The Cold Blast

by Mary Easson

  One fine evening, the older men had retreated long since to their cottages where wives and children were waiting, leaving the youngsters to their games and endless chatter. Dochie, the stable lad, sat on his new bicycle, whilst the rest of us quizzed him about the make, the tyres and the apparent lack of brakes. It hadn’t cost him a penny, he explained. He’d traded it for his late grandfather’s waistcoat. The old man wouldn’t be needing it any longer on account of him having passed away and, no, Dochie didn’t think he had been robbed or that the bicycle had been stolen. It was in need of some attention, he conceded, but he’d do it up and it would be as good as new when he had finished with it. Even in its present condition, it got him around just the thing and as long as he remembered to avoid the steepest hills, it was perfectly safe. But my, it was fine, he said with glee, to see the sparks flying when he tried to slow down. He lifted his tacketie boots and everybody laughed when they realised that these were his brakes. He challenged the bothy lads to a backie and, one by one, they took their turn, swaying off down the Whinbank Brae with Dochie pedalling like mad, whilst their audience whooped and cheered them onto greater speeds. Then it was the girls’ turn, Dochie insisted. Annie and me declined, running off to the safety of our bed under the stairs in the farmhouse, promising to consider the offer another time.

  We got ready for bed with smiles on our faces. Giggling, we recounted the adventures of the lads on the bicycle; how it snaked its way down the brae, catapulting them into a bank or a ditch by the side of the road when Dochie’s desperate efforts to slow them down with his tacketie boots came to nothing. Annie brushed out my long black hair and confessed that she would like to have a go on the bike but only if I’d do it too. She didn’t want to appear forward but if both of us did it then it would be fine. I said I would think about it, though it looked dangerous. But it looked like great fun as well. Maybe I would have a go, next time.

  We’d known each other for ages, Annie and me. We were in the same class at school and we’d worked as servants together at Netherside for three years by then. Annie worked mainly in the house, helping the farmer’s wife with domestic duties but she could turn her hand to the outside work at busy times in the farming year. I was employed to work in the fields and assist with the milking but I could work in the house when required, especially when somebody was ill. Since we lived away from home, it was good to have a friend to talk to. We talked about most things, me and Annie, and stood up for each other in the company of Dochie and the bothy lads who were always out for fun and pleasure.

  Rays of evening sun came in through a tiny window, lighting up the small space where we slept. A wooden platform with a straw-stuffed tyke served as our bed. There wasn’t room for much else, just a single chair, and nails on the back of the door to hang up our clothes. I reached up to my dress and retrieved the letter from its place in my pocket then studied the writing, the stamp, and the postmark. Annie had turned over in bed and was watching me.

  ‘It’s frae ma sister,’ I said.

  ‘I wish I had a sister,’ said Annie. ‘Or a brither. it was ay jist me an’ ma mither.’

  I turned to her and smiled. Annie never mentioned her father, an evil man who had come to a bad end and not before time.

  ‘It’s frae Meg, in Canada,’ I explained.

  ‘I can see the stamp,’ remarked Annie. ‘Jist think, thon letter’s come hauf wey roon the world tae get here. It’s a lang wey.’

  ‘Aye, it is and it taks a lang time tae get there. But this letter brings that world, and Meg, close.’ I held the letter against my breast with both hands and closed my eyes. ‘I miss Meg,’ I said at last. ‘I wish she was still here, still livin’ wi’ me and Sarah and ma faither.’

  ‘It’s hard when things change, Minn. But oftimes it’s for the better.... in the end.’

  I knew she was thinking of her own situation. When her father had died, Annie and her mother were free of him and their lives improved, once they got over the shock.

  ‘I’d gang tae Canada wi’ ye if I could, Minn,’ said Annie. ‘We’d be a fine pair, lookin’ oot for each ither. We could get employment in a fine shop in a big toun. It’d be rare!’ She stopped and thought for a moment. ‘But I couldnae gang ‘cause o’ ma mither. I couldnae leave her by hersel.’

  I squeezed her hand, knowing that she would love to go to Canada if only her circumstances were different. I snuggled under the sheet and lay on my back to open the letter. I had read it a dozen times already but I had to do it again, before I went to sleep.

  c/o Central Post Office

  Calgary, Alberta

  20th April, 1914

  Dear Minn,

  Thank you for your letter of 6th November with all the news of home and family. I hope that Sarah is recovered from her illness and is back on her feet, long before this letter arrives. Give my regards to father, Jean and the bairns. I must apologise for taking so long to write back to you, perhaps you have been thinking the worst, but now you will know I am alright and still in the land of the living. Will is also fine and he sends his love to you all. He asks that you convey his best to any of his family that you might come across. He would be especially grateful if you could visit his mother and father and let them know he is well. Thank you in anticipation.

  As you can see from the address, we do not have one at the present time! We are no longer living in Hamilton, Ontario with Will’s cousins. At long last, we are making the journey, long anticipated, to the west where we hope to settle for good. We have heard of the many opportunities there are in the west and, although we were happy in Hamilton, we decided some time ago that we would try our luck in ‘the new country’ so to speak, hopefully finding some land and starting a business with our savings. God willing. Will has some temporary work with the railway company at the moment but we will travel north soon, when the ice has melted and the spring is here. When you next write, address your letter as above and I will arrange for any mail to be sent on to me.

  I was excited to read of your proposal to come to Canada in the future, Minn. I would love to have my sister(s) living near me as I miss you all very much, as you know. When Will and I are settled I will write to you again and let you know where we are. It is much easier to settle in Canada if you have family or friends to support you in the early days, as we had with the cousins, John and Louise. I would be very happy to see you and your young man if you decide to come, and Will says he would be delighted to help find work for both of you. It has become harder for people with trades to find employment but there are still jobs on the farms and for domestic servants. I assure you of our discretion in this matter until I hear different from you.

  I often think of you all back home in Scotland. I miss the neighbours and the ‘characters’ in the village. Give my regards to any of the Stoneyrigg women who remember me, especially Peggy Duncan, Mary Birse and Ellen Broadley. I hope they are well and their families too. There are many Scots in Canada. And every time we strike up a conversation together, we say how much we miss the old country. At times, it makes me wonder why we are all here, we have such fond memories of home. Will and I have met people from all over: Glasgow, Dumfriesshire, Aberdeen, the Highlands and the islands especially. We have even met Blackrigg people. Do you remember the Wilsons from the Back Row and John Baxter, an apprentice of father’s? They lived near us in Hamilton. Will and I bumped into Neil Tennant from the Blackrigg smiddy in Calgary when we first arrived here from the east. He has been working for the railway company as an engineer and is doing very well for himself. He said that he would be making his way back to Blackrigg at the end of the summer before the winter sets in, as he has business to attend to, so you may bump into him one of these days.

  I must go now, Minn. Please write soon with all news of the family.

  With kind regards,

  Your loving sister,

  Meg

  I closed up the letter and held it
close. Perhaps I would see Meg again. Sooner rather than later, I hoped. I inhaled the smell of the paper and placed it carefully under my pillow. It was still light outside but I turned over and closed my eyes. Tomorrow was a new day. Who knew what it might bring?

  Chapter 7

  John

  The second meeting of the Miners’ Federation was a noisy affair. We sat outside like the last time, doing our best to follow the discussion taking place inside. When Steeny announced that the union was having second thoughts about calling for strike action, the men were relieved – at first. The worries and fears of the previous week were gone in a flash, only to be replaced by consternation that the union might be giving into demands from the coal masters for another reduction in the daily rates. Though a strike wasn’t welcome, they didn’t want to appear weak either. Where would it end, somebody shouted? We have to mak a stand!

  Steeny was able to make himself heard – eventually. He explained that the Union had come up with a much better plan, one that would avoid a stoppage. Nobody wanted the financial hardship brought on by a strike. Nor did they want their community torn apart, family set against family for years to come. The new idea was a stroke of genius, in his opinion. The union was proposing a four-day week. This meant that the work would be shared out equally amongst the workers and the pits wouldn’t have to close. Aye, there’d be a drop in income for everybody but it would be bearable. We could thole it for long enough. And the really clever part about it, he explained, was that the mineworkers would be controlling the price of coal by reducing output. The price of coal would rise and that would up the minimum wage which was determined by the sliding scale that linked wages with prices.

  The hall erupted once again as the men debated the merits of a four-day week versus strike action. Steeny called for attention, heartened by the many supportive comments being made around the room whilst sensing the disappointment that here was another consultation, another delay in resolving the dispute. There would be another week of uncertainty when the consequences of the new proposal would be debated at home and at work, another week for anger and fear to mix in equal measure, impacting on family life. He took a few questions and answered them swiftly, emphasising the need for the workforce to unite behind the union. Steeny sensed the men’s impatience and their need for reassurance. He had kept his trump card up his sleeve and chose that moment to play it.

  The Miners Federation was consulting the other trade unions at national level, he revealed. They were being asked for their support in order to achieve a favourable outcome for the miners. The railway workers were close to making a decision in our favour. If the railway workers cooperated by refusing to move coal supplies across the country, and if the dockworkers could be persuaded to join in and prevent the import of foreign coal, then industry would be starved of its most important resource. The pressure on the coal masters to capitulate would be huge. The economy could be brought to a standstill and everybody in the country would be forced to see what everybody there in the hall knew to be true – that the work of the mineworker was fundamental to the prosperity of the country, and that he should be paid accordingly.

  Amid the cheer that went up Alex shouted, ‘United we stand, boys! We’re no oan oor ain!’

  Me and Jim flushed red at the sound of our father’s voice.

  More cheering inside the hall.

  ‘It’s time some o’ thon prosperity cam oor wey! The wey o’ the workin’ man!’ shouted Davy in a voice as hard as nails. ‘An’ since they’re no keen tae gie us whit we’re due, we’ll tak it for oorsels!’

  Me and Jim looked at each other. Did the coal masters realise who they were up against when there were folk like Davy Birse shouting the odds?

  Steeny said he would call another meeting as soon as there was new information to pass on and applause rang out in the hall. Workers began flooding out into the street, leaving on a tide of hope, with news for waiting wives that the signs were good, that justice would prevail and they had nothing to worry about after all. Even the sight of Constable Mackay and his cronies – who liked to put in an appearance when men congregated in large numbers – didn’t threaten the optimistic mood.

  We stood up with the pals to move on. None of us had anything to say about what we had heard though we understood the barebones of what was happening. A lot had been explained at the meeting, about wages and prices, supply and demand, but it was complicated. Nothing was straightforward when you didn’t have all the facts. It was a matter of waiting for others to make the decisions and determine the outcome. None of us wanted to ask a question since nobody seemed to have any answers. We would hear our fate shortly, like everybody else, but it sounded as if things would be resolved soon enough. So we made our way through the multitude, weaving this way and that, caught up in the river of humanity streaming out onto the road.

  Right on time, Geordie came running towards us.

  ‘Are ye comin’ for a gemm?’ he shouted. ‘They’re waitin’ up at the park.’

  ‘Aye, we’re comin’,’ we replied in unison, the weight of union affairs suddenly lifting.

  ‘Try an’ haud us back,’ called Jim enthusiastically pulling at my arm.

  ‘Andra’s brocht his new ba’ again!’ said Geordie. ‘Come oan, hurry up.’

  We marched towards Manse Lane with Geordie leading the way, a small general ahead of his men. He looked back proudly as we fell in behind him.

  ‘Come oan, Rob! Keep up!’ he called back. Rob was almost lost in the crowd.

  ‘Gang yersels,’ called Rob. ‘Get sterted withoot me!’

  ‘Sandy says ye’ve tae hurry!’ shouted Geordie.

  There was no reply.

  I saw Geordie staring into the crowd, confused. Where was Rob going? He was always with the gang.

  We all stopped at the bottom of the lane and looked back for him, studied the crowd of workmen making their way in the opposite direction, towards Stoneyrigg. But Rob had disappeared from sight. ‘It’s no like Rob tae miss a gemm,’ somebody said.

  ‘Mebbe he’s got tae be some place and forgot tae say’.

  ‘Mebbe he’ll join us later oan, when he’s able.’

  ‘Aye, that’s it, he’s awa’ a message or somethin’,’ we agreed.

  ‘Mebbe he’s meetin’ a lassie and hadnae wanted to say’.

  ‘Aye, mebbe.’

  As we searched the crowds for any sign of our friend, I spotted a small group of men passing on the other side of the road, heading for the Doctor’s Brae. If the rest had been looking in that direction, they would have seen Davy and his gang striding out. And Rob slinking past in their midst, his collar up and his head down. Something about the look on Rob’s face and the mere fact he was with Davy and his cronies worried me severely.

  At each of the five pits, impromptu meetings were held at the end of the day shift the following week. When the men came up in the cages, they collected round their respective union men wanting to hear the latest news about how national negotiations were proceeding on their behalf. The need for good news and a favourable outcome subdued them. They stood wondering, anxiety showing in their bloodshot eyes, faces pale beneath black coal dust.

  Alex stood in the middle of the group gathering outside the winding shed at Broadrigg Number1. A question was shouted at him from the back of the crowd but he urged them to be patient, to give the others a few more minutes to reach the pit head and join them. The paper containing the latest bulletin from the Federation was clutched tightly in his hand as he succumbed to another of his coughing fits. He held it up for all to see as the air filled his lungs once again, and he was ready to speak. The pit head gear and the machinery inside the shed rumbled and clashed, delivering coal from below for sorting and washing and the men stood in silence, whilst Alex delivered the news they had hoped not to hear.

  The District Board had consented to the coal masters’ request for a dr
op in the miners’ daily rates. Forthwith, their wages would be cut to 7 shillings and the ancillary workers’ rates would be reduced accordingly. Disbelief rumbled round the men like thunder on a low horizon. How had it been possible to push through such a reduction? It went against all that was decent and fair. Alex was as perplexed as the next man but, he pointed out, when they reflected on who they were dealing with maybe they shouldn’t be surprised. A groan went up. Everybody agreed with Alex’s sentiment. In a more hopeful vein, he continued, the Federation had applied for an increase in the minimum wage from its present level of 5/10d and he confirmed earlier speculation that every district in the Scottish coalfield had backed the proposal for a four-day week. The Union was strong, shouted Alex through another bout of coughing. They weren’t finished yet. The dispute had a long way to go and had the backing of the other big trade unions, he reminded them. The situation was changing by the day and he would keep them abreast of developments as and when the Branch was notified.

  Me and Jim followed the men up the pit road. We were joined by others who’d been too late to hear the news first hand and a wave of revulsion moved up and down the line. The workforce from Broadrigg Numbers 2 and 3 had joined us by the time we reached the outskirts of Stoneyrigg on the Rowanhill Road. They shouted back and forth when they spotted their neighbours or particular friends whose views they respected. The men from Blairha’ and Back o’ Moss Pits appeared from the opposite direction to join the throng. Small groups formed around the union men, listening intently as their situation was analysed and the anger and humiliation that everybody felt was put into words.

  Steeny Simpson reminded those within earshot that the Union south of the border was supportive of the Scottish miners. Joe McNab stated that other trade unions were ready to back them up, and that workers in all industries were becoming more organised, mindful of the need to support each other in order to achieve a fair settlement both for themselves and for others. John Doyle described the Triple Alliance of railwaymen, dockers and miners, a formidable force that the owners would be hard pushed to break if the men stood resolutely together. Alex spoke about the struggle facing labour across the entire continent of Europe at that very moment. From St Petersburg to France, through Germany and Italy to the miners of Blackrigg, working people were standing up to the tyranny of capital. If the workers of the world could unite, he proclaimed using the metaphors and epithets of the Socialist press, they had nothing to lose but the chains that bound them. In spite of everything I endured from Alex at home, I had to admit that what he said made perfect sense. I found the idea of workers, in many places at home and abroad, engaged in the same struggle at the same time, comforting. It made me hopeful that justice could and would prevail one day.