by Maggie Hope
‘But you were washing yesterday.’
Meg bit her lip. It was true she had been washing yesterday but that had been Mrs Brown’s. For a year or two now, Meg had been working ‘monthlys’. That was, going out to women who were laid up in bed after having a baby, cleaning up a bit for them, maybe making a pot pie for the man coming off shift and bringing dirty clothes home to wash and dry and iron. She’d not told Da. He never noticed, not usually, what she was doing. But it earned an extra two or three shillings a week.
‘Aye,’ she said at last, ‘but I was helping out …’ She looked at her da and broke off what she was saying. He seemed to have forgotten about it and went on with his breakfast. Meg filled the iron washing bowl, the set pot, and lit the fire under it, sighing. Not at the work she had to do. Work didn’t bother her, she usually hummed as she worked, it was no trouble. But she felt unsettled today, unhappy somehow. She’d thought she’d got used to Da’s ways, but today she found his indifference bothering her. He hadn’t even been interested enough to ask her why she had to wash clothes two days in a row.
Da went up to bed and Meg cleared the table for she would need it later on to hold the steaming piles of washing. Da was a funny one all right, she mused, mechanically sorting the white or delicate articles from the heavy cottons, keeping the pit clothes well away from them on the floor. If she didn’t get the first lot of possings done and the whites into the boiler before dinner time, she would not be finished before Alice and Miles came in from school. In spite of all her resolutions to the contrary, Meg had got out of the habit of including Bella when she thought of the younger ones. Bella would go next-door straight away; she thought of herself as Auntie Phoebe’s bairn.
Dragging the large poss tub and possing stick out of the outhouse in the yard, Meg set it up near the set pot boiler. Soon she was working steadily, rhythmically, up and down with the weighted stick, forcing the dirt out of the clothes, watching the water bubbling up through them and singing to herself in time to the rhythm of her arms. Her vaguely troubled thoughts disappeared with the work. She had a lot to be thankful for, she knew.
By the time Jack Boy came in from his shift at the pit, most of the clothes were waving in the wind in the front garden and Meg was just finishing off the last possing of pit clothes, lifting them to the heavy wooden rollers and threading them through. Alice was drying out the set pot, leaning over the edge to reach the bottom, in serious danger of toppling in altogether.
‘Your dinner’s ready,’ Meg said swiftly, on the defensive. Jack Boy hated her taking on outside work and he wasn’t like Da, he noticed straight away if she did.
‘Why do you do it?’ he asked now, rubbing the back of his hand wearily across his brow and smearing the black, sweaty smuts. ‘It was washing day yesterday. I mean, it won’t be long before our Miles is on the screens, we can do without it. You’ve plenty to do here.’
Meg smiled placatingly. It was true, Miles would be working in a few months, he wanted to, he was no scholar like Alice. But it had started with Mam’s funeral and Da’s determination to pay back every penny it had cost Mr Grizedale. It had taken a long time, and then Alice had been poorly with a bout of fever and medicine cost money. The money was repaid now to Mr Grizedale, but Meg liked to keep a few shillings in hand. And then there had been union meetings. There was unrest in the air. Suppose there was a strike? Best have a bit put away, it didn’t hurt.
‘I’ve got a nice pot pie on the fire,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave this and put it out for you.’
‘I’m not hungry, our Meg.’
Meg looked at Jack Boy in quick concern. He was short for his age, going on thirteen, but was already developing the strong shoulders and arms of the miner. It was impossible to tell if he was pale because of the coal dust. She put a hand to feel his forehead to see if he was sickening for something but he knocked it impatiently away.
‘Aw, give over, our Meg, I’m all right. I’m just not hungry. I’ll have a wash and go for a walk out. I’ll eat me dinner after.’
Reassured, Meg called to Alice: ‘Get the bath in. I’ve saved some hot water in the buckets, they’re by the fire. Then call Da and tell him the dinner’s ready.’
As soon as the meal was over and the pots washed, Meg took off her sacking apron and combed back her hair, securing it into a knot at the nape of her neck with hairpins.
‘I’m just going for a walk myself,’ she said. Alice looked up hopefully, and Meg hesitated. She still worried about Alice’s health; her winter cough had lasted well into summer this year. Usually Meg kept her indoors in the evenings. But though it was September already, the day had been very warm. In fact, it was still warm, it could almost have been an evening in early August. The fresh air might do Alice good. There was no stink from the coke ovens at the minute.
‘Howay, then. Put your shawl on mind, I mean it.’
Alice had started to protest that it was too warm for a shawl but shut up at Meg’s last words. When Meg said she meant it, nothing would change her mind.
The sisters walked slowly past the colliery rows and into the older part of the village where there was a remnant of village green, much trodden and blackened. Meg was carrying a parcel of clean clothes. She had been careful not to let Jack Boy see it, even though it was not paid work. It was just a small bundle of clothes she had done for a widow who lived on her own outside the village on the Shildon road. The widow would have been doing it herself but for the fact that she was wheelchair-bound with arthritis.
Meg was enjoying the relaxation of the walk. Being able to stand up straight after stooping for so long at the tub was grand. A cool breeze sprang up and Alice shivered slightly, clutching her shawl to her. Meg looked down at her. The lass was so thin and pasty-looking, what would this winter do to her? Eeh, it was a good thing she didn’t have to go out to work, it was that. At least she could stay in the warmth of the schoolroom.
‘We’ll soon be sheltered from the wind,’ Meg said, ‘it always seems to blow along here. When we get over the hill and down the road a bit we’ll be sheltered.’
Indeed, leaving the village they soon took a right-hand fork with a high hedge to one side, shielding them from the wind. The sun shone low on the horizon as the scene changed; the smoking chimney and winding wheel of the pit village were left behind them and there were long fields sweeping down the hill. Meg smiled. She loved this view, it was her favourite walk.
The harvest was in progress and the sweet smell of ripe corn lay heavy on the air. Behind the hedges they could hear the harvesters talking among themselves and further down the slope, nearer the farm buildings, they could see the cows and hear them lowing as they were driven out of the byres after milking. The farming world seemed so clean and peaceful to the sisters after the muck and bustle of the colliery, though they were not unaware that life was hard on the farms and the wages very low. Which was the reason so many young lads left the farms and ended up in the pits where, so long as there was work, the wages were better.
‘Meg! Meg! Where are you going?’
She was brought out of her reverie by Alice who had stopped by a small cottage, the end of a row. This was Old Pit, named after the long defunct mine at the other end of the row, the wooden structure over the shaft green with age and mould and some of it fallen down. Only two of the cottages in Old Pit were occupied now, and those by miners’ widows. The others were boarded up, the slates on the roofs sliding and leaving gaping holes, the gardens overgrown. Even the slag heap was greened over with weeds and there were swathes of rosebay willow herb all over the place.
When Meg was smaller, she and Jack Boy had lain on the stony ground around the shaft and thrown pebbles down, counting to see how far they would fall before hearing the splash of the pebble hitting the water. They would stare at the iron ladder going down, imagining the pit lads climbing up all those rungs with wicker baskets full of coal on their backs. Jack had even climbed down once and found a wicker basket floating in the water at the bottom
, but when he brought it up into the light it crumbled to bits. Meg shuddered. By, she’d been frightened that day, frightened Jack Boy would fall.
‘Eeh, our Alice, I was miles away.’ She smiled at her young sister, and lifted the knocker of the unpainted batten door.
‘Howay in, lass, don’t bother knocking, I’m right glad to see you.’ The quavering voice belonged to Mrs Dobbs, the owner of the clothes. The sisters went in and had a few words with the lonely old woman. Meg diplomatically refused payment for the washing and looked round the threadbare kitchen to see if there was any other pressing job.
‘Can I get you a bucket of coal in while I’m here, Mrs Dobbs? It’ll be no trouble, like.’
‘I’d be right glad o’ that,’ she said simply. ‘The nights are drawing in now, there’s a nip in the air.’
‘I’ll get it, if you like,’ offered Alice.
‘No, you sit and talk to Mrs Dobbs, I won’t be a minute.’
Meg went round the back of the cottage to the coal house, taking the bucket with her. She bit her lip as she saw the meagre store of coal inside. Being a miner’s daughter, she was used to having plenty of coal to go at in winter. She resolved to get Jack Boy to fetch a barrow full from Da’s allowance next time it was delivered. He was good-hearted enough was Jack Boy, he would do it.
As they walked back to the village, the sun had gone down and the evening was indeed chilly. But Alice was happily sucking a black bullet sweetie given to her by the old lady and didn’t seem to notice the chill. They reached the old village quickly and turned to go down to the colliery rows.
‘Margaret Anne Maddison, does your da know you’re out in the dark?’
The voice came from a group of young miners who were lounging against the wall of the Black Boy, the pub on the green. Meg’s heart sank. Not Wesley Cornish again. He always seemed to be off shift. The lads were grinning and nudging each other knowingly, looking not at all like the little lad depicted on the inn sign swaying above their heads.
It was a painting of a young trapper boy of forty or fifty years ago, little and thin and dressed in raggy moleskin trousers, with a candle in his hat brim casting a halo over his black streaked face. Meg always looked up at it. She liked to see the little black boy swaying in the wind and think how good it was that her brothers hadn’t had to go down the pit when they were only six.
Though for the lads lounging about the Black Boy, maybe it would have done some of them a bit of good, she thought. Catching hold of Alice’s arm, she pulled her closer.
‘Take no notice, Alice, don’t answer them,’ she whispered fiercely, and strode rapidly on to the rows. But Wesley Cornish stood in their path, hands on hips, his handsome head cocked to one side, the picture of male arrogance. Alice’s hand tightened on Meg’s. She was unsure what to make of him. Hadn’t the minister thundered against the ways of Satan taking hold of the wild lads of the village only last Sunday?
There had been a lot of trouble in the village lately, gangs of young miners spending their pay in the Black Boy or the Rising Sun, and coming out blind drunk and spoiling for mischief. One night they’d taken the gates off the farmers’ fields all the way along the Auckland road and the sheep and the cows had got out and into folks’ gardens. And another time, when one of the farmers had gone into the Rising Sun, leaving his horse and trap outside, they’d uncoupled the horse and put it on the other side of the fence and fastened it to the trap again. The farmer had come out pallatic drunk, got in the trap and shouted ‘Giddyup’ till he was blue in the face. The horse had strained and strained. But of course they hadn’t got anywhere, for the fence between them. Alice had been much struck by the picture painted by the minister as he described the scene and even more so by that of a horned man with a forked beard and long tail catching the lads and leading them down to the fires of Hell.
‘Get out of my way, Wesley Cornish,’ she snapped, and moved to go round the lad, who anticipated it and moved with her. Her face was flushed and she was staring straight ahead at some point over his shoulder.
‘I’ll do more than that, lass.’ Wesley flashed a winning smile. ‘I’ll walk you home, if you like? You and Alice. It’s getting dark and you never know who you might meet after dark.’
Alice gasped as Meg darted by Wesley, perforce taking her sister with her as she was holding her arm. They fairly flew down the colliery rows to the end of Pasture Row, then Meg stopped and looked back.
‘I’m sick to death of you pestering me!’ she screamed at the top of her voice. ‘An’ I’m sick of that lot an’ all, daft as goats, laughing and gawping.’
Wesley, undaunted, was already halfway down towards them. He grinned in amusement at Meg’s outburst.
‘Hadaway, Meg, you know you like me really,’ he said. Then turned on his heel and walked back to his friends.
‘Wesley Cornish is sweet on our Meg!’
Meg was mortified as Alice ran into the kitchen where her brothers were playing cards, bursting with her news.
Jack Boy looked up and frowned heavily. ‘Aye, I know,’ he said. ‘When he sees me down the pit he asks me where you are. You haven’t been walking with him, have you, our Meg?’
‘What do you think I am, like?’ she retorted.
But in bed later that night she thought about walking out with a boy, wondering what it would be like to have a lads’s arms round her, to kiss a lad who wasn’t her little brother. The thought made her feel strangely hot and uncomfortable. You haven’t time for lads, Meg Maddison, she told herself, and turned over on to her side. Thumping her pillow into shape, she settled herself for sleep. There was too much to do at home.
As she drifted off to sleep she remembered, half-dreaming, her old fancies about Jonty, the knight on a big grey horse who had been looking for her all these years, searching till he must surely find her. And he would find her and lift her up and take her with him to his big house. But she’d forgotten his face. Instead she kept seeing the mocking features of Wesley Cornish, grinning cheekily at her, his light brown eyes running up and down her body, his hands reaching out to her. And she woke up in a sweat. She didn’t want Wesley Cornish, she wanted … oh, she wanted the old lovely feeling she’d had when she was a bairn and made up stories about her and Jonty.
She tried to settle down to sleep again but it was early yet. The fore shift hadn’t even gone in. But there was a lot to do tomorrow, the ironing and the bread to bake, and she wanted to go up to tidy Mam’s grave, and then look for brambles for a boiled pudding for a treat for the bairns. Aye, she thought, she had to get some sleep.
Chapter Nine
Jonty limped across the yard from the stables to the kitchen. There was no welcoming smell of a meal cooking, he realised, and sighed, remembering the lovely smell emanating from the Home Farm kitchen when he went past. His stomach rumbled. Bread and cheese again, he supposed.
Since the cook had walked out the previous month because she hadn’t been paid, there was only a young maid of all work and the manservant who had served his grandfather. Johnson was old now and Jonty supposed he had nowhere to go or he would have been gone by now too. He limped through the kitchen and out into the hall.
‘Is that you, Jonty?’
The thin voice of his grandmother made him turn and look up to the head of the stairs. Mrs Grizedale was frail now and rarely came out of her room; she shook a lot and leaned heavily on her stick. Now she swayed on her feet and Jonty started in alarm and rushed up the stairs to her.
‘Grandmother!’ he cried, taking hold of her arm and leading her back along the upstairs hallway to her room. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘I was cold,’ she answered tremulously, and he felt the quivering of her arm as he held it. In her room, he saw the fire had gone out and there was no coal in the scuttle. There was a damp and musty chill in the air. The fire must have been out for hours.
‘Why didn’t you ring?’ he asked her gently. ‘You should have got the girl to fetch coal up and mend the fir
e long since.’
‘I did, Jonty, I did, but no one came. I rang and rang.’
That girl! Jonty seethed, but covering up his anger, he smiled at his grandmother. ‘Well, never you mind. Come and sit down and I’ll get a warm shawl for your shoulders. I’ll have a fire going in a couple of ticks, I’ll see to it now.’
He picked up the coal scuttle and went out and down the stairs. There was no sign of Sally, the maid, so he went out of the kitchen door himself and filled the scuttle with coal. In the kitchen he found newspaper and kindling sticks and piled them on top of the coal. In the process, he got a smear of coal dust across his already dirty riding breeches and even a streak on his cheek.
Jonty was going across the hall towards the stairs when he heard a loud giggle from his father’s study, a feminine giggle. His mouth tightened and he paused for a moment. Should he go in and get Sally and make her see to Grandmother’s fire? The stupid girl was flattered by his father’s attentions, just like so many before her had been. Sally had some ridiculous idea he would marry her though, she thought she was different. And already she thought herself too good to do the menial work of the house. The place was a pigsty, he thought, his anger mounting.
Putting down the coal scuttle, Jonty strode over to the study and flung open the door.
Sally was leaning over his father’s chair, wiggling and squealing. Her bodice was open, displaying young, halfripe breasts, and his father had a hand inside, squeezing and tugging to the accompaniment of her squeals. She heard Jonty enter the room but didn’t even move or try to cover herself. No more than fifteen years old either, Jonty knew.
‘Well, what do you want?’ Ralph glanced up lazily, his lip curling into the usual look of contempt as he saw Jonty’s dirty face and the smears on his riding breeches. ‘I see you’re your usual smart self. My God, lad, anyone would think you’d been down the pit!’ Ralph grinned slowly. ‘Still, I suppose you’re happy looking like that. It was all pitmen on your mother’s side of the family.’