‘I wouldn’t have been one if Rupert had lived, remember,’ Isobel replied reflectively.
‘Oh, Isobel.’ Eleanor reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘I know. You would have been a darling of a sister-in-law too.’
They sat on in silence for a moment, each lost in private reminiscence. A light breeze brought the distant thrum of the pithead’s ceaseless industry to them, but it was so much a part of the place that neither was disturbed by the noise.
‘Remember the tennis fours we used to make up?’ Eleanor smiled.
‘Oh, yes.’ Isobel joined in the game. ‘Rupert and I always beat you and Reggie.’
‘No you didn’t! I was horribly athletic in those days, don’t you remember?’
‘Reggie was always shouting at you to leave the ball because it was going out, but you always had a go at hitting it.’ Isobel laughed.
‘Oh, dear Reggie, I was really quite fond of him before the war,’ Eleanor mused.
‘So was Rupert,’ Isobel sighed.
‘Yes, they were such good friends. Strange for cousins to be so close, don’t you think? I mean, being forced on each other in childhood with Reggie’s parents being abroad so much, you would think they would have loathed each other.’
The maid, Margaret Slattery, came and removed the tea tray. The breeze was becoming more chill, but both women were reluctant to move.
‘You and Rupert should have married before the war, just as Reggie and I did,’ Eleanor said after the maid was out of earshot.
‘Would you have married Reggie after the war?’ Isobel asked quietly. They both knew the answer.
‘We seemed to be swept away with the urgency of it all.’ Eleanor tried to excuse herself. ‘Everyone was doing it. I was fond of him, but I also felt desperately sorry for him, Isobel. I really didn’t think he was coming back. I suppose I looked on it as doing my own little bit for the war effort.’
‘Oh, Eleanor, you are impossible!’ Isobel couldn’t help laughing ‘You were in love with Reggie then, everyone could see it. Rupert was thrilled at the match, he took all the credit.’
‘So I’ve got him to blame.’ Eleanor rolled her large dark eyes and then realised what a crass remark she had made. Isobel glanced away. ‘I’ve never told anyone this, Isobel,’ Eleanor added quietly, ‘but I used to pray that if one of them had to die and one was allowed to come home, Rupert would be the one to be spared. By the time Reggie came home, it was like being married to a man I’d never met.’
‘Don’t, Eleanor—’ Isobel began to protest, but her words were cut short by the arrival of her father.
‘What a delightful sight. Am I too late for tea, my dears?’ Dr Joice greeted them.
‘I’ll get Margaret to bring some more out, Papa.’ Isobel jumped up with relief. For a few minutes Eleanor chatted to the doctor about the garden; she knew it was his passion, but as local doctor and district medical officer he seldom had the chance to indulge it. Isobel returned.
‘Is all well at the Kirkups’, Papa?’ she enquired, pouring out his tea herself. His long, chiselled face took on its world-weary look.
‘Poor Fanny Kirkup is not at all well.’ He shook his head. ‘I’d like to get her into hospital, but the family want to nurse her at home - they’re worried about the cost, of course.’
‘The name sounds familiar.’ Eleanor’s brow puckered.
‘You may know her.’ Dr Joice sipped his tea. ‘She used to work up at The Grange in Good Queen Victoria’s Day.’ It was a favourite expression of his which he applied to a past that had mellowed into nothing but happy memories; a time before his wife had succumbed to influenza. ‘Fanny Beal she was called then.’
‘Fanny Beal, yes!’ Eleanor had a vague recollection of a plump and pretty housemaid who used to clean the nursery. ‘I think I picked flowers for her when she left to get married. She was dark-haired and lively, could that be the one?’
‘Probably.’ Dr Joice slurped thirstily. ‘She has a large brood in Hawthorn Street - not sure if all of them are hers. The place is stiflingly hot and full of dust from the men’s clothes, quite the worst conditions for a woman suffering from a lung complaint like hers.’
‘Mrs Kirkup collapsed on the day of the Miners’ Gala,’ Isobel explained. ‘How will they manage with her so ill, Father?’
‘Their elder daughter Louisa seems to have taken charge; she’s a sensible girl,’ Dr Joice assured his daughter. ‘She’ll have a job on her hands, mark you.’
‘Oh dear.’ Isobel looked worried. ‘I hope it doesn’t mean Hilda Kirkup won’t return to school; she’s such a bright girl.’
‘You teach one of the family, then?’ Eleanor asked.
‘Isobel’s taught at least three of them, haven’t you, my dear?’ Her father smiled.
‘Yes, but Hilda’s the most promising of them all. I’ve never known a pupil have such a thirst for reading at her age. She’s only twelve and she’s devoured all my Jane Austen and Charles Dickens and even Father’s Matthew Arnold poems.’
‘What a protégée, Isobel,’ Eleanor teased.
‘You’d find her interesting, Eleanor.’ Isobel ignored the jibe. ‘She’s quite without inhibition with people like you and me.’
‘Precocious, you mean.’ Her friend gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes.
‘Really, Eleanor.’ Isobel sounded quite annoyed. ‘For someone who professes to care about the working classes, you show a remarkable lack of interest in them as individuals.’
Eleanor felt rightly rebuked. ‘If it makes you happy, Isobel, I’ll lend her my banned copy of Ulysses.’
Dr Joice gave a theatrical tut and stood up. ‘I shall leave you ladies to your seditious talk and go and tend my garden,’ he announced, and strode away.
Shortly afterwards Eleanor took her leave and drove back to The Grange in her new Austin Seven. She always felt guilt at her relief at leaving behind the grime and squalor of Whitton Grange and the gaunt, menacing bulk of the Eleanor and Beatrice pits, clinging like black giants to the side of the escarpment. She never felt easy that a mine was named after her, that people died in her name. Thankfully this year, no one had; the Whitton Grange lodge banner held aloft at the Durham Gala had not been draped in the ominous black crepe that spoke silently of fatalities. But next year, or the following one, it might be different.
She shuddered, and then put such bleak thoughts from her mind. Tonight she had arranged a theatre party for Beatrice and her friends and would take them to Newcastle. Tomorrow she would brace herself to tell Reginald that she was going to London to visit friends. By next week, she thought with pleasure, for a while at least, she would have shaken the dust of Whitton Grange from her feet.
Chapter Three
The wind that lifted the billowing washing across the back lane was raw, but spring was on its way, Louie thought with relief. A clutch of yellow crocuses stood in solidarity at the stand pump, buffeted but defiant. In a minute, Louie knew, the coal cart would come, with its driver shouting his warning, and she would have to dash out and remove the half-dry clothes before they were blackened, but for a brief moment she could enjoy a welcome cup of tea and a chat with Mrs Parkin over the clippy mat.
‘Your Louie makes a lovely scone, Fanny,’ their neighbour was saying as Louie re-entered the kitchen. Her mother was propped up in the spare bed, which pulled out of the large mahogany press in the corner. She had had a bad week with her chest, but with the brighter weather a glimpse of her old liveliness was returning. Louie was thankful that this Monday was not a wet one and the washing could be hung outside. They seemed to have lived all winter with the dank smell of wet washing strewn about the cramped kitchen and her mother wheezing and coughing on her bed behind a screen of shirts and tea towels.
‘She’s a good cook, I taught her all I know.’ Fanny Kirkup smiled jokingly at her elder daughter.
‘More tea, Mam?’ Louie reached for her cup. They had become close since last summer when her mother had been taken ill. Louie had been t
errified of her dying, but Dr Joice had said she was of strong Durham stock and would survive worse than this; and she had.
She poured her mother another cup of the well-stewed dust tea they drank. After a couple of minutes the women settled to the task of adding a few shreds of cut-up cloth to the clippy mat stretched over the wooden frame before them. The pattern was largely grey and green, but they had managed a splash of red around the border made from an old petticoat of Hilda’s. The mat was nearly completed and would take pride of place in front of the parlour fire.
‘Your mam tells me young Sam Ritson’s been calling at the house on Saturday evenings,’ Mrs Parkin began. Louie felt her fair face blushing.
‘John brings him sometimes,’ Louie tried to sound disinterested, ‘and we sing around the piano. I don’t know why he bothers, though, ‘cos he spends most of the time arguing politics with me Da, doesn’t he, Mam?’ She looked at her mother for support.
‘He is a bit serious that way,’ Fanny admitted, ‘but he’s a canny lad - Liza Ritson has brought him up with nice manners, he always compliments Louie on the spread.’
‘That’s good.’ Mrs Parkin nodded with approval. ‘And some men like to talk politics, Louie - after all, his father’s been a union delegate before. Now my Wilfred isn’t political; all he talks about is football, but then lads will be lads.’
‘But Sam Ritson doesn’t seem to have any interests apart from politics,’ Louie complained. ‘He blames the bosses for low wage packets, he blames them for bad conditions, I bet he’d blame them for the snow this last winter!’
‘Well, perhaps he has a point.’ Mrs Parkin’s fleshy lined face grew serious. ‘Wilfred says three of the pits at the top of the valley are closing soon. We need fighters like Sam Ritson to stop them closing the Beatrice ‘n’ Eleanor.’
‘Aye,’ Fanny wheezed. ‘Our Eb’s already on short time.’
Louie could not prevent a memory coming into her head of Sam Ritson, the fighter, standing bare-armed in the boxing ring, aggressive and uncompromising, about to fell the Black Bear from Germany with a thick fist. Perhaps underneath he had the same interests as other lads, but she had yet to be convinced. He never danced at the socials at the chapel hall, he did not appear to enjoy a sing-song like her family did, and he had not shown the slightest interest in her except to thank her politely for nice teas. Yet Sam was the only lad in a family of three lively sisters, so how had he turned out so boring? His sister Bel had been a cheerful classmate of Davie’s, and Louie had been at school with Mary Ritson; she was normal enough, apart from an over-enthusiasm for religion. Well, what did it matter? Louie did not give a halfpenny for what Sam Ritson thought of her.
‘Louie, there’s the coal man on his way.’ Her mother interrupted her thoughts, and she jumped up guiltily.
‘I’ll be off then.’ Mrs Parkin heaved herself from the kitchen stool. ‘My Wilfred’s shift will be finishing shortly, so I’ll have to get more hot water on. By, Monday’s the devil’s own day. Ta-ra, Fanny.’
‘Ta-ra, Edie,’ her mother answered.
For Louie the rest of the afternoon was a rush to finish the hectic round of chores that came with Monday: hauling in the mounds of washing to air by the fire, boiling up endless pans of water for the men’s baths when they got home, frying up the Sunday leftovers for Sadie and Hilda’s tea, dubbing Davie’s pit boots before he went on night shift, and finally putting on a large pan of broth for the following day; with all the ironing and baking she had to do tomorrow there would be no time for extra cooking.
Only now had she begun to appreciate the weight of tasks her mother had borne for years, work that had finally left her on the point of exhaustion. No sooner was one man safely home from the pit, bathed and fed, than another one had to be roused and waved off with a bait tin full of jam sandwiches and a silent prayer. No matter what dark hour of the night they came and went, her mother had been up to see they left with a warm meal in their stomachs and clean boots on their feet. Louie had marvelled that she ever had time to sleep, her life a constant merry-go-round of meals and washing and boiling water and baking and blacking the hearth and cleaning and mending. Now Louie was learning the art of catnapping in a chair, or climbing into bed beside Sadie and Hilda without disturbing them, for a couple of hours of dreamless sleep.
Like her mother before her she felt as much a servant of the pit as her father or brothers. At times Louie resented the greedy, hungry monsters halfway up the hill, jaws whirring and clanking in anticipation, swallowing the men whole, day after day. The women fed the men who fed the pits. The pitmen toiled and clawed in the black dampness until they were spat out, exhausted and bent double, at the day’s end. Louie rubbed the awful vision from her tired eyes; she was becoming as fanciful as Hilda from lack of sleep, she thought wearily.
‘Where in the world has that sister of yours got to?’ her mother fretted as she paused over a half-darned sock. ‘Sadie came home an hour ago.’
Louie rubbed her nose with the back of her hand as she prepared to fry up egg and chips for the men. ‘Goodness knows. Our Hilda gets more airy-fairy by the day. She’s probably up at the allotment with Eb.’
‘She should be here helping you.’ Fanny Kirkup began to work herself into a fluster. ‘The girl’s getting above herself.’ Louie knew the signs, there was always this subtle tension in the air that stretched more taut as the time for the changeover of shift drew near.
Louie hummed softly in time to the ticking of the clock on the wooden mantelpiece above the kitchen range, her actions mechanical and deliberate as she prepared for the men’s homecoming. The sounds of the pits beyond the open door were soothing; the trundle of trucks on the line, the rhythmic chug of the winding engines. At last they heard the short blast of a hooter, followed by the blessed crunch of boots coming up the back lane and the click of the gate. Behind her, Louie heard her mother’s breath hiss with relief like the large kettle ever ready on the hob.
‘That’s your father and John back.’ Her mother’s face lightened. ‘Go and wake Davie, it’s time he was up.’
Hilda had sent Sadie home with her friend Jane Pinkney, making excuses about having to see Miss Joice after school, which was true. But she omitted to tell them she was going to have tea at Miss Joice’s house in the dene, and now here she was, trembling on the large doorstep of the solid redbrick house, wondering whether to press the bell. On the glass above the door, ornate gold letters announced with a flourish that this was ‘Greenbrae’. This was the first time she had come to the house for books and suddenly Hilda was nervous. But Miss Joice must have been looking out for her because the green painted door swung open before she had time for second thoughts.
‘Come in, Hilda.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘I’m just back myself and saw you approaching.’ Her teacher still wore her fair hair in an old-fashioned style, bound up at the back, but her flannel skirt was raised to calf-length from last year’s ankle, and her Fair Isle jumper met with Hilda’s approval.
‘I’ve brought back Tess of the d’Urbervilles and The Mill on the Floss.’ Hilda handed back the books.
‘Did you enjoy them?’ Miss Joice asked, taking the books and helping her off with her coat.
‘Very much, thank you.’ Hilda smiled. ‘I love a sad ending.’ Her teacher laughed and led the way into the drawing room. It was a beautiful room with large French windows looking on to a sheltered garden full of trees breaking into early bud; one cherry tree was already in blossom although the trees by the village green were still bare. Hilda gaped about her at the spacious room, the huge flowered chairs and sofas and the exotic red patterned rug beneath her feet. A cheery fire crackled in the wide brass grate although the room was filled with late afternoon sunlight. On either side of the stone fireplace two deep alcoves held a treasure trove of books stretching from the polished floor to the moulded plasterwork on the high ceiling.
‘It’s beautiful in here, miss.’ Hilda’s face shone with admiration, her bright-blue eyes wid
e in wonder.
‘This is Mrs Seward-Scott, Hilda,’ Miss Joice prompted her. ‘She’s been looking forward to meeting you. I hope you don’t mind me asking her along.’
Hilda was momentarily startled; she had not realised there was anyone else in the room, and hearing the all-powerful name of the landowner brought a rush of blood to her pale cheeks.
‘How do you do?’ the slim lady asked from her seat in the corner of the room. She did not rise, so Hilda stood feeling foolish.
‘Pleased to meet you, miss,’ Hilda gulped, and then half crossed the room towards her. ‘I mean, Mrs Seward-Scott.’ The woman smiled graciously, her dark eyes fixed on Hilda. The girl’s hand groped self-consciously at her hair where it had slipped from its ribbon and tried to hold it in place. She was at once struck by the elegance of the other visitor, dressed in a beige dress with a slim white collar and thin pleats. She wore a neat violet cloche hat which allowed a few wisps of dark hair to peep out and lie next to her prominent cheekbones. Otherwise her pale, slender neck was not fussed by hair, but showed off a necklace of pearls which wound around twice and then fell to her waist.
‘Miss Joice tells me you are an avid reader.’ Eleanor tried to put the girl at ease. ‘Who is your favourite author?’
‘Don’t know, miss.’ Hilda was mesmerised by the dark eyes and the pallid face and felt unusually shy.
‘You enjoy Jane Austen, don’t you, Hilda?’ Her teacher came to her rescue. ‘She’s borrowed Northanger Abbey about five times now.’
‘So Catherine is your kind of heroine, Hilda?’ Eleanor asked, reaching for her cigarette holder.
‘Well, yes,’ Hilda agreed, feeling at once on familiar ground. ‘I’d have been just like her if I’d gone to stay in a big old house. I’d have seen ghosts and things round every corner and made a fool of myself just like Catherine.’
The two women laughed.
Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills Page 4