by Maggie Hope
Chapter Twelve
‘I chased them, I did,’ Auntie Phoebe declared as she came into Meg’s kitchen, Bella sobbing and crying in tow.
‘You chased who, Auntie Phoebe?’
Meg looked up from her ironing. She was still doing the washing and ironing for old Mrs Dobbs and wanted to take it to the old lady that evening. It was a lovely June day and she was looking forward to the walk.
‘Those ragamuffins from up the rows. Yelling at our Bella, they were, calling her dummy.’ Phoebe took Bella, big as she was, into her arms. ‘There, petal, never you mind, I’ll bray their backsides for them if I catch them. You’re no dummy, you’re not. You’re just a bit slow with having to miss so much school with your weak chest.’
Meg watched them, the nine-year-old girl cuddled into Auntie Phoebe’s arms like a baby. She bit her lip. There was no denying Bella was a bit slow but she was a lovely bairn for all that, pretty and biddable and usually smiling. But not now. Now she was clinging to Auntie Phoebe, sobbing her heart out.
‘I’ve made some biscuits the day, Bella,’ she said. Bella loved her food and sweet biscuits in particular. But the child only clung the tighter to Auntie Phoebe.
‘Howay now, Bella, ginger biscuits they are. You like ginger biscuits, don’t you?’
Bella’s sobs lessened. She lifted her head and watched as Meg brought the biscuit tin out of the pantry. Sitting up, she accepted the ginger biscuit offered by her sister.
‘What do you say, pet?’ asked Auntie Phoebe.
‘Thank you,’ Bella mumbled, through a mouthful of biscuit crumbs.
‘That’s a good lass.’ Auntie Phoebe rocked the little girl to and fro, her face troubled. ‘I think I’ll have a word with their mothers,’ she said, but without much hope that it would do any good.
‘We’ll have a cup of tea,’ suggested Meg, ‘these biscuits are nice when they’re fresh.’ The kettle was simmering on the fire and it wasn’t long before they were sipping tea and nibbling at biscuits.
‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’ said Meg. ‘Only last month there wasn’t even enough bread, never mind biscuits.’
‘Aye,’ answered Phoebe, but neither of them looked happy about the change in their fortunes.
The miners had been forced back to work in May; they had had no option but to go back at the reduced rates proposed by the owners. Still, it was no good dwelling on it, Meg thought, it was easy to become bitter.
Da and Jack Boy and Miles were working now, and luckily the other miners seemed to have forgotten that the Maddisons hadn’t joined the strike at first. The lockout had been worse for them even than the other pitmen as they had had no strike pay, but at least it was over now. Everything was getting back to normal in Winton Colliery though the families had to live on reduced wages.
Meg sipped her tea. She was filled with an uneasy restlessness. For the first time she was dissatisfied with her life, looking after Da and the boys, spending most of her time in the house working by herself or chatting with Auntie Phoebe. She was eighteen going on nineteen, and had her hair up now. And the only time she went out was when she went to the store or worked in other womens’ houses when they were having babies. There were no bairns in her house now. The only really bright spots in her life were the days a letter came from Alice and they didn’t come round very often. For a lass who had been wanting to be a teacher, Alice wasn’t a great letter writer.
Auntie Phoebe took Bella home and Meg finished her ironing and started to prepare the meal for the menfolk coming home. Mooning about didn’t do any good, she told herself, she just had to get on with it.
After tea, Meg set out on her visit to Old Pit Cottages and Mrs Dobbs. She had combed her hair and piled it on top of her head with pins so that only the shorter curls nestled at the nape of her neck and at her temples. The southerly breeze was warm and yet refreshing. She relished the feel of it on her neck and face. Her dress was a simple black serge but she had added a touch of crocheted lace at the collar and cuffs. Now she loosed the top button at her collar the better to enjoy the breeze.
The months of the lockout had taken their toll and Meg was thinner by pounds than she had been at Christmas, but her slimmer shape suited her. She had a fine strong body, heavy-breasted and slim-hipped, and as she walked into the centre of the village and down the road by the Black Boy, there was many a head turned to watch her go.
And one of them was the head of Wesley Cornish. She saw him have a quick word with his marras and fall into step behind her. Meg felt her colour rising. She tried to ignore him but was feeling so mixed up today. Wesley Cornish had always been sweet on her and suddenly she was thinking of him in a new light. He quickened his steps and jumped in front of her as she took the lane leading to Old Pit.
‘Get out of my way, Wesley Cornish,’ she said, as she had said often in the past when he was pestering her. But if Alice had been there she would have noticed that Meg didn’t use her ‘I mean it’ voice, nor did she make a great deal of effort to get round him. Meg’s face was flushed as she stared ahead at some point over his shoulder.
‘I’ll do more than that, lass,’ Wes said, flashing a smile, and Meg noticed for the first time that he had really deep dimples, not only in his cheeks but one in his chin too. Though, of course, she wasn’t looking at his face. Not really.
‘I’ll come with you. You never know who you might meet on a country road these days.’
‘No, you won’t, Wes Cornish,’ she answered.
‘Well, then, how about taking a walk on Sunday?’ he ventured, adding hastily as he saw her objection before she could voice it, ‘After chapel, I mean.’
‘I have the dinner to get,’ Meg said, implying that though he might have all the time in the world for walks on Sundays, some folk didn’t.
‘Oh, aye, I know,’ Wes said hastily, ‘but after, then?’
‘Then there’s tea and evening chapel.’
‘Why, Meg, we could go in the afternoon. We’d be back for chapel, like.’
‘Aye,’ she conceded, though she frowned consideringly, adding, ‘Are you going to chapel, like?’ This being courted by a lad was all new to her. It was all she could think of to say, though she had not seen Wesley in chapel for years. But she had never let a conversation with him go this far before. It was a bit fast and she couldn’t seem to get her breath. She had to think a bit, and any road, what would Da say? Well, maybe not Da, but Auntie Phoebe? Da didn’t say anything about anything these days.
But Meg forgot what people might say as she stared into Wesley Cornish’s hazel eyes. They looked almost green as he gazed earnestly down at her and, by, hadn’t he lovely fair hair? Not this wishy-washy straw colour like hers, but with reddish tints. He was so good-looking, and not all wild and bad either, in spite of what the minister said about him and his marras. Hadn’t he sided with Jack Boy and Miles when those pitmen went for the lads during the strike?
‘I might go to chapel,’ said Wesley. ‘Well, what do you say?’
‘I said yes,’ said Meg. ‘Two o’clock then? At the end of the rows?’
For she wasn’t going to have the lads gawping at him if he called for her at her house. Neither was she ready for him to meet her da, not like he was in the house. Before Meg could guess his intentions and move out of his reach, Wesley dropped a kiss lightly on her brow.
‘Well then, I’ll see you on Sunday.’
Turning on his heel, he swung jauntily down the row, whistling a tune as he went. Meg went on her way to Old Pit Cottages, not sure how she felt. Her feelings were all mixed up, she had a trembling inside of her and her cheeks remained flushed a rosy pink.
After delivering her parcel of clothes to Mrs Dobbs and doing one or two odd jobs for the old lady, Meg decided to walk on for a short distance along the lane which meandered between fields green with young wheat and barley. The cow parsley, or black man’s baccy as it was known locally, was coming into bloom along the hedgerows and that, combined with may blossom, gave the air a
sweet, pleasant scent, so different from the stink from the coke ovens. She remembered Uncle Tot laughing at her when she wrinkled her nose at the smell when the ovens were going full blast.
‘It’s a good smell, lass, it cleans the air and it’s good for you,’ he’d said. But she was not convinced.
Meg wandered along the road under the evening sun, enjoying the unaccustomed leisure and feeling unwilling to go home. But the shadows were lengthening and the sun dipping below the horizon and in the end she decided she must go if she wanted to be back before dark. Reluctantly she retraced her steps. It was later than she’d thought. As she climbed a small rise in the road and looked down over the fields and woods to Winton Colliery, she saw that already there was a mist drifting along the valley of the Gaunless river.
I’ll cut across, she thought. If I hurry I’ll be through the woods and out on the village road before it’s completely dark. Finding a gate in the hedge she climbed over it and set off across the field to the woods which lay beyond. She hadn’t been that way before but had a good sense of direction and felt confident she would find her way through the trees.
She was almost to the hedge which bounded the wood when she suddenly heard galloping hooves. They were almost upon her before she realised, having been masked by the soft marshy ground of the pasture. She cast a quick, startled glance behind her, seeing the horseman almost on top of her, and jumped for her life into the hedge, falling into the ditch, still with water in the bottom from the spring rains.
‘What the hell are you doing on my land?’ demanded the horseman, struggling to control his mount, pulling on the reins as the frightened animal pranced about, neighing and rolling his eyes. He managed to quieten the horse but did not dismount to help the girl out of the ditch. She had to scramble up the bank herself, dishevelled and with the hem of her good skirt muddied and wet.
‘Answer me, girl. I’ll have you in front of the bench tomorrow for trespassing, damn me if I don’t! After something, I’ve no doubt. You’d better tell me, girl, have you no tongue? I’ll have you locked up tonight, see if I don’t!’
But Meg was mute with terror, staring up at him with wide blue eyes, her colour coming and going, panic rising in her heaving breast. She hardly heard the threat, wasn’t frightened of the lock-up, no. It was because she knew him. After all these years, she knew him, though the last time she had seen him was at her mother’s funeral when she was still a child.
Ralph Grizedale, the candyman!
The candyman, the candyman … the name beat through her head, over and over. She was frozen with fear, forgetting the trees and fields around her, forgetting the approaching dark, forgetting everything and seeing nothing, nothing but the face of the man who was now dismounting from his horse and walking over to her. Ralph Grizedale, the candyman.
His mood had changed, he no longer looked angry. Instead, he was watching her with a peculiar, intense look in his eyes, looking from her face to the swell of her breasts against the rough serge of her dress, the white vee at her neck where the button of her collar was undone.
Meg knew why he was looking at her like that, she knew she should run before he got to her, but she couldn’t. She could only stare at him dumbly.
And she saw he could see her fear. When he put an arm around her shoulders she knew he could feel her trembling and she knew he found her fear exciting.
‘And who are you, little maid?’ he asked softly, and his hand slid from her shoulder to her breast and she could feel the heat from it as he pressed the softness under the serge and his other hand circled her waist and drew her to him. And still she stared at him, held captive more by her terror than that man’s arms.
Ralph was encouraged, and laughed softly.
‘All the same, you pitmen’s lasses, aren’t you? I suppose you think I’ll let you off the lock-up. Well, I might just do that, if you are good enough.’
He was leading her to the gate in the hedge, his arm still an iron band about her waist, his other hand still clamped on her breast. Under the trees there lay a bed of last year’s leaves, rustling and brown. Ralph led her there, leaning her against the trunk of a great oak, and began unbuttoning her dress, feeling underneath and pushing aside the thin shift to grasp the nipples. As his excitement mounted he pulled the undergarment roughly aside, tearing it. And all the while he held her gaze, enjoying her numb terror. He kneaded her breasts with his fingers, pulling at the nipples cruelly and pushing himself hard up against her, so that the bark at her back was pushed painfully into her.
Pulling her down on to the bed of leaves beneath the tree, Ralph scrabbled with his own clothing. It was time to enjoy this unexpectedly docile girl to the full.
But that gave Meg her chance. His own buttons were proving stubborn and Ralph had to take his eyes off her to see to them. In that moment she was galvanized into action and, taking him completely by surprise, flung him away from her, strength returning to her arms and legs as she jumped to her feet. Leaving the candyman gaping after her, flat on his back with his clothes half undone, she ran through the woods in the gathering darkness, instinctively heading in the right direction though she stumbled once or twice over bushes and fallen logs.
He hadn’t known her, thank God he hadn’t known her, she thought wildly, sobbing now, her breath coming in gasping, painful pants. Oh, thank God he hadn’t known her! She could see the edge of the wood now and trees were thinning out. She stood by the hedge getting her bearings as the moon came out, a full moon which cast a bright white glow over the landscape. And there, in the distance, only a mile or two away, she could see the pitheap and winding engine of Winton Colliery and the sparks coming out of the colliery chimney. She could even hear, though faintly it was true, the whistle blowing from the engine pulling the coal trucks along the line.
Meg was still fearful as she ran along the hedge, making for the lane. No more walking in the fields for her, she vowed. And she didn’t even feel safe in the lane; she wouldn’t be safe until she got to Winton Colliery, she knew. At least the lads off shift in the village wouldn’t go for her, they wouldn’t attack her. They had some decency, she told herself, not like that man. And she jumped back in renewed terror as a figure on horseback turned off the main road into the lane.
‘What is it? Are you all right?’
The figure had dismounted. He had a lantern and was holding it high in the air as he looked down at her, concern showing in his face.
‘Look,’ said Jonty, ‘I’m sorry if I startled you, I didn’t see you at first. Are you all right?’
There was something familiar about him to Meg, though she didn’t know who he was. There was a familiar air about him, a reassuring air. She remembered how disordered her clothes were and hurried to cover herself up, blushing furiously as she did so.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly, still trembling. ‘I’m sorry, it was my fault.’ She looked from him to the welcoming sight of the pit and its colliery rows beside it, and began backing away along the road.
‘I’m in a hurry, I must get home, it’s late …’
She fairly raced up the road, lifting her muddied skirts in one hand and flying over the stones, hardly feeling them though the leather of her boots was worn paper thin. Jonty gazed after her, wondering, but the moon went behind a cloud and soon she was lost from sight. Gathering the reins of his horse, he remounted and jogged slowly up the lane and across the fields to where he could pick up the track which led to Grizedale Hall. What on earth had the girl been doing out here on her own? It was almost eleven o’clock. Where on earth had she been and why was she so agitated? And why did he feel that he knew her from somewhere, somewhere else and long ago?
The puzzle was resolved for him when he came to the edge of the wood and saw his father’s horse, reins dangling as he cropped the lush grass of the pasture. Just emerging through the gate which led into the wood was his father, a black scowl on his face.
‘What have you been doing?’ asked Jonty grimly.
&nbs
p; ‘What the hell business is it of yours?’ Ralph blustered, grabbing his horse’s reins and pulling them savagely before climbing into the saddle.
Jonty leaned over and caught hold of the bridle of his father’s horse.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ roared Ralph, jerking the reins so that his horse danced and neighed as the bit sawed against his mouth.
‘You accosted that girl, didn’t you?’ demanded Jonty, his face grim. ‘What sort of a name do you think you’re giving the family?’
‘What girl? I’ve seen no girl. Now will you let go of my horse and let me get on my way?’
Jonty released his grip on the reins and allowed his father to gallop away. He realised they were only hurting the horse. But he followed close behind. Ralph was just dismounting as Jonty rode into the yard and jumped down to the ground.
‘Father—’ he began, but Ralph was already striding away, leaving the stabling of the horses to his son. There had been no stable hand at Grizedale Hall for a couple of years now and no money to pay a lad even if they could prevail on one to come.
Jonty unsaddled the horses and let them into the stalls. He rubbed them both down and piled fresh hay in the boxes, leaving them contentedly chewing before he doused the lantern and closed the stable door behind him. He leaned against the door, looking up at the house. There was only one light which beamed thinly through the curtains of his father’s study. Good, thought Jonty, I’m not finished with him yet, I’ll have it out with him now. Striding into the Hall, he paused only to remove his riding boots and find his indoor shoes before going to the study door. Not bothering to knock, he flung the door open and went in.
Ralph lay sprawled in his usual place in the armchair before the fireplace, though the fire in the grate was quite dead and filled with only grey ash which had built up and spilled out on to the hearth. The whole room had a neglected air about it, the leather of the armchairs worn thin and even showing holes in places with the horsehair stuffing springing out. Ralph had poured himself a liberal whisky and was tipping it down his throat as though he hadn’t had a drink in days. He paused and looked sourly at Jonty.