The Rocking Stone

by Jill Rutherford

  We had gas lighting in all the rooms, one light hanging from the middle of each ceiling. We never put the lights on until it was too dark to see, then we would put it on as low as our income.

  But that cupboard under the stairs was a great advantage for a kitchen of sorts had been set up in it. A gas cooker had been fitted there, hard up in the corner with a window to the side of it which let in a little light. A deep porcelain sink with a cupboard under it was next to the cooker. The sink was connected to the drains, but had no tap; that was outside in the back yard attached to the stone wall which held back the mountain. There were a few narrow shelves above the sink and a few shelves under the declining roof of the staircase; under these we kept a vegetable rack. We called it the cwtch. And from that cwtch, the smell of cooking would fill the little house: bread, pies and cakes baking, vegetables simmering, bones boiling for soup. Those smells filled us up via our noses and thoughts first and then through our stomachs when we ate them, so we got two meals out of each one. I often wondered if that was the secret of surviving poverty.

  In late August, we’d all go up the mountain to pick whimberries. We’d make a little bag out of newspaper and climbed to the best spots and if the berries had survived the wind and rain on their low-lying plants and the weather had been kind, then we got sweet black berries, if not, then they were too tart to eat comfortably. The trouble was so many people were starving they’d go out in July to pick them red, or even green. Then there were no ripe berries for anyone. But I loved a good whimberry and apple tart.

  Mrs Mallow was an astute shopper who could always beat down a price. Ponty held a large, twice-weekly market that served the whole of the valleys on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and on Saturday nights, around seven o’ clock, just before the market closed up for its well-earned sleep, she would take her four baskets and walk down the hill to Market Square. There, she would barter with the stallholders for the bruised and damaged fruit and vegetables; for the unsold meat or scrag ends that wouldn’t keep until Monday. She even rummaged through the food thrown away as pig food. Tom went with her to help her carry her baskets.

  I’d stay at home with the kids and I always looked forward to this special, alone time together. I’d clear the kitchen table and we’d sit around it and play and chat. Meggie always wanted to draw.

  ‘Mam, mam,’ she’d say, trying to get my attention and showing me her book. ‘Look I drew a daffodil in school and coloured it in.’

  ‘That’s a funny daffodil,’ Sam would say. ‘I can draw a better one.’ So we’d all draw daffodils, and so on.

  ‘Come on now,’ I’d say, ‘whose reading what in school?’ And they’d all rush to show me their latest book. Their school was a good one and I was pleased at the way the children were taught and I’d instilled a love of reading in all of them. Tom and I were raising children who would not be miners. I made sure of that.

  We had guessing games of what Mrs Mallow would bring home this week. ‘What’s in season?’ I’d ask them as they all rushed to name fruit and vegetables.

  ‘I hate squashy plums,’ Meggie would say in her loud, sweet voice. She’d learned to speak up and hold her own with her exuberant brothers.

  ‘Well, bully for you, ‘cos I love ‘em,’ Jimmy would say, laughing. ‘All the more for me,’ he’d sing out.

  ‘I like strawberries,’ Frank would shout out. ‘I want strawberries, strawberries, strawberries.’

  ‘Peaches, peaches, peaches,’ Sam would join in.

  ‘Apples, apples, apples,’ said Frank.

  ‘No! Pears, pears, PEARS,’ Meggie would shout out laughing. ‘Your turn, Mam.’

  ‘Well,’ I’d drag out the word and look at them all one by one, building tension. They’d jump up and down in excitement. ‘Whimberries, whimberries, WHIMBERRIES,’ I’d shout, jumping up and down. We’d all join in, jumping around shouting out whimberries like mad things.

  Simple things brought us together. We became our own little family on these Saturday nights – mother and children – just us. It was blissful.

  When Mrs Mallow and Tom got home, we’d lay newspaper over the table and she’d lay out all her purchases. ‘Those pigs eat well,’ she’d sometimes say as a preamble. ‘Nothing wrong with squashed anything, it all gets worse than that when it goes in your mouth.’ I knew then she’d found some things in the pig food box. We got those for next to nothing.

  She’d put the most damaged fruit and vegetables on one end and grade everything until the best stuff was at the opposite end. If she’d been extra successful in her bargaining, and had a bit of money left over, she’d buy something perfect as a special treat for the kids. Well, we all need to feel special sometimes and get a treat.

  We’d all gather around to inspect her wares. The kids were in a heightened state of excitement and this was the highlight of the week for us all. Sometimes there were lots of potatoes, other times, carrots, onions, cabbages or rotting apples were the main thing. Soft fruit in summer were a godsend, squidgy strawberries, squashed and runny peaches, flattened plums. Whatever it was, we would all get to work and pick out the best. Mrs Mallow was the chief giver-outer and controller and she was conscientiously fair in who got what. She made sure we had enough for our main meals for the week and the rest we could gorge ourselves on. The worst were put aside for cooking, and the vaguely edible were eaten there and then, rotten bits and all. The kids were allowed to stay up for this treat and we all enjoyed it more than anything else.

  Sam was the worst. ‘Look at this squidgy plum’ he’d say with relish to Meggie. ‘I’m going to suck out all the bad bits, mm, delicious, then, I’m going to save the best bit for later.’ He’d put it on the table in front of him until he had a little pile.

  ‘You be careful, young Sam, you’ll spend all day tomorrow out the back you keep eating those plums like that,’ Mrs Mallow would say.

  Funnily enough, he never did get an upset tummy; made of iron that boy.

  The meat she’d managed to get meant that we always had a roast dinner for Sunday and the rest was rationed out for the week in pies and soup. When the food ran out, we ate bread and jam. Mrs Mallow was a prolific jam and chutney maker. Then, the next Saturday, we’d start all over again.

  *

  The depression bit deeper and droves of people started to leave the valleys. All those people who had come to find work here a generation or so before, were now either returning to their roots or looking for work in the Midlands where new industries were starting up. But my family never once talked of leaving Ponty. It was our home. We couldn’t envisage living anywhere else.

  It was during this time that Mrs Mallow opened up a bit to me. She had never told me anything about herself, it just wasn’t her way. I have to admit that I sometimes wondered if she had anything to hide – so secretive was she about her past. ‘The past is past,’ she always said. ‘What’s the use of raking up old things?’ But one day, as we were sitting in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea and I was enjoying a rest in Tom’s armchair while he was out, she took me by surprise.

  ‘I’ve had a letter from Polly, my sister in Lyme,’ she said.

  ‘Oh!’ I looked up sharply. ‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied quietly and after a pause, ‘and a brother.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said again, lost for words. This was the first I’d heard of any of her family and I wasn’t sure how to react.

  ‘She wants to come and visit me. Says her husband has died and she’s lonely.’ She looked into the middle distance. ‘We’re the only ones left, you see.’

  ‘And she lives in Lyme you say. Where is Lyme?’

  ‘It’s in Dorset. Lyme Regis.’

  ‘Oh, I see, yes, I’ve heard of it. Posh place I think.’ I could have bitten my tongue off.

  ‘Yes, well you see, Polly married well. Her husband was a professional man, a solicitor.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, my mind working overtime. Why had Mrs Mallow ended up in Ponty, m
arried to a miner, when her sister obviously came from a good-enough family to be able to marry a solicitor? I was burning with curiosity. But I dare not say anything more as her face was sour.

  ‘She’s coming tomorrow,’ she said in a resigned voice.

  ‘Tomorrow!’

  ‘That’s typical of her. No consideration for others. Do as she pleases. She knew I’d put her off, so she’s let me know with no time to say no.’ She sat there staring into space for a good ten minutes. I kept silent.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do. She’ll either turn up or not. She says she’ll be here in the morning about eleven. She must be staying overnight somewhere as it’s too far to be here by such an early hour.’

  Well, this was a turn up. I was intrigued. I tried to hide my excitement and hoped she didn’t send me on some kind of errand and I missed the mysterious sister.

  I needn’t have worried. Mrs Mallow stayed silent for most of the rest of the day and left me alone. It was blissful.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The next morning, with the kids in school, Mrs Mallow, Tom and I waited in silence. At eleven on the dot, there was a loud knock at our front door.

  ‘That’s her,’ Mrs Mallow said, ‘always punctual and strident.’ She went to answer the door and Tom and I looked at each other curiously. We had no idea what to expect as a small, elegant and expensively dressed woman came in looking like she’d stepped out of a picture frame. She wrinkled her nose in distaste as she looked around. Her gaze stopped on Tom, sitting in his armchair in his best suit and tie and his hair all wet down. I too was in my Sunday best, but we looked ragged and poor against her.

  Mrs Mallow came in behind her and said, ‘Polly, let me introduce my son, Tom and his wife, Kate.’

  I jumped up from my kitchen chair and urged Tom up from his armchair. I indicated the armchair to Polly. ‘How nice to meet you,’ I said in an unnatural voice, trying to be posh. ‘Would you like to sit down?’

  She looked at the chair disdainfully, not bothering to hide her feelings. I didn’t like her at all.

  ‘Here, take my chair.’ Mrs Mallow indicated her own armchair and Polly deigned to sit down.

  ‘I’ll make us some tea,’ I said rushing into the cwtch. We drank our tea in strained silence until, surprise, surprise, Tom came to the rescue. She seemed to like him, or at least be willing to share some conversation with him and they spoke about the state of the mining industry and the depression.

  She turned to Mrs Mallow. ‘It reminds me of when we were young, Adele, and the pit in our village closed, or as good as . . . so many people out of work.’

  I remembered that Mrs Mallow came from Somerset so I jumped in, curiosity getting the better of me. ‘Where was that? In Somerset?’

  She looked at me in a superior way. ‘Yes, that’s right, dear. We lived in a little village called Nailsea. Our father was a miner. I’ve managed to better myself,’ she preened.

  Then, to our amazement, she said to Tom and me, ‘Would you be so generous as to leave Adele and me alone for a while. We have a lot to talk about.’

  It was the first time I’d seen Mrs Mallow struggle for words. Tom jumped up and took my arm. ‘We’ll take a walk,’ he said as he led me out.

  ‘Well, what do you think of that!’ I said as we got outside. ‘What a horrible woman. No wonder your mother wanted nothing to do with her.’

  ‘It’s strange,’ Tom said, ‘but she’s never mentioned having a family. She told me they were all dead.’

  ‘Well, I bet she wishes they were.’

  We hung around for a while, but it was cold. ‘Well, I’m not staying outside too long,’ Tom said, shivering. ‘It’s my home she’s in – cheeky so and so.’

  We went back a little later and opened the front door very quietly having decided we would try and eavesdrop a little before knocking on the kitchen door. We crept in and both put an ear to the door.

  ‘But, Adele, surely you can’t stay here. Not now I’ve come with this offer for you. You can live in comfort with me in Lyme. I have plenty of room and money. You can’t possibly want to stay in this God-forsaken hole of a house in this equally God-forsaken hole of a place.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Mrs Mallow spat. ‘How dare you come here with your superior ways, throwing about your posh house and your lots of money. You have no idea of family or love or commitment.’

  ‘How dare you, Adele,’ Polly answered condescendingly, ‘to talk of family love or commitment when you left us all in Nailsea to come and . . . if I remember correctly, “To keep my independence and find my own way in the world.” And you ended up here in this dead-end grimy place. I’ve never seen such poverty in my life. Look at you. You’re starving! You’re so thin and gaunt looking and you live in this dreadful little house and it’s freezing in here. There’s no comfort. And what’s your son doing here at this time of day? He should be at work and earning money and keeping you in food. I’m sure you kept him in food when he was growing up.’

  Tom flinched and I put my hand on his arm and shook my head. I wanted to listen to more. Their voices were so loud we had no trouble in following their every word.

  ‘How dare you talk about my son in such a way,’ Mrs Mallow said in her threatening tone of voice that always sent shivers of apprehension up my spine. ‘There was never a better son than Tom and I don’t care what you say. He looks after me fine. It’s not his fault if there’s no work for the men here. Most of the men in this area are out of work and have been for a long time. But we’re family. We look after our own. And yes, I go without food so that my grandchildren can eat, but so does Tom and his wife. Yes, we’re starving, cold, scrabbling away for rotten food like animals. But that’s my life, the life I created here from nothing. I found love here, Polly. I don’t think you know what that means. You and your stuffy husband in your comfortable over-heated house with food on the table and in the cupboards and money in the bank. What do you know about my life and how I want to live it?’

  ‘But, Adele, you’ll die if you stay here. You’re old, you need your comfort. I can give you that. Please. I’m family too. Wouldn’t it be nice to spend our last years together, supporting each other?’

  ‘Oh, yes, like you supported me when I had my battles with father. The way you all wanted me to marry that awful man with his pot belly.’

  ‘That pot belly got there because he could afford a pot belly, you seem to forget. He could have given you all you ever wanted: a nice house, education for your children, status, money.’

  ‘And it all comes down to money with you, doesn’t it?’ The sarcasm in her voice made me shiver. ‘Any man is acceptable if he has money, even ugly ones with pot bellies. I never met your husband. Was he ugly with a pot belly?’

  I heard the triumph in her voice and said to myself, good for you.

  ‘How dare you! You know nothing of Gerald.’

  ‘And how dare you come down here after all these years and try and pry me away from my family just because you are lonely. It’s just like you. You were always the selfish one. Our family was never any good that’s why I wanted to leave. Oh, yes, I know we had money once but you seem to have forgotten that we were evicted from our lovely house and life in Bath and dragged to Nailsea. He’d bankrupted himself – we had nothing left. He was lucky to get work in the mine, his drinking was so bad. We ended up a miner’s daughter and don’t you forget it. We paid the price for his stupidity. He was violent and nasty and he wanted me to marry a man like him, one of his cronies, just because the man had money. And he thought I’d accept because I was big and plain and no catch. He didn’t offer you to him and that says it all. You were pretty and delicate and could do much better for yourself. But I wasn’t having it, not at all. I came here and I fell in love with a miner, a good man and he loved me. Loved me, Polly. Regardless of anything, he loved me. I’ll never regret it. Not once, never!

  ‘And another thing,’ she went on in her threatening tone, ‘this place is not awful. It’s f
ull of caring people who look after each other and there’s love here, so much love. Yes, the men have had a hard time, but I’m proud of living here, of being one of them. They’re proud too, but not too proud to help anyone out. This is a place of struggle and strife but also of courage and pride. Things you wouldn’t know about, wouldn’t understand with your money and comfort. I want you out, now, and I never want to see or hear from you again.’

  Tom and I looked at each other in amazement, and a surge of pride for Mrs Mallow swelled up inside me. ‘We’d better go in. We don’t want to get caught,’ he whispered.

  I nodded as I opened and closed the front door noisily as if we had just arrived, and knocked on the kitchen door. It was thrown open by Mrs Mallow who had her arm on her sister’s in none too friendly a fashion.

  ‘Goodbye, Polly,’ she said coldly. ‘Please don’t bother to contact me again. We’re better off apart.’ She moved aside so that Tom and I could come in and her sister gave us a look of contempt. I knew then that Mrs Mallow had made the right decision for her, even though I would have loved to have seen the back of her, it was not to be and I had to accept my fate.

  Mrs Mallow and I continued our lives as if nothing had happened and I dared not ask her anything about it and she said not a word. Not even to Tom. And, of course, Tom being Tom did not ask her. But I did begin to understand her a little more. She must have been brought up in luxury and they lost it all because of her father. She had a chip on her shoulder about it I think. She must have had dreams of a good future and she ended up with a miner, and a dead one at that. And the son she loved was not hers. And the son that was hers was rotten. That’s a terrible burden. And her good son ended up marrying me, a woman of such dreams that fell by the wayside, the same as hers had. What kind of woman would I have been without Mrs Mallow in my life? What kind of woman would I have been if I had had the support of a caring, understanding husband? What kind of woman would I have been if my mother hadn’t died at such a young age? What kind, what kind, what kind? I could go on forever, and where would it get me? Just the same place as I am now, so I threw those thoughts away, they would do me no good and I’d end up like Mrs Mallow: bitter and angry. I must stay nice and kind and caring for my children.