The Giver of Stars

by Jojo Moyes

  Dear Neighbor

  It has come to our attention that the owners of Hoffman are seeking to create new mines in your neighborhood. This would involve the removal of hundreds of acres of timber, the blasting of new pits and, in many cases, the loss of homes and livelihoods.

  I write to you in confidence, as the mines are known to employ devious and harsh individuals in the interests of getting their way, but I believe that it is both illegal and immoral for them to do what they plan, that it would be the cause of abject misery and destitution.

  To that end, according to law books we have consulted, there appears to be a precedent to stop such wholesale rape of our landscape, and protect our homes, and I urge you to read this extract provided below, or, if you have the resources, to consult the legal representative at Baileyville’s court offices in order to put such obstructions in place as may be required to prevent this destruction. In the meantime do not sign any BROAD FORM DEEDS for these, despite the money and assurances offered, will give the mine-owners the right to mine under your very house.

  If help is needed with the reading of such documents, the packhorse librarians may be happy to assist, and will, of course, do so with discretion.

  In confidence,

  A friend

  She finished, folded them neatly, and placed one in each of the saddlebags, except Alice’s. She would deliver the extra one herself. No point making things more complicated for the girl than they already were.

  * * *

  • • •

  The boy had finally stopped screaming, his voice now emerging as a series of barely suppressed whimpers, as if he had remembered himself to be among men. His clothes and skin were equally black from where the coal had almost buried him, only the whites of his eyes visible to betray his shock and pain. Sven watched as the stretcher-bearers lifted him carefully, their job made harder by the low pitch of the roof, and, stooping, began to shuffle out, shouting instructions at each other as they went. Sven leaned back against the rough wall to let them pass, then turned his light on those miners who were setting up props where the roof had fallen, cursing as they struggled to wedge the heavy timbers into place.

  This was low-vein coal, the chambers of the mines so shallow in places that men were barely able to rise onto their knees. It was the worst kind of mining; Sven had friends who were crippled by the time they were thirty, reliant on sticks just to stand straight. He hated these rabbit warrens, where your mind would play tricks in the near dark to tell you the damp, black expanse above your head was even now closing in on you. He had seen too many sudden roof falls, and only a pair of boots left visible to judge where the body might be.

  “Boss, you might want to take a look through here.”

  Sven looked round—itself a tricky maneuver—and followed Jim McNeil’s beckoning glove. The underground chambers were connected, rather than reached through new shafts from the outside—not uncommon in a mine where the owner championed profit over safety. He made his way awkwardly along the passage to the next chamber and adjusted his helmet light. Some eight props stood in a shallow opening, each buckling visibly under the weight of the roof above it. He moved his head slowly, scanning the empty space, the black surface glittering around him as it was met by the carbide lamplight.

  “Can you see how many they took out?”

  “Looks like about half remaining.”

  Sven cursed. “Don’t go any farther in,” he said, and, twisting, turned to the men behind him. “No man is to go into Number Two. You hear me?”

  “You tell Van Cleve that,” said a voice behind him. “You got to cross Number Two to get to Number Eight.”

  “Then nobody is to go into Number Eight. Not till everything’s shored up right.”

  “He ain’t going to hear that.”

  “Oh, he’ll hear it.”

  The air was thick with dust, and he spat behind him, his lower back already aching. He turned to the miners. “We need at least ten more props in Seven before anyone goes back in. And get your fire boss to check for methane before anyone starts work again.”

  There was a murmur of agreement—Gustavsson being one of the few authority figures a miner could trust to be on his side—and Sven motioned his team into the haulage-way and then outside, already grateful for the prospect of sunlight.

  * * *

  • • •

  So what’s the damage, Gustavsson?”

  Sven stood in Van Cleve’s office, his nostrils still filled with the smell of sulfur, his boots leaving a fine dusty outline on the thick red carpet, waiting for Van Cleve in his pale suit to look up from his paperwork. Across the room he could see young Bennett glance up from behind his desk, his blue-cotton shirtsleeves marked with a neat crease. The younger man never looked quite comfortable at the mine. He rarely stepped out of the administrative block, as if the dirt and unpredictable nature of it were anathema to him.

  “Well, we got the boy out, though it was a close thing. His hip’s pretty bust.”

  “That’s excellent news. I’m much obliged to you all.”

  “I’ve had him taken to the company doctor.”

  “Yes. Yes. Very good.”

  Van Cleve appeared to believe that was the end of the conversation. He flashed a smile at Sven, holding it a moment too long, as if to question why he was still standing there—then shuffled his papers emphatically.

  Sven waited a beat. “You might want to know what caused the roof fall.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.”

  “Looks like props holding up the roof have been moved from the mined-out area in Number Two to support the new chamber in Seven. It destabilized the whole area.”

  Van Cleve’s expression, when he finally looked up again, betrayed exactly the manufactured surprise Sven had known it would. “Well, now. The men should not be reusing props. We have told them as much many a time. Haven’t we, Bennett?”

  Bennett, behind his desk, looked down, too cowardly even to tell a straight lie. Sven swallowed the words he wanted to say, and considered those that followed carefully. “Sir, I should also point out that the amount of coal dust on the ground is a hazard in every one of your mines. You need more non-combustible rock atop it. And better ventilation, if you want to avoid more incidents.”

  Van Cleve scribbled something on a piece of paper. He no longer appeared to be listening.

  “Mr. Van Cleve, of all the mines our safety crew serves, I have to inform you that Hoffman’s conditions are by some distance the least . . . satisfactory.”

  “Yes, yes. I have told the men as such. Goodness knows why they won’t just get on and rectify matters. But let’s not make too big of a deal of it, Gustavsson. It’s a temporary oversight. Bennett will get the foreman up and we’ll—uh—we’ll sort it out. Won’t you, Bennett?”

  Sven might reasonably have pointed out that Van Cleve had said exactly this the last time the sirens had gone off some eighteen days previously because of an explosion in the entrance of Number Nine, caused by a young breaker who hadn’t known not to go in with an open light. The boy had been lucky to escape with superficial burns. But workers came cheap, after all.

  “Anyway, all’s well, thank the Lord.” Van Cleve lifted himself with a grunt from his chair and walked around his large mahogany desk toward the door, signifying that the meeting was over. “Thank you and your men for your service, as ever. Worth every cent our mine pays toward your team.”

  Sven didn’t move.

  Van Cleve opened the door. A long, painful moment passed.

  Sven faced him. “Mr. Van Cleve. You know I’m not a political man. But you must understand that it’s conditions like these here that give root to those agitating for union membership.”

  Van Cleve’s face darkened. “I hope you’re not suggesting—”

  Sven lifted his palms. “I have no affiliation. I just
want your workers to be safe. But I have to say it would be a shame if this mine were considered too dangerous for my men to come here. I’m sure that would not go down well in the locality.”

  The smile, half-hearted as it was, had now vanished completely. “Well, I’m sure I thank you for your advice, Gustavsson. And as I said, I will get my men to attend to it. Now, if you don’t mind, I have pressing matters to attend to. The foreman will fetch you and your crew any water you might need.”

  Van Cleve continued to hold the door. Sven nodded—then as he passed, thrust out a blackened hand so that the older man, after a moment’s hesitation, was forced to take it. After clasping it firmly enough to be sure he would have left some kind of imprint at least, Sven released it and walked away down the corridor.

  * * *

  • • •

  With the first frost in Baileyville came hog-slaughtering time. The mere words made Alice, who couldn’t tread on a bug, feel a little faint, especially when Beth described, with relish, what happened in her own home each year: the stunning of the squealing pig, the slitting of its throat as the boys sat hard on it, its legs pumping furiously, the hot dark blood pouring out onto the scraping board. She mimed the men tipping scalding water over it, attacking the bristles with flat blades, reducing the animal to flesh and gristle and bone.

  “My aunt Lina will be waiting there with her apron open, ready to catch the head. She makes the best souse—that’s from the tongue, ears and feet—this side of the Cumberland Gap. But my favorite part of the whole day, since I was small, is when Daddy tips all the innards into a tub and we get to choose the best bit to roast. I’d elbow my brothers in the eye to get to that old liver. Put it on a stick and roast it in the fire. Oh, boy, nothing like it. Fresh roasted hog liver. Mmm-mm.”

  She laughed as Alice covered her mouth and shook her head mutely.

  But, like Beth, the town seemed to greet the prospect with an almost unseemly relish, and everywhere they went the librarians were offered a lick of salt bacon or—on one occasion—hog brains scrambled with egg, a mountain delicacy. Alice’s stomach still turned at the thought of that.

  But it wasn’t just the hog-slaughtering that was causing a frisson of anticipation to run through the town: Tex Lafayette was coming. Posters of the white-clad cowboy clutching his bullwhip were all over town, tacked hastily onto posts, and scrutinized by small boys and lovelorn women alike. At every other settlement the name of the Singing Cowboy was spoken like a talisman, followed by—Is it true? Are you going?

  Demand was so great that he was no longer booked to appear in the theater, as originally planned, but would perform in the town square, where a stage was already being constructed from old pallets and planks, and for days beforehand whooping boys would run across it, imitating playing a banjo, ducking their heads to avoid the flat hands of the irritated workmen as they passed.

  “Can we finish early tonight? Not like anyone’s going to be reading. Everyone for ten miles yonder’s already headed to the square,” said Beth, as she pulled her last book from her saddlebag. “Shoot. Look at what those Mackenzie boys have done to poor old Treasure Island.” She stooped to pick up the scattered pages from the floor, cursing.

  “Don’t see why not,” said Margery. “Sophia has it all under control, and it’s dark already anyhow.”

  “Who is Tex Lafayette?” said Alice.

  The four women turned and stared at her. “Who is Tex Lafayette?”

  “Haven’t you seen Green Grows My Mountain? Or Corral My Heart?”

  “Oh, I love Corral My Heart. That song near the end just about broke me,” said Izzy, and let out a huge, happy sigh.

  You didn’t have to trap me—

  For I’m your willing prisoner

  —broke in Sophia.

  You didn’t need a rope to corral my heart . . .

  they sang in unison, each lost in a reverie.

  Alice looked blank.

  “You don’t go to the picture house?” said Izzy. “Tex Lafayette has been in everything.”

  “He can bullwhip a lit cigarette out of a man’s mouth and not leave a scratch on him.”

  “He is a grade-A dreamboat.”

  “I’m too tired to go out most evenings. Bennett goes sometimes.”

  In truth, Alice would have found it too strange to be beside her husband in the dark now. She suspected he felt the same way. For weeks they had taken care that their lives crossed as little as possible. She was gone long before breakfast, and he was often out for dinner, either on work errands for Mr. Van Cleve or playing baseball with his friends. He spent most nights on the daybed in their dressing room, so that even the shape of him had become unfamiliar to her. If Mr. Van Cleve thought there was anything odd about their behavior, he didn’t say: he spent most of his evenings late at the mine, and seemed largely preoccupied with whatever was going on there. Alice now hated that house with a passion, its gloom, its stifling history. She was so grateful not to have to spend her evenings stuck in the dark little parlor with the two of them that she didn’t care to question any of it.

  “You’re coming to Tex Lafayette, right?” Beth brushed her hair, and straightened her blouse in the mirror. Apparently she had a thing for a boy from the gas station but had shown him her affection by punching him twice on the arm, hard, and was now at a loss to work out what to do next.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I don’t really know anything about him.”

  “All work and no play, Alice. C’mon. The whole town is going. Izzy’s going to meet us outside the store and her mama has given her a whole dollar for cotton candy. It’s only fifty cents if you want a seat. Or you can stand back and watch for free. That’s what we’re doing.”

  “I don’t know. Bennett’s working late over at Hoffman. I should probably just go home.”

  Sophia and Izzy started to sing again, Izzy blushing, as she always did when she found herself singing to an audience.

  Your smile’s a rope around me

  Has been since you found me

  You didn’t need to chase me to corral my heart . . .

  Margery took the small mirror from Beth and checked her face for smudges, rubbing at her cheekbone with a moistened handkerchief until she was satisfied. “Well, Sven and I are going to be over by the Nice ’N’ Quick. He’s reserved us an upstairs table so we can get a good view. You’d be welcome to join us.”

  “I have things to do here,” said Alice. “But thank you. I may join you later.” She said it to mollify them and they knew it. Secretly she wanted just to sit in peace in the little library. She liked to be on her own there in the evenings, to read by herself, in the dim light of the oil lamp, escaping to the tropical white of Robinson Crusoe’s island, or the fusty corridors of Mr. Chips’s Brookfield School. If Sophia came while she was still there she tended to let Alice alone, interrupting only to ask if Alice might place her finger on this piece of fabric while she put in a couple of stitches, or whether she thought this repaired book cover looked acceptable. Sophia was not a woman who required an audience, but seemed to feel easier in company, so although they said little to each other, the arrangement had suited both of them for the past few weeks.

  “Okay. We’ll see you later, then!”

  With a cheery wave, the two women clumped across the boards and out down the steps, still in their breeches and boots. As the door opened, a swell of anticipatory noise carried into the little room. The square was full already, a local group of musicians fiddling to keep the waiting crowds happy, the air thick with laughter and catcalling.

  “You not going, Sophia?” said Alice.

  “I’ll have a listen out the back later on,” said Sophia. “Wind’s carrying this way.” She threaded a needle, lifted another damaged book, and added quietly, “I’m not crazy about places where there are crowds.”

  * * *

 
• • •

  Perhaps as a kind of concession, Sophia propped the back door open with a book and allowed the sound of the fiddle to creep in, her foot finding it impossible not to tap along occasionally. Alice sat on the chair in the corner, her writing paper on her lap, trying to compose a letter to Gideon, but her pen kept stilling in her hand. She had no idea what to tell him. Everyone in England believed she was enjoying an exciting cosmopolitan life in an America full of huge cars and high times. She didn’t know how to convey to her brother the truth of her situation.

  Behind her, Sophia, who seemed to know the tunes to everything, hummed along with the fiddle, sometimes allowing her voice to act as a descant, sometimes adding a few lyrics. Her voice was soft and velvety and soothing. Alice put down her pen and thought a little wistfully of how nice it would be to be out there with her husband of old, the one who had taken her in his arms and whispered lovely things in her ears and whose eyes had promised a future full of laughter and romance, instead of the one she caught looking at her occasionally with bemusement, as if he couldn’t work out how she had got there.

  “Good evening, ladies.” The door closed gently behind Fred Guisler. He was wearing a neatly pressed blue shirt and suit trousers, and removed his hat at the sight of them. Alice startled slightly at the unexpected sight of him without his habitual checked shirt and overalls. “Saw the light was on, but I have to say I didn’t expect to find you in here this evening. Not with our local entertainment and all.”

  “Oh, I’m not really a fan,” said Alice, who folded away her writing pad.

  “You can’t be persuaded? Even if you don’t enjoy cowboy tricks, Tex Lafayette has a heck of a voice. And it’s a beautiful evening out there. Too beautiful to spend in here.”

  “That’s very kind but I’m just fine here, thank you, Mr. Guisler.”