Mr Auberon and Lady Veronica arrived at four o’clock on the dot through the bell corridor. The pantry door was sufficiently ajar for Evie to see their faces flushed from their ride, their clothes mud-spattered. The lad’s face looked worse now the bruising was coming out. They apologised for their attire, saying that they had ridden for too long, so glorious had the ground been for cantering.
Mrs Moore was allowed to sit and from the pantry where she ticked off the supplies of sugar, flour and other dry goods, Evie listened and watched. She heard them ask Mrs Moore to thank Mrs Green for the quality of the cakes, for it was she who should have made them. She heard the desultory discussion of the weather, the loss of Wainey, the coming of warmer weather. ‘Surely it will arrive soon,’ said Lady Veronica. ‘Spring seems late this year.’ Mrs Moore was asked about how she was and she assured them that she was perfectly well, thank you very much, Your Ladyship.
Evie was lulled because she was hearing what seemed to be real people, nice people, caring people. There was a pause and then Lady Veronica said, ‘Aub, as-tu pensé aux économies qu’il faut faire dans Auld Maud?’
Evie shook her head. Mrs Moore would understand they were talking about the economies which Auberon, it appeared, had to bring in at the mine. How rude, as Mrs Moore had said, but how interesting.
Mr Auberon replied in French, his lips swollen and his words slurred. ‘Yes, as I said on the ride, we’ll have to cut back on the pit props for a start so I’ll get Davies to pass the word down the line to the deputies. And yes, Ver, I really have thought. I know you think I should stop this, but how can I, so just stand back a bit, will you.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘They’ll have to make do with hauling out the props as seams are worked out. There’re to be no new ones. They know their jobs, it should be fine. I’m discussing my other plans with Davies but those we can bring in as time goes by. Davies argued, said the men wouldn’t be happy about the props. They’re being paid to do a job, I said, not to be happy. It’s none of their damn business how the mine is run and I’m not sure it’s yours. We’re putting work their way, and bread into their families’ mouths. They should be glad, Ver.’
Lady Veronica played with her fancy, peeling the icing off and eating it with her fingers. She, too, spoke in French. ‘Sounds to me just what Father would have said? Where’s the real you in all this, Auberon? What about the men? They’ll be at risk, won’t they?’
‘For God’s sake, Ver, do we have to keep on talking about this? We did enough on the ride, surely. For the last time, the props are perfectly serviceable and we use too many. The deputies just need to withdraw more, and send them along the line to be used elsewhere. Miners are always saying they’re skilled, so they’ll know if the roof’s coming down and they can get out of the way, and then clear the coal. It saves them hacking it out.’
At those words, Evie felt the breath leave her lungs. How dare he? He was talking about her family, her friends, all the pitmen. He pushed away his plate, his cake uneaten, his lips evidently hurting – Evie hoped they stung like the devil. Lady Veronica said, still using French, ‘But think of the accidents, there are already so many every month. We should be doing more, not less, surely. How can we do this?’ Evie chewed her pencil, looking with new eyes at the young woman.
Mr Auberon drained his cup of tea, banging it down into the saucer, wiping his chin, his lips not fully under his control. The teaspoon rattled. Mrs Moore was smoothing out her serviette, the colour rising up her neck. Mr Auberon looked up, straight at the pantry. Evie froze but there was no need, the door was only ajar, and his glance continued around the kitchen. He smiled at Mrs Moore while saying to his sister, still in French, ‘I can’t go on and on with this, so just stop, Ver, and would you like to be the one to tell Father that the men are more important than his bottom line?’
Nothing was said for the moment, then Lady Veronica slipped into English. ‘We mustn’t keep Mrs Moore for much longer, Auberon. Her Ladyship will be back soon.’ And so, the talk became mundane again, but there wasn’t much trace of relaxation and homeliness, was there? Isn’t that what Mrs Moore said they sought from the kitchen teas?
Evie moved along the shelf, finishing the counting, knowing she must get word to Jack, but what could he do about it? This was no more or less than the way owners had always acted. But it was always best to know, surely? She knew she was angry but couldn’t feel it beneath the hammering of her head, the soreness of her throat and the aching of her limbs.
Mr Auberon and Lady Veronica left at four forty-five on the dot, promising that they would be down again tomorrow. Well, Evie thought, how can we canny lot down here manage the excitement? Do you think we really like you here, do you think we should lay out a bonny carpet for you? And would she let Jack make such decisions? Would she hell. She’d rage, not argue, but what would she do if her da beat the living daylights out of Jack if he went against him? Her head was hurting too much to think.
She came out of the pantry with her completed list and the kitchen staff ate some of the remaining cakes, and put the others into the tin for whenever they needed sustenance. Mrs Moore looked at the clock; weariness had drained the colour from her face. ‘Time to prepare dinner.’ She added quietly to Evie, ‘He’s crushed, that boy is. He’ll do what his father says or have another beating. His face . . .’ Evie thought of her own da, clawing out the props to be used again, her brothers, and the increased spaces between the props. They could be crushed, really crushed, and any sympathy she had felt for Brampton’s whelp after the night by the stables was long gone.
She tumbled into bed at midnight with hot bricks and again she wondered if Simon was warm, and were her da and brothers safe, and would they be safe tomorrow, and the next day and in the weeks and months to come?
In the morning she slipped from the house again, across the yard and down the path to the vegetable store. She had asked this time, and Mrs Moore had simply said, ‘Take my shawl as well. Keep warm.’ Evie’s voice was still a hoarse whisper and she felt that she was barely conscious, so high was her fever. Simon was in the store and she handed him a list of necessary vegetables from Mrs Moore because her voice was no stronger, even after three cups of tea.
Simon grimaced, and whispered, ‘You’ve lost your voice too?’ His was just a hoarse squeak. He was flushed and his hands shook. ‘We should be in bed,’ she said, speaking barely above a breath. He looked at her and laughed. ‘My, bonny lass, what would your da say?’ Again it was a squeak but this time it ended in a cough that shook his body. She was glad of the distraction. What was she thinking to say things like that? For heaven’s sake, she urged herself, take the bergamot and run.
She pointed to the bergamot on the list. ‘I need this now,’ she mouthed. ‘Come to the kitchen and have some too. Mrs Moore puts gin with it.’ He was watching her lips. She pointed to her throat and mouthed again. ‘It doesn’t hurt so much if you don’t try and speak. I wonder how Jack is?’
He nodded, his eyes immediately distant. ‘Keep warm, lass. I’ll be in later.’ She reached out but he turned away, busying himself in the back room and coming back with bergamot. He didn’t look at her, just handed her the herb. ‘I must get on,’ he whispered, and she looked at the back he turned to her. She’d mentioned Jack, so it was still the marra nonsense.
She had been going to ask him to tell Jack of Auberon’s plans but instead she turned on her heel and strode off, flicking a glance over her shoulder. He had gone. Immediately her energy disappeared and she almost tottered to the end of the walled garden, past the top vegetable store to the corner where she stopped, leaning back on the wall, her head spinning. The bricks were cold, pressing into her shoulders, steadying her. She concentrated on this, trying to make her head settle, somehow.
She forced the breath in and out of her chest, and for a moment it seemed the world had fallen silent, the wind had calmed, but then she heard voices around the corner, in the kitchen yard; something else to concentrate on, something else to stop
the spinning. She pressed harder against the wall, wanting the pain of the bricks, anything to steady herself. She made herself listen to the voices. One was the chauffeur’s, the other, louder, was Roger’s. He was shouting. Her head was settling. She should get back, but . . . She stood up straight then sagged, because the spinning began again. The wind was nipping at her clothes. Wait, just wait, she told herself.
Roger’s words became clear. ‘No, I haven’t bloody been demoted. Lord Brampton wants a wise head for his son, that’s all.’
The chauffeur said something and laughed. Roger’s voice was loud and savage. ‘Well, I’m more than a few steps above you, you oil-rag minion.’ She could picture the valet, the angle of his head, those eyes like ice. Any minute now he’d be strutting up and down, but the chauffeur was getting louder now too. Good for him.
‘Prove it. What the hell can you say to help someone who’s clever enough to go to university, and you’re not even one step above me, I’ll have you know. I’m a chauffeur. And don’t even think of using your fists. I box in me spare time.’
Evie stood upright now, the spinning quite gone, wanting to peer round the corner to see Roger being rounded on. She stepped forward and kicked a watering can. It fell against the wall with a clang. She froze. Both men fell silent, then Roger began again. ‘I wasn’t going to do anything, don’t be so damn stupid. I’ve more important things to think about than brawling with you. Just this morning I was giving advice.’ His voice was lower now, but clear. ‘Property advice, local houses needing to be bought pretty damn quick to scupper any of these bloody miners getting their mitts on them. Can’t tell you more, Len. I reassured him that all he needed to do was emulate Lord Brampton, act swiftly and his life would be full of success.’
The chauffeur’s laugh rang out loud and clear. ‘Bloody hell, you swallowed a dictionary or something? So that’s wisdom, is it, using long words and slimy talk? You didn’t give any advice, you overheard him, you daft bugger, so sod off. I’ve an engine to look after, at least that’s clean dirt.’
Evie pressed back against the wall. Property? Froggett? It had to be Froggett’s. Now she could hear Mrs Moore shouting from the doorway of the kitchen. ‘Evie? Where is that girl?’
The men had fallen silent again. Had they gone? Evie pushed herself upright and almost fell as the world seemed to swing in an arc right round her body. She reached for the wall, steadied herself, took a deep breath and walked into the courtyard. The chauffeur was throwing a rag into an old box at the entrance to the garages and Roger was pacing backwards and forwards. She tried to hurry over the cobbles heading to the steps, every step jolting her aching body. ‘I’m coming, Mrs Moore.’ But it was just a squeak.
Roger watched her, braced his shoulders and smiled at her, making for the head of the steps. He arrived as she did. He blocked her. She looked up, pointing to her throat in warning, and sidestepped him. He moved with her. She heard the chauffeur laughing. At her, or Roger? She saw Roger’s face harden. He came closer.
The breeze carried the barking of the dachshunds, Currant and Raisin, and then they skittered into the stable yard to be hoyed away by well-hidden kicks from the stable lads. Roger gripped her elbow. It hurt. ‘Well, how delightful, I hoped we’d have the chance of a chat again and soon.’ She nodded but didn’t speak, couldn’t speak, her throat too sore and swollen. She longed to be in the kitchen, brewing bergamot tea with perhaps some gin. It did seem to help her get through the day, and her understanding of Mrs Moore increased further. She longed to be with Jack, telling him what she’d learned. Thoughts were whirling and chasing around in her head. She felt sick.
The chauffeur called, ‘I’ll be in for lunch later, you tell your boss that. I like big helpings.’ She turned. He was wiping something with an oil rag and lounging against the garage door. In his working clothes with oil under his nails he wasn’t the pretty picture that he was in his uniform and polished boots, and Lil wouldn’t be impressed. She shook her head to clear it. Shut up. What did it matter about Lil, but that thought whirled away too.
Roger was looking at her intently. What had he just said? Was her expression suitably impressed? She knew it was not. She coughed, hoping he would not want to risk being infected by her. He stepped away but then drew close again. ‘Did you shake your head? Not eager to be seen with me? Hard to get, eh? Clever girl. Let me walk you to the kitchen.’
He was walking her to the steps, gripping her elbow. She could hear the clatter from the kitchen and see Lil bustling along the bell corridor towards the back stairs with a broom in her hand. She’d be on her way to the sitting room while the family were still in bed. Roger was slowing, loosening his grip.
She wrenched free, almost running down the steps, one thought taking root and dispersing all the others. They were not ready to buy Froggett’s house and Jack should have this news, but why? It would break his heart. And should she tell him of the props? What could he do if she did?
The kitchen was warm, the kettle was steaming, and there was a cup with gin in it. She hung the shawls on hooks on the back of the pantry door and sat on the stool whilst Mrs Moore tutted and added bergamot and honey before pouring in the hot water. She then made her hold the cup with both hands and sip slowly. Evie knew that tears were streaming down her face and she let the kitchen staff think that it was due to the chill that was racking her body.
Evie cycled to the crossroads the following afternoon to meet Miss Manton, if indeed she came as she had said she would. She hadn’t seen Simon since yesterday when they had met over the bergamot and she had barely noticed, so poorly had she felt. She was marginally better today and was free now until nine thirty in the evening. She hoped her head would clear so that she could work out what message to send Jack, or whether to send one at all.
If she was held up at the meeting Mrs Moore had said there was no need to fret, for she would unlatch the big pantry window, as she had promised last Sunday. She had made bergamot tea again, but without the gin because Mrs Moore had said that it didn’t do to make a habit of it. Evie thought of this as she wedged her bike behind the wall and waited for Miss Manton’s trap. Did this mean that Mrs Moore would stop drinking? She shook her head; don’t be daft, she told herself, habits aren’t broken that quickly. She tried to think of what was best to do with the news she’d had but it all just continued to go round and round, and the wind was buffeting, making her cold, making her want to curl into a ball and sleep like any sane person would, on their afternoon off.
She heard the sound of the pony’s hooves before she saw Sally, the bay mare, pulling the trap. Even before Evie settled Miss Manton reached across and squeezed her hand. ‘I don’t know how we can ever thank your family. Edward has pneumonia and will be home within a week or two, but without Jack and all of you he might never have returned.’ She choked off her words, working her throat against tears. ‘I can’t bear the thought of life without the silly old fool. I called on your family. They have chills but are working, though whether they should be, I doubt. Edward will want to see them on his return.’
‘As long as he is still with us, that’s the main thing,’ Evie said, her voice still no more than a whisper, her throat still swollen, sore and dry. She fell silent, and Miss Manton accepted that she was too unwell for chatter. Evie did hope that Edward wouldn’t take the opportunity to try and lead Jack on to the path of righteousness. She knew the parson abhorred fist-fighting, but how else would Jack earn . . .? She stopped. There was no house now to buy. There would soon be insufficient props. There was the Eight-Hour Act, there could be a strike. No, no more whirling thoughts.
The meeting hall was full and the speaker told of the People’s Budget which had just been announced, which was intended to raise taxes to provide welfare and pensions. There was a collective murmur throughout the hall and it was the first time that Evie’s heart had lifted even an inch from the floor since she had heard Auberon and Roger’s news. At last they were on the road to equality. It was then that the s
peaker, a smart young woman with a feathered hat who was introduced as a friend of Emmeline Pankhurst, held up her hand for silence. ‘Of course, we will protest to the government at their prioritisation. We are women and must have votes before taxes.’ There was rustling from the front ranks, a nodding of smart hats. Evie just stared, shocked, then looked down at her hands which she had clenched into fists. Even here, amongst these women, the upstairs was present, was in control.
She sighed, too exhausted to fight any more, feeling too ill to protest. Miss Manton pressed her arm with hers and whispered, ‘This can’t be right.’ Elsewhere many others were whispering. What were they saying? Were they for or against?
The speaker continued. ‘Once we have the vote we can change life for our sisters and brothers in so many ways. We can pressurise the Liberal government to address all manner of things. Just think, a regiment of women using their vote to alter society. The People’s Budget should wait, we can’t.’
Cheers erupted. ‘We insist on the vote this session,’ the woman declared. ‘For too long they’ve ignored us, or issued false hope. Enough. Our brains are not weak as they say. We go to university lectures but are not given degrees, we have businesses, and brains. We will not be moved.’
The cheers were louder now. Outside the men would be congregating to jeer them on their way home, jostle them, spit. They seemed to be able to produce saliva at will. Evie’s mouth was dry as she touched her badge of purple, white and green. There were so many changes that had to happen, but how? At every turn they were thwarted – her class was always thwarted, even here, by the Pankhursts, by fellow suffragettes. Was she the only one to see the injustice of protesting the People’s Budget?
The speaker left the stage to the stamping of feet. It was contagious. Many joined in. She and Miss Manton did not, and there were others, their faces tired, their clothes even more tired, their felt hats colourless, who did not. They drank tea, gathering kneeling on the floor, preparing to paint placards and banners while discussing priorities. Evie took the placard handed to her group of four. She looked around. Some weren’t on their knees, some sat on chairs around tables, their smart colourful hats jostling as they painted and laughed. Did they think it was a game, something to fill their time?
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