Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Suddenly, Louie was afraid that if they stayed any longer the lady from the big house would appear. If Eb was expecting a visit from her, that would account for his being on edge with them. Louie knew that Iris would be quick to put two and two together and she did not trust her forthright sister-in-law to keep the liaison secret.

  ‘Let’s be off.’ She stood up, trying to control her breathlessness.

  ‘But we’ve only just come,’ Iris protested, swigging water from the bottle.

  ‘Sam’ll be back and I’ve things to do,’ Louie answered briskly, and made for the door. Iris followed, reluctant to return so soon to a full house.

  Louie saw Eb standing by the fence, giving quick glances at the path that snaked out of the woods.

  ‘Thanks for the rhubarb,’ Louie said, and saw the relief on her brother’s face that they were leaving. ‘Better be getting off to Greenbrae,’ she could not resist adding. ‘We’ll walk down with you if you like.’

  ‘No, you get off, Louie,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ve got to finish off the planting first.’ Their eyes met for a moment, before Eb turned away. His look was silently pleading.

  ‘Come on, Sadie.’ Louie called for her cousin, who was already munching a stick of the sour fruit, dipped in a crumbled sugar lump she had kept back for a treat. Louie led her party away down the hill to the dene.

  Eb let out a long sigh of relief. Eleanor was due at the allotment at any moment. He was unsure whether his sharp sister had read anything into his guilty behaviour. With the men laid off work, the allotment would become a busier place and no longer safe for them to meet. He would have to tell Eleanor not to visit him here again until the dispute was settled. Perhaps not even Highfell Common was safe, Eb thought with desperation. Was it not just a matter of time before their relationship was discovered? He plunged his spade angrily into the soil and worked out his frustration on the black earth.

  When Eleanor returned from her assignation with Eb, she found Reginald in a bullish mood. He was fulminating about the gathering unrest over tea and madeira cake on the terrace with her father. Beatrice had arrived home from London the day before and was already yawning with boredom.

  ‘They’ve done it now,’ Reginald said gleefully. ‘Those Bolshie print workers have refused to print the Daily Mail because it’s too patriotic. It’s tantamount to revolution. Baldwin can’t possibly negotiate with the TUC now.’

  ‘It’s very worrying.’ Her father’s face was stern. ‘We’re on the verge of a general strike; the trade unionists will reduce the country to chaos.’

  ‘Not a damn chance,’ Reginald contradicted him, ‘we’re ready for them - we’ve been preparing all winter for such an eventuality. We’ll call for volunteers to man the transport, that sort of thing.’

  ‘You mean we’ll all have to drive buses?’ Beatrice laughed incredulously.

  ‘And why not?’ Reginald challenged her. ‘We can’t let the Communists hold this country to ransom. People like you and me, Bea, must stand up and be counted. You’d be doing it for your King and Country, saving them from revolution.’

  ‘How thrilling!’ Beatrice clapped her hands together.

  ‘You make it sound like the Great War all over again, Reggie,’ Eleanor butted in, sickened by his enthusiasm for confrontation.

  ‘That’s just what it is like,’ Reginald replied roundly. ‘Same threat - different enemy.’

  Eleanor’s anger boiled over. She was already resentful that the dispute engulfing them all was making it increasingly difficult for her to see Eb. ‘Your so-called enemies are the very men who sacrificed their lives on the fields of Flanders; they’re the war heroes who returned expecting a better lot for themselves and their families.’ Eleanor glared at her husband. ‘They’re the men who slave away in your pits and dig out the wealth that allows us to live comfortably here at The Grange. How can you sit there so glibly talking about these people as your enemies?’

  Reginald sprang up and faced her with narrowed eyes full of contempt. ‘Well, it’s perfectly obvious whose side you are on, my dear. I’m disappointed in you - a husband expects more loyalty than that.’

  Eleanor could not bear the criticism. ‘Don’t you lecture me about loyalty! That was forsaken by you a long time ago it seems.’ Reginald flushed furiously and Eleanor knew she had hit home about his affair with Libby Fisher.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Thomas Seward-Scott decreed. ‘This is a trying time for us all, but please conduct yourselves with a shred of dignity.’

  Eleanor sat down, chastened by her father’s reproof, and Reginald did the same, glowering at his wife.

  Beatrice broke the hostile silence. ‘Well, I think it’s going to be absolutely topping; something exciting to do around here at last.’

  With Tuesday came an eerie stillness over the valley that held Whitton Grange. Crowds of onlookers walked down the Durham Road to see how the world had changed since the strike call the night before. The road was deserted. The railway station was empty. In the woods above, a cuckoo called out and the sound of a dog barking a mile off carried clearly through the breathless air.

  Groups of young men hung aimlessly around on street corners, talking, watchful, waiting for something to happen. Older miners sat in the park sharing a cigarette, coughing up phlegm in the clear air. The women, troubled by the brooding silence of the pits at the top of the hill, could not settle to their tasks. The ironing lay in piles on kitchen tables while they drifted to their doorways and leaned over yard gates to catch a whiff of gossip from their neighbours. None came. There were no daily newspapers to buy and circulate. The village was set adrift from the outside world, like a ship becalmed on a tranquil, uncharted sea.

  In the back room of the Durham Ox, Sam and his Council of Action were holding their first meeting since the General Strike had been declared.

  ‘The lads need something to do,’ Johnny Pearson urged his brother-in-law.

  ‘We’ll keep them occupied,’ Sam promised. ‘Bomber, your father works in the rent office, doesn’t he?’ Bomber nodded. ‘Can he get the use of a duplicator?’

  ‘I can ask,’ Bomber agreed. ‘What are you thinking of?’

  ‘What we need is to put about information - let everyone know the success of the strike and how they can help our cause.’

  ‘You mean put out a bulletin?’ John Kirkup queried.

  ‘Aye.’ Sam nodded, then leaned forward and dropped his voice lower. ‘But we’ll have to keep the operation secret. The bosses mustn’t get a sniff of where the bulletin’s being produced, else they’ll smash it up, and Bomber’s dad will likely lose his job. But we need to tell our side of the story, ‘cos the capitalist press is going to try and make us out as criminals, just wait and see.’

  ‘We could move the duplicator to a different place each night,’ Johnny suggested.

  ‘What about distributin’ the broadsheets?’ Bomber asked.

  ‘Anyone who can lay their hands on a bicycle or who can run like you, Bomber, can take them around the villages.’ The others nodded. ‘Now,’ Sam continued, ‘we need to organise picketing of the main road. Nothing is going to get in or out of this valley, unless it’s essentials like milk or food.’

  Superintendent MacGuire stood attentively in the library at The Grange, his heavy black boots sinking into the hearthrug. The windows were open and the sweet scents of early evening wafted in with the birdsong. He grasped a dainty sherry glass awkwardly in his hand, his ruddy face creased in concentration as he listened to the tall coalowner.

  ‘I want your men to be vigilant,’ Reginald instructed the policeman. ‘It would be useful to know the names of troublemakers, those leading the picketing. In return I can supply you with names of likely subversives, men who will delight in trying to flaunt the law.’

  Robert MacGuire shifted uneasily and cleared his throat. ‘We don’t want relations in the village to become heated, sir. The police must be seen to be impartial.’

  Reginald eyed the bulky man studious
ly. ‘I understand that, Superintendent. However, it is also your duty to protect the persons and property of this estate. We cannot turn a blind eye to law-breakers and hoodlums. I want you to deal severely with anyone found breaking into the pit yard to steal coal, or any man who violently attempts to stop any of my vehicles. I shall expect police protection on the highways.’

  ‘It’s all quite peaceful at the moment, Mr Seward-Scott,’ MacGuire assured him. ‘There have been no incidences of unruly behaviour among the pitmen. No one has broken the law.’

  ‘These are early days - it may not remain so peaceful,’ Reginald said brusquely. He marched over to a large oak table and picked up a sheet of paper. ‘These are the names of suspected Bolsheviks.’ He flourished the list at the policeman. MacGuire took it gingerly. A quick glance showed him the names of Sam Ritson and Bomber Bell, two hotheads among the younger pitmen. He knew their families well; his wife was a cousin of Liza Ritson’s and he had helped coach Bomber at football when he was a boy. His heart sank at the thought of what might lie ahead.

  Quickly swallowing the sickly sherry, Robert MacGuire took his leave, eager to be released from his briefing. It irked him that he should have to take orders from the prickly coalowner; he would rather have dealt with the older Thomas Seward-Scott; he at least had his roots in Whitton Grange.

  ‘Don’t forget to keep me informed,’ Reginald reminded him once again as he held the door open for his visitor. Constable Turnbull was hovering outside the double library doors.

  ‘Sir.’ MacGuire nodded stiffly and strode away down the corridor with the young constable attempting to keep up with his tight-lipped superior.

  Sam’s strike committee produced its first bulletin on Friday, 7th May. John Kirkup, in charge of distribution, persuaded Eb to borrow Miss Joice’s bicycle, and the two of them took it in turns to cycle to neighbouring villages with copies of the cyclostyled news-sheets. Bomber and Davie organised a relay of runners from the football team to go around the houses and deliver copies too. Even Sadie and her friends were co-opted to help.

  People seized on the news avidly, starved as they were of information on how the strike was going, except for the odd copy of a national newspaper which condemned the action with hostility. Sam had come home on Wednesday brandishing the British Gazette, the Government’s strike bulletin, edited by someone called Winston Churchill. Louie had listened to Sam almost choking with anger as he haltingly read out snippets from the paper.

  ‘They say we’re holding the nation to ransom. By heck, listen to this,’ he shouted.’ “It is a conflict between Trade Union leaders and Parliament. … must only end in the decisive and unmistakable victory of Parliament.” Well, if that’s not biased then I don’t know what is,’ Sam cried. ‘You wouldn’t think the Government was supposed to represent the whole nation would you? They’re just interested in serving a small bunch of profiteers and exploiters, Louie, so they are!’

  Louie had tutted and let him rant on, her mind half distracted with worry over the credit they were already amassing at the store. The grocery manager was being lenient with her because of the good name of Kirkup, but for how much longer? Their meagre savings would see them to the end of the month if they were careful, but no further.

  On Friday Sadie ran in with a copy of Sam’s news-sheet.

  ‘Read this, Louie.’ The dark-haired girl waved the chemical-smelling paper in her face.

  ‘You read it to me, pet,’ Louie encouraged, knowing how her cousin now enjoyed showing off her ability to read long words. Sadie settled herself on to a kitchen chair and creased her brow in concentration.

  ‘“Workers of County Durham be of good courage!”‘ she began. ‘“The General Strike is a success.” Success is in capital letters, Louie,’ Sadie explained for her cousin’s benefit. Louie hid her smile at the girl’s serious expression and nodded as if impressed. ‘“Don’t be taken in by the lies you read in the Cap-it-alist press. The workers cannot fail. Across the country, Ind-us-try has answered the call from the General Council of the Trades Union Congress. They are resisting the unprovoked attack by the owners who locked us out. The Power Stations are closed down. No coal is being shipped from Sunderland or Seaham Harbour. The response of our fellow workers has exceeded all ex-pec-tations.”‘ Sadie pronounced the word carefully.

  ‘That’s good news,’ Louie commented, encouraged by the words. At least they were not alone in their time of trouble. Perhaps the nation would listen to their plea at last.

  ‘It goes on,’ Sadie followed her finger as it drew across the page, ‘“Fellow trade unionists will not allow the miners to be starved into sub-miss-ion. The wages and welfare of all our families are at stake. If we fight together, we will win. Victory is ours!” That’s in big letters too.’ Sadie looked up triumphantly.

  Louie smiled and put her arms impulsively around her young cousin. Sadie slipped her arms around the older girl’s waist and hugged her, enjoying the sudden show of affection.

  ‘Eeh, Louie,’ she looked up in wonder, ‘I can feel your baby kicking.’

  A week after the lock-out began, Reginald was growing nervous about the sweeping success of the strike in paralysing local commerce and industry. He was virtually marooned at The Grange as a picket on the Durham Road had prevented him from motoring over to Waterloo Bridge to see Libby. Instead he had taken to riding across the moor, but the experience had left him stiff and saddle-sore from hours on horseback.

  Furthermore, picketing had been orderly and well organised, and his operations at the Eleanor and Beatrice had ground to a standstill. The strike was solid. He could not even move the coal from its tubs in the pit yard. All that the union would allow through the gates were officials detailed to do essential maintenance work below ground. The Government had commandeered his coal stocks lying unshipped at Seaham and the electricity supply at the house had packed up and they had had to resort to using smelly oil lamps and candles. Mrs Robertson, the housekeeper, was beginning to complain about household stocks running low.

  Out of sheer frustration at his impotence, Reginald decided he must act. He called a meeting with Hopkinson, the only ally he felt he could trust completely with the plan he was formulating. When the agent left to put the plan in action, Reginald went to look for his high-spirited sister-in-law Beatrice. To his relief she was on her own in the conservatory, listening to the gramophone and sipping an iced gin.

  ‘I’ve got something to relieve your boredom, Bea.’ Reginald smiled. ‘A little errand I’d like you to run.’

  Early on Monday morning Sam received disturbing intelligence that a convoy of lorries, packed with non union labour, was likely to be travelling through the valley. Rumour had it that they were miners from out of the area, being brought in as blacklegs to work the Seward pits. Some said they were Cornish, others maintained they were Italians or Poles. Their origin did not matter; what mattered was that a large enough picket was mustered to blockade the pits at Whitton Grange.

  By nine o’clock in the morning members of the Council of Action had been alerted and word was put round that as many men as possible should rally at the pit gates and on the road into the village. Louie watched them streaming past her window, dozens of pitmen, cheerful and resolute as they gathered at the top of Gladstone Terrace.

  ‘Aren’t you going to join them?’ Minnie appeared at her kitchen door, her pretty face flushed with excitement, Jack balanced on her hip.

  ‘At the picketing?’ Louie asked in surprise.

  ‘Aye, why not?’ Minnie replied. ‘Our Margaret’s made a banner and she needs someone to help carry it. Why shouldn’t the lasses join in and have some fun? I’m going to leave Jack at Mam’s for the morning.’

  Louie hesitated a moment. Sam had already left with Bomber to go down the Durham Road and block the way into Whitton Grange. The picketing had been good-humoured when the women had gone with refreshments for the men, and the police had avoided any clashes with the miners during the past week. MacGuire kept his
men under tight control. It might be fun, she thought, untying her apron.

  ‘Wait while I pop across the lane,’ Louie answered with a grin at her friend.

  Eleanor stopped Beatrice in the hallway, surprised to see her donning her riding hat. She was dressed in an old pair of riding breeches and an army jacket that had belonged to Rupert.

  ‘Why are you dressed in such an extraordinary fashion, Beatrice?’ Eleanor enquired.

  ‘I’ve got a job to do,’ her sister answered, strapping on her hat over her short dyed blonde hair.

  ‘What job?’ Eleanor looked at her in amusement.

  ‘I’m driving a van for Reggie,’ Beatrice announced proudly. ‘Got an important delivery to make in the village. He wants someone who can drive fast, like me,’ she added with delight.

  ‘What are you delivering?’ Eleanor’s tone hardened. ‘You realise there’ll be pickets on the road to stop you.’

  ‘They don’t frighten me one bit,’ Beatrice answered disdainfully, glancing at herself quickly in the gilt-framed mirror above the rosewood table. ‘Anyway, it’s medical supplies or food, or something like that - so I’ve every right to be let through. Reggie will be there to protect me,’ she said mockingly.

  Eleanor felt a twinge of concern. It did not make sense. Why would Reginald be responsible for delivering medicines? Unless it came within his responsibilities as a member of the local OMS, the emergency committee set up by the Government. ‘I don’t approve,’ she said doubtfully, ‘but take care, won’t you? It may be more dangerous than you think.’

  ‘Don’t nag, Eleanor.’ Beatrice dismissed her warning. ‘You’re just jealous because I’m going to have a bit of fun out of this tedious strike.’

  Eleanor sighed resignedly and retreated to her upstairs drawing room to read.