The Legacy (1987)

by Plante, Lynda La

  Evelyne washed the boys, fed them, washed their clothes, washed out little Davey’s sheets. It was night again, and she was so tired her arms ached, too tired to get her school books out. She sat in her mother’s rocking-chair, close to the big, blazing fire. Evelyne and Mike were left alone. Mike subdued, his eyes red-rimmed, unused to the coal dust. His hands and nails were already becoming ingrained with black. Evelyne sat and listened to him, he needed so badly to talk to someone – not the lads, they already knew what he was saying, they had all been through it, but for Mike it was all new, all disturbing.

  ‘My legs were cramped all day, Evie, I got no skin left on the backs of my hands. An’ with the dust in your lungs you can’t stop coughing, an’ it’s burning inside your eyes. My skin is smartin’, flying bits of coal cut into your face . . . see, I’m in one of the lower surfaces, an’ I got to shovel on my belly.’

  Evelyne listened like an old woman, nodding, darning the men’s socks. All the while she was alert for sounds from Davey or her mother. Mike started to tell Evelyne about the pit ponies. Mike had always loved the outdoor life, running up the mountain to school, and he loved animals, especially horses. Mike continued in his low, lilting sweet voice, like a musical whisper, telling Evelyne about how the horses were treated in the pits.

  ‘Poor devils, Evie, they work sixteen hours or more straight, they often have no water. One dropped this mornin’ from exhaustion – just dropped, Evie. I mean, it’s not all the men’s fault, sometimes you’ve got to take a horse out again right after it’s been workin’, so the poor bastard’s dead on his feet before you start your shift. You got to whip him to make him work.’

  Mike went on about the conditions, and Evelyne listened quietly and continued her sewing. Mike was in tears as he told her how some of the horses had to work in tunnels that were too low and, like him, they couldn’t remember to keep themselves bent down, so they ripped their backs open on the jagged rocks. But they were whipped into such a frenzy that they kept on opening up the old wounds.

  ‘After the first time through the squeeze the horse knows it’s cut him, so next time he’s forced through he wants to go fast, but if he goes too fast and the handler loses control, the tram full of coal can tilt and spill out its contents . . . so the men put chains through the horse’s mouth to pull him back . . . and there he is, poor little bastard, with his back ripped open, his mouth chained, tortured . . .’

  Evelyne looked up. Mike was on his feet, tears smarting in his eyes. He was talking about the pit ponies, but it was himself he was really talking about. And the more he talked, the more he upset himself. He ended up clinging to Evelyne and crying like a child.

  ‘I can’t go back, Evie, I can’t, I hate it, I hate it, I’m scared all the time, Evie, I’m scared, and they keep on tellin’ me terrible stories.’

  Evelyne heard little Davey cry out, and she had to pry Mike’s arms from her and scramble up the stairs to look after the boy . . . she heard the scream from Mary’s bedroom as she reached the child’s door. It was Mary’s time. Hugh had already left for his night shift, he would miss this birth too.

  They always said buy yourself a good dark suit, you’ll need it, and every man did have one good dark suit besides his working clothes. The dark suit was necessary because there were so many funerals.

  Will, Mike and Dicken were all dressed and ready. They sat in the kitchen waiting for Evelyne to come down. Mrs Pugh had taken Davey until they came back from the service.

  There was only one coffin for mother and child, and flowers around the simple wooden box were from all the villagers. The family had asked them to pick wild flowers – cornflowers. Two horses pulled the hearse through the streets, and the grieving family walked slowly behind up to the church. It was a good turnout, everyone spruced up and wearing their Sunday best. Funerals usually took place on Sundays, as the mines were closed and no one lost a shift.

  Mary Evelyne Jones and her son were buried where they could always see the mountain.

  Evelyne had been a calming influence throughout. A rock, as they all said, astounding for one so young. There was quite simply no one else to run the house. No time even to grieve, and she wept into her pillow at night, quietly so as not to wake anyone. Evelyne would never forget her father’s face as he watched the cornflower-strewn coffin lowered into the ground. He had been so silent, so isolated that no one dared interrupt his solitude. But there at the graveside he had roared out his grief, like a wild animal. The cry echoed round the mountain and chilled those standing at the graveside. Evelyne had held on to his hand, held it so tightly her nails cut into his palm.

  That night his sons had taken him down to the pub and they had all got so drunk that Evelyne had to put each one to bed. Her father’s head lolled, his eyes unfocused, as she helped him to undress. Sadly, the drunkenness persisted. Mike and Will would come straight home as usual from the mines, but Hugh would remain in the pub until closing time. Dicken waited to help him home, help put him to bed. No one tried to stop him: it was as if they knew he was trying to ease the pain, the agonizing pain of life without his darling Mary.

  Chapter 3

  Six months passed and Evelyne did not return to school. There was always so much to do at home. Little Davey was dependent on Evelyne and the menfolk had to be cooked, washed and cared for. Lizzie-Ann had married Will and moved in until they could afford a place of their own. Evelyne put away her school books; her Christina Rossetti days were over.

  Doris Evans had never been one to poke her nose into anyone’s business. She had once, she’d gone to see Mrs Reece Mogg, wanting their youngest son to stay on at school. She’d been shown the door so fast, so the story went, she’d left her brown lace-up shoes behind. However, she had thought about it for a good few weeks, and she had decided she would try one more time, this time with Evelyne Jones.

  Doris dressed very carefully, in her brown hat, her brown skirt, and matching coat, set off by a nice cream blouse. She also put on her coral crêpe blouse, but felt the cream more suitable.

  Doris stood on the Jones’ front door step, thought it looked quite clean considering. She lifted the brass knocker, thinking it could do with a good polish, and tapped lightly, then rapped louder. She could feel inquisitive eyes boring into her back, net curtains flicked aside across the street. Her mouth went dry, her carefully rehearsed speech of introduction slipped away from her. She was about to leave when the front door was inched open.

  ‘Evelyne, is that you? It’s Mrs Evans, from the school.’

  Evelyne had little Davey balanced on her hip, a duster in one hand, and her face was streaked with dust. Doris flushed a bright pink.

  ‘Do you think I could step inside for a minute? If it’s not convenient I can come back.’

  The door edged open wider, and Evelyne coughed as she swallowed backwards. Her eyes watered, and Doris had to pat her on the back.

  ‘Would you mind coming into the kitchen, Mrs Evans, only I was just feeding little Davey?’

  Doris followed her along the corridor. The smell of stale beer, cigarettes and cabbage made her nose wrinkle with distaste. Davey gurgled and threw a soggy, nasty-looking crust of bread at Doris’ head. A lot had changed since Mary’s death, and gossip about the Jones family was rife. Mike, the youngest boy, had run off to join the army, and Will, so rumour had it, had got Lizzie-Ann in the family way so they’d had to marry. The house was bursting at the seams.

  ‘Er, well, Evelyne, you certainly seem to have your hands full. Should I come back another day?’

  With her free hand, Evelyne lifted the kettle and put in on the fire.

  ‘Will you have a cup of tea, Mrs Evans?’

  Side-stepping a teddy bear, Doris picked it up and turned to put it on the dirty table, cluttered with crockery.

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to put you out.’

  Evelyne smiled and went to sit Davey on a chair, looked around the room, then at Doris.

  ‘Would you mind just holding him while I m
ake the tea?’

  Poor Doris could hardly stand the smell of the child, and his nappy was sopping wet, but she held on to him and perched on the edge of a chair. It was a mistake, she knew it, and the girl looked terrible. She’d aged years in a matter of months, if that was possible. Her once clean, shining hair was dull and uncombed, and her face was so pale she looked ill. Evelyne was all thumbs, dropping the tea caddy; and she was so aware of the filthy state the kitchen was in that she tried to clear everything into the big stone sink.

  ‘I won’t bother with tea, Evelyne, but don’t you think he should have a clean nappy on?’

  Evelyne flushed and grabbed Davey, so embarrassed she was near tears. Always a sensitive woman, Doris was just as embarrassed and made things worse by sitting awkwardly, perched like a brown crow.

  Evelyne laid Davey over her knee and removed the dirty nappy, dropping it in a bucket. He gurgled and laughed, drooling as she washed his bottom. And all the while Doris coughed dry little coughs, and kept opening and shutting her mouth. Her hand was sticky and she took a small lace handkerchief from her handbag.

  ‘My Mama died, and I . . . well, I’ve been meaning to come and see you.’

  Doris looked at her as she sat with her feet neatly crossed, her knees red and her bare feet so filthy Doris wondered when the girl had last bathed.

  ‘Yes, I know. Did you get my note?’

  ‘I should have written, I’m sorry, Mrs Evans.’

  Doris stood up and straightened her hat. ‘It’s about your writing that I’ve come, Evie . . . Evelyne. Your last composition was good, more than good, I still read it. And the reason I’m here is to see if it would be possible for you to return to school.’

  Evelyne tugged at a loose strand of hair. ‘I can’t do that, I’ve no time to come to school.’

  ‘But you are more than good, child, it’s a sin not to finish your education.’

  At that moment Davey put a piece of coal in his mouth, sucking it. Evelyne bent down and took it from him, threw it on the fire and picked him up. She buried her face in the small boy’s neck and to Doris’ consternation her thin shoulders began to shake. Doris realized she was crying.

  Although never one to show her feelings, Doris suddenly rose to her feet and wrapped her bony arms around Evelyne. Doris smelt of mothballs and her pale eyes were wet with tears.

  ‘I understand, I understand, you have the boy to care for, and the menfolk, but . . . here, don’t cry, child, here . . .’

  She handed Evelyne her tiny handkerchief, and didn’t even mind when Evelyne blew her nose on it. She poured the tea and handed it to Evelyne, patted her head, and it all came out in a gush.

  ‘I know times are hard, but what I’ve been thinking is that if you have a few hours of an evening, when the little boy is sleeping, then you could come over to my house. It’s quiet, and all my books are there, and if you would like . . . well, what I’m saying is that I would be prepared to give you private tuition, I don’t want paying for it, but I would like it if you could manage just a few hours.’

  She felt her hand gripped tightly, and the girl kissed it hard.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Evans, I would like that so much.’

  ‘Well, then it’s settled, whenever you say – when it’s convenient to you.’

  With little Davey in her arms, Evelyne walked Doris to the door. Doris was excited, she chucked the baby under his chin and laughed when he tried to bite her, a strange, high-pitched squeak. Then she was gone.

  Evelyne had to shake her father awake, Dicken was waiting to go on shift.

  ‘Da, Mrs Evans came by today and said I could have private lessons.’

  Hugh swayed and stumbled as she helped him dress. He hadn’t even bathed the night before, he had got so drunk coming back from work.

  ‘You do as you wish, Evie . . . where’s Dicken? Dicken?’

  Hugh left the house with his eldest son. Evelyne went back and began to clear up the kitchen, the broken beer bottles. The new lodger arrived back from his night shift, looked in for only a moment, then went into Dicken’s bed in what used to be Davey’s room, the little lad now sleeping with Evelyne. They’d had to take a lodger as lately the household was always short of money – the tin on the mantel always empty. Evelyne owed money at the baker’s, the pie shop, the hardware store. Things had most certainly changed. The Jones family had never been in debt before. With them being such a big family, and mostly men, there had always been wages coming in.

  Hugh still worked the mines along with Dicken and Will, but Will needed his wages for Lizzie-Ann, and they were saving as best they could. But Hugh was getting a bad reputation as a drunkard. Poor Dicken not only did his own job of shovelling, but he hacked the coal face too, his father’s job. Hugh was perpetually drunk, but Dicken never confronted him – he worked without a word of complaint. He went to the pub with his father, watched him waste the hard-earned money that rightly belonged to Dicken, but he could say nothing. The Old Lion was losing his roar, his shoulders were bent and his face was always filthy. At night he staggered home, leaning on his eldest son for support.

  Dicken was worn to a frazzle, and he knew the managers were beginning to talk. The ‘measurers’ had been round – the men who counted the coal trams and picked over the contents to see if there were any stones or clay clods making up extra weight. The miners were paid by the tram-load so if the loads were down so were the wages. The wage for boys under fifteen was one shilling and sixpence a day, and over fifteen it climbed up by a few pennies a day. A twenty-one-year-old boy, even when married like Will, still only received three shillings a day.

  The miners’ wages were scaled according to the job. There were truck-weighers, coal tram-weighers, engineers, stokers, tenders, strikers, lampmen, cogmen, banksmiths, rubbish-tippers, greasers, screeners, trimmers, labourers, small-coal pickers, doorboys, hitchers, hauliers, firemen . . . but the élite, who worked the big veins of the mines, were the colliers, the men who hacked and chipped away at the coal. They worked in teams of two, and were completely dependent on each other. One hacked and chipped, one shovelled and filled the trams behind them, as they burrowed like moles deeper and deeper into the face. If the shoveller sat down, too lazy or too tired, then the chipper would have to lay off too. Dicken had been working for both himself and his Da. He knew it would be found out and could not continue. That night, as they came up from the cradle, the manager called them over. They went into the office and stood, caps in hand, like guilty schoolboys. The manager, Benjamin Howells, was sorry – he didn’t like doing what he was going to do. He had known Hugh Jones since he was a boy, he’d been at Dicken’s christening in the chapel.

  Ben spoke in Welsh – maybe he thought it would soften the blow – but it hammered down anyway. Hugh was given his employment cards and Dicken, of course, stood by his father and wanted his. Ben tried to reason with him, but Dicken was adamant so Ben handed them their cards and the week’s wages kept in hand, and the two men walked out. Ben sighed. What a waste to see a man like Hugh go to pieces; it was tragic. And the worst of it was, it looked like he was dragging that fine boy down with him.

  Dicken and his Da were both getting drunk, drowning their sorrows. They called for drinks all round, banging on the bar for their pints. Dicken rose to his feet, weaving, and began to sing. He had a clear, high tenor, and stood with legs apart, eyes closed, while his beautiful voice soared.

  Mike pushed open the bar door and stood framed in the doorway, looked first at his brother then his father. His boots were so highly polished you could see your face in them. He swung his haversack down and Dicken lurched into his arms.

  ‘Mike, is it you, lad? Mike . . . Da, will you look who’s back, an’ all togged out in his fine uniform.’

  Hugh fell off his stool and climbed up, gripping the edge of the bar for support.

  ‘A drink, get a drink for my lad, the soldier boy.’

  Mike could smell Hugh’s breath – he reeked and his clothes were stained and filthy.
He shook his head and looked at Dicken.

  ‘Mun, he’s drunk out of his mind.’

  Mike soon discovered that since his Ma’s death their father had rarely been sober.

  Evelyne checked the stew and left the pan half on the stove. She knew they would be late again. She had hoped to go and see Doris, but she had not had even a minute to herself for weeks. Lizzie-Ann was no help in the house; if there was work to do she swooned.

  ‘Oh God, I can’t, Evie, not in my condition. A woman in my condition should not lift nothing heavy, I don’t want to have a baby like little Davey, now do I?’

  While poor Evelyne washed and scrubbed, Lizzie-Ann sat with her feet up. It was true she made Evelyne laugh, especially when she put flour over her face and blacked her eyelids and lips like Theda Bara. She could do endless movie-star impersonations.

  ‘You know, soon as I’ve had this baby, I’m going to London,’ she would say.

  The lodger, a coloured gentleman, fascinated Lizzie-Ann. She would ask him to turn his palms over and then shriek with delight at the pinkness of them. Josh Walker was a kind-hearted man whose family lived in Leeds, like many coloureds who had arrived in the village. There was hardly a house left in the village without a lodger of some kind, Italian, Indian, black . . . well, there was one house. Doris Evans kept her four rooms to herself. The war, everyone said, was taking their men and replacing them with outsiders.

  That night Dicken and Mike carried their Da home between them. Evelyne was so happy to see her brother that she forgot about going to see Doris. Somehow she made the stew go round, pushed her worries away. Tomorrow was another day and she’d manage to get a little meat from the butcher.

  ‘Evie, want to walk awhile with me?’

  Mike smiled, slipping their mother’s old shawl around his sister’s shoulders.

  ‘I’ll be gone by morning, going to France. I’ll write to you, and send you pretty things . . . oh, Evie, Evie, come here.’