Chapter 9
Ginger Lays A Ghost
Ginger yawned, stretched and rubbed his eyes. For a moment, he lay on his back staring at the unfamiliar ceiling and wondered where he was. He looked around, noticing his clothes laid out neatly on the chair near the wash stand and the suitcase on the floor beside it. Then, with a rush, memory returned and he sighed. There came a repetition of the noise which had awakened him. Someone was tapping on the door.
"Who is it?" he enquired sleepily.
"Room service, Mr Hebblethwaite," came the reply. "You ordered an early morning cup of tea with your wake-up call."
Ginger lay back against the pillows and called to the hotel waiter to come in. There was the sound of a passkey being turned in the lock before a white jacketed steward entered bearing a tray. Ginger watched as the man placed the tray carefully on a stand and went across to open the curtains. The swish of the heavy material almost drowned out the announcement that it was raining heavily. The light which flooded the room had that dull leaden quality which he associated with wet days in his childhood. A dreary start to an unpleasant day, he thought as the waiter left. Ginger sipped his tea slowly, contemplating the ordeal he had to face.
He reached over and took his watch from the bedside table to check the time. Realising he was unable to put things off any longer, he drained his cup, swung his legs out of bed and donned his dressing gown. When he returned from the bathroom, he contemplated the scrubbed and shining face sombrely reflected in the mirror above the wash basin. The contrast with the dark material of his suit made his face stand out paler even than usual. It seemed to him that the eyes of a 15 year old boy were staring out of a face that had aged very little in years, but considerably in experience. No wonder his former neighbours had been shocked and not recognised him immediately, he reflected. He was not looking forward to the simple service in the Chapel before the interment in the small cemetery behind it, but the sooner it was over, the sooner he could rejoin Biggles, he reassured himself as he dressed carefully and brushed his hair.
Breakfast was a silent and dreary meal. There were not many guests at that time of year and the majority of them were not early risers, so Ginger had the dining room to himself. He demolished a plate of bacon and eggs in gloomy silence, thinking ruefully that Mrs Symes was a much better cook than whoever ran the hotel kitchen and running through the arrangements for the funeral in his mind. Mrs Lamb had undertaken to organise a funeral tea, for which he was grateful. He had fond memories of sitting in front of her range, sharing whatever was on the table for her brood. She had been more of a mother to him than his own, he thought. He tried to remember what his real mother had been like, but he had been so young when she died he had only the vaguest recollection. He remembered the scent of her more than her face, he discovered. A scent of lily of the valley, he recalled with amazement, for he had not thought of that for many years. His father had discouraged mention of his mother and had refused to allow any photographs of her on show, yet Ginger knew he kept one in the top drawer of his bedside table. He had seen it once and paid for it with a beating. A faded sepia print of a pretty young woman in a two piece suit and wide brimmed hat, seated on a sofa holding a small dog. Idly he wondered what had happened to the picture now and concluded he would ask Mrs Lamb after the service.
Lingering over a hot cup of coffee, he reached for a newspaper, thinking he ought to keep abreast of events and that perhaps there would be news of Austria which could be useful when he met Biggles and Algy. The screaming banner headline caught his attention:
Czechoslovakia – crisis looms
He picked up the paper and saw that France had convened a conference to discuss the Anschluss, attempting to allay Czechoslovak fears over the new Nazi state on their border, but that Italy had declined to take part. For the most part, Ginger thought the tone of the reporting was conciliatory and neutral. On another page he noted that the German Chancellor, Adolf Hitler, had paid a brief visit to Linz on his way to Vienna. According to the reports, he had been well received with streets full of cheering crowds and the man had made much of the city being his home town. As he read the articles, Ginger felt a sense of foreboding which disquieted him. He was not normally given to depression and put it down to his highly strung state due to the effect the strain of the impending service was having on his usually optimistic nature. His longing for the ceremony to be over and his journey to rejoin Biggles under way intensified.
He folded the newspaper abruptly and put it back in the rack. With a new sense of purpose, he wasted no more time getting started on the last stage of his mission. The rain which greeted him as he made his way out of the hotel after paying his bill was almost horizontal, whipped by a strong wind off the sea. He was about to get in the Bentley when he realised there was one more thing he needed to do before he could start the final leg. Turning abruptly on his heel, he returned to the hotel and asked the receptionist if there was a florist nearby.
She looked at him and smiled warmly. Ginger wondered what she was thinking. "Certainly, sir," she replied and gave him directions.
Ginger thanked her and made his way back out onto the street. It was only a short walk but he was wet through before he reached his destination. Ruefully, he thought he should have driven.
It was the work of a moment to choose a simple bouquet as a floral tribute. As he paid for the flowers, Ginger smiled wryly. His father would have been furious, he thought. Wasting all that money on blooms, but then given the choice of flowers, perhaps not. It would have been more appropriate to have bought a crate of brown ale to put on the coffin, he mused, but he doubted his neighbours would have appreciated the gesture, even if his father would have.
The rain had abated slightly as he headed for the car, but the wind was as strong as ever. There would be no sea fret today to shroud the land, he told himself grimly as he retraced his route to his home village. The bleak landscape was softened and blurred by the streaks of rain on the windscreen and the monotonous slap of the wipers urged him on.
Mrs Lamb must have been waiting for him because her door was thrown open as soon as he drew up.
"Come in, hinny," she beckoned from her doorstep as Ginger alighted into the muddy street. There were no lads playing today, he noticed as he hurried across to take shelter from the downpour.
There were four stalwart miners waiting in her parlour. Ginger recognised them vaguely as drinking companions of his father. Mrs Lamb prefaced her introductions with "you remember …" but he didn't in truth. They had been his father's companions, not his. Even their sons had shunned him, thinking his ideas strange and above his station. He was stuck by how far distant in time and place was his childhood and how much he had changed since he had met Biggles. He felt alien and ill at ease. The men, too, shuffled uneasily, looking constrained in their Sunday best. Tight collars throttled them with unaccustomed stiffness at their throat as they greeted Ginger embarrassedly. He acknowledged them awkwardly, knowing that they would bear his father on his final journey. That had always been the custom, he remembered. The neighbours were the ones who made sure the deceased left his home by the front door, feet first, not the members of the family. His position would be as chief mourner, not pallbearer. In a way it was a relief.
He glanced at his watch. Mrs Lamb saw the movement and put her hand on his shoulder consolingly. "Whey aye, canny lad," she said gently. "It's time."
The miners took their cue from her. They picked up their flat caps and put them on ready to venture out into the storm. Ginger hung back and let them precede him. The solemn procession made the short journey to the house next door and into the family parlour where the coffin lay resting between two chairs. Ginger took a deep breath. He had refused the offer of a last look at his father so the lid was firmly screwed down. He laid the bouquet of flowers on the polished wood and silently the four men formed up beside the box. With one effortless movement they hoisted the coffin onto their shoulders, not even disturbing the posy of hothouse lily of the valley that rested on the top.
Mrs Lamb opened the door and the procession set off. The rain had ceased but the street still ran with water and puddles reflected the dull daylight that struggled to pierce the thick layer of cloud. Instinctively, Ginger glanced at the sky, thinking he was glad he did not have to fly. He hoped the weather would have eased by the time he had to make his way to Austria.
Mrs Lamb misunderstood the look. "Whey aye, it's a dreich day," she commented, "but at least we won't get drownded."
Ginger nodded, aware of how differently he saw things now. Perhaps he always had, he thought, and that was why he had so wanted to get away.
Despite the inclement weather, Ginger was surprised how many people came out of their houses to pay their respects to the cortège. Even those who did not join the procession, closed their blinds or curtains as it passed by. By the time they had traversed the quarter mile or so to the chapel, there was quite a large gathering behind him. As they passed through the main doors and proceeded along one of the aisles, Ginger remembered incongruously that the last time he had been in the building he had been ejected for continuing to sing after the hymn had ended. He must have been about six at the time, he recalled, sent to chapel and Sunday school with some of the neighbours' children to get him out of his father's way. He wondered idly if any of the congregation at the time were following him now and if they were, whether they remembered him and his errant behaviour.
They filed into the pews and alternately sat in silence or stood and sang doleful hymns while the service proceeded. The pastor gave an address which was personal and at times humorous. Ginger thought he must have done his research well, for as far as he knew, his father had not set foot inside the chapel since his mother's funeral. Her husband had held a grudge ever since, brooded Ginger, because she was laid to rest in a Non-Conformist cemetery, refused a requiem mass through marrying a Protestant. His old man had never got over that. Now at last he was set to rejoin her and they would never be parted again.
Struggling with his painful memories, Ginger thought the service would never end, but at last the pallbearers hoisted their burden for the last time and he followed the coffin out to the cemetery and the plot that he remembered so well. He used to escape and sit there sometimes when his father's rages were at their worst. He had not been back since he said farewell before taking the momentous decision to head south for London. As his father's coffin was lowered into the yawning grave and he stepped forward to throw a clod of earth onto it, he realised that he would never return. The soil that pattered down onto the coffin buried his last links with the North-East.
As if in tune with this melancholy acknowledgement of finality, the rain started to fall once more, encouraging the mourners to head back to Church Street and Mrs Lamb's tea. When the last of them had finished their fruit cake, drained their cups, expressed their condolences and departed, Ginger thanked his neighbour for all she had done. "Not just now," he said awkwardly, "but all my life."
"Bah, canny lad," she exclaimed, gathering him to her as she had done when he was a child. "What are neighbours for?"
Ginger felt comforted, just as he always had. She brushed aside his efforts to contribute to the cost of the meal with the same question, although he knew they had little coming in. Before he left, he asked if she knew about the photograph his father had kept by his bedside.
She looked at him compassionately. "Yer Da took her with him to his grave, canny lad," she told him. "He really loved yer Ma, you know. In death they were not divided."
Ginger said nothing, so she continued. "Ye're a bit like her, you know – not yer colouring, but yer face and some of yer ways. I often think that was why old Hebblethwaite was so hard on ye. Ye reminded him too much of what he'd lost."
Ginger nodded, unable to speak. She gave him a hug and suggested he had best be off. "Ye've a new life doon sooth," she reminded him. "Ye divven't belong here now."
Ginger drew a deep breath and assured her huskily that if ever she needed anything, she had only to get in touch. "I'll never forget my friends," he vowed.
"I kna' that, canny lad," she acknowledged. "Ye've allus bin that way, but ye've a new life, new marrers. Yer place is with them now."
Ginger drew away, breaking the last contact with his old life. "You're right, Mrs Lamb," he conceded as she saw him to the door. "I need to get back to them as soon as I can. I wonder how they're getting on," he murmured. "I don't suppose the job is all plain sailing."
