Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  By the time Davie returned home on their first day in their new house, Iris had it passably clean, with a cheery fire crackling in the grate and the kitchen decorated with her few treasured possessions: a white linen tablecloth with D and I embroidered on to the corner, two china spaniels, and photographs of film stars which she’d torn from magazines and pinned around the room.

  ‘I don’t mind having my tea with Mary Pickford,’ Davie teased, ‘but Ramon Novarro puts me right off my bacon and eggs.’

  ‘That’s from The Prisoner of Zenda, don’t you remember?’ Iris sounded put out.

  ‘I remember what happened after.’ Davie grinned and slipped his arms around her waist, pecking her neck. Iris giggled. ‘Why don’t you show me how you’ve arranged the bedroom?’ Davie suggested.

  ‘I’ll have to put Raymond to bed first,’ Iris answered.

  ‘Molly’ll have him for a bit,’ Davie persisted, nibbling her ear.

  ‘All right then,’ Iris smiled in agreement.

  Shortly afterwards they lay together upstairs in the creaking bed they had exchanged for a half-ton of coal. The room was devoid of other furniture, save an old washstand with a cracked pink flowered bowl and jug standing on its marble top. Iris’s three dresses and Davie’s suit hung behind the door.

  ‘It’s grand to have our own place at last.’ Iris sighed contentedly, ‘We can do what we want now without half your family looking on in disapproval.’

  ‘Aye.’ Davie kissed her head as she lay on his shoulder. ‘Things’ll be just champion from now on.’

  ‘No more John calling you worse than muck,’ Iris added.

  ‘No more sermons from Sam,’ Davie laughed.

  ‘Just us two - and Raymond,’ Iris said softly.

  ‘Aye, just us,’ Davie echoed. Both of them fell silent in their own thoughts, as a line of trucks trundled noisily past their window.

  October finished in a flurry of wet gales, with the valley turning from burnished gold to wintry browns. The trees of Whitton Woods were shedding their leaves in preparation for a long sleep, nature bedding down under their roots. Eleanor learned from Eb that the villagers were plodding on in their half-starved state, waiting for the inevitable end to the protracted lockout. Few thought they would gain anything from their sacrifice, but fewer still had taken the easy way out of their penury and returned to the pit.

  Two-thirds of the families in Whitton Grange were relying on the soup kitchen at the chapel to feed their children. Eleanor had made anonymous donations for the helpers to buy food and she had gone to London on two occasions to speak to gatherings of radical women in order to keep alive sympathy for the miners’ cause and to raise funds. Reginald had been livid with her for her open defiance towards him and her father. Perhaps to placate them, she had agreed to hold a party to celebrate Reginald’s thirty-seventh birthday, and, as it fell on the second day in November, between Hallowe’en and Guy Fawkes Night, it was decided to make it a fancy dress ball with bonfire and fireworks.

  That night the stars shone in a cold, inky-black sky as if specially lit for the occasion. As the scores of guests arrived from around the county and disgorged from their chauffeur-driven cars in bizarre costumes, a huge bonfire was set alight in a specially built surround beyond the terrace.

  Clasping drinks of hot whisky punch, the revellers gasped and cheered as fireworks shot off into the sky, showering them with coloured flashes of light. There were shrieks from some of the younger guests, led by Beatrice, as louder fireworks were set off along the terrace just in front of the spectators.

  ‘This is absolutely thrilling!’ screamed Harriet Swainson as another bang ricocheted around the grounds.

  ‘Give me another drink, darling.’ Rose Fisher beckoned over the tight-lipped butler, Laws, and exchanged an empty glass for a full one from his tray.

  ‘Look, the guy’s caught fire!’ Libby Fisher, dressed in Turkish harem pants and veil, pointed excitedly. Eleanor saw Reginald standing close to her on the terrace, illuminated by the lights from the house and the glow from the bonfire. She glanced from them to the blazing guy, impaled on its stake. Someone had tied a muffler around its neck and jammed a cap on its head. Eleanor had not noticed until now how alike the effigy was to a miner.

  ‘Bravo!’ cried Reginald, fired by the punch. ‘I could think of a few men I’d like to see up there!’ His guests responded with laughter.

  ‘One of your Bolshies perhaps?’ Swainson the ship owner suggested.

  ‘Rather,’ agreed Reginald.

  ‘Burn the bally lot, I say,’ Libby added loudly, slopping punch on to the flagstones as she gestured towards Whitton Grange.

  Eleanor turned and retreated to the house before her simmering rage could erupt at the jeering, insensitive faces paying court to her husband.

  Food was served in the dining room and a band played in the ballroom until the early hours of the morning. Beatrice, unrestrained in Sandy’s absence, called for more daring dances and then insisted on the younger guests ducking for apples in the ornamental pond on the terrace. Several fell in or were pushed and had to be given dry clothes.

  Breakfast was served at four in the morning. Eleanor escaped to the conservatory where she found Isobel and the art teacher, Ruth Spencer. She sat down exhausted, lighting up a cigarette. ‘A quiet comer at last,’ she breathed.

  Before either of her friends had time to answer, Harriet Swainson appeared with Beatrice and half a dozen others.

  ‘Can we join you?’ Harriet asked, plonking herself down on a wicker chair. The others were vocal in their recounting of the evening’s events as they cleared their plates of kedgeree and toast.

  ‘How is your artist friend?’ Harriet suddenly asked Eleanor. Eleanor started in astonishment.

  ‘What friend?’ she countered, withdrawing behind a veil of smoke.

  ‘That - gentleman you introduced Susie and me to at the Laing Gallery,’ Harriet reminded her. ‘Mr Saunders or something. Surely you recall our meeting? It’s the last time I saw you before this evening.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Eleanor tried to sound nonchalant. ‘That was Mr Flanders.’

  ‘Flanders?’ Ruth Spencer queried with interest. ‘I don’t know the name. Is he a new find of yours, Eleanor?’ the art teacher enquired.

  ‘He’s a modern artist,’ Harriet interrupted, triumphant at being able to talk knowledgeably about art. ‘At least he was studying those ghastly cube-shaped paintings in the gallery. Isn’t that so, Eleanor?’

  ‘Yes,’ Eleanor answered feebly, feeling a flush of panic rushing to her cheeks. She lit another cigarette from the burning end in her holder. ‘He’s an amateur, Ruth.’ She recovered her poise. ‘That’s why you won’t have heard of him.’

  ‘Not so amateur,’ her father interjected from behind; Eleanor turned and saw him standing in the doorway with Reginald. Her insides lurched with fear. ‘I’ve seen pictures by this mysterious artist in Eleanor’s room - he did an excellent portrait of you, didn’t he, my dear?’

  Eleanor drew hard on her cigarette and managed a smile.

  ‘I’d be interested to see it,’ Ruth said, unaware of her friend’s predicament.

  ‘We all would.’ Reginald eyed his wife keenly. ‘You’ve never told me about him, Eleanor. Where does this Mr Flanders do his painting?’ She knew then that Reginald had overheard the whole conversation. Dragging her face into a smile and inwardly cursing the talkative Harriet, she gave an indifferent shrug.

  ‘In Darlington, I believe,’ she fabricated quickly. ‘That’s where he’s from, anyway. Isobel introduced me to him - he’s a teacher - isn’t that so, Isobel?’ She hardly dared look at her friend’s face, but Isobel was the only person who could pull her free of the trap which Reginald was about to snap shut.

  ‘That’s right,’ Isobel replied calmly. ‘Mr Flanders enjoys painting as a hobby - Eleanor was kind enough to show him around the Laing for me as I had to return home early. We’d all been through to Newcastle for the day together.’
She met Reginald’s hostile look with serene hazel eyes; Eleanor shot her a grateful glance.

  ‘I always knew you were a dark one, Isobel,’ Beatrice laughed. ‘How bohemian of you to have an artist friend.’ She stood up, her dyed blonde hair frizzing around her face after her earlier ducking in the pond. ‘Come on everyone, let’s have a last fling on the dance floor.’

  ‘What a ripping idea.’ Harriet clapped her hands in agreement and followed, pulling up a tired-looking Egyptian king from his seat. Eleanor relaxed as she saw Reginald retreat from the conservatory too, leaving the three friends alone.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured to Isobel. For a moment the friends all looked at each other. Ruth Spencer broke the silence.

  ‘Anybody like to tell me what’s going on?’ she asked bemusedly.

  Iris opened the door cautiously. To her amazement she found Louie standing on the step, a basket balanced on her arm. None of Davie’s family had been near them since their move to Whitton Station, over a month ago. She had called once with Raymond to see Fanny but had had to leave swiftly when John came in with Marjory.

  ‘Is Davie in?’ Louie asked awkwardly.

  ‘Yes, come in.’ Iris smiled cheerfully. ‘He’s kipping upstairs before he goes—’ She broke off suddenly, embarrassed to mention his work.

  ‘I won’t disturb him then,’ Louie answered stiffly and stepped backwards, suddenly doubtful about her rash decision to visit her outcast brother.

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ Iris took her arm. ‘Come inside - I’ve been longing to see you and hear news of everyone.’ She nodded her head for Louie to follow her.

  Louie obeyed, curious to see how Iris had arranged her new home. She gasped to see a large sideboard and upright chairs which matched the central table. Two new solid, square-armed easy chairs filled the area in front of the fire. The furnishings were plain and severe in Louie’s opinion, but they aped the ultra-modern fashions she had seen in catalogues. Brightly flowered curtains hung at the window and there were freshly made biscuits on the table. Her blue eyes widened and she felt the saliva collecting in her mouth.

  ‘It’s all on tick.’ Iris laughed at Louie’s envious appraisal of the room. ‘It’ll be years before we pay this lot off - but you’ve got to live for today, haven’t you?’ Louie made no comment. ‘Haway and sit down.’ Iris pushed her into one of the spacious new armchairs. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea and go and tell Davie you’re here. Raymond’s having a nap too - he’ll be cock-a-hoop to see his Auntie Louie again.’

  Louie’s face relaxed; she did not like to admit that it was Raymond she most wished to see. A month of adhering to Sam’s ban on visits to Davie’s house had driven her nearly frantic with wondering how her brother and nephew were. To her surprise she was even glad to see Iris once more. Whatever part she had played in this split within the family, Iris had been a strong support to Louie over the summer. With her jokes and forthright comments at the soup kitchen, and her singing, she had kept her sister-in-law’s blue moods at bay. Louie hated to admit how much she missed them all, how dreary life was without them, Sam constantly absent at meetings and the others listless with hunger and too much time on their hands.

  Iris warmed the teapot and disappeared upstairs. Louie got up and made the tea. Unable to resist the biscuits before her, she crammed one into her mouth as Iris reappeared with Raymond.

  ‘Look who’s here to see you.’ She held the boy towards his aunt. Immediately he spread his arms out for Louie to take him, which she responded to at once.

  ‘I’ve missed you, little pet.’ Louie hugged the auburn-haired boy and kissed his button nose. ‘Tell Auntie Louie what you’ve been up to, eh?’ She sat him on her knee and began a vigorous bouncing game.

  Raymond squealed in delight. He began a babble of nonsensical conversation.

  ‘Have another biscuit,’ Iris grinned. ‘Molly made them - she’s my new neighbour. Got three kids of her own - had four, but her baby died in August. That’s why they moved here - husband’s working down the Eleanor, he’s a marra of Davie’s.’

  Louie looked up, her eyes filling with unexpected tears; it took so little to remind her how deeply she still felt the loss of her baby.

  ‘I’m sorry for her,’ she answered quietly.

  ‘You might like to meet her,’ Iris suggested.

  ‘Maybes.’ Louie shrugged noncommittally.

  Suddenly she yearned to confide in Iris her worry that she had not fallen pregnant, the gnawing fear that she might never carry another baby. Sam, she knew, would not talk about it and pride would never let her discuss her worries with her mother or Hilda, but Iris was worldly-wise, she might put Louie’s mind at rest.

  But as she struggled to find the words, Davie came thumping down the stairs. He burst into the room, his hair tousled and his eyes still bleary.

  ‘Louie,’ he grinned at her with pleasure, ‘it’s grand to see you.’ He came across the room and kissed her bashfully. ‘By, you look skinny,’ he exclaimed. ‘Get something down you. Iris - fetch our Louie a sandwich.’

  ‘I didn’t come for food,’ Louie said proudly.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Davie interrupted.

  ‘You’ll stay and have tea with us, won’t you?’ Iris insisted too.

  ‘No, I’ll have to get back soon - Sam doesn’t know I’m here,’ Louie explained. ‘I’ll have to be home before he is.’

  ‘Still rallying the troops, is he?’ Davie teased.

  ‘Aye.’ Louie looked at him sharply. ‘The strike’s not finished yet.’

  ‘I give it another couple of weeks,’ Davie predicted. ‘No man’ll stick it out till Christmas.’

  ‘Stop talking about the strike.’ Iris was impatient. ‘I want to hear all the gossip.’

  ‘Not much to tell,’ Louie sighed. ‘There’s nothing going on these days - except at The Grange. Did you see the fireworks the other night?’

  ‘Yes,’ Iris nodded, as she made a cheese sandwich for her guest, ‘lit up the sky for miles around. Saw the guests leaving the next morning when Davie was going to work - by, they know how to enjoy themselves up there!’

  ‘More money than sense,’ Louie commented caustically.

  ‘Mam all right?’ Davie asked casually, his tone belying the concern he felt.

  ‘Cough’s bad again,’ Louie reported. ‘Dr Joice was out the other day. Says it won’t improve while she’s living in a damp house with no fire.’

  ‘She doesn’t have to!’ Davie thumped the table in frustration.

  ‘She’s loyal to Da,’ Louie sparked back. ‘She’d never force him back to the pit because of her health.’ The three of them fell into an uneasy silence.

  ‘How’s Sam then?’ Iris tried to break the tension.

  ‘Hardly see him.’ Louie’s pale face betrayed her unhappiness. ‘He’s on a one-man crusade to keep the men together - speaks wherever he can dodge the police. Even Bomber can’t be bothered to help him now the cold weather’s set in,’ she added bitterly.

  ‘Too busy knocking Minnie around, I bet.’ Iris did not conceal her distaste. Louie shot her a cautious look.

  ‘No, not recently,’ she answered, looking beyond the chattering Raymond to her brother. He did not meet her gaze, but seemed intent on something by his feet. ‘Minnie’s pregnant again - Bomber’s pleased.’

  ‘By, those Slatterys breed like rabbits!’ Iris cried. ‘I bet Bomber’s thinking hard about going back to work now. Might have him as a marra soon, Davie.’ She looked at her husband.

  ‘Aye,’ Davie mumbled. ‘Now are you going to get my tea ready?’ He seemed keen to change the subject. Louie watched his expression, but it betrayed no feeling. It had occurred to her before now that Davie might be the father of Minnie’s unborn child. She wondered if he pondered the likelihood too.

  ‘Just goes to show you never know what goes on between husband and wife behind closed doors.’ Iris continued to talk as she checked the pie in the round-doored oven. ‘Bomber and Minnie, I mean - always at ea
ch other’s throat in public,’ she laughed. ‘You pit folk are a strange lot.’

  Behind Iris’s back, Davie met the enquiring eyes of his sister. For a moment Louie saw the guilt that clung to her brother like a shadow. She glanced away in disappointment and turned her attention to her chattering nephew.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  By the end of November the miners’ leaders began to cave into pressure from the owners to capitulate on their terms. In the Midlands, the national newspapers gleefully reported, large numbers of miners were returning to work. Deals were being struck locally. In the face of the crumbling strike, the Durham lodges stood almost alone, still voting against the Government’s proposals that would ensure them the most meagre wages and conditions.

  The Durham owners set up a negotiating committee, with Reginald Seward-Scott as its chairman, with full powers to work out a district settlement. To Sam’s disgust, his father Samuel Ritson and members of the Durham Association met with the owners on three occasions. Minimum wages would be paid until February; coal and rent would no longer be considered as extras but as part of wages. After a long wrangle in which Seward-Scott put up vehement objections, the hewers were to be allowed a seven-and-a-half-hour shift, while the other miners worked an eight-hour day plus an hour’s winding. It was little consolation to the dispirited men.

  ‘You’ve given them everything they want!’ Sam railed at his father.

  ‘No one’s to be victimised,’ his father defended lamely. ‘They won’t hold it against you lads who took action during the stoppage. The likes of you and Bomber will get your jobs back.’

  ‘Aye, your father made sure of that.’ Liza Ritson nodded her grey head, her once plump face sagging at the jowls like an old bloodhound.

  ‘And you believe them?’ Sam said contemptuously.

  ‘They gave their word,’ Samuel replied stoutly.

  Sam shook his head in disbelief. ‘The word of Seward-Scott is as empty as that grate.’ He stabbed a finger at the ash-filled range. He left abruptly, leaving behind a family subdued and resentful at his accusing words.