Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  As they passed Eleanor’s clinic, Iris wondered what was going through Eb’s mind. She knew from a conversation she had overheard between Louie and Hilda that her brother-in-law and the lady from The Grange had been close friends. All at once she wanted to break the sad silence between them.

  ‘Miss Eleanor lent me the money, you know,’ Iris said. ‘I couldn’t be doing this without her help.’

  Eb glanced at her from under his cap, but said nothing. They continued past the Memorial Hall and turned on to the Durham Road.

  ‘She’s a real lady, Miss Eleanor,’ Iris persisted. ‘She’s been a good friend to us all.’

  ‘Aye,’ Eb agreed grudgingly, ‘but there’s more to friendship than charity.’

  ‘Is that all you think it is?’ Iris answered scornfully. ‘Well, I see it as more than that - Miss Eleanor’s been kindness itself to me and Davie. She didn’t have to give me anything - she’s not the boss’s wife any more. The trouble with you pitmen is your stupid pride - you can’t see real friendship when it stares you in the face. Sam’s just the same - still not talking to Bomber over nothing.’

  ‘Why are you going on about Mrs Seward-Scott to me?’ Eb asked testily. Iris shot him a knowing look.

  ‘You know very well why. Because she cares about you,’ she answered boldly. ‘She was asking after you when I went to see her. You can call me interfering, but I think you’re daft for giving her up. If you want something in life you should grab on to it - and not give tuppence-halfpenny for what other people think.’

  Iris saw Eb’s jaw colour and his face grow stormy, so she dropped the subject. They marched on round the corner where the new redbrick Catholic church stood.

  ‘Don’t want to bump into that Minnie Bell again,’ Iris complained, ducking her head.

  ‘I thought you were friends with her sister?’ Eb was glad of the shift in conversation.

  ‘Margaret’s canny enough,’ Iris pouted, ‘but that Minnie’s nothing but a troublemaker. You know it’s Davie’s bairn she’s having?’

  Eb rounded on her, astounded. ‘Never!’

  ‘Aye,’ Iris sneered, ‘my Davie. Sowing oats up at Stand High Farm last summer, he was. That’s why I don’t want to be around when she has the baby - I don’t wish her any harm, I just don’t want to know anything about it.’

  Eb suddenly swung an arm around her shoulder. ‘Sorry, pet,’ he said kindly. ‘You’ve had a rough time of it.’ He let out a long sigh as they walked close together. ‘I don’t blame you for leaving, you know. There’s a world out there waiting for you - people brought up in Whitton sometimes think there’s nowhere else worth bothering about, but that’s not true. Make sure you find what you’re looking for, Iris.’

  They reached Whitton Station as the train pulled in, so there was no prolonged leave-taking. Iris kissed Eb warmly on the mouth.

  ‘You’re a good’n,’ she smiled. ‘Look after yourself as well as the others though, won’t you?’ Eb smiled in reply and helped her on to the train.

  Iris watched the dismal station and her former dwelling in Station Lane shunt out of view, with Eb raising his cap and waving her away. She felt a clash of feelings; regret at leaving the place she had made her home, bittersweet longing for Raymond’s chattering voice, fear at the unknown ahead, a dull ache for Davie.

  Yet sitting back in the scratchy seat watching the newly ploughed fields slipping out of sight, Iris felt a stirring of relief. A small flame of freedom lit deep inside her and quickened to excitement at the momentous step she had taken. For the first time in her life, she was going to pursue her dream of a career in front of the footlights. Who could now say that it was only a dream?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The night before the Big Meeting, Louie sat on the doorstep mending a tear in Sam’s shirt. The frayed cotton defied the surgery that Louie applied, but it would have to do. The warm July evening had brought neighbours to their back gates and the children into the streets, making the most of their parents’ liberal mood in allowing them out so late. It was at moments like this that Louie came nearest to contentment, listening to her mother and Marjory discussing plans for the wedding, feeling mellow and young in the balmy evening air and watching Raymond asleep on Sadie’s knee, his bonny face untroubled by cares.

  They had received only two postcards in over three months from Iris; one from Skegness and the other from Swansea. They told little of her itinerant life except to say she was working with a man called Barny and she hoped to see them soon. Raymond had long stopped asking when his mother was coming back and lately had slipped into calling Louie ‘Mammy’. She grew closer to him as the weeks went by, surprising even herself with the depth of love she felt for another woman’s child. He filled her hours, his chatter and liveliness giving her endless pleasure, assuaging her despair at being childless. If only Sam would take as much interest in the small boy, she thought sadly, instead of begrudging Raymond his place in their home. As it was, Sam ignored them both these days, Louie thought bitterly, preferring the company of the Lodge committee to his own family. Louie blocked out the thought of what would happen should Iris return and claim her son. Sam, however, did not; it had been the reason for several of their arguments this summer.

  ‘You’re too fond of that lad,’ Sam had complained when he’d come home exhausted one evening. Louie had suggested taking Raymond for a walk in the park before bed.

  ‘It’s a good job somebody is,’ Louie had sparked back. ‘He’s lost his dad and his mam isn’t hurrying back for him.’

  ‘So just remember you’re not his mam.’

  ‘Why don’t you show him more affection?’ Louie had hissed, trying not to let their dispute carry downstairs to members of her family. Sam’s coolness towards the boy continued to rankle with her.

  ‘He’s not my son,’ Sam had replied harshly.

  ‘Well, he might be the nearest you get to one,’ Louie had retorted.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ He had looked at her sternly.

  ‘I mean you never spend any time at home,’ Louie had accused. ‘And it’s not just because you have to work over at Ushaw. When you do have time to spare you prefer to spend it at your blessed meetings. It’s not like being married any more, Sam,’ Louie had said desperately. ‘Ever since we had to leave Gladstone Terrace, it’s like we’ve been living apart!’

  Sam had stormed out of the bedroom and stayed away all evening. It marked the worst wrangle of their marriage and Louie pushed it from her mind as best she could. When her mother had tried to find out what was wrong, Louie had put up her defences. If Sam and she had problems they would solve them by themselves; she would not discuss their unhappiness with anyone else.

  More than anything, Louie had been hurt by Sam’s lack of acknowledgement of the anniversary of their baby’s death. On the 6th July, Louie had gone with Hilda to visit Louisa’s grave on the Common and had placed there a modest posy of flowers picked from Eb’s garden. The sisters had prayed and hugged and cried together and Louie had felt a great lifting of the unseen burden she carried. Yet Sam had made no mention of their shared loss and had stayed away from home most of the day. Louie found that hard to forgive.

  As she put down her mending and strolled to the gate on this July evening, the thought of Sam’s un-approachability, his swings in mood, cast a blight over her excitement at the holiday about to start. There had not been a Big Meeting for two years and she was determined to snatch and enjoy this gift of a day off from household routines. Sam could spend the outing with his friends in the lodge, processing and getting drunk, but she would have her fun too.

  Minnie strolled by, pushing a pram, with Bomber carrying Jack on his shoulders. They crossed the street when Louie hailed them.

  ‘How’s little Nancy?’ Louie asked and peered into the sturdy old pram.

  ‘Sleeping like a top,’ Minnie answered with a grin. Louie was thankful that Minnie’s baby, who had been born three days after Iris departed, showed no resemblance to
her brother. She had a sprout of dark hair like her mother and a round face like a Slattery.

  ‘She’s no bother, this one,’ Bomber said with pride. ‘You’re Daddy’s little lass, aren’t you?’

  Louie flicked a look at her friend, but Minnie studiously avoided her gaze. Was it possible that Bomber had no suspicions about Nancy’s origins? she wondered. She hoped for her friend’s sake that the truth would for ever lie buried with her brother. Certainly Minnie and Bomber appeared to be getting on better with each other since Nancy’s arrival. Even the fact that Bomber still had no proper employment did not seem to be straining their marriage unduly at the moment. He filled in his time knocking on doors and offering to do odd jobs. If only Sam could put in a word for his old marra at the Cathedral pit, she thought with frustration. But no, the two former friends continued to shun each other’s company. Why had she married such a stubborn, unbending man as Sam Ritson?

  ‘Sam out?’ Minnie enquired.

  ‘Aye,’ Louie sighed, ‘lodge meetin’.’

  ‘Must be cosy - union meetings,’ Bomber sneered, ‘all workers together. Why can’t they do more for them that’re out of work instead of sitting around on their backsides?’

  ‘Don’t start your complaining,’ Minnie reprimanded. ‘It’s nothing to do with Louie.’

  Louie ignored the hostile criticism and leaned over to stroke baby Nancy’s cheek. ‘She’s as bonny as they come.’ Louie smiled wistfully at Minnie. ‘See you on the train tomorrow?’

  ‘Aye,’ Minnie answered, wheeling the pram around. ‘If we get separated I’ll meet you under our banner at the racecourse.’

  Louie nodded and dragged herself away from the street scene. Picking the sleeping Raymond out of Sadie’s arms she whispered, ‘Bedtime, little pet, we’ve a long day tomorrow.’

  Eb left the Cathedral after the service and peeled off from the rest of the band making their way back to the pubs in the town or their families in the tea tents by the riverside. His head still vibrated with the power of their music and the echoing grandeur of the ancient abbey. It had been an emotional moment parading into the church with the Whitton Grange banner draped in black ribbon to mark the death of Davie and his comrades in the January explosion. He imagined how Davie would have laughed at their sober sombreness, while his ghost preferred to celebrate in a bar in the town.

  Impulsively Eb turned into a pub in Sadler Street and ordered a beer in the narrow crowded room. Listening to the lively conversation of the pitmen, reliving the disputes of last year’s strike and putting the world to rights, Eb raised his glass silently to Davie. He downed the beer in two long draughts and handed back his glass.

  The street outside was strangely empty, the crowds of pit folk having quickly dispersed and gone to seek amusement. Eb wandered aimlessly up the cobbled lane, undecided what to do next. He could turn and start back to the station or just walk around Durham’s medieval streets for a while longer …

  Eleanor almost did not answer the ring at the bell. She was happily curled up on a swinging garden seat with a book, alone as Bridget and Molly had the day off for the Gala. It was probably high jinks from some young village children ringing all the bells in the street; no one would fight their way through the crowds on Miners’ Gala day to visit her. The bell rang again and reluctantly Eleanor obeyed its call.

  ‘Eb?’ She stood nonplussed on the doorstep at the sight of the pitman in his band uniform, instrument tucked under his arm. She had not seen or heard of him in months. In fact she had grown resigned to the idea of never seeing Eb Kirkup again.

  ‘I was passing by.’ Eb said, scratching his head.

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’ Eleanor asked in surprise.

  ‘Iris said - Molly must have told her. Or perhaps it was Hildy.’ Eb blushed in confusion. ‘Do you mind me calling?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Eleanor recovered her composure and stood aside to let him pass. ‘Please come in. I was in the garden. You’ll take a glass of lemonade?’ Eb nodded quickly, overawed by her formality.

  He followed her through the narrow hallway lined with books, into a neat dining room arrayed with polished silver and out through open French windows into the secluded garden. Eleanor silently poured a tall tumbler of fresh lemonade and handed it to him.

  ‘Lovely garden,’ Eb commented, taking the drink.

  ‘Yes,’ Eleanor agreed, standing half turned from him.

  ‘Are you well?’ he asked between gulps.

  ‘Very,’ she replied, quite tongue-tied.

  ‘I hear the clinic’s going well.’ Eb struggled to converse. ‘I must say it surprised me.’

  ‘Oh?’ Eleanor eyed him. ‘Didn’t you think I was serious?’

  Eb flinched under her challenging gaze. ‘Perhaps not.’ He was candid. He finished his drink quickly.

  Eleanor felt dashed by his words. ‘I thought you at least would have wanted me to do something for the village - after all the hatred and futility of the past year. And don’t look at me like that, Eb Kirkup,’ she challenged, ‘it wasn’t just some grand gesture to make me feel good. The women of Whitton need the support of the clinic, but I also need to be usefully occupied.’ Eleanor reached back and sat on the swing seat. ‘For the first time in many years, I feel I’m doing something worthwhile with my life - I wake in the morning feeling there’s a purpose to it all - just like I did when I fought for women’s suffrage. Oh, there are people who used to count themselves as friends who think I’ve thrown my life away; they think by leaving Reginald and The Grange I’ve got nothing left of worth.’ Eleanor laughed softly. ‘Giving them up was a small price to pay for the freedom I have now - for peace of mind.’

  She watched Eb put down his glass and study the intricate pattern of the wrought-iron table.

  ‘I’ve misjudged you, Eleanor,’ he admitted quietly. ‘I admire you for what you’ve done, your achievements at the clinic, your courage in leaving your husband. There are plenty of folk in the village don’t approve of you now, but not me.’ He looked up cautiously. ‘I’m ashamed of how I’ve behaved towards you - how I gave you no help or encouragement when you needed it most.’

  ‘You had your own problems,’ Eleanor answered kindly. ‘I was selfish expecting you to drop everything and be at my beck and call. It was better this way. I’ve learnt how to stand on my own feet alone. Now I don’t expect too much from anybody.’

  Eb gave her a strange look from his vivid blue eyes. ‘You’ll never know how much I wanted to go with you,’ he said in a low voice.

  Eleanor’s heart lurched at his confession, yet she could not reply. She knew Eb must have found it difficult to come to her today and she saw now how he wrestled with his feelings. If he still wanted her, it would have to come from him; never again would she behave as if she had rights over Eb. Much as she desired him, she had proved to herself that she could live without him. Still, she waited, holding her breath, as the slow bells of the Cathedral began their late afternoon toll.

  Eb fixed on a rose bush framing the back of Eleanor’s head and spoke to it. ‘I would have come before today, but I didn’t know what I’d say after the way we parted. I expected to hear you’d married that American or something - didn’t think you’d want to see me.’ He gave a wary smile. ‘I’ve thought of you such a lot, Eleanor.’

  ‘Come and sit beside me,’ Eleanor told him gently. Eb hesitated then lowered himself on to the faded cushion on the swing. The frame creaked as his weight set it in motion. ‘What are you trying to tell me, Eb?’

  This time he regarded her directly. ‘I want to be with you, Eleanor, if that’s what you still want. Is it too late … ?’

  Eleanor leaned over and touched his cheek with her hand. ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘it’s not too late.’

  They reached out for each other and held one another tightly. Eb clung to Eleanor and she closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth and strength of his embrace.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he whispered into her hair, ‘but I wa
s afraid of loving you too much. I thought life would be simpler if I forgot all about loving you - but that was impossible. These past months have been pointless without you, Eleanor, I’ve not been able to settle to anything - not even painting.’ He gave a wry smile.

  Eleanor felt a surge of longing for Eb that she had suppressed for an age. She pulled back to look into his face and saw it mirroring her own tenderness.

  ‘Oh Eb, I love you,’ she smiled back, ‘but I had to hear it from you first.’ They drew together and kissed fiercely in their relief. Afterwards their kisses grew more lingering and intimate, as the realisation dawned on them both that they had all the time in the world.

  They talked long into the evening. At one point Eleanor asked, ‘What about your family?’

  Eb shrugged. ‘They won’t like it, having their son causing tongues to wag in the village. Maybe they’ll come round to it in time,’ he added doubtfully.

  ‘I don’t want to cause a rift between you.’

  ‘I want to marry you, Eleanor,’ Eb said determinedly, ‘when you divorce your husband. If that’s not good enough for my family then that’s the way it will have to be. I can’t be without you again. Hildy and Louie will see it my way.’

  Eleanor kissed him affectionately. ‘Even if you’re a kept man?’ she teased.

  ‘I intend to pay my way with my painting - when I’ve learnt my craft,’ Eb answered defensively. Eleanor did not like to disillusion him with stories of how poverty-stricken most full-time painters were. It was enough that he wished to be with her and that together they could nurture his talent.

  ‘Then that’s settled,’ Eleanor smiled contentedly, lying back in his arms.

  The following day, Eb returned home to collect his possessions and announce his intentions to his family.