The Miner’s Girl

by Maggie Hope

  ‘Rubbish, you can do that later. I need to see Father. And another thing. It’s time we had a proper carriage, something as befits our station in life. I’m ashamed to be seen riding through the town in the old trap.’

  ‘Really, my dear, I don’t know if we can afford—’ Once again he was interrupted.

  ‘Of course we can. And if we cannot, Father will buy one for me. I’ll ask him today.’

  Miles groaned inwardly. He knew what would happen then, he thought. The old man would go on and on about how Miles wasn’t treating his daughter as she deserved; couldn’t afford to. Miles capitulated. He rose to his feet and sighed. ‘Very well, my love, I’ll take you now.’

  As they drove down the bank to the ancient stone bridge over the Wear then up the other side, the horse slowing to a walk, his thoughts were dark.

  ‘Be back for me by three,’ Bertha ordered as he handed her down at her father’s door. ‘There’d be no need for this, you know, if you’d come and live here. This house is superior to yours.’

  She never let anything go, thought Miles. Every day she said something about moving in with her father. But on this he was adamant. Mr Bolton, the ironmaster, liked his employees to stay where he told them; the agent’s house was there, overlooking the valley and hillside studded with mines, and there he expected his agent to live. He would be very suspicious if Miles moved to live with another owner nearby, even if that owner was his wife’s father. Mr Bolton had a keen eye for his company’s interests.

  Miles held out his arm for Bertha to take and led her to the door. ‘I must stay where I am, my dear,’ he said. ‘It is a condition of the position.’

  Bertha sniffed. ‘You could take up my father’s offer,’ she said.

  ‘No Bertha, I could not,’ he replied. She might wear him down, he thought wearily as he returned to the trap. But the position old Porritt had offered was one without power – he would be a glorified office boy. He would fight to the last to avoid it. One of these days the old man would be completely past it then he would have total control.

  He drove the horse out onto the road, took the turning back into the town and out the other side, turning off onto the road for Winton Colliery. It was a nice day, the first warm day of the year. He would leave the trap in the colliery yard and walk up the line to Eden Hope. He had plenty of time before he had to go back for Bertha so he might as well stretch his legs, get some fresh air in his lungs.

  As he drove through Winton Colliery village he gazed sadly at the surgery where Tom had used to practise. He could have gone so far, that lad. Instead he was working in another colliery village over by Durham. Miles had to admit he missed him. Tom was maddening at times with his funny ideas about working for the pitmen and their families, but he was a hell of a lot better company than Bertha.

  When Miles came out of the manager’s office with an obsequious Jack Mackay showing him off the premises as it were, the sun was warm on his face. The winding wheel was whirring against the blue sky and the cage came up, spilling a load of men out. They blinked in the brightness of the unaccustomed sun, and the light twinkled and bounced off the coal dust on their clothes as light does off sequins. They looked over at the two gaffers but all they were really interested in was that first draw on a fag for eight or ten hours and getting home for their dinners.

  ‘Get the horsemen to see to my horse, Mackay,’ said Miles and strode off up the waggon way towards Eden Hope.

  The wind was slightly chilly in his face but fresh and bracing. He strode out with a will, trying to work out in his mind the best course of action for him to achieve what he wanted. When he came to the offshoot that led to the abandoned Jane Pit and its deserted village he paused, distracted by memories. On impulse he turned off along the overgrown track, past the ancient pithead. The memorial was almost obliterated by dead weeds, brown and sere. A nettle bed had new growth almost six inches high already, growing right up to the stonework. Anyone walking past would not recognise the structure for what it was.

  The double row of cottages faced each other, still not demolished. But there was very little to salvage from them, Bob Wright the joiner had told him years ago. He paused at the end house with the water pump opposite, rusty now but still standing solid and sturdy. There was glass in the bedroom window still. Undergrowth and even taller trees encroached on the houses.

  Miles thought of the woman who had lived there with the little girl. A real woman she had been, he thought, not like Bertha. As he turned away and took the track that led out of the village towards Eden Hope, he felt even more dissatisfied with his life than he had that morning.

  He was abstracted as he conducted his business with the manager, Mr Jessop, absent-minded almost, less critical. When he had finished he went outside to find the day was darkening, rain beginning to fall, stirring the dust in the yard and turning it into black mud.

  ‘Blast the bloody weather!’ he said savagely to the manager. ‘I’ve left my trap at Winton.’

  ‘I’m going home for dinner today,’ said the manager. ‘I’ll take you over to Winton if you like.’

  ‘Thank you. I think I’ll take you up on that,’ Miles replied.

  They were going through the village of Eden Hope to the road that led to Winton when Miles saw the boy. He was with a woman and a younger child but the younger child looked different. The boy was the same colouring as Tom and that other one; even as he himself had been when he was younger.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Jessop asked. The gaffer looked as though he had seen a ghost.

  Miles looked quickly away from the woman and her children, but not before she had caught his eye and he realised with a shock who she was. Was he to be plagued with that family forever? He turned to Jessop and forced himself to smile pleasantly.

  ‘No, why should there be?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Mr Jessop replied. He turned the pony out onto the road that meandered out between farms on its way to Winton Colliery. ‘Giddy up,’ he said and coaxed it into a canter. He was looking forward to his dinner, which would be waiting for him.

  Morosely, Miles picked up his own vehicle and drove home. His spirits lightened as he went inside. Polly brought his meal on a tray to the dining-room table. It was steak pie today and there was an abundance of vegetables and rich gravy. What could happen anyway? he wondered. That brat couldn’t possibly be his, though it could be Tom’s. Miles doubted it, Tom was too goody-goody to leave a girl and his child. Or maybe he wasn’t? Perhaps he didn’t know about the child.

  ‘Isn’t that the girl who lived at Old Pit?’ he’d asked Jessop.

  ‘Mrs Wright? I believe she did,’ Jessop had replied, glancing curiously at Miles but Miles’s expression gave nothing away and he volunteered no information as to why he was interested. Maybe it was just a casual enquiry.

  Inwardly Miles was telling himself it didn’t matter; Tom was unlikely to find out. He himself was married to Bertha now, so there wasn’t the same threat.

  Thinking of Tom he decided he would go over Durham way and see him at the weekend. Have one more try at getting him to see sense and take up a more lucrative private practice, something that paid more than the pennies he got from the Panel.

  Tom was driving back home himself after his rounds. He was tired, having been up since two o’clock when he had been called out to a small boy with a fever. The tiny body was hot and the skin dry, the face flushed with the fever.

  ‘It’s his throat, Doctor,’ said the mother. ‘I was waiting for morning to see if he was any better before calling you but he’s not getting better, he’s getting worse. He can’t take even a sip of water now. I’m sorry to call you out like this—’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Tom had said. ‘Let’s have a look at him.’ His heart sank as he realised that the boy had a membrane beginning to block his throat, typical of diphtheria. It was early in the year for it to appear, so now there was every chance of an epidemic. ‘We’ll have to get him into the fever hospital
, Mrs Johnson,’ he said to the mother. ‘I fear it is diphtheria.’

  It had taken hours to check the boy’s brothers and sisters, send for the fever cart ambulance to take him to the hospital, instruct the mother on the proper method of disinfecting the house with carbolic acid and see the boy taken away. By that time it was daylight and almost time to open surgery. He had been home of course and bathed and changed himself, so the surgery was late and consequently he had been late going on his rounds.

  He had to order a new supply of diphtheria anti-toxin. Well at least he had a telephone to do that with. What a difference the telephone made. He ate the dinner his housekeeper put before him, not because he was hungry but because he knew he had to keep up his strength.

  Afterwards he had an hour or so before evening surgery to relax, barring another call out. However, he had barely taken off his shoes and put on his house slippers when he heard the jangling of the telephone in the hall and Mrs Minton, his housekeeper, answering it. A moment later she knocked on the door and came in.

  ‘Your father is on the telephone, Doctor,’ she said, full of disapproval. Neither Doctor’s father nor anyone else should disturb him when he was having his quiet time, she thought. The telephone was the instrument of the devil in her opinion, invariably bringing bad news or bringing Doctor more work.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Minton,’ said Tom, perfectly aware of her feelings on the matter. What did the old man want now? he wondered as he went out into the hall. Miles came straight to the point.

  ‘I’m coming over to see you this weekend,’ he said. ‘Saturday afternoon, probably.’

  ‘Well, I had been going out—’

  ‘Put it off,’ said Miles. ‘See you Saturday then.’

  Tom was left looking at the receiver. He had thought of taking Jane Hall, the manager’s daughter out for a drive on Saturday. Perhaps they could go into Durham, walk by the river. It was time he had some female company and she, he knew, would accept any invitation from him eagerly. She was a nice-looking girl too, gentle and pleasant, and there was no doubt that he needed a wife. Oh well, another time. At least he hadn’t asked her yet.

  For some reason the image of Merry Trent flashed through his mind, bringing with it the usual feelings of regret. Was she happy with that miner she had married? he wondered. She had two children now, or so he understood when dropping a casual enquiry last time he was in Winton. Oh well, he hoped she was happy and contented, he told himself. He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. It would soon be time for surgery. He sat down in his favourite armchair before the fire in his study and relaxed. He had learned to take advantage of these odd half hours whenever they came. But today, he was unable to clear his mind of the worry of an epidemic of diphtheria. It could decimate the children of the pit rows – any epidemic did for there was no proper sanitation. Only the officials’ houses had running water and water closets. The rest had ash closets in the middle of the back streets and a water pump on the end of the row.

  He would write yet another letter to the mine owner and a copy to the Board of Health, he thought. Sometimes it was like battering a brick wall, though.

  Twenty

  It was the week after Easter when Benny came home from school half an hour late.

  ‘I wonder where he is,’ Merry fretted aloud as she ladled out stew and dumplings for Robbie who had just come in from back shift at the pit.

  Robbie picked up his knife and fork and began to eat. ‘This isn’t as good as me mam’s,’ he said through a mouthful. Merry took no notice, he said the same thing about everything she cooked.

  ‘I think I’ll just have a look up the back row,’ she said.

  ‘That lad o’ yours wants his backside kicking,’ said Robbie. ‘You’re a bloody fool, he’ll only be playing down the sandpit or something.’

  ‘No he won’t, not in this weather,’ said Merry. She took a shawl that was hanging behind the back door and put it over her head. ‘Watch the bairn, I won’t go further than the end of the row.’

  Robbie began to mutter about a man coming in from the pit and not having a minute’s peace to eat his dinner, but she ran out to the gate and turned up the row. She didn’t have to go far for Benny was coming down, walking as though he hardly had the strength to put one foot in front of the other. He had lost a garter and one of his socks was hanging over his shoe. It was a good job Robbie hadn’t seen him first; he would have got a belting for that, she thought. Poor bairn, she felt so guilty about him. But she had plans, oh yes she had – it was going to stop.

  Anxiety crowded out all her thoughts as the boy got near to her. He looked so flushed and the circles under his eyes were very dark.

  ‘Benny!’ she cried and went down on her hunkers to take hold of him. Alarmingly he collapsed in her arms.

  ‘Mammy,’ he croaked. ‘I feel bad.’

  Her heart beat fast as she took his weight while his legs gave way beneath him. Fever, he had a fever, the heat of it went through both their clothes and she could feel the fire in him. Staggering to her feet she turned and hurried back to the house, bursting in the back door so that Robbie looked up in irritation.

  ‘What the hell’s the matter, woman?’ he demanded.

  ‘He’s got a fever,’ she replied breathlessly and laid him down on the horsehair sofa near the range.

  ‘Keep him away from Alice!’ Robbie shouted and grabbed the little girl. ‘Hadaway, take him into the room. I don’t want the little bastard by my bairn.’

  ‘There’s no fire on in there,’ said Merry. ‘It’s too cold.’ The sitting room got no sun through the small window and was used only on special occasions.

  ‘Light one then, go on, do as I tell you for once.’

  ‘Will you get the doctor, Robbie?’ Benny was lying quietly but breathing hard through his mouth. She hurriedly took the coal shovel and dug into the fire in the range, taking a few glowing coals and carrying them through to the grate in the other room. Oh God, she prayed, tell me what to do. With a few sticks from the pit prop end Robbie had brought home she soon had the fire going. Running up the stairs she got a blanket and pillow and made the boy a bed on the sofa in the room. Robbie still sat by the table with Alice squirming on his knee. He would not help her, she knew, not until she had Benny away from Alice.

  ‘Go for the doctor, please, Robbie,’ she cried as he made no move to go.

  ‘I’m not,’ Robbie replied. ‘Get the doctor yourself. I’ve had a long shift.’

  Merry argued no more, instead she ran down the yard and up the one next door.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter, missus?’ Annie the woman next door rose to her feet. She wasn’t to tell twice. Grabbing her shawl from behind the door she ran up the street in search of Dr Macready.

  ‘He’s out,’ she reported from a few feet down the yard. ‘I won’t get too close ’cos I don’t want to carry anything to my bairns, you understand. How is the lad?’

  ‘Badly, he’s really bad, Annie. I don’t know what to do. But where is the doctor, did they say?’

  ‘It was the maid, you know, that daft lass, Maisie. She said he’d gone into Auckland, or something. He has no surgery the night. But she’ll tell him as soon as he comes in.’

  ‘Will you be quiet down there? A man cannot get his sleep when he’s off shift for women gabbing!’

  Robbie had pushed up the sash of the bedroom window and poked an angry face out. Annie looked up at him in disbelief.

  ‘Why, Robbie Wright, you should be ashamed of yoursel’ when the lad’s so bad!’ she yelled at him and Robbie’s face darkened. ‘You should be getting up and helping your lass at a time like this any road.’

  ‘Go to hell!’ Robbie pulled in his head, banging it against the window as he did so; the sash, in poor fettle as it was, snapped and the top section came down on his hand. They could hear his yell of pain and fury all down the row. Annie grinned.

  ‘Serve the bugger right,’ she said. ‘Anyway, pet, I’ll have to go and see to the bai
rns. Give a bang on the wall with the poker if you need me.’

  It was half-past eleven when Dr Macready came to the door. Merry was just about past herself with worry. She had sponged Benny down three times during the afternoon and evening in an effort to get down his temperature. He had opened his eyes and smiled faintly at her, only wincing when she moved his arm, still showing signs of bruising from when his stepfather had handled him so cruelly. She had tried to give him a little broily – bread steeped in milk and sprinkled with sugar – but he couldn’t swallow. His mouth was open all the time and his tongue looked dry and swollen.

  Thankfully, Robbie had said little when he got up, simply swung out of the house a couple of hours before his shift was due and gone down to the Club for a pint. Alice was unusually quiet too, bless her, Merry thought, going to bed without a word of protest.

  In the end, Merry knocked on the fire back with the poker for Annie and asked her to send one of her lads to the doctor’s house. And at last, Dr Macready had come. She stood by the bed watching his face anxiously. It was impassive for the most part. He felt the boy’s throat and looked down it with the aid of his silver spatula and bit his lip. He put a tiny tablet on Benny’s tongue.

  ‘Don’t bother trying to swallow it,’ he said. ‘It’ll go by itself.’ Pulling the blanket back over the boy he got to his feet. Merry knew what he was going to say before he opened his mouth but still she hoped against hope.

  ‘The laddie has diphtheria,’ he said. ‘He’ll have to go to the isolation hospital.’

  Merry sagged. ‘Why didn’t you come?’ she asked. ‘Why? If my bairn dies I’ll . . . I’ll—’

  ‘Nay, lass, I’m sorry,’ said Dr Macready. ‘I had a round of golf and when I got back Maisie forgot to tell me.’

  ‘A round of golf?’

  Merry knew she sounded stupid but she couldn’t help herself. A round of golf? It was another world, something beyond her experience altogether. He had been nancying around hitting a ball with a stick while her lad was here, dying mebbe?