by Maggie Hope
Jonty, impatient to go back down to the boy, glanced across at the young mother, sitting on the grass now, supported by her sister.
‘I won’t do anything foolish,’ he had reassured Bill, and climbed on to the rung of the top ladder.
Carefully, he took the plank in one hand and climbed down until he was on a level with Kit’s timber. With a bit of manoeuvring he managed to support one end of the plank on a rung of the ladder and slide it over until the other end was resting beside Kit, thanking God that he had guessed the right size of plank he would need. It had taken a few precious minutes to find it but it had been worth it.
With the spare rope, he secured the plank to the rung and then was ready to crawl across. The operation was not quite so hazardous as it might have been because Jonty was still tied to the rope connecting him to the ladders.
‘Good lad,’ he said, trying to keep his voice confident and calm. If he frightened the boy now he might slip off his perch into the water below. But Kit, though he was not yet five, came of generations of miners. Instinctively, he stayed still and quiet, letting Jonty rope him to his back and take him over the temporary bridge, even though every movement gave him pain in his broken leg.
At the surface there were willing hands stretched out to haul them up over the rim of the shaft, and a crowd to take the boy from Jonty’s back and lay him gently on the ground. Jonty sat down beside him, breathless and panting from the long climb up. The sense of relief at the success of the rescue was overwhelming, both to his tortured muscles and to his mind. People were milling round, patting him on the back and congratulating him, and there was the mother of the little lad, kneeling down and holding the child to her, tears coursing down her face.
‘Mind now, watch his leg,’ he warned her, and she turned to him, catching hold of his hand and sobbing out her thanks. As he looked hard at her, her fair, curling hair and blue eyes, he knew her, he felt sure he did. And the other girl, Alice, kneeling beside her sister and adding her thanks too. It had to be her sister for they were so alike.
‘Dear God, Meg,’ said the younger sister, ‘it’s a miracle the bairn wasn’t killed, isn’t it?’
Meg? thought Jonty. Meg. And it was like a thunderbolt. He knew now who the women reminded him of: it was his Auntie Hannah. They were both the spit of his Auntie Hannah. And Meg, this was his little cousin Meg. He opened his mouth to speak but just then the doctor bustled up. Someone had had the presence of mind to fetch him from Winton Colliery. He knelt by the boy and within minutes the damaged leg was in a temporary splint and someone had found an old door to carry him back home on.
‘Take him out on the old wagon way,’ suggested Bill. ‘It’s level, it’ll be better than going up the path.’
The track was steep and rutted, so Bill’s suggestion made sense. So the lad was carried home along the wagon way which once, so long ago, had taken horse-drawn coal trucks from Old Pit.
‘A mite tired, are you, lad?’ asked Bill kindly as Jonty picked up his coat and pulled it on over aching shoulders. ‘It’s the ladders. Me father used to say, it wasn’t the shift on the coal face that knocked you out, it was the walk to the shaft after it and the climb up the ladders to bank. By, it was a red letter day when they brought in the winding gear and cages.’
Jonty grinned at him. ‘I reckon your father was dead to rights,’ he said with feeling. ‘By the way, can you tell me the family name of the lad?’
‘Oh, aye,’ Bill nodded. ‘That was young Kit Cornish. His mother’s a canny body, do anything for us old folk along here, she will. But the father now, that’s a different tale altogether like. He’s a wild one, all right. I only hope poor Meg’s lads don’t go the same road as him. The scandal of the place he is, a wonder the village doesn’t throw him out. I lived there meself till last year. Oh, aye. Wesley Cornish is a bad ’un all right. Flaunting a fancy woman, and doesn’t care who knows. Couldn’t give a damn about his own wife and bairns.’
Jonty could see Bill was working himself up into a righteous rage about Wesley Cornish. He butted in swiftly when the old man paused for breath.
‘Do you happen to know where they live? I thought I would see how the boy is in a day or two.’
Bill paused, already gathering strength to continue his tirade. He looked at Jonty, remembering he was speaking to a gentleman. Maybe he had said too much.
‘Aye, Sir, I do. Me daughter lives in the same street. George Row, that is.’
Jonty looked after Meg and her sister, just disappearing round a bend in the wagon way, following the men carrying Kit. He wanted to know how the boy got on, but at the same time he was determined to have a proper talk with Meg, find out if she remembered him and if she knew what had happened all those years ago when her parents abandoned him to his father. Thanking the old pitman, he mounted his horse and rode off in the opposite direction to Winton Colliery, making his way back to Grizedale Hall.
On his ride, memories flooded back to him. Hannah bathing him in the tin bath by the kitchen fire when he and Meg had covered themselves in mud; the day he and Meg had played in Grizedale Hall, the last day they had been together. And he remembered how he had found that cousin of the Maddisons, Mrs Lowther, and how hopeful he had been that she would lead him back to the Maddisons and there would be a simple explanation for what had happened. But he also remembered his bitter disappointment when they’d refused to see him. When he went to see Meg, in a few days, when she had got over the shock of Kit’s near brush with death, he might not say who he was at first. He’d test the water first.
Meg started up in bed, her pulse hammering and sweat breaking out all over her body. It was barely morning. A dim grey light filtered through the thin cotton curtains so it must be just after dawn.
She rubbed her forehead with the sleeve of her nightie, trying to collect her thoughts. She had had the nightmare again, the one which had plagued her from childhood. The gigantic man on the grey horse had been chasing after her and Mam. And she was a child again, stumbling and running up the old railway track, hanging onto Mam while the candyman was getting nearer and nearer. The candyman . . .
She hadn’t thought of him for years. Vaguely, in the back of her mind, she knew his name. What was it? Her brow furrowed as she tried to recall the name.
‘Mam?’
The candyman was forgotten as Kit said her name. Jumping out of bed, she pulled a shawl over her nightgown and hurried to him.
‘What is it, son?’
Kit moistened his lips with his tongue. ‘Can I have a drink, Mam?’
Meg filled a cup from the water jug, and putting her arm under his shoulders, lifted him while he drank thirstily. She looked at his leg, now immobilised properly in a splint. Nothing to worry about, a greenstick fracture that was all, the doctor had said. But she worried nevertheless. She felt Kit’s forehead. It was a little hot, but nothing to get alarmed about.
There was a bruise on his shoulder and another on his chin but they would be gone in a few days. She couldn’t bear to think of what could have happened, closed her mind against a picture of him lying face down in murky water at the bottom of the shaft. She brushed her lips against the boy’s cheek.
‘I was just looking to see what was down there,’ he whispered. ‘I was being careful, honest, Mam, I was, I don’t know how I fell in.’
‘Whisht, petal,’ she said. ‘Try and get to sleep, you’re not going to get into trouble.’
Kit would always be looking to see what was there, she thought with a wry smile. He had had a natural born curiosity since the day he first focused his eyes on his folded fist, staring at it for minutes at a time. She kept her arm under his shoulders and leaned back against his pillow.
‘Go to sleep, hinny,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll stay with you till morning now. Just go to sleep, stop thinking about it. It’s over now.’
The boy drifted off to sleep but Meg herself stayed wide awake. It wouldn’t be long before it was time to face the day, but for now she was content
to lie there with her young son against her arm, letting her mind drift.
She had thought Wesley would come home last night. Surely he had heard about the accident? Didn’t he care what happened to his son? Not that she minded whether he came or not, not now. They got along fine without him. Sally Hawkins was welcome to him. Meg didn’t even care when the neighbours looked sideways at her though she knew they were speculating on what she had done to drive him away.
Her mind wandered back to the man who had rescued Kit from the old pit shaft. He’d been grand, he had, she would be grateful to him for ever, she thought, rubbing her thumb up and down the boy’s arm. He’d been so sympathetic an’ all, with such lovely eyes, like dark brown velvet. She’d seen eyes like that before.
Meg began to feel deliciously drowsy and her eyes closed of their own accord. She drifted back to sleep as the grey light at the window became brighter and in the rows the caller went on his rounds, rapping lightly at the windows to call the pitmen up for back shift. And the man of her dreams had changed from the frightening figure of the candyman. This one had the same dark hair and eyes, but instead of the eyes being hard like black bullets under frowning lids, they were soft and gentle and understanding.
Wesley came just after Tucker had gone to school, walking straight in the front door and through to the kitchen as though he still lived there instead of being an irregular visitor. He was black from the pit. Meg jumped in apprehension as she heard the metallic ring of his metal-studded pit boots on the boards.
‘What’s this then?’ he asked, without bothering with any greeting. ‘It’s a fine thing when everybody in the pit knows my lad has had an accident except me.’ He stood, legs astride and hands on hips, his pit cap pushed to the back of his head, and glared at Meg.
‘If you’d been here you would have known, wouldn’t you?’ she pointed out.
Wesley scowled. ‘You should have sent Tucker round to tell me, I have a right to know,’ he snapped.
‘I’m not sending Tucker round to your fancy woman’s house,’ Meg replied sturdily.
Wesley stepped forward, his eyes narrowing to slits. ‘Sally’s twice the woman you ever were to me, frozen little bitch that you are. I’ve a good mind to show you now how a proper woman should act with her man.’
Meg stood her ground. ‘Oh, yes, that’s what you came for, is it? I thought you hadn’t come to see Kit. You don’t care about the bairn. Why, you hardly know him. And when did we last see any of your pay to feed him? How do you think I manage?’
‘You do all right, you don’t deserve any money from me. Why, you’re lucky I let you stay in my house.’
‘Your house? Your house, is it? I always thought it was a pit house,’ she taunted.
‘You’ve got a sharp tongue, haven’t you?’ Wesley lifted his hand to threaten her and she laughed.
‘Oh, aye, that’s going to do your name the world of good, isn’t it? Your marras’ll cheer you on all right, living with that Sally Hawkins and only coming round here to knock your wife about. Any road, I thought you were bothered about Kit?’
‘Mam! Mam!’
As if on cue, his frightened cry came from above their heads, calming Meg immediately.
‘We’ve gone and upset the bairn, now,’ she said more quietly as she hurried to the bottom of the stairs.
‘It’s all right, pet,’ she called up, ‘it’s just your da come to see how you are.’ She looked back into the kitchen at Wesley. ‘Now, go on up and see the lad. And be nice to him. The doctor says he has to be kept quiet for a few days. He had a bad fall and a nasty shock. This is no time to be fighting, with a sick bairn in the house.’
Wesley had the grace to drop the quarrel. Sitting down in his old chair by the fire, he took off his boots and went upstairs in his stockinged feet.
Meg hovered around the bottom of the stairs, listening to him talking awkwardly to the son he hardly knew. He’s only doing it so that he doesn’t look bad to his marras, she thought bitterly. If he cared at all about the lads he’d do more for them. Her thoughts went back to baby Robert. Wesley had cared about him. He’d cared enough to take it as a personal insult when Robert took the fever and died.
Coming downstairs some minutes later, Wesley put five shillings down on the kitchen table. Meg gazed at it, feeling like picking it up and throwing it back at him.
‘What’s that for?’ she asked his retreating back.
‘Buy the bairn something,’ he called over his shoulder.
Meg picked up the two half crowns, staring at the silver in her hand, tempted to throw it on the fire back. But in the end she reached up and put it on the mantelshelf. Proud gestures would get her nowhere.
It was the following Saturday when the little house in George Row had another visitor. Meg had prevailed upon Tucker to stay at home and entertain his small brother while she did her shopping.
A horse and trap was standing outside her door when she got back, loosely tethered to the lamp post. She looked at it curiously. Someone had an unusual visitor but it couldn’t be her, she didn’t know anyone with a horse and trap. No one who would come to the house at least. She dismissed it from her mind as she opened her door.
‘Tucker?’ she called, a little apprehensively. She had been gone longer than she had expected, for the store had been crowded and she was well aware that Tucker might have got bored with his younger brother and gone out. As she walked through to the kitchen, taking off her hat as she went, a figure rose from the armchair and she started with surprise.
‘Mrs Cornish?’
It was the gentleman who had brought Kit up from the old pit shaft, smiling at her as she put her shopping basket down on the table. She didn’t have time to open her mouth before Tucker rushed into excited speech.
‘It’s Mr Dale, Mam. He’s come to see if our Kit’s better. An’ he’s brought him a present, Mam, an’ me an’ all.’
‘A present?’
‘Nothing much, just a token,’ the man broke in. ‘I was interested in knowing how the boy was.’
‘Grand, he’s doing grand.’ Meg looked up into dark eyes, dark, velvety eyes, kind, concerned eyes, the nicest eyes she had ever seen, she thought distractedly.
‘I took him up to see our Kit, Mam,’ said Tucker. ‘An’ he’s brought him a rocking-horse. A rocking-horse, Mam! Something to hurry up and get better for, like, so that our Kit can ride him. His name’s Neddy.’
Tucker was so excited his words were falling over each other so that it was a moment or two before Meg understood what he was saying.
‘A rocking-horse? Eeh, you shouldn’t have done that, Sir. A rocking-horse must have cost a mint of money.’ No wonder Tucker was excited. No other child in the rows had a rocking-horse, there just wasn’t the money for toys as grand as that.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Cornish,’ Jonty assured her. ‘It’s just an old one from the nursery at Gr— at my home. It was nothing, I assure you. And I’ve stood it beside the boy’s bed. He can look at it, it will encourage him to get well.’
‘He brought me some toy soldiers, Mam,’ cried Tucker, holding them up for her to see, and obligingly she looked at them. They were a bit battered it was true, but they were soldiers still and Tucker would have a fine time with them. His eyes were shining more than they had on Christmas morning last year, she saw. He was fair bubbling with excitement.
‘They’re real bonny, they are,’ she said, his delight in the toys making her smile. Tucker ranged his soldiers on the table beside her basket. There were six of them in scarlet coats and tall black hats, resplendent still, though in places the paint had rubbed down to the metal beneath.
‘It’s very kind of you, Sir. Mr Dale, did you say? Please sit down. I’ll make some tea. Will you have some tea?’
‘I don’t want to impose,’ said Jonty, but he sat down nevertheless and watched her as she put the kettle on the fire and brought the biscuit tin out from the pantry. Luckily, she had a set of nice china cups and saucers which Alice had cajole
d her brothers into buying for Meg last Christmas. She’d have been mortified if she’d had to offer him tea in a pint pot.
‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough for what you did for Kit,’ she said fervently as she handed him his tea and sat down facing him. Tucker was standing at the table, already deep in a battle with his loyal troop of soldiers, issuing commands to them in a low voice and the next moment lifting his arm in an arc and zooming in on them, knocking one down.
‘Boom, boom,’ he cried, imitating guns.
Meg glanced at him before turning back to Jonty. ‘You are so very kind an’ all,’ she said softly.
He smiled. ‘Well, they were just lying around the old nursery, there’s no children to play with them now.’
He took a sip of tea and Meg was thankful that she’d had some real milk in the house to put in it, she’d bought it for Kit.
‘Still, it was very good of you, Sir,’ she insisted.
‘Oh please, don’t call me that, it makes me feel old,’ he said. ‘My name’s John. Do call me John.’
‘Well . . .’ Meg was about to object to such familiarity but just then the front door opened and she heard her sister’s footsteps.
‘Auntie Alice! Auntie Alice!’ Tucker broke off his game abruptly and ran to the door to meet her. ‘Look what Mr Dale brought us.’
Alice halted in the doorway and stared at the man sitting in Meg’s rocking-chair and drinking tea from a china cup.
‘He brought us soldiers, Auntie Alice,’ Tucker cried impatiently. She wasn’t showing the interest in the soldiers he thought she should.
‘Yes, pet,’ said Alice, and dropped her gaze to the toys. ‘Grand, they are.’
‘Oh, Mr Dale, this is my sister, Alice. You remember, she was there when—’
‘Yes, of course.’ Jonty rose to his feet and held out his hand to the young woman, who blushed with embarrassment as she hesitantly took it in hers.
‘Miss Alice, er—?’ Jonty lifted an enquiring eyebrow at her.