soon I was flanked on all sides by Braithwaites. Everyone else had gone.

‘Shall Phil take you home, Mandy?’ Ethel said. ‘He’ll fetch you again as soon as there’s news. Nowt you can do here, chicken.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t, Mrs Braithwaite, thanks all –’

A scream of brakes on tarmac interrupted my scrambled reply. We shielded our eyes from the dazzle of headlights and watched two figures climbing out of the car. A voice came from behind.

‘Comes another!’

I swung round towards the mine head as rescue workers emerged with another body. Arms flayed in the gloomy air; gruff cries of ‘leave me be’ rose above the purr of the still-running car engine.

Ethel roared, ‘That’s my Vince!’ and another voice rang out behind me.

‘Thank heavens he’s alive! We came as soon as we saw the note. We’ve only just arrived. The traffic was appalling!’ It was a female voice, posh. Not from round here, but it stirred something deep within me. I spun on my heels yet again.

A woman, tall and lean, with long brown hair held back from her face with an Alice band. ‘Mandy! You haven’t changed a bit!’

Stunned, I stared.

‘It’s Ruth, Ruth Braithwaite. You knew me as Felix.’ Even her voice was different; no trace of an accent.

‘You’ve changed. You look...’ I stammered, ‘amazing.’

‘Oh my God. What are you doing here?’ And as if realising the stupidity of her question she gasped and clamped her hand over her mouth. It tipped me over the edge. I’d not cried till then. I’d clenched my fear in a grasp so tight it couldn’t breathe, and the look on Ruth’s face made me loosen that hold. I howled like a baby, tears and snot streaming.

‘I’d forgotten you were coming home today,’ I blubbered.

‘Of course you did, darling. Who wouldn’t? We knew something was wrong as soon as we pulled into the close. There was no-one to welcome us.’ The shock of such neglect still evident in her tone.

A man approached and stood by Ruth’s side. Dan. Tall, poker-straight, his face the colour of ash, well-defined cheekbones illuminated by the overspill of light from the headlamps. His eyes were an extraordinary blue-grey, like metal, and it struck me as odd that I should notice such detail at a time like this.

‘You go on and say hello to your dad. He’ll need cheering up, I’d say,’ I snuffled into my hankie.

‘Best not fuss. He’s enough round him,’ Dan said.

I was about to protest when there were more shouts and a burst of activity; emergency workers running from the mine head, yellow jackets flickering in the fading light. The policemen raced towards us, waving their arms. ‘Move back! Move back!’

I felt hands grabbing me by the shoulder and pulling me backwards; I stared at the mine. Four rescue workers raced, heads down, one hand clutching a stretcher, the other holding onto their hard hats. Two stretchers; two remaining miners. And the shaft was about to blow again. Rob.

With strength I didn’t know I possessed, I freed myself and hurtled towards the stretchers, falling to my knees when I saw Rob’s blood-stained face. He smiled at me, teeth gleaming white against his blackened face, and then he closed his eyes, head flopping to one side.

‘Rob!’ I screamed.

‘He’s going to be fine, love. Now get down!’

I felt the ground rumble beneath me. I looked at the pit head, anticipating an explosion, but none came.

Rob and his colleague were taken away in the only ambulance left. The police offered but Ruth insisted she took me to hospital. Ethel had gone with Phil and the others. ‘Dan won’t mind a bit. He’d be going anyway.’

Head between folded arms, Dan was leaning on the car roof. He jerked upright as we approached, beads of sweat glistening on his upper lip. Mopping his brow and muttering, he opened the back door for me with a trembling hand, before climbing into the front. He reached across into the glove compartment and a medicine bottle fell onto the passenger seat. He swept it up, glancing round as he did so. I looked away. He offered me a travel sweet.

‘You’ll need one. For shock,’ he said. ‘Come on,’ he yelled at Ruth who was talking to one of the firemen.

She looked in through the window. ‘Oh,’ she gasped, ‘you’ve cut your knee.’

Dried blood snaked down my leg. She opened the door, then pulled a silk scarf from her fashionable chain-handled bag and wrapped it round me with care. As she finished I glanced up and saw Dan swallowing hard, throwing the pill bottle back into the glove compartment.

‘Thanks, you’re a star,’ I said. ‘Don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

Ruth climbed in next to me, leaving Dan alone in the front like some kind of cabbie, and draped her arm across my shoulders. ‘What are friends for? Now let’s get you to hospital. Rob will be wondering where you are.’

Chapter Two

A&E was bonkers; folk milling everywhere; chewing fingernails, snapping at the receptionist. We’d been told that the injuries seemed minor, but no-one could be sure. Dazed, I glanced around, catching sight of Rob’s mum and dad hovering in the corner. His mum saw me and came over. For one horrible moment I thought she was going to hug me, but she thought better of it. Unsure what to say, we stood there like lemons.

‘There’s a bit of a backlog. The more serious injuries are being seen first,’ Ruth touched my arm, reassuring, ‘Close relatives can go through to the cubicles. Rob’s in number four, next to Vince.’ She led me through the crowd.

Rob lay on a bed, grey-cheeked, hollow-eyed. He’d been wiped clean, though not well. Coal dust mingled with sweat at the edges of his face, small cuts wept across his forehead. One jacket sleeve had been cut away to reveal a blood-soaked dressing near his shoulder. I stared at the wound, my gaze trailing down his arm. I gasped at the shape of his lower arm; below the elbow, maybe two inches, the limb flopped down at a right angle. It looked like rubber tubing, not a limb of flesh, blood, and bone.

‘It’s a right state,’ Rob said. ‘Paramedics reckon busted in three, maybe four places.’

‘Painful?’

‘You what?’ he said, though I’d not spoken quietly.

‘Painful?’ I repeated, louder this time.

‘Too fucking right. And I can’t have no painkillers till I’ve been seen. In case of needing surgery,’ he shouted. He rolled his head toward his shoulder and winced.

‘Pull that curtain back!’ Vince’s familiar tones snapped through the flimsy divide; the floral curtain whooshed away to reveal the old man flanked by Ethel, Phil, Michael, Stephen, twins Craig and Paul, Dan, and Ruth. No other patient would have been allowed so many visitors, but this was Fenley’s answer to th. . .