by Maggie Hope
The sisters walked slowly past the colliery rows and into the older part of the village where there was a remnant of village green, much trodden and blackened. Meg was carrying a parcel of clean clothes. She had been careful not to let Jack Boy see it, even though it was not paid work. It was just a small bundle of clothes she had done for a widow who lived on her own outside the village on the Shildon road. The widow would have been doing it herself but for the fact that she was wheelchair-bound with arthritis.
Meg was enjoying the relaxation of the walk. Being able to stand up straight after stooping for so long at the tub was grand. A cool breeze sprang up and Alice shivered slightly, clutching her shawl to her. Meg looked down at her. The lass was so thin and pasty-looking, what would this winter do to her? Eeh, it was a good thing she didn’t have to go out to work, it was that. At least she could stay in the warmth of the schoolroom.
‘We’ll soon be sheltered from the wind,’ Meg said, ‘it always seems to blow along here. When we get over the hill and down the road a bit we’ll be sheltered.’
Indeed, leaving the village they soon took a right-hand fork with a high hedge to one side, shielding them from the wind. The sun shone low on the horizon as the scene changed; the smoking chimney and winding wheel of the pit village were left behind them and there were long fields sweeping down the hill. Meg smiled. She loved this view, it was her favourite walk.
The harvest was in progress and the sweet smell of ripe corn lay heavy on the air. Behind the hedges they could hear the harvesters talking among themselves and further down the slope, nearer the farm buildings, they could see the cows and hear them lowing as they were driven out of the byres after milking. The farming world seemed so clean and peaceful to the sisters after the muck and bustle of the colliery, though they were not unaware that life was hard on the farms and the wages very low. Which was the reason so many young lads left the farms and ended up in the pits where, so long as there was work, the wages were better.
‘Meg! Meg! Where are you going?’
She was brought out of her reverie by Alice who had stopped by a small cottage, the end of a row. This was Old Pit, named after the long defunct mine at the other end of the row, the wooden structure over the shaft green with age and mould and some of it fallen down. Only two of the cottages in Old Pit were occupied now, and those by miners’ widows. The others were boarded up, the slates on the roofs sliding and leaving gaping holes, the gardens overgrown. Even the slag heap was greened over with weeds and there were swathes of rosebay willow herb all over the place.
When Meg was smaller, she and Jack Boy had lain on the stony ground around the shaft and thrown pebbles down, counting to see how far they would fall before hearing the splash of the pebble hitting the water. They would stare at the iron ladder going down, imagining the pit lads climbing up all those rungs with wicker baskets full of coal on their backs. Jack had even climbed down once and found a wicker basket floating in the water at the bottom, but when he brought it up into the light it crumbled to bits. Meg shuddered. By, she’d been frightened that day, frightened Jack Boy would fall.
‘Eeh, our Alice, I was miles away.’ She smiled at her young sister, and lifted the knocker of the unpainted batten door.
‘Howay in, lass, don’t bother knocking, I’m right glad to see you.’ The quavering voice belonged to Mrs Dobbs, the owner of the clothes. The sisters went in and had a few words with the lonely old woman. Meg diplomatically refused payment for the washing and looked round the threadbare kitchen to see if there was any other pressing job.
‘Can I get you a bucket of coal in while I’m here, Mrs Dobbs? It’ll be no trouble, like.’
‘I’d be right glad o’ that,’ she said simply. ‘The nights are drawing in now, there’s a nip in the air.’
‘I’ll get it, if you like,’ offered Alice.
‘No, you sit and talk to Mrs Dobbs, I won’t be a minute.’
Meg went round the back of the cottage to the coal house, taking the bucket with her. She bit her lip as she saw the meagre store of coal inside. Being a miner’s daughter, she was used to having plenty of coal to go at in winter. She resolved to get Jack Boy to fetch a barrow full from Da’s allowance next time it was delivered. He was good-hearted enough was Jack Boy, he would do it.
As they walked back to the village, the sun had gone down and the evening was indeed chilly. But Alice was happily sucking a black bullet sweetie given to her by the old lady and didn’t seem to notice the chill. They reached the old village quickly and turned to go down to the colliery rows.
‘Margaret Anne Maddison, does your da know you’re out in the dark?’
The voice came from a group of young miners who were lounging against the wall of the Black Boy, the pub on the green. Meg’s heart sank. Not Wesley Cornish again. He always seemed to be off shift. The lads were grinning and nudging each other knowingly, looking not at all like the little lad depicted on the inn sign swaying above their heads.
It was a painting of a young trapper boy of forty or fifty years ago, little and thin and dressed in raggy moleskin trousers, with a candle in his hat brim casting a halo over his black streaked face. Meg always looked up at it. She liked to see the little black boy swaying in the wind and think how good it was that her brothers hadn’t had to go down the pit when they were only six.
Though for the lads lounging about the Black Boy, maybe it would have done some of them a bit of good, she thought. Catching hold of Alice’s arm, she pulled her closer.
‘Take no notice, Alice, don’t answer them,’ she whispered fiercely, and strode rapidly on to the rows. But Wesley Cornish stood in their path, hands on hips, his handsome head cocked to one side, the picture of male arrogance. Alice’s hand tightened on Meg’s. She was unsure what to make of him. Hadn’t the minister thundered against the ways of Satan taking hold of the wild lads of the village only last Sunday?
There had been a lot of trouble in the village lately, gangs of young miners spending their pay in the Black Boy or the Rising Sun, and coming out blind drunk and spoiling for mischief. One night they’d taken the gates off the farmers’ fields all the way along the Auckland road and the sheep and the cows had got out and into folks’ gardens. And another time, when one of the farmers had gone into the Rising Sun, leaving his horse and trap outside, they’d uncoupled the horse and put it on the other side of the fence and fastened it to the trap again. The farmer had come out pallatic drunk, got in the trap and shouted ‘Giddyup’ till he was blue in the face. The horse had strained and strained. But of course they hadn’t got anywhere, for the fence between them. Alice had been much struck by the picture painted by the minister as he described the scene and even more so by that of a horned man with a forked beard and long tail catching the lads and leading them down to the fires of Hell.
‘Get out of my way, Wesley Cornish,’ she snapped, and moved to go round the lad, who anticipated it and moved with her. Her face was flushed and she was staring straight ahead at some point over his shoulder.
‘I’ll do more than that, lass.’ Wesley flashed a winning smile. ‘I’ll walk you home, if you like? You and Alice. It’s getting dark and you never know who you might meet after dark.’
Alice gasped as Meg darted by Wesley, perforce taking her sister with her as she was holding her arm. They fairly flew down the colliery rows to the end of Pasture Row, then Meg stopped and looked back.
‘I’m sick to death of you pestering me!’ she screamed at the top of her voice. ‘An’ I’m sick of that lot an’ all, daft as goats, laughing and gawping.’
Wesley, undaunted, was already halfway down towards them. He grinned in amusement at Meg’s outburst.
‘Hadaway, Meg, you know you like me really,’ he said. Then turned on his heel and walked back to his friends.
‘Wesley Cornish is sweet on our Meg!’
Meg was mortified as Alice ran into the kitchen where her brothers were playing cards, bursting with her news.
Jack Boy looke
d up and frowned heavily. ‘Aye, I know,’ he said. ‘When he sees me down the pit he asks me where you are. You haven’t been walking with him, have you, our Meg?’
‘What do you think I am, like?’ she retorted.
But in bed later that night she thought about walking out with a boy, wondering what it would be like to have a lads’s arms round her, to kiss a lad who wasn’t her little brother. The thought made her feel strangely hot and uncomfortable. You haven’t time for lads, Meg Maddison, she told herself, and turned over on to her side. Thumping her pillow into shape, she settled herself for sleep. There was too much to do at home.
As she drifted off to sleep she remembered, half-dreaming, her old fancies about Jonty, the knight on a big grey horse who had been looking for her all these years, searching till he must surely find her. And he would find her and lift her up and take her with him to his big house. But she’d forgotten his face. Instead she kept seeing the mocking features of Wesley Cornish, grinning cheekily at her, his light brown eyes running up and down her body, his hands reaching out to her. And she woke up in a sweat. She didn’t want Wesley Cornish, she wanted . . . oh, she wanted the old lovely feeling she’d had when she was a bairn and made up stories about her and Jonty.
She tried to settle down to sleep again but it was early yet. The fore shift hadn’t even gone in. But there was a lot to do tomorrow, the ironing and the bread to bake, and she wanted to go up to tidy Mam’s grave, and then look for brambles for a boiled pudding for a treat for the bairns. Aye, she thought, she had to get some sleep.
Nine
Jonty limped across the yard from the stables to the kitchen. There was no welcoming smell of a meal cooking, he realised, and sighed, remembering the lovely smell emanating from the Home Farm kitchen when he went past. His stomach rumbled. Bread and cheese again, he supposed.
Since the cook had walked out the previous month because she hadn’t been paid, there was only a young maid of all work and the manservant who had served his grandfather. Johnson was old now and Jonty supposed he had nowhere to go or he would have been gone by now too. He limped through the kitchen and out into the hall.
‘Is that you, Jonty?’
The thin voice of his grandmother made him turn and look up to the head of the stairs. Mrs Grizedale was frail now and rarely came out of her room; she shook a lot and leaned heavily on her stick. Now she swayed on her feet and Jonty started in alarm and rushed up the stairs to her.
‘Grandmother!’ he cried, taking hold of her arm and leading her back along the upstairs hallway to her room. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘I was cold,’ she answered tremulously, and he felt the quivering of her arm as he held it. In her room, he saw the fire had gone out and there was no coal in the scuttle. There was a damp and musty chill in the air. The fire must have been out for hours.
‘Why didn’t you ring?’ he asked her gently. ‘You should have got the girl to fetch coal up and mend the fire long since.’
‘I did, Jonty, I did, but no one came. I rang and rang.’
That girl! Jonty seethed, but covering up his anger, he smiled at his grandmother. ‘Well, never you mind. Come and sit down and I’ll get a warm shawl for your shoulders. I’ll have a fire going in a couple of ticks, I’ll see to it now.’
He picked up the coal scuttle and went out and down the stairs. There was no sign of Sally, the maid, so he went out of the kitchen door himself and filled the scuttle with coal. In the kitchen he found newspaper and kindling sticks and piled them on top of the coal. In the process, he got a smear of coal dust across his already dirty riding breeches and even a streak on his cheek.
Jonty was going across the hall towards the stairs when he heard a loud giggle from his father’s study, a feminine giggle. His mouth tightened and he paused for a moment. Should he go in and get Sally and make her see to Grandmother’s fire? The stupid girl was flattered by his father’s attentions, just like so many before her had been. Sally had some ridiculous idea he would marry her though, she thought she was different. And already she thought herself too good to do the menial work of the house. The place was a pigsty, he thought, his anger mounting.
Putting down the coal scuttle, Jonty strode over to the study and flung open the door.
Sally was leaning over his father’s chair, wiggling and squealing. Her bodice was open, displaying young, halfripe breasts, and his father had a hand inside, squeezing and tugging to the accompaniment of her squeals. She heard Jonty enter the room but didn’t even move or try to cover herself. No more than fifteen years old either, Jonty knew.
‘Well, what do you want?’ Ralph glanced up lazily, his lip curling into the usual look of contempt as he saw Jonty’s dirty face and the smears on his riding breeches. ‘I see you’re your usual smart self. My God, lad, anyone would think you’d been down the pit!’ Ralph grinned slowly. ‘Still, I suppose you’re happy looking like that. It was all pitmen on your mother’s side of the family.’
Jonty’s face tightened and his eyes went cold. If his father started on again with his ranting about his mother and her family, he swore he would go for him. He’d taken it all his life but now he was seventeen and a man grown, he’d take no more of it. First he had to make Sally see to his grandmother’s fire. He would be better facing up to his father if the two of them were alone in any case.
‘Sally, there’s a scuttle full of coal and kindling at the bottom of the stairs. Grandmother’s fire is out. I’ve told you time and time again that she needs to be kept warm. Old people can’t stand the cold.’
‘Light it yourself then!’ Sally exclaimed, not bothering to disguise her disrespect for him. She was confident that Ralph would simply laugh at her spirit, but in this she was mistaken. Roughly drawing his hand from her bodice, he shoved her off his knee so that she ended up sprawling on the worn carpet.
‘You mind yourself, girl!’ he roared, and springing up, stood over her threateningly. ‘You’ll get out and do as you are told, this minute!’ His face was screwed up in anger so that the lines of dissipation which had appeared these last years deepened into channels which ran all the way down his face. His colour heightened until he was a deep, bright red.
Sally, suddenly transformed into a frightened little girl, whimpered and fled for the door, tears of mortification starting into her eyes.
Ralph watched her out then gave his attention to his son, his gaze raking him from head to foot.
‘And you, you misbegotten whelp,’ he said venomously, ‘look at you! Is it any wonder the maids cheek you? You look as though you sleep in the stables. For God’s sake, go and wash the coal dust from your face and change into some clean clothes.’
Jonty lifted his chin and stared his father in the eye. ‘If I’m a stable lad, then you made me one,’ he stated flatly. ‘And if we had proper staff in the house, I wouldn’t have to bring in coal for Grandmother’s fire.’
Ralph’s mouth fell open. He was taken aback by Jonty’s standing up for himself. His son limped over to stand directly before him.
‘I want to talk to you about Grandmother,’ he said. ‘She has to have proper care.’
‘The old hag! Always whining and moaning around the place.’
‘Yes, she’s old.’ Jonty kept his voice level as he struggled to control his rising temper. ‘She’s old and needs a woman to look after her all the time. And not someone like Sally either.’
‘And where do you think the money will come from? She’s the only one with anything left and she has that tied up in shares. Women these days aren’t content with a roof over their heads and food in their bellies, they have to be paid. If you want her watched over then you’d better do it yourself, it’s about all you’re good for.’
Jonty stepped forward until his face was but an inch from his father’s. Ralph eyes widened in shock.
‘And who was it went through the money, not only your own inheritance but most of Grandmother’s too?’ Jonty could feel himself losing control. He stared
into Ralph’s bulging eyes, bloodshot with rage and alcohol. ‘If we paid our servants, we’d be able to keep them.’
Ralph mouthed an oath and raised his fist to punch Jonty over the ear as he had done so many times before. But this time Jonty caught his wrist and contemptuously flung the older man back into his chair.
‘Don’t you raise your hand to me, Father, never again. Not ever again or I won’t be responsible for what might happen to you.’ Turning on his heel he strode from the room, leaving his father, for once, quite speechless.
Upstairs he found a cheerful fire in his grandmother’s room and she was sipping tea from a delicate china cup brought up on a tray by Sally. That’s better, he thought, and a good thing too.
‘How are you, Grandmother, warm again?’ he asked, walking over to her and taking her hand. Indeed the hot tea and the fire seemed to have worked wonders with her, she already had a little colour in her cheeks and her fingers felt quite warm.
‘I’m fine and dandy, really I am, Jonty. Come and have a cup of tea with me, the girl will fetch another cup.’
‘Oh, I’ll have to clean myself up.’ He laughed. ‘I shouldn’t be here at all, reeking of the stables as I do.’
‘I don’t care about that,’ declared the old lady ‘just so long as you come to see me, I don’t care at all.’ She smiled wistfully and Jonty knew she was thinking of her son. Ralph avoided visiting her and frowned blackly if he saw her venturing out of her room. Jonty stooped and dropped a kiss on her cheek, thinking that her skin felt as thin and dry as tissue paper. She was getting old, his grandmother, the only person in the world who cared a damn for him. The thought saddened him.
‘I’ll come to see you again this evening, Grandmother,’ he said. ‘Now, I think you should drink that tea before it gets cold.’
After Jonty had bathed, he dressed in his one decent suit. It was short in the arms and legs and threadbare at the elbows, but it was the only one he had which was fairly presentable. He combed his dark hair before the looking glass and paused to feel his chin for stubble. It was still fairly smooth, he’d shaved that morning. Jonty had only recently started to shave and was quite proud of the fact. He was becoming a man now. Hadn’t he faced up to his father? His dark brown eyes mirrored in the glass showed his satisfaction; he was elated that at last he would be his own man, no longer frightened of his father.