Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Eleanor steered the conversation away from the subject of domesticity and soon was in deep discussion with Hilda about Wuthering Heights. Eb rose and began to busy himself in the allotment, leaving them to chat. It was only later, when he came back to the hut for the wheelbarrow, that he discovered Hilda showing Eleanor his bird sketches.

  ‘They’re good.’ The older woman gave him a considering look. ‘They’re so expressive.’

  ‘Hilda shouldn’t have shown them to you,’ Eb said crossly. ‘I don’t show them to anybody.’

  ‘Well, you should,’ Eleanor told him. ‘They’re almost like cartoons. These three finches are positively taunting that fat cat,’ she laughed.

  ‘I just do them to amuse m’self.’ Eb blushed, trying to hide his pleasure in her praise.

  ‘Well, they amuse me, and Hilda too, don’t they?’ She smiled at the girl.

  ‘Yes, and Miss Joice says Miss Eleanor knows quite a few artists, Eb, so she should know a good picture when she sees one.’ The other two laughed at her earnest face.

  ‘Well, at least I can understand these drawings.’ Eleanor held them up again. ‘Modern expressionist artists leave me feeling I’ve missed the point completely. But then I’m shamelessly old-fashioned about art.’

  ‘I just draw what I see,’ Eb answered self-consciously.

  ‘No, it’s more than that, Eb.’ Eleanor shook her head. ‘You’re saying something about nature - and people.’

  ‘People’s natures reflected in birds?’ Hilda suggested.

  ‘That’s exactly it.’ Eleanor sounded triumphant. ‘Hilda hits the nail on the head as usual.’

  Eb looked at the two of them, baffled. He had never given his drawings much thought before and he certainly did not think he was trying to say anything through them. Still, if it pleased them both so much, he was not going to spoil their fun.

  ‘Eb’ll let you keep that one, I’m sure,’ Hilda said enthusiastically. ‘You can show it to your friends.’

  ‘Can I, Eb?’ Eleanor asked tentatively. ‘I won’t show it around if you’d rather not.’

  ‘Take it,’ Eb replied, and turned from her as if he did not care. ‘It’ll only go on the bonfire if you don’t.’

  Eleanor rolled it up and put it in her jacket pocket. She could see that Eb was embarrassed and wanted to get on with his work. Rising, she said goodbye, thanking them for the hospitality. As she turned at the gate, Eb’s sunburnt face was already bent over his spade, blond curls sprouting from under his cap on to his leathery neck. Hilda waved. Eleanor waved and smiled back, feeling a sudden lifting of spirits that sent her on the path towards Greenbrae with a lightness of step that hardly needed the aid of her pearl-handled stick.

  ***

  Louie turned from the open oven door with a tin of hot bread. Her face was radish red and running with perspiration. Plonking the bread on the scrubbed kitchen table top she let out an angry puff. From the parlour she could hear Iris and her mother laughing with Edie Parkin and Clara Dobson over their embroidery. They gathered here every Saturday afternoon now to make clothes for the forthcoming baby; for although Fanny’s racking cough had mellowed with the summer sun, she rarely left the house. Beautiful day gowns and night gowns were being created and refashioned out of old cotton shifts; vests, bodices and cot blankets assembled. Her mother was adding yellow braid to a tiny coat and Mrs Parkin was knitting endless pairs of booties.

  ‘You would think Iris Ramshaw was her own eldest daughter,’ Louie had complained to Sam in a fit of frustration.

  ‘She’s Iris Kirkup now, Louie,’ Sam had reminded her. ‘Any road, she’s a canny enough lass and your mam is looking forward to her first grandbairn. You can’t begrudge her that, Louie.’

  Louie had bitten her tongue in annoyance; even Sam did not support her. Everyone seemed to think Iris was a ‘canny lass’, in spite of the fact that she never lifted a finger to help around the house or ease Louie’s burden. It was like having two invalids at home. ‘She’s company for your poor mam,’ her mother would say when Iris was out, strolling to the shops, dressed in her fancy green velvet hat with the cameo brooch pinned to the front. Or from Edie Parkin: ‘She’s expecting, Louie, you mustn’t upset her with your twisty face. Iris is a delicate lass, she doesn’t have half your strength, pet.’

  Even more galling was her father’s attitude; he, who had so disapproved of his prospective daughter-in-law. ‘Your time will come, Louie, be patient and don’t be envious of others. To covet is a mortal sin.’

  When Iris sang at the piano on a Saturday night in that earthy, melodious voice like black treacle oozing off a spoon, the family thought she could do no wrong. But what hurt Louie the most was the way this publican’s daughter had usurped her place in Davie’s affections. He hardly appeared to notice her these days, so moonstruck was he over his pretty pregnant wife. A sister was good only for making his meals and clearing up after Iris. And she was not the only one to notice the change. One day in Armstrong’s the tobacconists, she had overheard Tadger Brown complaining that Davie had gone soft, staying at home on a Friday night instead of going out drinking with the lads.

  Sadie ran in asking for a glass of lemonade.

  ‘You can have water or go thirsty,’ Louie snapped, pushing back the damp wayward curls that stuck to her temples.

  ‘Please, Louie,’ Sadie began to protest.

  ‘I can’t afford to make any more pop for you bairns - not with all the housekeeping going on fancy ribbon for the baby’s clothes.’ Somehow Louie couldn’t help her words. ‘Now do you want a drink of water? If not, then scarper!’

  Sadie pulled a face and skipped out of the back door to rejoin her friends. Her cousin Louie was always bad-tempered these days; she could not understand it. She thought people who were courting should be smiling all the time, like Iris and Davie. She would lie in wait for Iris when she went out to the shops and hang on to her yellow dress until she bought her some sweets. Iris never said no to her like Louie did.

  When Hilda and Eb arrived home, Louie had the tea ready; bacon, bread and jam, semolina pudding and tinned peaches, and strong, hot tea in the pot. Hilda was bursting to tell Louie about their visit from Miss Eleanor, but she thought better of it when she saw her sister’s fraught tired face. Sam would be calling for her any moment to take her to one of his meetings, but she was not changed. She had not even had time to wash the sooty film from her face or comb her hair.

  ‘I’ll clear the dishes,’ Hilda volunteered as Louie rose to do so, ‘and Sadie will help me wash up, won’t you, Sadie?’ The dark-haired girl grimaced but did as she was told. Louie looked at her sister in surprise, but did not argue. She would go and lie down upstairs for five minutes before Sam came. At this rate she would fall asleep during whatever meeting they were attending. She would far rather be going to see the lantern-slide lecture on the Egyptian king with the unpronounceable name that was showing in the Memorial Hall. Davie and Iris were going; strange how her sister-in-law seemed to have the energy for entertainment but not for housework.

  The next thing she knew was Hilda shaking her awake. ‘Sam’s waiting for you, Louie.’ Louie groaned and turned over, her body weighted as lead.

  ‘Tell him I’m too tired,’ she muttered. ‘He’ll have to go without me.’

  ‘Louie!’ Hilda remonstrated. ‘You cannot say no to Sam. He’ll go off you, Louie, and you’ll end up a spinster.’

  Louie shot up in bed and glared at Hilda. Her younger sister was grinning, pleased with the effect of her words.

  ‘Help me get ready, Hildy,’ Louie pleaded. ‘Will you style my hair for us?’

  Hilda did so, persuading Louie to add a string of glass beads to her dress. She did not look as sophisticated as Iris, who wore beads around her head, but it made her feel better.

  ‘Thanks, Hildy.’ Louie gave her a sudden kiss on her cheek. Hilda grinned back, pleased at her sister’s rare gesture of affection. ‘What was it you wanted to tell me before? I could tell you had some
secret up your sleeve,’ Louie coaxed.

  Hilda bit her top lip. How could she possibly tell Louie about her meeting with Eleanor Seward-Scott and her hopes about going to work at The Grange? She had a daydream that after a bit of dusting and polishing around the vast mansion she would escape out of doors with a pile of books and read all afternoon. But life was not like that. It was only too obvious to Hilda that Louie needed her here at home, and she did not want to spoil her sister’s night out with talk of her madcap scheme. Perhaps she could make a little bit of money doing dressmaking or sewing to help out too.

  ‘Eb thinks he’s going to win a prize with this year’s leeks,’ Hilda answered quickly.

  Louie stared at her. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Aye.’ Hilda nodded.

  ‘Don’t believe you.’ Louie sounded suspicious.

  Hilda changed the subject and flew to the door. ‘Hurry up, man Louie, Sam’s waiting.’

  Sam looked smart in his brown suit, and Louie felt proud walking down the back lane on his arm. In her best buckled shoes they were the same height and she thought they made quite a handsome pair, he dark and well-built, she fair and her figure filling out into a young woman’s.

  ‘Who’s speaking tonight?’ Louie asked, stifling a yawn, as they walked down Mill Terrace towards the centre of the village.

  ‘MacAlister. He’s from Glasgow - Independent Labour Party.’ Sam was enthusiastic.

  ‘Oh.’ Louie tried to sound interested. ‘How long is he speaking for?’

  ‘Bout an hour,’ Sam guessed, ‘then there’ll be a discussion, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Louie’s heart plummeted. The things a lass had to do to please her man, she thought ruefully. Sam began to tell her about MacAlister and the sorry state the new Labour Government was getting itself into and how their leaders were selling out the working man for a taste of power with the bosses. Louie only half listened. At least it got her out of the house for a brief time. She hardly ever got beyond the yard wall these days.

  Sam said they would take a diversion up South Street and as they approached the Memorial Hall, Louie gave a wistful glance at the crowd streaming in to see the lantern lecture.

  ‘What’s going on here then?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Some talk about Egyptians and treasure,’ Louie answered, pretending not to be bothered.

  ‘You mean Tutankhamen’s Tomb?’ Sam questioned.

  ‘That’s right.’ Louie slid him a look.

  ‘You’re not interested in foreign kings are you, Louie?’

  ‘No.’ Louie sighed and dropped her head. As she walked on, she realised Sam was not at her side. Glancing round she saw him standing still, grinning at her. ‘What’s so funny?’ Louie asked tersely.

  ‘Are you coming in or not?’ Sam said by way of an answer.

  ‘To the lecture?’

  ‘Aye. Gan’ on, pet, it starts in five minutes.’ Sam turned towards the steps of the hall.

  ‘Sam Ritson,’ Louie shouted, ‘you’ve been leading me on all the time!’

  ‘Easy to do.’ Sam laughed and took her by the arm. ‘Hildy told me you were going on about these Egyptians and I thought you deserved a treat.’

  ‘Sam!’ Louie squeezed his arm in return and gave him a wide smile.

  ‘Not my choice of entertainment, mind, all these kings,’ he added gruffly.

  Thanks.’ She leaned over and pecked his cheek.

  ‘Not now, Louie.’ Sam turned his face away in embarrassment. Louie could not take the smile off her face. Not now, she thought, but later, Sam Ritson, I’ll get my kisses.

  Reginald had been playing in a cricket match that afternoon over at the Fishers’, the new landowners at Waterloo Bridge; they had bought the bankrupt estate from old General Peters. Bernard Fisher was a bicycle and car dealer. Reginald came back satisfied and with a burnt nose, talking animatedly about the wickets he had taken to win the match for the home team. Normally he would have insisted on Eleanor going along to support him but, as he’d mentioned with a proud smile to Rose Fisher, a woman in Eleanor’s condition needed rest.

  At the first gong Eleanor went upstairs and changed into a brown and cream backless dress, shimmering with long fringes. She had not worn it for months and it accentuated the flatness of her chest and stomach and the leanness of her upper arms.

  She smoked three cigarettes while Reginald, dressed in his new double-breasted dinner jacket, helped himself to brandy cocktails and talked ad nauseam about Bernard Fisher’s fleet of fast cars and his white Rolls-Royce.

  ‘Some people find him rather vulgar, but he’s a shrewd man of business - nothing wrong with that.’ Reginald jutted out his chin and swigged at his drink. ‘Poor old chap’s only got daughters to inherit his wealth. They’re jolly enough girls though, especially Libby - she’s the golfer. Quite a sport, ol’ Libby,’ he laughed. ‘She insisted on playing cricket with us this afternoon. Dash it, she hit Major Marshall for four!’

  Eleanor listened to him pontificate about the poor calibre of the opposition and Bernard Fisher’s collection of rare birds’ eggs filched from remote nests in the Scottish Highlands. They dined alone. Eleanor sipped at the consommé and pecked at the fish course, skipped the entrée of pheasant and barely touched the beef Wellington. Her irritation at Reginald’s boisterous talk grew with every mouthful.

  ‘And how did you spend your day, Eleanor?’ he asked at last, wiping his mouth after the cheese. She wanted to scream that she had spent it with two pit villagers in a rude allotment, that she had sat on a splintered stool and eaten shortbread blackened with newsprint and talked about art and pacifism. She yearned to tell him that she had spent the most enjoyable day for months with these ordinary, unaffected, kind people. She wanted to tell him that she was attracted to a man with calloused, earth-ingrained hands and a thick sunburnt neck and creased blue eyes. Eleanor could visualise Eb now, raising his cap to reveal a tanned bald head which he scratched to hide his awkwardness at having to talk to her.

  Instead she said, ‘I’m not pregnant, Reggie.’ The words came from nowhere; she had not planned them, and they hung in the air like an independent puff of smoke.

  He gawped at her for a moment, then waved Laws the butler back out of the room as he was entering with a tray laden with the silver coffee service. Eleanor reached for her cigarette case and lit up. She knew the habit of smoking at table disgusted him, but she had to do something with her shaking hands.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, his tone hardening.

  ‘I’m not having your baby, Reginald, that’s what I mean.’

  ‘Have you been to see Dr Joice?’ He pushed back his chair and walked round to her side of the table. Eleanor could not look up at him.

  ‘I don’t need to. I know,’ she insisted quietly.

  ‘But I don’t understand. You led me to believe - I thought we’d agreed to this child!’ Reginald sounded almost petulant. ‘You’ve been using birth control, haven’t you? You and your precious Dr Stopes and her modern ideas. You’ve deliberately made me a laughing stock!’

  ‘No, Reggie. It’s hardly my fault if you’ve been bragging to the Fishers. You shouldn’t have jumped to such a conclusion.’

  Eleanor stood up and walked away from him to stare out of the window. The soft light of the evening sun was throwing beams like stage lights on to the terrace steps.

  More gently she added, ‘I want a baby too, really I do. But I’m infertile. I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ll ever be able to have a baby, Reggie. And I don’t see the point in trying any more. Can’t we just accept things as they are?’

  She turned and looked at him, feeling a pang at the shattered expression on his handsome face, the disbelieving furrow carved between his light-brown eyes. She could not tell him that in truth she had never wanted his child; just a hypothetical child with rosy cheeks who would be hers and hers alone.

  His look turned to contempt; she had let him down. She was his gaoler, imprisoning him in a loveless, childle
ss, meaningless marriage. At least I have given him The Grange and its estates, Eleanor thought bleakly; he cannot resent me for that.

  ‘I’m going over to Waterloo Bridge,’ Reginald announced abruptly. ‘Fisher has a card table tonight. Don’t wait up for me, Eleanor. Tell Sandford to bring the Bentley round to the front door.’

  It was a rude and humiliating gesture to abandon her after dinner for the company of people with whom he was only just acquainted. But she sent a message to the chauffeur anyway. It would be a relief to have Reginald and his raw hurt pride out of the place. She heard Laws ringing ahead on the telephone to alert the Fishers of his master’s unexpected arrival.

  Eleanor wandered out on to the terrace and breathed in the air, rich with the perfume of roses. She thought inconsequentially how her mother had planted the yellow Jacobite rose that crept up the side of the French windows, tangible proof of Lady Constance’s existence. She, Eleanor, was proof of that too. She shivered and felt achingly alone.

  Perhaps the idea had been crouching in the back of her mind all evening; a few minutes after her husband had left, Eleanor pulled on a warm cashmere shawl and collected her walking stick. She told Laws not to lock up before eleven. It took her half an hour to walk down the far side of Highfell Common and through the woods of Whitton Grange. Dusk was edging all about her as she reached the patchwork of allotments, beginning to burgeon with their late summer crops. There was no sign of anyone about and Eleanor was overcome with a wave of disappointment. Eb Kirkup would be socialising with his friends, or perhaps he was engaged to some dependable pitman’s daughter who was providing him with the companionship and love that he needed. Strange though, because she had sensed in him a self-sufficiency, an ability to cope without others. He did not strike her as someone who needed company.

  Eleanor leaned on the rickety fence and listened to the contented cooing of the pigeons. In a moment, when she had regained her breath, she would turn for home.

  ‘By, you startled me!’ a voice accused from over the fence as a man loomed out of the twilight. It was Eb.