At the end of the month there was a further ballot. Locally the vote was still to prolong the strike, but throughout the region they did not get the two-thirds majority needed to continue their action. Sam fumed as the press pilloried the Durham miners as Communist agitators. Finally, on the 4th December, the Durham Association instructed their members to return to work; all the other coalfields had already surrendered to the combined might of the owners, the Government, the press, and hunger.
Louie sat huddled in her coat and gloves by the light of a guttering candle as Sam told her the inevitable - the strike was over. Tomorrow, pitmen would be queuing up for work at the manager’s office.
‘I’ll not go begging for my job back,’ Sam said bitterly.
Louie glanced at her husband, haggard, tired and hollow-cheeked in the distorting candlelight. He looked old, as if time had drawn a mask of lines and shadows across his once handsome square-jawed face. Louie shivered, pressing her hands between her legs for warmth. She felt chilled to the marrow.
‘You’ve done more than anyone for this village,’ Louie said wearily, ‘but the fighting’s over, Sam. We need your job at the pit.’ She thought silently of the mountain of credit they owed at the store, of their pawned silver tea service of which she had been so proud, of the fear of eviction that still hung over them if Sam was not re-employed at the Eleanor.
But Sam appeared not to hear. He continued fretfully, ‘Bomber voted to return to work, can you believe it? A rnarra of mine and he stabs me in the back like that!’
‘You can’t blame him,’ Louie reasoned, ‘with Minnie pregnant and wee Jack always poorly - they’re desperate.’ She bit back the words ‘just like us’.
‘I’ll not speak to him,’ Sam declared stubbornly.
Louie sighed with impatience, yet she did not have the strength to argue back. As things were going, there would be no one to whom they could speak. All around them, people had betrayed Sam’s cause, found wanting when their strength of purpose was tested beyond endurance. Few men with craving bellies upheld the passionate convictions of her iron-willed husband, and often she found it hard to measure up to his exacting standards. He did not know about her secret visits to Davie and Iris, and she would never tell him. She felt edgy with guilt at going behind Sam’s back, and yet resentful that she could not visit her brother openly and was denied her nephew’s cheerful company.
‘I’m going over to Mam’s.’ Louie rose, hugging herself against the cold.
Sam watched her silently as she brushed past him, nearly extinguishing the spluttering candle. He wanted to reach out and stop her, hold her tall, frail body to his, but he could not bring himself to do so. His heart was so full of venomous thoughts against those who had made his people suffer, his disappointment at the futile strike so acute, that he could not take comfort in his wife’s presence. Her blue eyes were accusing; she wished him to humble his pride and go back cap in hand to the bosses. Well, pride was all he had left, and Sam Ritson would not trade it in for a reduced wage. He would wait until they sent for him. Louie went, stony-faced, knowing nothing she could say would change Sam’s mind.
The following week saw half of Whitton Grange return to work. Men came back from shifts underground with grim stories of the worsened conditions below. They were working up to their waists in water in one of the seams. But Christmas was approaching, and the pitmen accepted what work and wages they were given. Jacob and John Kirkup were taken back and Samuel Ritson and his son-in-law Johnny Pearson were also hired as face workers. A week before Christmas, Bomber approached the under-manager and asked for a job.
Minnie came rushing into Louie’s house in floods of tears. When her friend had finally calmed her down, she gathered from Minnie the awful news that there was no work for Bomber at the Eleanor or Beatrice.
‘Naylor said there was no need for him just now - not enough work,’ Minnie sobbed.
‘That’s rubbish!’ Louie cried. ‘They’re still taking on strangers from outside the village.’
‘They won’t have Bomber.’ Minnie hid her face in her hands.
‘Don’t worry,’ Louie tried to comfort her distraught friend, ‘I’ll see if Sam can have a word.’ Minnie looked up at her in disbelief.
‘You don’t understand.’ Her tear-streaked face tensed in misery, ‘If they won’t take Bomber back, there’s not a chance they’ll have Sam. Don’t you see that?’
Eleanor returned from Christmas shopping in Durham and a pleasant lunch with Ruth Spencer. As a consequence of the November party she had shown Ruth some of Eb’s paintings and Ruth had expressed her keenness to have Eb as a student in her class.
Eleanor had laughed and said she was still trying to persuade Eb to meet her art teacher friend.
‘He’s naturally suspicious of those in authority,’ Eleanor had joked, ‘especially those who want to tell him what to do.’
‘I’m quite intrigued to meet this - friend - of yours,’ Ruth had answered with a wry smile, pushing back wisps of red hair that had sprung loose from their pins.
‘I’ll bring him before Christmas,’ Eleanor had promised.
‘You’ll be far too busy organising Beatrice’s wedding, surely?’ Ruth had replied. ‘Isobel tells me you’ve been landed with most of the arrangements.’
‘Yes.’ Eleanor had betrayed her lack of enthusiasm with a heavy sigh. ‘Sandy’s leave has been brought forward - his regiment is leaving for Malta in January and Beatrice wants to go with him. It’s all a bit of a rush - but who can blame them - they want to be together.’
Peters, the young footman, carried Eleanor’s parcels into the house while his mistress discarded her fur coat and hat and ordered tea to be brought to her upstairs drawing room. The hallway was filled with the scent of pine from the huge Christmas tree stretching away up the stairwell. Eleanor could not help feeling a childish thrill at the sight of the gaudy baubles and tinsel catching in the electric light, as the day darkened swiftly behind her. Beatrice would be home in a couple of days for the holiday festivities, then there would be all the chaotic excitement of her New Year wedding and a house full of guests. Eleanor did not like to think beyond her sister’s marriage to when The Grange would echo emptily to her solitary footsteps.
For a short time she could turn her mind from the unhappiness of Whitton Grange and the destitution that lapped at their door. Perhaps she could infect Eb with some of the gaiety of Christmas; he was so preoccupied by the plight of the pitmen since the ending of the strike, he had little enthusiasm for painting. What nagged at her mind most, though, was his subtle change towards her now that the miners had returned to work. It was as if the boundaries that separated them had been redrawn, she was once more the lady of the big house and not a comrade in arms. They had not been alone together for a couple of weeks and the yearning for her lover was burrowing inside her like a frantic animal.
To halt her broodings, Eleanor curled up on a sofa amid cream and green cushions, in front of a crackling fire, and absorbed herself in a book until tea arrived. When someone knocked at her door and entered, she did not look up.
‘Put the tray on the table please, Bridget,’ Eleanor instructed.
There was a formal cough and she glanced up to see Reginald advancing towards her, already dressed in evening wear, his wavy hair groomed and shiny. Eleanor’s heart sank at the stern expression on his face; she was not in the mood for one of his lectures.
‘You’re dressed for dinner early.’ She smiled to disconcert her husband.
‘I’m going to a concert in Newcastle,’ he answered brusquely. ‘I won’t be back tonight.’ Eleanor was now used to Reginald being matter of fact about his deliberate staying away from home. She suspected half the county talked about his affair with Libby Fisher.
‘Enjoy your evening then.’ She dismissed him and concentrated hard on the book in her lap.
‘There’s a matter I want cleared up with you first.’ Reginald ignored her rebuff and strode to the fireside. He planted
his feet firmly on the Persian hearth rug. ‘You will never again threaten me with divorce - or attempt to interfere in the business of the mines. If the management chooses to dispense with the services of various pitmen - such as Red Ritson - you will refrain from meddling in such decisions. Is that quite clear?’ Eleanor looked up at him in astonishment. Why on earth was he being so aggressive with her now?
‘And how will you stop me?’ she asked, keeping her voice level, though the steely set of his face made her nervous.
‘I will expose your grubby little liaison with Ebenezer Kirkup,’ Reginald answered triumphantly. ‘I have compiled a dossier on you, Eleanor, which makes interesting if distasteful reading. If anyone issues divorce proceedings it will be me. The next time you attempt to undermine my authority, I’ll have all the Kirkups thrown out of their jobs.’
‘You disgust me!’ Eleanor hissed, her chest and throat tight with shock.
‘You are the disgusting one, my dear.’ His impassive brown eyes were scornful. ‘You have brought shame to the name of Seward-Scott with your sordid little affair. I have a list of dates and places where you have been seen together which I would not hesitate to show to your father or anyone else if you dare to cross me again. Imagine how this invalid miner of yours would be shunned by his own community if they knew about his adulterous relationship with you.’
Reginald was pleased with the stunned look on his wife’s face; he had played his trump card and beaten her this time. Hopkinson had done an excellent job in recruiting young Constable Turnbull to do a spot of spying on Eleanor. The policeman had proved an eager detective, seeming to relish the opportunity of bringing evidence against Ebenezer Kirkup. At some future date, Reginald would make sure PC Turnbull was well rewarded. He would be more use than the feisty old MacGuire.
‘I have nothing to say to you,’ Eleanor answered him more calmly than she felt, ‘except to say I refuse to be threatened by your odious accusations.’
Reginald laughed mirthlessly. ‘The choice is yours. I know everything that is worth knowing about your lover,’ he almost spat out the word, ‘and I really don’t care how you find your amusement, Eleanor, except when it affects my business.’
‘Our business,’ Eleanor reminded him crossly.
‘No.’ He stepped away from the fire. ‘As far as the property of the mines is concerned, they are my business - I am your father’s heir in that respect - it’s all been signed over to me. And the mines are the lifeblood of The Grange, remember that - without them this place would be bankrupt.’
‘That’s outrageous,’ Eleanor retorted. ‘Father wouldn’t do such a thing without my knowledge.’
Reginald looked at her in triumph. ‘Oh, but he has. Your father is too good a man of business to allow your selfishness to jeopardise the future of The Grange. He doesn’t want you interfering in his business interests any more than I do.’
‘It’s a betrayal,’ Eleanor spluttered furiously.
‘You’re the betrayer,’ Reginald said with contempt. ‘You’ve gone against your own kind and I’ll never forgive you for that.’
Eleanor looked away from him, sickened by her father’s part in Reginald’s scheming and at the way her husband had hunted and cornered her over Eb. He had sought out her vulnerability and struck like an adder. She knew he would not hesitate in poisoning Eb’s life too. It maddened her to think she was powerless to protect him or his family.
‘Get out,’ Eleanor shouted, her anger igniting. ‘Go to your whore!’
They glared at each other in hatred. Reginald turned abruptly and marched to the door. He glanced back before reaching for the brass handle.
‘I’ve not the faintest idea what I ever saw in you, Eleanor,’ he told her coldly. ‘Everything about you sickens me.’ He closed the door behind him.
Eleanor stood up and reached for her cigarette case. It took intense concentration for her to stop shaking long enough to light a cigarette and suck the smoke into her nostrils. She took three deep inhalations, then crossed to the window.
Bridget came in with the tea, but Eleanor did not notice, so the maid left it unpoured on the table and withdrew. A few minutes later, Eleanor saw Sandford bring the Bentley round to the front entrance and open the door for her husband. The chauffeur-driven car left with a crunch of wheels on the frosty driveway. She saw all these things and yet felt nothing, as if she was watching a rather boring play from the upper circle.
The Bentley’s headlamps illuminated a group of children making their way up the drive and then dumped them into darkness again. Eleanor’s numb brain could not work out what they were doing there, until moments later when they gathered round the front steps. She made out the figure of Reverend Hodgson towering above his miniature flock.
Suddenly the frosty evening was filled with the quavering singing of dozens of voices. Eleanor threw up the sash window to hear the carols more clearly. The cold air bit at her face and neck, but she welcomed its rawness on her skin. Familiar, comforting phrases about shepherds and silent nights drifted up to her like balm to her torn nerves.
She listened for several minutes as the children, muffled and becapped against the cold, sang lustily through their repertoire. Eleanor felt humbled that these villagers, who had suffered so much hardship and had so little to their name, could comfort her battered heart with their amateur carol singing. Here they were, with all the resilience and optimism of youth, rebuking her self-pity. All at once she longed to be with them.
‘Wait while I come down!’ she called to the vicar, as they paused between carols. She would take them into the kitchen and get Mrs Dennison to fill them up with mince pies and cake and hot drinks. She was still the lady of The Grange and she would do what she liked in her own home, no matter what her callous husband said.
Stubbing out her second cigarette, she turned resolutely to the door and hurried out to her motley group of visitors.
Two days before Christmas, Sam and Bomber were served with eviction orders. Men from the next village who had jobs at the Whitton Grange pits were to have their accommodation. Eb and John went round to help Sam and Louie transport their possessions back to Hawthorn Street on an open cart they had borrowed from the cheerful ice cream vendor Dimarco.
‘I’ll not give them the pleasure of throwing me out on the street,’ Sam told his brothers-in-law, as Louie packed her kitchenware into two large boxes. Her best linen had already been taken round to her parents’ house with a suitcase of clothes. Through the window she watched Eb and Sam haul their gate-legged table on to the cart. Three kitchen chairs were piled around, their splintered legs stuck in the air. Across the street neighbours stood at their doors and watched the move, their breath puffing in the cold air like pipe smoke as they muttered to each other.
Eb returned. ‘What about the bed?’ he asked bashfully.
‘We’ll have to leave it,’ Sam answered shortly.
‘There’s no room at Mam’s,’ Louie added. It was a symbol of their marriage, yet stripped of its homely covers and standing in the empty, chilly room it was no more than an old rusty bed. Louie turned away and picked the kettle off the dead stove, determined not to be sentimental about their going. Why cry over a cramped dark room like this? She had never thought of it as a permanent home for them anyway.
Without stopping for a last glance round, Louie marched out of the back door, her small chin jutting in the air. Sam followed, a mat rolled up under his arm, and slammed the door behind him. They walked proudly beside the cart as Eb and John took the long handles and pulled it behind them.
Minnie ran out of her front doorway.
‘Louie!’ she wailed and burst into tears. Louie hugged her friend awkwardly. They had not spoken much since Sam and Bomber had fallen out over the return to work. The men paused but looked away.
‘We won’t be neighbours but we’ll still see each other,’ Louie promised.
‘It’s Jack’s first birthday on Boxing Day and what does he get?’ Minnie cried. ‘Not even a
roof over his head!’
‘You’re going to Bomber’s parents, aren’t you?’
‘Aye,’ Minnie tossed her unkempt curls from her face, ‘not that they’ll make me feel welcome. They’d sooner wipe their feet on a Slattery.’
‘At least they’re speaking to you at last. Just be thankful they’re standing by you,’ Louie said resignedly. ‘What about Margaret and the bairn?’
‘She’s gone back to Mam’s,’ Minnie replied dejectedly.
‘Haway, Minnie,’ Louie chided, ‘cheer up your miserable face. There’ll be work to be found at one of the other pits round about after Christmas.’
‘Pigs’ll fly,’ Minnie retorted, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
‘Come on, Louie,’ Sam called impatiently.
‘I’ll call round to see you,’ Louie promised and squeezed her friend’s arm quickly. She ran to catch up with the cart as it trundled and shook down the rough lane. Glancing back, she saw a runny-nosed Jack clinging on to his mother’s dress, whining. Louie waved.
‘I couldn’t stop him,’ Eleanor told Eb on Christmas Eve. ‘He threatened to dismiss all your family if I interfered.’
After the carol service at St Cuthbert’s parish church she had gone straight to Greenbrae to seek him out. Isobel, having told her Eb would be there receiving his Christmas parcel, left them alone in the large warm kitchen.
‘So he knows about us then?’ Eb asked quietly. Eleanor nodded. Eb gave out a long sigh. ‘What are you going to do?’ Ha met her worried gaze as he spoke.
‘I don’t know.’ Eleanor shrugged. ‘I’m frightened of what he might try to do to you - or your family.’ Eb’s blue eyes considered her disconcertingly, as if they found her wanting.
She got up abruptly from her chair. ‘What can I do?’ she demanded desperately.
‘You must give me up,’ Eb told her, his look unflinching. Eleanor started at his brutal words. His jaw was set, his fists clenched on his knees.
‘I -I can’t,’ Eleanor stammered. ‘I’ll not be bullied and blackmailed by my husband. Don’t ask me not to see you, Eb.’
Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills Page 38