by Maggie Hope
Miss Bertha had looked sideways at him the last time he’d been invited to dine with her father. And he could swear that her pale eyes had softened when she looked at him.
It was just a notion, he told himself when he took the branch of the waggon way that led to Old Pit. After his talk with Tom that morning he might as well see for himself if there was anything left to be salvaged from the houses. The woman had gone now so he didn’t have to avoid the deserted village. And the owners, despite their wealth, liked to think he was being frugal.
Marcus, the second horse he had had of that name, slowed to a walk and picked his way carefully between the sleepers. Most of the rails had been taken up and those left were rusted and broken. Grass and weeds grew between the sleepers, hiding places where large stones lay or there were unexpected hollows in the track. Miles moved his horse to the narrow path by the side, barely discernible for dead bracken and weeds.
There was still evidence of Old Pit yard, he noticed as he passed it. The shaft, capped with strong wooden beams, the engine house, roofless and gutted and with jagged pieces of iron jutting from the wall where the staircase had once been. Fancifully it reminded him of Barnard Castle which had suffered a similar fate after the wars of the Roses.
The houses still stood in two straight lines with a road between leading to the pump. Some of them had had the roof slates removed, but most had not. He led Marcus on to the pump, dismounted and drew some water into an old and battered bucket standing there.
The end house was still occupied, he saw. Miles walked over and peered in to the kitchen he remembered so well, though he had tried to put it out of his mind. He had not been along this way for years – thirteen years, in fact. He glanced back at his horse; the animal had finished drinking and was cropping at bits of grass between stones of the road. Miles went around the back of the houses.
The gardens were cultivated, or at least some of them were. Winter cabbage and brussel sprouts stood in rows. Earth had been newly turned in places and there was a boy working in the farthest corner from him. As Miles walked towards him, the boy stood up, breathing heavily and stared at him.
‘What do you want, creeping up on me like that?’ he demanded. He wiped the back of his hand across his brow, leaving a trail of brown earth over pale eyebrows. ‘If you’re the school inspector, I’m not going back and you can’t make me. I’m thirteen and I can leave school if I want to!’
Miles stared at him, unable to believe his eyes. Apart from the ragged clothes and the rough speech of the lad it could have been Tom standing defiantly there. The lad was sturdy, with no sign of the rickets that plagued so many of the miners’ children and he was tall and straight.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Miles demanded.
‘Who are you?’ the lad countered. He stared levelly at Miles with blue eyes exactly the same colour as Tom’s. Only his hair was slightly darker, Miles saw now.
‘I’m the mines agent,’ said Miles. In spite of his stunned amazement he was pleased to note his tone was normal – with the same tinge of impatient arrogance he always used with these people.
The lad lifted his chin. ‘My name is Benjamin Trent,’ he said. ‘I live here with my sister. We’re not hurting nothing, mister. My gran got leave to live here, she told us.’
His gran? Could it be that this was not the product of that snow-bound night? But the evidence was there before his eyes, the boy the spitting image of Tom.
‘Where is your gran now?’
Miles couldn’t believe that the boy had been here all these years without him finding out. That old witch must have hidden him away. But no, he had spoken of the school inspector so he must have gone to school. How could he ever have bedded that old biddy? If it ever came up no one would ever believe him if he denied fathering the boy. His thoughts flew round inside his head chaotically and he had to pull himself together.
The wonder was that there hadn’t been rumours flying about him and the lad, for these colliery villages were hotbeds of gossip and usually the gossip reached their betters. Oh, he had to get rid of him and as soon as maybe; his luck wouldn’t last forever and if it ever got out that would be the end of his dreams of Miss Bertha Porritt.
‘Where is your sister?’ Miles demanded. Vaguely he remembered a baby crying, watching him over a fence of chairs that night.
‘She’s at work, mister. Where else would she be at this time of day?’
Ben was uncomfortable and beginning to worry. This fella was a gent and the mines agent an’ all. He was a bit hazy about what an agent did or what sort of power he had but Ben could guess it was a pretty strong sort. What would Merry and he do if they were thrown out of the village?
‘You’re on your own?’
Ben took a step back ready to run if need be – he didn’t like the look in this man’s eye. ‘She’ll be back any time now,’ he said. ‘It’s her half day.’
‘I’m not going to hurt you, lad,’ said Miles, forcing himself to alter his tone to sound more friendly. ‘I’m just concerned.’
Ben was mystified. He was thirteen years old, almost a man. Why should the man be concerned for him?
‘I can look after meself, mister,’ he said, clutching the spade.
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ said Miles. Just at that moment Marcus snickered and gave him inspiration. ‘But my horse needs watering and I am at a loss to know how to work the pump back there. I wonder if you could help me?’
Ben stared his disbelief but Miles was smiling easily now, standing to one side and gesturing for Ben to go in front of him. ‘I’ll give you a shilling.’
Ben was unsure but in the end he stuck the spade into the earth and went. After all, shillings were usually hard to earn and he couldn’t pass up the chance of getting one for such a small job. If he was slightly incredulous that the mining agent didn’t know how to use the pump he dismissed the thought. Likely the gent had those newfangled taps in his house.
‘See, there’s nowt to it really,’ he said as he pumped the handle vigorously up and down and eventually a stream of water ran out. ‘But look, there’s water in the bucket already.’ He looked up at Miles, frowning. ‘Did you not see it?’
‘Oh, is there?’ asked Miles and stepped forward to peer into the battered bucket. ‘So there is,’ he said smoothly. Marcus had come up behind him and was nuzzling at him. ‘He must have had a drink too.’ Ben straightened up. Oh well, he probably wouldn’t get his shilling now, he thought. Might as well go back to work.
‘Would you like to have a ride, lad? You can sit in front of me and ride along to Eden Hope if you wish.’ Miles was being his most affable in contrast to his tone of a few minutes ago. But Ben was excited at the thought and suddenly no longer almost a man but a young boy offered a treat.
‘Eeh, can I, mister? You’re not joshing me, are you?’
‘No, I mean it, really.’
Miles mounted the horse and held out his hand to Ben. ‘Come on now, just put your foot there and jump up before me, it’ll be fine.’
It was the work of a moment to get Ben up before him and Miles stepped out back to the junction where the track led off to Eden Hope colliery.
‘I’ve only ever ridden the pit ponies when they’re in’t farmer’s field,’ said Ben. His cheeks were flushed and his blue eyes sparkled.
Have you indeed, thought Miles. I’ll have to have a word with that farmer for letting the miners’ brats ride the ponies. They came to bank to gain strength for their work, not to provide amusement for young hellions. He led Marcus off the track and through a gate onto the field with the path running down, but he didn’t take the path; instead he trotted along beside the hedge and through a gap to a smaller garth and on to an old lonnen.
‘This isn’t the way to Eden Hope,’ said Ben. He was not uneasy about it though; he was too happy to be on the back of a horse for that. The feel of Marcus’s muscles rippling beneath him filled him with delight. ‘It’s the old pack donkey trail over to the coast.’
&n
bsp; ‘Yes, so it is. But I thought you would like to go into the woods here, ride between the trees.’
‘Oh aye, mister, I would,’ Ben said eagerly.
They went along the pathway through the woods for a while and then Miles headed Marcus off at a tangent, climbing steadily between the trees away from the donkey trail. Ben was loving it but even so he began to get a little worried.
‘Eden Hope isn’t this far away,’ he said, turning the top half of his body to look up at Miles. Maybe it was the way he looked up at him with his expression so like Tom’s that finally decided Miles. He had been riding along, unsure what to do as his thoughts strayed to Miss Bertha Porritt and what her reaction would be should she find out he had a by-blow among the pitmen’s women. He could see his chances of becoming a mine-owner fading into the distance, most likely disappearing forever.
They were approaching the ridge of the hill and he urged Marcus to turn in a semi-circle and ride along the top. ‘It is a long way round, I agree. But I thought you were enjoying it.’
‘By, I am that, mister,’ was Ben’s fervent response. ‘But I have work to do, I have to get the tatie ground turned before the frosts.’ He found this chap hard to fathom, he told himself. He was being too kind for one of his sort and Ben didn’t entirely trust him. Besides, he was feeling guilty about the garden, he’d never finish the potato patch today if he didn’t get a move on. Then what would Merry say?
‘Are we not going to Eden Hope, mister?’
Ben knew every inch of the area – woods, fields and ancient pit-heaps now grassed over with the years – so he knew they were circling round the colliery and were not all that far from Old Pit. In fact they were now close to a ventilation shaft that had once served Jane Pit. It was walled around with stone to a height of perhaps fifteen feet and forming a chimney, for at one time a bonfire would have been burning at the bottom to draw fresh air from the main shaft.
Miles didn’t answer at once. Instead he reined in Marcus and dismounted before saying, ‘Jump down, lad.’
‘I need to get back,’ said Ben. He was feeling strangely reluctant to do what he was told. Besides, Merry would kill him if he spent the whole day out and didn’t finish his work.
Miles held up his hand imperatively. ‘Give me your hand if you’re scared,’ he said.
Ben bristled. He was not scared, not in the least. Ignoring the hand he swung his leg over and jumped down to the ground.
‘Why did we stop here, mister?’ he asked.
‘Oh, just to give the horse a rest,’ said Miles. ‘He’s been carrying two, you know.’
Marcus began cropping the thin grass, moving towards the edge of the small clearing. They were surrounded by tall trees and at the edge of the clearing bushes and saplings covered the ground. Brambles were climbing over most of them, the leaves turning brown now though huge berries hung in clusters, their weight bending the branches to the ground.
Ben watched the gent, unsure what he wanted of him. Miles was fingering an old iron ladder, its rungs rusted and thin, although they seemed to be strong enough to take a boy’s weight.
‘Would you like to have a look down the shaft?’ he asked Ben.
Ben looked dubious. The ladder might not be fastened very well to the chimney. Still, it wasn’t so very high, was it?
‘I’ll stand behind you if you like,’ said Miles grinning knowingly and Ben knew he was thinking he was scared again. He strode over to the ladder and grasped the sides, dislodging large particles of rust as he did so.
‘There’ll be nowt to see any road,’ he said. ‘It’ll be too dark. I climbed it before, years ago and I couldn’t see a thing.’ He had been only nine or ten, he remembered, and as the day was grey and overcast he couldn’t see beyond a few feet.
‘No, lad,’ said Miles. ‘The sun is shining directly on it. You might even be able to see the bottom.’
Carefully Ben climbed the ladder. It wasn’t so high, only fifteen or sixteen rungs, so there was no danger, though the ladder had almost rusted away since the last time he had climbed it.
Reaching the top, he leaned over the wall, resting most of his weight on that. The gent was right, the sun had penetrated into the shaft and there was a sparkle of water at the bottom. By, it must be hundreds of feet down. There were staging posts at intervals up the sides too, black iron with rusty bits.
‘Hey!’ The ladder beneath him began to shake alarmingly – the daft fella was coming up behind him! ‘It’s not strong enough! Get back go—’
His shout was cut off as Miles reached his feet. In a split second Ben saw the man’s intentions and pulled his foot out of the way, overbalanced and fell from the ladder which was now leaning away from the stone chimney. He banged his head against a stone as he connected with the ground and was knocked out, sinking into oblivion.
Miles bent over the lad and felt his temple for a pulse; it was there though beating fast and erratically. So Ben was alive. Miles felt a rush of relief. Oh God, what had he been thinking of? He had almost murdered his own son. And all for Bertha Porritt, that ugly – no, not for Bertha Porritt. For the mines that came with her. He looked down at the boy. Ben was very pale, the only colour in his face the blue veins in his eyelids and the nasty bruise that was developing on his temple.
He might not live. What would he do then? He looked up at the chimney of the ventilating shaft. He would never get the lad up there to throw him in. What was he thinking of? He was so mixed up, thinking one way and then another. Rising to his feet he caught hold of Marcus’s reins and brought him round by the boy. He lifted Ben and put him over the front of the saddle then mounted himself. He would have to take him somewhere, he couldn’t leave him lying on the ground for anyone to find. Anyone who might know him – Miles.
Turning the horse he went along the path to where it branched off for Shildon, pausing at the entrance of an old drift mine that was boarded up and overgrown with bushes.
Eight
Merry walked down the field path and climbed over the stile. She could see the roofs of Old Pit village along to the left but there was no familiar plume of smoke rising from the furthest end house. She frowned and changed her heavy basket from one hand to the other. She was so tired, the day had been especially busy with new admissions to the ward and one man dying. She had had to help Staff Nurse lay the man out ready for the undertaker. They had washed him and combed his hair, dressed him in the plain paper shroud that was provided by the Board of Guardians.
‘We must show respect,’ Staff Nurse had said. ‘Treat the body properly.’ She was busy tying up the man’s chin with a thin cotton bandage. There were pennies on his eyes to keep the lids closed until rigor mortis set in properly.
Merry had gazed at him. Mr Watson’s skin was waxen now, the two spots of high colour on his cheeks faded. His chest was still, no longer labouring for breath. He had had little respect shown to him when alive, she thought. And the way Staff Nurse had stuffed cotton waste into his orifices didn’t seem very respectful either.
‘Yes, Staff Nurse,’ she had said. After all, Mr Watson was at peace now so it didn’t matter much to him.
Merry walked down the uneven surface of the track between the two rows of houses towards the end house. The goat was bleating at her, complaining loudly as she stretched her chain to its fullest extent from the patch of ground at the end where she was tethered. She looked and behaved as though she hadn’t been milked today. Cold foreboding struck Merry’s heart as she pushed open the door and went into the kitchen. There was no welcoming fire in the grate, no vegetables washed and ready to be prepared on the scrubbed table.
‘Ben?’ she called. ‘Where are you, Ben?’
The only answer was the bleating of the goat. Merry put her basket on the table and went through to the tiny back kitchen. The back door stood open. Relief flooded through her – he must be working in the gardens still and had probably just forgotten the time.
He was not in the gardens, nowhere about. He wasn’t i
n the shed either. The vegetable patch he had planned to dig over today ready for the winter frosts to make the soil friable had not been finished. It had barely been started. Ben must have been gone for a long time.
Perhaps Mr Parkin, the farmer he sometimes worked for had come for him for a job he needed doing. Yes, that was probably it. He must have gone in a hurry though, to leave the spade stuck in the ground as it was. Ben was a tidy worker; he always cleaned his tools and put them away in the shed. Merry took the spade, cleaned it with a tuft of grass and hung it on the hook where it belonged. She pushed the barrow into the shed and closed the door before going back into the house. If Ben was working at Farmer Parkin’s he would be back soon and as hungry as a hunter. But first she had to milk the goat and put her inside the house next door for the night. Then she would be free to start a meal.
Merry raked out the ashes in the range and lit the fire, using twists of paper and twigs to get it alight, adding a couple of logs and a small shovel of coal dust. The coal house was empty but Ben had gleaned the coal dust and a few small pieces from the Winton Colliery slag heap. She balanced the old tin blazer that her grandda had made at the pit on the bars and the flames roared up the chimney. When she was satisfied the fire was hot enough she took down the blazer and put the iron pan filled with water on the flames, settling it against the bar.
She peeled potatoes and turnip and cut them up to drop in the pan with leeks and carrots. There was a cooked ham shank from yesterday and she added it to the broth together with a good pinch of salt. There was very little meat on the shank but at least it would provide some flavour. Ben could have what meat there was because she had had a meal at the hospital at midday.
There was a treat tonight too, a couple of cooking apples she had got for a penny on the market just as the stalls were closing down. As the oven heated up she washed and cored them and put a little precious sugar and nutmeg where the core had been. They would bake nicely on the oven shelf and they could have them with a little goat’s milk.