by Maggie Hope
‘Lottie! How are you? I must say you look blooming. I think living in Durham suits you better than living in Newcastle did.’
Lottie smiled back and relaxed. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’ve brought you my notes on the article …’
‘Yes, about the views of the women folk. I’m looking forward to seeing them.’
He barely glanced over them before handing them back to her.
‘Come on, Lottie, you’re an experienced journalist, you don’t need me to supervise you,’ he said. ‘Write the article.’
He sat back in his chair and smiled at her and she was struck anew by what a nice man he was. His eyes were such a deep, friendly blue (were they really so much deeper and more expressive than Thomas’s?), his voice so gentle and kind. She found herself comparing him with her husband. Oh, how had she let herself think she loved Thomas? He wasn’t the man she had thought he was. He had let both her and his mother down so badly.
‘Well, Lottie, what do you say?’
Lottie started, realizing that Jeremiah had asked her a question twice.
‘Sorry, Mr Jeremiah?’
‘I was talking about the article, though I’m sure you were thinking of something completely different.’ He smiled again, his eyes wrinkling up at the corners. ‘Call me Jeremiah – Jerry if you want to. In private, of course.’
Lottie blushed. ‘Oh, I couldn’t!’
‘As you wish, Mrs Mitchell-Howe,’ said Jeremiah formally, the smile leaving his face. He rose to his feet to escort her to the door. She glanced at him anxiously, fearing she had offended him, but he was smiling again.
‘I’ll bring the article in good time,’ she reassured him.
‘I’m sure you will, my dear,’ he replied. Oh, he was a lovely man, she thought to herself. If only Thomas had been like him. She began to imagine what it might be like to be married to someone like Jeremiah – Jerry, as he had asked her to call him. It would be so different … She caught herself up. She was a married woman already and this was foolish, scandalous even. She stole a glance at him as he was closing the door after her. If he knew what she was thinking she would be mortified. She went on down the staircase, and out. The cold, fresh air cooled her cheeks, which were suddenly burning. What a fool she was, she thought as she went on down Northgate.
Thomas had only been gone a few weeks and here she was thinking romantically of someone else. An abandoned woman she was and if Jeremiah knew what she was thinking he would be horrified, him being a Quaker an’ all.
‘I think you would find the women are united behind their men,’ Peter remarked when he heard what it was she was writing. He sat beside the kitchen fire in the rocking chair with the newly bathed Anne on his knee, gently rocking. Opposite him, Eliza was darning socks, stretching the heel with the hole in it over a wooden ‘mushroom’ as she threaded the wool across and back. It was a common domestic scene, thought Lottie wistfully. Eliza had been fortunate in her second marriage, there was no doubt about that. She brought her thoughts back to what Peter was saying.
‘Yes, they are loyal,’ she replied to him.
‘Not only that, the men have a fair case,’ said Peter. ‘But at least the women don’t work in the pit, not as they do in other places. In Durham we have avoided that. But the owners say they can’t make a profit as things are. Why don’t they realize that if only conditions were better, if the lads especially could have their hours cut, production would go up?’
He stood, holding the now sleeping Anne against his shoulder. ‘I’ll take her up now, Eliza,’ he said, then as an aside to Lottie, ‘Think on it.’
‘I have done,’ said Lottie. ‘Now I’d best get on with writing the article.’
Union business was ever on Peter’s mind, she thought as she settled down to work in her bedroom. She worked well into the night, breaking only for supper with Peter and Eliza. It was so long since she had worked on anything for the paper that she felt unsure of herself, redoing the article twice before she was satisfied with it. The bells of the cathedral were ringing out the midnight hour before she finally climbed into bed.
There was a lot of interest generated by Lottie’s story of the women in the pit villages. Some of it was sympathetic to the cause of the miners, but quite a lot was not. On the whole, the tradespeople of the town were on the side of the owners. There were letters about the miners ‘biting the hands that fed them’, of them ‘not knowing their place’. But there were also letters making the point that such dirty, dangerous work should be properly rewarded. ‘There should be laws against boys as young as nine working in the pit,’ one reverend gentleman asserted. ‘Jesus said, “Suffer the little children.”’ The debate ran on for weeks, even though there were few letters from the mining villages.
‘Most of them can’t read properly anyway,’ Mr Scott senior said.
‘A lot can,’ said Lottie. ‘Now that the National Schools are open. In any case, a lot of them were taught by the Methodists before that.’ She was feeling ruffled. Usually she found Mr Scott to be more understanding of the miners. ‘And now there are classes in the Workingmen’s Institutes.’
‘I think Lottie is right, Father,’ Jeremiah said, glancing at Lottie’s pink face.
‘Hmm,’ said Mr Scott.
‘Well, it can only be a good thing for the paper when there is such interest in an article in the ladies section,’ said his son, then he changed the subject firmly. ‘Lottie, I would like you to visit more of the mining villages around and try to gauge the support the men are getting from their womenfolk,’ he said. ‘Just two or three – perhaps Sherburn and Haswell – though you can decide which ones for yourself. You should get enough data for a follow-up article.’
‘I’d love to!’ Lottie replied. She had very little money left, though she was still to be paid for her article. Oh, she would manage, she would only be short for a while. She would not let the lack of money stop her doing this.
‘I’ll give you some expenses,’ said Jeremiah, almost as though he had heard what she was thinking.
‘I’ll start tomorrow,’ she said eagerly and Jeremiah smiled.
‘In your own time,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a chit to get expense money at the cash desk downstairs.’
‘Thank you. I’m so grateful, Mr Jeremiah, I really am,’ said Lottie as she moved towards the door, her mind already planning the day ahead.
Lottie was filled with the old fervour for her work as she travelled around the isolated mining villages talking to the women. Mostly she had to follow them about as they hung out washing on lines across the street or down back gardens or working on other household chores. Sometimes they were reluctant to talk to her, viewing her as an outsider and therefore someone under suspicion.
By the end of the day she had a notebook almost filled with her descriptions of the women, the ways they had of helping each other and combating the harshness of their surroundings.
‘You’re late,’ remarked Eliza as Lottie opened the back door and let herself into the house. Eliza was bathing Anne in the tin bath before the fire in the kitchen. She helped the little girl climb out and wrapped her in a towel. Anne looked over her mother’s shoulder solemnly at Lottie. Her eyes were the same blue as Thomas’s, Lottie thought distractedly.
‘I’ve been over Auckland way,’ she said. ‘I had to wait for a train back.’ She glanced at the wall clock hanging to one side of the fireplace. It was half past seven already and she had to write up her notes to take in to the office the following morning at the latest if her article was to get into the weekend edition of the Post.
‘Well, there’s your dinner in the oven. If you’re hungry enough you will be able to eat it, though it’s likely dried up by now.’ If Eliza sounded sharp, it was no doubt because she hated to waste good food, Lottie told herself.
‘I’m sorry, Eliza,’ she said contritely and suddenly yawned, as fatigue took hold of her along with the heat of the kitchen.
‘Aye, well,’ said Eliza as she pulled Anne
’s nightgown over her head.
Lottie watched them both as Eliza gave Anne her supper of bread and milk broily with a grating of nutmeg on the top.
‘You’ve been very good to me, Eliza,’ she said. ‘Taking me in an’ all.’
Eliza looked up. ‘Why wouldn’t I be? You are family, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, but …’ Lottie paused for a moment, thinking fleetingly of Thomas. She would probably never see him again and he was her only real connection to the family. Blood was blood and she was reminded that Eliza wanted to bring her father to live with them. Only she, Lottie, was in the way.
‘I am going to see about renting a little house tomorrow,’ she resumed, coming to a sudden decision. ‘I can manage the rent now. I don’t need anything big. I saw one or two for rent over by Prebends Bridge and I’ve always fancied living there. Besides, I know you need the room for your father.’
Eliza didn’t make any objection, simply nodded her head. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you must do what you want to do. I don’t deny I want Da here where I can keep an eye on him. Mind, I’ll have to persuade him to leave the pit.’
Later, as Lottie was in her room, sitting cross-legged on the bed and putting her notes in order ready to type them out, she reflected on the new coolness in her relationship with Eliza, who had been such a friend to her when she was in dire need of one. Oh, she could understand it, Thomas was Eliza’s son and in her heart Eliza must blame her for Thomas disappearing as he did. But she would find a place of her own, tomorrow if she could. It was not so hard to find a place in the city.
Within a few weeks Lottie was in a tiny cottage overlooking the Wear, almost close enough to hear the running of the water. It had a single cold tap in the pantry, which stuck out into the tiny backyard from the even tinier back kitchen, but it was space enough for her on her own. There was one bedroom and a box room, which was large enough to take a table with her typewriter and a small bookcase besides. The small window looked out on to the yard rather than the river, but still it was adequate for what she wanted.
Lottie sat at the table one morning typing up the notes she had taken at the meeting of the Ladies’ Temperance Society. The society met once a month in an upstairs room in the town hall and the proceedings were just about the same month after month. Nevertheless, the members expected to see a full report in the Post.
Finishing at last, she sat back with a sigh, rubbing at her forehead where an incipient headache threatened and pushing her spectacles further up her nose. Her thoughts wandered to Jeremiah, as they did so often lately. What must it be like to be his wife? Wonderful, she thought dreamily, then pulled herself up sharply.
How could she think that? Jeremiah never mentioned his wife, at least not to her, but then he would not, would he? No, but his father had, only the day before.
Lottie had been in the room at the back of the front office when Jeremiah came in much later than usual.
‘Did you go up the dale to Stanhope?’ Mr Scott, who was standing behind the counter reading a copy of the Observer, asked him. ‘How is your wife?’
‘Not good, I’m afraid,’ Jeremiah replied. ‘I was summoned by her doctor yesterday evening. She is very weak now.’
In the back room Lottie dithered, not wanting to listen but not wanting to show herself either when the men were talking privately. The problem was resolved for her as the doorbell jangled and David, a recently appointed office boy, came in.
‘Look after the desk for a few minutes please, David,’ said Mr Scott. ‘I won’t be long, Mr Jeremiah and I are just going upstairs for a short while. The others are about somewhere. Ring the bell if anyone comes in.’
Lottie waited – skulked, she thought to herself wryly – until the men’s voices receded before coming out. ‘Good morning, David,’ she said brightly.
David looked surprised. ‘Oh, miss,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t know you were there.’
‘I’ve been through to the store room,’ she explained, though why she should need to she did not know.
The scene ran through her mind as she pushed a small kettle on to the fire in the grate, steadying it on the bar. She was sorry if Jeremiah’s wife was ill, of course she was. And why she had hidden herself when the Scotts were talking in the office she did not know. She was an absolute fool at times, she told herself.
She took the cup she kept on the small mantelshelf and spooned mint tea and a little sugar into it. When the kettle boiled she took her tea through to her bedroom, where she had an armchair by the window overlooking the bridge over the Wear. Lottie always found this view so peaceful. It calmed her when she was agitated, and lifted her spirits when she was low. The Wear, she thought dreamily, watching a cleric walk over the bridge, his black gown billowing slightly in the wind. The river had been called the Wear throughout its history but spelt differently. The Wiir it had been in early Saxon times, there were documents in the cathedral library. She often spent time in the library.
Lottie was sitting there when she saw another figure of a man crossing the bridge, and the man looked familiar somehow. She leaned forward and watched him, but he was a distance away and she couldn’t quite make him out. Or at least she couldn’t believe it. He disappeared up the path, which was shrouded with trees leading up the bank to the houses above.
Lottie stood up and took her cup back into her small office. Her heart beat uncomfortably fast as she sat down once more and looked down at the typewritten sheets before her. It couldn’t be, she told herself. Of course it couldn’t be. Just then there was a loud knocking at the front door of the little house.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A month earlier, Thomas had been walking aimlessly through the streets of Montevideo with no particular plan in mind. In fact, his mind was a blank, as much through shock as that he had not been to bed for three nights. He had lost everything he had in a last game of poker. He did not have the means to get out of the city even. For where would he go? Not back to England, unless he wanted to risk a prison sentence. Why did he always have such bad luck?
He turned down a narrow alley, which offered him some protection from the searchers who might be on his trail. Who were almost certainly on his trail, for they wanted revenge, not to mention their money back. He didn’t think of where the alley might lead, only that it offered him anonymity. Eventually, he came on to the riverfront lined with docks. Coming out of the dark alley into the light of the early morning sun blinded him for a moment and he hesitated.
‘Mind, you’re in a bad way with yourself!’
Thomas started with alarm and took a step back into the shadows. The voice was English; the words not merely English but spoken with an accent that came straight from the banks of the Tyne. The searchers had caught him, they would exact revenge for – what? Last night’s gambling fiasco? The money he owed to the last lodging house he had stayed in? Or worse? Money he owed back home? That was most likely, considering this man’s accent. His tormented thoughts were interrupted as the Geordie grabbed hold of his arm with a fist of iron and stopped him easily.
‘Let me go!’ shouted Thomas, pulling ineffectually away.
‘What’s the matter wi’ you? Is somebody after you? Weel, it’s not me, man, I’ve just got off the boat.’
‘I-I’m sorry …’ Thomas mumbled, recovering himself. This man wasn’t a searcher, thank God. Now he wasn’t panicking his brain began to race. This was his chance to get away from whoever was following him. At least if he stuck to the seaman he would have backup, for a Geordie would help another if he was in trouble.
‘I was attacked last night, like, and I thought it was all happening again.’
‘Robbed, were you? Bastards! Well, I haven’t seen anybody about except me shipmates. You look as though you’re down on your luck. Howay along wi’ me, there’s a decent bar near here where we can get a pie and a pint. It’s a Welshman as runs it.’
The seaman was a middle-aged man with brawny arms and shoulders and a face that was burnt mahogany
brown with the sun. But he was smiling at Thomas in understanding and Thomas responded to the first kind words he had heard in weeks.
‘Thanks, I think I will,’ he said and fell into step with the seaman. He put his hand in his pocket and felt the few coins there. Were they enough?
‘My name is Jonty, by the way,’ the seaman said. ‘Jonty Polson from Shields. And you?’
‘Tommy. I’m from Northumberland, Alnwick way.’ It was best to be cautious, he thought.
‘Mind you don’t sound Northumbrian,’ Jonty said as he led the way into a crowded bar-cum-restaurant. ‘I’d have said Durham or mebbe Sunderland.’
‘I was brought up in Durham,’ Thomas said but Jonty had lost interest. ‘I’ll get the food. Meat pie all right wi’ you? Hey, take that empty table afore someone else does.’
He went up to the bar as Thomas slid into a seat by the wall, which gave him a good view of the room and the door to the street. He felt safer now – surely no one would be after him, it was almost day. The lights in the street were going out, along with those from the boats and the one or two ramshackle houses. He put his forearms on the rough wooden table and leaned his weight on them. Dear God, he was weary to death!
‘Here we are then, lad, get that down you, it’ll put a lining on your stomach.’
Jonty plonked a plate of pie in front of Thomas and a flagon of ale beside it. The smell of the pie made Thomas feel faint and his mouth watered. Jonty hooked a stool to the table with one foot and sat down opposite him. He watched as Thomas attacked his pie, shovelling it down with his fork.
‘Mind, you’re a bit peckish,’ said Jonty.
Thomas hesitated. ‘I haven’t eaten all day,’ he admitted.
‘Nor yesterday neither, I’d say. Well, lad, get it down you.’
Thomas slowed down a little. At least the ravening hunger was settling down a bit.