Eden Falls

by Sanderson, Jane

  Next to him, as he tossed and fidgeted and flipped the pillow cool-side up, Anna slept on, her hair spread out in a silken frame for her face, her fingers laced and resting on her chest like a stone angel. In repose she looked even younger than her twenty-eight years – and God knows, he thought, twenty-eight was plenty young enough. Amos had stopped counting at forty: this is what he liked to tell Maya, when she demanded to know his age. That, or, ‘Younger than fifty, but older than your mam.’ It wasn’t that he minded the age gap between him and his wife, just that he didn’t want it to grow. Illogical and impossible though it was, he sometimes felt he was heading for old age at a faster rate than she was leaving her youth behind.

  Right now, for instance. The very fact that he woke three or four times every night while Anna slept the deep, unbroken sleep of the young was evidence to Amos of a widening gap between them. And her energy, her ideas, her enthusiasms: sometimes they made him feel elderly, grouchy, a stick-in-the-mud. He lay there, watching her sleep, envying her, loving her, and he leaned in and placed a quiet kiss on her right temple, half hoping it might wake her. It didn’t, of course. Short of the ceiling caving in, nothing would.

  Resigning himself to wakefulness, he lay back with his hands behind his head and began to think about how much he hated the Liberal Party in general and Asquith in particular. This was not a good line of thought for a man who hoped soon to nod off, but there it was. He hated them more, perhaps, than he hated the Conservatives, because at least Balfour had never pickpocketed Labour’s social welfare policies and called them his own. Asquith, however, had no such scruples; last year he’d announced the old-age pension as if it had come to him in a flash of inspiration. It was typical of the prime minister, thought Amos, to produce it like a white rabbit from a top hat, and then leave Lloyd George to worry about the finances.

  Outside, he could hear the first stirrings of the working day: pitmen leaving their hearth and home for another day at the seam. Terse greetings were exchanged – an ey up, or an ’ow do, gruffly issued, gruffly answered: they were an economical lot when it came to niceties. In his own mining days Amos had enjoyed many a silent walk down the pit lane in the dark, in the company of other men. There was something oddly companionable in being shoulder to shoulder with another miner, with whom you’d exchanged nothing friendlier than a curt nod of the head. You’d fall into step with another man and walk, smoke, say nothing much, but feel a brotherhood that Amos hadn’t found since, in the world outside a mine. Never had any trouble sleeping in those days, either. Ten hours hewing coal was a marvellous antidote to insomnia.

  He sat up and swung his legs out of bed. Might as well be doing summat as doing nowt, he thought. There was paperwork waiting for him, after all; there was always paperwork. He would brew up downstairs and make a virtue of his sleeplessness. Already he felt more purposeful, less wistful. When he left the bed, Anna murmured something indecipherable and, still sleeping, rolled across into the warm hollow left by his body.

  ‘See?’ he whispered. ‘You’d ’ave my spot as soon as look at me.’

  When Anna came down it was still too early for Norah, which Amos was pleased about because it meant he could pull his wife towards him at the kitchen range and give her a squeeze. She kissed him, too chastely for his liking, then studied his face. She looked concerned.

  ‘Have you been up for hours?’

  ‘Up for one hour, awake for three. Shall we go back to bed?’ He lifted her loose hair with his hands and kissed her neck.

  ‘Stop it,’ she said. ‘Is there any tea?’

  ‘Is there any tea? Is there any tea? When was there ever no tea?’ He let her hair fall and ran his hands down over her breasts. ‘Ahhh,’ he said into her ear, ‘you’re a torment.’

  ‘You torment yourself,’ she said, in her brisk voice. ‘Think about hot tea and pour one for me.’

  She sat down and pushed back her hair, tucking it behind her ears in a perfectly ordinary gesture that Amos found quite mesmerising. He stared and she rolled her eyes at him.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘what kept you awake?’

  He poured tea into the coronation mug that Maya had once brought home from a bring-and-buy sale in Ardington parish hall. It amused him, not only that the sale had been in aid of the local Labour Party, but also that he was able to put Edward VII to work whenever he felt like it. High time, he thought, that the useless bugger contributed to the real world.

  ‘Herbert Asquith,’ he said. He passed her the tea. The king watched him, reprovingly.

  ‘Hmm, him again. Do you suppose that Mr Asquith loses sleep over you?’

  ‘Not likely. One day, ’appen.’

  ‘Perhaps you should cross the floor.’

  She did this sometimes. He had learned not to rise, because by playing devil’s advocate, Anna wasn’t goading him: rather, she was confirming his beliefs.

  ‘And why would I do that?’ he said mildly.

  ‘Because then you could help implement these social policy changes, which you say are Labour’s ideas anyway. Don’t you want to be in government?’

  ‘Aye, I do,’ he said. ‘And I shall be, under Labour.’

  ‘Lloyd George seems decent enough. I think you could work with him.’

  ‘Aye, and if ’e wants to join us on t’Labour benches, we’ll all shove up for ’im.’

  She sipped her tea, then, regarding him over the top of the mug, she smiled fondly, as if at a wilful child. ‘What’s to be done, though? If Mr Asquith stops you from sleeping, I mean?’

  Amos studied the king, who looked back at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

  ‘Nowt, just yet. Except, maybe fresh air an’ a bit more exercise.’ He wasn’t joking, though he sounded to Anna as though he might be. With Amos, it wasn’t always easy to tell. ‘I might play some cricket this summer.’

  ‘For?’

  ‘New Mill pit team. Sam Bamford sent word: they need a fast bowler.’

  ‘Are you a fast bowler?’ She didn’t even know he played cricket, and it was admirable, really, how placidly she heard him out, when this scheme was entirely new to her.

  ‘I was, some time back. I reckon I could get my eye in soon enough.’

  She nodded. ‘Well I never,’ she said. But she liked the idea, and in her mind she already had him in cream flannels.

  They made a pilgrimage to Netherwood: Amos, Anna and Maya. Anna wanted to see how Daniel was faring and Maya never lacked a reason to see Ellen. Amos, though he’d mooted the outing in the first place, had no particular reason to go except that he wanted to. Sam Bamford was cited as his official business, but he missed his old home town, that was the truth of the matter. Ardington was similar in many ways to Netherwood, but in just as many it was different. Like Netherwood it had three inns, a school and two churches – one high, one Methodist – and like Netherwood its community was close-knit, which wasn’t to say people were universally friendly, just that they showed a keen interest in everyone else’s private affairs. Being nearer to Barnsley, though, Ardington had less of its own identity and the insidious sprawl of new housing on its outskirts had blurred its edges even further. There was one colliery here and, like Netherwood, coal had originally put Ardington on the map. But it didn’t feel like a coal town these days, because plenty of people worked in Barnsley, in its shops and offices. In Netherwood, if a man didn’t work at one of the pits, he probably didn’t work at all.

  They had decided to walk, though it was a distance of four miles. The footpath ran parallel to the railway track, and every so often the little band of pilgrims was taunted by the possibility – now foregone – of covering the journey in an easy ten minutes. However, Anna carried a knapsack of treats and Amos, from time to time, carried Maya, hoisting her up on to his shoulders with exaggerated effort, as if she weighed a ton. It was an old gag, but it always made her squeal in indignation and bat him round the ears with hot little hands.

  In Netherwood they parted company. Anna and Maya continued on throug
h the town to Netherwood Hall where, somewhere or other in the grounds, they would find Daniel. Amos took the cinder track to New Mill Colliery, where he hoped to see Sam. He took his time. It was a long time since he’d trodden this particular path and he slowed down to savour it; he liked the hollow crunch of the cinders under his boots. There were ghosts on this path, and two in particular that seemed to fall into step with him now: Arthur Williams, Eve’s first husband, and Lew Sylvester, who’d always had the knack of rattling Amos’s cage. The times were legion that they had tramped along this path together, blowing Woodbine smoke into the cold morning air, Amos snarling at Lew, Lew buttering up Arthur, Arthur keeping out of it. Lew and Arthur were names on the miners’ memorial now, the brass statue in the town centre that had been commissioned by the sixth earl as part of his attempt to atone for a lifetime of indifference: this was Amos’s interpretation, at least. Also, it was one he kept largely to himself. The earl’s untimely death had resulted in his virtual canonisation among some of the locals.

  ‘Amos Sykes, my comrade in t’struggle!’

  Sam Bamford emerged from the deputy’s office as Amos entered the pit yard. His greeting sounded ironic, but it wasn’t. Sam, whom Amos considered a political protégé, seemed to move ever leftwards in his views, so that by degrees even Amos was beginning to feel like part of the establishment.

  ‘Tha’s come to tell me tha’ll play?’ Sam was as keen on cricket as he was on revolution: the finest judge of off stump Amos had ever seen.

  ‘Aye,’ said Amos. ‘I’ll need some practice, mind.’

  ‘Tha’ll get it. Tuesdays and Thursdays, back o’ t’miner’s welfare.’

  Amos looked Sam over. He was a young man, by Amos’s standards – thirty, perhaps – with a serious face and, when he applied it, a serious mind. He had a safe job these days, deputy to the deputy, keeping accounts and dealing with the Coal Exchange. He’d developed severe claustrophobia after a rockfall trapped him for a day and a half in a space not much bigger than himself. It had got him out of the pit, this new fear of confined spaces; he never shut his office door, though. Sam liked to know his means of escape.

  ‘Nowt muckier than ink on your fingers these days, eh?’ Amos said.

  Sam said, ‘You can talk, Sykes,’ and Amos held up his hands in submission.

  ‘I know, I know. Pen-pushers, both of us.’

  ‘Aye well, tha can still plan a revolution from behind a desk.’

  ‘Trouble is, there’s not much appetite for it at New Mill, is there?’

  This was true: they were a moderate lot here. Plus, the way the Netherwood collieries were run these days was exemplary: union membership was permitted, the eight-hour day had been introduced before the previous year’s legislation and all the latest safety innovations were in place. It must be annoying, thought Amos, to be an agitator at a pit where the men were content. Sam shrugged.

  ‘Cometh the hour, cometh the man. I’m biding my time.’

  ‘And playing cricket in t’meantime.’

  ‘Exactly. We face Thorley Edge next Sat’day. Grudge match. Come on.’ Sam set off back towards the office. ‘Let’s talk tactics.’

  Chapter 26

  Henrietta’s trial had been set for 24 June, which was the day before Isabella’s coming-out ball. Terrible timing, with such a lot to accomplish before the event; nevertheless, there was great relief in the family that she would, after all, be freed just in time to attend the party. Henrietta had decided to represent herself, quite against the advice of the family lawyer, who privately thought her a strong-headed madam with an inflated ego and a lamentable lack of satisfactory male influence. He had told her that a more penitent attitude – a simple apology, a letter to Mr Asquith, perhaps – would be the quickest route out of custody. Henrietta, however, was not for turning.

  She spent the days before the trial marshalling witnesses and evidence, and for theatrical effect she had subpoenaed the prime minister.

  ‘Really?’ her mother said. ‘Extraordinary. Can she do that?’

  ‘Well, she has,’ said Tobias. They were together in the Fulton House ballroom, where the ceiling was being festooned with swags of jasmine; the waxy white flowers and their dark green leaves had been woven into thick, damp ropes of wire and moss, and they looked marvellous, though the scent was rather high, Tobias thought.

  ‘The hothouse at Denbigh Court must be stripped bare,’ he said. ‘Don’t you find it a bit much, the fragrance?’

  ‘We’ll open the windows. By Friday, it’ll be almost gone. And has Mr Asquith acquiesced?’

  ‘He has to. That’s the thing about a subpoena. She’s called him as a witness for the defence. Hilarious.’

  ‘Is it?’ Clarissa could see nothing funny at all in a set of circumstances that had resulted in her first-born child being put in the dock. For Henrietta, there would be no living down the scandal, she knew that much, and the issue itself was such a peculiar, unlikely matter on which to skewer one’s social standing.

  ‘It is. Very clever stunt, guaranteeing maximum publicity,’ Tobias said. ‘The pressmen will lap it up.’

  Clarissa arched her brows. ‘And yet I would have thought that the very least desirable of all possible outcomes,’ she said. ‘I do hope, when she comes home, she’ll behave herself for a while. Don’t let her go with you to Cowes if there’s any danger of her being rowdy or inappropriate.’

  ‘We’ll clap her in leg irons and send her shuffling down the plank, Mama, at the first hint of insubordination.’

  ‘You think me ridiculous.’ Clarissa turned away and he kissed her on one petulant, powdered cheek.

  ‘Fret not, darling Mama. I’ve seen Henry. The wind has been quite taken out of her sails, as we sailors like to say. I should think she’ll be good as gold after four weeks in the hell that is Holloway.’

  Isabella burst in on the other side of the ballroom. She looked slightly deranged, Tobias thought: hot and bothered, wild-eyed.

  ‘Izzy, what is it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, quite calm after all. ‘Why?’

  ‘This is how she is, these days,’ Clarissa said. ‘She looks perpetually on the brink of hysteria.’

  ‘It’s not easy, being a debutante,’ Isabella said, defensively. ‘I have a permanent feeling that I’m late for something. Am I, in fact?’

  Clarissa crossed the ballroom, stepping gingerly over garlands that were yet to be hung. They lay in coils on top of sheets, seeping water. Once, when this house had been her own, Clarissa would have fussed about the effect of standing water on the parquet. It was so pleasant, now, to admit the thought and then simply dismiss it.

  ‘Gloves,’ she said to Isabella. That was all. Together, they exited the room, followed by a footman.

  ‘Goodbye to you too,’ Tobias called out, merrily and then, to himself, ‘Don’t mind me, I’m sure.’

  The courtroom at Bow Street was small and quite friendly, with a pair of bookcases, one on each side of the door, bearing leather-bound tomes, and wooden pews for only a small number of spectators. Henrietta was disgruntled. She wished for a Crown Court and full jury; instead, she had a single, elderly magistrate, who looked at her with irritation, as though she was keeping him from the Telegraph. The room was packed, however: the pressmen were squeezed in standing rows behind a small, seated platoon of supporters from the WSPU headed by Christabel Pankhurst, whose presence in court added further to the press interest. Tobias and Thea, front and centre, represented the family and when the earl and countess had walked in, glamorous, glowing with wealth, steeped in confidence, there had been an audible stirring of curiosity, a ripple such as that in a congregation when the bride arrives at the head of the nave. Thea had smiled graciously here and there as if she was, indeed, the reason for the gathering; she had always shone in front of an audience.

  Henrietta had been given leave to wear her own clothes rather than the prison uniform, and this she did, choosing also to sport a beautifully embroidered WSPU sash across he
r chest, bearing the legend ‘Law Makers, Not Law Breakers’. It had been a gift from Mary Dixon, and in the gallery her face shone with ardent pride, but Mr Arbuthnot, the magistrate, immediately asked Henrietta to remove it, which she declined to do, thereby causing the first excitement of the morning. She didn’t resist as a red-faced police constable divested her of the broad satin band, but neither did she help. Instead she stood with her arms stiffly folded, which forced the constable to rip the sash at its seam to remove it fully. All the while, Henrietta held herself erect and stared at the magistrate with a steely contempt for his petty preoccupations. Thea laughed and gave a small clap; she had come along to the trial in the same spirit with which others go to the music hall, and was determined to be amused. Tobias gave her a nudge.

  ‘Pipe down,’ he said, sotto voce. ‘They chuck you out for enjoying yourself.’

  ‘Oh pish,’ Thea said. She sat on the very edge of the bench, leaning slightly forwards so as not to miss a thing. Henrietta had always had a magnificent hauteur, and she employed it now to full effect. She looked thin and taut, though, and smaller: her angular features were more pronounced than before and she was pale. Her blonde hair, in a loose chignon, looked dull and heavy. Thea regarded her with surprised concern. Henrietta – vital, windblown, hale and hearty Henrietta – seemed to have faded and shrunk.