Netherwood01 - Netherwood

by Jane Sanderson

  ‘Good day to you, Mr Tideaway, Miss Tideaway,’ said the earl, full of fresh air and bonhomie. ‘Two pints of best, if you please.’

  Harry was already filling the pewter tankard reserved for Lord Hoyland’s exclusive use.

  ‘Down the hatch, gentlemen,’ he said.

  They drank, silently, intently, then sighed in unison as their initial thirst was slaked. Jem wiped the foam from his whiskers.

  ‘By God,’ he said. ‘That ’it t’spot.’

  Harry, still standing before them on his side of the bar, said: ‘Grand do last week, yer lordship.’ Apart, he thought, from the injury to my bollocks – an insult that still seethed, unredressed, in his private musings.

  Jem scowled. He had earned his own familiarity with the earl through fifteen years of loyal service and shared interests, but Harry Tideaway was a johnny-come-lately and had no business being so forward. Teddy, however, rarely pulled rank. Also, he was rather proud at the way Tobias’s party had passed off.

  ‘Good show, good show,’ he said, which was rather meaningless, but inspired further confidence in Harry, whose broad face now beamed at the earl with a significant smile.

  ‘I gather that lad o’ yours ’ad t’time of ’is life,’ he said.

  Jem bridled. The earl looked at Harry, askance.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

  Dismissive as he generally was about the complexities of the social pecking order, there was something in the cut of this fellow’s jib that Teddy found impertinent. Jem stared hard at Harry; he considered speaking out, then decided to let the landlord go hang himself, which he duly did.

  ‘T’young lord,’ he said. ‘I gather ’e was scooped up and carried off in t’cart with t’drunks by accident.’

  He gave a hearty bellow which rang out in the room, loud and inappropriate.

  Teddy said, ‘Is that so?’ in a perfectly pleasant tone of voice, but the ticking of the big wall clock was suddenly the loudest sound in the pub.

  Agnes looked up from her clogs, and gazed at her father, mute but appalled. Harry, uncomfortably aware now that he had misread the situation, tried to regain lost ground. It was only idle gossip, he said, and it was almost certain to be unfounded. Foolish of him, really, to repeat it, and could he refill that tankard?

  But the damage done was beyond repair. Harry Tideaway had unwittingly broached the one subject on which Teddy Hoyland had no sense of humour. He left his unfinished beer on the bar, snapped his fingers irritably at Min and Jess, and stalked out of the pub. The door swung shut behind them, and all eyes were on Harry.

  Jem drained his glass of beer then said, ‘Tha’d do well, ’arry Tideaway, to take a leaf out o’ thi daughter’s book and keep thi gob shut.’

  Then he walked out too, though he judged, rightly, that his company was no longer required, and he set off back on an alternative route to the one taken by the earl. Harry, perspiring slightly, watched him leave then turned to Agnes.

  ‘What you bloody staring at?’ he said, nastily, and she shrank from him like a whipped cur.

  Harry Tideaway, of course, was only saying what all the town knew – that Tobias had been piled unceremoniously into the horse-drawn cart that was sent through the grounds after the party to clear away the drunken sots. They were thrown on top of each other, like carcasses on their way to the meat market, and driven outside the gates where they were dumped in the wet grass and left to sober up. Before this point Tobias, feeling noble and heroic, had endured the protracted family celebration until late evening; he had listened to the string quartet, he had flirted with all the titled young ladies towards whom he was steered by his mother, he had even played a couple of rubbers with his ridiculous Aunt Thomasina, whose bridge-playing skills and strategies were as limited as a kitten’s. Only when his hawk-eyed grandmother announced her intention to retire did Toby make his bid for freedom, slipping from the proceedings and making a circuitous journey down the servants’ staircases and out into the night through the kitchen wing at basement level.

  Like a condemned man given an eleventh hour reprieve, Toby sought, and found, the raucous company he had been craving all night. The last thing he could recall, when he woke up on the scrap heap of bodies the following morning, was lying gaping-mouthed underneath the open tap of a barrel of ale, gulping at the free-flowing liquid in a race towards oblivion, egged on in his endeavour by a braying crowd.

  Lord Hoyland had known nothing of this. In fact he had been under the illusion that Tobias’s behaviour, once the celebrations had begun, had been exemplary, and had even entertained the notion that perhaps his oldest son was at last beginning to behave with some dignity. He stomped along Victoria Street and on to Stead Lane, heading out of town past the silent headstocks of Middlecar colliery, past the brickworks and on towards home. The roads turned to lanes and the shops and houses gave way to hedgerows, but he noticed none of this because he’d been made to feel a fool, and he was fuming. A robust, imagined dialogue between himself and his errant son was occupying his mind: he was an apology for a son, an embarrassment to his title and the family name was being dragged into disrepute as a result of his antics. The earl would make Toby see, once and for all, that aristocratic privilege could not be enjoyed without a proper regard for one’s responsibilities.

  On he strode, towards and through the magnificent gates of Oak Avenue, and on down the gentle slope of the driveway where the towering trees stretched out their great leaf-laden boughs against a blue, early summer sky. The house hoved into view, imposing and implausibly grand even from this great distance, its windows flashing in the sunlight, as if to welcome the earl back from his travels. But he remained unmoved by the sight, lost in his thoughts, and continued on until he was close enough to Netherwood Hall to see the figures moving within; maids would be setting out tea things, lighting the flames beneath the great silver pot, pulling the wing chair just so in front of the fire, ready for his return. Now, finally, the earl registered pleasure at the unaltering glory of home and the limitless comforts within, and he felt the merest lifting of his dark mood. Earl Grey, crumpets and perhaps, given Clarissa’s absence, a cigar. He would summon Tobias to the drawing room and over tea, in a civilised and gentlemanly fashion, he would set out his expectations for his son’s future conduct.

  The footmen at the great front door stood to attention at the sound of the earl’s boots on the gravel, but he swung past the main entrance to the rear of the house and into the stable block where the Daimler, long returned from its jaunt to the railway station, was being buffed back to its newly minted shine by Atkins, the driver. The sight of the handsome vehicle warmed Teddy’s heart still further, and he congratulated Atkins on his scrupulous guardianship. The earl’s black mood had dissipated now, leaving him with a purposeful but peaceful resolve. He left the labradors with a stable lad to be cleaned off and kennelled, and stood for a moment to admire the sun which at this time of day hung low enough in the sky to be framed by the arch of the clocktower. As he stood, he heard a tap-tapping on glass, and he turned and looked up to see Isabella, his darling baby, waving at him from an upstairs window. He waved back and made as if to move, but she shook her head, ringlets bouncing, and began to push open the sash window.

  ‘Papa,’ she said, through the gap. ‘Wait there!’

  Teddy did as he was bid, smiling indulgently up at the window. Isabella had dashed off, but almost instantly she was back, with something quite flat and white in her hand.

  ‘Bet you can’t catch this,’ she called, and with a deft flick of her wrist she launched a paper dart through the gap in the window. He laughed indulgently, watching it loop-the-loop on its downward trajectory. It weaved crazily, impossible to catch, and ended its journey with a final, desperate lurch before landing nose down, several yards from where Teddy stood.

  Isabella, in a manner she knew to be enchanting, blew a kiss to her father. She had none of the reserve that her siblings showed towards him. She said, ‘Fetch the dart, Papa,
I’m coming down,’ in a peremptory tone which would have earned a reprimand for any of the other three at the same age, and she flitted from the window, a blur of blue cotton and brown curls. Teddy gazed for a moment at the space she’d left, then, still smiling, he ambled over to the paper dart, which had flown surprisingly far, insubstantial as it was.

  The earl crossed the courtyard and stooped to retrieve the dart. Its nose was bent and slightly damp, and he tried to straighten it before Isabella appeared, pulling at the tip with his fingers and sharpening the crease along its spine. As he stood there an incongruous yet familiar noise began to penetrate his consciousness, muffled but none too distant. Intrigued, he followed the sound, which took him just out of the courtyard to a long, low run of outbuildings.

  It was unmistakably the sound of rutting, thought the earl, and it seemed to be coming from the dairy. Intent on discovery, he quite forgot that Isabella was approaching and he flung open the wooden door just as his young daughter arrived by his side, to reveal the unedifying and shameful sight of Tobias and Betty Cross in flagrante delicto on the flagstone floor.

  In the fuss that followed, the chief crime became the terrible shock to Isabella’s sensibilities, the fatal blow to her childish innocence, though in actual fact it wasn’t the first time she’d caught Tobias similarly engaged. She knew his favourite haunts and she was a careful, crafty little spy. But, while she was very attached to her oldest brother, she was also too fond of the limelight to forgo the opportunity of causing a scene. Afterwards, with the benefit of hindsight and considering the almighty row that ensued, she felt she might have screamed a little less and certainly wouldn’t have pretended to faint. But she did scream tremendously and collapsed magnificently to the floor, and her doting father – who had taken his fair share of servant girls in his day, many of them rather less willing than Betty – nevertheless found he could not forgive or forget.

  Chapter 28

  Amos sat underground eating his snap and listening to the idle chat of the men around him. Since Arthur’s fatal accident, he and Lew worked apart; he was in a team of four these days with Jonas Buckle, Barry Stevens and Sam Bamford. Long ago, when death was an even more regular occurrence than now, it had been considered bad luck to simply fill the place of a dead collier with someone new in an established team. Now, though, it was avoided less out of superstition than as a mark of respect for a dead colleague. It suited Amos, who couldn’t tolerate Lew without the moderating presence of his old friend. And it suited Lew, for similar reasons. They didn’t even accompany each other to work any more – Lew had been given a day’s paid compassionate leave by the earl after the accident, then when he returned to work he felt awkward about passing the Williams’s house on Beaumont Lane where Arthur had always joined him. Instead he’d taken himself off on an alternative route; it took him slightly longer, but it meant he often hooked up with young Frank Ogden, whose junior status at the pit gave Lew a new and pleasant feeling of wisdom and superiority. He and Amos were still on nodding terms at work, but their paths didn’t cross so much as they once had.

  Barry Stevens, foul-mouthed and lewdly funny, was describing, with actions, exactly what dowdy young Agnes Tideaway needed to put a smile on her face. Jonas was sniggering and Sam was laughing so hard that tears left ludicrous tracks down his dirty cheeks. Amos, serious-minded and with no appetite for the pantomime, sat watching with an expression that rattled Barry.

  ‘’S’up wi’ thee?’ he said, sitting back down. He wasn’t best pleased at working with Amos Sykes. There was something unsettling in his steady gaze. Barry liked to entertain, but Amos was a poor audience.

  ‘Nowt’s up wi’ me,’ Amos said evenly.

  ‘Miserable bastard,’ said Barry.

  ‘Mucky sod,’ said Amos.

  There was no real animosity in the exchange and they continued to sit together, backs against the rocky tunnel wall, chewing their way through the predictable contents of their snap tins. Amos let his thoughts wander to Eve, as they often did at times like this when his mind and body were unoccupied by hard labour. He carried his feelings for her like a heavy load and he had no idea how to unburden himself. He wished he had more words at his disposal. Not poetry, just something other than the vocabulary that served well enough for a humdrum life, but let him down in the event of this extraordinary occurrence: the blooming of love in his miner’s heart.

  ‘Grudge match this Sat’day,’ said Jonas. He was referring to the knur-and-spell fixture against Middlecar at the weekend, but Jonas always spoke in shorthand, preferring not to waste time with verbs.

  ‘Aye,’ said Amos. He’d been asked to step in for Arthur, and had done so not for himself but for Seth. He’d thought the lad might have been upset at the prospect, but in fact he’d begged Amos to take his father’s place on the team and had tagged along to every home fixture so far, carrying Amos’s equipment, cleaning the knur, even whipping new heads on to the pummel when the conditions called for it. He’d be a grand player himself in due course.

  ‘Am surprised tha’r available,’ said Barry, still feeling hostile towards Amos. ‘Thought tha’d be with thi comrades this weekend.’ He lingered over comrades, investing it with contempt.

  Amos ignored him. There was a fair pay march through Barnsley on Saturday, and though he risked his job every time he showed his face on such occasions he damn well would be there, just briefly, before coming back for the match. Barry didn’t need to know though; that was information he could use against Amos if the fancy took him so why supply him with the ammunition? Amos felt only disdain for the likes of Barry Stevens, who would be happy enough to reap the benefits of the struggle but was constantly sniping from the sidelines all the same. The march on Saturday was a peaceful protest – if the police allowed it to be – with modest ambitions, but Barry and his ilk liked to pretend the Yorkshire Miners’ Association was after world domination, and as for the earl, with his bans and his edicts, well, Amos wondered what it was he feared.

  Sam Bamford said, ‘It’s time tha started marchin’ thissen, Barry. Tha’ll be t’first in t’queue on pay day when we win a minimum wage.’

  Barry laughed, a short, cynical bark.

  ‘Sam’s right,’ Amos said. ‘Fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work – tha don’t ’ave to be a revolutionary to want that.’

  ‘No, but tha’d ’ave to be an idiot to think it could ’appen,’ Barry said. ‘Anyroad, I’ve no complaints about my pay packet.’ He patted his rump, as if the money was there now, waiting to be spent on the way home.

  Amos rolled his eyes, partly bored, partly exasperated. He was sick to death of this argument. He’d thought the cold-blooded defeat of the Grangely miners might fan the political flames at New Mill. In fact, the reverse was true; he seemed to be surrounded by men with an I’m-all-right-Jack mentality. Who needed union membership when the earl drove round town in his big car, dishing out ten bob notes? Folk were too easily bought, he reckoned.

  Jonas, with no strong opinion either way, brought the conversation back to Saturday’s match. A knur-and-spell victory against Middlecar was very much uppermost in his mind, and he was worried now that Amos wouldn’t be there after all. Bugger the fight for better pay and conditions, he was thinking; more to the point, could New Mill field a full team?

  He voiced his concerns and earned a withering look from Amos. Yes, he said, he’d be there. But he wondered at the intellectual calibre of his colleagues, when the greater good of the working man came a very poor second to a couple of hours’ entertainment on Netherwood Common.

  It turned out that Anna was a fine needlewoman – the legacy of her idle, affluent youth, when a tapestry cushion cover was the only task requiring her attention on long winter’s evenings. Now, on those rare occasions when there was nothing more pressing for her to do, she took up a needle and thread, and sitting in the circle of light cast by the old paraffin lamp she mended holes and tears in the children’s clothes and even ran up new garments from odd
s and sods she picked up for next to nothing from Solomon Windross. In fact there was enough money these days to buy bolts of cloth from the draper, but Anna seemed to take real pleasure in reinvention. A blue serge door curtain had become two extremely serviceable pairs of gardening overalls for Seth, who kept putting out the knees of his trousers, kneeling to plant pea plants and broad beans. The new trousers, like Anna, had a foreign look about them, but Eve couldn’t put her finger on what it was. The cut of the leg and the depth of the waistband somehow had a flavour of the mysterious world she’d come from, just as her knotted headscarf or her centre parting and thick plaits twisted into a crown around her head gave Anna the same indefinably un-English quality. Eliza and Ellen now asked for their hair to be done the same way, and when they wore the red pinafores made by Anna, with two bands of ribbon trim around the hem of the full skirts, she called them her little matryoshkas.

  ‘See,’ Anna said. ‘We take off your head, Eliza, and pop Ellen inside!’

  There were no Russian dolls in Netherwood so the girls had looked at her blankly. Anna had to draw a set for them, showing five little gaily clad, apple-cheeked women in descending order of height. Eliza thought they looked more desirable than anything she’d ever seen.

  There was no talk of Anna going home. Her presence was as completely necessary to Eve as Eve’s was to Anna. Like two cogs in a machine, their lives were mutually dependent and though no conversation had been held, no conscious decision taken, it was agreed that Anna was home already. It was a shame Samuel Farrimond didn’t realise this, thought Eve, when he came over one evening, waving a copy of the London Times and reading aloud in his sonorous, pulpit voice about continued violent unrest in Russia: Jews murdered in their beds, houses and businesses looted and destroyed. Anna muttered to herself in her native tongue and Eve could see conflict in her face, a mix of shame, sorrow and regret for her homeland.