A Sovereign for a Song

by Annie Wilkinson

  ‘It’s a pity there’s no work at the farms at Old Annsdale just now. I wonder if any of them need any help in the house?’

  ‘I doubt it. Why don’t you go and ask the manager’s wife if you can have your job back?’

  ‘I don’t want to, but I suppose I’ll have to in the end. She’s forever breathing down my neck, checking everything I do, and telling me how it could be done better. I wouldn’t care if she were better at cleaning than I am, but she’s not. She’s a right sloven when she does anything herself.’

  ‘Well, ladies don’t usually make good servants.’

  ‘I wouldn’t care if she was a lady, but she’s nothing but an upstart.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  There was a brief rattle on the door and Old Bob Dyer poked his grizzled head into the room. Well past working down the pit, he earned a meagre income doing odd jobs and a bit of gardening at the manager’s house, as well as anything else that came in his way.

  ‘Mrs Vine asked us to call by. To ask Ginny to go up and see her at the house this afternoon.’

  ‘Ask? Did she say ask, or did she say tell?’ demanded Ginny.

  ‘As far as I can remember, she said ask.’

  ‘What’s up, is my replacement not up to scratch, like? Is she going to offer us me job back?’ Ginny pressed.

  ‘I think it’s on the cards, but don’t tell her I said so.’

  ‘Aye, well, I might stroll along there and see what she’s got to say, if I’ve got nothing better to do,’ Ginny said, with a tilt of her chin.

  ‘Go well before four o’clock if you’re going. I think she’s havin’ a tea party.’

  ‘That woman! Who’s going to the tea party?’

  Bob shrugged. ‘She’s having her brother to stay for a bit. I don’t know who else is going to be there. I’ll be away then,’ and he closed the door.

  ‘You will go, won’t you, Ginny?’

  ‘Certainly. I wouldn’t miss hearing what she’s got to say for the world.’

  The nipped-in waist and flared skirt of her black coat showed off a figure that was becoming more of an hourglass as the days went by. With black-buttoned boots brightly polished, she strutted briskly along grimy Pleasant View in the direction of the winding gear, to the tune of the railway as the engines chugged away with tubs of coal. Then along blackened Snowdrop Terrace, and away from the pit and noise, through the park gates and up the hill, to cut a stretch off her journey by clambering over the park wall and on to ‘Quality Row’, shielded from industrial unsightliness and racket by a screen of trees. An imposing double-fronted stone-built house stood isolated from the rest. She opened the heavy wrought-iron gate and strode along the drive and up the steps to a massive crimson-painted door, noting with some satisfaction that the brass knocker was already well tarnished.

  The door was answered by Mrs Vine herself, a pale-complexioned, handsome woman in her mid-thirties, whose head of flame-coloured curls was muted by the lightest sprinkling of grey. She frowned. ‘What are you doing at the front door? The back’s the tradesman’s entrance.’

  ‘I’m not a tradesman. And I believe I was invited.’

  ‘Impudence. Well, now you’re here, you might as well come in this way, I suppose,’ and Helen Vine stood aside to allow Ginny to sweep past her.

  ‘Every bit. Mr Dyer brought us your message.’

  ‘Mr Dyer? Oh, you mean old Bob. I’ll come straight to the point, Ginny. I’m willing to let bygones be bygones and offer you your job back, as long as you can guarantee to keep a civil tongue in your head.’

  ‘I can guarantee I’ll be civil to everybody that’s civil to me. It’s if they’re not that I can’t.’

  Mrs Vine’s frown deepened as Ginny looked steadily back into her disapproving pale blue eyes. She paused.

  ‘Very well. Same terms as before. And you use the back door.’ These last words were given great emphasis.

  ‘I see Maudie wasn’t a great success.’ Ginny gazed pointedly round, noting the grimy and unkempt state of the house.

  ‘She was not,’ replied Mrs Vine, ‘but that’s not for you to comment on. Are you for coming or not?’

  ‘I’m for coming, for an extra shilling a week.’

  ‘What nonsense. Same terms as last time, or I’ll try another girl.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Vine, you can try every girl in the village, and you won’t find a better bargain than me, even at a shilling a week extra. Still, there’s nothing to stop you trying your luck. Whoever you get’ll have her work cut out, cleaning up after Maudie. I don’t know what you paid her, but whatever it was, you were robbed. She’d take plenty of watching, for more reasons than one, and there’s others like her. The cheapest buy’s not always the best bargain.’

  Mrs Vine hesitated. ‘All right. Get here prompt tomorrow morning, and use the back door. An extra shilling a week, and see you’re worth it.’

  ‘Aye, I am worth it, Mrs Vine, and tomorrow I’ll use the back door. But just for today I’ll use the front, like. You never invited me to sit down, so I’d carry your luck away if I went through the back. Good afternoon, and I hope you have a lovely tea party.’

  She opened the front door again and, stretching herself to her full height with head held erect, she stepped smartly out, and bumped against a red-haired man with hand raised ready to knock. He stood back, eyes appraising her as he touched his grey bowler – eyes that were identical to Mrs Vine’s, except that they held amusement, rather than disapproval.

  ‘Pardon me.’ He smiled.

  ‘Granted,’ she nodded, and smiled back, more in triumph over her extra shilling a week and the vexation she’d given Mrs Vine than any pleasure in the sight of the dandified visitor.

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’ He addressed the question to Mrs Vine, whilst keeping his eyes fixed on Ginny.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Charlie.’

  ‘No, it won’t,’ Ginny agreed. ‘So long, Charlie.’ She strode off swiftly in the direction of the park wall, her bearing intended to convey the idea: I’m as good as you are, if not a damned sight better!

  She enjoyed her walk through the red-and-gold-leafed trees, and stopped halfway down the slope at the bandstand, empty now, and likely to be so until spring. The village was laid out before her, row after grubby monotonous row of terraced houses, with their patches of garden at the front, and yards and privies at the back, each row separated from the next by an alley just wide enough for the nightsoil men and their cart. The few which were tenanted by the deputies were slightly grander than the rest, and as their occupants descended the pit hierarchy the houses became correspondingly smaller. On her way back along Snowdrop Terrace she saw Jimmy Hood, trudging home as black as a crow.

  ‘All right, Jimmy?’

  ‘I can’t say I am, lass. I haven’t heard a thing out of this left ear since your father thumped it. I think he’s bust my eardrum.’

  ‘Get a few boxing lessons, Jimmy. When you’re man enough you can bust his for him.’

  ‘No, I think I’ll call it a day while I’m in one piece. I’m not the sort to go looking for trouble. Have you heard aught from John?’

  ‘No. I thought he’d have written by now.’

  ‘He might not have had the chance. There’s nothing to do but wait.’

  ‘That’s a poor philosophy, Jimmy. There is something to do, and I’ve done it. I’ve been and got mesel’ an extra bob a week from the manager’s wife.’ She laughed with pleasure and self-congratulation, and walked on.

  As she approached the Judes’ door, she stopped, hesitant to intrude, but after a second or two, she walked down the garden path. The door was open.

  ‘Come in, bonny lass.’ His voice was deep and masculine, and her spirits lifted further at the welcome. ‘Mam’s gone to the shop, and taken Philip for a bit of fresh air. I’m just counting the Union dues while Maria’s asleep. We’ll leave the door open. It’s warm enough.’ The dining table was covered in piles of coppers, even a couple
of ten-bob notes.

  Ginny glanced towards the wraith in the bed. Maria’s breathing was barely perceptible, and for a moment, Ginny thought she was dead. She suppressed a shudder, and sat at the table to watch Martin, brow furrowed as he concentrated on his task.

  ‘I should have thought you’d more than enough to do just now without taking that job on. Cannot somebody else do it?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like it, bonny lass, and somebody better had. We’re not much more than slaves as it is. Like that song “The Real Black Slaves of our Native Land”. They could do anything they liked with us if there were no Union, and they would an’ all.’

  ‘They’ were the owners and managers. The word needed no explanation.

  ‘I don’t doubt that, but there’s more than you to do the work that goes with it.’

  He nodded. ‘I suppose there is, but if we all thought like that, nothing would get done, and then there’d be no Union.’

  They heard a coughing. Maria was leaning out of the bed, hand clasped over her mouth, scarlet froth oozing between her fingers. Martin was beside her in an instant, stroking her hair, soothing her.

  At the sight of the blood, Ginny’s heart leapt into her throat. She was up and at the door in a flash, almost out of it before she checked herself. ‘Shall I fetch the doctor?’

  He saw her terror. ‘No, he says there’s nothing he can do. You’d better get off home, Ginny, there’s nothing you can do either. I’ll look after her.’

  He looked desolate. Despite her fear she said, ‘I’ll get a bowl of water and a towel.’

  She went into the kitchen to collect them, and when she returned Maria lay on her pillows exhausted, blood staining her mouth, her nightdress and the sheet. Martin took the bowl from her and set it on the bedside chair. ‘I’ll do that. She’s used to me.’

  She turned her back as he washed and changed his wife, talking quietly to her all the time. Ginny tied the discarded linen into a bundle, covering the blood, while he sat by the bed, holding Maria’s hand.

  ‘I’ll take this lot home, Martin.’

  He seemed hardly to hear her, and made only the briefest of replies. Holding the bundle at arm’s length she left, shaken and near to tears.

  ‘What a fool,’ she berated herself. She would give anything to have acted differently, not to let him see her fear. She hated the thought that he would think the less of her.

  Chapter 4

  Ginny was changing pillowslips in the master bedroom at the manager’s house when her sharp ears picked up the mention of her own name. She crossed quietly to the open door, trying to hear the conversation through the strains of Helen Vine’s party piece, laboriously practised on the new upright piano. Mr Vine was exchanging a few words with his brother-in-law as they stood by the front door.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he chuckled softly, ‘I’d like to drive a spigot into that one and let some of the uppishness out. I don’t know what man wouldn’t.’

  ‘You reprehensible old dog. I don’t think you should say such naughty things to me – your own wife’s brother.’

  Mr Vine laughed again. ‘You’re a man of the world, Charlie. Helen sensed it, though; it doesn’t take her long to latch on to these things. So that was another good reason to get rid of her, but the substitute was so bad she’s glad to get her back. She’s got no cause for concern, though. I wouldn’t attempt Ginny Wilde, and I wouldn’t advise you to, either. Tamper with her, and you might end up floating down the Wear with a pick buried in your skull. Her father’s an animal. He’s raised his pick to my deputies in the mine before today. No, let well alone is my advice, if you value life and limb.’

  ‘You make her sound more interesting than ever. Has she inherited his animal tendencies? I do hope so. I like to live dangerously.’

  ‘You won’t like living as dangerously as that. He’s insubordinate, arrogant, and violent, and from what I’ve seen of his daughter, she’s inherited two of those traits, to say the least.’

  ‘Sounds thrilling. But why on earth do you keep either of them on?’

  ‘I keep him on because he’s not a Union agitator, and he’s as strong as an ox. His father and grandfather were among the big hewers, men who used to compete with each other in the good old days, before the Union started sticking its nose in and restricting output so they could carry a lot of weaklings and old men. He can get through nearly twice the work most of the others can manage. I’d have had him sacked and evicted otherwise, and off the coalfield. She’s got her job back here for the same reason – she earns her wages, and that’s all she’s needed to do. So you’ve been warned. What you do about it is your own business, but don’t involve me if you come unstuck.’

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘Deadly serious. I warn you, don’t bring any self-made trouble to me. On your own head be it. This is a different set-up from the one you’re used to in London.’

  The manager left for work, and Ginny resumed her bed-making. That pair must have thought that she was still shut in the scullery washing breakfast pots. She hardly knew whether to take what she’d heard as an insult or as a compliment, and began to laugh. Drive a spigot in, and let the uppishness out! If that really meant what she suspected it meant, who would have thought that Mr Vine could harbour such thoughts? She would never have imagined him capable of such coarseness, and she began to wonder how other men and lads she knew thought about her. To be likened to her father was an insult, but to be considered insubordinate and arrogant was rather flattering. Sacked and evicted and off the coal-field, though. It just showed what power that man wielded over her family. It was to be hoped her father kept himself fit and strong, or they’d all be homeless and destitute, and exiled from everything and everybody they knew.

  So Lady Muck’s blue-eyed brother had taken a fancy to her. He thought she was thrilling. She’d give him a thrill he’d never forget if he ever offered to lay a hand on her. She punched the pillows a couple of times each, and threw them into place, then turned up the cover. Her father wasn’t the only one who was as strong as an ox.

  After Helen and Charlie set off for a ride in the landau, Ginny gathered all the rugs and carried them into the back garden. With a scarf tied round her hair to protect it from the dust, and her apron pinned up tight, she picked up a rug and knocked it hard against the wall. Thinking herself alone she let rip with a song.

  Now I’ll tell ye a trick we once played on Jim Farrins,

  That one day bought a cask o’ the best kippered herrins

  To eat with his coffee, his taties an’ bread,

  Determined a’ winter to hev a cheap feed.

  He took four greet big ’uns one neet doon the pit,

  An’ he wouldn’t let us doon below taste a bit.

  So a penn’orth o’ jalap we put in his bottle,

  And laughed fit to burst as it went doon his throttle . . .

  A fortnight’s dust flew up in clouds all around her as she dashed the rugs to the rhythm. She started at Charlie’s voice in her ear.

  ‘You’ve a good voice, Ginny. And that’s not a bad song. It might do all right in the music hall as a low comedy turn.’ His pale blue eyes looked her up and down beneath the fair lashes, a half smile revealing a row of white, even teeth.

  ‘Aye, well, it’s a miners’ song, and you can’t get much lower comedy than that.’

  ‘Do you mean they sing it while they’re tapping at the coal face with their picks?’ His voice held a mocking tone.

  ‘I don’t mean that at all. The tapping takes all the breath they’ve got. They wouldn’t have any left over to do any singing. No, they do their singing in the club, when they’re having a bit crack. They really enjoy a bit of low comedy then.’

  ‘I think I’d have a lot in common with them.’

  ‘I doubt it. I thought you were out, or I’d have kept quiet.’

  ‘Oh, I just came back to collect something.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing to collect from me, Mr Parkinson, a
nd your sister doesn’t pay us for standing here passing the time o’ day. She pays us for getting the work done, so if you don’t mind, I’ll get on with it. There’s still plenty of muck to shift after the last so-called skivvy she had.’ She fixed him with an unblinking stare, and smiled.

  With a quizzical lift of his eyebrows Charlie returned her smile, then something in her expression shrivelled his smile to a grimace. She stooped to pick up another rug and began dadding it against the wall. When she looked round again, Charlie was gone.

  She’d done another three hours of hard labour, turning out the dining room and cleaning windows, before Mrs Vine and her brother returned.

  ‘Thank you, Ginny. I’ll give you your due, you’ve worked hard, and the place looks better for it. You can go now. Come at the same time tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you have worked hard,’ echoed Charlie, ‘you must be exhausted. I’ll take you down to the village.’

  She would have refused, but the look of deep disapproval on Mrs Vine’s face was an irresistible temptation. ‘That’s a very kind offer, Mr Parkinson, thank you.’ Eyes demurely downcast and expression deadpan she added, ‘I don’t think it would be manners to refuse.’

  ‘No indeed. Collect your things. I’ll wait here for you.’

  Mrs Vine’s face registered sheer exasperation as Ginny meekly walked in the direction of the scullery. When she returned to the hall, Charlie was holding the front door open, and she sailed through it before him, head held high.

  They rode along for a minute or so before he broke the silence. ‘You know, Ginny, you do have a little talent. You might do well in London. You could try your luck on the stage, and if that was no good, well, good house-maids are always in demand, at far better wages than you’ll ever get in Annsdale. I suppose I shouldn’t tell you that, as my own sister’s so satisfied with your work, but London’s exciting. I should enjoy showing you round it.’