Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Louie looked with concern at Sam. ‘Surely it won’t come to real war, will it?’ she spoke up, her fear overcoming her shyness. The miners’ leader turned his gaze to include her.

  ‘We are already on the road to battle, Mrs Ritson,’ he told her, ‘and there must be no retreat - no compromise on our conditions of work. I tell you this, the whole labour movement will be up in arms if they try to cut our wages or suspend the seven-hour day. You’ve put up with too much hardship already. I’ll not see my people starved to death by the capitalists.’

  Louie was mesmerised by his words, delivered in that lilting Welsh voice. She felt strengthened by them, just as she was when Sam spoke of protecting the pit folk. She smiled back at him, encouraged.

  ‘Well, let’s hope it’s all settled swiftly.’ Samuel Ritson drew the conversation to a close and stood up. ‘Come and sit by the fire and Liza will fetch you another cup of tea.’

  Arthur Cook followed his host and sat in the deep armchair that was normally reserved for the head of the household. Only then did Louie notice the dilapidated state of his boots. They were through at the toes and scuffed and unpolished. She felt a nervous twist in her stomach at the sight. A great leader like Cook should not be going about in such scruffy footwear; it was like discovering a flaw in his character. She quickly dismissed the thought that his boots were a bad omen and hurried into the kitchen to help wash up the dishes.

  Eleanor was still puzzled by Eb’s avoidance of her. Since New Year the weather had been miserable and she had often had to forgo walks across the Common, but even at Greenbrae he had resisted her attempts to talk to him alone. She was hurt by his coolness and baffled by the change in their relationship since Christmas, when he had kissed her so warmly. She blamed herself for being preoccupied with entertaining over the holiday period and not making an effort to see him when the weather had been bad. Now that March was well under way there would be more opportunity to find him painting up on the hill or working at the allotment. Sooner or later she would discover what it was that bothered him.

  She was picking daffodils from the sheltered gardens behind the stables when Reginald appeared. Since discovering his affair with Libby Fisher, Eleanor had not tried to hide her contempt for her husband. She had not confronted him with her discovery, but was sure that Reginald suspected she knew. She did not care what he did these days and was happiest when he stayed away at Waterloo Bridge on the pretext of a shooting weekend or riding to hounds.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you, my dear.’ Reginald bounded up purposefully in his bracken-coloured plus twos and brown brogues. Obviously he was about to go out, dressed as he was in casual clothing. Eleanor carried on amassing her wicker basket of yellow trumpet heads. ‘I wondered if you’d like to go riding this afternoon?’

  The request took Eleanor by surprise and she looked at him sharply. His brown eyes watched her, as if calculating her response.

  ‘What do you want, Reggie?’ she asked, knowing his offer was not motivated by a desire to spend time with her.

  Reginald considered for a moment and then answered directly. ‘I want you to use your influence with the Kirkup family to help me - to help us,’ he added quickly.

  Eleanor put down her basket abruptly. Now he really had surprised her. ‘What makes you think I have any influence with them?’ she asked cautiously.

  ‘From what I gather, you have become some sort of benefactress to the family.’ Reginald could not keep the edge of mockery from his voice. ‘Showering them with gifts and securing them jobs. You’ve caused quite a stir in the village with your generosity, from what Hopkinson tells me.’

  ‘Hopkinson!’ Eleanor repeated with disdain. ‘Your little mole.’

  Reginald ignored the slight to his agent. ‘Eleanor, I know you don’t always trust my motives, but I’m trying to avoid a calamity for both us and the miners. You may be the only one who can bring the two sides together before a disaster occurs.’ His handsome face was openly expectant, his tone quietly pleading.

  Eleanor was taken aback by the supplication; gone was the confident arrogance of moments before.

  ‘How do you think I can help?’ she asked tentatively.

  Reginald squatted down on his haunches beside her and fixed her with his light-brown eyes.

  ‘I want you to approach the daughter, Louisa,’ he began earnestly. ‘Ask her to arrange a private meeting for me with Sam Ritson. He can choose when and where. From what I hear, she holds you in high regard; I’m sure she’ll do as you ask.’

  Eleanor was doubtful. It was true Louie Ritson was grateful for the way she had brought Davie home on Christmas Eve, and she knew the girl had been pleased with the wedding present from The Grange, but they were only acquaintances. Should she be getting involved in Reginald’s business dealings at all? ‘Why do you wish to see Sam Ritson so desperately? I thought you loathed him,’ Eleanor countered.

  Reginald’s brow flushed pink below his short wavy hair and he clasped his hands together, cracking a knuckle tensely. ‘I’m no admirer of Ritson,’ Reginald admitted, ‘but he’s a man of great influence among the young radical pitmen. If I can persuade him to avoid a confrontation with us - come to some mutual agreement - then we can save Whitton Grange from a damaging and drawn-out dispute. It’s to the benefit of us all, Eleanor,’ he urged. ‘You’d be helping your friends in the village as well as saving The Grange from a ruinous dispute. It may be our only chance of avoiding a stoppage.’

  Eleanor was reluctantly swayed by her husband’s words. For once he really did seem to be considering the lives of the villagers as well as his own business interests. The idea of a bitter and protracted feud between the miners and The Grange filled her with dread; it might finally kill her relationship with Eb as well as with the rest of his family. At this moment, the young ex-miner was the only person in her life who made living at The Grange bearable. If she were to be cut off from him because of her association with the owners, her existence here would be bleak indeed.

  ‘I’ll try,’ she promised at last. Reginald smiled gratefully at her, brushing his well-trimmed moustache with relief.

  ‘I’m grateful for your help, my dear,’ he said quietly. Eleanor felt a faint leap of fondness for him which she quickly quelled.

  ‘It may come to nothing.’ She turned away and gathered the remaining picked flowers into her basket. When she looked round again, Reginald was standing up and straightening down his jacket with his usual brusqueness.

  ‘I’ll be out riding for the rest of the day,’ he told her. ‘I’ll see you at dinner.’ He did not stay to tell Eleanor with whom he would be riding, and as she watched him stride away with the eagerness of a young lover, she knew she did not need to ask.

  It was towards the end of March before Eleanor plucked up the courage to visit Louie in her squalid one-roomed house dwarfed by the giant pitheads and spoil heaps at the end of the row. She marvelled at how the small window somehow managed to stay clean and the doorstep scrubbed and whitened, while all about them lay the black soot that permeated the very pores of the skin. Eleanor had discovered from Hilda that Louie was pregnant, and she had sent word via Louie’s younger sister that she would like to call with a contribution towards the baby’s wardrobe.

  Now they were sitting by Louie’s kitchen range sipping cups of tea. The room was spartan, but tidy and spotlessly clean. Bright-blue checked curtains hung at the window, matching the bedspread over the iron frame, and a gold-fringed covering adorned the mantelpiece, adding a splash of colour to the dark room. The range was crowded with heavy black pots, a kettle and an old-fashioned iron. Clean laundry hung from a pulley above their heads and the walls were dotted with pictures of animals and religious texts exhorting the occupants to be good and sober. The chairs they sat in were hard and the brown linoleum that covered the floor was worn down to the canvas. Eleanor had thought Louie’s parents’ house cramped, but she had never imagined that a married couple could live in such restricted conditions as this
one room, which served as bedroom, kitchen and parlour. Where on earth did they wash? she wondered briefly.

  Despite her first claustrophobic impression, Eleanor found herself relaxing in the room’s welcoming cosiness. Louie was delighted with the small white coat and matching bonnet that Eleanor had brought, along with a thick woollen cot blanket.

  ‘You shouldn’t have, Mrs Reginald,’ Louie said with unconcealed pleasure. ‘It’s going to be the best-dressed baby in Whitton Grange.’

  ‘I consulted one of our housemaids, Jenny Bell, about what to get,’ Eleanor confessed. ‘She’s got a baby nephew who was born on Boxing Day, I believe.’

  ‘Oh, that’s Bomber’s sister,’ Louie exclaimed. ‘Jenny’s brother is a good friend of Sam’s - he and Minnie live down the street. Their baby Jack’s a bonny bairn - lots of red hair like his dad.’

  Eleanor smiled politely and used the pause in the conversation to turn the subject round to the real purpose of her visit.

  ‘I was wondering if you could do something for me, Louie,’ she began. The young miner’s wife looked at her guest expectantly.

  ‘Me, Mrs Reginald? I’d be glad to do anything, but what use can I be to you, miss?’

  Eleanor took a deep breath. ‘My husband, Mr Seward-Scott, wishes to speak to Sam privately. He says it is of the utmost importance to Whitton Grange that he do so soon. He wishes to avoid trouble for the village and feels Sam has it in his power to help. Would you persuade your husband at least to agree to listen to what Mr Seward-Scott has to say?’

  Louie’s deep-set blue eyes were narrowed in thought, her generous mouth pursed into a tight rosebud.

  ‘The meeting would be completely confidential,’ Eleanor continued, ‘at a time and place to suit your husband.’

  Louie nodded and then her solemn face broke into a cheerful smile. ‘I’ll ask him, Mrs Reginald. If Sam can help prevent hardship for the pitmen then he’ll do so.’

  ‘Thank you, Louie.’ Eleanor returned the smile gratefully. ‘And thank you for the tea, it was most refreshing.’

  ‘Pleased you came, miss,’ Louie answered warmly. ‘You’re a good friend to my family and I’m grateful for all you’ve done for us.’

  Eleanor rose, embarrassed by the young woman’s gratitude for so little. She could not resist asking, ‘Is your brother Ebenezer well? I’ve not seen him at Greenbrae for several weeks.’

  Louie glanced at her in surprise. ‘Eb’s grand as far as I know,’ she replied, ‘but he keeps himself to himself. I’ll tell him you were asking after him.’

  ‘Yes, do.’ Eleanor turned quickly from the girl’s enquiring look, cursing herself for raising the subject. She left with a promise to call again soon. From the window, Louie, wondering, watched her go. There had been something in the woman’s voice when she had asked about Eb that betrayed more than a passing politeness. Sadie had once let slip that she had seen Eb with Mrs Seward-Scott in the grounds of The Grange, the time she had confessed to losing the embroidered handkerchief Louie had made her for Christmas. Louie shook her head in disbelief; the woman from The Grange could not possibly be the secret person they suspected existed in Eb’s life. But perhaps Eb admired this lady in the same way that she and Hildy did? Poor Eb, he would never find happiness in yearning after such an exalted person. Still, she would keep her suspicions to herself for the moment.

  It was with reluctance and a great deal of suspicion that Sam agreed to a meeting with Reginald Seward-Scott. Louie cajoled and persuaded until he could no longer refuse without appearing churlish. It was just possible the haughty coalowner had had a change of heart since the publication of the findings of the Samuel Commission, which advised against the lengthening of miners’ hours. Maybe he wanted to reach a face-saving agreement, Sam thought, allowing a glint of optimism to colour his natural caution. Through Hilda, a message was relayed that Sam would agree to see Mr Seward-Scott at The Grange one Thursday afternoon before going on night shift.

  As Sam strode up the long drive to The Grange, he barely noticed the awakening of the trees to spring, their young green buds opening like sleepy eyes after the buffeting of winter gales. Louie would have been alert to every detail of the grand house sprawled among the terraced gardens. But Sam paid no attention to the bowls of scented pink and white hyacinths standing in the bay windows, or the gleam of the old rosewood table in the hallway. He was only aware of a general air of extravagance and wealth beyond the dreams of the people with whom he lived, and he was offended by the disapproving aloofness of the greying butler who, with obvious reluctance, showed him into his master’s study.

  Sam gripped his cap defensively, resisting the urge to wipe his boots on the back of his trousers before stepping on to the highly patterned carpet. He had deliberately come dressed in his work clothes, ready to go straight to the pit, rather than show any deference by dressing in his Sunday best as Louie had wished.

  ‘Do sit down, Mr Ritson.’ Reginald beckoned him in courteously and indicated a comfortable leather chair by the fireplace. Sam nodded and perched awkwardly on its edge, his legs placed apart, as if he would spring from it like a whippet the moment the carved door was opened to let him free. ‘Can I order some tea for you?’

  ‘No thank you,’ Sam replied, unnerved by the civilities. ‘I’d rather just hear what you have to say, if you don’t mind, Mr Seward-Scott.’

  ‘Of course.’ Reginald turned and walked to the window before continuing. He locked his hands behind his back and licked dry lips as he gazed out of the tall window.

  ‘We both know the outcome of the independent report into the coal industry.’ Reginald spoke to the early April shower splattering the flowerbeds below the window. ‘The government will no longer subsidise us and there has to be drastic cost-cutting if we are to maintain our markets abroad. The Durham coalfield is more vulnerable than most to overseas competition.’

  ‘I don’t need a lecture on the state of the industry,’ Sam replied impatiently. Reginald held his annoyance in check and turned slowly to meet the stoical face of his adversary.

  ‘You have made a name for yourself as a man who represents his men well, a man who will argue but also negotiate with the pit management on behalf of others. I feel I can do business with forward-looking young men like you.’ He smiled tightly. ‘You understand the problems we face locally better than rabble-rousers who come into the area and try to stir up trouble in our coalfield.’

  ‘If you mean Arthur Cook, he’s a legitimately elected leader,’ Sam answered gruffly.

  ‘Quite so.’ Reginald cleared his throat and looked directly at the miner. ‘The Government is urging us to accept the Samuel Commission report. I can tell you confidentially that there are many coalowners who do not want to settle on those terms - they wish to extend the working day as well as cut wages.’

  ‘The union will never agree to that,’ Sam said emphatically.

  ‘Hear me out,” Reginald interrupted swiftly. ‘I do not wish to alter the traditional working hours that you enjoy at Whitton Grange. I’m aware that an eight-hour day would make the hewers even worse off than their counterparts in other areas.’

  ‘Then what are you offering?’ Sam asked bluntly, tired of this man’s pandering approach.

  ‘I want someone I can trust to help negotiate with the local lodges, help steer through a realistic wage agreement. In return there will be no change in hours.’

  ‘You mean you want a tame lapdog to make sure we’ll agree to a reduction in wages,’ Sam mocked. ‘Well, you’ve asked the wrong man. I’ll fight to maintain every penny that we earn - our families can’t live on any less than they get now. It’s the owners who must bear a cut in their huge profits, not the pitmen, who see none of them anyway.’

  ‘If this comes to a head-on collision the miners don’t stand a cat in hell’s chance of winning,’ Reginald snapped, giving way to his frustration at getting nowhere with this proud pitman with the hostile eyes.

  ‘The people will see that we are in
the right - that justice is done to the working man.’ Sam spoke with quiet conviction. ‘And then we’ll see who’ll be the winners.’

  Reginald felt fear clutch his belly at the uncompromising words. For a moment he was filled with awe at the sacrifice this man was prepared to make for his cause, the hardship he was prepared to inflict on his family in order to stick to his principles. He knew then, instinctively, that a strike could not be avoided. Yet he must try one last tack to steer them all away from the impending storm.

  ‘You have a charming young wife and a baby on the way, my wife tells me.’ He forced himself to smile at the miner. Sam shot him a look of surprise and then nodded with bashful pride. ‘I also know they deserve a better house than the unsatisfactory dwelling in Gladstone Terrace. Those cottages were never meant to accommodate families.’

  ‘That’s all the colliery offered us when we married,’ Sam replied accusingly.

  ‘A deputy at the pit would do better,’ Reginald countered softly. ‘Hopkinson tells me he is looking for a new deputy, and the one he has in mind would be able to move into a splendid two-bedroomed house on the green. I’d like to see you do well at Whitton Grange, Sam; a man like you could progress to overman or even under-manager in time.’

  Sam looked at him speechless for a few seconds while the implication of what he was saying sunk in. The man was blatantly trying to bribe him into collusion with the management. Fleetingly he let his mind consider the possibilities. Louie would have the home she hankered after, the baby would be brought up with the village green to romp across and a bedroom to call its own. They would have money to spend on treats and trips into Durham. He would be given the blue cap and the yardstick of the deputy, with all the importance that went with such badges of office. No longer would he have to sweat and graft with his pick to earn his meagre daily crust or risk his life with the cutting machine they nicknamed ‘the widow-maker’. This powerful man in front of him had the means at his fingertips to turn this dream into a reality. All Sam had to do in return was persuade the lodge not to resort to striking over their pay. Suddenly he was filled with self-disgust for even contemplating such thoughts, and his anger flared at the coalowner’s apparent contempt for his principles.