by Meg Foster
Walk the Pit Road
by Meg Foster
copyright 2013 by Meg Foster
A soft breeze played about Nancy’s hair as she stood in the warm sunshine waiting for the green bus into town. She was alone at the stop, and this pleased her, for she had no desire for idle chit chat today. Her trip into town was not something she cared to discuss with anyone else. Nancy knew she had the reputation among the village women as being stand offish, but it was just the way she was. She always felt uncomfortable at the way the other women seemed quite at ease discussing their personal lives with each other, her thoughts were that personal lives were private and that was how she liked to keep hers.
Opening her best handbag she removed the soft blue leather purse that Peter had given her for Christmas. It was an expensive item but he had insisted she was worth every penny, including the one that was taped to the inside flap so the purse would never be empty. Glancing at the penny a soft smile moved round Nancy’s face. She was so fortunate in her choice of husband, she loved Peter dearly and both of them adored their outgoing little daughter beyond measure.
As the old green double-decker bus rolled to a stop and Nancy boarded to the friendly greeting of the conductress, the woman at number six felt a pinch of envy.
Grace Graham was looking out at the quiet street that ran along the front of the row of miner’s cottages where she lived with her husband Alex and their three boys. Like most miner’s rows Braeside had no gardens attached to the front. There was a large allotment area on the far side of the village which most of the men, and even a few women, took advantage of to grow their own vegetables. Potatoes, turnips and carrots, along with cabbages and brussel sprouts were the most popular. Peas were also planted but many were lost to raiding children who enjoyed the fresh peas straight from the pods. Anyone who tried to grow strawberries was thought to be mad.
Today was a lovely bright day. Yes, it was a perfect day for a stroll in the park, or a ramble up the hills. Grace thought wistfully. Or, there again, for hanging out the large wash that was lying in the wicker basket in the washhouse. What with baby Tom’s nappies, and Alex’s very dirty pit clothes it had been a busy morning.
Grace hoped that this was a taste of the weather to come, then the spring of Nineteen Fifty would be something to look forward to. ‘Perhaps I’ll put young Thomas in his pram and meet the boys after school.’ she thought, ‘then we can take a walk up the pit brae and on out to Mile End farm and pick up some of Annie’s new fresh eggs. Alex was fond of scrambled egg on his pit piece. ‘Nice and moist,’ he always said, ‘ when your mouth is dry from coal dust.’
Grace had just popped in from the wash house to check on baby Thomas, no worries there, he was sleeping soundly in his cot which was alongside the high double bed. The bed where his father lay snoring, catching up from a hard night shift down the local pit.
Gazing from the window she had observed Nancy Martin getting on the bus. ‘Swanning off to meet her friends, I expect,’ were the thoughts that ran through her head. ‘All right for some; one wee girl, a man who worships her, and a mother to take up the slack. Not like me, two boys in school and one in the pram.’ “Stop it,” Grace admonished herself. Everyone knew that Nancy would give her eye teeth for another child. It just didn’t seem to be happening.
Smiling at herself she took another look at the baby, then, closing the door quietly, made her way through the back kitchen and out to the drying green.
*****
The wash house, and drying green were shared by all the families in the row. Each day, except Sunday of course, four different women would take it in turns to use the deep chipped sinks and the copper boiler that was housed in the far corner. It was a roster strictly adhered to, and it was a matter of luck if you got a good breezy drying day, or one when the rain made it impossible to hang things outside. When it was wet, as it often was, the women had to drape everything on the pulley, and sometimes on the wooden horse placed round the fire.
Today, Wednesday, Grace was second in line to Nancy, who had made an early start leaving her plenty time to go into town. Her washing was already flapping gently in the westerly breeze, and her mother had promised to bring the clothes in if rain threatened, or if she was late getting home.
Stringing her line up from pole to pole, Grace smiled inwardly, remembering the time she, and her sister Jean, had cut a large chunk from their mother’s line to use as a skipping rope. When mother found her line too short to reach the poles she had threatened to whip them. It never happened of course, but they were kept indoors after school for the rest of the week, and were given more than normal work to do around the house. Truth to tell, Grace thought mother was glad when the week was up, and she could chase them out from under her feet. That skipping rope lasted for years. It was used by many children in the street, all chanting the rhymes, and queuing up for their turn. It was later confiscated by Mr O’Brien, the headmaster of the primary school, when the Chapman boys used it to tie up a couple of younger girls, while playing cowboys and Indians
While Grace was hanging out her washing, Maggie at number seven, was preparing John’s breakfast. It was John’s habit to have a bit of toast and a cup of tea when he rose in the morning. At around 10:30am he had his breakfast with bacon, eggs, and fried bread. Sometimes it varied but only by a pork sausage or some black pudding. Once, Maggie had added a couple of mushrooms, but John discarded them as “to fancy.” He was a man who liked his food plain.
Their daughter Nancy was always telling them that fried food was unhealthy, to which John would reply, “Good food never fattened a pig.” Maggie was unsure what he meant by this, but knew he enjoyed his breakfast and didn’t see anything wrong in what they ate. Many a family would be glad of what went on their table.
The bright light in John’s life was his seven year old granddaughter Elsie. Elsie was Nancy and Peter’s only child, and it looked like she would remain so. When John had broached the subject of more grandchildren, Maggie promptly told to mind his own business, and he had gone off with his nose in a sling.
Elsie was a grand wee domino player, her grandad had taught her well, and now she gave him a challenging game. Today she was expected at her grandparent’s house after school, as Nancy had gone into town, and John had the dominos lying at hand, ready to set up when she arrived.
His arthritis wasn’t too bad today; it was always a bit less painful when the weather was warmer. Some days it was so bad he found it hard to move from his chair. Luckily he had a good wife who did not complain, although it often made John feel guilty that he caused Maggie extra work.
Maggie, on the other hand, did not look on it as extra work, he was her husband and it was her duty to do her best for him, as he had always done his best for her. It was not only a duty, but a labour of love. John had worked hard at the pit face for many years to make a decent wage for his wife and family, and, unlike some other men, never kept her short. So now, when his body was worn done, and his breath came in rasps, Maggie cosseted him, and fed him fried breakfasts, against all good advice, for her instinct told her he would not see many more winters.
*****
Grace had finished pegging out her washing, and looked in again on the baby. He was as sound as before, and Alex likewise. Grace gazed fondly at this big ungainly husband of hers. He was working the nightshift for the second week in a row. Peter Martin had asked him to swap shifts as Nancy hadn’t been too well lately, and Peter was loath to leave her alone at night. Of course Alex had agreed. It was not unusual for the men to do this and help each other out.
Quietly closing the door Grace made her way back to the washhouse.
Young Isobel Ford was third in line. Isobel who was i
n her last month of pregnancy with her first baby was having a hard time leaning over the tub with the scrubbing board when Grace came in through the heavy old door. ‘For goodness sake, girl, give over,’ she admonished the young girl, ‘ I don’t want to be delivering your baby on the wash house floor.’ ‘I know, Grace,' murmured Isobel, ' but mother is coming for my lying in and I don’t want her thinking I keep a dirty house.’ "I'm sure she will think no such thing,' replied Grace, coaxing her to sit down on an old basket chair that lay among other junk in the corner, while she took over.
As Grace started on Isobel’s sheets Ellen Chapman came in. Ellen was fourth in line for the washhouse. She always went fourth although the other three took turns at first, second, and third. Rolling up her sleeves, she helped Grace with the sheets, turning the heavy mangle as Grace fed them in. Isobel, rubbing her aching back, was very grateful for the help of her two friends as she would never have managed the mangle on her own.
The three women chatted of everyday things, and of course the talk got round to the coming baby, and all the nappies Isobel would have to wash once he, or she, arrived.
Ellen had a lot of experience in washing nappies, six bairns in less than eight years. William Chapman had a lot to answer for. Everyone knew, or thought they knew, what poor Ellen had to put up with. His drinking, his womanizing, and, some said, his violent behaviour towards his uncomplaining wife.
The other women in the village tried to lighten her load without appearing to pity her. That would never do. Grace, Isobel, and even Nancy left bits of worn soap and washing soda by the scrubbing board, and with Ellen being fourth in line very often there was a good full boiler already warmed with her neighbour’s coal. Most miners’ wives had plenty coal, but Chappie was not above selling his allowance for beer money.
The van men from the local co-op store were also heroes in this respect. Davie the butcher always made sure that the soup bones Ellen bought had more than the required amount of meat still clinging to them. Her half pound of mince got another dollop after it had been weighed and the odd sausage found its way into her meagre purchases. Then there was Jimmy the baker who accidentally squashed some bread so it was not fit to sell, Ellen’s brood did not mind squashed bread, it went well with the overripe bananas from Ben McCabe the fruit man.
Grace liked the woman for her fortitude. She had never heard Ellen say a bad word against Chappie. Sometimes Grace herself would make excuses for Chappie. Her parents had lived next door to the Chapmans when Grace and her sister were young girls. Mr Chapman was a drunk, an ugly one at that, and his wife not much better. The rows that emanated from that house were, at times, quite violent. Many a time the Chapman boys had sat in the Stewart’s kitchen while Grace’s mum fed them bread and jam, and pretended not to hear the commotion next door.
There were times the boys would sit outside McKenna’s pub until one or other of their parents were shamed enough to come out, and throw them the price of a bag of chips. They had to learn to survive on their wits, these boys. It was sad that Chappie, the oldest and most handsome had gone the way of his father, they say the apple does not fall far from the tree. Peaty, the second son, was in jail now, but the two younger ones had joined the army. There was hope for them at least.
There was a time Grace had found herself attracted to Chappie, with his good looks, and silver tongue. Thankfully Alex Graham came into her life and all thoughts of the silver tongued young fly- by-night fled.
When Grace left school she had gone to work as a dairymaid on Joe McKenzie’s farm. Alex was a farm hand, a few years older than the new dairymaid, but before long the two started walking out together.
After they were married and their second son was on the way Alex realised that the small wage he earned on the farm was not enough to care for a growing family, so reluctantly he signed on at the pit. This secured them a pit house, cheap coal, and an improvement in wages.
A good strong worker Alex had worked his way up the ladder a little, and Grace had come to terms with her man going down the shaft each day. After the first few weeks, she did not allow herself to think of the cage or the conditions Alex worked in. It was the life they had, like many others, and you just had to make the best of it.
Ellen knew the efforts her neighbours applied to make her life a little bit easier, and she was grateful, even more grateful that it was done in such a way so not to make her feel bad. She tried to repay their kindness in some small way. Like this morning, helping Isobel with her washing, and often taking care of neighbour’s children when the need arose. No one worried about leaving their children with Ellen, she was known to be a good mother. Her children might wear hand me downs and live on meagre fare, but they were well loved, and a friendly little bunch, showing none of their fathers bad temper. Not for them the sort of mother Chappie had lived with. The boys and the little girls seemed to accept their life without question but Ellen knew that her eldest, Agnes, was beginning to wonder and notice a lot more of what was going on in her home.
Often, Maggie Wilson, at number seven, would ask Ellen to run an errand for her. Mrs Wilson’s daughter, Nancy, was a bit of an enigma. She had been in Ellen’s class at the big school, and even then had thought herself better than the rest of the girls. That sort of attitude was certainly not encouraged by her mother, and Joe, her younger brother was one of the nicest, easy going, lads in the row, if not the entire village.
Placing her wash in the large boiling copper Ellen returned to the green to help Isobel, and Grace finish pegging Isobel’s sheets on the line. Baby Nell was sound asleep in her pram by the kitchen window; the two small girls were playing in a pile of sand tipped on the edge of the green. Ellen’s three other children were in school. Mr O’Brien, the head teacher, without permission from the authorities, had allowed four year old David to attend the infant’s class. This was another kindness that made Ellen’s life just a wee bit easier.
Looking at her daughters playing contentedly in the muck Ellen tried to picture their little faces when they saw their lunch today. Jimmy had ‘accidentally’ dropped a whole fruit loaf on the floor of the van. “Would Ellen kindly give it to old John’s dog?” He had asked, as he placed it beside the brown loaf and threepence worth of tea bread on her tray. Ellen knew full well that the fruit loaf had never been anywhere near the floor of the van. Aye, people were kind if you just let them be. So why did it make her feel so sad. She didn’t understand why she felt so down, she should be over the moon.
All last week she had lived with the abject fear that she was once again pregnant. This morning she woke to realise it wasn’t so. Her relief had been great. Chappie had warned her he wanted no more children, as if she made them all by herself. She also knew her children had more than one little half sibling running around the outlying villages. Chappie of course took no responsibility for these children. On one occasion an irate husband had beaten him so badly that Ellen thought he would need to go to the hospital, but Dr Craig had managed to patch him up, and advised him to mend his ways. Once, after treating Ellen for yet another household accident, the Dr had tentatively suggested that she may be better off without Chappie.
‘And where he thought I might go with six babies,’ Ellen wondered. Even her own mother, while feeling sorry for her girl, was of the opinion ‘you made your bed, you lie in it.’ That, of course was the start of the problem.
When young Ellen Gillespie had fallen for the undoubted charms of handsome William Chapman, she found herself lying in a bed in no time flat. When she told her parents she was pregnant; her mother cried, her father raged, and her brothers threatened to beat the hell out of Chappie if he did not marry her. Only her sister May had tried to talk her out of it ‘Don’t marry him,’ she had pleaded ‘you will regret it for the rest of your life.’ But Ellen didn’t listen, and three months before Agnes was born she married William Richard Chapman in the registry office in the city.
Not for her the white flowing gown of her dreams, a plain e
veryday frock with a small spray of violets given to her by loyal May, who stood witness along with Chappie’s younger brother, apart from the bride and groom, the only two people at her wedding. Now look at her, eight years on, an old woman before her time. Chappie didn’t look so good either, the drinking was taking its toll on his good looks, but he still had the patter and the women he met in pubs still fell for it.
*****
Nancy sat with her ankles neatly crossed as a lady should. The waiting room was cool and comfortable with a good selection of current magazines. The blonde receptionist had taken the referral letter from Dr Craig and asked Nancy her details. A large blue file with her name boldly printed on the front cover now lay on the desk.
Nancy had never been prone to nervousness but today her stomach was tightly clenched, if such a thing is possible. She was here at Dr Craig’s behest. He had referred her to Dr Melville who was a leading expert in woman’s troubles, and woman’s troubles Nancy had. Her cycle had always been erratic but it was not a subject openly talked about.
In the seven years after Elsie’s birth there had been many times she thought she might be pregnant, a hope dispelled after a few days. On three occasions however she had indeed been expecting a baby only to lose it at around ten weeks. The last time was only a couple of weeks ago.
‘Spontaneous abortion,’ was the expression the Dr used. Nancy hated these words even if the term was technically correct. No one, other than Peter, her mother, and the Dr knew about the pregnancies and that was how she wanted it to stay. It was nobody’s business and she did not want anyone’s pity, to Nancy that would have been unbearable.
She was here to see if the specialist could find a reason why she could not hold on to her babies. She had experienced no problems with Elsie, falling for her ten months after marriage, an easy enough nine months, and, although not an easy birth, nothing to dramatic. At least not according to some, the stories she had heard of some births would make your hair curl.
