Unspoken: A story of secrets, love and revenge by T. Belshaw (i want to read a book .TXT) 📕

beer. Most of them did, but it was nice to see them with a daintier glass in their hands as the night wore on.

By two o’clock, the lads were in from the fields, and the party was in full swing. In years past, we used to place the radio by the back door and set the dial to the National Service, where we could listen to the BBC Dance Orchestra. This year would be different, as I had my new gramophone, so the music wouldn’t be interrupted by Tommy Handley or Arthur Askey performing funny sketches between the tunes.

When the sun went down, I switched on the outdoor wall lights while the youngsters dragged out bits and pieces of timber, and Barney lit a brazier fire in the middle of the yard. We’d had an open fire and flaming torches in the past, but as the quickening breeze was in the wrong direction, the barn was at risk. At six, the first snowflakes of Christmas began to fall and the children sat around the fire on old tree stumps that hadn’t yet been cut up for firewood. It was a magical scene; we didn’t often get snow at Christmas.

I only had two Christmas songs on record, Jingle Bells, and a nineteen thirty-five recording of Bing Crosby singing Silent Night. We played them over and over but no one seemed to get bored. As the snow got heavier and began to settle, Amy and I danced around the slippery yard to Bing on his seventh or eighth repeat. Some of the other women joined in, though, tellingly, none of the men.

At eight, John Postlethwaite brought out the accordion and the record player was forgotten. We sang along to a lot of old favourite songs and then, at nine, he began on the Christmas carols.

The women had demanded to take turns holding Martha, but as the accordion played, I wrapped her in an extra blanket and held her myself. I sang to her softly as we stood in a large circle around the brazier and sang God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Oh Little Town of Bethlehem and In the Bleak Mid-Winter.

At ten o’clock precisely, as if someone had sounded a horn to mark the end of proceedings, the party began to break up. People hugged, promising to keep in touch, although they would see each other at the market the following week anyway. Over-excited children were shushed or clipped around the ear and told to behave, as they were ushered out of the gate where I stood, wishing everyone a Merry Christmas and pushing a little parcel containing a packet of sweets into the hands of the little ones.

When the last straggler had departed, I tipped a bucket of water onto the brazier and listened to the logs sizzle and pop as the fire was extinguished. Amy collected up the tankards, plates and empty glasses and took them back inside. Finally, having checked the fire was out completely, I turned off the wall lights at the switch near the back door, and went back inside to the warmth of the kitchen.

I produced a hidden bottle of gin, and two small bottles of Indian Tonic Water, and we took off our big coats and sat across from each other, warming our chilled hands in front of the stove.

Amy gave Martha a later feed than usual, but because it wasn’t me providing it, she didn’t kick up too much of a fuss, and drank the bottle in one go.

When Martha was settled in her basket, Amy and I got ready for bed. I took Martha upstairs, got into my nightie, then went down to check that the doors were locked and to switch off the lights. I was just about to go back up, when I heard a loud clang from the yard. I looked out of the back window, thinking the wind must have got up and blown the brazier over. What I saw instead, sent a shiver down my spine.

Standing in the snow, next to the fallen brazier, was Frank. He glared towards the house and took a swig from the half-bottle of whisky he held in his left hand. In his right, was the razor-sharp, long-handled axe that we used for chopping firewood. He slipped the whisky into his pocket and grabbing the shaft with both hands, brought the axe down onto the already broken brazier. A loud clang rang out in the night.

‘Merry Christmas, Alice,’ he shouted.

Chapter 83

December 1938

I froze.

Frank clattered the brazier with the axe head again. ‘Come out, Alice, I can see you there.’

I walked to the back door and turned the key in the lock, picking up a large kitchen knife on the way. I opened the door about a foot, so that he could see the knife.

‘What the hell do you want, Frank?’

‘I want to wish my daughter Happy Christmas,’ he slurred.

‘She’s asleep, Frank.’

‘Wake her up then.’

I ignored the request.

‘Frank, why aren’t you in America. Wasn’t that the big dream?’

‘I missed the bloody boat. It went without me,’ he replied.

‘How can you miss a ship?’

‘There are some good pubs in Liverpool,’ he said.

I sighed. ‘I might have bloody well known. You’re hopeless, Frank. Clear off, go on.’

‘MY MOTHER DIED!’ he screamed.

‘I know, I was at her funeral, unlike some people I could mention.’

Frank’s face fell. ‘You went?’

‘Of course, I went. I liked Edna.’

‘I was stuck on a stinking ship in Spain, I couldn’t get back.’

‘You didn’t even know when she died, Frank, don’t come it.’

‘I would have been there, if… I’ve been at her house, all day. The landlord hasn’t changed the lock yet. Did she leave anything for me?’

I thought about the letter I’d burned, but shook my head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Come out and talk to me, Alice. Please?’

‘Not while you’re carrying that bloody axe, Frank.’

He looked at the axe as though surprised to find he was holding it. He tossed it onto the floor, it slid towards me and came to a halt as