Easterleigh Hall

by Margaret Graham

  She knew what he meant. The whole family were saving to buy one of the three houses owned by the farmer, Mr Froggett, way out at the end of the village. The one they were aiming for was very small and therefore cheaper than the others. Property ownership was the only way they could gain power over their own lives and free up Jack to support Jeb, the union rep, without threat of eviction from the colliery cottage. Every penny any of them earned went into the pot after rent and food. This included Jack’s bare-fist fights, the sea-coal money, the allotment vegetables, her wages, her mother’s proggy rugs, everything. ‘Be careful, be quick, be strong,’ she whispered.

  Her da called, ‘What are you two gaggling about? I’ve got good lugs, you know. Your cap’s here on the clothes horse, bonny lad.’

  For a moment Jack looked at her. They shook their heads at the same time. Jack said, ‘I was telling her young Preston should be there this evening, let out of the Hall gardens by our all-powerful all-bastard of an owner for a couple of hours. How the lad can bring himself to work there beats me. He said he’d be at the shooting gallery at seven if I want to catch him, or if anyone else does for that matter.’ Jack winked at Evie, who blushed, torn between longing to see Simon and fearing Jack’s reaction to the result of the interview. ‘You need your scarf,’ she nagged.

  Jack grinned at her and left his bag by the back door before striding to the clothes horse. She followed him, longing to hurry him up. It was almost 3.45.

  He picked his scarf from the clothes horse, and his cap. Their da was standing in front of the range now, his paper folded carefully on the armchair. He had backed against the fender, his pipe in his hand, but the tobacco was not properly tamped and was spilling from the bowl.

  He usually wasted not a shred. His pose was one he took when they were in trouble and needed a talking-to. Evie shot Jack a look and felt the tension across her back. He’d heard about Easterleigh Hall, then? Or was it the fight? He’d been strange since his arrival home. All she could hear was the ticking of the clock, the cracking of the range fire as it began to burn through the bank.

  ‘What’s up, Da?’ She knew her voice was too high. She coughed, lowered it. ‘Is everything all right?’

  Jack had become quite still at her side. It was what he did until he knew which way to jump.

  Da’s jaw was set, his eyes narrowed. His hand shook. More tobacco spilt. It was this, as well as the look in his eyes, that set the panic rising. It was nothing to do with her, or Jack. It was the same look he’d had when he’d told them six years ago that his job had gone, with the Top End Pit closure, and they had packed up to walk the roads until they reached her mother’s sister in hope of a job in the Hawton Pit. There had not been one. For months they had de-thistled farmers’ fields, collected sea coal, anything to find enough to eat. They’d all slept in Auntie Pat’s outhouse, for that was the only spare space. It was that or the workhouse, but then Da had found work at Auld Maud. She saw her panic reflected in Jack’s eyes when he turned to her, then back to his father.

  ‘Da?’ Jack asked. ‘Is it that you’ve lost your job? Why didn’t you tell us, man? Why did you just sit there reading the paper like nothing was wrong?’ He wasn’t still now, he was raging, filling the whole of the room as he did when angry. He was pacing, roaring. He threw his scarf and cap to the floor. ‘I’ll bloody kill the bastards.’ The fire must be roaring too because Evie felt impossibly hot. So terribly hot.

  It was their father’s name on the colliery house. Jack was unmarried, so not eligible for one. They’d be evicted and all the cooking in the world would not stop that. It had come too soon. She wanted to call her mother but Jack’s pacing was fencing her in. She was shaking, all over. Just shaking.

  ‘Stop it, stop it.’ She was shouting too, at herself. Jack turned, looked at her. ‘It’s all right, pet. I’m sorry. It’s all right.’

  She waved him away, ashamed. ‘Not you – me. I must stop shaking. I must.’ She could hardly speak.

  Jack stepped forward, held her. ‘We’ll be fine. Honest we will, pet. Don’t worry. I’ll find us somewhere, I’ll do double shifts to pay for it. I’m nineteen, a good strong hewer and I can match any at the coalface.’ His voice was shaking too now, and he was no longer a strong man but a frightened boy who was seeing their lives and hopes ruined, again.

  She let him hold her for a moment but then straightened. ‘I can help more, I’m getting . . .’

  Her father cut through. ‘Listen to me.’ He half turned, placed his pipe on the mantelpiece, not looking at them. The oil lamp alongside the tin her mother kept for the rent money was soot-smeared. Evie had forgotten to clean it. She must, now. She must change their luck, do everything right. Yes, she’d clean the lamp. Her father repeated, ‘Listen to me. I’m your da, I have a responsibility, so shut the noise. I have changed my job, not lost it. D’you hear? I’ve changed my job.’ It was only then that he faced them.

  Jack let her go; they didn’t understand. How could he change his job? He was a top hewer. Da hacked as though in confirmation, then looked down at his empty hand. He recaptured his pipe from the mantelpiece, held it, his fingers white from the tightness of his grip.

  Jack moved then, homing in on his father, gripping his arm, shaking it so that even more tobacco fell from the bowl on to the rug. He stared hard into his father’s eyes. Da said nothing for a moment, no one did and Evie could not understand what was passing between the son and the father.

  ‘I was offered . . .’ Her da’s voice was rough, as though it hurt to produce the words.

  ‘Just tell us,’ Jack said, his face pale, almost as pale as his chest, so recently bared for his bath. Pitmen had pale chests because they never saw the sun. Evie wondered why such stupid thoughts surged to the surface when something was terribly wrong. She watched as her da shook off Jack’s grip as though he couldn’t bear to be touched, and now he put up his hand. ‘It’s for the family. I’ve just taken a job that will help us, that’s all.’

  He stood as Jack did just before the fight bell rang – braced, on his toes, alert, all of these things. His stance was mirrored by her brother. She was excluded – outside the ring.

  ‘What have you done?’ Jack asked, but it was as though he knew, or feared he knew. He was an inch from his father’s face now. ‘What the hell have you done?’ He was roaring again. ‘The only job on offer is the Deputy. You wouldn’t? No Forbes would go over to Bastard Brampton’s side. No, Da. No.’

  He flung himself away, kicking with his bare feet at the clothes horse, at the tin bath. He kicked again, and Evie moved, pulling him back, pulling him far from her father. Jack wrenched free. She took hold of his arm again, holding him, glad now her ma was on the front step for she shouldn’t see this.

  ‘No, Jack. Let Da speak.’ Her voice was controlled, tight. ‘Let him speak.’ She moved, placing herself between them. She was panting. It was from fear and shock, because in the growing silence Evie knew, from the shame in his eyes, that Bob Forbes had indeed changed sides, for in Brampton’s pit the deputies did not join the union, they joined the Brampton Lodge, the management’s ‘club’. It was the way Brampton ran his pits. He put one against the other, weakened, divided and ruled.

  Da spoke again, his grip as tight on his pipe as before. ‘It was offered when Fred Scrivens lost his legs. The pay is good, and it’s not true management, Jack. I’m your deputy safety overman, and I repeat, the pay is good. If I’m deputy then slowly we’ll break Brampton’s way of dividing us. I’ll start a bridge between the miners and management. Besides, we need all the money we can get as soon as we can get it, because who knows what terms will be offered when the Eight-Hour Act comes in. All I do know is that there’ll be trouble, and you know that too.’

  Her da stopped. Neither man said a word for at least a minute. Neither of them moved. Evie knew that she would never forget that moment – two statues standing in front of the fire, flanked by Da’s chair and her mam’s. There was just the ticking of the clock, the crack
, spit, hiss of the fire which lit up the clothes horse, the bath, the mat, the sideboard they had found on the beach along with the driftwood and the coal, the dresser.

  ‘Think about it lad, we’ll be going from twelve-hour shifts to eight hours next year and are we being consulted about the terms? The union agents are taking it upon themselves to hack a deal. Have you heard what they’re talking about? Has anyone? We’re being left out and the talk is of a strike because of it. Who knows how long we’ve got to build up our strike money, and our house money? Who knows how long I’ve got to try to bridge the gap, if I can. There’s work to do.’ Da was stabbing his pipe at Jack, whose head was thrust forward as though he could hardly contain himself, though he let his father continue.

  ‘Bastard Brampton is licking his chops because he’s going to use this change for his own good. He’s an owner and they’ll most of them do the same, you know they will. Yes, he’ll abide by the act, put on an extra shift but he won’t make up the piece rate to compensate for the shorter shift, he’ll bloody well cut it, if the past is anything to go by. We’ll all suffer. I’ll likely get to hear about the changes early. I’ll tell you. You and Jeb’ll get sorted in advance. I’ll try and get the deputies softer towards the men, more careful with their safety checks. We’re losing too many men, far too many. I’ve been thinking about this for a while.’

  It was more of a speech than Evie had ever heard from him in her life, and his breath was coming in gasps. Jack stepped forward. Evie dragged him back. Jack shouted, ‘D’you think me and the lads don’t know all this, so don’t try and make yourself out to be a bloody knight on a white charger. Nothing’ll change Brampton or his damned management and yes, we’ll no doubt strike because I’m not expecting the skies to part and a miracle to happen and where will you be? Well, you won’t be with us, you’ll be the same as a blackleg, because you’ve changed sides. You’ve shamed us, man. You’ve bloody shamed us.’

  Evie turned on Jack. ‘Listen to Da, he’s using Brampton. Listen to him. He’s using the bosses to get what he wants while he can. He’s using them to bring improved safety.’

  Jack shook his head, gathering up his cap and scarf from the floor, heading for the back door. ‘He’s betrayed us, that’s what he’s done. Our own da has betrayed us. He’s Brampton’s man now, a bloody scab.’ The slam of the door was all that was left. Evie and her father looked at one another. He was shaking his head at her. ‘You understand. At sixteen, you understand. I’ll be out alongside the men when there’s a strike, and back to a hewer after that. But Evie, I might leave things better. Ben, me marra, understands. He’s paired up with his brother, and the shift is onside too.’

  She nodded. ‘All we can do is to use those Bramptons, Da. That’s all we can do. I’ll talk to our Jack at the Gala.’

  Her father sank into his armchair, coughing, trying to get his breath. ‘Aye, well he’ll likely put up a good showing at the fight. He’ll be so damned angry he’ll pulverise anyone who puts up against him. We should put on a bet.’ His laugh was hollow.

  ‘You know he’s fighting, although at Christmas you said enough is enough?’

  Her father raised his head. ‘I know most things that go on in this house and I know also that we’re all trying to do the best we can. You do what you want, lass, but don’t tell your mam I’m in on it, she likes to think she’s got a secret.’ His smile was tired, the hand which he held out to her was calloused and embedded with black. She gripped it tightly. ‘I’ll talk to him, Da,’ she repeated.

  Her da said, laughing as he coughed, ‘He’ll take it hard, you and me going over to the dark side.’ The laugh didn’t reach his eyes.

  ‘I might not get it.’

  ‘But one day you will,’ he said.

  Chapter Two

  IT WAS A ten minute walk to Old Bert’s Field, and Evie heard the steam engine pumping out its music the moment she stepped from the scullery into the yard. It was a glorious evening, and the excitement would have made her smile, if she wasn’t already. She touched her hair. There was little wind and she felt hopeful about the curls she had rescued by tying up some strands with bits of rag and hanging over the range.

  She left by the back gate, hurrying down the alley, pausing as Mrs Grant called to her from the communal tap. ‘You have a good time, our Evie. Make the most of your last day. Glad you have the job. That Miss Manton is a good sort and a bloody good boss, for one who’s little more than a bairn herself. By, she must only be twenty-seven, if she’s even that?’

  Evie laughed. ‘No need for the telegraph round here.’

  ‘Nay, lass, we all have big lugs in this alleyway. We’ll miss you though, and don’t you worry about your Jack. He’ll settle and see how it’s right for you, just like he will about your da.’ Her sacking apron was splashed with water and black from her man’s bath. She was scrawny and thin but as strong as an ox, and had bred six children without trouble, though one had died last year in the pit. The purple beneath her eyes had deepened daily since then.

  Evie shook her head. ‘I haven’t told Jack yet, Mrs Grant. I don’t want anyone to say anything until I’ve seen him.’

  ‘No one will, you mark my words, and this will be the best day, knowing you’ve got it but haven’t started rolling up your sleeves and being put in your place from morning to night.’ Then she laughed. ‘Take no notice of me. I’m just jealous.’

  Evie sped on. Miss Manton had come just ten minutes after Jack had stormed away. Her mother had peered into the kitchen first, and shooed Da out into the yard to check on his pigeons. He had winked at Evie as he went. Miss Manton entered the moment he had gone, her hair escaping from beneath her hat as it always did, holding out her hands to Evie. ‘Clever you,’ she’d said. ‘I need to find a new cook, but it’ll have to be someone special to come up to your standard.’

  Miss Manton had gripped Evie’s hands, her leather gloves soft but cold from the wind. ‘You are on the way, dear girl. Now remember what I told you about Mrs Moore. Her hands are so bad that she can’t do her job properly. The rheumatism is in her back and legs too and she needs your help in order to keep her job, but she doesn’t know she does. Do you understand what I mean?’ She’d given Evie no time to reply, rushing on. ‘Yes, of course you do and in this way you’ll learn more quickly. I’m also afraid that she is drinking to help with the pain. Be aware, be kind. Protect her. Work hard, make something of yourself. Your brother will come to understand.’

  She’d spun on her heel. ‘Now I must run. I am going to the Gala, for Edward is to bless it. I’ll break the news to him that you are no longer in our employ. Trust me, my brother will be downcast, he so adores your forequarter of lamb, not to mention your honey-roast ham.’

  Then she stopped, and took an envelope from the pocket of her tweed coat. She turned once more. ‘For you, Evie, with my gratitude for your efforts on our behalf, and I hope to see you at the Suffragette meetings on a Sunday, or even a Wednesday afternoon, when you can get away. Get a message to me and I will meet you in the trap at the crossroads near Easterleigh Hall and we can talk French as we journey. You know I feel how important another language is, especially when owning and running a hotel as you intend to do one day. You are a force of nature, my dear, isn’t she, Mrs Forbes? She’ll end up with the Claridge’s of the north-east, mark my words. Mrs Moore knows more French than she lets on, too, so if you get the chance . . . Goodbye now.’

  She was gone, like the whirlwind she was, always rushing from one place to the next. She’d make someone a wonderful wife, she had once said, if she had any intention of marrying. But she wanted to be her own woman and she would be, once they had the vote.

  Evie reached Old Bert’s Field to find it thronged with people and music and laughter, and over everything there was the smell of suckling pig slow-roasting over the pit. The Easton and Hawton Colliery banner rested near the entrance. It had been sewn by the local women decades ago, and would have been blessed by Edward Manton and the Methodist minister
at the start of the proceedings. They took it in turns, year on year, to be first with the blessing, and it made her mam laugh. ‘Why they can’t just do it together I’ll never know, but even in religion someone has to win,’ she’d said.

  Evie felt in her pocket. Miss Manton had given her two guineas which were already in the savings pot but she had received her wages as well, a shilling of which would be spent tonight.

  She almost hugged herself as she wove her way between her neighbours and friends, all wearing their best clothes and freshly greased boots, longing to tell them that soon she would be a cook of renown. The grass had been cropped by sheep loaned by Froggett so there was a fair smattering of sheep droppings but who cared, this evening was for fun. She ran through her plans again. She was going to work just five years for Lord Brampton, gleaning all the skills possible, and then she’d move to a hotel to get the experience she’d need for the future. The family could sell the house they would have bought by then and move into their own hotel. Her cooking would help bring them customers, and the men would never go in the pit again.

  She laughed aloud. It had seemed a dream until today, but now it was going to become a reality. She was taking that first step and no one would stop her, not even Jack. She just had to make him see the sense of it, and about her da too. That was all there was to it.

  She was almost running now, heading for the shooting gallery, for it was here that Simon Preston would be, or so Jack had said. She dodged to the right past Mr Burgess, whose waistcoat buttons stretched too tightly across his belly as always, and he hailed her. ‘By, young Evie, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Where’s your da then? Need to buy him a pint. Celebrate Jack’s win.’