The Cold Blast

by Mary Easson

  After the meeting, we found the pals round the side of the hall under an open window. Rob Duncan had arranged his jacket on the grass and was lying back, an arm behind his head, eyes closed and deep in thought. Wee Geordie Broadley had been given the job of listening at the open window so that he could relay the bare bones of the discussion taking place inside the hall. Since it was a well-known fact that Geordie wasn’t the brightest, this had been a mistake, leaving them none the wiser.

  Mild mannered Dan Potts admitted, ‘Even I was getting ready tae throttle him.’

  They gave us an outline of what had been gleaned leaving Jim to add some detail where he could.

  Geordie remembered: ‘Steeny Simpson says there’s tae be a strike ower wages.’

  ‘There micht be,’ corrected Jim. ‘It’s jist a warnin’ shot. It’ll mak the coal owners stop tryin’ for anither reduction on the daily rates.’

  Dan said, ‘Accordin’ tae Geordie, Somebody’s lookin’ for a fight, an’ it was your faither!’

  ‘That’s aboot richt,’ me and Jim agreed, pretending it was funny.

  Bert added, ‘But then Geordie says, They’re talkin’ aboot the prophets. They’re helluva concerned aboot the prophets.’

  Dan laughed, ‘I was peerie-heidit! Whit dae the prophets have adae wi’ it?’

  Bert said, ‘The penny dropped, “It’s no PROPHETS. It’s PROFITS,’ I says, ‘Dae ye no ken the King’s English, Geordie?” Then the oracle fae the open windae says, They’re tellin’ the men they’re thievin’ bastards. An’ we mair or less gied up.’

  I remember how we all laughed, there in the shade of the public hall on that warm summer’s evening. Everybody in the village agreed that Geordie was a tonic. Everybody except Rob, that is.

  ‘They were talkin’ aboot the maisters.’ His voice was a growl, cold.

  We watched as he slowly pulled himself up from the grass, turned his body and spat into the ground like a snake spitting venom. He calmly turned onto his back again and stared up at the sky which had all of us looking upwards to see what was there. We waited but no more was said. Something about his manner, or his tone, made me shudder. I think the others felt it as well.

  Geordie piped up, ‘We’ve tae pray for good sense. An’ for fairness. Till next week.’

  ‘Let us pray,’ said Dan.

  Rob was standing up, shaking his jacket clean of dust and dried grass. ‘Whau’s up for a gemm? Sandy said he’d be up at Mansefield.’

  The mood suddenly changed for the better. I always marvelled at Rob’s ability to do that, to change the atmosphere for good or bad.

  ‘Can I come?’ asked Geordie, hopeful.

  There was a resounding Yes from the pals and a slap on the back from Rob. Wee Geordie Broadley would always be welcome, we told him, and he beamed.

  Rob led us along Main Street and up Manse Lane towards the park, known as Mansefield. It was a plain green space, no trees or shrubbery, no seats or other structures, just a large swathe of grass with a fence on three sides. A brass plaque on the gate reminds everyone who goes there that the land had been gifted to the people of the village by Mr Imrie of the Coal Company, for the purpose of recreation. You can’t miss it, the letters are burnished black into shiny brass, lest we forget how fortunate we are to have a kind benefactor in our midst.

  When we arrived, a game of cricket was in full flow at the far end. A handful of boys sat in the shade by the gate waiting for more players to arrive for football. Rob’s younger brother, fifteen-year-old Sandy, and Billy Tennant from the Smiddy stood tapping a leather football back and forward against the manse garden wall.

  ‘Great! A new ba’!’ shouted Rob. We marvelled at the brand new football. It was pumped up and shining.

  Geordie signalled for a pass.

  ‘It’s Andra’s ba’!’ Sandy called out pointing towards the proud owner who sat by the wall. He flicked the ball up with his toe and it landed directly at Geordie’s feet.

  Andrew Brownlee, son of the pit manager, raised his hand in greeting. Rob cast a fleeting glance in his direction.

  ‘Sure ye can spare the time, Andra? You no got hamework for the big school?’ Rob asked.

  Andrew laughed. ‘Aye, but I thought I’d come along for a game.’ He had been our classmate at the village school, staying on after the statutory leaving age of fourteen whilst we’d had to leave and seek employment. We rarely saw him now that he was attending the senior school in Bathgate.

  ‘Nice tae see ye, Andra. This is a great ba’,’ said Bert as he intercepted a pass meant for me.

  ‘Aye nice tae see ye, Andra. You an yer nice ba’,’ added Rob.

  Sandy looked daggers at his brother.

  ‘There’s enough for twa teams,’ said Geordie, carefully counting the numbers on his fingers. ‘Twa teams, six-a-side,’ he announced proudly, ‘I’ll be the ref!’ Me and Jim took the initiative and two teams of seven were duly formed.

  We soon got the measure of the ball, punting it back and forth. It was heavy, heavier than they were used to. Andrew announced that it was of the best quality, equal to the kind used in professional games at the likes of Ibrox and Parkhead. This knowledge precipitated much discussion as we passed to our team mates and fought for possession once the game heated up. It made you feel like a real player, we agreed, on the park for one of the local teams, like Rowanhill United or the Blairha’ Bluebells. Or the Scottish League teams that drew tens of thousands of spectators every Saturday. Andrew was in the middle of telling us about his frequent trips to Tynecastle with his father when he hit the floor clutching his shin. He fell onto his back, his knee bent up to his chest, groaning in agony.

  ‘Sorry, Andra,’ said Rob. He held up his hands in surrender as Andrew’s team mates crowded round.

  ‘Watch whit yer daein, Rob!’ cried Sandy from where he was crouched beside the casualty.

  ‘Fair tackle.’ Rob was indifferent.

  ‘It was a bit severe,’ judged Bert who was worried that Andrew might have to go home, taking his football with him.

  Rob stuck out the guilty foot in its size ten workman’s boot for everybody to see.

  ‘Look at the size o’ yer feet! They’re lethal weapons!’ said Jim.

  ‘Especially in tacketie boots,’ added Sandy.

  ‘Well, terribly sorry and all that,’ retorted Rob in his best English. ‘But we cannae a’ afford fancy wee fitbae boots like His Nibs here. Nae fancy wee fitba’ boots in oor hoose,’ he growled at his brother.

  Sandy turned his attention back to Andrew who, having decided that his shin might not be broken after all, suggested that if he could be helped over to the side of the park, he would assess the damage further. Everybody agreed this was a good idea. It meant we could get on with the game. Supported on either side, Andrew hirpled off and slumped against the wall. He encouraged us to play on. He’d be fine in a bit, and Geordie could take his place meantime.

  ‘Fine then,’ said Sandy, ‘But first we’ll tak aff oor boots.’ He glared at Rob who gave him a sly smile.

  It felt good to get the air about our feet. We wiggled our toes in the cool grass and remembered what it was like to go barefoot as children. How we had wished to be grown up back then, able to afford a stout pair of boots whenever we needed them. Now, here in the park, memories of childhood were returning as we ran about like urchins, the trials and tribulations of our working lives, including missing fingers and strike action, forgotten in the moment – until the ball came at us from the wrong angle or with too much force, slapping hard against a shin, or stubbing a toe and tripping us up. We persevered until, one by one, our energy spent and the sun sinking in the sky, we took a rest deciding to call time on the game.

  As boys left the park in dribs and drabs, Andrew was thanked for bringing the ball and we wished him and his leg well. Bert and Dan got him to his feet then helped him along the
road to his house on the hill. Geordie led the way carrying the ball. Me and Jim hung back with Sandy and Rob, enjoying the peace that had descended on the park. It was strange how a game with friends could lift the spirits, make you forget about everything going on in your world save the changing colours of the sky and the lark song still loud in the next field. I was sure the others felt it too though we said nothing, just sat quiet-like staring at the hills and the moss, before making our way home to Stoneyrigg where we wished each other goodnight.

  Aye, see ye the morn we called back and forth. I was happy that we would.

  Finally, the Duncan brothers thought they were out of earshot and Sandy could say what was on his mind.

  ‘Whit’s wrang wi’ you?’

  ‘Nuthin’s wrang wi’ me.’

  ‘I’m no daft, Rob Duncan. Whit was a’ thon aboot? Hackin’ Andra Brownlee. He’s mebbe no yer freen but he’s no yer enemy either. Ye could’ve broke his leg.’

  ‘He’s got twa!’ Rob’s laughter came to nothing.

  ‘I’m the yin that tells the jokes, an’ yer no funny,’ said Sandy.

  ‘There’s no much tae laugh aboot here, is there?’ Rob fired back. ‘But ye ken whit they say, if ye dinna laugh ye’ll greet.’

  Sandy shook his head. ‘Whit’s wrang, Rob? Sometimes ye’re like a bear wi’ a sare heid. Ye’ve a rare temper on ye. I haurdly ken ye whiles.’

  ‘Leave it be, Sandy. Mind yer ain business. Mebbe if ye had tae gang doon the pit like I dae ye’d ken. You wi’ yer fancy office job... keepin’ the books and the ledgers in the pit office. Brewin’ tea, a’ day.’ Rob gave a snort.

  ‘I ken hoo lucky I was tae get thon job. I’m gled I’m no doon the pit. But dae we a’ have tae suffer for Rob Duncan’s discontent? Yer ower hard oan the bairn, an’ Maw disnae deserve the snash ye gie her at times. Gie us a brek, eh?’

  ‘Aye, mebbe,’ agreed Rob. ‘It’s jist... och, nuthin… It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.’

  Sandy opened the door to the miner’s cottage they shared with their widowed mother and three-year-old sister, Maggie, and four lodgers besides. ‘Mebbe ye should bide there a while an’ think oan it, Rob. Mak it fine, fur Maw’s sake, an’ Maggie’s tae.’

  He stepped inside and closed the door, leaving his elder brother staring into the dirt as the light faded from the sky.

  Chapter 5

  Minn

  I’m in the low field at Redburn, singling neeps, when I see Miss Fraser on the track that leads down from the muir. She’s often out walking some place or other, either visiting some sick body or trying to get away from her brother, and who can blame her for that? She gives me a wave and I wave back, a big cheery wave with an even bigger smile though I know that it hides a huge sadness in her life. Each night I remember her in my prayers, that her kindness towards me and my sister will be rewarded in this life as well as the next. I’m glad that Sarah went to work in the manse and we got to know Miss Fraser. It’s worked out well in so many ways. It’s thanks to her that I have employment here at Redburn so close to my home in Stoneyrigg. I’m grateful even if Mr Gowans, the farmer, is a crabbit so-and-so, and is never pleased with the work I do no matter how hard I try. But he treats the other lassies the same so what does it matter? We’re all he’s got since the war took away his dairyman and the ploughman, and the old shepherd died and had to be replaced by a simpleton who, according to Mr Gowans, doesn’t know one end of a sheep from the other which must be a problem at lambing time.

  I haven’t always worked at Redburn. Before the war I had a place at Netherside and was happy there. It wasn’t just the folk and the work, or the Davidsons who treated me well, nor the place in general because Netherside is a fine big farm. It was me. I was different then. Everything was different before the war.

  I was seventeen the day Sarah started work at the manse and I mind it like it was yesterday. I mind waking early and dressing, as usual, whilst the others slept on. It was a fine sunny morning and I couldn’t wait to be on my way though I love my family dearly. I stood at the window weaving my long black hair into a single plait down my shoulder, studying the reflection of myself in the broken mirror on its rusty chain. I saw the bright blue eyes of the young woman I had become looking back at me like a stranger I sort of recognised but did not yet know. Little did I know what was ahead of me then and how my life would change.

  When Sarah stirred, I whispered, ‘Aye, its yon time.’

  With a squeal, she disappeared under the covers of the box bed we shared when I was home on a visit.

  ‘Shhhh. Ye’ll wake the bairns,’ I warned. ‘I’ll come through an see yer up in a bit. It widnae dae tae sleep in the day.’

  Sarah’s face was a picture of excitement and trepidation at the prospect of her first day at work.

  Jean was already up and about, busy at the fire in the other room. She stirred fiercely at a pot of porridge that threatened to burn whilst the kettle whistled loud on its stand. All of a sudden, the porridge was abandoned as she grabbed a wet cloth to rescue the steaming kettle from the heat of the coals. Muttering, she filled the tea pot with scalding water that splashed hissing into the fire, sending a flurry of grey ash up into the air. Then she jumped like a jack-in-the-box out of harm’s way, holding the tea pot at full stretch, set it down on the hearth with a clatter before turning her attention back to the porridge that was spluttering into a thick gloop more like fodder for beasts than folk. I watched like a body bewitched as the simple, daily ritual of breakfast was turned into a crisis by my father’s new wife.

  ‘Mornin’, Minn,’ she offered cheerily, aware of my presence when order of a kind had been restored. She wiped her brow with the back of a hand.

  Through the steam, I stepped up onto a chair and opened the window as far as it would go, breathing in deeply, thankful for the cool air of early morning.

  ‘Ye should’ve woke me,’ I said. No matter how early I rose in the morning, it seemed, Jean always beat me to it.

  ‘Och, ye’ve a hard week aheid o’ ye, Minn,’ she called up from where she was, hunched over the fire. ‘An’ ye jist get hame the yin nicht. The best I can dae is let ye lie oan an’ mak ye a cup o’ tea afore ye gang back tae Netherside.’

  I took the jar of cutlery from the window sill to set the table for the workers – three places for the men, places for Jean and Sarah but just a cup for myself. I would eat later, in the kitchen at Netherside when the milking was done.

  ‘Can I gie ye a hand?’ I enquired.

  Jean was busy at the fire and did not reply. She reached for the kettle to make the tea, forgetting she had already made it – I could see she was engrossed. It was hard to attract her attention at times, made worse because I didn’t know what to call her. It had never been discussed. Mother? Definitely not. Jean wasn’t and never would be my mother. Jean? That was too familiar a name for my father’s wife though she was only a few years older than me. Mrs Graham? Sounded too formal and brought attention to the fact that she wasn’t being called mother. I reached for the empty tin pail in the corner and made for the door.

  Jean looked up. ‘Oh, aye. There’s a guid lass.’

  I was glad to be out of the confines of the house and into the street, heading for the communal tap between the rows, opening the spicket and water gushing into the pail, clean and fresh like a river in spate. I liked to go to the well to fetch water which was a task for women and girls. It was a place to meet and blether, to find out what was happening and swap stories. There were few folk about that morning. It was early yet but there were signs of life behind closed doors. A window rumbled open on squeaking sashes. A door slammed shut. Somebody coughed and voices talked about the weather. A pot clattered on a brick tile floor and a cat with a dead rat mewed on a doorstep. Jean hurried past on her way to the privies, careful with the chamber pot she carried, its contents concealed under a cloth and Alex Birse called out Fine Day! from th
e far end of the row, which wasn’t like him and fair surprised me. I went back to the house and did what I could before Jean came back, including wiping the floor where porridge had splattered. The socks drying on a string suspended high above the fireplace were ready to be taken down so I put a pair each in the work boots by the door. Movement behind the curtains of the two box beds on either side of the room let me know the men were awake as I slipped away with a cup of tea for Sarah.

  ‘Time tae get up, wee sis. Yer breakfast’s near ready through by. Mrs Graham’s got a fine pot o’ parritch on the go.’ I kept my voice low.

  Sarah stifled a giggle at the thought of Jean’s porridge. She propped herself up on an elbow to sip the hot tea. ‘Dae ye think I’ll like it up at the manse, Minn?’

  ‘Miss Fraser’s fair kind. Aye? She’ll keep ye right and ye’ll like it fine.’

  ‘It’s no Miss Fraser I’m frettin’ aboot.’ She burrowed her face into the safety of the bolster. ‘It’s the meenister. He’s terrifyin’! He’ll jist need tae look at me an’ I’ll drap the best cheenie.’

  ‘Aye, he’s a terror richt enough,’ I teased.

  ‘A holy terror!’ Sarah snorted loudly and had to hide her head under the covers.

  I cast an eye over the tousled heads of the children in the two other beds but none of them stirred.

  ‘Ye’ll be fine. Get up, get yer new claes oan an ye’ll be jist the ticket.’ I handed my younger sister a pile of work clothes. ‘Dinna fret, an I’ll see ye next week.’

  Sarah wanted me to bide but knew that I couldn’t.

  ‘Mind tak yer letter,’ she said.

  ‘I near forgot,’ I gasped forgetting to whisper. I reached under the bolster, took the envelope and examined the handwriting again, before holding it close. ‘Mind keep this tae yersel. Promise?’