by Mary Easson
Copyright Mary Easson©2021
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All characters are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
First published in 2021 by the author
Cockleroy Books
ISBN 978-1-8383530-1-8
Typesetting and cover design by Raspberry Creative Type
Contents
Acknowledgements
List of Principal Characters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my family for their love and support. Thanks to my sister for reading the original transcript back in 2017 and for encouraging me to self-publish.
My grateful thanks to Kenneth for his assistance with proofreading and editing. However, any mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Thank you to the staff of the West Lothian Local History Library and the National Library of Scotland for their role in making the archive of the written word accessible to the public. Thank you to the historians of Scotland who, by their hard work and dedication, keep Scotland’s story alive.
Thanks to everyone who read Black Rigg and who wanted to find out more. I hope you enjoy this story.
Thank you to the mining communities of Scotland whose story this is, and especially to my grandparents whose experiences are woven into the fabric of this book and make it real.
This book is dedicated to Mum and Granny, strong women both, each in their own way.
“O, wert thou in the cold blast
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee,
And did Misfortune’s bitter storm
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should by my bosom
To share it a’, to share it a’. “
Robert Burns 1759-1796
List of Principal Characters
Rashiepark Estate
David Melville – Laird of Rashiepark, lives at Parkgate House with his extended family
Catherine Melville – wife of David and daughter of Charles Imrie, coalmaster
Isabelle Melville – elder sister of David
Phee (Euphemia) Melville – younger sister of David and friend of Elizabeth and Rose
Roger Stone – estate factor
Blackrigg and beyond
Murdo Maclean – farmer at Whinbank, stalwart of the Blackrigg community
Donald Maclean – nephew of Murdo
Rev Richard Fraser – minister at Blackrigg Kirk
Elizabeth Fraser – younger sister of Richard, lives at the manse
Dr Matheson – local doctor, assisted by Dr Lindsay
Rose Matheson – daughter of Dr Matheson, studying medicine in Edinburgh
Ernest Black – schoolmaster at Blackrigg Public School
Charles Imrie – widower and father of Catherine; coalmaster and owner of The Coal Company
Andrew Brownlee – son of the pit manager
Neil Tennant – blacksmith who left the village in 1910
Stoneyrigg
Alex Birse – coal miner, skilled face worker
Mary Birse – known as Highland Mary, wife of Alex and stalwart of the Stoneyrigg community
Davy Birse – coal miner, eldest adopted son of Alex and Mary
John Birse – colliery labourer, twin brother of Jim, also adopted by Alex and Mary
Ellen Broadley – wife of coalminer, Jimmy and mother of Eddie, Bert and Geordie
Peggy Duncan – widow of Robert, mother of Maggie, Lizzie, Rob and Sandy
Rob Duncan – coal face worker, left school after the death of his father in a pit accident in 1910
Sandy Duncan – brother of Rob, works in the pit office
Tom Graham – bricklayer, widower, father of five daughters, husband of second wife, Jean
Minn Graham – fourth daughter of Tom, a farm worker at Netherside Farm, later at Redburn
Sarah Graham – youngest daughter of Tom and domestic servant at the manse
Steenie Simpson – union official of the Mineworkers Federation, parish councillor
Chapter 1
Spring 1918
John
I am here.
Still.
Try as I might I cannot make sense of it.
And you are all here with me as much as you ever were. Though the night is dark as pitch I can see the shapes of your bodies all lying in rows, warm under your blankets.
Safe and warm.
Safe and warm and clean.
There’s water by each bedside and, later, food might come.
Did we ever ask for more than this?
But oh, the price we paid for it.
What a cost and nobody but us will ever know how much.
Tears seep from my eyes till they sting, hot and grit-filled. Closing them makes it worse. Agony. But I must shut out the blackness. I need to escape into sleep. The sound of your breathing subsides at last. I feel a calmness descend from above like a cool, linen shroud and I drift.
Day breaks, the gift of another morning that has no need of explanation. Somewhere else the sun is already bright and, here, a grey glimmer is stealing along the valley from the east, alighting on rain-soaked window panes, touching the room in black shadow and shades of grey. No colour yet but it may return as in the past though I’m not counting on it. I’ve lost the certainty I had before, that unquestioning trust in the mundane, the ordinary routine of life that makes it fathomable. Life used to have an order. I could count on one thing following another, a kind of cause and effect I thought the world was built on and took for granted.
I see a chessboard being taken down from the shelf by one of my brothers. It might be Jim, my twin. The fire is flickering in the hearth and the light plays gently on my face. It’s warm and comforting, like a cup of hot milk on a frosty morning before the walk to school and a day of humiliation at the hand of the teacher. He’s spreading the board out on a table that’s been scrubbed clean with disinfectant.
The pattern of squares has an order, 8 by 8; no two squares of the same colour touch except at the corners, which isn’t touching in the true sense of the word. Each square is separate from the others, clearly defined, their difference expressed in colour. Black and white.
He, the one I take for Jim, empties a tin box of its contents: pieces of painted wood, chipped and worn, round and flat, easy to push around. Thirty-two men. He grabs the black ones knowing they’re the ones I like and leaves me with the others. He’s grinning and sniggering, intent on getting one over on me. It’s always been like that. I feel the menace all around me. Fear begins to rise from the pit of my stomach. I want to stand up but my legs are weak. I want to lea
ve but he’s drawn me into his trap and I’m stuck fast.
The draughts are lined up, two rows of men like armies facing each other across the battlefield of squares. Then I realise what’s about to happen and it’s already too late to save myself because I cannot run away. I’m pinned down unable to move.
The fire is blazing now, flames leap up from hot, white coals. My throat is parched, it feels like it’s caught fire and I cannot swallow as panic engulfs me. The coals hiss and spit. There’s a loud bang as the board flies up in the air and all the men with it, a fountain of men from each side, slowly rising and falling through the air, landing everywhere like clods of earth on muddy ground. In the midst of the shrieks and the shouting, he’s laughing. A great big belly laugh. I see his face, his dirty yellow teeth, and it’s not Jim after all. It’s another one. But he isn’t really my brother so what did I expect?
Elizabeth
Another winter over though it hardly feels so. These four years past have seemed endless, when the world has teetered on the edge of destruction and all that we know to be true and hold dear has been in doubt. How have we endured? I watch Sarah busy at her work as I sip my tea and take succour from her industry and quiet purpose. The kitchen is warm but it is quite dark even on a sunny morning. It is on the north side of the house and gives me a view of my garden: a long rig of gently sloping land that ends with a boundary wall of sandstone that is golden when the sun shines. During the winter months that wall brings welcome colour to cold Blackrigg.
The springtime has a foothold now. I love to see the snowdrops when they first appear. Even when the frost sets hard their delicate flower persists. They last longer here than in other places but this is not like anywhere else. The green shoots of daffodil have pushed through the heavy soil beneath the shrubs that are still bare, showing little sign of the foliage that will clothe them during the summer. The buds are only just beginning to swell. I have to remind myself that the garden will be a riot of colour and fruitfulness eventually. It is astonishing how a scene of desolation wrought by winter winds and icy rain can be transformed by the heat and light of the sun, and water and nutrient from the soil. Tiny seeds and roots hidden in the ground, quite forgotten about, will appear as if from nowhere to gladden the eye. It is the miracle of Nature and, God knows, we need a miracle right now. I know we must be patient, wait for Nature to take her course, and all will be well again with the world.
The sound of a small bell brings me back from faraway. It is benign at first, softly tinkling, faintly pleading then insistent, almost violent. It is ready to fall off its perch when I catch the look on Sarah’s face as she steps backwards into the doorway from her chores at the scullery sink, wondering if I’m going to see to it as I usually do.
‘Would you mind?’ I ask. ‘The minister will be wanting his tea.’
The girl wipes her hands on her apron, flattens out the wrinkles as best she can and tucks away a stray lock of fair hair, hoping she looks respectable enough for the master, before hurrying off to the study. I know she’ll be wondering why I am sitting still. She’ll be asking herself, what have they been arguing about this time? It’s a fine state of affairs when a brother and sister cannot live under the same roof without them going hammer and tongs about something every other day, unable to hide their differences from the servant. She must wonder why I find fault with so much of what he says or does. I must seem a heartless, ungrateful wretch to a girl from the Rows where people live cheek-by-jowl, sometimes ten or more to a room, whilst I live here in the manse in relative luxury – him a well-respected member of the community, with a fine house to prove it.
‘It’s as ye predicted, Miss Fraser,’ she says brightly when she returns, advancing towards the kettle. ‘Mr Fraser’s needin’ his tea.’
I reach for my hat and coat, kept on the hook behind the door. ‘If you could see to it, Sarah, thank you.’
‘Yes, Miss,’ she replies, always happy to help. ‘If he asks...?’ She hesitates, not wanting to be forward though she has worked for me these four years past.
‘Just tell him I had to go out.’ I pick up a shopping basket as proof. ‘I’ll be dropping in on… Dr Matheson… so may be some time.’
I leave by the back door to avoid meeting my brother in the hall at the front of the house. Surely this is a state of affairs that cannot continue for much longer.
As soon as I shut the garden gate behind me I feel better. The narrow lane that leads to Main Street is obscured from the manse by a hedge and a notion close to subterfuge takes over, making me smile at the silliness of it. Not sure where I’m headed, I simply have to go somewhere, anywhere, out of the glare of Richard’s disapproval.
Sarah may well wonder what latest dispute has come between me and my only living relative but, the truth is, the present situation has had a long gestation, some eight long years in the making. I fear I have become a shadow of the young and earnest girl I was when I first came to live with Richard in Blackrigg. I was filled with optimism back then, and the promise that God had a plan for me to be happy and fulfilled. It was what I was brought up to believe.
Inside the four walls of the manse nowadays, it is a constant struggle to retain any hint of myself.
Sometimes I simply walk away as I do now. Mostly, it is akin to a march and before I know it, I am taking the view from The Law or I am almost at Parkgate House or the bridge on the station road with a shopping basket and no money or food coupons to legitimise a visit to the shops for provisions. I stare at the basket in my hand and manage to stifle a giggle just in time: two parishioners, Mrs Gow and the Widow MacAuley are watching me from the other side of the street. I lift my basket in their direction and give a loud, ‘Good morning’, realising that I must seem a little too enthusiastic. These women have the eyes of hawks on the hunt – I’m sure they can read even my darkest thoughts from a mile away – and I do not care to hear their tittle-tattle today. I hurry on past the doors of the Cooperative Store leaving them to ponder the mystery of the minister’s sister and the unused shopping basket. They see me bump into the righteous Miss Silver – on her way to dust the church pews no doubt – and they surely notice how I rush on nervously avoiding any chance of conversation with the good woman. They are still watching as I pass Smithy Cottage – their eyes are boring into the back of my head – so I hold my head up high, not too high, just enough to give the impression that the Tennant family are no longer of interest to me in the slightest.
Lord save us from the godly and the gossips!
I fix my gaze on the Stoneyrigg Rows and decide that is where I will go rather than taking the hill road which would take me past the forge and the glare of the blacksmith’s wife. Mrs Tennant finds it difficult enough to acknowledge me when others are present though she makes an effort to be courteous for the sake of appearances. On an occasion such as this when I am alone, and vulnerable, she would not miss the opportunity to show her true feelings towards me by turning her back. To be ignored is surely the cruellest punishment of all! Her assessment of my character is so unfair! Though I have tried hard to put my position to her, it has been clear for a long time that her mind is made up against me.
I pass the Craigpark steading and the old ruined inn, leaving the village behind to be confronted by the stark reality of industrial life. The Stoneyrigg Rows are long and straight, imposed on the rural scene by the Coal Company with no thought given to the lie of the land, the curve of the hill or the legacy in the landscape of winding roadways and cosy cottages, productive farms and well-tended fields established by previous generations. There are no frills or fripperies here in the Rows, just grim shelters where the basic needs of the labouring classes are met, though even that is debatable. Thankfully, the ashpits and dry closets are located at the furthest extremity, downwind beside the wash house and the drying green. Nature is merciful today as the stench of humanity, some several hundred souls, dissipates on a stiff breeze.
; A small group of infants appears as if from nowhere. They know me since I often visit to assist the doctor and the nurse; to help ailing mothers with large broods of children; to inquire after sons who are at the Front; to comfort the lonely and the bereft. Eager faces stare up at me, their hopeful eyes trained on my basket. I feel a sharp stab of guilt that it is empty. Nothing today, I’m afraid. So I lift the smallest up as compensation, rearranging the woollen scarf at her neck to keep out the cold. I wipe another’s nose with my handkerchief and ask if she is feeling better after her bout of measles. No sweets or apples to share, I’m sorry. Maybe next time. It is me who is in need today. I have come for succour from these people who, on the face of it, have little but who give me so much.
‘Highland Mary’s at Mrs Duncan’s,’ says the eldest girl without prompting.
‘Mrs Broadley’s there tae,’ adds a skinny boy with bare feet and a large jacket, several sizes too big for him.
‘Oh, really? I might go and visit, in that case,’ I say as if that hadn’t been my plan all along. I prise myself away from their company, marvelling at the awareness of young children, somehow old before their time.
I knock hopefully on Peggy Duncan’s door.
‘Come awa’ in, Miss Fraser,’ she says giving me her broadest smile, one that lights up her eyes. She is a robust and good-looking woman who shines despite all of the misfortune life has thrown at her.
In the small room, I feel at home straight away. ‘Elizabeth, please,’ I beg, as I have done a hundred times before though it makes no difference.
She motions towards the table by the window where Mrs Birse and Mrs Broadley are sitting in mid-conversation. I wriggle out of my coat then remember what I have in my pocket. Their eyes light up.
‘I’ll put the kettle oan.’ Peggy winks, accepting my gift- a twist of paper containing two spoonfuls of tea leaves, and another full of sugar.
‘Are ye sure the minister willnae object, Miss Fraser?’ asks Ellen Broadley.