3
After a bitter struggle, in which Gwen fought to maintain the responsibility that had always been hers – and lost – the three elder girls were sent to live and work at the mine owner’s mansion two miles away, at least one of them harbouring a deep grudge.
‘Just let her see how long she can boss our Monty around,’ Gwen declared to her younger sisters. ‘A month, that’s all I’ll give her before our brother gets sick of it and takes us all back home.’
‘But it ain’t home now, is it?’ whimpered Flora.
‘You know what I mean, you daft biddy!’
The youngest of the trio decided it was time to assert herself. ‘Well, I like her.’
Hostile astonishment. ‘What, even though she’s throwed you out?’
‘Ain’t of her making,’ retorted Charity. ‘She just got herself this nice little house and a husband and gets lumbered with us – how’d we all fit in there? And it don’t behove ’ee to talk about her being a bully when your most favourite occipation is to shove folk around.’
Far from retaliating, Gwen was deeply hurt at being labelled thus and was hard-pressed not to cry. ‘I do not! If I offer advice ’tis only for the good of others whose welfare I have at heart.’
‘Well, I like her,’ came the firm repetition. ‘And I reckon we must all do what we can to help.’
‘I suppose so,’ sighed her eldest sister, though she did not yield completely. ‘Reckon her do need all the help she can get.’
Never was a truer word spoken. At first Sarah coped admirably with the younger ones’ material and physical needs, instilled cleanliness and manners, continued the religious instruction laid down by their mother, though was not so rigid in her teachings, found a school for Owen and Amelia who were at least off her hands for most of the day – but that still left Kit, great lolloping Kit who was forever showing off and trying to grab her attention – and inevitably fate would have it that within two months of being wed Sarah found herself with child.
By the end of that year a daughter was born, and only fourteen months later another, leaving Sarah no time for those who were not of her flesh. Kit suffered from the lack of attention but not for long, for she was packed off to school where to draw attention to oneself usually invoked punishment and Kit couldn’t wait to get home to her elder little niece, Beata, whom she regarded more as a sister and was the only one to give her the kisses and affection she craved.
She had never danced for Monty since that day they had arrived here. Though she still felt deep affection for him, and her feet itched unbearably from lack of practice, she had no wish to incur her surrogate father’s wrath.
However, today was different. Kit felt that her sixth birthday was an auspicious enough occasion for her to be allowed some favour. Catching sight of her brother on his way home from the pit, she grabbed her little niece’s hand and the pair of them trotted up the street to meet him. There had been something very odd about Monty for the last couple of weeks. Instead of being coated in black dust he came home looking as freshly scrubbed as he had done upon leaving for work in the morning, and some days he had not come home at all. There had been lots of other men hanging around the streets too. Kit had asked him about this but had received no satisfactory answer. From the number of glowering looks that had passed between the man and his wife – and some of them directed at her – Kit deemed it unwise to keep asking. She only knew that Monty had become more glum by the hour and this afternoon showed no improvement. He barely paid her and little Beata any heed at all as they scurried back down the street alongside him. It wasn’t as if he had forgotten that it was Kit’s birthday, for he had been the one to raise the issue with his wife this morning, though it had been said with a mutter as if there were some secret involved. Perhaps they were going to allow her special request! Now was the time to ask.
Kit attempted to phrase her desire as sweetly as possible. ‘Monty, my dear … being that it’s my special day, might I be permitted to dance for ’ee this eve?’
Her brother did not reply, merely grunted and continued to pound the pavement, his empty belly teased by the scent of cooking.
They reached the house. Kit jumped on to the doormat and stood smiling eagerly in Monty’s way, repeating her question. ‘Can I?’
Face uncompromising, he brushed past her. ‘No, you may not. I got better things to do than to watch you cavort like a cart horse. You’re old enough now to be more dignified.’
Cut to the quick by his remark, Kit blushed and hovered there looking foolish for a second, before wandering lamely into the house.
It became obvious that the aroma of cooking came from somewhere else. All that lay on the table was a loaf of bread sliced thinner than had been the custom. Just in from school, Owen and Amelia were washing their hands in an enamel bowl, each trying to nudge the other out of the way, but when their brother entered they immediately desisted. Another tiny girl was crouched upon the home-made rug, playing with dolly pegs. Her mother was checking the dampness of some clothes hanging on the brass rail attached to the mantel when she heard Monty’s entry.
The moment she laid eyes on his face, Sarah clapped a hand to her brow. ‘You haven’t found anything?’
For answer, he sank into a chair and shook his head. ‘Travelled right over into the next valley, naught to be had. My feet are killing me and my belly’s growling like a bear.’
There was no sympathy. ‘Better get used to it then, hadn’t you!’
Her husband felt too tired to respond. There had been a drastic reduction in wages. Monty could not possibly support his extended family on less than he had previously received and, along with others, had objected. A lock-out had followed. Evictions were threatened unless the men returned to work and accepted the reduction.
‘Nothing else for it, then,’ came Sarah’s brusque addition. ‘Get round to my father’s house and tell him you’ll be back at work tomorrow.’
‘But how will we manage on less money?’ he entreated.
‘And how will we manage on no money at all?’ came her retort. She noted the look on his face. ‘I hope you’re not expecting me to go begging to him?’
‘I don’t need anyone to beg for me.’
Good! Then get round there – now!’
Reluctantly, Monty dragged himself from the chair and went to visit his father-in-law.
He was gone barely ten minutes.
Sarah’s heart fell. ‘He wouldn’t help you?’
‘Oh, he wasn’t completely without mercy,’ said Monty, with undisguised bitterness. ‘He did gimme this.’
Sarah took hold of the newspaper clipping that advertised for miners in the coalfields of Yorkshire.
Monty gave the cryptic addition: ‘Couldn’t he think of anywhere further to send me?’ Sarah screwed the piece of newspaper into a ball. ‘Yes, well, he’s probably had a bellyful of you – and so have I!’
Wondering what on earth was going on, Kit looked from one to the other. From the pocket of her pinafore she drew out the man’s handkerchief that was her constant companion and began to twist it nervously around her fingers. Never being allowed out of her possession, it was extremely grubby.
‘Well, that’s it then, we’re out on the street!’ The glint of anger and despair pricked Sarah’s eyes.
Monty looked away, his fingers resting across his mouth as if to prevent some rash utterance that would bring his wife’s wrath down upon him. He had been putting off making a disclosure to the children about their impending eviction in case something came up, but now with Sarah’s declaration the fear that he himself was experiencing grew evident in their faces. In a desperate attempt to lessen the blow, he made a lame request to his wife. ‘Maybe if you talk to your mother she could put us up for a while?’
‘Where do you suggest she puts us, in the linen press?’ Sarah’s four unmarried sisters were still at home. ‘Don’t be stupid!’ She looked deeply worried, rubbing her swollen abdomen – three years of marriage and a child
born in each! ‘God knows I’ve done my best …’ Lately she had been taking in sewing and mending over which she toiled until midnight, but for such poor reward that it was hardly worth the effort.
Monty did not care for the way she laid emphasis on the word my, as if he hadn’t been doing everything he could. Did his wife think it made him proud knowing that it was only her skill as a seamstress that stood between him and starvation? But he offered no retaliation. How could he?
‘Why do we have to leave here?’ Owen was the only one of his siblings who dared ask. He hated the way his big brother allowed this shrew to belittle him. What had happened to that famous temper?
Sarah turned on the boy, her bark making Amelia jump. ‘Because your brother has lost his job!’
‘Don’t make out as if it’s my fault!’ Hurt by her disloyalty, Monty explained to the wide-eyed children, ‘The master wanted to reduce our wage, I couldn’t manage on less and so I sided with the union—’
‘What’s the union?’ interrupted Owen.
‘A group of men who don’t think it right that the master has so much power,’ explained his brother.
Owen affiliated himself with this noble cause. ‘Hurrah for you, Monty!’
‘Rubbish!’ put in Sarah. ‘A bunch of troublemakers, they are.’
‘But if the master’s cut wages—’
‘There are too few of them to make a difference!’
Keeping his tone reasonable, for no one was allowed to raise their voice here except his brother’s wife, a helpful Owen supplied what he saw as the answer. ‘But if you all band together—’
‘No one can beat the masters!’ snapped Sarah. ‘And it’s a waste of time even trying. For all your brother’s high-minded ideals he’s only succeeded in getting himself blackballed. Union – pff! All they do is ruin other people’s livelihoods. The master has always done as he likes and he always will.’
‘But that ain’t fair!’ opined Owen.
‘No, it ain’t,’ agreed Monty. ‘But Sarah’s right, he’s the one with the power, and wages bain’t the only thing he can take away. The company owns this house so being as I don’t work there any more, well, I’m afraid we gotta get out.’
‘See what you’ve reduced us to!’ yelled Sarah.
‘I can’t win!’ Monty gritted his teeth, barely hanging on to the temper he had so successfully curbed. ‘You’d have complained just as loudly if I’d given up without a fight.’
‘I’m not just talking about that!’ Her security threatened, Sarah grew cruel, old resentments spilling out. ‘I’m on about wasting what little money we do have on others instead of using it for your own children.’
‘That’s unjust – and plain silly.’ Monty could not be more frugal if he tried, only partook of an occasional drink and did not smoke. ‘The girls give as much as they can, and it’s not as if they live here.’ Gwen and her sisters brought money home every quarter. Nevertheless, with so many to support, there had never been any spare cash to put by for such an emergency, and with his sisters’ latest contribution having served to cover his own lost wages it was doubtful the family could last until the next payment.
‘No, but what about the other three?’ demanded Sarah.
Young as she was, Kit felt the incrimination was directed at her, that Sarah had never really wanted her here. It was obvious that Owen felt that way too for he announced evenly, ‘I’m old enough to work for my keep now.’
‘And what use would a sprat like you be to any master?’ At the look on the youngster’s face Sarah regretted being so harsh but it was the truth. As from the outset it was she who made the decision. ‘Right! Well, there’s no point standing here prevaricating. We’ll waste no more time but go straight to Yorkshire.’
‘Mining’s not the only thing I can do you know!’ Monty resented the infringement of his free will.
‘What else then?’ demanded Sarah, folding her arms over the bulging apron.
‘Well, any old job, I dunno—’
‘Exactly! If there was “any old job” available you’d have found it by now. Now it’s either Yorkshire or parish relief.’
Monty, averse to this emasculation, voiced what he saw as a problem. ‘We’d have to take the children out of school.’
‘I heard it rumoured they have schools in Yorkshire.’
‘And what about Gwen and the others?’
‘They’re grown women! They’ve got a roof over their heads and a job.’
Monty showed a hint of his old spirit. ‘I’m not leaving them behind with no husbands to look after them!’
‘Well, if they want to come with us I expect Yorkshire folk need servants to cater for their whims too. ’Tis said they pay better money up north.’ Sarah grew tired of this exchange. ‘Right, that’s settled! Owen, go up to the big house and tell your sisters they’re to come home at once.’
‘They’ll have to give notice,’ pointed out Monty.
‘For pity’s sake!’ bawled his wife. ‘Do you have to keep putting all these idiotic obstacles in our way?’ She shoved Owen towards the door. ‘What on earth is their employer going to do if they don’t give notice – sack them?’
‘I only meant they’ll need references to get another job. They won’t fare very well if they leave their master in the lurch.’
Loyal to his brother, Owen hovered in the doorway awaiting Monty’s sanction.
Relinquishing the fight and, in his younger brother’s eyes losing face, Monty gave a nod.
‘Thank you – Owen, if you’re not gone this minute I’ll give you such a thrashing!’ Sarah covered her face to stifle an explosion of fury, but still it burgeoned in her breast and when she uncovered her eyes the first to fall under her angry glare was poor watchful Kit, who immediately began to twist the handkerchief more nervously than ever.
Emotions roused by the combination of her delicate state and frustration over her own lost youth, Sarah lunged for the scapegoat, wrenched the tattered rag from Kit’s hands. ‘Well, wherever we’re going, to hell or Timbuktu, you can leave that filthy thing behind. I’m sick to death of seeing you fidget with it!’ And she cast it into the fire.
Kit shrieked and tried to rescue her father’s handkerchief, but the heat from the coal was too fierce, compelling her to watch it singe then disintegrate into flames.
Acute silence followed. Mouth slack with disbelief, Owen lingered in the doorway, he and everyone else awaiting tears from Kit – they knew how she treasured her comforter. But no tears came, for the victim was too shocked. Never, even in sleep, had she been parted from this last reminder of her father; without its magical properties how could she survive?
Though not immediately contrite – it was only an old rag after all – Sarah was the first to break the awkward atmosphere. ‘Ach, come on now, Kit, you can go with your brother to the big house. You’d like to see Charity and Flora, wouldn’t you?’ She steered the youngster firmly towards the door. Pitying his sister, Owen held out his hand. Monty caressed her as she drew even with him.
The stunned child allowed herself to be piloted only so far before she balked and protested that she could not leave without her father’s handkerchief.
Sarah tried to coax her. ‘’Tis only a wretched bit of rag. Anyone would think it was the crown jewels with all the fuss you’re making.’
But Kit struggled and fought against her exit, voice cracking hysterically. ‘I can’t go through!’
And so wildly did she kick and wriggle that Sarah abandoned her efforts. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Owen can go on his own then.’ With a dismissive flick of her wrist she turned her attention to other matters.
Breast rising and falling, Kit stared feverishly at the door, searching for the invisible barrier that prevented her from following her brother, wondering at the reason for this strange handicap. With no handkerchief to twist, her hands strayed to her pinafore, mangling the cheap cotton with tortured fingers, thoughts racing towards madness.
And somewhere from th
e back of her mind came the notion that it was she who had caused all these terrible things to happen, because of some failure on her part to carry out vital instructions, some fateful omission that could never be put right.
Part 2
Girlhood
1873-1879
4
The journey to her brother’s home involved a six-mile trek, but the young woman’s vigorous pace belied this. Long of limb and proud of breast, she strode out with a confident air, presenting an impressive sight. Kit’s birth-weight had been a portent of things to come. Now, eighteen years later, she had donned the best part of a stone for every birthday, but on such a lofty frame – a mere wafer under six foot – it was excellently proportioned. Perhaps it was Sunday that lent buoyancy to her step, for Kit was never quite so energetic in her actions during working hours, or so her current employer and all previous ones had complained. But with only half a day off per week she was eager to spend as much of it as possible with her brother’s family. Kit loved children.
She had come to love the West Riding countryside too – could remember no other place as home – for despite the wounds inflicted by man in his greed for coal there remained pockets of beauty where Kit had spent many a happy interval frolicking with her nieces until adulthood had forced her into employment. Today was a day for frolicking, thought Kit, delighting in the bright blue ceiling overhead, what few clouds there were having the appearance of wispy feathers raked by some giant comb across the brilliant plain. Summer was most definitely in command. Beside hedgerows that were weighed down beneath a creamy shawl of elderflower, swayed an abundance of thistle, teasel and dandelion. The shorn, ungainly creatures in the pasture were already beginning to sprout next year’s crop of wool, all intent upon devouring their verdant carpet and paying not the slightest heed to this passer-by.
Following the skein of polluted sludge that was the River Aire, Kit descended the eastern slopes of the Pennines, passing through a conglomeration of sandstone mills and factories – hidden gold beneath the grime – before finally emerging into coal-mining territory. Her pace undaunted, she strode on along a road grey with coal dust, taking note of various landmarks: a wayside cross from a bygone age, a church spire peeping from a group of trees, grotesque constructions of black wheels and pulleys like devices of torture looming up from every point to mar the landscape, the sward defaced by railway line and excavation, and numerous colliery villages – Rothwell, Robin Hood, Methley and Mickletown – the deeply furrowed course of the river alternately swerving away then curving back, its banks rich not only in mineral wealth but in history, for relieving the grim industrial scars were oases of woodland and pasture where the aristocracy dwelled in their numerous ancient mansions.
A Sense of Duty Page 5