‘Did ’e now,’ she said. ‘Stand still, then, an’ tell me.’
Willie settled, but only slightly.
‘’E said, ad allotbent’s cub free a’d Bister Williabs is next on t’list,’ said the boy. ‘’E said does Bister Williabs still want it?’
This was news indeed. The allotments were a relatively new addition to Netherwood, just two years old and still with a vulnerable, newly planted look about them. Lady Hoyland, in a rare moment of community-spirited zeal, had decided that the landless poor of Netherwood should be allowed access to a few fertile acres of their own on which to produce food and flowers. Her vision, grandiose in scope and scale, occupied her mind for almost two days, after which she lost interest and handed the scheme over to Jem Arkwright, the earl’s land steward. He had ideas of his own about the value of land and its potential uses, and had proceeded to allocate a meagre site out of town, butting up against the railway tracks and comprising just a dozen narrow plots. Arthur had been too slow to snap one up, much to Eve’s vexation. Clem Waterdine, however, had been first in the queue and, now, two years on, he seemed to have become the self-appointed – and increasingly autocratic – manager of allocation. A peppercorn rent had to be paid to the estate, but it was Clem who had the power of approval or refusal over all applicants and stood in judgement over any gardener who neglected his plot. Clem’s domestic habits were famously unwholesome but he had turned out to be a fanatically tidy and rigorous gardener. Eve wondered briefly if the old despot had winkled someone out for falling short of his own high standards. Not that she cared, if it proved to be her route to home-grown veg.
‘Tell your grandad yes,’ she said to Willie. ‘An’ tell ’im to drop in whenever he likes for a bite o’ breakfast.’
Willie nodded. ‘Right,’ he said. His eyes were huge in his grubby face, as if astonished, and he was still jigging on the spot on the top step.
‘Bissis Williabs?’
‘What now?’ said Eve.
‘Cad I use your privy?’
Eve returned to her mixing bowl, lifted it and began to drop the batter on to the surface of the hot pan where it spluttered and immediately set in small, irregular rounds. The smell, sweet and familiar, rose in the steam and filled the small kitchen. There was another knock at the door, this time truly unwelcome. Eve looked round with a scowl. It was probably Willie again. She certainly wasn’t about to leave the scones for him; they would scorch in moments if unattended.
‘What now?’ she shouted, irritation evident in her voice. She turned back to the pan; the exposed, uncooked surface of the scones was beginning to bubble and she started to turn each one over with deft flicks.
The door opened and still Eve didn’t turn. She was so fully expecting to hear Willie Waterdine that she started quite visibly when instead she heard the melodious, cultured tones of Samuel Farrimond.
‘Ah, nothing evokes a feeling of wellbeing quite so strongly as the aroma of drop scones,’ he said, and he inhaled flam-boyantly as he closed the door and entered the kitchen.
This was an extraordinary occurrence indeed and Eve, though delighted to see him so soon after her trip to Grangely, flushed a deep shade of pink as she greeted him. She was mortified now at the way she’d spoken but equally, nothing would induce her to allow her scones to burn.
‘Reverend Farrimond!’ she said. ‘I … I’m sorry, I must just …’ She indicated her pressing business at the skillet and he smiled.
‘Please, please, don’t let me stand between you and your scones,’ he said. ‘No one will suffer more than I if they’re rendered inedible.’
Eve laughed. With her back turned to him she was able to regain her composure. She couldn’t imagine what had brought him here, but he would be properly received as an honoured guest, just as soon as the scones were safely out of the pan. For his part, Reverend Farrimond used the moment to consider the pleasing details of the kitchen in which he stood; it was humble enough but it seemed to him, coming as he did from the squalor of Grangely, to shine from every surface. The floor, the table, the range, the great copper pan, all of them the ordinary trappings of a miner’s kitchen, nevertheless seemed more than the sum of their parts. The room was aglow with pride and purpose.
One by one, Eve placed the batch of scones on to a clean linen cloth. Reverend Farrimond, left to his own thoughts, took the opportunity to admire her. He wondered if anyone ever told her how lovely she was. He presumed Arthur thought her pretty, but he knew how sparing these men were with their compliments. He knew, too, that Eve’s appearance, if she was aware of it, would be of no consequence to her; beauty didn’t feed the children or wash the clothes or keep the cold at bay.
In another person’s life, he mused, her physical attributes would have been highly prized. Her chestnut hair was long, and though she rarely wore it loose, when she did it fell in gentle waves almost to the base of her spine. Her features were regular, delicate, and her brown eyes were wide and thickly lashed. But Reverend Farrimond was right to suppose that Eve, though she remembered caring about her appearance when she was young and unmarried and her future was still perilously uncertain, hadn’t gazed at her own reflection in a looking glass for many years. Vanity and self-regard were privileges of the idle rich; the only time Eve saw her own reflection these days was in Matthew’s butcher’s shop in Netherwood, where a mirror hung on the wall behind the counter bearing the life-sized outline of a bull, its body divided into sections to demonstrate the various edible parts of the beast. And if she caught sight of her own face on the rib or the flank or the brisket, she certainly didn’t think to admire it.
She turned now, having wrapped the scones into their linen parcel to keep warm, and smiled at the minister.
‘’ello,’ she said, with mock-surprise in her voice, as though he had just walked through the door.
‘Hello to you,’ he said. ‘And forgive me for bursting in on you unannounced.’
‘Well, there’s no other way of bursting in,’ said Eve.
Reverend Farrimond laughed. ‘No, indeed, very true.’
‘’ow are you?’ said Eve.
‘Quite dreadful, inasmuch as my wellbeing is tied up with the people of my parish,’ said Reverend Farrimond. ‘Indeed it’s difficult to imagine how things could be worse. Abandon hope, all ye who enter there.’
Eve’s face fell, and the minister smiled fondly at what he read as compassion. But what Eve was feeling was more akin to shame than sympathy; his words had no hidden meaning, but to Eve’s ear they held reproach. In Grangely she had resolved to return with the offer of further help – food, perhaps, or extra clothing for the evicted families. She had called to Reverend Farrimond as he left her, but her words had been lost in the din. Had he turned, she might now have been back in there helping to ease the suffering of those whose fate could have been hers. But since coming home, their plight, desperate though it was, had been eclipsed by the simple rhythms of her own domestic life and she had barely spared a thought for those poor unfortunates. In a rush, she blurted all this out to Reverend Farrimond. He, however, would have none of it and held up a hand as if to stem the flow of words.
‘Nonsense, Eve, nonsense,’ he said. ‘It’s only Saturday for heaven’s sake! What could you possibly have achieved in that short time? No, it pains me to hear you berate yourself.’
‘But what should I do?’ said Eve. ‘I do wish to be of some ’elp.’
Reverend Farrimond did have a proposal to make, but he felt it had better wait until Arthur was home.
‘What you should do, young woman, is put the kettle on the stove,’ he said.
Arthur and Seth bowled into the warm kitchen on the crest of their triumph over Rockingham to find Eve and the Grangely minister seated at the table. Arthur was surprised, Seth disappointed. He wasn’t sure who this man was but by the looks of the dog collar, he wasn’t likely to want to talk about knur and spell, or hear him describe his first bitter shandy at the Hare and Hounds, a victory drink with the
team, awarded to him with elaborate ceremony by Mr Medlicott for dedication above and beyond the call of duty. Seth had had to sit on an old bench outside the pub with only Jonas Buckle’s dog Barney for company, which took the gloss off it a bit, but he still felt proud as punch. Now he was going to have to hold it all in until the man left.
Eve saw the struggle in his features and understood instantly what Seth was feeling. She saw him now through the minister’s eyes; a comically miniature version of his father, ears stuck out like chapel hat pegs and a flat cap perched on his head. He’d been born with an old man’s face, and he still looked older than his years. She smiled at him.
‘This is Reverend Farrimond, Seth, say ’ow d’you do,’ she said.
‘’ow d’you do,’ said Seth, obediently but coolly. Arthur pulled off Seth’s cap, then his own, and shook the minister’s outstretched hand.
‘Reverend Farrimond buried Mam’s mam.’
Eliza’s voice came from under the kitchen table where she’d been sitting with Ellen for the past half hour. It was her favourite spot when grown-ups were talking. Some years ago she’d realised that if she sat still and stayed silent, adults assumed she couldn’t hear what they were saying. Eliza had learned all sorts of things using this reliable method.
‘And christened your mother and married her to your father,’ said the minister, lifting the cloth and stooping down to see the child. ‘I don’t only deal with the dead, miss.’
She stared at him, unsmiling; she was shocked to be directly addressed, and wished she hadn’t spoken. Eliza’s sixth sense for gossip told her that the main purpose of his visit hadn’t yet been discussed, and now she was likely to be sent out of the room.
‘Out you come, young ’un,’ said Arthur. ‘Call on Minnie next door, see if she’s laikin’.’
‘Minnie’s gone in for ’er tea,’ said Eliza, but it was useless, she knew. Eve bent down low enough to give her a hard look. Eliza immediately crawled out from under the table, followed, predictably enough, by Ellen. The two girls left the kitchen, Eliza stomping her feet, Ellen trailing amiably behind, but on the threshold of the back door Eliza turned and said, ‘Why’s ’e staying?’ and pointed an accusing finger at Seth.
‘’E’s ’ad no tea and ’e’s ’alf starved wi’ cold,’ said Arthur. ‘Not that it’s any o’ your business. Now sling yer ’ook.’
The door slammed shut, and Eve stood to pour tea for her husband and son. Arthur sat in the chair she’d vacated and got straight to the point.
‘Now then, Reverend, what’s your business?’
Chapter 12
Arthur Williams had lost his wool scarf. It usually hung with his hat and his coat on the pegs at the foot of the stairs, but this morning it wasn’t there and the search for the scarf was now in its seventh minute. It really didn’t matter that much, thought Eve. A man wouldn’t perish without a scarf, just the once. At this rate he would be late for work, and that was unthinkable.
‘Go without it,’ Eve said. She had stopped looking anyway. It seemed to her that if an object didn’t present itself within the first few moments of a search, it should be left to turn up when it was ready. There was enough to be done in the day without finding extra work.
‘One o’ them bairns must ’ave ’ad it,’ Arthur said.
‘Aye, well, that’s as may be,’ Eve said, by which she meant that it wouldn’t serve her purposes to have them woken before it was necessary.
There was still a great deal unsaid between Arthur and Eve since Reverend Farrimond had taken his leave on Saturday evening; somehow, in the hours between then and now, the opportunity to properly discuss what had been proposed and agreed to had eluded them. And now Monday morning had come round again in its inexorable fashion and Arthur, scarf-less, was about to leave the house.
On the threshold of the back door, he turned to his wife.
‘It’ll just be temp’ry,’ he said.
‘I know it will,’ said Eve.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Ta’ra then,’ but he still looked unsettled and stood, on the brink of departure, unable to leave. Eve saw Seth in his hesitancy and she took pity.
‘Wait,’ she said, and she walked across the kitchen, took his familiar, beloved face between her hands and planted a warm kiss on his mouth.
‘You’re a good man, Arthur Williams,’ she said.
He smiled at her, a little bashful now, and opened his mouth to say something, but outside in Beaumont Lane Lew gave a shrill whistle, so Arthur turned and left the kitchen, closing the door softly behind him.
Reverend Farrimond’s request had not been for food, or clothing, or any of the charitable schemes Eve had had in mind. What the minister had asked was for Arthur and Eve to take in a family from Grangely. A particular family, and a very small one, but one in the direst need. The husband, a hard-working, god-fearing man, had died on the day after they were evicted. He had been desperately ill for weeks, said the minister, and the upheaval of being carried out of his bed and into the cold had proved fatal. He had died on a makeshift mattress of straw in the crowded tent that, for the foreseeable future, was to be his home. His young wife and baby were now utterly helpless. Even if the strike ended – which everyone suspected it would – and the miners and their families were allowed back into their former homes, the widow and child were no longer the responsibility of the Grangely Main Colliery Company. She was twenty-two, said the minister. The baby, a girl, was six months old. Could Arthur and Eve have them, just for a few weeks? It was a great deal to ask, he knew, but other people had taken in the needy and Eve had seemed to want to offer help.
Arthur, seated next to Reverend Farrimond and opposite his wife, had thrown her a look that the minister couldn’t see. It was a challenge, a gauntlet, flung on the table. It seemed to say, ‘Now we’ll see how far your conscience takes you.’
Seth was still in the kitchen too, and he looked at the minister with wide, horrified eyes. There was no room for anyone else in this house, he thought. Why was he even asking?
Eve said, ‘’ow long would they have to stay?’ betraying her unwillingness by her choice of words, even though she kept her voice level.
‘Just a matter of weeks, really,’ Reverend Farrimond had said, mistakenly encouraged by her response. ‘The young widow wishes to travel back to her homeland, and there’s every chance that the church distress fund might be able to help her do this. She’s willing to work in the meantime. She could be a great help to you, Eve. Eve?’
Eve forced herself to look up. She had stopped listening after the minister said ‘homeland’ and she gazed at him blankly. Arthur spoke up.
‘Where’s she from then?’ he said.
‘Russia,’ said the minister, quite cheerfully, as though there was nothing at all unusual being discussed and he was simply responding to Arthur’s polite interest.
‘Leo and Anna Rabinovich,’ he went on. ‘Just Anna now, of course. Not sure what the baby’s called. Fascinating, really, how they ended up in our little corner of Yorkshire. We have two other foreign families in Grangely, you know. Polish, though.’ He chuckled. ‘Oh yes, we’re quite international.’
He looked at Eve then back to Arthur. Seth, forgotten by everyone, said, ‘Then they should go to them. They should go to the foreign people, not come ’ere. We’re not foreign.’ He spoke quickly, out of panic, and his voice cracked. He felt maddening tears pool in his eyes.
The three adults looked at him and the boy waited to be sent out of the room, but the stranger said, ‘We are to them, Seth,’ then they all simply looked away again, and their behaviour made him feel more afraid. He wanted his mother to banish him in the normal way instead of staring at the table. More than that, he wanted this man to get up and leave. He had walked in on their perfect Saturday and ruined it completely. The boy glared at the minister with hatred, but nobody was watching him any more.
‘You wouldn’t ask this of us if you weren’t desperate?’
It was Arthur who spoke
, not Eve. She looked at him, aghast. He seemed to be speaking her line, asking the question she should ask, but her compassion for the needy of Grangely and her desire to help them had been a poor, stunted impulse in the end, she thought.
‘That’s right, Arthur,’ said Reverend Farrimond. ‘I truly wouldn’t.’
‘Then they can come,’ Arthur said.
‘No!’ said Seth. ‘They can’t!’
Now his mother did turn on him.
‘Seth Williams, get up them stairs now and stay there till you’re told otherwise.’
He hesitated a fraction too long and she gave him the look she reserved for such moments, the look that conveyed the seriousness of her intent, the firmness of her resolve. He fled through the doorway at the foot of the stairs, pulling it shut behind him so that his mother couldn’t see he was still there, his face pressed into his father’s coat. It still smelled of beer fumes and tobacco from the Hare and Hounds, and Seth breathed it in, wishing they were still there.
The door swung open, and there was Eve, alerted to his attempt at defiance by the absence of footsteps up the stairs. ‘Up,’ she said. ‘Now.’
So he went, but he surreptitiously slid his father’s woollen scarf from the peg and took it with him. It was bitterly cold in the little bedroom and he was glad; shivering on the bed helped him feel as wretched as he believed the situation demanded. He wondered how long he’d be made to stay here. He rolled the scarf into a pillow and, curling on the bed, shoved it under his cheek and lay listening to the voices in the kitchen below. They were muffled, but he could still tell it was his mother speaking, and Seth wondered what she was saying. She didn’t want those people to come any more than he did, thought Seth, and that’s why she was angry at him. He was only a boy, but he understood that well enough.
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