by Emma Hornby
Now, after placing the sack on to the ground and removing the cover, Amos stalked back to the cart and resumed his seat to catch his breath without her having to argue with him. Arms folded, mouth set in a grim line, he stared straight ahead. This acceptance – albeit definitely grudgingly – that she would undertake the next part of the job lightened her heart. Relieved he was finally taking note, she smiled sadly to herself. It pains me to have to force you to face that you’re not as fit as you once were, but it’s only because I love you, Father, she told him with her eyes as she shimmied the sack closer to the hole.
Her first few attempts at overturning them into the small openings had proved difficult – coal had spilled across the flagstones to settle in the gutter, much to Amos’s chagrin. Precision was vital. But as with everything, practice had become her friend; now, she managed to position the sack’s opening directly in place without much bother and was gratified to hear the black nuggets tumble effortlessly down the chute into the house below. Beaming, she looked to her father to see him watching her, a whisper of a smile on his lips, which pleased her enormously. Slowly but surely, his acceptance of her being here was growing, his pride, precious to him, tucked aside, and she adored him all the more for it.
After securing the plate back into position, marvelling anew at it – another unique example – she rose, folded the empty sack and deposited it on the cart. Kenneth, attuned to the daily routine, pawed at the cobbles with a giant, feathered hoof. On instruction from her father, she collected his nosebag, secured the straps around his head and climbed back into her seat. Whilst the horse enjoyed his oats, Laura took the quiet time to reflect on the day thus far – and the following ones to come.
Would Amos consent to her coming out with him again? She wished to make today a regular thing – he appeared much better than he had earlier, due, she was certain, to her help – but how would he take it? And what of her uncle? Could she continue to hide her absence from the yard? Would he discover what was going on? What if he did? They could both be out on their ear. Was this scheme of hers worth the risk? Yet what was the alternative? Allow the man beside her to work himself into an early grave? Never. Not that. She released a weary sigh.
‘Tha’s done well.’
Laura blinked in surprise at the gruff words. Warmness filled her. ‘You really think so?’
Staring straight ahead, he gave a reluctant nod. ‘Stood up to muster, aye. You’ve your mother’s stubborn streak in thee, all right,’ he added, frowning, but his tone held what sounded suspiciously like pride.
Shiny-eyed, she chuckled. ‘I miss her.’
His head bobbed again in agreement.
‘Father?’
‘Aye?’
‘Thank you.’
Now, Amos turned to look at her. ‘For what?’
‘The sacrifices you made for us, for me. Toiling alongside thee the day … I never truly realised how taxing the life of a coalman is. It’s hard ruddy graft!’
Out in all weathers. Come lashing rain and winds, snow and sleet and beating heat. Hauling and tipping and humping mammoth weights, the continuous grind, the dirt and the grime. The monotony of it all. It took a hardy will to cope; this she appreciated now completely.
With his usual modesty, he shrugged. ‘I’m the fella, ain’t I? It’s what we do.’
‘Nay, not all. Husbands and fathers aplenty fritter their brass on ale or strong porter, on gambling – or worse.’ She swallowed hard, picturing Adam Cannock’s face. He’d been a husband for the ‘or worse’ category, all right. ‘You chose – choose still – to earn, provide.’ Reaching for his massive hand, rough as old leather, she squeezed, repeating in a heartfelt whisper, ‘Thank you.’
They were silent for a while, listening to Kenneth’s soft snorts as he strove to reach the last morsels at the bottom of the canvas feeder. Then: ‘I’m for coming out with thee again the morrow.’ Laura let her eyes slope sideward to gauge his reaction, but his face was impassive. ‘All right?’
‘Aye.’ The word left Amos’s lips on a dull breath.
She pressed his hand tighter. ‘You understand why, Father?’
‘Aye,’ he repeated, and his eyes were misty, the expression in them one of utter defeat.
Tucking her arm through his, Laura laid her head on his shoulder. Just the two of them, always. Nothing – no one – else mattered.
As they weaved their way through the streets heading back for the poorer part of the district and the coal yard, Kenneth’s step lighter owing to the empty cart, Laura had prayed that her uncle hadn’t returned and discovered her gone. It wouldn’t have looked good, being her first day and all, not to mention the questions it would have raised and possible repercussions upon his finding out about Amos’s flagging health. However, she needn’t have worried. Nathan had greeted them with a meaningful nod: the boss man was yet to return; their secret was safe.
Nonetheless, her father had stopped her as she made to turn for the office. ‘Lass … No more.’
‘But we agreed—’
‘Should our Ambrose discover … I’m not ready for the knacker’s yard just yet, yer know,’ he added on a defiant growl, chest expanding with pumped-up pride. ‘No more, and I mean it.’
Laura’s mouth, opening to protest, clamped shut abruptly when she spied her uncle entering the yard through the gates. ‘We’ll speak on this later,’ she told Amos through the side of her mouth, disappearing into the office before he had a chance to offer more bluster.
‘All right?’ Ambrose took off his hat and threw it on to his desk. His smile at Laura’s nod slipped slowly away as he took in her face properly, and she frowned.
‘Uncle?’
‘What the divil has tha been up to, then?’
Blinking rapidly in confusion, not to mention shock – how on earth had he guessed? – she kept her tone nonchalant. ‘Up to? I don’t …’
‘Your ruddy phizog. It favours you’ve done a full shift down the pit.’
Her bemused frown melted and a cherry hue crept up her neck to blaze across her face. Oh God! Peering towards the window and catching her reflection, she baulked to see coal dust streaking her forehead and nose and black lines ingrained in her face. She turned back to him slowly. ‘I … Well …’
‘Eeh, I am sorry.’ Pulling a sheepish face, Ambrose shook his head. ‘A reet mucky hole, weren’t it?’
Laura could only shake her head.
‘The office here,’ he elucidated with a sweep of his arm. ‘’Tain’t seen a broom nor duster for more years than I care to admit. By, but you’ve worked hard, lass, I can see.’
‘Oh.’ To her horror, understanding brought bubbling laughter to her throat. She swallowed frantically to quash its escape. ‘Aye, yes. Well … ta.’
When he’d gone off again to inspect his workers in the yard, she heaved a sigh. Thank the Lord she’d remembered to return the cap she’d worn to its cupboard. And, owing to her shawl’s protection, little dirt had marred her clothing; though her skirts hadn’t been so lucky, were rather grubby, she noticed, glancing down. However, she’d forgotten all about her face – and hands, she realised, scrutinising these, too, and pulling a face.
What she needed was a change of clothing to wear whilst out on the cart. An old jacket and her own flat cap. Her father had customised his uniform, and years past had had her mother stitch together scrap lengths of leather which she’d fashioned into a waistcoat of sorts that he wore beneath his jacket, which cushioned the bite on shoulders and back from the lumpy coal sacks. Of course, she wouldn’t need this, her task being to merely hold up the bottom of the sacks. She could, however, do with some trousers – much more practical than long skirts. Though what Amos would say to this last item of wear she could well imagine. But well, he’d just have to accept it.
For despite his words upon their return, she had no intention of letting him continue his work alone. And she would tell him so, she thought decisively, squaring her shoulders, concern for his welfare lend
ing an angry edge to the vow. If her father thought she’d been hard on him earlier … He hadn’t seen anything yet.
That evening, as the three of them rose from the table after their evening meal, Bridget hovering close by in readiness to clear away the dishes, Laura motioned to her father to follow her. Leaving Ambrose to head to the room at the front of the house and his comfortable chair by the roaring fire, she led the way upstairs to her room, closing the door behind them.
Arms folded in readiness against the discussion to come, Amos stared at his daughter guardedly. ‘I’ll not be swayed.’
‘Nor will I,’ she shot back, voice low but firm.
‘Lass …’
‘We can make this work, Father. I know we can.’ She nodded her conviction. ‘Uncle Ambrose need never find out. He’s away from the office forra few hours each day; didn’t Nathan, the employee who tried to aid thee earlier, tell us so hisself? And he’ll help cover for us again should we need him to, I know he will—’
‘Tha can’t expect the lad to do that! He’d get the shove right away should my brother discover he’d been scheming along with us.’
‘But he won’t discover owt. He won’t, Father, for we’ll be careful. Please, trust me.’
For the next ten minutes, as Amos put obstacle after obstacle in her path as to why the idea was doomed to fail, Laura was armed with ready solutions:
‘You can’t manage two jobs,’ he put to her. ‘I’ll not see you wear yourself thin.’
‘The office work is but filing papers and light cleaning. Hardly taxing, Father.’
‘But lass, you’re a lass. I don’t agree with the fairer specie toiling in t’ muck!’
‘Pah. A bit of dirt never hurt no one. Besides, where there’s muck there’s brass, as the saying goes, eh?’
‘But … Ambrose discovering—’
‘We’ve spoke on that, Father.’
‘And what of me?’ he’d finished on a gruff rush, twin spots of colour appearing on his cheeks. ‘I’m done for, aye? Finished with?’
‘’Course not. I don’t think that—’
‘Nay? Well, I bloody does! I bloody feel that, Laura! Like a hammer blow to the guts, this is, as well as my pride. I should provide. Me, goddammit! I’m the man. Aye yes,’ he finished bitterly, and there was a catch in his voice, ‘the owd man, eh? The man now past it. The man what might as well fling hisself in t’ bloody canal and have done with it afore I become even more of a burden to youse all!’
‘Father, Father …’ Laura wrapped her arms around him tightly and he hugged her back, his large frame shaking in silent grief. Her own tears flowing, she thought her heart would break for him. ‘I’ll not hear thee talk so. Never think them things. I love thee, need thee, always. All you’ve done for me – are still doing. Let me give summat back. Let me help thee. Please.’
After a long moment, Amos straightened. He studied her, his eyes soft with anguish but also gratitude. Then his gaze flicked down to her clothing and one corner of his mouth twitched. ‘You’ll need another rig-out, mind. Them skirts’ll not last two minutes with the coal dirt.’
‘You mean …?’ He was accepting that this was how it must be? She held her breath, not daring to believe it.
‘Aye. Aye, lass.’
She threw her arms around him once more. ‘I’ll call in at Smithfield Market the morrow afore work. I’m sure to find what I need there. They’ve clothing stalls aplenty – cheap, an’ all, a lot of it. Bridget were telling me so the other day.’
‘Ahem. Don’t you mean Figg?’ her father corrected her in his haughtiest voice and pushed up the tip of his nose with his finger, poking fun at his brother’s false grandeur ways.
Smothering their laughter, they headed back downstairs arm in arm.
The following morning Laura rose early and, after dressing, made her way from the bedroom quietly so not to disturb the slumbering household. Upon entering the kitchen, she found Bridget up already and busy at work; she smiled at the maid’s surprised expression.
‘Morning, Figg.’
‘Morning, colleen. ’Tis unexpected to see ye at this fine hour.’
Rubbing the last traces of sleep from her eyes, Laura smothered a yawn. ‘Fine hour?’ she asked.
‘Oh aye.’ The Irishwoman glanced through the window to the sky of the newborn morn, its streaking of pearly pink clouds rapidly chasing away the dark. ‘This time, just before dawn break, is my favourite. God’s hour, I call it; for sure, you’ll not find another the whole day long so peaceful, nor beautiful.’
Contemplating her words, Laura nodded, and not for the first time wondered to herself what this gentle-spirited soul saw in her uncle. ‘I suppose you’re right, Figg.’
Eyes sweeping the heavens one last time, Bridget sighed happily then turned her attention back to Laura. ‘So, then,’ she said, pouring her tea. ‘Couldn’t ye sleep?’
Mindful of the need to keep her intentions secret – Bridget might well make mention of it to Ambrose – she sipped the hot brew before answering carefully, ‘I thought I might take a walk to the market.’
‘Well, you’ve picked the right time for it. It’s always best to get there ahead of the crush, before all the best buys are gone. Are you after purchasing anything in particular?’
‘Er, nay, not really. I’d best be away, then,’ she told her, handing back her cup and making for her shawl, which was hanging on a peg by the door. ‘Bye for now.’
‘Aye. And oh, don’t let those dealers charge ye top price. The cheek of some, to be sure! Barter, colleen. You’ll remember?’
‘I will,’ Laura assured her, smiling.
‘Good. I’ll have breakfast ready for ye when you get back.’
Despite the hour, the vast emporium in nearby Shudehill was heaving with traders and customers alike; Laura gazed around with interest. Every manner of produce you could need or imagine was right here under the iron-and-glass roof; the atmosphere buzzed with enthusiasm. Stalls and barrows groaned under foodstuffs and household items of all descriptions, and the air was filled with a cocktail of smells: spices and fruits and beautifying potions amongst a hundred others, all mingling together in a heady scent that plucked teasingly at the senses.
She spotted a second-hand clothes stall up ahead and made her way towards it through the throng of shoppers and market porters, glancing as she passed at other products on sale. She hadn’t money to fritter, it was true, but browsing was enjoyable nonetheless. Naphtha lamps swinging from stalls threw their lurid glow on the stock, some of which she hadn’t a clue what it was. Who knew so many different things existed? There were foods she’d never seen before, aromas she couldn’t identify, items crafted from wood and pot and metal whose uses she couldn’t guess at. The city market was an enchanting place; she could have stayed here all day.
Skirting a barrow piled with dead-eyed herring and shellfish, Laura edged her way to the front of the clothes stall, behind which stood a buxom girl busy serving a woman. Handing a bundle of neatly folded material to her customer, she eyed Laura and smiled. ‘Be with thee in a moment, love.’
Turning her attention to a pile of jackets whilst she waited, Laura found one right away that looked a good fit. The collar was stained and frayed and the sleeves torn, but that didn’t worry her – it was only to cover her own clothes from the muck of the coal sacks anyway. ‘How much?’ she asked when the stallholder was free to serve her.
‘It’s in a sorry state … Mind, nowt a good scrub and a needle and thread wouldn’t cure …’
‘It’s for my brother, and he warned me not to overspend,’ Laura lied, heeding Bridget’s advice. ‘He needs a rig-out for work. It’s coal he toils with, so the condition of the clothes matters none.’
The girl nodded. ‘To be honest, I’d likely have a job getting shot of it to many others in that state … All right, love, you can have it forra few pennies.’
‘Ta, thanks. I also need trousers. Oh, and a cap.’
After sifting through
a mound at the end of the stall, the girl returned with two pairs of trousers. She held up some in good-quality tweed, but Laura shook her head, opting instead for the others: a shabbier – and therefore cheaper – pair in rough fustian. A large cap sporting numerous holes followed the other items into the brown-paper-wrapped bundle.
‘Owt else?’ the girl asked hopefully, indicating with a sweep of her arm the array of bonnets and hats and shawls. ‘How about a few lengths of fine-quality silk?’ She fingered a pile of small square off-cuts. ‘Make lovely trimming, this would, for a tired-looking blouse. Or this—’
‘Mebbe another time when I’ve the brass to spare,’ Laura said with a smile, picking up the parcel of clothing she’d come for and handing across a fraction of what she’d anticipated spending on it. She thanked the seller and turned for home, delighted with her purchases.
She’d almost reached the market’s exit when a snippet of conversation nearby made her ears prick. Slowing, she glanced to the two women chatting by a rickety barrow filled with curious-looking ointments and liquids in glass bottles. They were discussing someone’s health, she realised, and immediately her father sprang to mind. She stepped closer. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Aye, lass? What can I help thee with?’ enquired the elder woman, her craggy face stretching in smile.
‘I … Well, it’s more my father needs helping really.’ Laura pointed to the merchandise. ‘Are these medicines?’
‘That they are. Herbal potions made by my own fair hands, I have here, to cure every ailment under God’s sun.’
Laura’s eyes widened with hope. ‘Even for the heart?’
‘Your father’s is bad, aye?’ the woman asked sympathetically.
Tears welled. She waited until the other customer had ambled away then nodded. ‘Has tha owt on yon barrow for him? Owt at all what might help?’
‘That I do.’
‘Oh! What?’
