A Family Affair

by Nancy Carson

  ‘D’you want to play crib wi’ we?’ Noah asked Tom.

  ‘I don’t know how to,’ Tom answered honestly. ‘But thanks for the offer. In any case, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion I’ll be serving beer and washing up before long.’ He turned to Clover who was topping up one of the glasses. ‘Go on, you were telling me about Ned and how thrilled he was about his morning’s work.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Mantle towed him up four times. He practised all his manoeuvres. It was a pleasure to watch, like a big graceful bird sailing across the sky.’

  Tom smiled. ‘So how long was his longest flight?’

  ‘I counted about thirty-five seconds.’ She passed the drinks to Noah and Urban.

  ‘And in that time he actually flew the thing?’

  ‘Oh yes. Turned left and right, got it to climb a short way, then did a roll to turn back downwards to gather speed again. It was really quite a sight. Mr Mantle was amazed.’

  ‘He really needs to get cracking with an engine,’ Tom said. ‘I read the other day there’s a lot of activity going on in France now as regards flying. Everybody’s joining the race.’

  ‘This country too,’ Clover advised. ‘The Army are starting trials according to Ned. Mind you, they haven’t got an engine either, he reckons.’

  Tom quaffed his beer and said, ‘’Struth. If the Army have got no engine, what chance has Ned got?’

  ‘I think he’s decided to approach one of the local firms. It’ll cost him money, of course – money he doesn’t have. Money he’s got no way of getting either, except what he saves out of his wages.’

  ‘You know, Clover,’ Tom said, ‘it’s damned scandalous the way no firm has taken him up on this sponsorship thing he was after. Surely if the Army can see potential—’

  ‘Am you on about that lad what builds them flying machines?’ Noah butted in.

  ‘Yes, Noah,’ Tom replied. ‘Clover went with him this morning, watching him fly it. She was just telling me what a spectacle it was – how well he’s doing.’

  ‘I don’t know what to mek of this flying machine malarkey,’ Urban declared. ‘If God had wanted we to fly he’d have gi’d we wings. It don’t seem natural to me.’

  ‘What yer talking about, natural?’ Noah responded. ‘It’s no less natural than sailors sailing the seven seas in ships.’

  Urban considered this point a moment. ‘But with ships they got the wind to blow ’em forward and the wairter to keep ’em afloat. What’s gunna keep a flying machine afloat like, if the wind blows it about too much? It’ll crash to the ground.’

  ‘That’s a good point, Urban,’ Noah conceded. ‘I hadn’t thought about that.’

  ‘But it’s the challenge,’ Tom suggested. ‘Man has conquered the sea. Now we have to conquer the air.’

  ‘You’ll never conquer the sea,’ Urban said with an authoritative shake of his head. ‘The sea’s too powerful.’ He lifted his pint to take a swig.

  ‘Well, I’m inclined to disagree, Urban,’ Tom answered. ‘Now that sailors don’t have to rely on the winds any longer, I think it’s safe to say we’ve conquered the sea. All right, ships can still sink, but mariners have got some control now.’

  ‘He’s got a point, Urban,’ Noah said, looking from one to the other.

  ‘And it’s a similar challenge, trying to get machines that are heavier than air to fly,’ Tom went on. ‘Once these flying machines can be fitted with reliable engines, just think of the uses they could be put to. There could be a whole new world of possibilities opening up if only we had the foresight to see it. Trouble is, suitable engines are rare and expensive.’

  ‘Yes,’ Clover chimed in. ‘A proper one can cost eight or nine hundred pounds.’

  ‘Eight or nine hundred?’ Noah queried incredulously. ‘Bugger me, you could buy a row of houses for that. All with their own privies and pig sties.’

  ‘And see some bloody change,’ Urban agreed.

  ‘I could retire,’ Noah said and emptied his glass.

  ‘I heard Clover mention summat about the Army wanting to try their luck with flying machines,’ Urban said. ‘Is that right, Clover, my wench?’

  ‘According to Ned Brisco.’

  ‘What the hell does the army want flying machines for?’ Urban asked. ‘I mean, if they want to fly messages to one another they can use carrier pigeons.’

  ‘It’s obvious what they want flying machines for,’ Noah responded, as if he were a great tactician. ‘So’s they can drop bags o’ shit on the enemy. Just think – if you was being bombarded with bags of shit you’d soon surrender, Urban. But why limit it to the army?’ he went on. ‘If I’d got one of them flying machines, I’d drop a great big bag of shit on Mrs bloody Pankhurst and all her Suffragettes.’

  ‘Thanks for helping out tonight, Tom,’ Clover breathed as they stood together in the shadows at the side of the Jolly Collier, arms around each other. ‘I know Mother and Jake will have appreciated it.’

  ‘Anytime. I don’t mind. So long as you’re there with me.’

  She hugged him. ‘Give me a kiss. I haven’t had a kiss all night.’

  Gladly, he obliged her, savouring her lips and her undoubted love for him. There was a swell of tenderness within him, a growing awareness of just how right she was for him. He’d never doubted it, but the better he knew her the more resolutely it was confirmed. From the outset, from the first time he’d ever seen her at the wedding of Mary Ann and Jake, he had known he was in love with her. He had perceived the honesty in her clear blue eyes, the gentleness in her demeanour. Time had proved his instincts valid. Here she was now, devoted in his arms; she was his, heart and soul; totally committed. She was not yet promised. Her promise, however, was implicit in her unspoken but eminently observable commitment. He could not imagine life without her now. He would find it impossible to exist without her warmth, her tenderness, her love. He wanted to ask her to marry him. He wanted her to be his wife. He had no doubt what her answer would be. And because he knew she would say yes, he declined from asking her yet. In any case, it was too soon.

  But he would.

  Before long. Before long he would make his intentions clear.

  ‘Goodnight, my love,’ he whispered.

  ‘Goodnight, Tom. Sleep tight. See you tomorrow after work.’

  He gave her a squeeze and a last peck on the lips before he went from her. When he reached the street he turned and waved. She waved back happily and hitched up her skirt to save her hem dragging in the dirt, and went back inside.

  Inside, Ramona had come down from her room. She stood at the sink in the taproom drying glasses alongside her father.

  ‘Oh, Ramona. Are you feeling better now?’

  ‘Yes thanks, Clover. I’ve been asleep, to tell you the truth. I feel much better for it.’

  ‘Then you must have been really tired. Maybe that’s all it was – tiredness. But you were awake early this morning, you said.’

  Ramona nodded and began stacking dried glasses on one of the shelves. ‘Have you seen Tom?’

  ‘Yes, he’s just gone. He helped out tonight.’

  ‘Good job he did,’ Jake commented. ‘We was ever so busy.’

  ‘Has Uncle Elijah got back yet?’ Ramona glanced at the clock as she asked.

  ‘Not yet. But I don’t suppose he’ll be long.’

  ‘Tis to be hoped not,’ Jake said. ‘I want to lock up in a minute.’

  ‘There’s a new barrel of bitter wanted, Pop,’ Clover said. ‘It ran out just as we closed, remember.’

  ‘Oh, Christ. I’d forgot. Good job you reminded me. Ramona, come and give me a hand in the cellar, will you? Best do it tonight ready for the morning.’

  ‘All right,’ she answered reluctantly.

  Clover began mopping the tables when Ramona and her father went down the cellar. The front door opened and closed, then the door to the taproom opened. Elijah presented himself.

  ‘Brrr! It’s gone chilly, Clover. It’s cold enough for a walking-stick.’

&
nbsp; Clover chuckled. ‘Well, you haven’t got a coat on. It is September – nearly October.’

  He walked over to the fire, drew out a chair and sat in front of it. He grabbed the poker and gave the coals a stir and a flurry of sparks shot up the chimney like shooting stars.

  ‘That reminds me,’ Clover said, wiping the last table, ‘it’s washing day tomorrow and I’ll have to be up early to light the fire in the brewhouse ready for Zillah. I hate that job.’

  ‘Why d’you hate it?’ Elijah asked. ‘When I was a kid I used to love lighting fires.’

  ‘I reckon all boys like lighting fires. But I can’t stand getting all dirty with the coal. I had enough getting dirty working at the foundry.’

  ‘Pour me a pint, Clover and I’ll help you when I’ve warmed up a bit.’

  Clover smiled. ‘All right. But it’ll have to be mild. Jake and Ramona are in the cellar putting a new barrel of bitter on. He’ll need to draw some off before it’s ready.’

  ‘Is there any old ale?’ Elijah warmed his hands in front of the fire.

  ‘Yes.’ Clover poured a glass of old ale and took it to him.

  ‘Thanks, flower.’ He quaffed it avidly. ‘I hate the cold, Clover. Got used to the heat in India, you know. And Africa. I love the heat.’

  ‘I imagine you’re not looking forward to the winter then?’

  ‘Never bloody do. I ought to go and live somewhere hot…Someday, maybe.’

  ‘What about Dorcas? Would she like living somewhere hot?’

  ‘I don’t suppose she’d mind too much. America would be nice. Somewhere like Georgia for instance.’

  ‘Not India, then?’

  ‘No, not India. India has its charms, but I wouldn’t like to live there. Nor Africa, come to that…Aren’t you having a drink, Clover?’

  ‘I had a port and brandy not too long ago. I ought to sleep like a top. I’d better go and lay the fire in the boiler.’

  Elijah emptied his glass. ‘Right. I’ll come and help you.’

  As they were leaving the taproom, Mary Ann was coming in to check the night’s takings. Clover explained where they were going.

  ‘I shall go straight to bed when I’ve done that, Mother. So I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Me as well,’ Elijah said.

  Mary Ann bid them both goodnight.

  Clover picked up an oil lamp from the scullery and met Elijah outside. He shovelled a bucket of coal from the coal house and lugged it into the brewhouse while Clover made firelighters by rolling sheets of newspaper and curling the rolls into coils. Then she laid sheets of crumpled newspaper in the fire hole and lay the coils on top of that. On top she laid sticks of dried wood and then Elijah did the really dirty job of laying the coals.

  ‘There, that dint take long, did it?’ he said and washed his hands clean under the cold tap.

  ‘Thanks, Elijah,’ Clover said. ‘I really appreciate it. I suppose I’ve got a bit of a thing about coal dust and black sand.’

  ‘Like you say, Clover, it must come from working in the foundry.’ Elijah dried his hands on a piece of rag that was hanging from the mangle. ‘Come on then. No point in shivering out here in the bloody cold any longer than we need.’

  Clover picked up the oil lamp again and they walked back towards the house across the yard. Then Clover tripped over the uneven cobbles and stumbled. At once Elijah turned to catch her as she lurched and, frightened she was going to fall and hurt herself, she held on to him.

  It was unfortunate that at that very moment, Ramona had ventured outside in the hope of encountering Elijah. When she witnessed Clover in his arms her heart lurched. She was horrified, desperately hurt and suddenly angry. But they must not see her. They must not know she’d seen them together. So she quickly turned round and, as quietly as she could, ran back into the house and up to her bedroom with tears in her eyes again.

  Chapter 11

  The brewhouse was not to be confused with the brewery, which was a bigger building altogether, four storeys in height and full of tanks and vessels and pipes and sacks of malt and hops. The brewhouse was the small outhouse that housed the mangle, the sink, the maiding tub and the big tin bath as well, and which enjoyed the inglorious privilege of facing the gentlemen’s urinal across the yard and fronting the earth privy. The morning after Ned’s astounding demonstration of aeronautics over Mr Woodall’s flat, fallow field at Bobbington, Clover got up to light the fire under the copper boiler in the brewhouse at her usual five o’ clock. It was raining heavily, typical washday weather. Even though she did not have to commence work so early of a morning these days, getting up at five every Monday morning had become a habit and, as far as she was concerned, it was not a habit she disliked.

  As well as normal domestic laundry, the public house created plenty in the form of towels by the dozen, drip mats, dusters, aprons and all manner of incidental articles. Mary Ann would naturally put in an appearance during the main weekly event and even wring a few token towels through the mangle, as she did this very morning while Zillah was red-faced and perspiring under the heat and steam.

  ‘Have you put e’er a blue bag in, Zillah?’ Mary Ann asked coolly. ‘I’ve sid me sheets whiter than this.’

  ‘Blue bag, yes, and plenty soap flakes and all, Missus,’ Zillah replied, trying to hide her resentment of Mary Ann’s insinuations. ‘When they’n dried they’ll look as white as the driven snow. Like they always do.’

  ‘Tis to be hoped, Zillah, else they’ll all have to be done again. I don’t want nobody on Kates Hill saying behind me back as how me washing’s riffy. Mind how you put me new grey frock through the mangle, and all. Them buttons was dear. I don’t want ’em bosted to smithereens.’

  ‘Don’t thee fret, Mary Ann. I’ll mind as I don’t bost ’em.’ She dried her hands on her apron. ‘I’ll just go an put me line up.’

  The rain had stopped, so Zillah waddled outside in her clogs with the washing line in a coil over her meaty shoulder. With an eye cocked mistrustfully at the dark clouds still above, she strung it across the yard between the rear of the house and the brewery, then back again. She bid good day to Elijah in his shirt sleeves who was rushing into the brewery. As she stretched up on tiptoe to loop the line onto an old iron hook, she was gratified to hear the scuff-scuff of Mary Ann’s slippers on the cobbles that were still wet, and knew she was returning to her licensed victualling.

  Back in the brewhouse rinsing towels in the stone sink, Zillah saw Jake cross the yard to the brewery wearing his long canvas apron and dusty bowler hat. It was the same every Monday morning. Even though the brewery was busier nowadays with the coming of Jake and Elijah, it had always been a hub of activity. A horse and cart trundled into the yard, hooves and iron-rimmed wheels clattering over the cobblestones. Zillah fetched a line prop that was tucked behind a rusty drainpipe and raised the washing line so the cart could pass through unhindered. Before she could hang any washing out she had to wait while Elijah and the carter off-loaded sacks of malt, delivered from the malthouse in Dixon’s Green. Using a block and tackle suspended from an overhanging arm, they sent them soaring up the outside of the building, while Jake unloaded them at the open door on the top floor.

  Zillah at this point was rinsing underwear and wringing it through the mangle. As she worked she sang a song called ‘The Only Bit of English That We’ve Got’ that she’d picked up from the Four Ways Inn in Brown Street where she supped in the snug of an evening.

  Ramona appeared, looking preoccupied. ‘Hello, Zillah,’ she said unenthusiastically. ‘Shall I peg some washing out for you?’

  ‘If you’ve a mind,’ Zillah answered, and pointed a dripping finger at the back of the mangle. ‘You can start with them towels in the washing basket there.’

  Ramona forced a smile. ‘And then I’ll bring you a cup of tea, eh?’

  ‘God bless yer. That’d be grand.’

  ‘Is my Uncle Elijah in the brewery, Zillah?’

  ‘Yes. And your father. They’ve just unlo
aded some malt.’

  ‘I’d best bring them one as well, then. I’ll do that first, before I help you peg out.’

  Zillah turned the big wheel of the mangle with her strong arms. She heaped the sheets in a laundry basket waiting for Ramona to return. After about ten minutes, Ramona came back carrying four mugs on a wooden tray.

  ‘Here you are, Zillah. I’ve already sugared it for you.’

  ‘God bless yer, my babby.’ She took her mug from the tray and sipped it. ‘I think I’ll have me five minutes now.’

  ‘Can you take mine as well, Zillah? I’ll have it in a minute. I’ll take these to my father and Uncle Elijah first.’

  As she reached the door of the brewery she met Jake on his way out.

  ‘I was just bringing you a cup of tea.’

  ‘Oh, ta, our Ramona. I’ll tek it with me back to the taproom. Does it matter which one I have?’

  ‘They’re both the same.’

  He took a mug from the tray. ‘I’m supposed to be at Noah Hingley’s forge in half an hour. I’d better get me skates on.’

  ‘Are they going to buy our beer?’

  ‘They’m interested, if the price and the taste suits ’em.’

  ‘Best of luck then, Dad. I’ll take this mug of tea to Uncle Elijah.’

  ‘He’s right at the top, stacking the bags of malt. See you later.’

  So Ramona went inside the brewery and climbed the wooden stairs to the top floor. Her heart was pounding already at the prospect of being alone with Elijah again. But she was not certain what she would say to him after the astonishment and hurt of discovering last night that she had competition from Clover for his affections. It highlighted how fickle Clover could be. All that show of affection for Tom Doubleday was just a front. Well, she would just as soon tell Tom what she thought about her. She would certainly tell Elijah. She had to tread carefully though; she did not know the strength of this unanticipated liaison with Clover.

  She reached the top. Elijah was emptying a sack into the grist mill that crushed the malt into a coarse flour to remove the husk ready for mashing. It was always so dusty up here.