The Black Velvet Gown

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Now don’t you start on that, girl; there’s nobody knows better than me that it isn’t right. But what would you have, her go down the pit?’

  ‘Aw, Ma.’

  ‘Never mind, aw Ma. Get on with your dinner. That tongue of yours is too sharp by far.’

  As she finished speaking the door opened and the two younger children came in. Johnny, aged seven, was a replica of his father, dark haired, dark eyed, slightly built, whereas the girl was a different colour from any of the others. Her hair was brown, her eyes green and her skin, even under the dust and dirt, showed up in patches to be deeply cream tinted. It was the boy who spoke first. His voice was bright like his sister Biddy’s, and he said, ‘I told him, Ma. He didn’t like it, but he said there were others to fill our place.’

  Riah made no reply to this but said, ‘Clean yourselves,’ and nodded towards the pail before going to the oven once more and taking out the dish.

  Not until the children were all seated did she herself sit at the table. Although Davey and Biddy soon emptied their bowls, they wouldn’t ask for more until all had finished, and they both watched their mother spooning the soup slowly into her mouth and noticing the difficulty at times she seemed to have in swallowing it. They weren’t given bread with their soup; this would come as a sort of extra after it with pig’s fat or dripping.

  Riah knew they were waiting patiently for her to finish. The two younger ones too had golloped up their meal and were now scraping round their bowls. She wanted to talk to them but she couldn’t find the words. She wanted to say to them, You’ll never know life more hard from this day on. But that would be throwing reflections back on their father as if he hadn’t given them all he could. True, he had worked for them and had saved and fed and clothed them better than the majority of those in the rows; but it wasn’t best as she saw it, her best saw a cleaner, brighter side of life. Not less hard working. No. She was prepared to work all the days of her life as she had done since she was four years old—her mother had seen to that—but she wanted something different for the result of her labour and the labours of her children. Oh yes, particularly she wanted something different for them, and at this moment she wanted to say to them, I’m going to see that you get it. But she felt too full and it was almost with a feeling of horror she knew she was about to cry. And not one of her children had ever witnessed her crying; what crying she had done in her life had been in the dead of night when those about her were in deep sleep and dulled with the labour of the day, or mazed with ale or gin. She had only experienced the latter up till she was sixteen, for if Seth had ever touched strong drink there wouldn’t have been anything in the bag behind the brick in the mantelshelf. But nevertheless she had often cried in the deep of the night during the last ten years. Sometimes she had wondered what she was crying for: something missing? Something she had lost? Something that she wanted? She didn’t know, she only knew it was a relief to cry. But never, never had she cried in front of her children. They looked upon her as someone strong with no weakness.

  She got up hastily from the table, saying, ‘Take a slice of bread each,’ and pointed to the cupboard as she walked past it and on to the steep ladder that led to the attic room above. And there, she held her hand tightly over her mouth, saying to herself, ‘No. Not now, not now. For God’s sake, woman, not now.’ And at this she began tearing clothes from the old chest and putting them into bundles.

  Two

  The children were standing outside, each dressed as if for a winter expedition, for they were wearing all the clothes they possessed, it being easier for them to be carried that way; besides, they each had to hump two bundles, one holding a piece of bedding, a blanket or a patch quilt, the other, in addition to mug, plate and spoon, odd items of kitchen utensils.

  Riah stood in the bare room and looked about her for a moment and her last unspoken words to herself were, May I never have to live in your like again. Then she stooped and with an effort lifted up a large roll of bedding in one hand and a canvas bag in the other, the contents of which jingled together as she moved out through the doorway. She had asked herself two or three times since last night why she was determined to take such things as a kettle and pans and she could give herself no answer, only that she didn’t mind the Meddles using her furniture, but cooking utensils were a different thing.

  The sun was shining, the road was dry. They had to pass down the whole length of the row to gain the coach road where they hoped to pick up the carrier cart. But their departure seemed to have been awaited and there was hardly a doorway that wasn’t open and a woman standing in it and often her man by her side, his bait tin in his hand, ready to go on his shift but staying long enough to see the Millicans take to the road and feeling not a little satisfaction in the sight, for hadn’t they foretold this: Millican had always been above himself. Any man who wasted his time on reading and writing was a fool. What good did it do you? Got you thrown out into the gutter in most cases. It was a wonder that Millican had lasted so long. He wouldn’t have done if he hadn’t been considered one of the best workers on the face and a man who set the pace. And this opinion itself was enough to make his fellow men turn against him.

  Well, there they went, was the opinion of most; but not of all, for now and again a voice would say, ‘Good luck, lass,’ and Riah would turn to the speaker and say, ‘Ta. Thanks.’

  Then at the bottom of the road she came face to face with Bill Norsecott. He had come round the corner of the row and when he saw her had stopped dead almost blocking her path, and he muttered through his coal-grimed lips, ‘Might be bloody well glad of an offer afore you’re finished, Mrs Millican…ma’am.’

  ‘That might be so, Mr Norsecott’—her chin was up—‘but you can take it firmly that I’d be hard put afore even thinking about taking an offer from you. Rock bottom I’d be, and I’m far from that. Good day to you.’

  ‘And to hell with you.’

  The children were moving on, but Davey stopped and turned towards the man, and Riah had to nudge him forward with her knee, saying, ‘Go on. Go on.’

  At the coach road they all dropped their bundles down on to the grass verge and the younger children were for sitting down beside them, but Riah said harshly, ‘Don’t do that. Them’s your Sunday clothes, on top, remember.’

  And so they all stood silently now looking along the dusty road that curved downhill to a hamlet in the dip, and the silence was broken by Biddy saying, ‘I would have died if we had gone into the Norsecotts’ house.’ And to this Riah said tartly, ‘Be quiet. Save your breath to cool your porridge.’ Which censure Biddy took, as usual, to mean she was talking too much. But she repeated to herself and emphatically, ‘I would. I would. Dirty, snotty-nosed lot.’

  They had to wait a half-hour for the cart, and just as they espied it in the distance coming over the hill, the men from the pit, their ten-hour shift at an end, passed them in straggling groups. Most of them looked towards them; few had anything to say. But Arthur Meddle and two other men from Primrose Row stopped, and Arthur said, ‘Ready for the road, lass?’ And Riah answered, ‘Yes, Arthur. Ready for the road.’

  The two men almost simultaneously now said, ‘Good luck, lass.’ And one went on to add, ‘Nobody could blame you for makin’ the choice. By God, no. Nobody could blame you. We wish you well. More than us do an’ all; we all wish you well.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The cart drew up in front of them and Arthur Meddle said, ‘I won’t give any of you a hoist, lass, seein’ me being so mucky and you all dressed up nicely. You look a credit, you do that, you look a credit. Goodbye then. Goodbye.’

  Paddy McCabe, the carter, looked at Riah with a grin on his face, saying, ‘You’ve filled me up. This lot’s going to cost you, lass.’

  ‘I can pay. I can pay.’

  ‘Oh, I know you can. I wasn’t meanin’ nowt. Would you like to sit up front along o’ me? They’re all settled in the back there, snug.’ He jerked his head to where the children were sitting amidst the bun
dles, their hands already gripping the sides of the cart, and she said, ‘Thank you. I’d be obliged.’

  And so they set off on the six miles to Shields. But before they had travelled half the distance they were joined by another five customers, so causing the children to have to sit on the bundles, which brought their bodies well up above the sides of the cart, and as the road was potholed, this made for dangerous travel and brought from them cries of ‘Eeh!’ and ‘Oh!’ which made the elders in the cart laugh.

  By the time they reached Shields market, their stomachs were well shaken up. But they all felt merry and it showed in their faces as once more they lifted their bundles then said, ‘Goodbye,’ to Paddy McCabe and his cart. And Paddy wished them, ‘Good luck,’ at the same time adding words that filled Riah with apprehension, for he said, ‘Shouldn’t surprise me, missis, to see you takin’ the journey back some day, an’ not too long ahead, for things is bad around here, especially where you said you were going. Fish is goin’ rotten in piles along there, they say.’

  She said nothing to this but marched off, pushing the children before her, while she herself rocked from side to side with the weight of the awkward bundles she was carrying.

  They went down the cobbled slope to the quay, where tall sailing boats were lined as close as herrings in a crate. Then leaving the quay, she led the way now between a morass of rotting boats, rusted anchors and chains piled in places four feet high. Then some distance along they mounted a bank and found themselves walking between whitewashed cottages. And presently she saw the end of Low Street where she had been born and had played for a little while and worked for a longer while and had hoped, as she had also done on leaving the pit village today, that she would never set eyes on it again. But she had, although at long intervals.

  It was three years since she was last here. Seth had brought them down one bright Sunday in the summer of twenty-nine. Their reception on that day had not been cold, yet it had not been effusive. The visit had gone off as well as it had because within a few minutes of being in the house she had slipped a shilling into her mother’s hand. It had made all the difference. What would her mother say now if she told her that she had eighteen pounds dangling in a bag between her breasts? Oh, she’d surely be all over her. But she wasn’t going to know about that money. That was for setting them up in a new home. As long as she stayed with her mother, she would work for their keep. At least this was what she had imagined until she reached the door, and the first person to greet her was her mother.

  Dilly Riston was fifty years old. Her back was stooped with rheumatics, her fingers were misshapen with the same complaint. As she would tell you, what could you expect, because she had handled cold fish from when she was three years old? She looked like a woman well into her sixties, except that her eyes were clear and glinted with hard knowledge of life. It was she who spoke first: ‘In the name of God!’ she said. ‘What are you doin’ here?’ Then her eyes scanned the four small figures standing behind Riah, and she added, ‘The lot of yous.’

  ‘Seth died of the cholera. They wouldn’t let us stay. I’m going to look for a house.’ Her tone softened now, it had a plea in it: ‘I…I thought you might put us up for a few days.’

  ‘Put you up? God in heaven! You don’t know what you’re askin’. Put you up? You could never be put up here. Come in and see for yourself.’ She stood aside, and Riah hesitated before dropping her burdens down on to the shingled road; then slowly she squeezed past her mother and entered the room that had once been so familiar to her. And there she saw three small children, two sitting on a mat before a low fire and one very young one in a basket to the side of it. A young woman was standing near the table that was set underneath the small square window. She had been chopping on a board, but her hands stopped at their work and she now stared at Riah. And Riah blinked her eyes for a moment because she could hardly recognise her elder sister. It was all of five years since she had seen her, when her husband Henry Fuller had got himself a job in Jarrow village; his work was that of boat-builder. She’d had three children then round about Johnny’s and Maggie’s age, but here were another three, one a recent delivery by the looks of it. She said quietly, ‘Hello, Ada.’

  It was some seconds before Ada answered, ‘Hello.’ Then, as if about to greet Riah she walked towards her, saying, ‘What’s brought you?’ but when Dilly repeated, ‘Seth died of the cholera,’ she seemed to rear back from her sister.

  ‘’Tis all right,’ Riah said quickly; ‘it was some weeks gone, it’s all over.’

  ‘’Tis never over, the cholera.’

  ‘And look at this lot.’ It was her mother’s voice now and she was pointing out into the road as she addressed her elder daughter. ‘She’s brought the four of them.’ And now shuffling towards Riah, she said, ‘Where d’you intend to put them up?’

  ‘I’ve just told you, haven’t I? I thought you might…’

  ‘Now look here, don’t take that tone with me: not in the door a second but playing the high and mighty. Well, you can see how we’re fixed. Besides those three’—she pointed—‘there’s another three on the beach, raking up, and Henry besides.’

  Not out of real concern for Henry but simply for something to say to quieten the atmosphere, Riah looked at Ada and said, ‘Is he out of work?’

  Ada didn’t get a chance to answer because her mother yelled, ‘Out of work! Is anybody in work here? Where you been? Haven’t you heard of the strike at the Hilda pit? Been on weeks now. They are bloody maniacs. Didn’t know when they were well off. Wanting to start unions, and them getting four shillings for a seven-hour stint; then goin’ and rioting and smashing up the pit. Where’ve you been? Oh, but I suppose your pit was working, so you shut your eyes and closed your ears. You’ve had it easy, madam, you don’t know you’re born. This place is dead. The town is dead. They started burying it after Waterloo, and now they’ve nearly filled it in. Out of work? she says.’ She tossed her head. ‘The fishing’s dead, but that’s all we’ve got to live on, fish, fish, fish. If I’m forced to eat another mouthful of salmon I’ll spew.’

  ‘What about the factories?’ Riah said and as she spoke she looked out through the open door to the children now grouped about it. She made no signal for them to come in, but she saw young Maggie jump at the sound of her mother’s strident voice yelling, ‘Factories, you say. They’re sleepin’ out to pick up a job in them. Anyway, when fishing’s been your life, who wants to go standin’ in a factory, blackin’, bricks, pottery, glass, what have you? ’Tisn’t for fishermen. We’ll have a repeat of the big strike with our lot an’ all, you mark my words, because it isn’t only the fishermen, it’s the deep sea ’uns as well. There’ll be a repeat, you’ll see, and they’ll bring in the dragoons again and the cavalry. My God Almighty. I’ve seen it all, but never as bad as this.’ Her voice had lessened for a moment, but now it resumed its almost screeching tone as she cried, ‘And now you land with four of them! You must be mad. And from what I hear the pits inland are crying out for bairns. You mightn’t have a man to go down but he looks big enough. And the lass an’ all.’ She had pointed from Davey to Biddy.

  Now it was Riah’s voice that almost seemed to raise the low roof of the cottage as she cried, ‘I’ve told you afore, Ma, an’ I’ll tell you again, none of mine are going down below. And they won’t starve either, I’ll see to that. I’ll get work, I’ve got a pair of hands on me.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody soft, girl; we’ve all got pairs of hands, even mine.’ She held up her twisted fingers. ‘I could still gut, if it was any use guttin’. Look you.’ She advanced on Riah, and now her fingers forming into a fist, she punched at her daughter’s arm, saying, ‘You don’t know you’re born. You never have. I don’t know where in the name of God you come from, but from the minute you could open your mouth I knew it wasn’t from my side. And although you’ve passed the colouring on to that one’—she pointed to Davey—‘you’ve got the Swede inside of you. He was a skunk and he skunked off and lef
t me mother with six of us, and every now and again his mark comes up either inside or out. So now let me put it plain to you, miss or missis, there’s no work hereabouts; and there’s no habitation either because the bloody sea captains are buyin’ up the property and lettin’ ’em out at rents only the foreigners can pay. And there’s plenty of them kickin’ about.’

  The mother and daughter glared at each other for a moment; then Riah, with a catch in her voice, said, ‘Well, thank you for your welcome, Ma,’ and, turning, made towards the door, pushing the children aside and pointing towards their bundles to indicate that they pick them up.

  Ada followed them out of the cottage, and standing near her sister, she whispered, ‘She’s right, Riah, she’s right; there’s no work. But…but where are you goin’?’

  ‘I don’t know. But don’t worry; I’ll find a place.’

  ‘Have you got any money?’

  ‘Enough to get by on.’

  ‘Well, look’—Ada pulled her to a stop—‘there’s Mrs Carr, she’s at the very far end of the street. They’re not fishers, they’re river men, one’s on the keels, the rest do the trips to London Town and often they’re gone for a week or more. When the house is clear she takes lodgers. Go along there and see if she’ll take you. If not, I don’t know what you’re going to do.’

  Neither did Riah. But she patted Ada’s arm, saying, ‘Thanks, lass. I’ll find something. And let me say, I’m sorry you’re landed in this plight with me ma.’

  ‘There was nothing else for it. It was last year they went on strike for a better deal and now they’re a thousand times worse off then ever they were afore. I’m weary, Riah, utterly weary. She gets you down.’

  ‘I know that, Ada. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, go on. Let me know.’

  ‘I will.’ As Riah turned away, Ada, casting her eyes over the burdened children, said, ‘You’ve got a nice little crew, healthy lookin’.’