‘Eb found him.’ Jacob talked to them softly. ‘Deputy says he risked his life to pull Davie out. They wanted to block off the flat in case of another fall, but Ebenezer insisted on going in.’
Louie glanced round for her eldest brother but he had gone back outside. She knew what a supreme effort it must have been for him to enter that pit. For the first time, tears stung her eyes and she blinked them away quickly.
‘I saw Davie this morning,’ her father continued reflectively.
‘Davie?’ she asked astonished. ‘You saw our Davie?’
Jacob nodded. ‘We passed each other in the shaft.’
‘So you didn’t speak.’ Louie’s voice was desolate.
‘No, but he was smiling,’ her father whispered hoarsely. Louie’s throat constricted with a dry sob. She turned back to bathing her brother’s body.
‘My Davie was born smiling,’ Fanny added softly and bent to kiss her son.
By the time Iris arrived, distraught and tear-stained, they had transferred Davie to the parlour. His body was wrapped and laid on the bed and the curtains were drawn. Tomorrow they would tie black ribbon to the bedstead and place his coffin on a trestle ready for the visiting.
Iris rent the air with a scream when she saw her husband stiff on the bed where they had slept. She flung herself at him and covered his cold grey face with kisses. Louie, horrified by her hysterical grief, tried to pull her away but Iris went on shouting something incomprehensible about Davie, as if he were somehow to blame for his own death.
‘He saved Wilfred’s life,’ Louie tried to tell her through the screaming. ‘If it hadn’t been for Davie, Wilfred would be dead too - he said so - Da’s been to see him.’
‘He should have saved himself.’ Iris ranted, her eyes wild in her stricken face. ‘What about me and Raymond? It was me he loved - me! It was his fault we argued. Davie! Davie!’ she cried at the lifeless pitman. Then she covered him with kisses again and told him she loved him.
Eventually Fanny and Louie managed to coax Iris out of the parlour and sat her by the fire. Louie was glad that John had taken Raymond next door and he did not have to witness his mother’s hysteria. Iris sat shaking in her chair but the uncontrolled sobbing had ceased.
‘Try and drink something,’ Louie said kindly, offering her sister-in-law a cup of stewed tea. Iris shook her head. She seemed to be struggling to say something.
‘I-I didn’t say goodbye, Louie,’ she whispered. Louie placed a comforting arm around her shoulders.
‘None of us did,’ she answered, gripped with remorse. ‘We all feel bad about not speaking to him. It was wrong and now we’ll never have the chance to make amends.’ Tears trickled down Louie’s face.
‘No,’ Iris said more urgently, gripping Louie’s free hand, ‘I didn’t wave him off when he went to work this morning. You once told me always to see your man off to the pit - in case you never see him again.’ Iris broke off with renewed weeping.
‘Don’t blame yourself now,’ Louie comforted. ‘Davie knew you loved him.’
‘I’ve been a bad pitman’s wife, haven’t I, Louie?’ Iris sniffed. ‘I should have said goodbye. He never saw me say goodbye!’
Louie put her arms around Iris and hugged her tight, unable to answer her question.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The following day the pits closed as a mark of respect for the men who had died. Five had lost their lives; Davie and Alfred, a stoneman named Trewick and two young putters barely seventeen years old.
At 28 Hawthorn Terrace there was open house for relations and friends to visit and take one last look at Davie lying on the trestle in the parlour. Men who had not spoken to him since his blacklegging came and expressed their condolences to his parents and widow. Iris, who had exhausted herself with weeping and railing on the day of the accident, had withdrawn into a tense, morose silence. She hardly uttered a word to anyone. Louie found herself having to cope with Raymond as well as make the arrangements for the funeral wake. She clothed herself in a protective numbness and found relief in keeping busy.
It had been decided by the families and the local churchmen who represented them to hold a joint burial service at the cemetery. So the Methodist minister, Stephen Pinkney, liaised with Reverend Hodgson, the vicar of St Cuthbert’s, over the arrangements for burying the dead. There was no need to send round callers inviting neighbours to the funeral, everyone in Whitton Grange knew the service was to be on Saturday.
Aunt Eva and Uncle Jack travelled down from Stand High Farm on the Friday night.
‘Fanny!’ Eva flew into her sister’s arms. ‘Poor Fanny. Such a canny lad! I’m that choked.’
Louie watched her mother anxiously for signs of strain, but her face was set and her answer stoical.
‘We all miss him,’ she agreed quietly with her sister, ‘but Iris needs your sympathy most.’ Eva glanced through the open parlour door at the listless figure sitting hunched in the gloom. ‘She’s not moved from his side all day,’ Fanny whispered. ‘The lass is still in shock. Louie and I don’t know what to do.’
‘I’ll have a word.’ Eva squeezed her sister’s frail arm and without taking off her thick coat went and sat with Iris.
From time to time, Louie could hear her voice speaking gently to the immobile Iris as if to a child. What she said Louie could not make out, but she saw Iris turn to Davie’s aunt and ask her a question and then nod before resuming her vigil.
That night, Louie lay awake in the upstairs bed next to Sam, her aunt and uncle on the other side of the partition. She could not sleep and she longed to talk to Sam about Davie, but they had had no opportunity to be alone together since his death. Sam had been shocked by the news, but had said little.
What was he feeling, Louie wondered? Did the lump of guilt that weighed in her stomach give Sam unease too? There had been no sign of any personal remorse on her husband’s part at having severed all contact with Davie. How had she let him dictate to her about not seeing her own brother, Louie thought angrily? But as she tossed restlessly, turning her back to Sam, she knew that she was merely trying to shift her own burden of guilt onto him. Only when she recalled her few infrequent clandestine visits to Whitton Station did she achieve a degree of peace of mind.
***
The morning of Davie’s funeral dawned grey and cold. A raw east wind blew down the valley, causing draughts to blow under every uneven door and rattling the ill-fitting windows of the colliery terraces. The Kirkup men dressed in their sombre dark suits, black armbands and stiff white collars and sat about the kitchen saying little. Sam had left early that morning for the Cathedral pit, in spite of Louie’s reproachful looks.
‘It’s my first week,’ Sam had defended himself sternly. ‘I’ll lose this job if I don’t turn in.’
‘You could have explained it was family,’ Louie had answered spiritedly. ‘Everyone has a right to bury their dead.’ Sam had not replied. Instead he had left in his work clothes, with his bait tin and bottle in Eb’s old army knapsack, without embracing his wife.
Louie, seething inside at Sam’s decision, pressed her lips firmly together, ignoring the wary glances of her family, and set about helping Aunt Eva and Hilda prepare a modest spread of sandwiches and scones for the mourners who would return to Hawthorn Street after the burial. Sadie occupied Raymond’s attention with a game of snakes and ladders which he did not understand, while Fanny helped Iris dress in the parlour.
As she spread butter thinly across the bread, Louie’s gaze kept flicking across to the closed door of the front room. Why were they taking so long? What could they be saying?
‘Here’s the undertaker,’ Eb told them as he stooped and rubbed the condensation from the window behind the thin curtain.
‘Better knock,’ Aunt Eva nodded to Louie. Her niece crossed to the parlour and gave a timid tap on the door before entering. Iris stood by the large dresser, in a plain black dress of her mother-in-law’s and black wool stockings. Her pale face was translucent above
the widow’s clothes, her auburn hair pulled back by grips. She wore no make-up, giving her a girlish appearance. Far too young to be widowed, Louie thought with a stab, regretting the terse words she had exchanged with her own husband that morning.
‘Mr MacGregor’s here,’ Louie said gently. Her mother nodded and stood up; she was already wearing her coat and hat.
‘Come on, Iris pet,’ Fanny said to her daughter-in-law. Iris was clinging protectively to the closed coffin, which was covered in bunches of greenery and winter jasmine from neighbours and an elaborate spray of hothouse flowers from the Seward-Scotts that had arrived the previous day. Together Louie and her mother moved towards Iris and steered her away.
MacGregor and two of his men, joiners at the pit, came in to carry the coffin out to the waiting funeral carriage. Louie felt sick at the thought of her brother departing for the last time from the house where they had grown up together. How could so much energy and love of life and joking be snuffed out so brutally? she wondered bitterly. Where was Davie, her laughing, affectionate brother now? Stemming her thoughts, she helped Iris put on her coat and hat, to which Hilda’s dextrous hands had added a piece of black gauze for a veil.
At that moment, Jacob Kirkup halted the men.
‘He can’t leave without a prayer,’ he ordered in his vibrant voice. MacGregor’s helpers placed the coffin on the floor where the lay preacher indicated, and the family gathered around wordlessly.
Louie squeezed her eyes shut, partly to prevent the tears escaping, as her father gave a short extempore prayer for Davie’s life. For the first time ever she heard his strong voice praise her brother for his joy of life and the friendship he had shown to others. She knew it took great courage for her reticent parent to bare his heart at such a painful time, but it was a relief to hear him. It would help mend the rift between her father and Iris, and already the awful tension of the morning was dissolving as they stood side by side in silent unity.
‘Greater love hath no man than to lay down his life for others,’ Jacob quoted. ‘Now we commend our brother Davie into your care, O Lord. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ Louie choked with the others.
‘We’ll sing a hymn as Davie leaves for his eternal home,’ Jacob encouraged his family and began a robust singing.
‘Onward goes the pilgrim band,
Singing songs of expectation,
Marching to the promised land!’
Louie gripped Iris’s hand as they sang and although her sister-in-law did not know the words to join in, she felt an answering squeeze.
They were about to set off from the house behind the coffin, still singing, just as Iris’s family arrived. The Ramshaws seemed quite taken aback by the rousing noise emanating from behind the curtained windows. Iris rushed forward and greeted them in a flood of words and tears and embracing. Louie was thankful portly Mr Ramshaw and his talkative wife had managed not to be late. The boys, Tom and Percy, and their sisters, Nora and Jean, pressed around their eldest sibling and supported her out of the door.
For the first time in four days, Louie heard Iris answer questions and consoling words with a degree of her old spark. Her face streamed with tears as she clung on to her mother and was supported by her father on the other side as they stepped into the crowded street.
‘Keep Raymond indoors,’ Louie called to Sadie. ‘No point in him seeing his mother this upset.’ The small boy seemed oblivious to the grief-stricken atmosphere around him and was enjoying the singing until he saw everyone leave the room. As Louie closed the door behind her, Raymond ran to it, battering and howling in protest, and Sadie rushed to restrain him.
‘Mammy and Auntie Louie will be back soon,’ the young girl assured him, hugging him to her. ‘Look, we’ll watch from the window.’ Raymond allowed himself to be carried into the parlour and they peeked out of the curtains, even though it made Sadie shiver to step into that room of death.
‘There’s Mammy,’ she jollied the baby, pointing at a black figure surrounded on all sides by family and neighbours. ‘Raymond wave.’
‘Daddy?’ the small boy queried, turning to his cousin with a puzzled look. ‘Daddy ta-ta?’
‘Yes, Daddy ta-ta,’ Sadie answered hoarsely, repeating the babyish words that Raymond used to call when his father left for work. She let the curtain fall and took Raymond back into the kitchen.
Eleanor had never seen a crowd like it. A swathe of behatted mourners, grim-faced and virtually silent, stretched as far as the eye could see. She parked the car outside St Cuthbert’s because the way up to the public cemetery was choked with the slow tide of villagers edging their way to the Memorial Park. The park had been created in remembrance of an earlier pit explosion when fifteen men had been killed. It had happened before the war, when Eleanor was away at a suffragist rally, and she had not been aware of the intensity of the tragedy.
But now she knew one of the miners involved; Davie Kirkup, whom she had first met when Will nearly ran him over one summer night that seemed so long ago. Through Davie she had met Louie, a sensible and brave miner’s daughter whom she counted as a friend - and she had met Eb. Eleanor’s heart twisted in pain to think how the Kirkups were suffering now. She had wanted to rush and see them as soon as Hopkinson brought news of the disaster, but her wish not to intrude on their grief had made her hesitate. All week she had stayed away. How she longed to put her arms around Eb so they could comfort one another.
But she stood utterly alone now, outside the church where Beatrice and Sandy had been married just a week ago. Eleanor was sure she could recall seeing chestnut-haired Iris grinning by the lych gate in a green velvet hat, holding up her baby to see the grand people who rustled by them in their fancy clothes. Eleanor’s own problems paled into insignificance when she thought of Davie’s young widow and child without their breadwinner. What would they do now? she pondered as she waited for the Joices to join her. Hopkinson had said there was another woman even worse off, a Mrs Hutchinson who was left with three young children.
Eleanor had demanded to know what would be done for them. Reginald had answered coldly that there would be provision for the widows and families involved. Kirkup and Hutchinson had been paying into a new insurance fund and Trewick’s family would be cared for by his union.
‘Fortunately the other two were just boys with no families to support,’ Reginald had added, then flushed under the outraged glare of his wife.
‘So as long as they’re young and unmarried they’re expendable?’ Eleanor had seethed. ‘Such comforting sentiments for the families who’ve lost them.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Reginald had retorted and ordered her out of his study so he could discuss further with his agent the situation at the damaged pit. Eleanor had stormed from the room, shaking with indignation, quite forgetting that the reason she had sought Reginald in the first place was to tell him she wanted a separation.
Pulling her fur collar about her slim neck, so it met the back of her black hat, she watched Isobel and her father emerge out of the dene towards her. Reginald had thought it inappropriate for either himself or Eleanor to attend the funeral; after all it was a private affair for the bereaved mining families. Eleanor snorted to think of her husband’s excuses as she saw hundreds of people lining the road to see the passing funeral cortege.
‘Isobel.’ She kissed her friend on the cheek. Dr Joice gave Eleanor a hug; no more words were necessary. They walked down the lane and fell in behind a family crossing the green to the park. Joining the orderly throng at the tall iron gates, Eleanor looked back down the village. A low hum of noise carried on the wind and her eyes watered in the icy air.
Far down the hill, snaking its way through the respectful mourners came the procession of carriages, the first three horse-drawn, the last two motorised. Before them marched the colliery band, their brass instruments glinting dully under a grey shrouded sky. Eleanor strained to see if Eb was playing, but they were too far off to discern any faces. Blasts of music rose and died
as the wind snatched the notes and tossed them up to the clouds. There was a hushed tenseness as they waited.
Isobel slipped an arm through her friend’s as the cortege drew nearer. By now it was possible to make out the figures beside the carriages and the magnificent horses crowned with black plumes, their drivers hanging on to top hats in the stiff breeze. The band swept past and Eleanor saw Eb frowning in concentration under his military-style cap, then other heads got in the way of her view.
‘They’re the Trewicks,’ Isobel murmured and nodded at the first party; two women surrounded by children of differing ages and a host of relations about them. Eleanor did not know which one was the widow, for both central figures were bowed in grief.
Following them were the coffins and families of the dead boys. There was a gap of several yards and then came the first motorised hearse. No one walked beside it, but Eleanor glimpsed a young, pale-faced woman sitting in the front, two children either side and another one on her knee.
‘The Hutchinsons?’ she whispered. Isobel nodded.
‘They’re strangers here - her daughter Lily is at our school. She gets picked on because her father was a scab,’ the teacher explained in a hushed voice.
‘How dreadful.’ Eleanor’s pity for the lone woman and her wide-eyed children increased. But it was the sight of the final group of mourners that really wrung her heart. Behind the carriage bearing the wreath-covered coffin stumbled Iris, gripped on either side by her parents. There were several muffled children who could have been members of her family, and among them the Kirkups, the tall distinguished lay preacher and his frail grey-faced wife who no longer resembled the maid Eleanor had known in her childhood. John walked between Hilda and Louie, the threesome arm in arm for support, while behind came another couple whom Eleanor did not recognise. They moved together as if bound by some invisible web, a family in complete unity in their loss. Louie’s comely face was haggard with distress and Eleanor wondered fleetingly why Sam Ritson was not at her side.
Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills Page 42