by Maggie Hope
They had forgotten all about the minister who came forward now.
‘I’m sorry, I forgot, a pressing engagement . . .’ he said. His face was still white with shock. ‘I have to go.’
He was unheeded by Jack and the Lowthers, though the few curious funeral followers who were hoping to sit down to the funeral tea fell back respectfully as he left the churchyard. Meg looked at them. Their faces were agog with excitement. Why didn’t folk mind their own business? she thought bitterly.
Jack stared at Auntie Phoebe and Uncle Tot, his face showing conflicting emotions. Suddenly he wheeled about and walked away, taking the Auckland road out of the village. Galvanized into action, Meg dragged little Miles after him, terrified he was going to leave them, and if Da took off now, what would they do?
‘Da! Da!’ she cried, and Miles tripped but didn’t fall for Meg had such a hold on him she simply carried him along by his arm in her determination to get to her father.
The panic and despair in the girl’s voice somehow penetrated the fog in Jack Maddison’s brain for he hesitated long enough for Meg to catch up with him, Miles sobbing and panting by her side. She caught hold of him with her free hand, and gazed up into his face.
‘Da, Da, howay home with us now. Come on, Da. Howay now. We need you, Da. You can’t go off, what’ll we do?’ She scarcely knew what she said, she only knew she had to stop him from walking away. If he carried on walking he wouldn’t come back, oh, she was sure of it!
Jack looked down at her tear-stained face, unseeing at first, then gradually his eyes focused and he took in what he saw, he heard the fretful sobbing of little Miles as he rubbed his wrist where Meg had held him too tightly as she pulled him along.
The father in him responded to the distress he saw and Jack’s face softened. He stooped and picked the tiny boy up in his arms to soothe him.
‘Whisht now, bairn, whisht,’ he said, ‘Da’ll kiss it better.’ And his voice was almost back to normal. Meg breathed a long sigh, letting the tension fall from her. Mebbe Da was going to be all right now, mebbe it wouldn’t be so bad. She looked around for Jack Boy and Alice. They were standing just outside the churchyard, Jack Boy holding Alice’s shoulder. The little girl was clinging tightly to her dollie with one hand, and the thumb of the other was stuck far into her mouth.
Behind them, Auntie Phoebe and Uncle Tot were standing, uncertain what to do, and behind them again, the few funeral followers who were thick-skinned or perhaps just hungry enough to remain.
‘Howay, then.’ Meg called her brother and sister to her, and Jack Boy’s face cleared. He took hold of Alice’s hand, pulling her thumb firmly out of her mouth, and brought her to his father and his sister Meg and his little brother Miles. The family turned for Pasture Row and home, and after a moment, Uncle Tot and Auntie Phoebe followed them with baby Bella.
Seven
Jonty heard his father ride into the stable yard, Cal’s hooves clattering against the cobble stones, and swiftly the boy ducked behind the half-door of the tack-room. Jonty was almost ten years old now and had learned that the best way to avoid a whipping was to keep out of his father’s way. He waited, heart beating uncomfortably as he listened to his father talking to the stable lad. Father didn’t usually enter the stable at all. Usually when he came home he threw the reins at the lad and stumped off into the house. But this time he came to the door, only a few feet away from Jonty’s hiding place, and he shrank down further and tried to keep his breathing quiet.
‘Where’s John Thomas? That brat’s never there when I want him. I thought he was working in here today?’ Father was asking the stable lad, Bob. He had only been with them for a week. Lads were always coming and going at the Hall, every hiring day there was a new one. Jonty trembled. Would Bob tell Father where he was?
‘Sorry, sir, I’ve not seen the young master,’ said Bob and Jonty breathed easier.
Ralph laughed, shortly. ‘Young master, eh? That’s what he is, is it? Aye, well, if you do see him, if the young master deigns to come back, you tell him I want to see him, in my study.’
‘Aye, sir,’ mumbled the lad.
Jonty’s left foot was going into cramp. He tried to ease it, carefully moving it forward, his toecap making a small sound against the flagstone. He froze, the pain running up his leg as he watched the grotesque shadow of his father against the far wall of the tack-room and the smaller shadow of the stable lad. But Father hadn’t heard the noise.
‘Aye,’ he was saying, and now he sounded really amused and that made Jonty even more fearful – he knew the sort of thing that amused his father. There was the time the servant girl, Jenny her name was, had told Father she was having a baby and he had toyed with her, making her think he might look after her, maybe even marry her. He’d had Jenny doing awful things, degrading herself for him. Jonty’s thoughts shied away from the memory. And then, when she got too far gone in pregnancy for Father’s tastes, he had thrown her out. Oh, aye, Father’d thought it all a great joke.
And there was the queen cat, Smoky, who had scratched Father’s hand when he bent to pick up her babies. Father had hung Smoky in a tree and made Jonty watch her death struggles. He shuddered and came back to the present as something his father said caught his attention.
‘I have some bad news for the precious young master, I have. I’ve been to a funeral today, the funeral of his aunt.’
My aunt? I don’t have an aunt, thought Jonty, startled. Not a Grizedale aunt, at least. There was only Auntie Hannah. Meg’s mam. Auntie Hannah who had gone away and left him to his father’s mercy.
Jonty clung to the memory of Auntie Hannah. Why had she gone like that, why? He thought of the row of houses down by the old line. They all had new tenants in them now; he’d gone down there once but Auntie Hannah and Uncle Jack and Meg hadn’t come back. Suddenly a picture flashed into Jonty’s mind, a picture of Meg and her mam, both with bright curling hair and shining blue eyes, and both smiling at him. He forgot his fear of his father and slowly got to his feet.
‘My aunt?’ he asked.
Ralph Grizedale laughed cruelly. ‘So you were there, listening all the time, were you? Sneaking around in corners, hiding away, eavesdropping on folk. Well, you’ve heard some bad news this time, haven’t you?’ Ralph’s voice hardened and he rounded on the stable lad, still standing holding on to Cal’s reins. ‘You knew he was there, didn’t you?’ he shouted. ‘You can get your—’
‘He didn’t know, Father, I’ve just got here,’ butted in Jonty, and Ralph forgot about Bob and leaned over the half-door to haul his son up and over. Dragging the boy behind him, he strode into the house and headed for his study. Bob cast a thankful glance after Jonty as he took Cal into the stable. He rubbed him down, talking quietly to the horse all the while. He wouldn’t stay past next hiring day, he resolved. Then he would try to get work with the pit ponies in Winton.
Ralph dumped Jonty unceremoniously on the floor and closed the door of his study, checking first that his mother was not about. If the old witch heard what was going on she would try to interfere. That one never learned her lesson. And besides, she might not be so happy to turn over to him the shares he wanted if he upset her.
Jonty picked himself up and faced his father. All he wanted to know was if anything had happened to Auntie Hannah. He didn’t care if he was whipped.
‘Auntie Hannah?’ he asked.
Ralph took his time, settling himself in his armchair, selecting a cigar from the side table and lighting it. Jonty watched as the smoke rose in the air towards the ornate ceiling, already stained a dull brown with tobacco. At last Ralph sat back, crossed his legs before him and smiled at Jonty. But not with his eyes. His eyes were like hard, black pieces of coal sunk into the fleshy folds of his face.
‘I wondered if you remembered Hannah,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Yes, I meant her. I’ve been to her funeral today.’
Jonty stared at his father. Dimly, he remembered the feelings of love and tenderness which had wrapped him
round when he went to Auntie Hannah’s house; even though he hadn’t seen her for so long he felt an acute sense of loss to learn she was dead. When things were bad, when his father was worse to him than usual, he would go to his room afterwards and comfort himself with the thought that one day, when he was big enough, he would find them. Meg and Uncle Jack and Auntie Hannah. He would find out if what his father said was true, if they had just abandoned him because they didn’t want him. His expression didn’t change. He couldn’t let his father see that Hannah still meant something to him.
‘I had to pay for it too, they were destitute. Jack Maddison couldn’t even pay the undertaker.’ Ralph was watching Jonty carefully, a small smile hovering round his mouth. When still there was no obvious response, he went on, ‘Half-starved they looked. It would have been a pauper’s burial but for me.’
Jonty turned his face away. He wanted to ask all the questions which were clamouring in his mind. Where was it, was Meg there, was she all right, was Uncle Jack there, was he all right, what did Auntie Hannah die of? But he knew Father was waiting for him to ask and he wasn’t going to. Indeed he would not. Jonty lifted his chin in the air and closed his mouth firmly.
In the end Ralph lost his temper. There was no point in teasing the brat. Stubborn as a mule he was, like the pitmen he’d sprung from. He rose to his feet and fetched the lad a great swipe across the ear, knocking him half across the room.
‘Get out of my sight and don’t let me see your measly face again today!’ he snarled, and went over to the whisky tray in the corner. Suddenly it wasn’t so funny to him either. He couldn’t get used to the idea that Hannah wasn’t there somewhere, that the day would never dawn now when she would come to him on her knees. He poured himself a tumbler of neat whisky and tossed it off in one gulp, unheeding of Jonty who picked himself up yet again and limped from the room.
Upstairs in his room he ignored the ringing in his ear, though the skin was tingling from the heat of the blow. He went to the drawer of his bedside table and took out a little peg doll wrapped in a bit of cloth, yellow from being shut away, and ragged. He stared at it until his vision blurred with tears and he crept on to his bed and curled up in a tight ball, hugging the doll to him.
The morning after the funeral, Meg prepared Da’s sandwiches and put them in his bait tin and filled his water bottle in time for him to go down the pit with the fore shift. Da had changed his mind about the pit. He was going down, had told Uncle Tot not to worry about getting him a job on bank.
‘Well, there’s more money to be earned down the pit than on the top,’ was all Uncle Tot had said.
Meg was worried about Da, though. He was different somehow, kind enough with the bairns and he always answered when he was spoken to, but he was different.
Auntie Phoebe bustled in after Da had gone to work and Jack Boy to school. She went straight to the cradle, to where the baby was sleeping by the side of the fire, leaning down and peering under the covers at Bella before straightening up and speaking to Meg, who was washing up the breakfast pots in an enamel bowl and putting them to drain on a tin tray.
‘I’ll bath the babby now.’
‘I was going to do her in a minute, when I’ve finished this,’ Meg objected, but she was overruled and had to watch helplessly as Phoebe took over the baby. Alice and Miles were under the table, Miles chewing on his bleached bone and Alice rocking backwards and fowards, nursing her dollie. They were very quiet. Sighing, Meg got on with the housework, sweeping and dusting and scrubbing in the neverending job of keeping the place free from dust and smuts which were carried down in the soot-laden air.
‘I’ll just take the babby round our house,’ said Auntie Phoebe, ‘keep her out of your road.’
‘What about her tittie bottle?’ Meg asked, going to the pantry for the bottle and the jug of milk.
‘I’ve got one round home. I got one in, thought it would come in.’
There seemed to be nothing Meg could do. Auntie Phoebe had been so good to them an’ all, she couldn’t say something to affront her. Best let it go for now. When Da was feeling better she would ask him what to do. Though she hadn’t much hope of help from Da, he hadn’t looked at the babby even.
‘Will you take Alice and Miles with you, Auntie Phoebe?’ she asked. ‘I have to get the messages and I want to—’ She had been going to say she wanted to go to Mam’s grave to put a posy on it, but found herself unable to say the words.
‘Well, I’ll take Alice,’ said Auntie Phoebe, not noticing there was anything amiss with Meg. ‘You can take the lad with you, can’t you? Do him good, a bit of fresh air, like.’ She lifted the cradle with the baby in it into her arms. ‘Howay, Alice, come along of me and Bella, petal.’
It was clear to Meg that Auntie Phoebe was only really interested in the baby, she didn’t want the bother of Miles. Oh, well, she had been going to run to the shop and then pick some wild flowers from the bunny banks up by Old Pit. Mam liked the bluebells the best. And good bluebells grew under the trees by the bunny banks. She could mebbe do that after dinner, take Alice and Miles with her.
The days seemed to be galloping by, faster and faster, Meg was thinking, one Sunday morning when for once the family were all breakfasting together before Sunday School. She looked at the young ones, the three of them sitting on the form along one side of the table. Alice was telling Miles a story and they were giggling together. Alice was always telling stories. In school she was forever getting slapped by the teacher for talking and laughing in class. Jack Boy was sitting right on the end of the form, quietly eating porridge with a large dollop of treacle in it to sweeten it.
Jack Boy was like Da, Meg thought, quiet. Da was a silent man now. He seemed to have lost his fear of being underground and never missed a shift. At weekends he worked hard in the garden, filled with restless, neverending energy. He never smiled, though.
Meg’s thoughts were distracted by shrieks of mirth from Alice and Miles. They had waited until Jack Boy sat back on the form, having finished his porridge, then, working together, the two younger ones stood up. Of course Jack’s weight tipped the form and he went sprawling on the flags. Screaming with glee, Alice and Miles fled the kitchen, with Jack Boy not far behind.
Smiling, Meg poured another mug of tea for her da. It was grand to see the bairns getting over Mam, she’d been worried about Alice at first. But now she wanted to talk to Da about Bella. She looked at him as he sipped his tea, his face expressionless.
‘Da,’ she began, and he looked up at her. He always replied when she spoke to him, just didn’t speak first himself. ‘Da, I’m worried about the babby.’
‘Bella?’ he said. ‘She’s all right with your Auntie Phoebe, isn’t she?’
‘Yes. But, Da, I don’t like it. Auntie Phoebe wants Bella to live with them altogether. And, Da, I think we should be together, I do. Bella’s one of us. She’s a Maddison, not a Lowther.’
Jack stared at her. ‘Bella’s lucky to have Phoebe.’
‘Aye, I know, Da, but I could see to her, I could. Auntie Phoebe wants to be her mam.’
Jack rose to his feet and walked to the door without answering.
‘Da?’
‘Leave things be, Meg, you’re only a bairn yourself,’ he said, not turning round. ‘Our Bella likely needs a mother.’
Only a bairn, thought Meg rebelliously as she cleared the breakfast table and washed up the pots. Only a bairn when it comes to the baby, but a woman when it comes to the work. She worked on, furiously, cleaning the kitchen before washing and changing herself and seeing that the other three were clean and decent enough to join the trickle of children walking through the village to the plain, stone buildings of the Wesleyan Chapel and Sunday School.
Inside, the Sunday School was full of children, boys on one side and girls on the other. The under-fives were all together at the front with kindly Miss Gunner, their plump, grey-haired teacher, in charge of them. Meg saw Miles and Alice settled on the front row and went to join her own cl
ass farther back. Jack Boy headed for the boys’ rows.
Meg was lost in her own thoughts and hardly heard the first hymn or the prayers that followed. She simply stood up when her neighbours stood up and sat down when they sat down.
It was during the prayers that it happened. All of a sudden there was a loud bump followed by a wailing which completely filled the hall, rising to the rafters, louder even than the combined Sunday School reciting ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little child’, louder than the singing of the hymn which had gone before.
Mr Roberts, the superintendent, stepped forward and picked up a squirming, struggling Miles. The boy’s face was red with anger, his fat little three-year-old legs kicking poor Mr Roberts in the stomach.
‘Meg! Our Meg!’ screamed Miles. ‘I want our Meg!’ Alice stood by, looking innocently on.
Meg pushed past her classmates and went down to the front, her face rosy red with embarrassment; the whole Sunday School was looking on, she could feel every eye on her. She reached Mr Roberts and held out her arms for Miles who cuddled into her neck, sobbing.
‘You’re a bad girl, Alice,’ said Miss Gunner mildly, ‘pushing Miles off the seat like that, and so hard he’s hurt himself.’
‘I never,’ asserted Alice. ‘I never pushed him. An’ any road, he’s not hurt. He’s just a big babby, that’s what.’
‘Alice!’ Meg said sharply.
‘Do you know what happens to little lasses who don’t tell the truth?’ queried Mr Roberts, his face stern. ‘And in God’s house an’ all, and during a prayer. Jesus won’t love you any more, Alice.’
‘I don’t care,’ she said, defiant now, though her eyes were suspiciously bright. The Sunday School waited, hardly daring to breathe for fear of missing anything. This was better than boring old prayers, any time.
‘Alice,’ said Meg urgently. ‘Howay. Be a good girl, say you’re sorry.’
‘Nay, I’ll not,’ said Alice. ‘I never did nothing.’