by Maggie Hope
‘It looks badly,’ Mr Holmes said quietly to his wife but not so quietly that Hannah’s sharp ears didn’t hear. ‘Poor lad’s back’s broke, I doubt.’
‘A fall of stone, was it?’ asked Mrs Holmes.
‘Aye. The deputy had fired the shot all right, none could fault him; he’d got the men back out of the road first and the coalface came down. It was after the black dust thinned and settled and the men were returning to the face that it happened. Jake was the first back. He was always the first, always eager to get back to work. You know the name he had for hard work. Well, the shot must have disturbed a fault in the roof, loosened the stone, for suddenly there was a rumble and the men jumped back, away from the danger, they all knew what it meant, but Jake was caught when the stone came down. There wasn’t a lot, the others soon got it off him, but the damage was done.’
Hannah stared at her broth, feeling sick. She looked up at the wooden beams of the kitchen ceiling, imagining them falling on her and Jane and Harry, and shuddered. Suddenly, she knew she was definitely going to be sick and she mumbled something to Mrs Holmes, and rushed out to the drain in the yard and retched and retched.
Mrs Holmes glanced at her husband, biting her lip. ‘There, now, we shouldn’t have said anything in front of the bairns,’ she said. ‘That Hannah’s a sensitive lass.’
Jane and Harry had stopped eating and were gazing through the window at their sister who was crouched over the drain.
‘Don’t worry, now, she’ll be all right,’ Mrs Holmes reassured them. ‘I’ll fetch her back, poor lass.’
Hannah’s eyes were watering and she was trembling violently when Mrs Holmes took hold of her shoulders and drew her back to the kitchen door.
‘Howay, lass,’ Mrs Holmes said, ‘it’s the shock, that’s what. You have to be strong now, you big ones, for the sake of little Jane and Harry.’ She offered Hannah a large handkerchief, a real one, not a piece of rag, which was what the Armstrong children usually used for a hanky, and Hannah wiped her face. They paused in the doorway as they heard a motor starting up, followed by the loud clanging of the bell on top of the union ambulance and Hannah’s trembling increased until she was shaking uncontrollably.
‘They’ll be taking him to the County Hospital,’ said Mr Holmes. ‘Eeh, lass, you’re shivering, come away in by the fire and have a warm.’
‘Thank you, Mr Holmes,’ Hannah said, surprising herself at how normal her voice sounded, ‘but we’ll have to get back. Betty said we had to stay in the kitchen, she’ll be mad if she can’t find us.’
‘All right, lass, if you want to,’ said Mrs Holmes. ‘Wait on a minute, though, I’ll give you that broth. It’ll likely do for your mam and Alfred.’
Hannah stood quietly, with Jane and Harry hanging on to her skirt, as Mrs Holmes went into the pantry and brought out a large tin can with a lid in the form of a cup. Picking up the pan, she filled the can with what was left of the broth.
‘Poor bairns,’ Mrs Holmes said to her husband as she watched the children go down the yard and out into the back lane. ‘Whatever’s going to happen to them now?’
‘Jake’ll get compensation,’ said Mr Holmes.
‘Hmm!’ His wife’s expression showed plainly what she thought of the compensation rates for hewers who were injured in the mine.
‘Where’ve you been?’ demanded Betty as the children trooped into the kitchen of the Armstrong house. ‘Mam’s gone in the ambulance with me da and I have to get some dinner ready for Alf when he comes in from work. An’ you let the fire get down, it’ll be ages before it’s hot enough to cook anything.’
Betty had one of her mother’s aprons tied round her thin twelve-year-old body and drooping almost to her ankles. She was a tall girl, with fair hair and brown eyes, now red and strained-looking.
‘Mrs Holmes took us in her house,’ volunteered Jane. ‘She gave us some grand broth, Betty, we’ve brought you some an’ all.’
‘You shouldn’t take food off folk!’ snapped Betty. ‘You know Mam says we haven’t to.’
Jane looked crestfallen and Hannah put the can of steaming broth on the table. ‘Mrs Holmes said Mam wouldn’t mind, not when we’ve trouble in the house,’ she said. ‘Didn’t we take some to Mrs Gittens when Mr Gittens was hurt in the pit? Anyroad, it’ll do nicely for Alf’s dinner. Mam just made the bread this morning, it’ll be grand and fresh for him with the broth.’
Betty looked undecided, she was very conscious of the fact that she was in charge of the household, if only temporarily, but she glanced at the smouldering fire and back at the can of broth on the table and made up her mind.
‘Don’t leave it on the table to get cold, our Hannah,’ she said. ‘Get the pan from the pantry and put it on the bar to keep warm. Alf won’t eat it if it’s cold, will he?’
Hannah rushed to do Betty’s bidding.
It seemed to Hannah in the next few weeks that she was always rushing to do Betty’s bidding. The moment she came in from school, even as she walked down the yard, Betty was issuing her instructions. ‘Fetch a bucket of coal in’, ‘Peel the taties’, ‘Go to the shop’ – even little Jane had to do her share. For Mam was busy with Da, who had been sent home from the hospital in a boxlike bed on wheels, unable to sit up or move his body from the chest down. He lived in the front room now and it was Alf who came in black from his work on the screens where he cleaned the coal of stone. Alf sat in Da’s chair by the fire though he was only fourteen years old, and waited for Hannah to fill the tin bath with hot water from the boiler by the fire and demanded his dinner on time. For Alf was the only one bringing in a wage now, even if it was only four shillings a week.
‘Seventeen and tuppence,’ said Mam the first time Alf brought home Da’s weekly compensation. ‘It’ll be fourteen and ninepence when they take off the war money an’ they’ll be doing that, sure as shot, now the war’s over and done with. An’ we can’t live on that, there’s only one thing for it, we need another wage coming in.’
‘Mam! I can’t go to work, I’m not thirteen yet,’ said Betty, suddenly looking very young and vulnerable.
‘Not you, pet,’ answered her mother. ‘Our Robert’ll have to come home.’
Hannah sat beside Jane and Harry on the horsehair sofa and all three gazed at Mam. What was she talking about? thought Hannah. Robert wouldn’t want to come home, he didn’t like it in Winton. Why, the last time he’d come he’d told her that he was going to work on the carriers with his uncle Billy when he left school. Robert lived with Grandma Armstrong, miles away in Consett; they hadn’t even seen him for almost a year.
‘Robert’s only thirteen, Mam,’ said Betty.
‘Aye. Well, he can take the leaving exam like Alf did. If he knows his letters and his figuring, the gaffer will take him on, he’s sure to when his father broke his back in the pit. You and Alf will have to look to your da on Saturday, Betty, while I go to Consett and tell your grandma. Best not put it in a letter. I’ll away up to see the manager now, see about getting him a job.’
Nora Armstrong looked the three younger children over critically.
‘Hannah, wash Harry’s face, you three are coming along of me. It won’t hurt to show the manager I’ve got bairns to feed an’ all,’ she said as she looked in the mahogany-framed mirror which hung over the high mantelpiece. She smoothed her dark hair away from her forehead, then, satisfied with her appearance, went to the middle door which led into the front room.
‘I’m going up to the colliery office, Jake,’ she said. ‘You’ll be all right for a while, will you?’
‘Aye, I’m fine. I’m enjoying the rest, lying here,’ came the sardonic reply.
‘I’ll only be half an hour,’ Nora said. ‘I’m taking the little ones; Betty will be here, though, if you want her.’
‘Well, get away, woman, if you’re going,’ Jake answered irritably.
Nora took her shawl from the hook on the back door and wrapped it round her.
‘Are you not going to wear your Sun
day coat?’ asked Betty, sounding surprised.
‘No. It’s better not to let them think I’m well off, a shawl’s the best thing,’ said Nora.
They walked up the row, Nora holding Harry’s hand and Hannah behind with Jane. The children were quiet; even Hannah was nervous of meeting the colliery manager, while Jane and Harry looked white and strained. It wasn’t far to the pit yard and the colliery office was just inside the gates, a red brick building with steps leading up to the entrance. Parked beside the steps was a motorcar and sitting in the passenger seat was a boy of about fifteen, a boy in a suit with a Norfolk jacket and a proper collar and tie and his dark hair slicked back over his ears.
‘Look, Hannah, a motorcar,’ cried Harry, grinning with delight. ‘By; isn’t it grand? What does it say, Hannah? Those letters on the front, I mean.’ Harry was fairly dancing round the car; he touched the gleaming coachwork and the bright silver of the headlights. ‘When I grow up I’m going to have a motorcar just like this,’ he declared.
‘Sunbeam, that’s what it says,’ said Hannah. She was almost as entranced by the machine as Harry was.
‘Sunbeam coupé,’ said the boy and he climbed out of the car. All three children quietened and Harry drew close to his mother.
‘He talks funny,’ Harry said in a whisper which nevertheless was heard by them all. The boy smiled.
‘Would you like to sit in my seat for a minute?’ he asked Harry.
‘Eeh, no,’ said Mrs Armstrong, pulling the child to her.
‘Mam!’ said Harry, his eyes bright with hope, and she gave in.
‘All right, but just for a minute. We have to see the manager before he goes home,’ she decreed.
‘Oh, my father’s with him now, he won’t be going home yet,’ said the boy. He held the door open for Harry, who clambered on to the padded leather seat and sat quietly, gazing at the dashboard with its knobs and dials, happiness oozing out of him.
The boy looked down at Hannah, smiling, and she smiled back shyly. By, he was a grand lad, she thought, letting Harry have a go in his car. She reckoned he was about the same age as Alf, but he was so tall and good-looking and his clothes were so clean. Even his hands were clean, she saw, there were no scars or black bits under the skin, his hands were soft and white. He didn’t work on the screens, she decided. He had kind eyes, though. Was he a prince? A prince like in Cinderella?
Hannah looked up, startled, as the office window opened and a man stuck his head out.
‘Timothy! Get that boy out of there at once. At once, do you hear? God knows what dirt and disease he might be carrying, not to mention fleas. I told you to sit in the car until I was ready, did I not, sir?’
‘Come on, Harry, we have to go in now,’ said Nora. She had turned a fiery red and kept her head bent as she lifted Harry out of the car. Hannah was mortified, she burned with the shame of it. Her family didn’t have fleas, nor nits either. Everybody in the rows knew Mam was spitting clean – why, didn’t she rake their heads every night with the small-tooth comb? Just in case they picked anything up at school, that was.
‘We haven’t got fleas, Mam, have we not?’ she said as Jane and Harry began to whimper.
‘No, we have not!’ snapped Nora. ‘We’re as clean as anybody, we are.’
Hannah stoke a glance at the boy, who was sheepishly climbing into the car.
‘Dust the seat before you sit down, Timothy,’ roared the man at the window.
‘Yes, Father,’ the boy mumbled. He took a blue duster from the tray under the dashboard and rubbed it over the seat.
‘There’ll be no dirt on it,’ hissed Hannah and Timothy looked at her, his eyes shamed.
‘Howay, Hannah,’ snapped her mother and Hannah followed her up the steps and into the office.
There was a desk just inside with a clerk sitting behind it. Through the partition window behind him, Hannah could see the man, Timothy’s father, talking to the manager.
‘Yes, what do you want?’ demanded the clerk. ‘It’s almost closing time, you’ve left it a bit late, whatever it is.’
‘I’m Mrs Armstrong,’ said Nora, holding her head high. Two bright spots of colour still burned in her cheeks. ‘I’ve come to see the manager.’
‘Oh, yes, it was your man who was hurt by that last fall of stone, wasn’t it? Well, you can’t see the manager now, he has Lord Akers’s agent, Mr Durkin, with him. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.’
The clerk gave a dismissive nod and shuffled the papers together on his desk, but Nora was not about to go.
‘I’ll wait until I can see him,’ she insisted, her voice rising. ‘Surely he’ll see me, when my Jake’s had his back broke in the pit?’ The incident with Harry and the car had filled her with resentment, stiffening her resolve.
‘My good woman – ’ the clerk began, but he was interrupted by the manager, who opened the door to the inner office and poked his head out.
‘What’s the commotion, Robinson?’ he asked testily.
‘It’s Mrs Armstrong, sir, the wife of the hewer who was injured in that last roof fall. I told her you were busy.’
‘Get her to come in, Hudson, I might as well hear what she has to say while I’m here,’ a voice called from behind the manager. Harry shrank into Hannah’s skirt, whimpering once more.
Hannah patted his head. ‘It’s all right, Harry,’ she whispered.
‘Yes, of course, Mr Durkin,’ said the manager and held the door open for Nora and her children.
They stood before the desk, Nora, Hannah and the two little ones between them. They were not offered seats though there were a couple of chairs by the wall besides the comfortable armchair occupied by Timothy’s father.
Hannah gazed at him in awe. It was bad enough having to come to see the manager, but Mr Durkin was like no one she had ever seen before. She looked at the smooth black cloth of his suit, his highly polished shoes and white spats. He held a shiny walking stick with a silver top in one hand and was tapping it idly against one leg of his chair. He was tall and elegant and his shirt collar was snowy white against the pale skin of his neck. She watched him as he looked the children over, his face expressionless.
‘Well, what is it, Mrs Armstrong?’ asked Mr Hudson, who had returned to his chair behind the desk.
‘Well … ’
Nora was suddenly tongue-tied.
‘Come along now, Mrs Armstrong, we haven’t got all day,’ Mr Hudson said briskly.
‘She’s been getting weekly compensation, hasn’t she, Mr Hudson?’ Mr Durkin put in.
‘Yes, sir, seventeen shillings and twopence,’ answered the manager.
‘Well, then, that’s all right.’
‘I was wanting to ask you if you’ll set our Robert on, on the screens, I mean,’ Nora said, finding her tongue at last.
‘Robert? Is that your son? We already have one son of yours working on the screens, haven’t we?’
‘Yes, sir. Alf. But Robert’s turned thirteen and he’ll sit the test to leave school. We need the money, sir, seventeen shillings doesn’t keep a family, sir.’
Mr Durkin stopped playing with his stick and stared at her, frowning. ‘What do you mean, it’s not enough? I’d have you know, it’s all you’re going to get. The trouble with you people is you don’t know how to handle money correctly. Remember, the Compensation Committee haven’t decided on your husband’s case yet. There’s some question as to whether it was his own fault, and if that is the decision they come to, you are not entitled to anything. We are paying you now and we don’t have to, you know. And we’re allowing you to stay in the colliery house when we could put another workman in.’
Nora gasped. Her face whitened and she leaned forwards, putting her hands on the desk to prop herself up. She closed her eyes for a moment.
‘Are you feeling faint, Mrs Armstrong?’ Mr Hudson got to his feet hurriedly and brought Nora a chair. ‘Would you like a glass of water?’ He poured some water into a glass from the carafe on the desk and offered it t
o her and she took a sip.
The agent watched the little drama curiously but with little obvious concern. When Nora sat back, the colour returning to her cheeks, he spoke again.
‘Come now, Mrs Armstrong, I only said the committee hasn’t decided yet. There’s no need to take on.’
‘I don’t know what we’ll do without compensation,’ said Nora. ‘We can’t hardly manage as it is.’
‘I did not say there would be no compensation, I simply said we as a company may not be liable. But Lord Akers is a benevolent employer, I think you’ll find. Now, come, we have work to do here. I think we have allowed you enough time.’
Nora got to her feet, looking and feeling defeated. Hannah looked up into her mother’s face and saw the misery there; then she looked at Mr Durkin and she hated him. She hated the way he talked to her mother and most of all she hated the way he spoke, fancy like but frightening, like the wicked man in the pantomime she’d seen at chapel last Christmas. She took hold of her mother’s hand and squeezed it in an effort to comfort her as they turned for the door.
They were in the outer office, almost outside altogether when Mr Hudson followed them and spoke to the clerk.
‘Robert Armstrong. Put his name down to start on the screens next week,’ he said. Without looking at Nora, he turned on his heel and went back into his office.
Chapter Two
Hannah was playing house in the yard with Jane when Robert came home. The two girls had their mother’s wooden clothes horse open in a V and an old blanket thrown over it to make a tent. Inside the tent was an old clippie mat and Harry lying down on it pretending to be a baby. Harry didn’t want to be the baby, he wanted to be the father, but he gave in when the girls insisted.