Netherwood01 - Netherwood

by Jane Sanderson

  ‘It’s good weather for t’game, Dad,’ Seth said, more in hope than in confidence since outside the afternoon sky was looking uncooperative, and as grey as an elephant’s hide. The steam from Arthur’s bath had misted the windows and Seth had to rub a small, face-sized patch to see out. ‘No wind to speak of.’

  ‘Nowt wrong wi’ wind, as long as you’re not hittin’ into it,’ said Arthur.

  Seth coloured. His father never allowed him an opinion. It was annoying, when all Seth wanted was a sage nod of agreement. ‘No, but too much wind an’ it’s not a fair contest,’ he said. ‘Mr Medlicott said.’

  Arthur heaved himself upright and stood naked and unself-conscious, one arm outstretched for the dry towel. ‘Well if Percy Medlicott says so, it must be right,’ he said.

  Seth passed his father the towel. He felt pretty sure of his ground this time.

  ‘Mr Medlicott said in a fair contest, every player should ’ave same advantage. If you ’it t’knur and t’wind carries it, it’s not a true length.’

  ‘Aye, well, if Percy Medlicott ’its t’knur, it’s a blasted miracle,’ said Arthur. ‘’E’s t’only fella I know who calls ’imself an expert at a game ’e can’t play.’

  It was true, Seth conceded to himself, that Mr Medlicott was better at the game in theory than in practice, although he wasn’t alone in this. The knur was so small, and the split-second timing so crucial, that many a man swiped at fresh air while the ball plopped to the ground at their feet. Percy Medlicott wasn’t the only player to be made a fool of, although he was more likely than most to take all ten of his permitted strikes and never hit the ball once. But Seth liked him all the same; he was kind, and he was generous with his time, always happy to explain the ins and the outs of a match to him. Seth wanted an acknowledgement of this from Arthur.

  ‘If it weren’t for Mr Medlicott, there’d be no matches at all,’ he said. This was a fact; all local contests were organised by him, and there was even a Medlicott trophy, played for every year on the Saturday before May Day and named after him because he bought it, not because he’d ever won it.

  ‘I’ll give thi that one,’ said Arthur. ‘But it doesn’t make ’im a world authority. If tha wants to learn, watch them as can play instead o’ talkin’ to them as can’t.’

  Seth was silent. He felt both vindicated and chastised, which was unsatisfactory. But he felt he might sacrifice his small triumph – and possibly surrender his invitation to the match – if he continued to press his point. Arthur, oblivious to his son’s internal struggle, whistled a tune of his own invention and pulled on the clean clothes Eve had laid out for him earlier.

  ‘Nah then,’ he said. ‘A bit o’ summat to eat and we’ll be on our way.’

  Chapter 10

  Up on Netherwood Common a sizeable crowd had assembled by the time Arthur and Seth arrived. Warren Sylvester was running his usual book and hectic bets were being placed, names and odds dashed off on scraps of paper in exchange for hard cash, the slips then pinned under a rock for safekeeping. Warren, a fixture at every local sporting event, would take any bet except for multiples – he was careful to protect himself against heavy losses – but he was mean with the odds and took constant verbal abuse from disgruntled punters. He was a punily built, pinch-faced man, with suspicious, darting eyes and a mind as sharp as a steel trap. Nobody liked him, including his own brother Lew, but he serviced the local appetite for gambling and made a useful profit in the process. His only expense, apart from honouring winning bets, was to slip the occasional few shillings to the Netherwood constabulary in order to continue his trade without harassment from the law.

  Arthur despised Warren, and had never gambled in his life. Mug’s game, he told Seth time and again, and he could never drop it on occasions like this so as they passed Warren now, Arthur said loudly, ‘Good day’s fleecin’, Warren?’ and Seth, his eyes lowered, wished he wouldn’t. The boy scurried on ahead, but Warren was either too preoccupied, or too indifferent, to bother framing a reply. He just glanced up and snorted contemptuously – the low opinion was mutual.

  At the playing pitch Arthur took from Seth the pummel and the bag of knurs and joined his team mates, who acknowledged his arrival with barely discernible dips of the head. Percy Medlicott – officiating today, not playing – was making final, minute adjustments to the spell, the spring mechanism that threw the knur up into the air to be struck. The four-man visiting team watched him closely, as if only their scrutiny would prevent foul play. In turn, as custom required, the four players from New Mill Colliery eyed their opponents just as suspiciously, the implication being that if there was any cheating to be done, it would be at the hands of the Rockingham lot.

  Discharged of his duties as equipment carrier, Seth jogged away from the crowd towards the part of the common where the knurs were likely to fall. He was the first down there, and he chose his spot carefully, though he knew there was no saying exactly where and how far the knurs might fly. He adopted the attitude of an official and stood, arms folded, legs planted apart, looking back up towards the players with an inscrutable frown. He would have liked to be the only seeker, solely responsible for locating the knur, watched by everyone with bated breath as he sought out each shot then triumphantly signalled his success. But already there were men ambling across the common to join him: Solomon Windross, Stanley Eccles and a couple of fellows from Rockingham who Seth didn’t know. He nodded fractionally at them in the way he’d seen his father do on countless occasions, and they paid him the compliment of returning the gesture.

  A sharp wind was getting up. They were exposed on the common, where there were few trees to offer shelter, and Seth could tell, even from this distance, that the spectators wanted to see some action. They’d be getting angry with Mr Medlicott by now, chelping about the time he was taking at the spell. He could see his father talking to Jonas Buckle, who was whipping a new head on to his pummel with cobblers’ thread. Percy Medlicott straightened up and stepped away from the spell, indicating with a raised index finger that play could commence. A coin was tossed between the two teams and Seth could see that Rockingham lost the call because they drew back, their expressions dour, preparing to be unimpressed. Jonas stepped up to the spell and Arthur, Wally Heseltine and Lew Sylvester took a few judicious paces in the other direction. Jonas was their big hitter – his record shot of 290 yards was still unbroken after ten years – and none of them wanted to risk feeling the power of his backswing.

  Jonas carefully chalked the head of his pummel, then placed a knur on to the spring of the spell. He took two practice swings, then all of a sudden and in one fluid movement he tapped the spring to release it, swung the pummel smoothly backwards, then brought it forwards with one great stride just as the knur began its descent. Seth watched intently, his eyes never leaving the ball. Jonas missed. He picked up the knur and placed it gently back on to the spring. Two more practice shots, then the same swift sequence of movements. This time Seth heard the hollow pock of the wood striking its surface and saw the small, white knur sail up and out towards him.

  ‘Look out, lad,’ said Solomon Windross, but Seth could see the ball and it was close but it wasn’t going to hit him. He was there almost as it landed, and he shouted joyfully and raised his arm to stop the search.

  ‘Seth lad, tha faster than my Jack Russell,’ said Stanley Eccles. ‘Next time I go rattin’, I’ll take thee instead.’

  Seth grinned. This was perfect, he thought. He stood importantly next to Jonas’s knur and watched Mr Medlicott and a Rockingham umpire make their way down towards him with the long surveyors’ chains they used to measure the length of the shots. Each chain was 22 yards long and they were carefully laid end to end, pulled taut to give an accurate reading all the way from the spell to the knur. Seth counted them as they were set down. He hadn’t been born when Jonas made his record strike, but he knew it had needed thirteen chains plus a measuring tape for the last few yards, feet and inches. This one looked likely to need tw
elve, Seth reckoned. He wondered how his father would do and the thought made him seek him out again. This time Arthur saw him and gave him a salute, which Seth returned. Then Arthur turned and shrugged off his jacket, preparing to take his turn. He could never play in anything other than shirt sleeves, whatever the weather. Wool sleeves hampered the swing, he said. Seth wondered if he was feeling nervous. He knew he would be, if it was him up there with all eyes on him.

  Percy arrived at the ball and Seth moved his foot away to allow the measuring of the last few inches.

  ‘That’s it, son, well done,’ said Percy. ‘Keep well clear now. Let t’dog see t’rabbit.’

  His Rockingham counterpart sighed audibly as the tape measure was slowly and meticulously unrolled until it just touched the knur. Percy looked at Seth.

  ‘Twelve chains, and seven-yards four-foot-three on t’measure. That makes …?’

  ‘Two ’undred and seventy one yards, four feet and three inches,’ said Seth.

  Percy nodded his approval. ‘Correct,’ he said, writing the figure on his slate. ‘Now stay put, and watch thi dad. ’E looks to me like ’e means business.’

  The Rockingham official, satisfied that there had been no funny business, set off back towards the players but Percy remained by Seth’s side, his eyes on Arthur as he carefully rewound the measure into a tidy spool. He had a soft spot for the boy, who seemed to be able to listen as much as Percy liked to talk.

  ‘What your father ’as, Seth lad, is a very good eye,’ he said. ‘What ’e lacks in length, ’e makes up for in consistency. All these years I’ve watched ’im play, and I could count on one ’and the number of times ’e’s missed t’knur.’ He paused. ‘Well, two ’ands, maybe.’

  ‘I wish I could ’ave a go, Mr Medlicott,’ said Seth.

  ‘Aye, well, tha ’as to be taller than t’pummel, lad,’ said Percy. ‘Tha’s got some growin’ to do first. Now look,’ he pointed across the common to where Arthur stood at the spell. ‘Your dad, ’e never takes ’is eye off that knur. See?’

  Seth wanted to say he was already considerably taller than the pummel, but the moment was missed as they both watched Arthur clout the knur on its first rise and send it sailing through the air. Seth shot off after it and Percy, Stanley, Solomon and the two men from the opposition let him run.

  ‘Twelve chains again, Mr Medlicott,’ he shouted as he went, though he didn’t look round because he was watching the knur, just like his father.

  Wrapped up against the cold and watching from the relative comfort of the Daimler, Lord Hoyland and Lady Henrietta saw Arthur take his strike. They were driving home from the colliery, where Henry had proved herself a sensible and well-informed companion, though her evident grasp of technical matters was a mystery to the earl. She had quizzed the pit manager about productivity as if she was, well, there was no other way of phrasing it – a chap. It made the earl at once proud and regretful; her mind and her temperament were of the highest quality, he thought, and yet were no asset to her, given her gender. Some lucky fellow would take her from him and reap all the benefits of her natural intelligence while the Netherwood estate would fall to Tobias, who went at life like a child in a fairground. Perhaps, if Toby was lucky, Henry might settle close enough to still be of use to him, if her husband would allow it. These internal musings were interrupted by the sight of Arthur Williams, some distance away on the common but still quite visible from the lane, rolling up his shirt sleeves and preparing to address the knur. Lord Hoyland leaned forwards and ordered Atkins to stop.

  ‘Watch this, Henry. This chap can really play,’ he said, then, ‘Oh I say, good shot!’ as the knur soared high and long through the sky. He’d played himself as a youth, from time to time, and hadn’t been half bad. But the years had passed, and decorum and responsibility meant his presence at these working men’s gatherings would no longer be considered appropriate by them or by him. It was sad, but there it was. He sighed, remembering the supreme satisfaction of striking the rising knur. There was golf, of course, up in Scotland. But that stationary ball on its obliging tee just didn’t cut the mustard.

  ‘Wouldn’t mind another crack at that myself,’ he said.

  ‘Well why don’t you? We’ll wait, won’t we, Atkins?’ said Henrietta.

  But the driver wasn’t required to answer, because the earl shook his head emphatically and said, ‘Drive on.’ Then he sat back in the seat, feeling rather disconsolate, and fell silent for the rest of the short journey home.

  Chapter 11

  Eve stood on her back doorstep and upended the last bucket of cold water on to the cobbles of the yard. She watched as Eliza and Ellen and two of Lilly’s children from next door shrieked with laughter and jumped back and forth across the miniature torrent. On another occasion Eve might have snapped at them to stop, but today she felt almost high spirited, in spite of the fact that her back ached, her hands were chapped and her skirts were wet on account of the countless trips between the tin bath and the back door with pails of grey water.

  She went back inside, through the kitchen and into the parlour. There was now just an inch or so of water in the bottom of the tub and Eve could easily lift it at one end and drag it over to the door. The girls skipped out of her way as she emerged backwards, pulling the bath by one of its two handles. Using the doorstep as a ramp, she lay the tub down then stepped around it to the other side.

  The girls waited. Eve might make them stand out of the way for this last, most thrilling, part of the game and Eliza watched her mother closely to gauge her mood. Ellen, who took all her cues from her sister, watched Eliza. Eve, however, had already decided to indulge them.

  ‘Ready?’ she said. ‘One … two …’

  She paused, holding the tub almost vertical.

  ‘Three!’ shouted Eliza, and Eve swung the bath over on itself. Water flooded out and down the yard and the girls danced over it as it made its way into the rain gully and out into the street. Eve lifted the empty bath and hooked it, still dripping, on to a great iron peg in the wall, then she took a stiff broom from just inside the kitchen and chased the last of the water away with it. She rested, briefly, using the broom handle as a prop, listening to the girls’ laughter out in the street. It sounded as though there were a few of them now. She’d leave them a while to play. No sense having them under her feet, and Eliza could be relied upon to keep an eye on Ellen.

  ‘I ’ope they’re not sodden.’ Lilly Pickering’s peevish voice made Eve jump and she turned, a little flushed, to look at her neighbour.

  ‘Afternoon,’ she said, cheerful in the face of Lilly’s determinedly joyless expression. ‘They’re not sodden, but I am.’ She brushed ineffectually at her skirts. ‘Your Minnie and Bet ’ave more sense than to get their stockings wet.’

  A thin wail rose from inside the Pickering house and both women listened for a second, wondering if it required attention. The wail continued, but seemed complaining rather than urgent. Eve smiled at Lilly.

  ‘Your Victor up at t’match?’ she said.

  ‘Aye, ’e flamin’ well is,’ said Lilly. Her words were bitter, but her voice was flat, as if even she was bored by her incessant carping. ‘Life o’ bloody Riley.’

  ‘Ah well, they deserve a bit of recreation,’ said Eve. ‘They’re none of ’em idle.’ She stepped inside her house and closed the door. On one of her bad days, and this looked like one of them, Lilly Pickering’s expression could turn milk sour and Eve wasn’t going to let it spoil her mood. She dried her hands on the linen cloth that hung by the range, and took a dab of salve from an earthenware pot, rubbing it into the backs of her hands where the skin was red and cracked. Then she took a basin from the cupboard and shook flour into it, a little sugar and a good pinch of salt. Nothing was weighed; instinct and practice had taught Eve just how much to use. She moved with a practised fluency and hummed softly as she added a handful of currants and a small scoop of bicarbonate of soda to the mix, then used the base of the scoop to make a small well in the
centre, just big enough to hold the egg she now broke into it. She took a wooden spoon from its jar on the shelf and began to stir, while at the same time adding a steady stream of milk until she had a smooth, thick batter. Then she let it rest while she reached for the cast-iron skillet, blackened with use, rubbed its ridged surface with a piece of mutton fat, and set it to warm on top of the stove.

  Eve was at her most content. She was alone in her house, which was clean and in good order, the fires in both rooms were burning bright, the children were out in the fresh air, there was money in the housekeeping tin – an extra 10 shillings too, thanks to Lord Hoyland – and food in the pantry, and in a few moments there would be the incomparable smell of drop scones cooking on the griddle. Arthur and Seth would soon be home and they would all sit at the table and share a pot of tea and warm scones spread with a little of the strawberry jam Eve had made last August. On such small pleasures was Eve’s happiness built.

  There was a knock on the door. Sighing, Eve wiped her hands on the front of her apron. She didn’t mind unexpected company as a rule, but hated to be interrupted on a baking day. She opened the door and found a small, scrawny child on the doorstep, hopping from foot to foot. He had no clogs on his little feet, which were blue with cold where they weren’t black with filth. He was a stranger to the bath tub, was Willie Waterdine, and by the looks of his encrusted nostrils wasn’t over-familiar with a handkerchief either.

  ‘Bissis Williabs, Grandad sent a bessage,’ he said, still jumping about on the step like an outsized flea. Willie was cursed with chronically blocked nasal passages and as a result his bottom lip hung slack in order to draw breath. He needed half an hour over a basin of camphor and hot water, thought Eve, but the Waterdines were far too numerous for any of them to warrant individual attention.