‘I went to St Cuthbert’s today and put some roses on Rupert’s memorial stone.’ Eleanor broke into Eb’s thoughts. He was unnerved by the way she seemed to read his mind. ‘Yellow roses from a creeper my mother planted. Rupert used to write about it in his poems.’
‘I didn’t know your brother wrote poetry.’ Eb stopped by a stone wall and leaned on its coldness.
‘Most young men did in those days, didn’t they?’ Eleanor mused. Eb did not reply. He had never confessed to anyone about the stilted verses he had scribbled on the back of cigarette packets as the rain dribbled down the back of his greatcoat in a soggy Flanders trench. None of them had survived.
‘Rupert wrote of childhood and home in all of his poems - the ones he sent to us at least,’ Eleanor continued. ‘He used to describe some idyllic past of hot summers and walks on Highfell, tennis at The Grange, punting on the river at Durham - that sort of thing. Not once did he write about the War or death or sadness, though they must have been overwhelming. Don’t you think that strange?’
‘No.’ Eb turned his face into the remnants of the sunset. ‘It was his way of coping with his friends dying around him.’
‘I would have been so angry.’ Eleanor clenched her hands and knocked them against the stone wall. ‘Rupert was the one going through hell but I was the one consumed with bitterness at the futility of it all. And I still am!’ she cried, feeling her throat choke with sadness. ‘Every day I wish the War hadn’t happened, every morning I wish Rupert were still alive and running this estate.’
Eb was at a loss as to how to answer her despair. ‘We can’t bring any of them back,’ he said gently. ‘We can only hope that we’ll meet them again in another life.’ Eleanor swung round and scrutinised his face; its fairness was hidden in shadow.
‘Do you really believe in that, Eb, in this life-after-death business?’ she asked, as if proof was demanded.
‘I have to believe in it.’ He faced her as he spoke. ‘I’ve lost too much in this one.’
‘Your father’s a lay preacher, isn’t he? Is that why you’re religious?’
‘Maybes,’ Eb shrugged, ‘maybes not. ‘Eleanor waited for him to explain. ‘During the action at Loos there was a young subaltern wounded in a crater. We couldn’t get to him with water or medical supplies, ‘cos the shelling was that heavy. He lay out there for two days.’ Eb paused as he struggled with his memories. ‘Finally, me and this marra Dickie, we went out under fire to take him some water. We expected to find him dead but he wasn’t. Between the two of us we managed to bring him back in alive. Well, Dickie wanted to know what had kept him going, and do you know what he said? He told us he’d been reading his Bible - a small one he kept in his pocket.’ Eb smiled wistfully at Eleanor. ‘Me marra Dickie couldn’t believe it, but the proof of it was the officer was still alive, and he insisted it was God had kept his spirits up in that crater till we arrived.’
‘And you believed him?’ Eleanor searched his face, wanting to feel conviction too.
‘I believed he had faith,’ Eb answered, ‘and that his faith had kept him alive. And it’s because of that subaltern that I have hope - perhaps beyond reason - that we’ll all meet up some day. I can’t explain it any other way.’
Eleanor sighed. ‘I wish I could hope, Eb. You know, you’re like Rupert in so many ways; I’ve felt that before. It’s your sensitivity, your love of nature, your quietness. Rupert believed in God too. I wish I still did.’
Without knowing why, Eb stretched out his hand and covered one of Eleanor’s. She let it rest there, warming her cold, fragile bones, letting the life flow from him in to her numbed being. She raised her dark eyes to meet his blue ones and saw the need in him too, a raw, physical need for human comfort. Eleanor felt herself shaking under his touch like a nervous girl. Could she, dare she, allow herself to step over the invisible boundary that kept them in their separate worlds? She had drawn close to it before and peered into Eb’s life like a voyeur, but had shrunk from touching it; a world too insecure and impoverished, yet too vibrant and giving. But her desire for him at that moment made her sick with wanting, swamping her fear of an embarrassed rebuff from this gentle pitman.
‘Will you kiss me, Eb?’ she whispered. ‘Please.’ He hesitated, shocked, held back by his sense of their differences, the social void between them, the decades of distrust and hatred that they carried. But her simple request touched him and he could not deny the excitement within at the thought of kissing this alluring woman with the dark, appealing eyes. So he leaned towards her and placed his lips tentatively on hers. He could not remember the last time he had kissed a woman like this and something inside him broke free at the contact, like one of his pigeons released at last from its coop.
Eleanor stepped close to Eb and kissed him again, the warmth from his body washing away the pain of her loneliness. How odd to find the answer to her empty life here all the time in Whitton Grange, in the person of Eb Kirkup, ex-private soldier, ex-miner. For the first time in years Eleanor felt no fear of the present. The future would have to take care of itself.
Chapter Nine
Louie and Sam patched up their quarrel, and despite the growing hardships at home with only Hilda’s wages from Greenbrae to see them through July, Louie doggedly prepared for her wedding day. Her mother, filled with sympathy for her elder daughter who was to have such a frugal start to married life, did what she could to help. She got up early to make the most of the daylight to sew pillowcases out of old sheets, as they could not afford to burn paraffin in the lamps at night.
They had enough to eat, as Eb worked hard in the allotment and brought home vegetables and fruit to feed both their household and the Dobsons who had no garden. Their friends contributed scraps to feed the chickens which Eb was fattening up for the wedding meal. Davie and John got casual work on Stand High Farm where their Uncle Jack and Aunt Eva lived. For the week Davie was away picking vegetables, Iris fretted and lost her temper with them all. Raymond, however, was turning into a sunny-natured baby. ‘Just like his father,’ Fanny would say proudly, and tickle his chin to release a gurgle of delight from her grandson.
Towards the end of July, Sam appeared at their back door with some good news.
‘The TUC are backing us, Mr Kirkup.’ He came in triumphantly, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal strong hairy arms, the sight of which made Louie’s stomach vault.
‘About time.’ Jacob Kirkup looked up from his book and peered at his future son-in-law over his recently acquired wire-rimmed spectacles.
Sam took the chair Louie pulled out for him and continued eagerly. ‘The Triple Alliance is going to show the bosses that they can’t ignore the pitmen this time. The other unions have agreed not to move the coal - not by road, nor rail, nor nothing. The seamen won’t touch it either!’
Louie looked expectantly to her father for his approval. This might at last break the deadlock and they could all get back to work.
‘We’ll just have to see,’ Jacob replied cautiously. ‘We’ll have to pray Prime Minister Baldwin sees sense at last.’
Amen, Louie thought fervently. ‘Would you like a glass of water, Sam?’ she asked her fiancé. She was saving their stock of tea for the wedding feast.
‘No, ta, pet,’ he answered briefly, getting to his feet again. ‘I’ve got a meeting to attend.’ As an afterthought, he turned in the doorway and smiled at her. ‘You be looking out your wedding dress, Louie Kirkup, ‘cos we’ll be celebrating a victory on that day, you just see.’
As he left, Louie sighed and looked at her mother. They both started to laugh.
‘You’re marrying the whole union when you take on Sam Ritson,’ Fanny chuckled quietly, ‘but he’s a good lad all the same.’
To the relief of all Whitton Grange, save the landowners at The Grange itself, the coal embargo worked. A flustered Baldwin intervened in the dispute and agreed to continue the coal subsidy to the industry for another nine months. In the meantime a commission of enquiry would be set up
to investigate the problems. Friday, 31st July 1925, was christened Red Friday by the gleeful miners. Sam knew they had won an important victory over the owners in their fight for a decent wage, but he knew too it was just a temporary halting of the forces amassed against them and that they would gather to fight another day.
Eleanor found Reginald in a foul mood at luncheon. Her father was quiet, but thankful that the government had come to their aid.
‘We’ve been made to look idiots by men like Ritson,’ Reginald fulminated, stabbing his fork into the cold chicken and pushing it away without appetite. ‘They’ve forced a climb-down, and now we’ve given in on their wage demand. It’s just fuel to their revolutionary fire, it’s damnable!’
‘Calm down, Reggie,’ Eleanor said evenly. She was secretly relieved things had turned out well for the miners. For the last month she had lived through the Kirkups’ uncertainty and anxiety, hearing first-hand from Eb of Louie’s hopes for an August wedding. She had offered him gifts of food from The Grange or a loan of money, both of which he had adamantly refused. She knew now not to ride roughshod over his proud independence. There had been no impropriety since their embrace on the anniversary of the Battle of the Somme, but the bond between them still remained. Eleanor would have to take care that Reginald did not learn of her visits to Whitton Woods.
‘Don’t tell me how to behave.’ Her husband spat the words at her. ‘You’ve been less than loyal during this dispute.’ Eleanor’s head jerked up guiltily. Surely he knew nothing about her friendship with Eb and with Hilda? ‘You spend your time aimlessly wandering about Whitton Grange like a lost pup, instead of entertaining people who would be useful to us.’
‘I suppose by that you mean the tedious Fishers and their moneyed friends?’ Eleanor asked him sarcastically.
‘They’re a damn sight more jolly company than you are, my dear.’ Reginald was spiteful in return.
‘That’s quite enough, Reginald.’ Thomas Seward-Scott got to his feet. ‘If I’d wanted to witness a dog fight, I’d have lunched in the kennels.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘Do you wish to ride this afternoon, Eleanor?’
‘Thank you, Papa, but I’m going into town to collect an item.’ She smiled at him gratefully. Whatever she did in her life, her father had always supported her, even if he had not always given his approval. The invitation was his way of backing her against his son-in-law, who appeared to run The Grange these days without any consultation. Her father was an amazingly tolerant man for his generation, she thought.
Once Thomas had gone, Reginald rose and went to glare out of the wide bay window framed by its heavy burgundy velvet curtains.
‘They haven’t won yet,’ he muttered, directing his wrath at the terrace, its rockery burgeoning with yellow tagetes and bright orange nasturtiums.
‘Who haven’t?’ Eleanor asked him with irritation.
‘Red Sam Ritson and his bunch of Communists.’ Reginald clamped his hands behind his back. Eleanor wanted to point out that Sam Ritson was nothing of the sort - he merely put the interests of his own kind first, just as Reginald did - but she bit back the retort.
He swung round abruptly and fixed on Eleanor like a hound who smells a fox nearby. ‘I swear to you, Eleanor, that Sam Ritson will rue the day he ever tried to cross me.’ She felt a sudden shiver run through her at the threat of vengeance in his face. ‘When I’m finished with him, there’ll not be a colliery in County Durham that will have anything to do with him.’
Later that day, as Eleanor drove herself down to Greenbrae, she experienced a thrill at her rebelliousness against Reginald. She was going to deliver a wedding present from The Grange to Louie and her victorious Sam. She had gone into Durham straight after lunch and collected the silver tea service she had chosen from a jewellers on Elvet Bridge. It was wrapped now and resting on the back seat. She knew it might cause embarrassment if she went openly to the Kirkups’ house, so she would hand it over to Hilda.
But Louie’s sister had already left. Isobel had let her off duty early so she could go and help prepare for the wedding the following day.
‘Eb is still in the garden, though,’ her friend told her as she brought her into the drawing room. Eleanor needed no further encouragement and went to seek him out. Apprehensively, Isobel watched her go, sensing the growing friendship between her schoolfriend and the gardener; it was a long time since she had seen Eleanor as animated as she was in his presence. Others might have been shocked, but she knew of her friend’s deep underlying unhappiness and was glad that Eb Kirkup could give her something to brighten her life. Isobel was sure that, as yet, they did not know the depth of their regard for each other, but from her objective standpoint she could tell when two people were falling in love.
Eleanor found Eb picking strawberries. He looked round and gave his slow, shy smile, his moustache showing pale gold across his sunburnt face.
‘Miss Joice said I could have a basketful for Louie’s wedding. There’ll be a canny few mouths to feed tomorrow.’
‘That’s nice of her.’ Eleanor smiled in return. ‘As a matter of fact, I was wondering if you would deliver a present from me. It’s a tea set, I’ve left it in the house.’ Eb stood up and took off his cap. Eleanor was suddenly filled with doubt. ‘Do you think she’ll accept it?’
‘Louie will be touched,’ he assured her. His ruddy face broke into a grin. ‘Sam Ritson probably won’t drink from it, but Louie will invite the whole of Whitton Grange to view it.’
Eleanor laughed with him. “That’s all right then.’
Eb finished off his fruit gathering in silence, then Eleanor spoke. ‘The pits will be opening again on Monday. Will you go back to work at the Eleanor?’
Eb looked up at her. ‘Not if the Joices will keep me on here.’
‘Good,’ she said with relief. ‘I’d never get to see you otherwise.’
‘No, suppose not.’ His eyes did not slide away from hers as they used to. ‘I can’t say I miss the pit one bit.’ Then he did turn from her as he added, ‘I’m happy here. It’s a grand life to work out of doors. And I’m happy when you’re here, Eleanor.’ The last words were spoken so quietly she hardly caught them. But they thrilled her. He was talking to her as a friend, an equal, no longer as a labourer to the squire’s daughter. Eb trusted her. Her heart leapt inside her like a skittish kitten.
In reply she leaned down and ran a hand over the ruddy-brown of his tanned scalp. She had always wanted to touch his head; it was smooth and warm. The blond hair that framed his ears felt coarse in comparison. He did not seem to mind her touching him, so Eleanor let her hand rest there.
‘Your friendship means so much to me, Eb,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Since knowing you, I’ve come alive again.’
Saturday morning began with a blustery shower, then the grey sky cracked to reveal splinters of blue. By nine o’clock the clouds were rolling into puffy balls of white and racing across the terraced roofs.
‘It’s a grand day for it,’ Davie said amiably, watching Hilda giving Raymond his milk, ‘and you’re looking in the pink, our Louie.’
Louie’s insides wobbled like jelly, and she rushed about the kitchen trying to hide her nervousness. ‘I hope you’re going to polish your shoes before the service,’ she scolded her brother.
‘Iris’ll do that,’ he answered confidently, ‘won’t you, pet?’ He pecked his wife on the head as she sat reading a magazine.
‘She can do mine an’ all,’ John said, chewing over a stale crust of bread. Iris scowled at her brother-in-law.
‘Do your own,’ Davie told him, foreseeing an argument.
‘What’s the use of having an extra lass around the house if she won’t work?’ John replied grumpily.
‘She’s not your lass.’
‘And she doesn’t do what you tell her neither,’ John ridiculed. Davie flew at him with a fist. John caught it and jabbed him in the stomach. Louie turned and ran upstairs in tears, her nerves too frayed to bear their bickering.
&nb
sp; ‘That’s enough,’ their mother shouted, coming in from the parlour to see what the noise was about. ‘Can’t you stop your fighting for just one day - your sister’s wedding day?’ she cried at them in exasperation. The brothers pushed each other away, suddenly guilty that they had upset Louie.
‘Hilda, go upstairs and see that your sister is all right.’ Fanny took command.
‘I’ll go,’ Iris volunteered unexpectedly, and went for the stairs.
‘Well, Hildy, find Sadie and tell her to come in and wash,’ her mother ordered. ‘You lads get yourselves tidied up before your father comes back.’
Iris found Louie staring out of the window of the small bedroom.
‘They don’t mean any harm.’ Iris put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Some brothers just like a scrap. They’re sorry now.’
Louie took a deep breath, intending to show her usual practical, no-nonsense exterior. Then she saw Iris’s kind smile, and burst into tears. They hugged each other for a minute and then Louie pulled away and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.
‘I’m frightened, Iris,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve longed for this day, and now it’s come, I don’t want to get married. I can just imagine Sam standing there waiting for me - and - and it’s like going to meet a stranger.’ She looked at the older girl miserably. ‘I shouldn’t feel like that, should I? There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there?’
Iris put an arm around her shoulder and laughed sympathetically.
‘There’s nothing strange about getting cold feet on your wedding day,’ she assured her. ‘I was a bundle of nerves myself.’
‘Not you?’ Louie was amazed. ‘You looked champion to me - all calm and glamorous like a film star.’
‘Not inside I wasn’t.’ Iris shook her head with a smile, pleased with the compliment. ‘But once we were married everything was better. I knew Davie was the man for me. Just like Sam is right for you, Louie.’
Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills Page 14