by Maggie Hope
Peggy’s pleasure at the gift diminished. It must have come from bloody Gallagher. By, she wished she could take them and throw them through the bloody window. But there was the bairn – she had to be fed and kept out of the workhouse. Still, why not take it? To Gallagher it didn’t amount to more than a few coppers, any road. Not that she wanted more from him. She wanted nowt. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Miles Gallagher was at Winton Colliery, in the office with the manager. Production was down this month and he wanted to be prepared with answers when they asked why. After all, the snow didn’t affect the working conditions underground, did it? It didn’t cool down the temperature one iota.
‘There’s been more men taken badly, chest problems mostly,’ said Jack Mackay, who had taken over Winton after Jane Pit closed. The previous manager had been getting on a bit.
‘If they’re not fit enough for the work there is no place for them here,’ said Miles.
‘It is an exceptionally bad winter,’ said Jack. Some of the men had the miners’ disease from the dust, their lungs easily becoming congested in the sudden changes of temperature going on and off shift. And the pit was a wet one, which meant they were often wet when they came to bank. But he didn’t say any of this. If the weather were taking a turn for the better the men would soon be back at work.
Miles seemed a bit absent-minded this morning, though, and went to the door without commenting further. He went out to his horse and mounted, turning the animal for home. Tom was going back to school tomorrow; he would go home and have dinner with him. After all, the boy must still miss his mother.
He’d told the joiner to fix the water pump at Jane Old Pit and take some food over for the woman while he was about it. Not a lot but as much as she was probably used to – it wouldn’t do to let her think she was being paid off. His conscience was, if not exactly clear, eased.
Tom was building a snowman in the garden. At eight years old he was tall for his age but thin as a lathe. The old jacket he was wearing was short in the sleeve revealing knobbly wrists, red and angry looking above the wet wool of his gloves. His fair hair flopped over his brow from beneath his cap and the tip of his nose was as red as his wrists. When he saw his father he stopped, dropped the carrot he had been about to stick in the snowman’s face for a nose and stood still, watching as Miles dismounted and called to him.
‘Come and help me with Marcus, Tom,’ he called and Tom trotted over obediently. They led the horse into the stable and Miles unsaddled him while Tom filled the manger with sweet-smelling hay. They worked in silence except for the odd word about the job in hand, for Miles didn’t know what to say to his son these days. He rarely came into Barnard Castle to the school and took Tom out. In fact he hadn’t done that at all last term.
‘Have you everything ready to go back to school, Tom?’ Miles asked at last.
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Has Edna packed your clean linen? There’s nothing extra you need this term, is there?’
Tom agreed that there was nothing. He looked down at the slice of roast leg of mutton on his plate, cut a piece off and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly. He wasn’t expected to talk while he was chewing.
Miles added mint sauce to the mutton on his plate. The slice was a little pink in the middle as befitted roast lamb rather than mutton. Suddenly it reminded him of the goat he had eaten the day before so he put down his knife and fork and took a drink of water.
‘I don’t know why I bother cooking for those two,’ grumbled Cook when Polly brought back the plates with the half-eaten food. ‘The master usually likes mutton.’
‘Never mind, we’ll enjoy it later on,’ said Polly. She had a very healthy appetite and since she had been working here had changed from a thin, pale little girl to a plump, rosy woman.
Back in the dining room, Miles cleared his throat. ‘I’ll take some time off tomorrow morning and go to the station with you,’ he said. ‘If the weather were more clement I might have driven you up to school, but perhaps that wouldn’t be wise in the snow.’ He had to find a way to get closer to the boy, and was suddenly aware of it.
Six
1893
Merry woke in the early dawn of the October morning as she usually did. She had chores to do before she went to the hospital to work. She turned her head on the pillow and felt a twinge of alarm as Peggy wasn’t there. Merry had shared a bed with Peggy ever since she could remember, whereas Ben had a mattress that was newly filled with straw every harvest time. Shivering, for there was a chill in the air, she sat up, pulled on her shoes over her bare feet and ran downstairs.
‘Thank God!’ she said aloud. Peggy was there, asleep in the rocking chair by the dead fire, her feet propped on the fender. ‘Granma!’ cried Merry. ‘Wake up, you should be in bed. You’ll be as stiff as a crutch sitting there. Have you been there all night?’
Merry shook her grandmother’s shoulder, just a little, enough to wake her up. Peggy’s hand fell down by the side of her chair. Merry’s heart beat fast, almost jumping into her throat. Suddenly filled with dread, she forced herself to look properly at Peggy. Her pallor was unmistakable. In her short time at the workhouse hospital Merry had seen too many dead people not to recognise that fact.
‘What’s the matter with me granma?’ Ben came up behind her. She let out a small scream before she took control of herself, turned to him and put an arm around him.
‘Gran’s dead, Ben,’ she said. ‘Run and see if Mr Hawthorne is off shift, will you.’
‘Aw . . . Merry! No she’s not! You’re just saying that!’
But Ben knew she was not. He started to cry, tears running down his face as he stared at his granma. ‘What did she want to die for?’ he panted out at last, and Merry, who was holding him close now, shook her head.
‘She was tired, Ben. She was an old woman.’ How old was she? Merry wondered. Not that old. Not as old as some of the women in the workhouse, any road.
‘It’s not fair,’ said Ben. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and made to wipe his hand on the old shirt he slept in. Merry found a rag in her own sleeve and thrust it at him.
‘Howay now, Ben! Don’t be such a babby. Get away to Winton and tell Mr Hawthorne, will you? He’ll know what to do.’
There was no one else. Merry didn’t know why Peggy shunned her old neighbours; those that had straggled back to the pit villages around. ‘We’ll manage on our own,’ Peggy used to say. There was only Mr Hawthorne who had sold them the goat and Merry had only met him once or twice. But they had managed on their own. Most of the gardens of the houses at Old Pit had been cultivated at one time, and Peggy had used the others to graze the goat. (They did not name the goat now as Granma wouldn’t have it, though Merry vaguely remembered that one goat had been called Nannie and one called Betsy.)
Ben pulled on the trousers which came down to just below his knees. They hung from his shoulders by an old pair of galluses that had belonged to Grandda, the one that was buried in the pit.
‘I’ll go then,’ he said.
‘Put your boots on, Ben.’
‘Aw man, they hurt me feet,’ he protested, but pulled on the boots anyway.
Peggy Trent was buried in a pauper’s grave in the far corner of the churchyard at Old Winton village. There was a wooden marker that soon rotted away. Merry, Ben and Mr and Mrs Hawthorne were the only mourners. Afterwards the man came from the Board of Guardians and said arrangements would be made for them to go to the workhouse.
‘Me brother and me, we’re not going,’ said Merry. The man looked at them as they stood shoulder to shoulder. ‘I’ve got a job, any road. I’m going to be a nurse.’
‘An’ I’m going down the pit,’ said Ben as Merry gave him a sharp glance.
‘No you’re not,’ she hissed. ‘Granma would turn in her grave.’
The man from the Guardians shrugged. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you’re both of an age to work for a living, it’s true. Lads younger than you work down the mines,
Benjamin. You’re twelve, going on thirteen, aren’t you? And I understand you work in our infirmary anyway, Miss Trent. I cannot force you to enter the workhouse. How old are you?’
‘Fourteen. I’m fourteen and me brother’s nearly thirteen. We’re old enough to manage now. I’ll look after him, any road.’
The man shook his head and got to his feet. He looked around the kitchen. It was reasonably comfortable, in the way of the miners’ houses, a table, wooden chairs, a rocking chair and ancient sofa and a press. All shabby but clean. It was the deserted village around it that was strange. Outside the two rows of houses, all empty but for this one, were eerie somehow. But the boy and girl didn’t seem to mind. Of course they had been brought up here, he understood.
‘We don’t pay out relief,’ he warned. ‘If you stay out you get no help from the Guardians.’
‘We don’t need it,’ said Merry, drawing herself up. ‘We have the gardens and like I said, I have a job.’
‘The boy is old enough to work,’ said the man.
‘He has a name, Benjamin, and he is still at school. He’s clever,’ Merry asserted.
The man snorted. ‘Lads in his position cannot afford to be clever,’ he said. ‘He has his daily bread to earn.’
‘We’ll manage,’ Merry said tightly.
‘Aye, we will an’ all,’ said Ben.
After the man had gone away, the two looked at each other.
‘I can get work,’ said Ben.
‘No you can’t,’ Merry replied. ‘Anyway, you can go to school and still look after the gardens, can’t you? Maybe you’ll get some more work with Mr Parkin. You can snag turnips and that. When you’re not at school that is. Granma wanted you to finish school, Ben, you know that. Now I have to go back to work.’
As Merry walked the three miles into town her thoughts were at last coming out of the turmoil they had been in since Peggy died. She had to plan to get through the winter. She calculated that they would have about twelve 8-stone bags of potatoes when they had completed the harvest and they would be able to keep them dry and free from frost in the upstairs room of the house next door.
If Ben worked for Mr Parkin on Saturdays in return for turnips and eggs, they would manage, for she could buy off-cuts of meat at the market on Saturdays from her own wages. The best time was after dark when the butchers wanted to get rid of what they had left and go home. And when the fishwives came in from Shields they could often get fish for next to nothing – caller herring or black-skinned cod that no one else wanted because the fish was older and more coarse. Granma had taught her how to bake the cod in the oven, though, slowly so as to make it tender.
Granma. She hadn’t thought of her granma for ten minutes and now the memory of the old woman had popped into her mind. It took her by surprise and the lump in her throat threatened to explode. She blinked her eyes rapidly and pressed on her top lip to stop herself crying. Crying did no good, she just had to get on with things.
Doctor Gallagher was in the entrance of the workhouse when Merry walked in, standing talking to Matron who was also the workhouse mistress.
‘You should come in by the back door, Trent,’ Matron said sharply.
‘Sorry Matron,’ Merry mumbled.
‘How is your grandmother, Miss Trent?’ the doctor asked and Matron looked disapproving. It was not for a doctor to make conversation with the domestic staff; she would have to have a quiet word with him about it.
The question took Merry by surprise, even shock. She looked properly at him. ‘Granma died, Doctor,’ she said and, her guard down, her eyes filled with tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tom and she was further upset by the kindness in his blue eyes.
‘Yes, well,’ said Matron, ‘go to your work now or you will be late.’ Merry turned blindly away and hurried off to the ward on Block 3 where the infirm and bedridden were housed.
‘It’s no good letting these girls get too emotional,’ said Matron. She was tired having been got out of bed by the night nurse an hour earlier than usual because one of the patients who was suspected of having typhoid had died. As it happened Dr Gallagher had called in to see the old man in any case and he issued the death certificate. Though what he was doing there at this godforsaken hour of the morning Matron couldn’t think. She disapproved of it though. There was no real need for doctors to be cluttering up the wards except at the appointed times for the rounds.
Tom Gallagher went out in to the cold morning air to where his horse and trap were tethered close by. At the other end of the site he could hear the noises made as the men from the workhouse began their stone-breaking work in the stone yard. He felt thoroughly depressed.
That little girl, for she was no more than that, had looked so woebegone. She was so pale and her dark eyes looked enormous, the lids pink where she had wept. Her dark hair was drawn back unbecomingly under the enormous cap the hospital made her wear. In fact he wouldn’t have recognised that it was dark but for the small lock that had escaped onto her neck at the back. He wondered if she was left on her own now in that tumbledown huddle of miners’ hovels. God help her if she was.
Tom climbed onto the seat of the trap and clicked at the horse to get him going. His thoughts wandered back to the old man he had just seen die. His hands had been gnarled and marked with blue scars from the coal, his lips drawn back in a permanent half-grin from the effort to breathe after a lifetime breathing in coal dust. And he had ended a pauper.
The horse took little direction for he knew his own way home. They turned into the entrance of Tom’s father’s house and Tom drove round the back to the stable.
It was still very early, only just breakfast time so he washed his hands in the downstairs cloakroom which had a newly installed washbasin decorated with green ivy leaves, and even hot water from the copper boiler in the kitchen. Oh yes, he thought, the agent’s house has all the latest conveniences, even a water closet on the upstairs landing.
‘Good morning. What on earth were you doing out at this time of the morning?’ asked Miles as Tom went into the dining room and began to help himself from the dishes of bacon and eggs kept hot over a candle burner. Tom filled his plate and sat down at the table before replying.
‘I wanted to see an old man at the hospital. He was pretty poorly last night.’
‘How was he?’ asked Miles. At least it was a way of making conversation with Tom, he thought, though he wasn’t the least interested in how a pauper in the workhouse infirmary was. Sometimes Tom seemed like a stranger, and he never knew what to say to him.
In fact Miles strongly disapproved of Tom attending the paupers. Goodness knows what he might pick up. He buttered a piece of toast and added marmalade before taking a bite.
‘He’s dead.’
Miles shrugged. ‘Nothing contagious, I hope?’ Old men who were paupers usually died.
Tom almost said it was indeed contagious, typhoid perhaps, or cholera. But he didn’t. ‘No, not contagious. The miner’s disease, emphysema. And poverty of course.’
‘These pitmen rarely save for their old age; they give no thought for tomorrow. All they are interested in is spending their wages in the nearest ale house.’
Tom frowned but said nothing. He would never succeed in changing his father’s opinions, he’d tried before. In any case it was true that the ale houses were full on pay nights. He decided to change the subject.
‘That woman who stayed on in the old Jane Pit rows died too. I was surprised she was still living there on her own, but for her granddaughter. I think there is a boy too. He’s just a child, still at school.’
Miles, who had been raising his cup to his lips froze, the cup halfway.
‘Father?’
Miles realised Tom was waiting for a comment. ‘Oh, did she? I seem to remember there was one left there.’
‘Yes. I was surprised she was allowed to stay really. She would have been better off in Winton Colliery, surely?’
‘The houses in Winton are needed for the pi
tmen. Anyway she couldn’t afford to pay any rent. It was an act of kindness to allow her to remain at Jane Pit.’
Tom almost choked on his coffee at the idea of his father doing an act of kindness to one of the mining community. Perhaps he wasn’t so hard as he had thought.
‘She was a widow. Her husband and son were killed in the disaster at Jane Pit,’ said Miles almost as though he had to explain himself. ‘In any case, it costs nothing. Since then there has been the Employers Liability Act of 1880. Iniquitous it is. Now they’re bringing in a Compensation Act. More often than not these miners are killed through their own negligence. And accidents happen in any walk of life.’
Tom stood up abruptly. He was too weary to argue and if he stayed he would be unable to stop himself.
‘I think I’ll have a bath and a rest before it’s time for my surgery,’ he said. He had a practice in Winton village that barely covered expenses which was the reason he was living at his father’s house.
‘Why you don’t take a practice in the town I don’t know,’ grumbled his father. ‘I have told you I am willing to help you buy . . .’
But it was too late, Tom was already halfway up the stairs.
Seven
Miles was once again riding along the old waggon way that ran from Winton Colliery along by the side of the deserted village and old pit. Though nowadays it was more comfortable for him to take the tub trap when he went round the collieries in his charge, a horse could go places a trap could not. Not that he had intended to go to Old Pit for really he was on his way to Eden Hope, and usually he took the newly tarmacked road when he went there.
He was thinking of his future plans. Although he had said nothing as yet to Tom, he had been thinking of remarrying lately. Miss Bertha Porritt was the daughter of a mine owner on the other side of the Wear, a man with three mines all producing good quality coking coal and no sons to inherit. She was a bit long in the tooth perhaps but what did that matter? With his knowledge of the coal trade and the burgeoning iron trade in Middlesbrough, he could go a long way. Miles smiled to himself. Her nose was a trifle long too and the only red patch on her face, but who looked at the chimney when you stoked the fire?
